All I Ever Needed (19 page)

There was also eight thousand pounds per annum.

The money was what had made Tremont in support of the match, and the loss of it was what had sustained his black mood. Though she knew she was quite innocent in how events had taken a turn, Sophie was in favor of staying out of the earl's line of sight. She refrained from stating the obvious: Mr. George Heath was not so easily led to water as he had appeared to either Tremont or his own family. The viscount's youngest son was not willing to settle for a marriage of obligation, even if Sophie was. It made him more courageous in her eyes, though of necessity this was another view she kept to herself. Sophie admired Mr. Heath for seizing his opportunity for happiness with Miss Sayers. The man had had a passion after all, and he had only needed the proper circumstances to provoke its expression.

Sophie had nothing but kind words for Mr. Heath, and she would have told him so if there had been opportunity to correspond. Tremont would permit her to post only what he had approved, and there was little chance that he would sanction the admiration she was wont to convey.

It was not that Mr. Heath's defection was of no consequence to Sophie. Rather the opposite was true. She was certain Tremont would again cast his net in aid of finding her a proper partner, and she doubted she would be as largely fortunate as she had been with his last choice. Tremont had but one measure of suitability for her intended—the depth of his pockets—while Sophie's yardstick gauged a man's character. Her cousin might have chosen someone much less fitting than George Heath, and still could. Worse, he might return to the place of his earlier failure and set himself the task of bringing the Marquess of Eastlyn around. Sophie was not at all certain he had put that idea firmly behind him.

Apollo veered toward the woods, and this time Sophie did not give him license to do as he pleased. She guided him with the reins and the pressure of her thighs and heels to skirt the perimeter of the trees. He flawlessly executed her commands, just as if he had intended to go in that direction all along, and she praised him for it. He would prance and preen later, quite full of himself for having given her such a good run, and she would tease and admonish him by turns, promising him treats when he was fit to have them.

There was probably an application here, Sophie thought, for how all males might be managed, but since Apollo was a gelding she could not believe it would win wide acceptance.

Sophie slowed the Arabian as they approached the stream again, and this time she let him pick his way down the bank and splash through the brisk run of water. Droplets sprayed her face, and she did not bother to wipe them away, choosing instead to tilt her head so that she might catch one on her lips.

* * *

From his vantage on the road above her, Eastlyn watched Sophie's antics with something akin to wonder arresting his features. He had first caught sight of her when she and the Arabian had taken flight over the stream. It had occurred to him that she might not control the landing, but the thought was fleeting when he saw her form and the animal's response to it. It was the same when she urged her mount over the stone wall. She had lied to him, he realized. She had said she was on no account a bruising rider. There had been truth, though, in her assertion that she could hold her own but that her form was considered by some to be unconventional.

It was a proper understatement, for Lady Sophia's seat on her Arabian defined unconventional. She was riding astride.

He had followed her progress across the field and up a verdant slope where she had permitted her mount to bedevil the grazing sheep. Eastlyn had lost sight of her then as she took the far side of the hill. He did not urge his own horse forward on the road, but remained where he was, waiting for her return. He glimpsed the crown of her bare head first and the flutter of her windswept hair. She was skirting the edge of the wood, darting in and out of the shadows made by the towering oaks and slimmer beeches.

She shared nothing in common with the young lady he had first met at the Stafford's musicale. He could not have imagined that the quiet, reserved innocent of that short acquaintance would ever
conceive
of riding hell for leather across the countryside, much less execute that conception. Nor could he have fathomed that she would take to the course with such abandon and defy the strictures of society by riding astride. This woman had a passing similarity to the one he'd met in the garden at No. 14. There had been some spirit there, though it was constrained by her common sense. What had been suggested to him on that occasion was that Sophia was possessed of a certain confidence and resolve that was not unattractive.

He had glimpsed a version of the reckless passion he witnessed now when he had stolen his way into her room. It was what had prompted that first brief kiss and made certain there would be a second, but even then he had not understood the totality of her restraint, only the sum of his own.

Eastlyn lifted his hands from their at-rest position on the leather pommel and snapped the reins lightly. He did not look away from where Sophie splashed in the stream. Tempest, his Irish thoroughbred whose name was indicative of his customary humor, carried him along the steadily rising road. East knew the moment he was spied by Sophie because she went still as stone. He supposed that her immobility was not merely in response to the arrival of a guest, but that she had immediately identified him. It confirmed his thinking that he would not be entirely welcomed at Tremont Park in spite of the earl's assurances to the contrary.

There also seemed to be a distinct possibility that Tremont had said nothing at all to Sophie about their correspondence.

Eastlyn's carriage followed some distance behind him, bringing his valet and belongings enough for a month, though he anticipated his visit would be much shorter than that. He wondered at the wisdom of speaking to Sophie before announcing himself formally at the house. It seemed likely that his arrival could have been noted miles earlier, as far back as when he and Tempest crested the hill rising out of the village of Loveridge, and that now the earl might be expecting him. Positioning himself in Tremont's good graces was a consideration, given the fact there was the colonel's work to be done, but it was not of sufficient importance to Eastlyn that he would decide to pass on this opportunity.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, for it seemed that a curse was in order as he turned Tempest off the road. He could not recall the last time he had taken so precipitous an action. His friends would not recognize him, and Blackwood would despair of his judgment. "Bloody, bloody hell." And then he committed his mount to taking the steep downward path to the stream.

Sophie urged Apollo up to the near bank and held him fast as Eastlyn approached. She was uncertain that remaining here was a good choice, yet running from him seemed a ridiculous response when she had no hope of avoiding him forever. Apollo shook out his damp black mane and pawed the ground. He was in anticipation of a race, and Sophie's control was tested to keep him in place, especially when Eastlyn brought his mount abreast of her.

It was unfair, she thought, that he could have traveled from London and looked no worse for the wear. His polished hat remained at the angle approved for rakish charm, and his short frock coat showed only a fine layering of dust from the road. He was much as she had seen him upon his first visit to Bowden Street, from the polished brass buttons on his coat to the turned-down tops of his boots. He had been unbearably handsome then, and Sophie noticed that he had not seen fit to alter his appearance. It was left to her, therefore, to steel her spine for yet another assault on her senses. She was not inclined to thank him for it.

"You're glowering," she said. It was an improvement of sorts over his fine looks because it added a deep crease between his eyebrows and a downward twist to his mouth. Her mood was immediately lightened by these indications that his handsome features were subject to change, and further bettered by the thought that he was unhappy to see her. "It has probably escaped your notice that I did not invite you here. Let me assure you, that is the case." She pointed up the hill to the house since that had been his direction, though she would have liked better to show him the road out. "I give you leave to go."

Sophie noticed her imperious tone and churlish manner had exactly the opposite effect she was courting. Eastlyn's glower vanished only to be replaced by a gleam of amusement that she felt certain did not bode well for her. When he didn't move, she said, "I prefer that you glower, you know."

He made a faint bow with his head. "I shall keep that in mind."

"Why were you? Glowering, that is."

Eastlyn liked the way her chin came up just so when she meant to provoke him. She had a delicate heart-shaped face that undermined her efforts to look fierce or threatening, though she seemed unaware of it. Nothing would be improved by bringing it to her attention, he thought. She made up for the lack of sharp features with the finely honed edge of her tongue. "I was not glowering at you," he said.

"You were looking at me."

"Yes, but the scowl was meant for me."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"Under the right circumstances."

Sophie considered this. "Then, pray, continue to do so."

Eastlyn laughed. "It is good to see you again, Lady Sophia."

Sophie glowered.

"Ah," he said. "You are of a like mind."

"And you are a fool." She noticed that he did not take the least offense, though she doubted it was something he was accustomed to hearing. "Why are you here? You have not come for me, have you? That is, you are not in expectation of..." She stopped because she hardly knew how to finish the thought. "Pardon me. I did not mean that you could not have some reason other than..."

"Other than you?" Eastlyn watched the pale pink roses in Sophie's cheeks deepen in color. She did not avert her glance, though he thought it must have pained her to remain so directly under his study. She seemed uncomfortable with confrontation but determined not to avoid it. His eyes were drawn to her mouth where she had sucked in a portion of her lower lip and was now worrying it gently. He did not believe she would want to know how often he had thought about her mouth, or what precisely he had been thinking about it. He dragged his eyes away from the lush line of it and met hers again. "I am here to speak to your cousin about matters of politics."

Sophie was suspicious, but she could not find fault with his answer. Since inheriting the title, Richard Colley applied himself to politics the way he formerly applied himself to religion. There was an unmistakable fervor to his arguments that he had honed at the pulpit. Not every member of the House of Lords was receptive to his impassioned speeches, but it was not because he ever lacked for facts. It was his interpretation of them that raised the brows of the ruling party and the knowledge that he held sway over others. "At Tremont's invitation?" she asked.

"Not precisely. That is, it was my inclination to speak to him here rather than wait for his return to town. I proposed that if it suited him, I would come to Tremont Park. He was graciously amenable."

"I see."

"You do not believe me."

"You are very good, you know, at interpreting the bent of my mind. Can you tell what I am thinking now?"

He laughed outright as her bright, wild honey gaze narrowed so that only the most pointed barbs escaped. "You should not use such language, Sophie. It is ill-becoming of a lady."

"Actually, I am restraining myself. I know many more colorful phrases, and I shall be thinking all of them directly."

Eastlyn grinned. "I believe you."

She nodded, satisfied that he did. "Come, I will escort you to the house. Is that your carriage on the road?"

East followed the line of her arm to where a cloud of dust was rising just above a row of spruce trees. "Most likely." The road opened between two hillocks, and he had a clear view of the coach in the dip. His driver had kept the horses at a good pace since leaving the inn at Weybourne and would arrive before he did if he did not go now. He turned, prepared to suggest a race, but Sophie had anticipated him and was already moving full out in the direction of the house.

Eastlyn gave chase, but he knew at the outset he would not be able to catch her. She was too fine a rider, and she had not disadvantaged herself with a lady's saddle. Her complexion was glowing from the exertion and excitement of the ride when he finally reached her. She was also not able to temper her wide smile. "You are gloating," he said.

"Not at you."

"You are looking at me."

"True, but the pride is strictly for my accomplishment."

Grinning at her tart accents, East dismounted and gave his horse over to the waiting groom. He moved to help Sophie down, but she had already swung around and was giving instructions to a second groom. "They will provide excellent care for your animal," she said. "My father was a good judge of horseflesh and an even better judge of the sort of men who care for them. You have a fine thoroughbred. Did you raise him yourself?"

"No. I purchased him on a visit to Ireland a year ago. Go on. Introduce yourself to him. His name is Tempest."

Sophie laid her hand on Tempest's lathered neck and stroked him. "My," she said softly. "Aren't you magnificent? Eighteen hands high if you're an inch. Long and leggy." She glanced at Eastlyn. "He knows he is a handsome beast, m'lord. Observe how he postures for me."