Jilting the Duke (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sophia had awoken with a desire to paint figures as she hadn't done in years. She'd begun a portrait of the bust of Boccaccio, but she'd grown dissatisfied. No, she wanted to sketch faces she knew: Ian, Dodsley, Cook, Sally, Luca, Mr. Grange . . . and Aidan. After making a rough sketch, she wanted to develop Aidan's portrait. Perhaps by doing so, she could reconcile the youth she had loved with the man he had become. Soon she would have to decide whether to accept Aidan's offer or refuse it. But if she found the courage to leap, could she survive when he left her again?

She uncovered her paints. On the prepared canvas, she blocked in the light and dark of his features in umber. She imagined his face: the lines on his forehead when he concentrated on a game with Ian; the way his left cheek dimpled when he smiled; the way a memory—perhaps of the wars—would pass over his face, leaving no soft lines. She mixed a range of flesh tones on her palette, each in its own puddle of color. She was about to add the first half-tone to his cheek and forehead when Aidan entered the library without introduction, his eyes dark, his manner controlled.

His voice was low, but tense. “I've received some disturbing news by rider.”

News from outside London. News about Luca and Liliana would have come from the docks. Behind the easel, her hands unclenched.

“Someone broke into your country house and attacked Seth.” His voice never wavered. “That's all I know.”

Relief turned to concern. “But how do you know? I haven't received any news from the estate.” She met him in the middle of the room.

“Colin was visiting Seth and sent a special messenger. How long will it take you and Ian to be ready to leave town? You will be gone some weeks.”

“Within the hour.”

“I will be back in an hour. I'll arrange for changes of horses along the way. We should be at your estate by tomorrow evening.” He turned to leave, but she placed her hand on his arm.

“If you wish to go ahead, Ian and I can follow. On horseback, you could be there hours earlier.”

Aidan's control slipped. “You do not understand, madam. You are not safe. You have been threatened. Your country home has been robbed; your estate manager attacked. Whatever your enemy is seeking, he has not found it. I cannot protect you and Ian here, but I can on my estate. Be ready.”

He strode from the room.

* * *

Malcolm waited at the crossroads for the carriage carrying his family. As planned, Audrey's older son, Jack, rode slightly ahead. When he saw Malcolm, Jack signaled the coachman to stop.

It took only minutes for Malcolm to dismount and trade places with Toby in the carriage. Audrey's youngest—
his
youngest—was thrilled to be trusted with his stepfather's powerful bay. Malcolm settled into the coach, alone—even if only briefly—with his wife.

“It's kind of you to let Toby ride with Jack.” Audrey curled into his side, his arm resting around her shoulders.

Malcolm pulled her even closer and nuzzled her hair. “It wasn't kindness, but the tantalizing memory of other carriage rides with my wife.” He breathed her hair, the scent of spice, of exotic lands.

She laughed and kissed him deeply. “Yes, but on those rides we could pull the curtains.... Today”—Toby rode slightly ahead of the carriage windows—“we'd be questioned. And besides,” she said, her tone turning matter-of-fact, “that's not why you chose to ride in the carriage instead of out.”

“Ah, my wife.” He still found the phrase delightful. “So perceptive.”

“I don't need to be perceptive to know something is amiss.”

“Do tell.” He rested his legs on the opposite seat of the carriage, relaxing the muscles.

“Well, let's see.” She brushed his blond hair with her hand. “Day before yesterday, we were to leave London in a week. Yesterday afternoon, we were to leave tomorrow, but with three boys, not just two. This morning, you send a note saying to be ready by noon. Then promptly at twelve, one of Aidan's luxurious carriages arrives to carry us away, driven by two coachmen who look as if they served in the Peninsular campaigns.”

“It's Aidan's idea. We may as well travel in style.” Malcolm nibbled her ear.

“What is Aidan's idea?”

“We're to take Ian far away and keep him safe, with the help of those coachmen who used to serve in His Majesty's infantry. Beyond that, I'm not sure. There might have been a plan before the attack on Seth, but now it's all an improvisation.”

“What about Sophia?” Audrey offered, her green eyes filled with concern.

“Aidan will look after her.”

“Getting Ian away isn't simply a ploy to get her alone?” She stared into his eyes, looking for the truth.

“He wants the boy safe. Besides, Aidan's not as scandalous as they say.”

“You, darling, are not the one to judge who is scandalous.” She smiled. “Besides, it's not his reputation. It's something about the way each one looks when the other is in the room.”

“Not the way they look at each other?” Malcolm's expression turned pensive.

“No, they look anywhere
but
at one another. One could almost believe they despise each other . . . but the tone is wrong.” Audrey closed her eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I'll have to watch more closely.” Malcolm grew silent. Whatever obstacles he and Audrey had faced, they had overcome them. Would Aidan and Sophia find each other or pass each other by?

“How long will Ian be with us?” Audrey snuggled in closer to Malcolm's side.

“Until it's safe . . . or we tire of traveling.” Malcolm kissed the top of her head.

“So, more than a fortnight.”

“Perhaps. But we have carte blanche to enjoy ourselves; Aidan is paying the bills.”

* * *

Sophia watched Aidan from the carriage window. His anger, fueled—she knew—by helplessness, made the confines of the carriage unbearable. Sophia had been grateful when they'd stopped to let Ian ride post with Fletcher, and Aidan had announced that he would ride. To keep watch, he'd said.

He'd always been an accomplished, even elegant, horseman. As a girl, she'd loved watching him. She'd admired his instinctive handling of a headstrong horse, his unconscious adjustments to its movements. But now, his skill had transformed to an enticing sensuality. She felt the pull even in her bones, reminding her of the strength of his embrace, the passion of his kisses.

But without knowing if Seth would be well, she could not spend the carriage ride considering Aidan's proposition. Instead, her memories turned to the first time she'd traveled this road: when as a ten-year-old orphan she'd gone to live with her uncle Lawrence and his wife Clara. For the first several years, when Clara was alive, their home had been a comforting refuge. In Clara's straightforward view, being educated
as
a boy was no different than being educated
with
boys. So, Sophia had learned everything Clara's boys did, from instruction in letters and science, to archery, fencing, and dancing. Clara had also taught Sophia practical things: how to plan a meal or remove a stain, how to make a poultice to cool a wound or fever. Recognizing Sophia's interest in botany, Clara had expanded it by introducing her to Annie, the local herbalist. “Now don't be afeared; I've known Annie since I was a girl, and she'd never harm a soul. And she knows what healing can come from plants like no one else.”

Sophia still remembered the day Phineas, in whom none of their parents' radical ideas had taken root, had discovered Sophia's irregular education. She'd been reading Mrs. Inchbald's plays when she was summoned to her uncle's study.

When she had entered the study, book in hand, Phineas had looked smug and superior. “See, see there, reading without supervision. As a female, she hasn't the strength of character to resist identifying with wicked characters. Immoral reading leads to immoral actions.” Phineas had turned to her. “Give the book to your uncle, Sophia.”

She had quietly handed the book to her uncle. “Your brother believes that by not supervising your reading materials, we are neglecting your moral character.” The argument was a favorite of moralists like Dr. Gregory, whose best-selling book advising women to be silent in company had drawn the ire of Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Sophia, not knowing what words would be safe, had looked at her feet.

“Your brother wishes to approve the books you read.” Her uncle read to her from Phineas's list. “Books on deportment by Mrs. Trimmer, devotional materials, novels by Maria Edgeworth, and plays by Hannah More. What do you think of this arrangement?”

Phineas smirked, knowing the trap he'd set. If she objected, she did not know how a proper woman behaved. If she didn't object, she could read only what he wished—if she read anything else, she would prove that she lacked moral character. She'd stood quietly, trying to imagine a way out, when Clara had placed her hand on her husband's arm. “Let the child be, Lawrence. It's right that Phineas be concerned for his sister's welfare, but we must abide by
your
brother's wishes in educating his daughter.” Lawrence had nodded his agreement. Phineas's expression had changed from confident satisfaction to malice.

But when kindhearted Clara died of influenza and her uncle remarried, Sophia's new aunt, Annabella, disapproved of all but the most narrow education. Her governess Mrs. Lesley began to include in Sophia's lessons more feminine accomplishments: “We can't, my dear, give your brother anything to criticize.” Mrs. Lesley had also retrieved from the library Phineas's various books on deportment and placed them prominently in the nursery bookshelves. Sophia learned French and how to embroider. But most of all she drew. She took what she'd learned about shape and color from her studies of plant forms with her father and added lessons on perspective from the Italian masters, identifying horizons and distance. In the manor gallery, she and Mrs. Lesley drew the portraits of her distant relatives. She began to paint, and in painting found solace. She and Mrs. Lesley would sketch or watercolor in the fields, capturing specific moments of light and color, then Sophia would return to the nursery and transform her sketches with texture and color until the scene was both nature's and hers.

Early in the marriage, her new aunt, pious like Phineas, had visited the nursery. “My husband has told me I'm not to interfere with my niece's education, but I do not approve of . . . of this.” She waved her hand at the maps on the walls, the books of science on the shelves. “What was the girl reading when I came in? It wasn't French.”

“No, madam; it was Greek. Her father wished her to know the language sufficiently to read the Holy Scriptures.”

Annabella had demanded that Sophia read aloud again, this time translating into English. Sophia had looked at her book—Sophocles's
Antigone
—then recited a short passage from the Book of John on brotherly love. Mrs. Lesley had nodded at her performance. Her aunt had been mollified. But she demanded Sophia spend more time in the drawing room, reading books on deportment, acting as amanuensis for her aunt's letters, and embroidering.

In Annabella's view all artists were “degenerates and wastrels,” and the only appropriate artistic expression for a girl was imitation. Sophia could watercolor engravings of pastoral landscape scenes or the scenes from Shakespeare Annabella had purchased at a printshop and had bound to illustrate her expurgated edition of the Bard. Some time later, Sophia had found a paper envelope addressed to her by her uncle and, inside it, the key to a tower folly built by her grandfather, far beyond Annabella's willingness to walk. There, she and Mrs. Lesley had hidden Sophia's paintings, paint pots, brushes, and paper. Within the year, Mrs. Lesley was gone, her aunt claiming the governess had found another position. But Sophia knew Mrs. Lesley would have at least said good-bye.

Sophia wiped away the wetness of tears from her cheeks.

No, given such sad memories of growing up near Tom's estate, only Seth's injury could have convinced Sophia to travel this road once more.

* * *

At Tom's manor house, they were met by the housekeeper and Audrey's two boys. Jack and Toby were not much older than Ian, close enough in age not to mind his presence, yet old enough that Ian idolized them. The boys were anxious to explore, but their mother had allowed them only the gardens. With Ian, they could search the crannies of the rambling house.

Sophia watched the boys disappear up the stairs, whispering conspiratorially. Aidan was right: Ian needed his own English community. Once she and Ian were safe, she would help Ian form those friendships as Tom had asked.

Seth's rooms were in the family wing. There he rested on a chaise wearing a long dressing gown over an untucked shirt and breeches, his head and arm bandaged, his eyes closed. Malcolm and Audrey were seated across from him in two upholstered armchairs, sipping glasses of Mountain. Malcolm rose to greet them.

Sophia hastened to Seth's side. “Why aren't you in bed, old friend?” Kneeling on the floor, she placed her hand on his forehead to check for fever.

Seth opened his eyes, his pupils large and unfocused. “The doctor said rest, not bed.”

“He meant bed,” she chastised.

“I'm near the bed.” Seth shrugged and grimaced at the movement.

“Next time, let the thief steal whatever he pleases,” Sophia chided. “You matter more than any object a thief could cart away.”

Sophia's affection for her estate manager surprised and irritated Aidan. Seth had never indicated this depth of friendship in any of his conversations over the last decade. The sudden surge of jealousy took Aidan off guard.