Lord Will & Her Grace (23 page)

IT was not he. It was someone who very nearly
was William, but with a wider smile, and long hair drawn back in a
queue. But they were identical in their coloring, height and
powerful physiques. How could God have possibly created two of
them? She was glad she was alone and in the shadows outside so that
no one could see her open perusal. She glanced at her hands to find
them shaking then returned her attention to the stranger.

Charles, with Mari on his arm, hurried over
to this Williamesque creature after the final notes of the set. The
guest passed a note of some sort to Charles who bowed in
acceptance. A brief exchange occurred followed by the three pairs
of eyes turning to scan the room.

It was obvious they were looking for her.
Sophie edged closer to the evening shade of a large tree bordering
the terrace. Charles and Mari returned their attention to the
gentleman, while he continued to search the room. His gaze swept
past her, then returned to her for the merest moment before
returning his attention to the affianced pair.

Her heart in the pit of her stomach, Sophie
rushed to the stairs leading down to the pebbled walkway separating
the mansion from the gardens. She could swear he had winked at
her.

Several lanterns, hanging from the low
branches of trees nearby illuminated the front section of the
garden. Sophie ran beyond them, choosing to hide behind the trunk
of a mature oak tree. The rough bark dug into her upper back as she
leaned into it.

She wasn't hiding, really. She just didn't
want to have to talk to anyone at the moment. Especially not that
gentleman. Several long minutes passed.

She was behaving like a child. Perhaps she
could just creep around the side of the property, reenter through
the front doors, and retire to the ladies' withdrawing room. Yes,
that was it.

Rolling her spine off the oak, she stepped
into the long dim light cast by a lantern.

A man cleared his throat.

Sophie stopped.

"Mademoiselle Somerset?"

She breathed in sharply. The voice was not
the same but the seductive accent was. She drew herself up and
pushed back her shoulders, staring into the darkness from whence
the voice had come.

The sound of a deep chuckle rumbled through
the air, sending a shiver up her spine. Oh yes, the laughter was
exactly the same. They had probably practiced it in their
cradles.

He emerged from the shadows and paused.
"Magnificent." His heavy-lidded gaze rested on her face quite
properly, leaving her no retort. "Mademoiselle, I understand now
why my brother was so insistent I find you."

"Indeed," she replied, tilting her chin up
and moving past the ray of light into the darkness where the large
black shadow of the gentleman appeared. "I find you have the
advantage, sir. I've not had the
pleasure
of an
introduction." Her frosty tone was designed to wither.

It did the opposite. "Oh come, come, my dear.
There is no need to be so formal. We are alone, and if anything,
you have the advantage. If you know my brother as well as I think
you do, you have a fair idea of who I am." He chuckled again, then
bowed slowly and courteously, grasping her hand in his large warm
one and bringing it to his lips. "Alexander Barclay, Viscount
Gaston, your servant, mademoiselle."

"A pleasure, my lord."

"Why were you hiding from me just now,
chérie
?" He reached for her face, and before she could move,
he had stroked the curve of her jaw with his index finger.

She didn't flinch. "I would prefer you didn't
use that endearment, sir." She didn't have to see his mouth in the
darkness to know he was smiling.

"My apologies, mademoiselle. I did not intend
to offend you in any way." He paused and cocked a brow. "Most
ladies of my acquaintance enjoy hearing that particular endearment
from my lips."

They were as alike as croissants and
brioches, two half-French men of the world intent on seducing
females at every opportunity with their buttery-smooth powers of
seduction. But she did not have to stay to endure another round
with this new snake charmer. She turned and strode toward the
terrace. A chuckle flowed from the light evening breeze behind
her.

"I have a message for you from my charming
brother. He asked me to deliver it to you."

She kept walking, only turning her head so he
could hear her response. "I do not accept letters from gentlemen
who are not related to me, sir."

"Mademoiselle, I beg of you to give me a
moment to explain." His tone had turned more serious.

Her curiosity got the better of her. She
stopped, forcing him to stride up to her.

"I believe you misunderstand the mode of my
brother's message. You see, he told me you would probably tear any
letter from him into shreds before my face. He entrusted me to
explain his absence to you instead."

The urge to escape the presence of this man
was overwhelming, but the curiosity to know what he would reveal
was stronger. She turned more fully toward him, inviting him to
proceed.

"My brother finds himself, most unwillingly I
must add, confined to a dismal northern hamlet attending to the
concerns of the Tolworth family, a name my brother said you would
recognize. There was some sort of misunderstanding or
something
very like entrapment
and—heaven knows why—William, it seems,
has gained a conscience and has decided to restore the girl's
reputation." He shuddered. "A frumpy, freckled thing if there ever
was one from all reports. My brother is to be pitied, mademoiselle.
He was not in any way at fault, only the dupe of a family hell-bent
on marrying off their unappealing daughter. Such a misfortune. A
waste if you ask me.

"In any case, he asked me to tell you he
regrets he's unable to attend the wedding and therefore the
opportunity to fully explain certain circumstances of the past. He
wanted me to convey to you that once you are familiar with key
incontrovertible facts"—he put the palm of his hand over his face
and rubbed his eyes—"you will… hmmm… how did he put it? You will
have a change of heart? Or was it a change of clothes?
Whatever."

"I refuse to—" she started.

He put up a staying hand. "Really, Miss
Somerset, do take pity on me and allow me to finish. My head is
throbbing from the most foul tainted ale consumed at the last inn
during a revolting meal that passed for dinner. I shan't get this
right if you interrupt me. Now let's see, where was I?"

She sighed. "Something about a change
of—"

"Quite right. He asked for one word from
you."

"And this one word would be?"

"Why, it would be to reassure him that you
still adore him, still cherish him, will still receive him when he
waits on you after this vile marriage is concluded in Yorkshire."
He gently brushed a tendril of her hair from her face. "I promise
you he has no intention of decaying in the boggy north for
long."

She became light-headed at the mention of
William's sudden contracted marriage. Clenching her hands so
tightly behind her until the nails bit into her palms, she forced
herself to remain composed. "Lord Gaston, I have never adored or
cherished your brother as you suggest." Sophie knew God was just
and would understand the necessity of this one small lie.

"Really? Is that so?" He arched his eyebrow
exactly as William had always done.

Impossible. Both of them were not fit for the
devil's notice. The conversation had become a farce of epic
proportions.

"No, or rather, I mean yes, it is so."

"I find the depth of your sensibilities most
revealing, mademoiselle."

Lord Gaston smiled and unwittingly revealed
dimples on his cheeks that were almost like—oh, botheration—at
least they did not have the same effect on Sophie at all.
Like
brother, like brother
, apparently. "I must go, sir. I bid you
good night."

He lightly grasped her arm. "But your answer,
mademoiselle. I need an answer, remember?"

"You may tell him that I haven't changed my
mind since last I saw him on Primrose Hill. And furthermore, I
shall never change my opinion of him and what he represents."
Before he could utter another word to detain her again, Sophie
picked up her skirts and hurried into the ballroom. The man was
impossible. At least he served to remind her of all the reasons why
a match between William and her would've been impossible.

To be fair, she must at least give William
credit for returning to Yorkshire to do right by the young girl he
had ruined. But that credit became negated when he'd fully intended
on quitting Yorkshire as soon as he could to have a romantic
interlude of some sort with her.

Surely, Lord Gaston had not relayed William's
words properly. William knew her well enough to know that she would
never receive him again after his marriage, except for any joint
visits he might make with his wife, if they ever visited the
Morningtons. She would be sure to arrange trips to London on those
occasions.

So he was to be married. To save Miss
Tolworth from ruin. At least his conscience had caught up with him.
Her heart constricted just a fraction. Surely it was her new corset
that caused the sensation.

She was
glad
he was doing the moral
and right thing. She was
happy
she would live out the rest
of her productive life in Burnham-by-the-Sea filling her time with
works of charity, and overseeing the villa. She really, really
was.

Mother Nature smiled on Mari and Charles on
the morning of their wedding. An occasional puff of white cloud
drifted across the expanse of blue sky. Four and fifty guests
filled the small yet formidable St. Andrew's church fronting the
sea. The fourteenth century tower noticeably leaned to one
side.

The pastor appeared nervous facing the large
crowd. Indeed his hands shook as he asked the happy bride and groom
the all-important questions that would serve to bind them forever
as man and wife. Mari and Charles played their parts to the letter
except perhaps the vows had been sealed a tad too exuberantly.

Viscount Gaston stood in what would have been
William's place across from Sophie. He barely smiled during the
whole of the wedding and the wedding breakfast at Hinton Arms.
Perhaps Sophie had imagined the whole horrid scenario last evening.
But of course she hadn't for he insisted on a private word with her
in the mansion's small music room before his leave-taking after the
breakfast.

He bowed over her hand, correctly. "Do I owe
you an apology, Miss Somerset? I suppose I must if the size of my
head this morning is any indication. Between the foul ale and food
from the atrocious inn and the heat in the carriage, well—"

"There is no need for you to feel remorseful,
sir." Sophie led him to the pianoforte's bench, the only seating in
the deserted room that had been ransacked of all its chairs for the
breakfast party. "Perhaps the conversation we shared last night was
best performed in your state of… mind "

He was very ill at ease. "Did I remember
correctly that essentially you required me to tell William that—"
He paused, searching her face.

She helped to refresh his memory. "That I
never want to see your dear brother again," Sophie said quietly,
firmly.

"Right," he said, scratching his head. "Well,
at least he is still dear to you."

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep she had
endured of late, or more likely the familiarity she felt toward
Lord Gaston due to the extraordinary rsemblance between the two
brothers. Whatever the reason, Sophie's usual grace snapped. "No,
Lord Gaston. He is not dear to me at all. He will always be nothing
more to me than a deceiving scoundrel, a fortune hunter, a
seducer—a know-nothing, vain nodcock interested more in the design
of his waistcoat"—she glanced at the intricate paisley design on
Lord Gaston's same article of clothing— "than the needs of those
less fortunate. In short, the exact opposite of any gentleman with
whom I would care to be acquainted. In fact, you may tell Lord Will
that I consider his unwillingness to accept my refusal to see him
as more evidence of his conceited, overbearing male behavior,
which, you will forgive me for noticing, seems to run in the
family."

Lord Gaston narrowed his eyes, and raked his
gaze over her dazzling décolleté. "You don't know me at all,
mademoiselle. And if I may be allowed to say, you seem to know even
less about my brother."

Sophie could see a cold, hard fury building
in the brother's expression.

"You call him a deceiving scoundrel. Perhaps
he is. But have you never wondered what made him such? If I
remember correctly, it all began right here—during a long visit,
when he met a lonely female bent on excitement. Someone who
appreciated young
talent
."