Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke (21 page)

Once he managed to escape the Hart harpies, Adam made his way to the ground-level sitting room at the front of the house. If Sophia didn’t wish to make a stir among his guests, she was certainly going about it the wrong way. On the other hand, she might very well not have considered that, and she was simply being herself. One way or the other, he needed to make certain she realized that she was further damaging her own reputation.

He stopped in the doorway and stifled a curse. Five men, including Burroughs, stood in front of the sitting room window. All of them had glasses of what smelled like whiskey, all of them were gazing toward the lake, and all of them were chatting about what they saw there.

“I never considered trousers to be arousing until now.” Lord Lassiter chuckled at his own commentary.

“I want to be a dog,” Burroughs said.

“You are a dog.” Lord Patrick Alder elbowed Francis Henning beside him. “You chatted with her. Has she invited you to join her in her bedchamber yet?”

The fifth man, Peter Blense, the Earl of Aames, shook his head. “I’ll wager she belongs to Greaves. Why else would she be here? Pretty as she is, I’m not about to cross him.”

“It might be worth it.” Burroughs tapped against the window. “Woof woof.”

That was good to know. Adam slipped away from the room before anyone there could notice his presence. Anger and frustration edged through him, which made no sense. He’d had some of those same conversations himself, about different women.

Thus far everyone seemed to think he and Sophia were lovers—which, of course, they were. But everyone also seemed convinced that he’d purchased her favors. He supposed that made sense, considering her status in Society. Although in the past he had invited his mistresses to holiday along with gamblers and rakes of both sexes, they all tended to be blue bloods, members of Society. Even Keating, who likely had the worst reputation of anyone there, was a marquis’s cousin and a marquis’s grandson.

Sophia was different. He enjoyed that difference, or he had before the rest of his guests arrived and began asking questions he didn’t care to answer. Even so, he couldn’t quite wish that he’d never invited her at all. He
did
wish that he’d spoken to her before his fellows appeared. And he wished she didn’t attract quite so much attention from everyone else. She couldn’t like what was being said about her, even if she claimed to ignore most of it. And
he
definitely didn’t like the way most of the males in his house looked at her.

As he reached the foyer, debating whether it would do more harm than good if he went out and dragged her into the house, Keating and Camille appeared, arm in arm, at the foot of the stairs. Adam blew out his breath. “You need to go speak with Sophia,” he said in a low voice.

“Why?” Camille asked, putting a hand to her chest. “What’s happened?”

“‘What’s happened?’” he repeated. “She’s wearing those blasted trousers, and everyone’s talking about her.”

“Oh. I don’t think she cares what they think of her. It couldn’t be much worse than it is, anyway. Especially now.”

Adam frowned. This was not helping one bloody bit. “There’s a difference between being unconventional and putting yourself in the path of trouble. Go fetch her.”

Keating stepped forward, putting himself between Adam and Camille. “I suggest you rephrase that.”

Clearly they didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation, if they were quibbling over his choice of phrase. Or if they were questioning him. “Very well. How about ‘I saved your damned life and made it possible for the two of you to marry, so go get Sophia before you make me regret any of that’?”

For a long moment Keating gazed at him. “Go get her yourself, Greaves,” he finally snapped, taking Camille’s hand and striding back up the stairs with her.

Something was very wrong. He didn’t misjudge circumstances, and he didn’t overplay his hand. And people did not walk away from him. Clearly everyone around him was going mad, all at the same time. Uttering an expletive, he yanked open the front door and stalked outside.

Sophia and the dogs had returned to the near shore, so at least Adam didn’t have to chase across the ice after her. If she hadn’t been practically bent over with laughter, he would have thought she was making a spectacle of herself on purpose—though he had no idea why she would do such a thing.

She straightened from tugging on Caesar’s ears as he approached. “Do these good boys ever tire?” she panted. “I’m about to drop dead from exhaustion.”

“Then you should go inside before you do so,” he returned, his jaw clenched.

With a frown she gave up possession of the mangled rope to the dogs. “What’s amiss?”

“Half my guests are gawking at you from the sitting room, and you’re wandering about in trousers and rollicking in the snow like a lunatic. That’s what’s amiss.”

The dogs ran back up, jumping around her. With a sharp whistle he put them into an attentive sit. They continued to pant and look hopefully at Sophia, but they stayed where they were told.

“That was mean,” she stated. “They didn’t do anything wrong. And these are the clothes I’ve been wearing for a fortnight. You haven’t taken the dogs for so much as a walk in two days, and I couldn’t very well do so in one of my borrowed gowns.”

They were her gowns; she merely didn’t know it yet. This, however, was certainly not the time for that particular conversation. “The grooms can take the dogs for a walk. They aren’t your responsibility. Stop behaving like a fool.”

She blinked, her expression flashing from surprised to hurt and angry. “I see,” she said slowly. “So if I were to throw a snowball at you now, you wouldn’t find it amusing.”

“Not in the least.”

“Very well, then.” Sophia bent down and picked up a clump of snow.

“Don’t you bloody dare.”

“I liked you better before I realized you cared so much for everyone else’s opinion. What you need to realize is that I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me. I know who I am. And I suppose, unless you ask me to leave Greaves Park, that I’ll conduct myself in a manner that sees me with the most pleasant holiday possible.” Pointedly she dropped the snowball from her fingers and stalked past him to the house.

Adam slowly let out his breath. Whether she thought that what she did now didn’t matter, that she would never have to face its consequences in Cornwall, she needed to realize that Hennessy could always find a way to make things even worse for her. She didn’t understand the nuances of Society; she’d always been on the outside, looking in. He, on the other hand, had lived his entire life at its center. The strong preyed on the weak. Whether she was angry with him or not, he’d just saved her a great deal of troub—

Something cold and wet slapped into the back of his head.

Shaking snow out of his hair, he whipped around just as Sophia disappeared through the front door.
That damned chit.
He wanted so badly to chase after her that the muscles across his shoulders creaked. He, however, did not lose control. Doing so in her presence once had clearly been a mistake; she didn’t see him the same way everyone else did. He was the damned Duke of Greaves, for God’s sake. People did not pelt him with snowballs or defy his orders.

Making himself walk at a normal pace back to the shallow steps and the front door, Adam whistled the dogs in and clenched his fists. Yes, he wanted to hunt Sophia down and wrap his hands around her neck. But it wasn’t just anger pushing at him. The rest of the men present wanted her. He wanted her.

Out there, romping with the dogs, she’d seemed so … free. As if she truly didn’t care what anyone else might think of her. And with that hair and those laughing eyes … Yes, he wanted to punish her, to make her understand what she couldn’t do. And at the same time he wanted to bury himself in her and watch as she came around him.

For the devil’s sake, she aggravated him no end. At the moment he had no idea what to do—and that never happened to him. Ever. Even in his worst moments when he drank too much and saw too much of his father when he looked into the mirror, he knew precisely what the trouble was, and he knew which steps to take to alter the situation. It was a simple task and an impossible one all at the same time.

Perhaps he and Sophia did have some things in common, both with their pasts and their futures. But now was neither of those things. And his next confrontation with her would be somewhere with no witnesses. And no ammunition to hand. He might have asked for the snowball to the skull, but he wasn’t an idiot.

For the remainder of the day he pretended nothing had happened, playing a fair game of billiards and taking an afternoon ride around the lake with a half-dozen chits. No one dared mention anything about his encounter with Miss White, though he knew they’d all been gossiping about it behind his back.

Being a duke, being in the position to which all men secretly aspired and which all women secretly wished to share, was a two-edged sword, but he’d learned a long time ago how to keep hold of the hilt. Except, evidently, for the moments he spent in Sophia’s company. Whatever else he felt, and particularly given his task for this Christmas, she was bad for him. And yet, at least half his thoughts had been about how he meant to meet with her again—in private.

He arrived downstairs for dinner before anyone else. That seemed the simplest and most direct way to keep the speculation and tongue-wagging to a minimum. And it would be a favor to Sophia, as well, since his guests would see him before they could begin—or resume, rather—gossiping about her. Four more guests had arrived today, all of them close friends of Eustace’s. If she’d convinced her allies to lie in wait somewhere just on the other side of the river Aire until she sent for them, then she meant to make more trouble. Another problem added to his platter.

Lady Caroline Emery glided into the drawing room. In a deep green silk gown trimmed with gold thread, she looked the very image of Christmas, expensive and impeccable. “Oh, I hate being early,” she drawled, pouring two glasses of wine and walking up to hand him one of them. “At least I’m not the only one here.”

He took a swallow, nodding his thanks. Half his attention remained on the open doorway, on the chance that Sophia would appear in one of her more outlandish outfits. He couldn’t allow that; not when the prevailing rumor linked the two of them. And not, of course, when her unconventional behavior could cause her trouble.

“I have a wonder, Your Grace,” Caroline said in her low, sweet voice.

“What are you wondering about?”

“You.”

Ah.
He’d been wondering when she would present her credentials for marriage. “Anything in particular?”

She took a deep breath, her low-cut gown showing her rising and falling bosom to best advantage. “I have a particular Christmas gift in mind for you,” she went on with a slow smile. “But first I need to ask if you have a wish for such a gift.”

With her tall, willowy frame and brunette hair, Lady Caroline Emery was lovely, and she had an elegant conversation and a fair wit. Her breeding, of course, was impeccable. And if Sophia hadn’t whetted his appetite for a very particular and unique delicacy, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

“Perhaps we could discuss that later,” he said aloud, at the same time cursing himself silently for not simply putting the troublesome Sophia out of his thoughts and moving forward with plans he’d put in motion weeks ago.

“Whatever you wish, Your Grace.” She sipped her wine, looking at him over the rim of the glass, not sparing a glance as the rest of the guests began to trickle into the room. “I will only say that I would never embarrass you. And I would certainly never throw anything at you.”

Not even if he deserved it?
“Duly noted.”

“I—”

Sophia strolled into the room, and he missed whatever it was that Caroline said next. Miss White wasn’t wearing trousers or her oversized yellow muslin, but his relief at that was tempered by a darker craving. She’d donned the dark green gown that ostensibly belonged to Susan Simmons, her hair swept up into an elegant tangle that made his hands ache with the desire to run his fingers through the lush waves. Only belatedly did it occur to him that she and Lady Caroline were wearing virtually the same gown—and that it showed better on Sophia. That wouldn’t go over well.

Her light green eyes touched him, then moved on to the rest of the occupants in the slowly filling room. If she was worried that he would retaliate for the snowball, she certainly didn’t show it. Not much, though, seemed to worry her. For Lucifer’s sake, she was weeks away from a marriage that she had to dread even more than he did his own nuptials.

When she walked up to chat with Henning and Timmerlane, he excused himself from Caroline and went to find Keating, standing with Camille and James and Ivy Flanagan. Not for the first time, he wished that Oliver Warren, the Marquis of Haybury, had decided to come, so at least the Blackwoods and Sophia would have allies other than him. But Oliver Warren wasn’t any better at forgiveness or forgetting than he was.

“A word, Keating?”

With a glance at his wife, Blackwood followed him to an empty corner. “I hope this is an apology for ordering my wife about—though in that case you should be speaking to her.”

Adam lifted an eyebrow. “You’re ferocious tonight, aren’t you?”

“When it concerns dukes who think that snapping at ladies who’ve worked as hard as Cammy and Sophia have to earn their independence, yes, I’m bloody ferocious.”

Considering that a year ago Keating Blackwood hadn’t cared what anyone said or did about anything unless it concerned drink or brawling, perhaps Adam needed to approach this conversation differently than he’d originally intended. Camille had performed something of a miracle.

What Keating had said was interesting, too. Sophia hadn’t given up a privileged life like Camille had, but she had chosen one where she could make her own decisions. The aggravation was that her decisions, which had originally been amusing and refreshing, were now driving him mad.

He drew a breath. “Then I’ll apologize to your wife. Later.”