Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (9 page)

Sophia pushed to her feet, feeling the need to level the field somewhat. But despite her great height, she was still only eye-to-chin with the wretched man. "You are deliberately provoking me, and I will not tolerate it."

He bowed slightly, backing away from her in a falsely submissive gesture. "My deepest apologies, my lady. I had no wish to offend."

Sophia ground her teeth together, wondering how she had lost such control not only of the situation but of her own temper. She glared at him. "Why are you doing this?"

He was silent a moment. Then, without moving a muscle, he suddenly changed. Gone was the provocative butler pretending a subservience that never seemed real. In his place stood the major she remembered—tall, commanding, a leader of men despite his servant's clothing.

"I wished to see you," was all he said.

She sighed. Finally, they were getting to the heart of the matter. "This is not the way."

He raised an eyebrow. "You refused my visits."

"You never came."

"You left orders you were not at home to me or any of my gifts. And you have hidden in the house so that my only choice was to join you here."

"That is not true!" Nevertheless, Sophia felt her face turn scarlet.

"Of course, my lady." Though his tone was deferential, there was no mistaking the doubt in his voice.

Sophia dropped down into her chair, quietly yielding him this battle, but not the whole war. Never that. "Very well," she finally conceded. "Perhaps I was a trifle too, um, firm in my actions. But I only wished to make my position clear." She looked up at him, meeting his eyes with her own steady gaze. "Now that you are seeing me, can you also see that I will not change my mind?"

He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her—not condescendingly, but as a man studying a particularly difficult puzzle. "You said you will not marry because you cannot support becoming a slave."

"Correct."

"I wished to show you that I can be flexible. I can serve. I have, in fact, served every day of my life. I serve England and the Crown."

Sophia released an inelegant snort. "You cannot maintain this farce, Major. Look at you." She waved at his imperious stance. "Even as a butler, you cannot resist trying to control the situation. Our marriage would be less than an hour old before you issued your first command. Then I would be forever carrying out your orders, falling to whatever line you drew."

"I would not make you into a slave!" he countered hotly.

"Then your subordinate. Perhaps a lieutenant... or a private!"

"You would be my wife!" But even as he spoke, he dropped his hands onto his waist and took an angry step forward. She had no doubt this was exactly how he looked when disciplining an unfortunate underling. And from the sudden flushed cast to his face, he knew exactly what he had done.

Dropping his arms to his sides, he shifted his demeanor back to one of a butler. Of course, having seen him as a commanding officer moments before, she knew his subservience was merely an act, a guise put on in this ridiculous campaign to win her hand.

"You cannot maintain this posture," she commented quietly. "It will drive you mad in less than a day."

He simply lifted an eyebrow, his expression one of quiet challenge. "You do not know me as well as you believe, Lady Sophia."

She met his challenge with one of her own. "I know I will not change my mind, no matter how many tea cakes you serve me."

His smile was slow in coming, secret in its arrival, and sweetly exciting when it appeared. It was a man's smile, filled with masculine pride and quiet daring. It thrilled her down to her toes. It also made her extremely suspicious.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows in an expression of complete innocence. "Only that I shall have to serve you something other than tea and cakes."

Chapter 4

Four hours later, Major Wyclyff did not think he was up to serving anything. His leg ached, his back was stiff, and his head throbbed from a brigade-sized headache. But most of all, his hands and wrists ached from polishing silver so tarnished it reflected only gray. Why, his thumbs even felt flat.

"Well, 'ere's a sight." interrupted the gravelly voice of his batman. "A decorated major o' the Hussars, bent over like a hobbled horse polishing an old tabby's silver. Why, it be enough to stir a man to suicide."

Anthony groaned and turned around on the high stool in his cramped little butler's closet. "Stubble it, Kirby. We have been in worse situations than this."

"Aye," the short man agreed with a solemn nod. "But never one wot smelled so bad."

Anthony could not help but agree. The polishing solution the maid recommended reeked to high heaven, especially in this cramped room. "Did you come here for a reason?" he asked, thankfully setting aside a badly tarnished teaspoon.

"Aye. Came t' see if ye regained yer senses. We can be back in London by tomorrow noon."

Anthony thought lovingly of his small, sweet-smelling rooms in London and sighed. "I cannot go back until I am married."

"But the appointment—"

"Is for a married man."

Kirby's thick face compressed into a tight line of disapproval. Anthony had seen it too many times before to miss it now. It said in silent anger that his superior officer and current employer was ten times a fool. And for once, Anthony wondered if the sullen batman was right. "Say your piece, man."

Kirby did not disappoint him. He squared his shoulders and started in. "Begging yer pardon, sir, but there's many a woman to bed without dressing in knee breeches and polishing silver."

"I do not want a woman to bed, Kirby. I will have Sophia to wife and none other."

Kirby frowned, his whole face quivering with frustration. "But why, sir? Wager or no wager, I can't see 'at she's worth all this." He gestured disdainfully at the tiny butler's closet.

Anthony felt his body clench as anger burned in his gut. It was not a reasonable reaction. His batman was only repeating what he had told himself for the last few days. But the irrational anger still poured like hot lead through his blood.

"A thousand guineas, man," he said curtly. "You know I have not that much, not to mention what winning the wager will do for me."

Kirby shook his head, clearly dismissing the thought. "Your father can pay the debt."

"I will not run to my father!" He said the words, but inside he cringed. He had considered doing just that at least a dozen times. He still did not understand why he had made so impulsive and clearly reckless a bet. But wager he had, and now he was forced to honor it. The thought of trying to explain the entire wretched situation to his father made him wish he had died in that hospital bed.

"She ain't worth it," Kirby pressed. "I know that yer thinking she's an angel. She pulled you back from the dead, and there ain't a day that I don't thank God in Heaven she brought ye back from the Grim Reaper's fist when I couldna done it." Kirby paused, squaring his shoulders in what for him was an unusual display of awkwardness. "She's a right fine woman, sir, when she ain't burying furniture in the dales. But she weren't there just fer you. She went ta all the men, Major. The dying and the poor. She visited ever' one of them like clockwork. Ye can't be basin' a marriage on a visit t' the sick."

Anthony did not answer. He knew all of this. Even sick with fever, he knew Sophia had visited all the patients in that hospital. But despite the doubts that plagued him each night, he believed her visits with him had been different. They had spoken of so much together. She had told him her dreams, and he had seen the longing in her eyes when she looked at him. Only when she looked at him.

With a clenched jaw, he glared at his batman. "You have said your piece. Now get out."

He did not wait to see Kirby leave, but turned his back. Swinging stiffly around on his leg, he specifically ignored the man who had seen him through swamps and battlefields, who had shaved him, nursed him, and even bathed him. He turned his back and waited in anxious tension for the sound of Kirby's heavy footfalls as the man stomped away.

Instead, he heard her voice. "If you will not explain it to him, Major, perhaps you will explain to me."

He spun around, shock coursing through his body at the sight of Sophia standing directly beside his orderly. Never had he thought to be startled by her soft voice. The sound of her footsteps was imprinted in his consciousness. He listened for them in his dreams and waited for them by day. And yet she surprised him, coming upon him when he was least prepared to speak with anyone, much less her.

"Sophia," he whispered, his throat closing up at the sight of her serene face surrounded by soft waves of golden hair, short though her curls now were. Beside her, Kirby bowed formally to him and took his leave, but Anthony barely noticed. His angel was before him, demanding answers he was not prepared to give.

"Was your man correct? Did you propose to me because I visited you in the hospital?"

He shifted awkwardly, thankful that she had not heard him discuss the unfortunate wager. "I offer you the protection of my name and my person," he said stiffly. "The reasons are unimportant."

She was implacable. "I have already refused your most generous offer, Major—"

"You accepted in the hospital."

"I have already cried off your most generous offer," she corrected. "If you wish me to change my mind, you will need to offer your thoughts. Why is it so important that I marry you?"

He flexed his shoulders backward and lifted his chin. He might have been facing a firing squad for all the tension that surged through his body. Why was this so confounded hard?

"I owe you my life, Lady Sophia. You were the sole reason I recovered from my fever. The doctors said it was a miracle. I know it was you."

"Your remarkable constitution and bullheaded stubbornness are the reason you recovered. I merely gave you a little incentive."

He nodded, his muscles straining with the movement. "You were an angel of mercy—"

"And a paragon of virtue," she added dryly. "So build me a shrine and throw flowers on it. There is no need to twist yourself into a knot cleaning my aunt's silver."

He did not move; his body gave no reaction. Yet deep inside, he felt a quickening, a stirring of emotion that only she seemed to inspire. No one else could lighten his soul as she did. Laughter rarely seemed to touch him, but around her—playing with her, arguing—he felt it inside, and that made him all the more determined to have its source in his life.

"Come out of the butler's room, Major," she coaxed. "Perhaps we could sit in the parlor." He felt her hand, warm and life-giving on his arm, tugging at him. More than anything, he wanted to follow her. But he knew it was her first step in removing him from her life. She would take him from the closet to the parlor, and before he knew it, she would have him out the door riding back to London. Alone.

He stood firm. "I am your butler," he said stiffly. "It is not my place to sit with you."

"Oh, stow it, Major," she snapped. "You cannot seriously believe I developed a
tendre
for you in the hospital. You were one of hundreds with whom I spoke. What you are feeling is simple gratitude," she said firmly. "I accept your thanks. I tell you I enjoyed our conversations immensely, but that is hardly a reason to marry."

He felt her every word like a knife cutting at him. It tore at his confidence and weighed him down. But he was a major of the Hussars, and so he lifted his gaze to hers, studying her expression more intimately than any battle plan. He knew every nuance of her face, every shift of her eyes and what each would mean.

If she lied, he would know.

"I was merely another patient to you?" he challenged, forcing her to say it to his face. "Another wounded soldier?"

Her eyes flickered but did not slide away. "Yes."

"You never gave me another moment's thought after you left my bedside?"

Her jaw firmed, but, most telling of all, her breath nearly stopped. "Yes," she agreed.

She was definitely lying. He sighed in relief, his expression finally relaxing into a near smile.