Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (17 page)

“Actually, it was I who turned him down. Mr. Kane
did
want to marry me.” She supposed it must be the effects of the waltz still spinning through her, but she no longer cared what anybody knew about anything.

“I don't understand.”

“It doesn't matter now, does it? I turned him down, and no man would ask the same woman a second time.”

He glared at her. “
I
did.”

“Yes, but…that's…” The giddiness was fading. “You're different.”

There was a long pause while James digested this information. Finally, he snapped, “I insist, Sophia, you never speak to the man again.”

He was agitated—more so than she'd ever seen him. Neither Henry nor James liked any threat to their carefully ordered world, and Kane was a young upstart who, in their eyes, got above himself. They did not believe—as she did—he had as much right to be there as anyone.

But dormant rebellion once again stirred inside the unlikely form of Sophie Valentine.

“James, you should really stop being so stiff and pompous.”

He scowled at her with his lips parted, his face reddened. “I suppose this attitude tonight can all be blamed on the defiant, obstreperous manner of your friend Vyne.” His blue gaze darted back and forth until he saw the very object of his scorn approaching them again. “Here she comes now, damn her.”

“Don't worry, James.” Sophie laughed, patting his sleeve. “I'll protect you.”

Ellie Vyne returned to her side. “Mr. Kane is remarkably charming, is he not?”

“Most people think so.”

The young woman suddenly exhaled a small groan and ducked behind James, whose tall form made a useful screen, despite his reluctance to be used in such a manner. “For the love of all that's holy, stand still, Hartley. Don't let that wretch with the yellow hair see me. I promised him a dance two years ago, and he's never forgotten, but he has the most dreadfully bad breath.”

Sophie laughed. “I think it's too late to hide.”

Her friend cursed broadly, and James exclaimed, “Perhaps you would not garner so many unwanted followers, if you acted with decorum and stopped running about all over the place. A young lady should learn to sift the wheat from the chaff and not dance willy-nilly with every man who asks.”

“Sakes, you are a pompous tick, Hartley,” Ellie grumbled.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn't a compliment.”

“Any criticism from your lips I take as an accolade. If I ever met with your approval, I'd know instantly I was doing something wrong.”

She laughed. “Rest assured, Hartley, you're just as tedious as you ever were. You're in no danger of my admiration.”

Sophie interrupted jauntily. “Would anyone like some more punch?”

She was ignored. “If you are always so right, Vyne, and I am so wrong, how is it you are the one cowering out of sight to avoid a gentleman you have no doubt strung along for your own amusement in the past and now drop like a hot coal the moment he is no longer a novelty? Do you see me hiding? Do I ever find myself in scrapes from which I cannot extract myself with dignity?”

Ellie sighed as she grabbed his sleeve and peered around it. “Of course not,” she exclaimed, her tone matter-of-fact, “but we can't all be like you, or no one would ever have any fun, and we'd all die of boredom.”

He shook his head, his mouth pinched.

Sophie knew he was being a hypocrite. James had his fun, but they weren't supposed to know about it. People like Ellie Vyne and Lazarus Kane annoyed him because they were open about their failings and indiscretions. They didn't care what people thought of them. To James, appearances were very important, no matter what went on behind closed doors. In many respects, despite his wealth and advantages, he was a prisoner of his world. And he wanted Sophie to be one too.

***

On the way home that evening, Aunt Finn removed her turban and revealed a silver flask concealed under it. “I need a sip after the shock of seeing Fitzherbert Derwinter again.”

James stared grimly out at the road as it tumbled by.

“Was he really one of your beaus, Aunt Finn?” Sophie asked.

“Oh yes, but he didn't have gumption. I wanted a man who danced and didn't care what he looked like doing it. Shame really. I might have been rich, then, my dear, had I married him.” She touched her niece's knee with one delicate gloved hand. “But money is far from the everything men—and some women—think it is. Ah”—she sighed pensively—“if only they knew…”

Sophie silently echoed the sentiment, following her aunt's gaze across the barouche to James, and thought what a waste it was—all that beauty wrapped up so tightly and so elegantly, desperately afraid of losing a little control and giving in to passion.

“Your little friend Mariella Vyne has grown into quite a stunning creature,” Aunt Finn exclaimed.

“Yes.” Sophie smiled. “I fear for the hearts of gentlemen everywhere.”

Across the carriage, James sniffed. “I fear for their sanity.”

There was a short pause, and then Finn leaned close to whisper, “Now what is this I hear about a great big fellow running around stark naked at Souls Dryft?”

“It is nothing for you to worry about.”

“Oh,” came the forlorn reply, “what a pity!”

The following morning, Sophie paid a visit to Mrs. Cawley's cottage to see her friend and catch up on more news. By then, Ellie had heard all about the advertisement for a husband, and even with a headache from too much punch the night before, she teased Sophie without mercy.

“Now your extremely charming Mr. Kane came all this way in answer to it, why do you keep him waiting?”

“The extremely charming Mr. Kane is precisely that! He flirts with every woman in the village”—she lowered her voice to whisper as her friend poured the tea—“even your aunt.”

They both looked over to where the elderly lady was napping by the fire, her feet up on a little tapestry stool. And they chuckled together.

“How can anyone take him seriously?” Sophie added.

Ellie threw an extra lump of sugar into her teacup and stirred carefully so as not to wake her slumbering aunt or irritate her own sore head. “Who said anything about taking him seriously?” She leaned across the tablecloth, gripping her friend's hand and squeezing it lightly. “Stand up for what you want. Seize every opportunity, for we will never be younger, Sophie, than we are today.”

Sophie sipped her tea and felt excitement stir within her breast, the wicked gladness that comes from hearing convenient advice. Advice that told her to do precisely what she wanted. Ellie Vyne was always very useful for dispensing this particularly pleasing sort of wisdom. Probably why James Hartley was so determined to dislike her.

***

“You caused quite a stir at the assembly rooms with your flirtatious behavior,” she said to Lazarus on Wednesday afternoon when he came for his lesson.

“Everything about me causes a stir,” he replied cockily.

“You have a high opinion of yourself. I've warned you before about pride and vanity.”

“Can't help it if I'm the most interesting fellow in this village.
Some
folk”—he gave her an arch look—“have nothing else to do but gossip about me.”

“Is that so?”

“And they have nothing else to stave off the boredom, because they daren't let themselves trust a man who can give them exactly what they want. More, in fact, than they ever dreamed.”

She sighed. “It must be quite a burden for you, Mr. Kane.”

“Hmm?”

“That massive male…” She temporarily lost her train of thought.

“Massive male…?”

“…vanity of yours!”

He laughed good-naturedly then made a pretense of studying his slate, holding the chalk awkwardly in his thick fingers. “Are you engaged to that idiot?” he asked suddenly. “Your friend Miss Vyne said you were not, but Miss Amy Dawkins thought you were.”

How easy it was for him to ask her questions, she thought. He just blurted them out, probably as soon as they popped into his head. All sorts of improper questions he had no right to ask and she shouldn't answer.

But she did. “I am not engaged. Not yet.”

“Ah.” He was still looking down at his slate.

“As for Amy Dawkins and her gossip…folk here like to talk. If there's nothing to talk about, they make it up.”

He shook his head. “How do you live in such a place where everyone pries into your business and speculates freely on what they don't know?”

“I suppose one gets accustomed to it,” she replied. “I like to think, Mr. Kane, there is some good in every soul. No one is completely faultless, so I forgive them their sins.”

“Very nobly said,” he muttered skeptically. “Very pious.”

“Now will you proceed with the lesson, Mr. Kane?”

“Would you forgive my sins too?”

She hesitated, looking down at his bent head. “I suppose it would be hypocritical of me not to forgive you.”

“But you don't know what they are. They'd shock you right out of your frilly lace drawers.”

With that comment, he reminded her, yet again, of what he'd seen on the first of May when he caught her climbing out of the chestnut tree. With nervous fingers, she checked the prim knot of hair at the nape of her neck. “Do pay attention to the letters, Mr. Kane. Once again, your ‘b' has become a ‘d.' And I have no idea what that mark is supposed to be at the end. The tail of the ‘y' goes downward and to the left, not to the right.” Sometimes she thought he did it deliberately. Even Matthias Finchly applied himself more diligently to his letters.

“If you sit on my lap, I daresay I'd learn quicker.” He shifted back slightly, offering her his knee.

On this evening, there was something in the air. The sky was very pink, casting a warm, rich light through the schoolhouse window, painting everything so it looked brand-new. For several weeks now, he'd attended his lessons, but each day he came later—just like the night itself—making her wait for him just a little longer every time. It was only a few minutes, but she was aware of it and wondered if he did it deliberately to see if she'd wait.

Because she did. Much to her chagrin.

“If you stopped your mind from wandering, you'd learn quicker, Mr. Kane.”

When he looked up at her, she felt his dark eyes measuring the distance to her lips. “You don't believe in reward as a motive?”

This grown man was her most ill-behaved pupil to date. “You might at least make an attempt to be slightly less transparent in
your
motives.”

“'Tis only a knee. Come. Sit, woman.”

“Thank you. I prefer to stand.”

He grinned. “So you can run away if you need to?”

She tipped her chin. “Why would I need to?”

“It's Wednesday, Miss Valentine. You promised we'd begin today.”

Finally, with a sharp gasp of frustration, she lowered herself to his knee. She glanced anxiously at the window, fearing someone might pass by. She didn't let her mind dwell too long on what she was doing. Surely it was all quite harmless. As he said, it was only a knee.

He put his left arm around her waist, and she felt his leg tremble slightly.

“Am I too heavy?”

He shook his head and laughed low. His strong, thick thigh flexed under her bottom, and she bit her lip as a surge of excitement traveled quickly into her womanly core. With his right hand on her knee, he slowly began to caress, wrinkling her muslin gown. “What would you like first, Miss Valentine? Where shall I begin your tutoring?”

But she didn't know what she had to choose from, so how could she say where to start?

“I know you've had some experience,” he added softly. “You're not a maid.”

Of course, he would have heard by now she was a fallen woman. No doubt Amy Dawkins couldn't wait to tell him the story.

“It was only once and very brief,” she replied, her voice tense. “I'm sure your experience is much greater.”

Suddenly, he placed his right hand on her breast, cupping it gently through her gown. Spreading his fingers, he caressed the full mound above the edge of her corset. “Pity we haven't enough time to take this off, Miss Valentine. But perhaps there is another way under your armor.”

He slowly gathered the folds of her skirt and petticoat, lifting it inch by inch until it was over her knee, her stockings exposed. Then the frilly lace trim of her drawers.

“Miss Valentine,” he exclaimed, beaming. “You wore them for me. My favorites.”

She sighed and nodded.

His fingertip explored the tiny pink-ribbon roses that decorated the lace edging, and his thigh muscle tensed again beneath her. She heard his breath catch. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she felt his pulse throbbing just as hard as her own.

Slowly, his fingers traveled farther, along her drawers, under her gathered skirt and petticoat. “Stop me if I go too far, Miss Valentine. This is our first lesson, after all, but that French lace is in danger of making me forget caution.”

Again she nodded and squirmed a little with the first tremors of impatience.

“You will tell me if I'm too audacious?” he asked.

She licked her lips but remained silent.

“If you would like me to continue, you must kiss me.”

Leaning closer, she waited, but he made her reach for his lips. So she moved the last little distance to give him her kiss and thus permission to continue.

His hand slipped higher between her legs until it came to the little slit in her drawers. She held her breath, watching the sunlight drip over the window ledge. His fingertips poised there at the apex of her thighs. If she moved just slightly, his fingers would brush against the material and slip through the gap to touch her flesh.

“May I?” he asked, waiting for another kiss.

She turned her head and pressed her lips to his again, longer this time, more insistent, silently pleading.

His fingers parted the little slit to find her sex eagerly waiting.

More gently than she expected, his fingers stroked her, while his other hand held her waist. She heard his breath quicken. She swallowed hard and tried to be still in his lap, but the sensations he roused with the touch of his fingertips were far more intense than anything she'd experienced during her own explorations.

“You're already wet, Miss Valentine.” She detected a slight tremor in his voice, but she still daren't look at him.

“Yes.” He'd made her that way the moment she sat on his knee, the contact of his body with hers something that never failed to cause her these problems. Often it was only the idea of touching him that made her melt like this.

Her pulse was beating so hard in her ears she could barely hear herself. Thick strands of hair already fell to her shoulders again, wayward as their mistress.

He took his fingers away, and they rested on her knee, sticky and warm against her stocking. She parted her legs, silently urging him to continue.

“Tell me what you want, Miss Valentine. Tell me what you need.”

But how could she say it? “More of that.”

“More of what?”

“What you just did,” she muttered tightly.

“My hand here again, Miss Valentine?” Once more he touched her through the slit in her drawers, but lightly, teasing—a tantalizing whisper of his roughened fingertips. His gaze ripped into hers, and she couldn't look away. “On your—?”

She interrupted, kissing him again, fiercely this time, to stop him saying the word aloud. He was so coarse, she thought, shivering. She shouldn't encourage this. It was wicked. James would never say such a thing to her.

His fingers withdrew again and tickled her inner thigh, drawing circles slowly, idly. “Tell me about James Hartley.”

“What about him?”

“It was he, wasn't it? The man who had you?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

There was a pause, and then, “Was he good?”

“Good?” Frustrated that he was delaying their lesson to talk about James, she exclaimed tartly, “You mean, did he attend church regularly?”

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. “If you want me to continue, Miss Valentine, you'll answer me. Did he please you?”

She sat very still, her legs parted, liquid longing seeping out of her. “No, if you must know. It was over in moments, before I even knew it.”

He suddenly swept her falling hair aside with his left hand, leaving her neck exposed. She closed her eyes and felt his lips there, his teeth gently nibbling. She knew he'd feel her pulse, fluttering recklessly—a caged creature looking for a way out, so desperate it would harm itself.

“Breathe, Miss Valentine, or you'll faint.”

She exhaled, feeling foolish.

“That's better. Can't have you fainting on me, can I?”

She shook her head.

“Look at me,” he whispered. Confused, she looked at his face, and he gestured downward to the straining bulge in his tight breeches. “One day, if you progress well in your lessons, you can have that,” he whispered, his breath blowing on her overheated skin as he leaned close.

“What makes you think I want it?” she demanded archly, amazed yet again by his sheer impertinence, the brazen expectation that no woman could resist him.

“This does,” he replied, slightly hoarse as he touched her again through her drawers, sliding a finger over her pulsing wetness.

“Oh.”

“But you can't have all of me yet,” he added gruffly. “And I can't have all of you.”

So he meant to tease her this way. Very interesting. Much better than illustrations in a book.

Thinking of which…

“Would you like me to kiss you there?” she asked.

Now it was his turn to be shocked. “
What?
”

“I saw it in the book.”

***

It took Lazarus a moment to remember. Ah yes, the book he caught her reading once. He gazed at her full, soft mouth with its slightly pouty upper lip and felt his manhood jerk like a stallion wanting out of its stall to chase a mare in season. The schoolmistress was trying to take control of these lessons, and if he wasn't very careful, she just might tempt him into letting her. But he must set the pace. This was his seduction of her and not the other way about.

“Perhaps next time,” he managed finally. “Today is your turn.”

“Oh.” She looked pleased.

And she very soon would be.

“Shall I continue, Miss Valentine?” he asked politely.

She nodded, sitting very primly in his lap, evidently enjoying the game. From the waist up, she might have been seated at a piano, about to give a recital.

He turned his cheek, waiting. Finally remembering the procedure, she kissed it, giving the sign to continue. Then he moved his hand back between her thighs, almost immediately entering her with one finger. She was soft as satin, very hot and overladen with stifled desire. He felt it pounding through her, fluttering against his finger, and he didn't know if he could restrain himself from taking more.

When she closed her eyes, he told her to open them again, because he wanted to see their color. And then he slid a second finger inside her, caressing in and out, driving her to each new wave of rapture but never letting any wash to shore. She moved her hips, and her back arched. He wanted to pull her astride his lap, take her now, fully, the way it should be done, and clearly the way it never had been. But he had to wait. He had to be patient.