The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (22 page)

Nicholas.

She wasn’t even sure where he was, having lost track of him during the dizzying few
minutes she’d spent in the foyer.

Still, she felt him. His hands about her waist. His lips upon her skin. The sensation
had not lessened. In fact, it had grown.

“I’m afraid the rain came on rather quickly. I’d forgotten the distance from the lake
to the house. Silly of me, really.”

Lettie shook out a blue morning gown and folded it over one arm. “Not at all, my lady.
It’s a wonder you were able to remember anything, considering all that you’ve before
you.”

“Quite right,” Sophia agreed, thankful that Lettie believed her—and glad for the sympathetic
ear.

“I did not know Mr. Bourne would be joining us,” Lettie continued casually. “If I
had, there would have been a room prepared for his arrival.”

“Nor did I,” Sophia answered, wise to her friend’s ulterior motive. “I swear, Lettie.
You know I speak the truth. Though I cannot help but think, if Nicholas had not followed
after us, there is every likelihood I would still be standing by the lake, soaked
to the bone and unable to muster the courage to move.”

And he would not know that I love him
.

If Nicholas had remained in London, would she, as she’d planned, have taken her time
at Petworth to examine her feelings for him? Weighed the outcome of hurting Langdon
against her own need for Nicholas?

More than likely, no, though Sophia could not be sure. His arrival had saved her from
the elements and her own overly practical mind.

“Besides,” Sophia continued, sitting on an overstuffed
chair near the fireplace, “his mare was certainly useful in the end.”

Lettie huffed with irritation as Sophia reached down to unlace her kidskin boots and
hurried to her. “Well, that might be true, though the sight of you two galloping toward
the house—astride, no less—is one I will not soon forget.”

Sophia finished with the first boot and waved off the woman before setting to work
on the other. “No more riding astride. Duly noted, Lettie.”

The dear woman nodded in approval. “As long as you are open to suggestions, one more
piece of advice, my lady; be careful around Mr. Bourne.”

Sophia dropped the laces and sat upright. “Of course, Lettie. I wonder, though, do
you have reason for your concern?”

Lettie laid the muslin dress carefully over the back of the chair opposite Sophia,
then knelt down and finished unlacing the boot. “I’ve suspected for some time that
the man harbors certain feelings for you—beyond those of friendship, that is. I worry
the time you’ve spent in each other’s company this past week might have encouraged
him, you see.”

Sophia slipped her foot from the boot and struggled to suppress a surge of fear. “Surely
you’re mistaken, Lettie.”

The older woman collected the wet boots and rose from the floor. “My lady, you are
a kind, thoughtful person. You’ve always been considerate and understanding of Nicholas
Bourne, even when others were not,” she said, turning to deposit the boots on the
hearth and retrieve the dress. “And I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you—the
man is in love.”

In love. The man is in love
.

And so was Sophia. Her heart soared, if guardedly. She was not ready to share Nicholas
with the world.
Not just yet. She needed him to herself—craved the opportunity to learn everything
there was to know before they faced the future.

She began to shake all over at the mere thought.

“My lady, you’re shaking,” Lettie said with worry, dropping the dress over the chair
back once again. “I apologize. I’ve kept you talking when you should be resting. Let
me help you out of that gown and into bed before I go and see about having your dress
pressed.”

“Yes, I believe a bit of a lie-down would be wise,” Sophia agreed. She stood, legs
trembling, to give her companion access to the buttons on the back of her dress. She
steadied herself against the chair, gripping the rose-hued velvet until she scored
the fabric with her nails.

Lettie finished freeing the buttons and tugged at the fabric with efficiency until
it pooled at Sophia’s feet. “If you’d like, I’ll have cook send up a tray.”

“Yes, thank you, Lettie. I believe a quiet night is just what I need.”

“What are you doing?”

Nicholas startled at the sound of Sophia’s voice and slipped one stair tread down
from where he’d been sitting. “I’m not precisely sure,” he replied, watching as she
came ’round to join him on the carpeted main stairwell of Petworth Manor.

The clock in the foyer below chimed midnight. “What are you doing skulking about at
such a late hour?” he countered playfully, offering Sophia his arm as she settled
against him.

“I was waiting for you—or waiting to go to you,” she thought aloud, clearly not having
decided. “And then I grew hungry. Waiting can do that to a person, you see.”

Nicholas smiled and leaned in, intent on kissing her. “May I?”

“We’re fools, aren’t we?” Sophia asked, meeting him halfway and placing a sweet, hesitant
kiss on his mouth. “Here we sit, waiting for the other. Thinking on our kiss by the
lake, yet wondering if we’ve need to ask permission for another. Wanting to know everything
about each other yet too shy to ask.”

He moved his mouth to the shell of her ear and nibbled at the tender lobe. “I’ve waited
nearly my entire life to touch you, Sophia. That many years of restraint does something
to a person.”

“For my part, I cannot claim years of yearning,” Sophia answered with complete honesty.
“But I want you—the whole of you. Your thoughts and feelings. Your heart. Your body.
Everything. And I cannot let hesitation or embarrassment keep me from you.”

Nicholas’s mouth went dry. “I … You … Exactly.”

Sophia sighed with amusement, an air of ease settling between them. “Well then, what
do we do to regain some composure—some balance, if you will?”

Nicholas trailed a series of small, wet kisses down her neck, circling about the neckline
of her blue dress and ending his travels with one last kiss on her mouth.

“Do you really want to know everything about me?” Nicholas asked boldly, though he
felt stupid for doing so.

Sophia cupped his face in her hands. “I do. And more.”

He felt ridiculously pleased. As a child might upon receiving the most wanted of gifts
on their birthday.

“This is where you confirm your own desire to know everything about me, Nicholas,”
Sophia prompted, gently pinching his cheek before releasing him.

Nicholas eased back against the stairs, placing his elbows on the tread just above.
“But I already do know
everything. You always assumed I wasn’t paying attention to you—when, in fact, I was.”

“Is that so?” Sophia asked, arching one brow in disbelief. “My favorite color?”

“Green. Emerald, to be exact.”

Sophia emitted a low “mmm.” “What makes me the happiest?”

“Your work with the Halcyon Society,” Nicholas answered succinctly.

“What makes me sad?”

Nicholas hesitated for a moment, not wanting to upset her. “The sight of a mother
and daughter together.”

Sophia turned to look down the long stairwell, a frown appearing on her lips. “Does
that make me selfish? That I envy such girls?”

“It does not make you selfish,” Nicholas assured her in a low, steady tone. “It makes
you human.”

He reached out and took her hand in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb methodically
over her knuckles.

“Thank you,” she whispered, turning her face toward him once more. “Now, I believe
it is my turn.”

“Ah yes,” Nicholas confirmed, thinking back on her questions. “Rose, you, Langdon.”

Sophia’s eyes grew round with dismay. “You really are the most impatient man in all
of England, aren’t you?”

“Efficient, Sophia,” he corrected her teasingly. “I am the most efficient man in all
of England.”

Sophia chuckled at his reply. “Well, that may be. Still, I’ll require an explanation—especially
the rose part.”

“It’s simple. The color rose reminds me of you—of your lips, to be precise.”

“Oh, that is quite sweet, Nicholas,” Sophia said, then leaned in and gently kissed
his cheek.

“It is, isn’t it?” Nicholas asked in all seriousness. “You appear to have a gift for
bringing out the most detestable
traits in me—sweetness, thoughtfulness, kindness. Really, everything admirable that
ends in ‘ness.’ ”

“Well, that is improvement. At least you didn’t deny their existence.”

“You’re quite comical, you know,” Nicholas teased, pulling Sophia onto his lap. “I
nearly forgot where I was … Ah yes, what makes me happy. You. I believe my gut-wrenching
speech delivered in front of the milliner’s should suffice for explanation.”

Sophia wrapped her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. “I suppose
it will do. Now, for the sad bit.”

“Must I?” Nicholas asked, only wanting to close his eyes and breathe in the scent
of her. “I am not accustomed to laying my soul bare. In fact, I rather avoid it, if
you must know.”

Sophia tilted her chin until her mouth rested against his ear. “The sad bit, Nicholas.”

He swore under his breath. “Langdon is my brother, Sophia. And despite all of the
upheaval, the unnecessary drama and pain I’ve caused, he never so much as let me think
he regretted it. He never once lost faith in me, unlike my parents—though, to be fair,
I’ve absolutely no confidence that they ever possessed any to begin with. Langdon
is my brother …”

Nicholas swore a second time, not bothering to hide it beneath a whisper. He swallowed
hard and rested his cheek against Sophia’s. “I want him to be happy. To be rewarded
for the admirable life he’s lived.”

“As do I,” Sophia murmured, tightening her hold on him. “And he wants the same for
you, Nicholas.”

Nicholas brought her as close to him as he could, memorizing the feel of her in his
arms. “But at such a high cost? That is the question.”

“You hurt my feelings, young man, taking your dinner in your room. On a tray, no less.”

Nicholas smiled warmly at Mrs. Welch, Petworth’s cook. “Well, that is typically how
one does it, though I would be most happy to entertain other ideas. Perhaps a horse’s
backside? Wide enough to accommodate all of the necessary dishes and such. Still,
how would one ensure the nag did not wander off with one’s meal?”

Mrs. Welch let out a cackle that could surely be heard on the Continent. “You well
know what I’m unhappy about, you sly fox. But it is nice to know you haven’t changed,
Nicholas—oh blast! Mr. Bourne, that is. All these years and I can’t think of you as
anything else. Your own fault for not visiting us a time or two when you were grown.”

Nicholas sat back, the heat from the kitchen fireplace pleasantly warm. “Then we have
something in common, Mrs. Welch. For I cannot think of you as anything other than
the young, beautiful cook who so cruelly denied my advances.”

“You were a boy, Nich—Mr. Bourne,” Mrs. Welch said, catching herself. “And the second
son of an earl. Besides, it was only my tarts you were interested in,” she finished,
shooing away a kitchen girl with a wave.

Nicholas simply looked at the woman with a slight smile, arching his eyebrow as he
took another drink of coffee. “Your
tarts
?”

“Ah! Go on with you, then,” Mrs. Welch howled, her peal of laughter making the spurned
kitchen girl titter with amusement.

“Dear me, I seem to have missed the joke.”

Nicholas swung about in his chair. Sophia stood in the doorway that divided the kitchens
from the servants’ dining area. He’d woken that morning thankful
that they’d decided against anything more than rest last night. Their conversation
had taken a toll on both of them.

He stood and sketched a neat bow. “There will be another one shortly, never fear.”

Mrs. Welch rose to her feet as well and curtsied, her excitement over Sophia’s presence
palpable. “Lady Sophia, I don’t suppose you’ll remember me. We are all so glad to
have you here once again. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Welch,” Sophia answered, walking to the scarred kitchen table and
taking a seat. “And of course I remember you—quite fondly, actually. You were my most
stalwart supporter against Reynolds.”

Mrs. Welch grimaced at the sound of the butler’s name. “Well, I don’t know if the
news reached London. Mr. Reynolds had his comeuppance served to him on the horn of
an angry bull. He was gored to death while chasing after a village boy who he believed
had stolen from the manor’s gardens.”

“Good Lord,” Sophia uttered, her eyes widening with horror.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Mrs. Welch blurted out, looking pleadingly at Sophia.
“I must learn to mind my tongue. It’s just that we’re not used to anyone else but
the small staff, you see.” She eyed Sophia carefully.

Sophia cocked her head, confusion flitting across her face, only to be quickly followed
by a mischievous smile. “Oh, please do not misunderstand me, Mrs. Welch. I was merely
thinking of the poor bull. That must have been quite frightening for him to find a
man such as Mr. Reynolds affixed to his horn.”