Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (2 page)

Ten and a half years later

Lazarus Kane had waited under the lamppost for some time, with no sight of anyone coming in or going out of the gentleman's club. He finally turned his head at the distant sound of a dog bark, and noticed a hefty figure as it rounded the corner, swinging an ivory-topped cane and checking a pocket watch. Eyes narrowed, Lazarus stepped back out of the circle of lantern light and carefully observed the approaching shape.

The other man hummed softly as he made his way down the street and apparently never noticed Lazarus standing so still and silent in the twilight. His destination appeared to be a tall, narrow white building in the midst of a row that curved gently to embrace the border of a very pleasant little park. The portly figure advanced with a brisk step, cane tapping the pavement, while the trace of a stiff smile lingered on his face.

Lazarus could almost smell the man's desperation, the eagerness to get through that door with its polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Inside, a gentleman could enjoy several hours of uninterrupted contentment in the warm embrace of a leather chair, read the racing papers uninterrupted, play a few hands of cards, and partake of whatever wagers could be had that evening.

He watched as the man raised a gloved hand to the door knocker.

Eventually, the door opened, and a grim face peeked through the narrow crack. “Yes, sir?” the footman intoned with all the glee of an undertaker.

“It's me, Peters, Henry Valentine.”

Aha! Lazarus smiled slightly in the shadows. The very man he'd waited there to meet.

“So I see, sir. I bid you good eve.” The footman began closing the door, and Henry shoved his booted foot in the gap.

“Peters! What is the meaning of this?”

“Sir, you are no longer permitted here.”

“How very amusing, Peters. Who put you up to this? James Hartley?” He glanced over at the bow window.

The steadfast footman repeated that he could not let him in, and Lazarus watched Henry's jowls shake. “Let me in, at once! I insist. You take a jest too far.”

“Sir, you have been…removed…from the membership list.”

Henry demanded to know why, and the old footman blinked slowly. “I fear, sir—one unpaid debt too many.” Then he gave the door another push, and Henry withdrew his foot with an anguished curse. “Good eve, sir,” said the footman so respectfully no one would guess how much he relished his task, unless, like the watchful Lazarus, they happened to catch the wild gleam in his eyes.

With a cool thud, the door closed, leaving Henry on the steps of the club, clutching his cane and the last remnants of his dignity. He felt hastily for something in his waistcoat pocket, but his fingers were too clumsy, and he seemed to forget what he was doing with them. Turning, he stumbled down the steps to the pavement, his face crimson.

Only then did he notice Lazarus under the lamppost, near enough to hear every word of his exchange with the footman. He looked as if he would walk by with no acknowledgment, but Lazarus stepped in his path.

“Is your name Valentine? Did I hear correctly?”

Henry stopped and looked at him, gloved fingers wrapped tight around his cane.

“I'm on my way to the village of Sydney Dovedale and have business there with someone by that name,” Lazarus explained.

“I know nothing of Valentines or any place called Sydney Dovedale.”

“But I thought I heard…”

Henry marched off across the street, and Lazarus watched him go, more amused than annoyed by the slight. He'd planned to approach this matter properly and respectfully, but now Mr. Henry Valentine could blame only himself for the shock he was soon to get.

***

The following day bloomed with a fine spring morning. Under a clear, harebell-blue sky, the earth warmed, and the grass shook off its dewy tears, for something new was in the air. Change was coming.

Lazarus Kane felt it in his very bones.

He walked along the verge with a long stride, a swinging arm, and a whistle on his lips. The arm not swinging held a large box on one shoulder, and this carried all his possessions, apart from those he wore, the hat on his head, and the boots upon his feet. These boots were the only clue as to the distance he'd traveled, for the heels were badly worn down, the toes scuffed and splashed with dried mud.

He stopped at the peak of a slight hill and ran a hand along the rugged bark of a primeval oak—rumored to be the oldest in England—and gazed out over the cluster of thatched cottages nestled around a Norman church in the distance. The village was surrounded by timbered hills, and what were once open fields and meadows were now seamed with hedgerows and low stone walls. Thin trails of smoke left the rooftops, adding a little twist of coal ash to the pottage of fragrance.

Nearly there. Excitement, tempered by a little anxiety, traveled swiftly through his veins. Better not stop, for then his feet hurt. As long as he kept moving, he didn't feel the pain.

Suddenly a tribe of young women in white frocks tumbled down the sloping lane, chattering and laughing, bonnets nodding like a row of droopy daisies. When he tried stepping out of their way, they giggled. The sound rose and fell in a frenzied cacophony as they surrounded him on all sides like a gaggle of excited geese. Then they were ahead of him, running away. He watched as they took turns climbing a stile. When they joined hands to run across the breeze-dimpled meadow, he realized where they were headed. In the distance, a tall maypole waited, bedecked in ribbons.

He smiled and followed the path of his merry daisies, the box of belongings still perched on his shoulder. Several villagers now observed his approach. Sydney Dovedale was not the sort of place to which people came unless they passed through on the way to somewhere grander, and the sight of a stranger would, no doubt, be cause for concern. So he kept his face merry, his stride confident. Let them see he came in peace.

Just as long as no one gave him any trouble.

He set down his box and leaned against a five-barred gate, squinting in the bright sun as the pink-cheeked, boisterous young girls circled the maypole.

Now, which was the woman he came here to find?

Moving along the hedge, he stood in the soft shade of a chestnut tree, where the grass was still wet and the dank earthiness tickled his nostrils. He'd just removed his hat to comb his hair back with the fingers of one hand, when something dropped on his head. One corner of it narrowly missed his left eye, and it bounced to the grass at his feet. A stifled curse trickled down through the branches, but when he looked up into the tree, all was very still. If it was possible to hear breath being held, he was certain he heard it. The fingers of a small hand slowly retreated like stealthy caterpillars through the leaves.

“Good morning,” he called, holding his hat to his chest.

Nothing but a low sigh. Might have been a breeze trailing through the leafy branches.

When he stooped to retrieve the slender book that had fallen, the tree made a tiny, agitated mewl of distress. And no wonder. The pictures printed in this book were shockingly clear, detailed and instructive, not generally the sort of reading matter one expected to find a lady perusing on a sunny spring morning in the branches of a chestnut tree. Or anywhere, for that matter. He couldn't read a word printed there, but the pictures spoke a universal language.

“I didn't mean to disturb you,” he shouted up into the tree even as he wondered why he apologized, since it was her indecent book that almost took out his eye. He knew it was a woman. Her presence rippled against his skin like the soft, sun-warmed waves of a calm but curious sea.

The tree, however, stared down at him, haughty and proud. And silent.

He ought to shake the wench out of her hiding place like a ripe chestnut.

Snapping the book shut, he tucked it inside his waistcoat and turned back to watch the dancers around the maypole. His lips puckered in a careless whistle while he deliberately ignored the tree. His gaze now traveled over the other women.

No. She was not among them. These girls were all too young.

A wasp buzzed his ear. He batted it away and then, in his peripheral vision, saw a booted foot, followed by a long, shapely leg in a torn stocking, slide slowly down the tree trunk. When her skirt and petticoat snagged on a branch, she halted and cursed under her breath in short, irritable gasps. A second leg emerged.

As did the intriguing sight of delicate lace drawers.

He'd expected her to hide up there until he was gone, but apparently she wanted that book back, and badly enough to show her face—and her drawers.

He should have looked away at once, but being a young man of lively humor and certainly no saint, turned his head to watch. She wore no bonnet, and her hair, the color of honey and sun-gilded wheat sheaves, spilled down her back, falling from a ladylike and ineffectual knot at the nape of her neck. He felt the instant stirring of interest.

She was lucky—very lucky. Lazarus Kane was currently masquerading as a gentleman and on his best behavior.

Her boots finally reached the safety of damp grass, and the ripped skirt dropped, covering her legs. Only then did she glance over her shoulder to be sure he hadn't seen, and her eyes widened when she found him staring brazenly back at her, enjoying the view.

Without a word, she held out her hand. She was an agreeably rounded creature, with delicate but well-defined features and a stunning pair of bright hazel eyes that shone full of stars, even in daytime and under the tumbled shade of the chestnut tree. He couldn't guess her age, although by the shape of her, she was clearly no child, despite her obvious proficiency in climbing and hiding in trees. Something about the way she held herself, the proud chin and determined set of her mouth, made him stare—that and her stunning resemblance to a solemn-faced angel he'd once seen painted on a domed ceiling inside a grand house where he worked. Yes, she was an angel. Clearly, in this case, a fallen one. Perhaps the tree broke her fall, he mused. Mesmerized, he slid one hand into his waistcoat and withdrew the slim volume.

There was no word of thanks. She advanced a step, her gaze on the book in his hand. With a second thought, regaining some of his playful wits, he brought the book back to his chest and held it there, daring her with a narrow-eyed challenge. She hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the pleats of her skirt, lips slightly parted. He imagined his own mouth on hers. He could taste those sweet, soft petals, could feel them shyly parting for him. The pink tip of her tongue darted out, sweeping left to right, dampening the lower lip. He was so absorbed in his imaginary kiss, he barely noticed the slender scar across her cheek.

Then he saw it. And he knew he'd found her at last.

Relief swept him until he was almost giddy. It was she. She wouldn't know him, of course, but for ten years she'd been his guardian angel, bringing comfort in some of his darkest hours. Without her image engraved on his mind—that hope of one day finding her again—he would never have survived.

He finally held the book out to her again, but when she reached for it, he forgot his newly adopted “gentlemanly” manners. So much for them. With his free hand, he captured hers and held it tight, drawing her closer through the long, shady grass.

“A kiss, madam,” he muttered. “Is that not a fair exchange?”

He expected her to struggle away, but she glanced anxiously over the hedge toward the merry revelers. She gave no shout of alarm, no sound but the smallest of startled yelps. It occurred to Lazarus she was more eager not to be seen there than she was to alert any of the villagers to her aid. The book, of course, he mused.

What good fortune it fell upon his head this morning and none other. Lucky for her too, since he knew how to keep a secret. He had plenty of those himself.

He tugged again, and she stumbled over a gnarled tree root, falling against him. Wide-eyed, she looked up at his face, and he felt those quick, anxious breaths ripple through her warm, generously shaped body. With every exhale, her breasts pillowed against his chest, and as she tried to settle her balance on the uneven ground, her hip inadvertently stroked his thigh. There was still no protest from her lips; instead, a curious light quickened in the sultry hazel depths of her unblinking gaze.

Was the lady ready for a little practice to go along with the theory she studied in her wicked book?

In that case, he would readily oblige. Lazarus ruthlessly cast aside all previous intentions of chivalry, recently acquired along with his new set of clothes, and reverted once more to the basic actions of a young man who'd learned most of his life lessons in the dark alleys and back streets of London.

His mouth sought hers, claiming it with neither mercy nor apology. Somewhere a bird sang, and his skipping pulse soared along with those high notes. She tasted as sweet as she looked, and although this kiss was bartered, it was neither coldly offered nor resentfully given. It was tentative but surprisingly gracious. She bestowed it like a blessing. Or a forgiveness.

How could she know, yet, she had anything to forgive him for?

He was calmed by it, briefly humbled even. And then he wanted more.

The delightful, teasing friction of her body against his had whetted Lazarus Kane's appetite. He let his tongue slip between her lips, distracting her while he released her small hand and slid his arm around her waist to pull her more securely against him. He parted his feet for balance, ran his splayed hand along her spine, and let his tongue delve deeper. She shivered. Her lashes lowered, trembling against her cheek. Dappled sunlight fell through the trees gently to dust the side of her face with verdigris and copper. When he felt her tongue touch his, growing bolder, he wanted to laugh, the joy taking him by surprise. His kiss turned demanding, his mouth slanted to hers, and his hand anchored at the nape of her neck.

And still he wanted more.

But she, it seemed, had given enough. He felt her pulling back. As much as he wanted to keep her, he knew better. For now, they were obliged to be civilized.