All I Ever Needed (4 page)

East glanced over his shoulder to the heavy stone slab supported by two frighteningly plump cherubs. He raised one eyebrow. "I don't believe so, no. I would not find it in the least comfortable." The eyebrow relaxed its skeptical arch. "But if you are opposed to sharing your blanket, I will avail myself of this patch of grass."

Before Sophie could protest that she had no objections, or rather that she would voice none, the marquess simply dropped to the ground, folding his legs tailor fashion and resting his elbows lightly on his knees.

"Please, m'lord," Sophie said quickly. "Your trousers will be stained."

"It is good of you to warn me, but it is of no consequence."

"You will allow that your valet's opinion might be contrary to your own."

He smiled. "You are right, of course." East moved to the blanket where he repositioned himself in the same manner as before. He pointed to the book at Sophie's side. "What were you reading?"

Sophie could hardly make sense of the change of subject. She had to glance at the book to find some recollection of it. "It is my diary."

East saw the inkbottle and quill when she shifted her position to reveal them. "A worthy endeavor."

"Some think so."

"Though perhaps more of a strain on one's upperworks than simple woolgathering. Deep contemplation beneath an apple tree has much to recommend it. Or so North says." His rich baritone voice softened to a confidential tone. "I believe he has been inspired by Sir Isaac Newton's success."

Sophie's eyes darted into the boughs. Was it too much to hope that an apple would fall directly on the marquess's head? Barring that event, was it too much to hope one would fall on hers?

Following the direction of her gaze as well as her errant thoughts, Eastlyn casually remarked, "They're puny green things now, but if you will invite me to return in the fall when they are beautifully ripened and it takes no more than a hint of wind to nudge them from the branches, I can promise you that one of us will be most satisfyingly thumped on the head, thereby putting a period to all awkward moments between us."

Sophie was sure she did not like having her thoughts so easily interpreted by this man. On the other hand, it was somehow reassuring that he also found this encounter awkward. She eased herself back against the rough bark of the trunk and let her legs slide to one side. Strands of softly curling hair the color of wild honey fluttered as she moved. She lifted her face and regarded the marquess with a certain solemn intensity. If the eyes that returned his amused gaze could arguably be described as too large for her heart-shaped face, there was no argument from any quarter that they were remarkably sober.

"I've been in anticipation of your visit, my lord."

He nodded, equally grave now. How like Lady Sophia to place her cards before him. She did not dissemble or play coy as most young women in the same circumstances would do. Even as her lack of pretense raised her in his estimation, he was also reminded that she was not so very young, at least not by the standards that were often set for a marriageable age among the ton. She was more of a certain age, one somewhere after
la jeune fille
and before ape leader, mayhap in her twenty-third year. He was heartily glad of it, if the truth be known. Had she been younger he would have had to tread more carefully, taking special pains not to trample a heart already foolishly attached to him.

Lady Sophia was hardly foolish. On short acquaintance, it was perhaps the thing he liked best about her—if he was taking no note of her singularly splendid eyes. It was not their studied seriousness that had drawn his attention on their first meeting, but their coloring, which was in every way the equal of her hair. He supposed the color they approximated was hazel, but it was far too dull a descriptor to be leveled at these features. If her hair was honey shot through with sunlight, then so were her eyes. Sophia's radiance, though, came from within.

This last was what made her so totally unsuitable. She was very nearly angelic with her too perfect countenance. The heart-shaped face, the sweetly lush mouth, the small chin and pared nose, the large and beautifully colored eyes, and finally the softly curling tumble of hair that framed her face like the Madonna's halo... It was all rather more innocence than East believed he could properly manage. In principle he was in favor of innocence in females. In practice he found it tedious.

He waited for Sophia to gather the threads of her thoughts, loath to interrupt her now that she was earnestly giving him her full attention.

"I have heard the rumors," she said. "And I want you to know that I recognize they have no truth as their source. My cousin has admitted that you have not been in correspondence with his father, nor had any meeting with him in which you might have sought permission for my hand. Harold and Tremont would be happy if it were otherwise, but wishful thinking on their part cannot make it so. I am afraid they did nothing to dissuade people from believing as they will, and for that I am heartily sorry. The earl would count himself fortunate to have such a marriage arranged for me. I hope you will understand and go gently with such remarks as you might make to others. If they have caused you embarrassment by failing to deny any link between my name and yours, I apologize."

A crease appeared between Eastlyn's brows. He let his chin drop forward and rested it on his steepled fingers. "Surely it cannot be your place to apologize, Lady Sophia."

Since she did not think either Harold or the earl had the stomach for it, even if they had the vocabulary, Sophie couldn't imagine who else was in a position to make amends. "I am not without responsibility, m'lord. I did not deny the rumors, either."

East raised his head and let his steepled fingers fall. He plucked a blade of grass and rolled it absently between his long fingers as he leveled Sophia with his thoughtful gaze. "You had many opportunities, did you?"

"I... that is, I..." Sophie was unaccustomed to fumbling for words. She did not thank the marquess for having that effect on her. Of late her conversations were primarily with Robert and Esme, who at five and four respectively were somewhat limited in their topics. Still, she had not considered that she'd lost her ability to speak intelligibly, if not intelligently.

"I am not mistaken, am I?" East continued. "You are not often away from home."

He was scrupulously polite. Sophie could allow him that. He was kind to couch his observation that she was not the recipient of many invitations. "I am away as often as I need to be," she said.

"I see." A hint of a smile edged his mouth. "Almack's?"

"On occasion."

"The theatre?"

"When there is something worth seeing."

"The park?"

"When there is
someone
worth seeing."

He laughed. "Which is to say that you rarely take your constitutional there."

Distracted by his laugh, Sophie nodded faintly. She looked past his watchful eyes and focused on a point beyond his shoulder. A swallow alighted on the stone bench behind him and paced the length of it looking for crumbs. Since Sophie had permitted the children to take tea there only yesterday, the swallow was fortunate in his choice of picnic spots. "Perhaps I am about town more often than you suspect and it is only that I am outside your notice."

Eastlyn started to deny it but caught himself abruptly when she held up a hand. Her smile was slight, but genuine.

"You must not be gallant, my lord, and deny such a thing is the most reasonable explanation. I am fully aware that I am an unlikely female to command your attention. It will ease your mind to know that our initial introduction aside, you are not the sort of someone I would go to the park to see."

It did
not
ease the marquess's mind. In point of fact he was not insulted; but she had tweaked him rather sharply, and while he thought he should avoid hearing her explanation, he simply could not. When he had left the Battenburn estate this morning, he had been in expectation of a wholly different meeting with Lady Sophia. Though he had cringed at the possibility, he had forced himself to consider the prospect of tears and how they might be dealt with swiftly but with some compassion. The exercise had been a waste of gray matter, he realized now. Far from being near tears, the eyes that met him were frank and reasonable. Except for one brief lapse, Lady Sophia remained composed. Perfectly so.

"You would not go to the park upon hearing I would be there?" he asked. "Even if I were driving my new barouche?"

"Do not feign disappointment, my lord. It is badly done of you. You can be naught but relieved that I bear you no affection."

He was. Or at least he thought he was until she placed it so baldly before him. He wondered if she was entirely correct in assuming his disappointment was feigned. "There you have me," he said slowly, regarding her with new interest. "But you must allow that I am curious. What makes me so beneath your notice?"

"Oh, no." She shook her head, and the brilliant halo of hair waved softly about her face until she was still again. "You misunderstand. It is not at all that you are beneath my notice, only outside of it."

"There is a difference, I collect," he said dryly.

"Certainly. The former suggests you are not worthy of my attention. I meant to say that you simply do not fix my attention."

"You are not making it more palatable, you know. I cannot recall when last I was so deftly cut to the quick." He could, but it had been at Hambrick Hall, and he had planted the boy who had done it a facer. It was scarcely the tack to take with Lady Sophia. If she dealt blows with her fists as well as she did with words, he would be the worse for it in the end.

Sophie searched Eastlyn's face for some sign that she had indeed done him an injury. His finely cut features remained impassive during her scrutiny, giving nothing of his thoughts away, no hint of amusement or distress. Still, it was Sophie's conclusion that he was teasing her. Any other outcome would have been difficult to imagine, no matter what emotion he affected. Her words could not have truly pricked him. The Marquess of Eastlyn must know he was recklessly handsome.

How could he not be aware of heads turning when he came upon a room? Though she was not often out in society, Sophie still had had occasion to witness the phenomenon. For the marquess's part, he seemed supremely unconcerned by the attention he received, which only reinforced Sophie's opinion that he held himself as deserving of it. At the Stallworths' ball to open the Season past, she had observed him in conversation with his friend Viscount Southerton in front of an indecently large mirror in the grand hallway. Only a man as confident in his appearance as the marquess could have avoided a sideways glance at his person. Even Southerton, who was very well turned out himself, was not above darting a look in the mirror to check the line of his perfectly starched chitterling or the fit of his waistcoat.

The Marquess of Eastlyn did not require the use of a mirror for affirmation of his fine countenance. His mirror was every approving look cast in his direction, every warm smile that greeted him. Society was favorably disposed to him, and it was a circumstance unlikely to change no matter what sort of nonsense he perpetrated with his friends.

He was not so different from her father.

Sophie received that thought as though taking a physical blow. It caught her just below the rib cage, and she actually stiffened with the pain of it. Her mouth parted, and she drew in a short breath, making every effort not to gasp.

"Are you quite all right?" Eastlyn asked. It seemed to him that Lady Sophia had become several degrees more sober, if such a thing were possible. The wash of pink in her cheeks was gone now; even her mouth was pale. He was moved to look behind him, suspecting that whatever had caused this change in her countenance must be at some distance beyond his shoulder. East saw nothing but the garden wall and the stone bench, neither occupied by any member of her family likely to induce such alarm. "Shall I get you something? Water? Spirits?"

His offer of assistance forced Sophie to collect herself. It required rather more effort than she wished it might. "I am all of a piece," she said calmly.

One of Eastlyn's brows kicked up, and he made a survey of her face, flatly skeptical. "You are certain?"

"Yes." Sophie watched him draw his fingers through his hair, leaving it furrowed until each burnished strand fell back into place. Clearly he did not believe her, yet he had no choice but to accept her at her word. She forced herself to return his steady, inquiring gaze, hoping he could not see past the lie. He could not truly want to be burdened with the truth; it was only his innate civility that prompted what appeared to be genuine concern.

She thought of all the ways he was different from her father and started with the physical, coloring being the most obvious. Where her father, the late Earl of Tremont, had been fair-headed and fair-skinned, the marquess was much darker, with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that were only a shade more warmly polished. Sophie's father had shunned the out-of-doors, preferring gaming hells to pastoral pursuits. In contrast, there was a touch of sun caught in Eastlyn's complexion, lending him the look of a man who had interests beyond the gentleman's clubs he frequented. Eastlyn was of a height with her father, though he cut a trimmer, more athletic figure. Sophie allowed that perhaps it was not a fair comparison because her clearest memories of her father were toward the end of his life, when drink and dissipation had left their mark at his thickening waist and heavy jowls. The portrait of Frederick Thomas Colley still hanging in the gallery at Tremont Park showed the younger man, the one who had difficulty with the serious pose he affected and whose quicksilver smile hovered like a poorly kept secret at the corners of his mouth.