A Loyal Companion (13 page)

C
ogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. Of course you are! What did you suppose, you were the worst nightmare of a herd of beef cattle? Or did you rationalize that since a rock cannot think, a rock does not exist? Descartes should have stuck to mathematics!

Sometimes men are all thought and no action. They dillydally when they should just do it! Now Darius found another impediment not to get on with what Tippy calls "a marriage of true minds." He cannot find Miss Sonia's father! That's true mouse droppings! He thinks, therefore I am at a loss.

What if the first bud of infatuation fades? What if it never blossoms, but withers on the vine? That happens. There has been no offer; there is no ring. Nothing to make crying off a major social disaster. For barking out loud, there is nothing to cry off from, except some sighs and longing looks. The pigeons who hang around Almack's for the stale refreshments no one eats say there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. In Berkshire we say, don't count your chickens until they hatch. What if all this comes to is an omelette? Those pigeons, the fattest I've ever seen, are full of stories of fickle females and rakish gentlemen who seem to fix their interest, then move on.

And there is adultery, the ultimate in fickleness. Miss Sonia was raised better, but what of the major? I understand that couples often spend this infinity of indecision, then the year's betrothal, go through with saying their vows before man, God, and the licensing bureaus—and break those same sacred vows as easily as eggs for breakfast. If Darius Conover thinks to throw Miss Sonia over, or be unfaithful to her later, better Berke had shot him, by Pluto!

I can't think. I'm too busy worrying.

A single yellow rose was delivered to Atterbury House at three in the afternoon for the next ten days. Sonia kept the roses in a vase beside her bed, then pressed them in her Bible. She kept the notes, which all read Yrs., Warebourne, in a drawer with her gloves and handkerchiefs. On the eleventh day, the rose was delivered late, not until dinner, and in a small gold filigree holder with a brooch back. All the previous flowers had been wrapped in tissue with a ribbon, all of which reposed in yet another drawer. The eleventh rose had no note, but was obviously to be worn, and tonight was Wednesday. Everyone knew what that meant.

Sonia spent the next hour selecting a gown to wear to Almack's. She finally
settled on an ivory satin that had gold lace trimming at the hem and around the
neckline. Sonia had never worn the gown, considering the décolletage too immodest for her taste. Madame Celeste had insisted the dress was much less
risqué than that worn by most debutantes, and that Mademoiselle had the figure for it. Bigelow agreed with Sonia that the deep vee was suggestive—"Muslin company"—and suggested Miss Randolph tuck a lace fichu into the neckline: "Some lights are better hidden under a bushel." Sonia thought the filmy lace took away from the gown's classic lines, so she never wore Celeste's creation. Tonight the ivory satin was perfect, with the yellow rose nestled between her breasts. There was no lace fichu.

Lady Atterbury bestirred herself to attend the Marriage Mart that evening, wearing her favorite purple taffeta, with diamonds on her chest and an egg-sized ruby in her turban. Hugh was commandeered as escort.

"What, for stale bread and lemonade? Or the chicken stakes in the card room?"

"Neither. You come to lend your sister countenance."

Hugh grinned. "She'd do better if you lent her a shawl." He tempered his teasing with an affectionate hug, telling Sonia she was in prime twig.

Darius was already in the King Street assembly rooms. He was at Sonia's side before she greeted the hostesses, cutting through the horde of admirers clamoring around her. He signed her card for the opening cotillion and one other set, late in the evening. There was no chance to speak, with Monty Pimford reciting his latest masterpiece and Wolversham requesting a dance so he could explain Coke's newest theory. Darius most likely could not have spoken anyway. He knew how impolite it was not to look a person in the face when addressing him, or her, but he couldn't lift his eyes from
Sonia's soft, lush, velvety—rose, he told himself. Look at the rose. No, look at her eyes. He gave up and moved away before embarrassing himself completely.

Sonia followed him with her gaze, as did many another female, both young and old. Darius had chosen to make his first invited entry into the bastion of the haut monde also his first appearance as the Earl of Warebourne. He wore the satin knee smalls that were de rigueur, and the black satin evening coat established as the mode for. gentlemen. His waistcoat was white marcella with subtle gold thread embroidery, and his neckcloth was conservative, except for the yellow topaz and diamond stickpin. All in all, he was clothed befitting an earl, and his clothes fitted to perfection. His soldier's build, all hard muscle and broad shoulder, was almost as noticeable in Weston's handiwork as in one of Lord Elgin's Grecian warrior-athletes.
Sonia's eyes hardly left him as she absentmindedly conversed with her other acquaintances.

When the music finally started, Sally Jersey was reluctant to part with the most elegant, virile man at Almack's that night. She had no choice. Before she could lay a dainty hand on his sleeve to restrain him, Lord Warebourne was gone.

He bowed to Lady Atterbury, then held his hand out to Sonia, not trusting that his voice wouldn't crack like a boy's. Sonia was nearly as tongue-tied at his magnificence, wondering if such a handsome, sophisticated nobleman could possibly be interested in plain Miss Randolph, now that he had the world and its daughters to choose from. She was too practiced in the social graces, however, to stand mumchance fretting. She knew a lady was supposed to initiate conversation when silence threatened, so she thanked him for all the lovely roses.

Darius swallowed. "I, ah, see you are wearing my token." See? He could hardly look elsewhere or remember whether he was doing the Roger de Cleavage or the bosomlanger. Luckily the dance was a cotillion, so he did not have to change partners.

Sonia smiled. "Of course I am wearing it. You sent it. But tell me, my lord, why eighteen that first day?"

Now he looked directly into her bluebell eyes, which were at about the level of his chin. Just right. "You are eight and ten years old, your brother said. A rose for each precious year."

"I should have known you'd be even more smooth-tongued as an earl, my lord," Sonia replied with a dimpled grin, pleased beyond measure at his words.

"What, are you about to start 'my-lording' me like everyone else? I won't have it."

"Still giving orders?" she teased. "You shall have to decide which it's to be, my lord earl or major, sir."

"Darius."

"Darius," Sonia repeated, winning a warm smile. "Then I do not have to be stuffy Miss Randolph?"

"I have never met anyone less stuffy. And I think you have been Sunny to me since I heard your brother say it. Even before, but I didn't know the word. Do you mind?"

"Of course not, silly."

"Of course not, Darius," he corrected, just so he could see her dimples flash again. "But that's only in private, you realize. For now." At her raised eyebrows, he went on: "You do know I have tried to contact your father? I have sent letters to every inn your brother George mentioned, and half the great houses of Scotland. It appears your esteemed parent wishes to remain undisturbed on his wedding trip. Blast him!"

Sonia giggled, delighted at his evident frustration.

"Minx. Until I have word from your father, I intend to see that not one hint of impropriety touches your name. None of the old tabbies will utter the slightest meow of disapproval."

"But I do not care what they say. I've never been a prunes-and-prisms miss, you know."

"I know it well, and am thankful you're not a pattern card of decorum, else you'd never have given me the time of day. And I never cared what they said about me either. Nevertheless, I find that now I care very much that no blame attaches itself to you from my attentions."

"What, not even one step over the line?" She looked down at the rose at her breast. His eyes followed, as she knew they would.

Darius painfully dragged his gaze to her soft, smiling lips and even teeth, her little pink tongue. "Unprincipled baggage! Not even a smidgen of gossip, so don't tempt me. By Jupiter, if I wasn't determined to do this up proper, do you think I'd be satisfied with two miserly dances? Especially when I know every ramshackle rake in the place will be looking where he's got no business. Let me warn you, my girl, I do not intend to be any complacent…"

"Complacent what, my lord?"

"Darius." He bit his tongue. For once in his life he was going to do everything by the book, even if it killed him. If ever he needed to throw something… "Just understand that I would ask for every dance, if I could."

"And I would answer yes," Sonia told him, without subterfuge or coy flirtatiousness. Which caused Darius to forget all of his resolutions and raise her hand to his lips, which caused them to miss a step, which caused the couple behind to bump into them, which—So much for resolutions.

Everyone at Almack's that night knew it was a match, even without Lady Atterbury's not so carefully veiled remarks about Elvin Randolph's unfortunate absence. By tacit consent, no one mentioned the old scandal, especially after Blanche let slip a clue or two about Hermione Berke and Preston Conare. Having heard Hugh's suspicions, Blanche decided this was the best plot she'd come upon, surely too delicious not to share, particularly if it could smooth her friend's path. Blanche took extra pleasure in mentioning to that haughty Lady Rosellen that no one held Darius Conover to blame. Rosellen ignored Blanche, but then she always did.

Rosellen was too busy to listen to platter-faced chits and their empty prattle. Like many another lady there, she was trying to attract the man of the hour. Rosellen unobtrusively pulled at the already plunging neckline of her favorite red satin before moving to stand by Lady Atterbury's chair when Darius brought the troublesome Miss Randolph back. The chit was supposed to be Ansel's meal ticket. The dangerous new earl was supposed to be fair game to an enterprising female.

"Ah, the prodigal son is returned," Rosellen quipped when Warebourne bowed in her direction after Sonia tripped off with some green boy. "And they are serving up the fatted calf," she suggested evilly.

Darius merely raised his eyebrows.

"Of course, some men don't like sweet new wine with their meals," Rosellen went on. "They prefer a riper vintage, tart and spicy."

"Some older wines turn vinegary," Darius commented.

Watching from her place in the set, Sonia was making note to inform Lord Warebourne that she, Sonia Randolph, did not intend to be any complacent whatever either! Then she saw Rosellen scowl and stomp off. Darius winked at Sonia as if he felt her pique from across the room and was telling her there was no need for concern. She would have felt better if she'd heard what sent Rosellen off in an angry swirl of draperies: "And some men don't care for mutton dressed as lamb."

Whoever at Almack's did not know of the unofficial engagement was quickly apprised when Darius claimed Sonia's hand for the first waltz. All of his nobler aims flew by the board when Sonia simply walked into his arms and said, "I've been waiting forever for this." Darius recalled, a bit too late for his expressed objectives, that Miss Randolph did usually get her way.

There were other opportunities to dance in the next days, although never enough. They held hands in the shadows at the opera, stayed touching a moment more than necessary when Darius helped
Sonia on with her cloak, or up to his curricle for a ride in the park. Where his instincts may have overridden his better intentions, Lady Atterbury's resolve held firm.

"One premature infant in the family is enough," she commanded, rapping his fingers with her lorgnette after they'd lingered overlong on Sonia's waist. Sonia laughed to see the stalwart hero reduced to blushing schoolboy, but she, too, started wishing that her father might grow a little homesick for his lands and dogs, if not his children and new grandson.

The dowager was so intent on keeping decorum—and a good twelve inches—between Sonia and the earl that she exerted herself to attend many evening functions she'd previously considered too fatiguing. How tiring could it be to boast of her granddaughters, one already a marchioness and finally breeding, the other soon to be a countess? Even rackety Hugh seemed to be headed in the right direction, which was wherever Lady Blanche and her title and acreage led him. Unfortunately the featherheaded chit was fixed on following the drum; Lady Almeria thanked her lucky stars she did not have the keeping of that hen-wit.

During the daytime, while the dowager conserved her strength, she still made sure Sonia was adequately chaperoned. Hugh and Blanche went along on every outing, with Sonia's maid, her groom, Ian, and even the impossible mongrel. Lady Atterbury was further reassured when Warebourne brought his man, his nieces, and their new nursemaid. Miss Inwood was a responsible, respectable young miss sent by the children's grandmother to replace the flirtatious Meg Bint. Lady Atterbury would have rested easier if the entire British blockade were along to play dogsberry for her grand-daughter and that devilishly handsome lord, but what could happen on a jaunt to Richmond with so many in the party?

What could and did happen was that Ian, always one to appreciate a pretty face, took Miss Inwood and the children off to explore the maze. Hugh and Blanche strolled through the gardens lost in a discussion of military maneuvers, and
Sonia's maid, Maisie, was pleased to share her picnic blanket with the major's man, Robb, behind a yew hedge and out of sight. For all intents and purposes, Darius and Sonia were alone on a wool throw, except for one large black dog who insisted on more than his fair share of the blanket. Fitz's usurping sprawl naturally forced the blanket's other two occupants into closer proximity. Neither Darius nor Sonia complained.

As anyone with a ha'penny's worth of sense could have foreseen, Sonia was soon wrapped in Darius's arms, half in his lap, half out of her gown, fully out of breath.