A Rake by Any Other Name (11 page)

“What keen insight you have into the common mind,” she said.

“It hasn't helped me understand you one whit.” Then he gave himself a slight shake and shook his head. “Not that I think of you as common. To be honest, I don't know what to think of you most of the time. Oh, hang it all, that didn't come out right either. No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Sophie chuckled. The man was undeniably appealing when he was trying to extricate his foot from his mouth. “But what don't you understand about me? I'm an open book.”

“Unlike Moffat, you could move into the ranks of the privileged by marriage, yet you seem pretty seriously opposed to it.”

“It's nothing personal, Richard.”

“On the contrary”—he stopped walking and she was forced to pause and look up at him—“marriage is nothing if not personal.”

“Too many treat it as nothing, then.” Sophie did not want to talk about this with him. If she did, the barricade she'd erected around her heart might crack, and she'd be utterly defenseless. Better to hold on to her shield and remain an enigma. “Please, Richard, this is far too serious a topic for such a lovely day. So am I right in assuming that Somerfield Park doesn't feel like home to you since you haven't lived here much?”

“No, you're wrong. Of course it's home.” He put a hand to the thick trunk of a ponderous oak. “It's where I belong.”

“But not where you've put down roots.”

“I'm a Barrett. Believe me, I could not be more deeply attached to this place if I had roots to rival this old fellow.” He thumped the trunk with the heel of his hand and moved on. “Now that the marquess is incapacitated, Somerset is my duty.”

“And I suppose I'm a duty too. Marrying the money to keep it going, I mean,” Sophie said with a sigh. “What a pity you can't come up with another way to fund the place.”

Richard eyed the woods speculatively. “Yes. A pity. No, I'm sorry. I don't mean it would be a pity to have to marry yo—”

“Stop that, Richard. Never apologize for speaking your mind with me. We both know what our parents want, and have very wisely joined forces against them.” Sophie walked on, forcing him to trot to catch up to her. “Besides, even if you asked me, as you say, I'm in no hurry to join the ranks of the aristocracy. There's no guarantee I'd accept you.”

“Really?” he said with a grin. “If it comes to down to it, maybe I'd have to kiss you into submission. You seemed open to suggestion then.”

“Suggestion, yes. Submission, no.” She pointed to the break in the trees where the folly designed to look like a pyramid could be seen. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe I saw your sister Ella duck behind the obelisk.”

“That sounds like a blatant attempt to turn our conversation away from kissing.” He caught her hand in his.

“Aren't you the one who said it was something we shouldn't do more of?”

“I say a lot of stupid things.”

She smiled at him. Lord, she was lovely with her lips kiss-swollen and her hair tumbling from beneath her bonnet. And that smile… He could die happy if Sophie Goodnight would just keep smiling at him like that.

Then a blur of movement caught the tail of his eye, and he spotted Ella peering over the slanting wall of the Egyptian folly.

“You're right. There's my sister. We'll have to revisit the issue of kisses another day. Time to find my first hider.” Richard sprinted toward the Egyptian scene and found Ella crouched beside the pyramid.

“Finally,” Ella said as she stood. “I was beginning to think you'd never find me. Am I the winner?”

“No, you're the first one I've found.”

“What have you been doing all this—oh! Miss Goodnight, I didn't see you there.” Ella's sharp gaze swept over her. “We didn't know you were back from London. If we had, I'm sure my mother would have insisted Lady Antonia invite you to her picnic.”

“And I'm sure Lady Antonia would have been delighted to have me,” Sophie said sardonically. “But Mother and I only just returned this morning. I'm sure she would have been too tired for frivolities after the trip.”

Ella cast a suspicious eye at the blanket folded over her brother's arm. “So you've been…resting in our woods then?”

“Oh no, I've been sketching.” Sophie waved her art book. “Do you draw?”

“Not beyond stick people,” Ella admitted.

“Maybe you'd have better luck with architecture. It's just basic lines and angles really. Once you find a fixed point for perspective, it's nearly as predictable as mathematics,” Sophie said. “There are some lovely ruins in your woods that want capturing.”

“Apparently, that's not all that wants capturing,” Ella muttered, then a look of panic crossed her features. “Oh, you said I'm the first you found?”

Richard nodded.

“Then you'd better hurry to the abbey. Seymour was bedeviling me a bit, and after I sent him off with a flea in his ear, he headed that way.”

“I should probably try to find Antonia,” Richard said, checking his pocket watch. Time had gotten away from him badly while he was tangled up with Sophie on that plaid blanket. “She's our hostess for this little fete, after all.”

“You'd do better to find our sister,” Ella said meaningfully. “Petra was going to hide in the abbey.”

“You're right. I'm off then.” He handed the blanket back to Sophie. Their fingers touched, but he forced himself to pull away. “Thank you for the walk, Miss Goodnight. Why don't you join the party now? Ella will walk you back to the Parthenon.”

“I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“I insist,” he said with the air of a man who had only to speak and it would be done. Sometimes, it was very good to be Lord Hartley, heir to the Somerset marquessate. Then, because it was Sophie Goodnight he was speaking to, he added, “Please.”

She flashed that brilliant smile of hers, the one that made him want to climb mountains for her, and nodded.

Richard started to turn away, but she stopped him with a hand to his arm. “I shouldn't worry about your sister if I were you. Petra strikes me as the sensible sort.”

He grinned at her. “She's not the one I'm worried about. I'm going to rescue my friend.”

Of course, I appreciate the value of books in the finishing of a young lady, Petra dear. If one wishes to dine on hearts for breakfast, elevenses, and teatime, learning to walk smoothly enough to balance a book on one's head is a must.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Petra dangled her legs from her perch on the remains of a balcony in the sham ruins of a cloister. Despite her spectacles, she was blessed with fine, even features and truly lovely eyes. The way she leaned, chin on her palm, Lawrence could almost imagine her as Ariadne on the rocks, sighing for her lover Theseus.

Then, of course, Petra had to ruin the effect by speaking.

“Antonia said no hiding in pairs.”

“Trust me, Petra, we aren't a pair.” He lay back on a large slab of granite that was supposed to be the altar in this folly of an abbey. From this position, he could see quite a way up the narrow column of her gown when she swung her legs just right. If she weren't wearing pantalets, he'd have been treated to occasional glimpses of her knee caps. “In fact, I very much doubt we're even from the same species.”

“Really?” She peered waspishly down at him. “Do you consider yourself that much a simian?”

“A what?”

“A simian. A lower species which most nearly mimics humankind. Apes and chimpanzees and such. Honestly, do you never read?”

“Not if I can help it.” If Petra didn't favor such severe clothing and left her glasses behind once in a while, she'd be considered a passably pretty girl. He imagined her for a moment in a ball gown with her creamy shoulders bare. She might take the
ton
by storm if only she could be taught not to speak.

“That's your problem then,” she rattled on. “You aren't familiar with the work of Lamarck, I suppose.”

“La who?”

She sighed. “The brilliant French naturalist and taxonomist.”

“Taxonomist, hmm? Well, that's all right. I never hold anyone's religion against them.”

“That's not his religion, you cretin. It's his field of study.” She gave a low growl of frustration. “Oh, why am I even talking to you?”

“Because I'm the only one here, and if one talks to oneself, one is apt to be considered a bit dotty.”

She hooked her legs at the ankles and let them swing back and forth. Her ankles were slim and appealing, he had to admit. There was plenty to like in Hartley's second sister.

“You are absolutely beneath my touch, you know,” she said, arching her pale brows in a scathing manner that perfectly aped the worst old dragons of the
ton
.

And
plenty
not
to
like
about
her
as
well
, Lawrence decided.

“I must say it's not very inventive of you to hide in the ruins of an abbey.” Lawrence inspected his fingernails for any trace of dirt beneath them and found none. No surprise since one would have to actually do manual labor to accumulate any smut there. “Hartley is certain to look for you here.”

“And why, pray tell, is that?”

“Because nunneries are where women who don't much like men go.”

She looked pointedly away from him. “I like men just fine, thank you very much. It's with you I take umbrage, but since you've already admitted to being less than a man, I think we've discovered the problem.”

“Ouch.” He put a hand to his chest to signal a direct hit. “You've certainly got a set of claws on you, my kitten.”

“I'm not your kitten. I'm not your…anything.”

Brown eyes snapping, her color high—when she was riled, Petra might actually be a diamond of the first water.
If
only
there
was
a
way
to
strike
her
dumb.

“By that same token,” she said, “Hartley might very well expect
you
to be skulking here.”

“Skulking? I'll have you know I never skulk. I saunter. I stroll. I've even been known to meander when the occasion calls for it, but I never skulk.” He was tempted to rise and demonstrate the various means of locomotion, but that would mean he'd lose the chance to see lacey pantalets fluttering in the nonexistent breeze. “But for argument's sake, why would your brother expect to find me here?”

“Because you're the sort who thinks he's irresistibly attractive enough to cause a riot in a nunnery.” She stuck out her tongue pettishly.

“My dear girl, what have you been reading? The memoirs of Don Juan?”

She blushed to the roots of her mouse-brown hair. He'd hit her little secret bang on.

“So your taste in literature runs to the scandalous, does it, m'dear? How very interesting,” Lawrence said. “Remind me to send you my copy of
Tom
Jones
. I've highlighted all the delicious parts.”

“That's a horrible thing to say to a lady.” Petra crossed her arms, the gesture subtly accenting her nicely rounded bodice. “Do you know what I think?”

“I certainly do. You think I can't see up your dress from here.”

Her eyes went wide as an owlet's and she tucked her legs up under her. “You beast.”

“Now you've got it. You know what I am, fair maiden. Not a simian, whatever that may be, but a beast.” He rose and gave her a mocking bow. “I trust you'll never forget it.”

The sound of boots scuffing paving stones came from the entrance of the abbey.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise, I must say,” Hartley said, beaming over catching Lawrence bowing to his sister. “I can't tell you how refreshing it is to see the two of you getting along for once.”

“Note the date. I doubt the moment will be repeated. Good day, Lady Petra.” Lawrence turned on his heel and started to leave.
God
save
me
from
educated
women.
Bluestockings were worse than the plague.

“Honestly, Hartley,” he heard Petra say as he went, “I don't know why you're still friends with such a bounder.”

Sometimes Lawrence wondered the same thing.

He and Hartley were cut from very different bolts of cloth. While Richard stood to inherit a vast, if impoverished, estate, Lawrence was a second son. Once his father passed and his imperious older brother became the earl, Lawrence's more than adequate current allowance would dry up like Egypt after the Nile recedes. He'd have to make his own way in the world then.

But while Hartley would be planning for that eventuality already, Lawrence tucked it away in a far corner of his mind, to be dealt with only when it became necessary. Life was too uncertain to worry about things before they happened.

He didn't used to be that way. When he and Hartley first met, Lawrence was a studious little fart trying to make good and earn his father's approval. He and Richard had teamed up right away in school, and even now, there was no one else to whom he might speak with seriousness.

But some things he wouldn't even talk to Hartley about. Even in his own mind, he wouldn't name the disaster that had upended his life. He shoved every unwelcome memory of it aside as if it carried the pox.

Since that horrible day, he'd made no plans. He drifted like a piece of flotsam. He let the empty march of years wash over him. One place was as good as another. He filled his life with hedonism when he could, frivolity if that was all that was available.

But while he could control his waking thoughts, sometimes Tabitha still stole into his dreams.

Lawrence lengthened his stride, determined to put all sober thoughts behind him. Ella was waiting under the pergola in the Greek folly with Sophie Goodnight beside her. To his surprise, Antonia was there as well.

“I thought you were still in hiding, milady,” he said as he came up on the three of them.

“I gave up on being found and made my way back to the base,” Antonia said, the tight set of her lips the only visible evidence of her displeasure, but Lawrence could feel it emanating from her in scalding waves. He wouldn't trade places with Hartley for worlds. “Has Hartley found Petra yet?”

“They're right behind me.” As if on cue, the pair sauntered out of the ruins of the abbey and headed toward the Parthenon.

“Well, that's it for this game then,” Antonia said.

“Guess that makes you the winner since you have yet to be officially found,” Lawrence said. He cupped his hands and shouted to his friend. “Hurry up, Hartley. Lady Antonia is ready to claim the winner's prize.”

“What is the prize?” Miss Goodnight asked.

“The winner claims a kiss from whomever she chooses,” Antonia said, her eyes glittering dangerously. “But there's no need for Hartley to hurry. I choose you, Seymour.”

“I'm honored.” He reached for her hand.

“No, not on my knuckles, silly,” she said, stepping close so that he had to take her into his arms or risk an awkward situation with her standing near enough for her breasts to brush his chest. She glanced toward Hartley who was approaching and waited until he was able to take everything happening in quite handily. “Make it a good one.”

“Never let it be said that Lawrence Seymour doesn't come to the aid of a damsel in distress.”

“I'm not in distress.”

“You will be.”

If there was one thing Lawrence knew, it was how to kiss a woman so her knees turned to water. He dipped Antonia. The occasion seemed to require that sort of overblown play-acting. Then he covered her mouth with his and brought all his sensual prowess to bear. She was stiff at first, as he expected, but after a moment her lips softened. Then her whole body seemed to melt. If they'd been in a broom closet somewhere, he could have had his way with her after a few more minutes of this. She'd be begging him for it.

Of course, he wouldn't, since Antonia was all but spoken for. But the woman certainly didn't kiss him like she was spoken for. She was probably trying to make Hartley sorry he dallied so long in the woods without finding her. Perhaps she hoped to goad Hartley into speaking up and proposing in a fit of envy. Antonia was using him, Lawrence was certain.

Sometimes, it wasn't at all unpleasant to be used.

A loud, throat-clearing sound broke the mood.

Lawrence released Antonia's mouth and stood her back upright. Then he turned and looked not into his friend's disapproving face, but Hartley's second sister's.

Petra harrumphed deep in her throat again.

“Lady Antonia was just claiming her prize,” Lawrence said, kicking himself for feeling the need to explain matters to her.

“Is that what it was?” Petra said peevishly. “It looked to me as if you were examining her teeth.”

Hartley, by contrast, didn't seem the least concerned as he looked around at the group. “Everyone back now? Good. The game's over, and I hope never to play hide-and-seek again.”

“Perhaps you'd change your tune if you'd been picked to give me my prize,” Antonia said, running her ring finger along her lower lip.

“Probably,” he said with a noncommittal shrug.

Lawrence could have boxed his ears. If Hartley didn't respond with even a speck of jealousy, Antonia would be forced to escalate this new game. While he didn't mind playing with a delectable lady like Antonia, he didn't want to come between Hartley and his chosen one. His friend had been so hotly devoted to Antonia when they were in Paris.

Now he seemed decidedly lukewarm.

The flicker of a glance passed between Hartley and Miss Goodnight. It was brief, but there was a definite shift in the undercurrent crackling between the pair. Lawrence scented the change as clearly as a hound scents a hare in the thicket. What had started as mutual disdain had definitely graduated to something warmer. He needed to get Hartley away from all these hens to find out what had happened between him and this girl.

But before he could suggest he and Hartley should repair to the nearest watering hole to discuss matters, a long, thin wail rent the air.

“What on earth is that?” Miss Goodnight said.

“Whatever it is, it's coming from the duck pond.” Hartley was off at a bound, knees and elbows pumping. The ladies followed him at a trot, as quickly as the confines of their column dresses would allow.

“Saved by the shriek, old son,” Lawrence said as he brought up the rear. Between Hartley not finding Antonia at all, his tepid reaction to Lawrence kissing the lady, and the moment that sizzled between Richard and Miss Goodnight, there'd been all the makings for someone to pitch a wicked fit with his friend Richard in the center of it.

Until the timely scream, of course. The shrill cry came again.

“Some blokes have all the luck.”