A Rake by Any Other Name (21 page)

“Well, that's kind of Antonia, I must say.” She flipped open her sketchbook and furiously added more cross-hatching to the cleft of Eros's backside. “If a man threw me over, I doubt I'd have the grace to stay on to help launch his sister into Polite Society.”

“You've got your own kind of grace, Sophie.”

Before she knew he was going to do it, Richard moved across the bench to her side, cupped the back of her head with his hand, and drew her into a long, deep kiss. Part of her knew she should resist, but it was a very small part.

The rest of her melted into him.

“That's better,” he said when he finally released her. Then he looked down at the sketchbook where Eros's bum and legs had taken remarkably good shape. “Ahem. Dare I hope you were thinking of me?”

“Why?” she asked, batting her eyes at him. “Do you feel you're behaving like an ass?”

Richard threw back his head and laughed. “Sometimes, yes. I certainly do.” Then he took both her hands in his. “I know things are uncomfortable for you now, but I mean to make this up to you.”

“How?”

“On the night of the ball, there will be a toast before we adjourn to the dining room for the midnight supper. At that toast, I intend to announce to the world that you and I are betrothed.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a small velvet-covered box.

All the air whooshed from her lungs. For the first time in a long while, Sophie had nothing flippant to say.

He opened the box to reveal a charming ring. The setting was a trifle old-fashioned, but it boasted a goodly sized ruby of obvious quality with baguette diamonds twinkling on either side.

“Richard, you can't afford this,” Sophie said. “Not when you're trying to get the timber business off the ground. Father always says, ‘Build the barn first and it'll build the house for you later.'”

“Wise advice, but unnecessary in this case.” He slid the ring onto her third finger. It fit as if it had been made for her. “You'll soon learn that in a family like mine, many things are handed down from one generation to another. This ring belonged to my grandmother's mother. She and my great grandsire loved each other for nearly fifty years.”

“Oh, Richard.” A thin shaft of sunlight filtered in through the ivy on the trellis and hit the ruby. The stone seemed to catch fire. This ring was far dearer than if he'd taken her to Rundell and Bridge and let her pick out a new one. It carried the weight of the Somerset marquessate and the solemn joinings of the past, the long line of Richard's noble progenitors. Now he was making her part of that proud line.

Sophie had always striven to be a contrarian. She'd never thought fitting in was a good thing, but something inside her swelled with joy at the thought of becoming part of Richard's family. Yes, the Barretts had their faults, chief among them the tendency to try to manage each other's lives, but what family didn't have that sort of tension in its ranks?

“Gran wanted you to have it,” he said.

“You told the dowager about us?”

“And swore her to absolute secrecy. Trust me, the old dear is delighted to be part of the plot.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I can't wait to make you mine.”

A thrill ran up her arm. “There are only a few days till the ball, so you haven't long to wait. Though if we mean to keep our betrothal secret, I dare not wear this openly yet.”

She removed the ring and tucked it into her cleavage. It settled behind the busk that separated her breasts and kept her posture ramrod straight.

“Never thought I'd envy metal and cold stone.” Richard's eyes grew dark with desire as he gazed at the ring's hiding place. “Good luck keeping the secret from the help once your lady's maid sees it.”

“Miss Dovecote isn't here at the moment. She's visiting her sick aunt, so I'm muddling through with this inconvenient new wardrobe of mine without my maid.”

“I'd be happy to help you with it, but I confess I'm more interested in undressing than dressing.” He arched a brow at her, and she swatted his shoulder. Still, the idea of Richard peeling off her clothing one layer at a time made her feel warm all over. “Of course, I could use a valet myself at the moment. Abbot has made himself scarce as well. Don't suppose the two of them have run off together, do you?”

“Why? Has your valet said he's sweet on my maid?” Eliza had regaled Sophie with no end of tales expounding the excellence of David Abbot. It would be lovely to see her attachment returned.

“No. Abbot is pretty tight-lipped about himself,” Richard said. “Still, he's a restful sort. I'm grateful Hightower chose him for me. Toby would have talked my ear off.”

“Then we must keep Toby and Miss Dovecote apart at all costs. Eliza is perfectly capable of holding up both sides of any conversation. If she ever got together with Toby, no one would ever be able to get a word in edgewise.”

“Sometimes, there's no need for words.” Richard leaned down to kiss her again, and Sophie lost herself in the swirl of sensations.

After Julian, she hadn't thought she'd ever trust a man again, but Richard changed all that. He was steady and honest. His family might be awash in schemes and plotting, but he was just what he seemed—her knight in shining armor. He was light to her dark, the calm breeze to settle her turbulent sea.

Sophie palmed his cheeks and kissed him back, nipping and suckling his lower lip. He groaned in frustration.

If they had to wait to announce their match to the world, it wouldn't hurt to make him chafe a bit at the delay.

No matter what the vicar might say, it doesn't seem fair that the sins of the father are visited upon the children. Haven't we all enough misdeeds of our own?

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Rosewood Chapel was a charming gothic confection, a miniature cathedral in its rustic setting. Though small by any measure, its spire pierced the sky above the humble village of Brambleton. The cross-topped steeple was visible from several miles away.

“The main part of the chapel was built in the 1200s. Back then, over one hundred men worked on it for about twenty-five years,” the young vicar told David and Eliza. They strolled down the center aisle beneath the chapel's ribbed vault, walking through splotches of color tossed onto the flagstone floor from the exquisite stained-glass window. “The village grew up in support of Rosewood. Its construction was the making of Brambleton.”

Since there wasn't much to the little hamlet, Eliza thought that was faint praise.

“The nave was added during Cromwell's time,” Reverend Lightbody went on. The man of God was a thin fellow, all knees and elbows, his movements jerky. He reminded Eliza strongly of a bespectacled stork. “You can tell by the difference in the color of the stone. Different quarry, I'll warrant.”

“Yes, that's all very fascinating,” David said. “But I wonder if you might know about the more recent history of the chapel.”

“I've only been serving here for six months, you understand, but in that time I have made the history of the chapel my avocation. Of course, I can tell you about its recent history.” The vicar harrumphed several times, as if affronted that he might not have the information at his fingertips. “For instance, I have it on good authority that in the early part of the 1700s, local smugglers used the crypt to store their contraband, sneaking their demon rum in from the beach in the dead of night and hiding it here from the excise men.” Lightbody chuckled nervously. “From the parish records, it seems the chapel was kept in communion wine by nefarious means indeed.”

“We were thinking of something a little more recent than that,” Eliza said. “For example, do you know of any connection between Rosewood Chapel and Somerfield Park?”

“Not really, no,” he said. “Though a few months ago, a fellow did come by claiming to be researching the history of the Somerset marquessate. He asked to see our parish records. He was particularly interested in births, deaths, baptisms, and marriages from around thirty years ago.”

“But wouldn't the church rolls in Somerset-on-the-Sea be more helpful in that sort of inquiry?” David asked. The village church that stood in the shadow of the estate surely held more records relating to it.

“One would have thought so, but the fellow was adamant. Frankly, he didn't strike me as the scholarly type, but one can never judge by appearances,” Reverend Lightbody said, bobbing his head like a water bird wading in the shallows. Eliza swallowed back a giggle. “One must be charitable.”

She gave herself an imaginary swat on the nose and abandoned her decidedly uncharitable imaginings.

“We're not scholars either, but we are interested in the history of the chapel,” Eliza assured him. “Might we see the records you showed that other gentleman?”

“Certainly. They'll be in the sacristy. If you'll follow me, please.”

The vicar led them to a small chamber located off one of the arms of the cross-shaped structure. In addition to the locked cabinet where the communion silver was kept, its walls were lined with shelves holding the parish records in hundreds of calf-bound ledgers. The small space smelled of old leather and dust with an undernote of fruity communion wine tossed in for good measure. Judging from the layers of grime on some of the bindings, Eliza suspected the parish records went back to the time of the chapel's original construction.

“Our previous visitor asked for a range of years, twenty-six to thirty years ago.” The vicar ran his long fingers over the volumes and pulled out the appropriate ones. Eliza probably could have picked them out herself, since they were the only ones that seemed to have been dusted recently. Reverend Lightbody laid them on the small table and pulled out a chair for Eliza. “Here you are, miss.”

Once she settled, David sat across from her and opened the first ledger, frowning at the small, curlicue script.

“You know, originally I thought the two of you were here because you wished to be married in the chapel,” Reverend Lightbody said. “Couples come from miles around to wed here, you know.”

Eliza's cheeks heated furiously.

“We're not…well, not exactly…” David sputtered.

“Say no more. You're both young yet. Plenty of time for that sort of thing,” Reverend Lightbody said as if he were very much older than she and David. The vicar's unlined face proclaimed him much younger than his thinning hair would suggest. “I'll leave you to it then. If you need me, I'll be in the manse. It's just next door.”

Eliza had noticed the vicar's cottage before they had entered the chapel. Homes reserved for the honored clergy were usually impressive, but it seemed all the care and expense had gone toward the creation of Rosewood Chapel with precious little to spare for anything else. It was generous in the extreme to call the vicar's house a manse.

Still, it was a pleasant-looking little home with an arched red door and a snug thatched roof. A thin plume of smoke curled from the chimney.

That
would
do
for
the
likes
of
me, providing the right man came with it,
Eliza mused. She sneaked a peek at David from under her lashes.

He turned the pages quickly, scanning the entries and moving on. His hands were strong and capable, the fingers thick from work, with square, clean nails. David was no stranger to hard work and long hours, but no lines gathered at the corners of his dark eyes. When his forehead creased in concentration, it was marked with horizontal wrinkles, but they disappeared as soon as his face relaxed.

“How old are you, David?”

He looked up at her and cocked his head quizzically. “Twenty-seven. Guess I'm not supposed to ask that question in return, since it's not polite to ask a lady her age.”

“It's all right,” she said. “I'm not a lady. I'll be twenty next October.”

“My, my. Getting long in the tooth, aren't you?” he teased.

If she'd been a cat, her ruff would have been standing on end. “I'm a good bit younger than you, thank you very much.”

“Yes, but men don't age as quickly as women.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. I heard Mr. Hightower saying how unusual it is that Lord Hartley is marrying and him barely twenty-one. Titled gents most often wait till their forties before they take a much younger bride.”

“Why is that do you suppose?”

“Something to do with being settled, I guess.”

“Or perhaps by then they're tired of chasing every skirt that passes by,” Eliza said.

“Eliza!”

“What? I might be innocent, David, but I'm definitely not ignorant about the ways of men. My mother gave me a stern lecture on the subject when I first left home to work at Somerfield Park.”

He leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto just two legs. “What did she tell you about the male of the species?”

“She warned me to guard my purity, because it's all that stands between me and ruin.”

He plopped down the chair legs and propped his elbows on the table between them. “Not all men are out to ruin you, Eliza.”

She gave a little half shrug. “You're right. You've been a perfect gentleman.”

More's the
pity.

“It's not for lack of wanting,” David admitted, his dark eyes more intense than she'd ever seen them.

Eliza lowered her gaze back to the ledger before him, although she couldn't focus on the crabbed script, never mind that it was upside down and she couldn't read in any case. Her heart chugged as if she'd just run up four flights of stairs. He could have his pick of all the girls in Somerset, and David Abbot wanted
her
.

“Maybe…maybe a little ruination isn't so bad,” she said softly. In fact, it sounded like the best thing in the world. She couldn't wait to discover all the delicious doings involved in being ruined.

But David didn't say anything.

When she looked up, she saw him staring in consternation at the ledger before him. He hadn't heard a word she'd just said. Irritation raked her spine. Didn't he want to ruin her a bit? The man was changeable as a weathercock.

“What is it that has you so suddenly fascinated, David?”

“Someone has cut a page out of this book.” He turned it around so she could see the clean even edge, tucked so close to the binding one would have to look hard to see that a page had been removed.

“What do you suppose is missing?” Eliza said.

“I'm not sure. But someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure those particular records didn't become known.” David closed the ledger. The spine proclaimed it contained the register of marriages in the chapel for the years 1786 through 1790.

“We still don't know if there was any connection with Somerfield Park on those pages,” Eliza pointed out.

“No. But the vicar said that other fellow claimed to be researching a link between the chapel and the estate.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Guess you will have a chance to prove you're better than a Bow Street Runner, Eliza. We need to poke around about the estate and discover who might have been married during those years.”

“The only one who's been with Somerfield Park long enough to know that is Mr. Hightower, I'll warrant.” Eliza's belly curdled with the prospect of impending defeat. She wanted to prove useful to David, so he could get back to thinking about how much he wanted to ruin her. “And he's not the sort to fall prey to light gossip.”

“You're forgetting the folk who work at Barrett House. Mr. Porter has been with the estate since I was taken on there as a boy. Perhaps he knows a thing or two.” David stood and reshelved the ledgers.

Sunlight shafted in from the western window and crept up the stone wall. It would be dark soon. “Well, it's high time we were getting on to my aunt's home in any case. I can't promise you a feather tick, but I'm sure she'll be able to offer you a pallet by the hearth if nothing else.”

“No, I'd best walk back to Crimble. If I go now, I can reach the inn by midnight and be on the mail coach heading back home first thing tomorrow morning. It wouldn't do for us to return at the same time. You know how people talk.”

“Especially when there's nothing to talk about,” she said, biting back her frustration. It had seemed like they were on the verge of something delightful and dangerous, but then the moment fled. Now he didn't even want to meet her aunt and give her a chance to make him comfortable with some of her family.

He caught both her hands and held them between his. “Eliza, if I thought you'd have me, I'd love to give them something to talk about, but then it would mean that I'd hurt you. A man isn't damaged by that sort of gossip the way a woman is. It's not right, but it's the way things are. I won't be the cause of your discomfort.”

If
she'd have him?
She was shocked into silence. Of course, she'd have him! But before she could unstick her stunned tongue, he continued.

“Once we sort out this mystery with Mr. Clack, I hope you'll invite me to meet your parents because I want to ask your father for his permission to court you.”

Her eyes widened. David was finally declaring himself in more than single words. And formal-like too, as if she were a fine lady instead of a recently elevated kitchen maid.

“My father's dead,” she said out of habit. She wasn't really sure that was the case, but he'd been gone long enough for the details not to matter. Besides, that was what her mother always said whenever anyone asked about her husband. Mrs. Dovecote took comfort in being thought a widow with a passel of mouths to feed instead of being labeled an abandoned wife.

“Then I'll ask your mother,” David said. Then he brought her knuckles to his mouth and kissed them. Eliza was so grateful that Miss Goodnight had given her a small bottle of Olympian Dew. Since she'd been using it faithfully, her hands had lost their red, angry knuckles and actually looked like something worthy of a man's kiss.

And the kiss was worthy enough to make her knees wobble.

But, oh, how she wished he'd kiss her lips.

“I'm sure my mother will say yes,” Eliza said breathlessly. Mrs. Dovecote would be delirious to have one of her girls settled with such a fine man.

“And what about you?” David smiled down at her. “Will you say yes if I ask?”

Try as she might, she couldn't get her voice to work. She thought about a vigorous nod but didn't want to seem too eager. Then it occurred to her that he wasn't actually asking. He just wanted to be sure of a positive response if he did ask.

That didn't hardly seem fair.

She managed to stammer, “You'll have to ask me to find out.”

“You don't intend to make it easy for me, do you?”

Eliza bit her lower lip and peered up at him from under her lashes. “Is anything easy worthwhile?”

She held her breath as he bent and covered her mouth with his. She'd dreamed of this moment. Prayed for it. Now that it was here, there were a dozen different things she wanted to do at once. She wanted to scream for joy. She wanted to promise God she'd never do another thing wrong in her whole life in order to be worthy of this moment of bliss. She wanted to wrestle David to the flagstone floor and discover total ruination with him.