No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella (3 page)

Laetificate:

1. To make joyful, cheer, revive.

2. A portrait done in miniature.

3. The lower level of a raised garden.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“A
llow me to present my son’s intended, Lady Sophronia Bettesford.” Mrs. Archer spoke to an older woman with a faintly disapproving air. That was probably due to Mr. Archer having arrived with a betrothed in tow. Given what he’d said about the available ladies, and his desire to escape them.

Sophronia dipped into a curtsey, feeling her muscles protest at the movement. Six hours in the coach with Mr. Archer and his mother had resulted in her feeling like she’d been wrapped around herself and tied into a few knots—she couldn’t imagine how Mr. Archer felt, given that he was so much taller. He stood next to her, not showing any sign of travel strain. But then again, perhaps that was because he traveled so frequently—his mother had spent nearly an hour listing, to comic effect, the various countries her son had been to in the course of his work, something Sophronia vaguely understood to be the buying of things from one place to sell to people from another.

She had to pretend to cough when Mrs. Archer announced her son had been in Paws Hill when she meant Brazil, and then couldn’t stifle her laughter at her saying Jamie had found the most wonderful cotton in Eyesore—meaning Myosore.

Thankfully, the lady herself was well aware of how she muddled things, and laughed the longest and loudest when her son gently corrected her.

“Sophronia, this is our host, Mrs. Green, and her daughter, Miss—?”

The disapproving woman drew a younger version of herself forward. “Miss Mary Green.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Green, Miss Green?”

“And you hadn’t met my son yet, had you? Of course when I first accepted your kind invitation to spend the holidays together, I had no idea we would be bringing his future bride! I do so appreciate your making room for dear Sophronia. She is the best Christmas present.” The Green ladies’ expressions indicated that, indeed, they were not quite so pleased as Mrs. Archer at this development.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Green.” Sophronia kept her voice as pleasant as she could, given the looks in the other ladies’ eyes.

Mrs. Green looked as though she were about to sniff in disdain, but merely said, through a pursed mouth, “You are welcome, Lady Sophronia.” She regarded all three of her newly arrived guests as though they were things to be allocated somewhere, not people to interact with. Sophronia hoped Mrs. Green’s guests were not as severe as their hostess, or she would be longing for the chickens.

Or forced to spend hours with Mr. Archer.

She darted a glance over at him, wishing that her pretend betrothed wasn’t quite so impossibly good-looking. And charming. And intelligent. And patient with his somewhat scatter-brained mother.

She let out an involuntary sigh, and felt his elbow touch her arm. “Are you all right?” he whispered, as his mother was engaged in a long description of the carriage ride to the house, which was apparently far more interesting than Sophronia had experienced.

“Yes, I am fine,” she replied softly.
And observant
, she would have to add in her assessment. Her father had often told her he could see what she was thinking, she was that easy to read, and she would have to guard her expressions here, among all these strangers. And Mr. Archer.

Who was no stranger, not now, not when she’d seen the amused smirk on his face as he recited the list of possible nicknames. Or seen his expression as she’d descended the staircase in her new gown, the one that made her feel like a princess, not a lady who was down on her luck and (hopefully) would not have to pluck. Or cluck.

And now she was allowing her mind to wander, to practically gallop through the forest of her imagination, where she was witty, and not alone, and had a future that wasn’t one that just featured her and her maid off in a small house somewhere.

That was dangerous, especially since a distinctly tall, handsome, and observant gentleman was lurking nearby in her imagination as well, now doing whatever it was he would do after looking at her like that.

She shivered, just thinking about it.

“Lady Sophronia is chilly,” Mr. Archer announced, taking her arm. “Perhaps you could take her up to her room, and she could lie down before dinner?”

“I’m not—” Sophronia began, only to snap her mouth shut as she realized she was about to contradict him, her betrothed, and she didn’t want anyone—particularly the Green-Eyed Monster ladies—to think there was any kind of discord between them. “Ah, yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” she said in a stronger tone.

“You will meet the rest of the party at dinner,” Mrs. Green said, waving her hand over her head to summon the housekeeper who’d apparently been waiting in the shadows. “The Martons have had to cancel”—a swift glance to Sophronia revealed why—“but the Viscount Waxford and his family will be here later on. Dinner is at eight o’clock. We keep country hours, you see.”

“This way, my lady,” the housekeeper said.

“Rest well, my dear,” Mrs. Archer called as Sophronia began to walk up the stairs. “And do you know, Jamie met his bride-to-be at an exhibition of Arty Facts?” Sophronia heard her pretend future mother-in-law say.

“Artifacts, Mother,” Jamie replied. She wished she had been down there to see his expression at his mother’s colorful language.

T
hree hours later, Sophronia was wearing the most lovely gown she’d ever seen in her entire life, Maria had outdone herself with her coiffure, and yet she knew she was the most despised person in the room.

“My lady,” the Viscountess Waxford asked, leaning past the vicar, who’d arrived to round out the table, Mrs. Green explained, with yet another look toward Sophronia, “how did you meet Mr. Archer?”

Her words asked how they had met, but her tone implied, “how did you dare?” A young lady with light blond hair and the most enormous blue eyes sat two seats down from the viscountess, and also appeared to want the answer to the question. Perhaps the viscountess’s daughter? Goodness, there were certainly an enormous number of unwed girls here. No wonder James had been so desperate.

Mr. Archer answered before she had the chance to. “My beloved Sophy and I first found a commonality of spirit in our shared love of hieroglyphics.”

Sophronia blinked, realizing she wasn’t quite certain what hieroglyphics were. Or was. She didn’t even know if they were singular or plural.

But no matter, nobody was questioning the veracity of Mr. Archer—James’s—words. Not when he was sitting at the table, all tall, charming, roguish self of him, his entire manner setting out to charm, to persuade, to convince, to deceive.

For goodness’ sake, she nearly believed his words, and she knew full well they hadn’t met because of hieroglyphics. And she hoped she wouldn’t be asked to repeat the word, because she was imagining she would mangle it as thoroughly as Mrs. Archer would.

“What are your favorite ones, Mr. Archer?” Miss Green asked. She was apparently studious, judging from what her mother said. She blinked myopically in the candlelight, her youth and petite self and protective mother all making Sophronia stupidly, ridiculously jealous. And too tall.

Or that could be because of the way Mr. Archer was looking at her. As though she was the only woman in the world he wished to gaze upon. Sophronia hated herself for wondering if Miss Green could even see it, since he was across the table.

And then wondered what she would do, how she would feel, if he were to look at her like that.

She felt suddenly hot and restless, as though there was a heat storm about to roll through her general vicinity. Not that she knew what a heat storm was as much as she didn’t know what hieroglyphics were, but that was how she felt.

“I find it so hard to choose, Miss Green,” James replied. He shot a quick glance toward Sophronia with an accompanying curl of his lips.

Yes, the same lips she couldn’t seem to get her mind off of. And somewhere her father was yelling at her about ending a sentence with a preposition, not the fact that she could not stop thinking about a man’s mouth.

Father’s priorities were always off.

“I think I like whichever one my Sophy likes,” he continued. Sophronia had to concentrate not to let her mouth drop open. What was he doing? Was he trying to reveal the falsehood? Could he just not help himself? Or was he being so clever at trying to make it appear that they were truly and well-acquainted that no one would question them?

Which was a lot of words that basically meant, “I am not certain what hieroglyphics are, much less which ones are my favorite, and I don’t know why he had to possibly expose the reality of our situation to all these people who are at this moment wondering who I think I am.”

Instead of saying any of that, however, she pretended for a moment she was him, and thought of what he might say in reply. She glanced toward him and gave him as warm a smile as she could manage, given that she wanted to strangle him. “My favorites are the ones you showed me when we first met,” Sophronia replied, imbuing her tone with as much honey-cloying sweetness as she could.

His answering grin, the spark of recognition in his blue eyes, caused that heat storm to flare up into something almost tangible—as though he were touching her, running his fingers down her neck, onto her spine, making her tingle everywhere.

All of that didn’t mean she wasn’t still aggravated with him, and worse, for jeopardizing their subterfuge, but it did mean that she wished she could find out what his mouth felt like. Firsthand. Or firstlips, so to speak.

All of the other ladies in the room, even the married ones, appeared to feel the effects of his charm. Mrs. Green had shed some of her haughty demeanor to ask his opinion on the epergne in the middle of the table, while the viscountess had told him she was interested in finding candlesticks that would suit her Oriental sitting room, keeping her hand on his sleeve as she described in exact detail what the room looked like.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Archer just observed, smiling widely, seeming blissfully unaware of all the currents of want flowing through the room—the ladies wanting Jamie, Jamie wanting (apparently) to irk Sophronia, Sophronia finding she wished to discover a way to disturb his casual charm.

“My lady, you are the Earl of Lunsford’s daughter, are you not?” It was the vicar—Mr. Chandler, she thought—addressing her, thankfully taking her attention away from the current conversation between James and the girl who was indeed the viscountess’s daughter, who seemed to believe she had been an African princess in a previous life.

“Yes, I am. That is, I was. Father passed away two years ago.” Leaving behind a massive amount of books, little debt, but even fewer funds for his daughter.

“I am so sorry, my lady. I was a great admirer of your father’s, I might even go so far as to say we were acquaintances. He and I exchanged a few letters on etymological issues several years ago. I keep those letters still.”

“Ah,” Sophronia replied. “Father was an avid correspondent.” He rarely left the house, in fact, preferring to live his life through books and letters rather than venturing outside. In hindsight, perhaps it was just as well; if he had gone out more, he would have spent more money, and Sophronia would have been among the chickens much earlier than this. There definitely would not have been the opportunity Mr. Archer had presented.

“Do you share his love of words?”

Sophronia opened her mouth to respond in the negative, but realized that wasn’t the case. “I do,” she said, feeling a fragment of warmth at the memory of her father. She’d lost her mother too young for her to recall, so it had been just her and him for as long as she had awareness. “Father made the very startling decision not to hire a governess for me, so he oversaw my instruction. He was an engaging teacher, even if his skills at maths left something to be desired.” That went a long way toward explaining his financial difficulties. She didn’t know if he was even aware of just how dire their straits were. Although he would know for certain that it was “straits,” not “straights.”

“You were so lucky to have the benefit of a mind like that,” the vicar said in an admiring tone of voice.

“I suppose so,” Sophronia replied with a smile, unable to deny his enthusiasm.

“Would you—do you suppose you would be so gracious as to visit my rectory and see some of the books I’ve collected? I know your father approved of some of my purchases, he was very helpful in advising me about them.” He seemed to realize what he’d asked her, and turned a bright shade of red. “That is, with your betrothed, of course, and perhaps others of the party who would like to visit.”

Sophronia suppressed a giggle at Mr. Archer being forced to go look at someone’s musty collection of books when, from what she had gathered, he was a collector of remarkable and often dangerous artifacts, nothing nearly so prosaic as books. Written in English, no less. “We would love to, Mr. Chandler, thank you for the invitation.”

It would serve him right for the whole hieroglyphics incident.

Wheeple:

1. The handled end of a sword.

2. Melancholy; prone to sadness.

3. To utter a somewhat protracted shrill cry, like the curlew or plover; also, to whistle feebly.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

H
is pretend betrothed was ending up being far more bothersome to his state of mind than he would like, Jamie thought sourly. He glanced down the table to where she was in an animated conversation with a youngish gentleman that Jamie thought might be the curate, or one of the young ladies’ brothers. He was gazing at her with what looked like near adoration.

And Jamie couldn’t blame him. Just as she had the previous evening, Sophronia was wearing a lovely gown that seemed as though it had been specifically designed to make her look as beautiful and goddesslike as possible.

Its lines were simple, in stark contrast to the gowns the other women were wearing—this gown had one frill trailing from her waist diagonally to the other side, ending up at the bottom, serving to highlight just how tall and willowy she was. The bodice was simple as well, fitted perfectly to her frame, showcasing the slope of her elegant shoulders and the strength of her slim arms.

But the color was what made it hers. The gown appeared to be either brown or purple, the colors shifting depending on how she moved and where the light caught the fabric. It was daring, unusual, and distinctive—like, he was coming to understand, his fake betrothed herself.

And he did not like the way the young man was looking at her, still. He wanted to be the one gazing into her dark brown eyes, the recipient of her quick, shy smile.

More than that, however, he wanted to hold her in his arms and find out what it would be like to kiss a lady who was nearly his height.

It was purely the jealousy of a male who was accustomed to being the center of female attention, he assured himself. While also feeling like a spoiled child.

But no matter why he felt the way he did, he knew one thing—the gift he wanted most for this holiday season was a kiss from her. Despite what he’d vowed before. A kiss, just one kiss, couldn’t do any harm, could it? And if it brought joy to both of them—holiday joy, the joy of the season, and he knew it would bring joy to her, he had been told often enough of his kissing prowess—then it would make the season brighter.

One gift, that was not so wrong to wish for, was it?

And he was going to do his damnedest to get it.

“S
ophy,” he said, striding toward her as the men returned to the drawing room where the ladies sat, drinking their tea after dinner.

He’d met the man who’d so engrossed her during dinner. The vicar, who apparently had known Sophronia’s father and chattered on about some sort of book collection he had that she had agreed they would both go see. Not a threat, then.

She looked up at him, arching her eyebrow in a faintly dismissive manner, which only served to make him want to fluster her even more. “Yes, James?”

Good. She was addressing him by his first name now. He smirked at the thought of suggesting she call him by a nickname—“lord and master,” perhaps, or “future perfection.” He knew that would irk her as much as it would amuse him.

“Mrs. Green was telling me about some of the items she’s collected, and she wanted me to take a look at them. I was wondering if you would like to accompany us?”

“My daughter is just as knowledgeable about the collection as I am, Mr. Archer,” Mrs. Green said, raising her voice as she spoke over the distance between them. “Lady Sophronia has just gotten a fresh cup of tea, we wouldn’t want to disturb her.”

Jamie met Sophronia’s eyes, and he saw perfect understanding there. Thank goodness.

She placed her teacup on the table next to her, then rose in one elegant movement. It looked like water flowing upstream, or a tree nymph emerging from her woodland home.

Or a tall, lovely woman standing. When had he ever been poetic like that before? He’d have to say never. Not that backwards-running water sounded like anything Wordsworth or any of his cohorts would say, but it was definitely more colorful than he had ever been before.

“I would love to see your collection, Mrs. Green, thank you so much for thinking of James and his interests in these things. I share his interest, that is but one of the things we have in common.” She walked to where he stood and took his arm, gazing up at him with an adoring glance.

Bravo, he wished he could say, only that would totally give the game away, wouldn’t it?

“My son has always been interested in old things,” his mother said. From the spiteful glint in Mrs. Green’s eye as she heard the comment, Jamie knew the woman was thinking of Sophronia’s age, and he wished he could deliver some sort of cutting response.

But they were spending at least two more weeks here, and he wouldn’t do anything to disturb his mother’s pleasure, even if it meant enduring looks and comments for the entire time they were there.

Plus it would just mean he would find more reasons to escape to be alone with his betrothed, and perhaps he’d get his Christmas present early.

“J
ames, a word, please.” It was the end of the evening—the very long evening—and Sophronia was exhausted, as much from being on her guard as from having traveled all day.

He, she thought grumpily, looked as fresh and handsome as he had that morning when they’d gotten into the coach. His charming smile remained in effect, hours into the excruciating evening, although perhaps it wasn’t quite as excruciating for him as it had been for her. Or a different kind of excruciating; he was wanted by nearly all the ladies in the general area, whereas she . . . was not.

She’d dutifully accompanied him to view what appeared to be some old, dingy pieces of tin, the “collection” of which Mrs. Green was so proud. Mr. Green seemed to not have an opinion about anything whatsoever, merely nodding in reply to any question posed him and devoting all of his interest to his dinner and later, his brandy.

Miss Green refused to be daunted by Sophronia’s presence, clinging to James’s arm as they walked the hallway to the room where the collection was kept, Sophronia trailing along behind like a tall afterthought.

Until James paused and waited for her to come alongside him, then took her arm on his other side so the three of them were walking abreast. Sophronia couldn’t help but be touched by that courtesy, even though it also proclaimed his marital intentions, and thus served his purpose in bringing her along in the first place.

“What is it, my dear?” He grinned at her, as though fully aware just how his epithet would make her feel, and delighted by the prospect of her reaction—whether annoyance or amusement, she wasn’t sure. A mingling of both, likely as not.

“Could we step outside for a moment?”

His grin got deeper. “You are aware, are you not, that it is December? And therefore likely to be quite cold?” He glanced around at the rest of the company. “Unless you know I can keep you warm.”

“Jamie!” his mother exclaimed. “You’ll embarrass Sophronia!”

And Mrs. Archer was right. Although now her cheeks felt as though they were burning, and heat was spreading through her body so she knew she would not be cold outside at all.

So he had managed to keep her warm after all.

His eyes were laughing as he took her arm and guided her toward the door to the hallway. “We’ll be just a moment, not long enough to cause a scandal,” he called as they walked.

“Do you enjoy doing that?” she asked exasperatedly, then answered her own question. “Of course you do, or you wouldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

They reached the door, at which a surprised footman waited. “Yes, we’re going outside just for a moment,” James said.

“Can I fetch the lady’s wrap?” the footman asked.

“I won’t need it,” Sophronia replied, still feeling as though she were burning from the inside out.

“Excellent, my lady,” the footman replied, unable to keep the dubious tone from his voice.

The night was cold, but not frigid, and it felt entirely refreshing after being in the stifling—in all ways—atmosphere of the drawing room.

They stood on the stairs, a light showing from the stables to the right of them, the moon casting a glow over the driveway and the gardens in the distance.

It was so blessedly and wonderfully quiet. It seemed he appreciated that as well, since he didn’t speak, just kept hold of her arm as he guided her down the stairs, across the driveway and just up to the gardens, which had a light dusting of snow.

Sophronia hadn’t seen snow in its natural state perhaps ever—her father rarely wanted to go to the country, and even when he did go, it was in the fall or spring. A snow in London quickly turned to slush, the only remnants of the real thing lingering on the trees for a day or two after. Until that, inevitably, melted to join the slush on the streets and the sidewalks.

“What did you want to speak to me about?” His voice was quiet, as though he was reluctant to break the silence.

“I don’t even know.” Well, she did, but she didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Or I do, but it seems so silly, given what we’re doing.”

“Let me guess—the hieroglyphics?” His words sounded amused again. What must it be like to walk around continually amused? She wished she knew. Then again, if she did know, she would likely be insane, and she did not wish for that.

“Yes. That. You could have warned me.”

“And missed the look of surprise and outrage on your face? You are very expressive, Sophy.”

“Sophronia,” she corrected.

He leaned into her, and she felt the warmth of him, his solid shape at her side. It would be so easy to lean into him as well, to take this moment for what it was, to relish, perhaps the only instance—depending on what her future held—to spend time and flirt with a handsome gentleman who was just what he said he was.

Which was a man entirely determined to remain unencumbered by a woman, who was so desperate to avoid said entanglements that he would go so far as to fake a betrothal, to run the risk of having his much beloved mother find out that he was lying, in outrageous fashion, to her.

To be known as the kind of man who would do such a thing in order to avoid walking down the aisle.

So perhaps she would not lean back.

“It is my turn to thank you,” he said, startling her.

“Why?”
Because I have just vowed to stay immune to your charms?
Good luck with that, Sophronia,
she thought to herself.

“Because if you were not here, if I was forced to face this situation on my own, it would be far more dreadful, even without adding in the possibility that I would find myself engaged to a woman I did not want at the end of the holiday.” He paused as Sophronia was parsing out what he was saying. “That is likely why I chanced discovery.” He shrugged, as though embarrassed. “It isn’t something I seem to be able to help. If there is a worse thing than being stagnant, than being immobilized by one’s life circumstances, I don’t know it.”

“Hence the traveling,” Sophronia replied. She was starting to feel the cold, and felt herself shiver.

“Here.” He must have felt it, too, which wouldn’t be surprising, given their arms were touching and she could almost swear she felt his hand hovering somewhere behind her, not quite on her body but not quite not on it, either. “You can wear my jacket. I just wish to stay out here a little longer.” He removed his jacket before she could protest, then draped it around her shoulders, tucking it in at her waist with a frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together.

The jacket was warm from his body, and was redolent of his scent, a mix of soap and something that smelled spicy and faintly exotic.

Of course, faintly exotic to Sophronia was anywhere outside London, so perhaps his cologne or whatever it was came from York or Devon or something.

“I don’t know when it first began, but I just remember having to sit still while being given some lesson or another, and feeling as though I wanted to burst out of my skin.” He stared up at the sky, his breath showing visibly in the cold air. “My father used to talk about how much he wished he could just escape, but he had us, and my mother is not a good traveler.” He shrugged, as though it didn’t matter, when Sophronia could tell it absolutely did. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask someone to live a life they don’t want to live.” His voice sounded almost lost. As though it was the young Jamie speaking, not the adult one standing beside her. “If I could move all the time, I think I would. Unfortunately,” he said with a laugh, his tone audibly changing, “there are such essential things as sleep, and visiting with one’s mother.”

“You love her very much, don’t you?” Even in his jacket, she was shivering, but she didn’t want to go back in, not when she had the chance to speak with him out in the open—in so many ways.

“I do. I would do anything to keep her happy.” He paused, then continued. “Anything, that is, except marry someone when I’m not ready to.”

They were both silent for a time, each looking up at the sky. The one place, Sophronia mused, that he hadn’t been yet.

“My father and I were on our own, much as you describe with your mother.” They did have things in common, Sophronia realized. Just not hieroglyphics. “It often felt to me as though it were us against the world.” She shook her head, burrowing herself further into his jacket. “Not that we were against anything, but we were on our own. Just us.”

“You have no other family?” he asked, a surprisingly soft tone in his voice.

She thought of her cousin, and her cousin’s children, and the chickens. “Not precisely. I do, but none I wish to be with. That is why I was so willing to take you up on your offer. Or non-offer,” she said with a laugh.

He didn’t reply. He seemed content to be still here, just standing beside her, his head flung back, the strong lines of his throat showing fierce and strong.

Add throat to the list of body parts she was now thinking about.

“We should go in, you’re freezing,” he said after a bit. He took her arm without waiting for her reply—something characteristic of him, she was coming to realize—and walked her back into the house, her mind jumbled up with cold, and Christmas, and what home meant, and why someone would find it impossible to stay in one place, even though that one place held people who loved him.