Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (30 page)

Although Sophia had told him not to wait up, and even though, in that terrible empty place in his heart, Lazarus feared she was gone for good, he did wait up. What was the alternative? Go to bed without her?

The hours passed. Owl hoot turned to lark song, and the light came up, but she didn't return. He must have closed his eyes to rest them and eventually fell asleep in his chair before the fire, for Tuck woke him with a poke to the shoulder in time for breakfast.

An hour later, hard at work in the rick yard as he layered wheat traves into a stack with a violently wielded pitchfork, something made him look up. Odd. He thought he felt rain, but the sky was pure blue, innocent as a forget-me-not. Then, as he turned to swing his pitchfork yet again, he saw her, walking along the lane with her hands behind her back. She wore that flimsy white party frock, he noted sourly, showing off her curves. Her long arms were brown now after working beside him in the sun. He thought she looked guilty, but then she often did, he realized, resting his pitchfork. She often looked as if she'd just done something she shouldn't. Or was about to. It was one of the first things that drew him to her, when he tried to see what she hid behind those lashes—what she'd been up to.

Feet apart, pitchfork held across his thighs, he watched her approach, taking in every detail and committing her to memory before she slipped away for good.

As she finally came closer, the words burst out of him. “You've come to tell me you're leaving to marry Hartley. You needn't have bothered.”

“No. I suppose I needn't have bothered, you surly ingrate,” she replied tightly, “but since I'm here, you may as well have this.” She held out a white, folded object, which she'd kept behind her back.

He scowled at it, dubious. “What is it?”

“A shirt. I made it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I begin to wonder myself. So much blood and sweat has never been lost over one foolish shirt.” Then her brave voice faltered when she added, “But no one else should have the wearing of it.”

Sweat dripped from his eyebrows while he fought for something to say.

“And I'm going to marry
you
, Kane, whether you like it or not.”

His heart began to beat again. The creases slowly melted away from his brow, and then he threw his pitchfork down, exhaling heavily. He actually felt as if he might cry, so he wiped his face quickly with one hand, as if he were perspiring. “That dandy could give you more than I ever could. Much more.”

“But not what I need.”

Tongue tucked well into his cheek, he cautiously took the offering from her hands and examined the clumsy stitches and rough edges. “Will it fit?” He glanced at her, saw her lashes flicker and the little swallow in her throat.

“Of course.” But from the look on her face, it hadn't occurred to her until now.

He read her thoughts clearly.

At last they were no longer hidden from him. The veil was gone.

His heart actually hurt, pierced by the surprise joy of this gift, over which she must have struggled and suffered many pricks with her needle. Thrusting it back into her hands, he briskly removed his old silk shirt, and when he caught her glance at his chest, he teased, “You didn't go to all this trouble just to see me without my shirt, Miss Valentine?”

“There you go again, Kane, with your pride and vanity.”

“And
your
lust.”

“We'll come to that in a moment.”

He pulled the new shirt over his head while she watched. Almost immediately, the sound of ripping stitches brought the action to a halt. She circled him impatiently and pulled on the material to force it over his shoulders, determined it would fit. The poor shirt barely contained his shoulders, stretched tight across his chest, and yet was curiously more than sufficient in length, hanging almost to his knees. He looked down and tried not to laugh. She was silent, vexed, chewing her nails. He spread out his arms, ignored the ripping, and exclaimed, “Perfect!”

Their eyes met, and they both laughed.

“Now,” he said as he closed the distance between them, “I suppose this is when I tell you I love you.”

She nodded, her hands and forearms pressed lightly to his chest.

“I love you, Sophie,” he breathed, looking down at her. “I don't want to be without you, not even for a minute of the time I have left.”

Again she nodded, lips pressed tight, eyes shining.

“Now it's your turn to tell me,” he added sternly, all business, “what
you
need.”

She slid her soft arms over his shoulders and then around his neck, urging that he bend down to her. “I need you,” she whispered. “I want you. I love you.”

He grinned and moved her even closer, until there was nothing left in their way.

***

After the wedding feast, when the guests had all gone home, the newlyweds strolled in the garden at Souls Dryft, and Russ plucked one of those late, deep-red roses from the flint wall, tucking it behind her ear. Then he leaned back to admire it. His eyes traveled slowly and appreciatively over her face. “Did you make the right choice?” he asked softly. “You won't change your mind tomorrow?”

She pouted. “You think me so flighty and changeable?”

“You do have a reputation for changing your mind.”

“But I waited all these years for you.”

He chuckled, and she felt it rumbling through his chest where she leaned against it.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep falling all that time, Russ, waiting to be caught? But I knew you had to come soon. I couldn't have lived another day without you.” She lifted on tiptoe to kiss him.

His fine, knightly nose rubbed hers.

“Aunt Finn will be safely wrapped up in bed within ten minutes, fast asleep in another ten.” She smiled saucily. “Chivers spends the night at Merryweather's Tavern, and Tuck has gone to visit his cousin in Yarmouth, so he won't return tonight.”

“Is that so?” He set her back at arm's length. “Why do you tell me this?”

She laughed, and red petals fell from her rose to the sleeve of her gown. “You may do whatever you wish with the information. I merely apprise you of the fact that, in half an hour, we shall have the place to ourselves.”

“Twenty minutes,” he whispered. “I can't read, but I can add.”

“How clever you are! My best pupil.”

A breeze kicked over the wall and teased the climbing roses. For the first time in her life, Sophie had her shawl around her shoulders when and where she needed it. As she gathered it around her now to ward against that little nip of chill air, her smile widened until it became a chuckle.

I've grown up
, she thought.
Finally.

At the risk of sounding smug, she even quite liked herself.

***

The villagers of Sydney Dovedale never could reach an agreement on how it happened that Sophie and the stranger fell in love. As the years passed and memories faded away completely or became untrustworthy, the story of how he first came there changed, depending on whoever did the telling. Some said he purchased her from an advertisement in the
Norwich
and
Morecroft
Farmer's Gazette
. Others said she shot him with an arrow, piercing his heart like Cupid. That, they would say, is why he has that little bump there, on his chest.

The poor man never seemed to have a shirt that fit, and neither did any of his sons, which was very strange, as they did well enough for themselves and lived more than comfortably. They would never be rich, like his wife's noble Grimstock relatives, but they didn't appear to mind.

She
teetered
on
the
balustrade, considering the distance to fall, but the future stretched before her, and she must take a chance. So she leapt into the night, her white ball gown fluttering around her with the tragic grace of a bird's broken wings.

Below, just emerging from the shadow of a boxwood hedge, a young man prepared to collect his ladder when he looked up at the sound of a slight cry. On instinct, he put out his arms and caught the falling woman.

Never
had
he
laid
eyes
on
such
a
creature
of
beauty. “Are you an angel?” he asked, breathless. “Are you here to save me?”

She
laughed. “But, sir, 'tis you who saved me!”

And
so, having rescued the maiden, he kept her and walked away with her into the night.

At least, that is how Sophie always told the story whenever their children asked why some people called her “a fallen woman.”

The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

When a notorious bachelor seduces a scandalous lady, it can only end in a wicked wedding

By night Ellie Vyne fleeces unsuspecting aristocrats as the dashing Count de Bonneville. By day she avoids her sisters' matchmaking attempts and dreams up inventive insults to hurl at her childhood nemesis, the arrogant, far-too-handsome-for-his-own-good James Hartley.

James finally has a lead on the villainous, thieving count, tracking him to a shady inn. He bursts in on none other than “that Vyne woman”...in a shocking state of dishabille. Convinced she is the count's mistress, James decides it's best to keep his enemies close. Very close. Seducing Ellie will be the perfect bait...

Praise for
The Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine
:

“Ms. Fresina delivers a scintillating debut! Her sharply drawn characters and witty prose are as addictive as chocolate!”
—Mia Marlowe, author of
Touch of a Rogue

For more Jayne Fresina, visit:

www.sourcebooks.com

Lady Amelia's Mess and a Half

by Samantha Grace

Jake broke her heart by leaving for the country after sharing a passionate kiss.

Lady Amelia broke his by marrying his best friend.

When she returns to town a widow—pursued by an infamous rake, Jake's debauched brother, and just maybe by Jake himself—Lady Amelia will have a mess and a half on her hands.

A sparkling romp through the ton,
Lady Amelia's Mess and a Half
delivers a witty Regency romance in which misunderstandings abound, reputations are put on the line, and the only thing more exciting than a scandal is true love.

“Clever, spicy, and fresh from beginning to end.”
—Amelia Grey, award-winning author of
A Gentleman Never Tells

“A delightfully witty romp seasoned with an irresistible dash of intrigue and passion. Samantha Grace is an author to watch!”
—Shana Galen, award-winning author of
Lord and Lady Spy

For more Samantha Grace, visit:

www.sourcebooks.com