No Place for a Dame (2 page)

Sophia didn’t recall much about Giles’s older brother, the first heir, other than that the boy hadn’t lived long, either. She had never thought to ask why; she wasn’t interested.

“Strand can stay here for all I care.
I
shall be in the London townhouse, until I can find better.” She’d no more live here than she would in Seven Dials. “Where is Strand? Why isn’t he here?”

Before her father could reply, a deep masculine voice spoke. “How happy the groom must be whose bride counts the hours she doesn’t spend in his company.”

Sophia wheeled around, looking for Strand, the owner of that deep, velvety voice.

A dark shadow moved in the chair before the fire and a log fell suddenly, the burst of light limning the famously classic profile, curling over a strong, long-fingered hand, and tracing a muscular leg stretched out before him. It caught the glint of a silvered eye and burnished the dark glow in the shock of tumbled guinea-gold hair.

Giles Dalton, Marquess of Strand.

He was as handsome a man as Sophia had ever seen, even now, about to enter his thirtieth year. And if the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the lines bracketing his sculpted Roman nose in any way diminished what was said to have once been Apollonian looks, well, she’d not known him then and thus had nothing to compare this version of Strand to that earlier one. And this version of Strand in no manner disappointed.

He hesitated just an instant and then with fluid grace, rose to his feet. The barbaric surroundings should have dwarfed him, made him look small, should have rendered him insignificant. It couldn’t. He owned this room as he surely owned any London salon.

The exquisite cut of his cobalt blue coat, his flawlessly arranged cravat, the buff-colored trousers that molded to his long legs, were only trappings. Even without them he would draw the eye and fix the attention. He was not merely beautiful, he was riveting.

He sauntered forward and bowed. “Sophia, my dear, I doubt these poor walls have ever seen your like. And Malcolm, I trust everything is to your liking?”

“Must allow it ain’t, Strand,” her father said, striving to emulate Strand’s air of masterly nonchalance and failing utterly.

“No?” Strand’s brows rose. He took her father’s elbow and led him towards the table. “Good heavens, sir, please have a seat and tell me all about it so I can make reparations at once. But first, let us fortify ourselves for the night ahead and all the subsequent nights ahead.”

Sophia smiled, unable to keep the triumph from her expression. Let him mock all he wanted. It was too late for him to change his mind. He’d sent the announcement of their engagement to the papers, the ring had been bought, the chapel reserved. He would never be able to show his face in Society again if he threw her over. And Strand lived for his position as Society’s premiere dandy, whip, and nonpareil. Or so he’d always said.

No, she had nothing to fear. Everything she wanted, money, pleasure, and celebrity, would soon be hers. They might as well already be.

Strand saw to it that first she and then her father were seated before returning to his chair and motioning for Travers, whom she assumed to be the butler, to fill their glasses. He drained away half of his, then rolled the crystal stem between his long fingers, regarding them from across the great table, like prisoners in a docket set before a judge.

He gestured for the sole footman in attendance to bring in the first course. When she became marchioness they would have a staff to rival any of the great homes in England. Even here. Even though she would not be in residence. She intended to spend and spend lavishly and live even better and Strand could well afford it.

“Now then,” Strand said, “tell me, Malcolm, how has Killylea failed in your expectations? For there is nothing as demoralizing as being led to expect a thing only to have something else foisted upon you.” Strand’s voice was as smooth as oiled silk and dark as a moonless sky.

Sophia froze, her glass halfway to her lips. Her father’s heavily veined cheeks turned bright. He’d been part of her plan to leg shackle Strand from the start. Unfortunately, while as ambitious as she was, he had not a tenth of her nerve. “Well, for one thing, it’s cold.”

“Cold? Good heavens, we can’t have that.” Strand raised his eyes to the butler, standing motionless at the end of the table. “Have the wood burning in Mr. North’s room doubled at all times, Travers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Well,” Malcolm pursed his lips, “it’s gloomy.”

“Gloomy. What might we do about that, Travers?”

“I am at a loss, sir.”

“As am I. Hmm…” He snapped his fingers. “I know. Exchange the drapery in Mr. North’s bedchamber for something more festive. Yellow, I should think. Yellow is such a gladdening color, don’t you agree?”

Sophia snickered at Strand’s mockery. A mistake. Strand’s mercury-bright gaze slewed towards her.

“And you, my dear, have you any complaints?”

“Not a one.”
None that I’m likely to give voice. At least, not until after the wedding
.

“Ah, then you like Killylea. Such a relief.”

“I did not say that. I said I had no complaints.”

“So you did.” Strand sank back in his chair. “What an accommodating wife you shall make.”

“I shouldn’t rely on that.” Malcolm signaled the butler to refill his glass. “Sophia has always been too spirited, too headstrong. She’ll need a strong hand.”

Sophia shot her father a poisonous glare.

“Spirited.” The word fell dryly from Strand’s lips. “You are a far fonder parent than Society credits you, North.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I refer to the generosity of your depiction. I myself would have used a different adjective to describe my future bride.”

Malcolm started. “What adjec—”

“Do
not
ask, Father,” Sophia cut him off sharply. “Don’t you understand what he’s trying to do? Strand is relying on you asking how he would describe me so that you will be forced to call off the wedding once you hear his reply.”

Strand’s gray eyes widened with feigned surprise. “Good heavens, Sophia. How diabolical you think me. And I must protest, because believe me, my dear,” his tone abruptly hardened, “should I wish to be rid of you, I need hardly resort to baiting your father.”

As quickly as it had appeared, his antipathy vanished. “Do not fret, Sophia. I have every intention of wedding you.”

“Wed?”

At the sound of the whispered word, Sophia turned. What she saw made her gasp.

A small female figure stood swaying in the doorway, clutching a single taper that bobbed and dipped in her hand, spilling wax on her fingers and the floor. A dingy, oversized bed gown covered her from neck to feet in layers of dirty, gauzy material. Long, matted yellow hair fell
about her shoulders and over her face, obscuring her features. She hunched a little, head stuck out like a dog sniffing poisoned meat.

Sophia’s skin rippled into goose flesh at the sight of her, remembering the freaks and loonies that had rushed her when she and her friends had toured Bedlam. They’d looked like this thing: Revolting.
Wrong
. “Who is that?
Who is she?
”

“I am sorry, sir,” Travers said to Strand. “I couldn’t do anything to stop her and I didn’t see it was right to do so, either.”

“W
ho is that creature
?”

The butler looked at her mournfully. “That, miss, is his lordship’s sister.”

Chapter Two

J
ulia Dalton?
This
was Julia Dalton? Giles’s mother was supposed to have spirited her away to Italy and never returned. But here was proof, horrible proof, that the marchioness had left this cretinous creature behind. God knew how long she’d been here.

Now Sophia understood why the Daltons had seemingly eschewed Society. They were
tainted
.

“
My
wedding?” the girl whispered in a singsong voice, sidling towards Sophia with an outstretched hand. With a cry, Sophia recoiled. Her chair’s legs scraped loudly on the flagstone floor. The girl’s hand dropped.

“I’d like to be wedded. Or,” the girl’s voice thickened with animal cunning, “bedded. Nice and wedded; good and bedded,” she sang and began spinning around in slow circles, her arms held out straight at her sides, the long gossamer sleeves drifting out like tattered moths’ wings. “Good. And.
Bedded
.”

Frantically, Sophia looked at Strand. He was staring at the creature, his expression tense. “Travers. What is this?”

“I am sorry, sir.” The man had visibly paled. “I could not stop her. Nor did I want to. I didn’t think it was right, what you were going to do.”

“Damn you for an interfering scoundrel, Travers.” Strand rose to his feet, his eyes narrowing on the girl. “
That’s enough
.”

At his sharp command, the girl collapsed on the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. “
Nooo!
Don’t make me go back!”

“Dear God,” Sophia whispered.

At once, the girl’s head snapped around towards Sophia. Quick as a rat, she scuttled towards her on hands and knees. With a squeal, Sophia bolted from her chair. It fell over with a crash, causing the girl to flinch back and flee into the shadows along the wall.

“What sort of foul trick is this, Strand?” Sophia cried. “Did you think to spring your insane sister on me
after
the wedding?”

Strand’s eyes narrowed and he regarded her closely for a long minute before answering. “Actually, Sophia, my dear, I wasn’t going to ‘spring’ her on you at all.”

“Then when were you going to tell me that this… this
freak
was your sister?”

Not a hint of embarrassment showed in Strand’s expression. “I wasn’t.”

The enormity of his confession, the treachery he’d been plotting to perpetrate upon her, staggered her. “You… you
swine
! You unutterable villain! What if I bore something like… like that?” She pointed towards the shadowy figure that hunkered in the gloom, giggling. Horrified, Sophia scrambled behind her father, clutching his arm and setting his bulk between her and Strand’s hideous sister. “Have her taken away!” she shrieked at the butler.

“I shouldn’t like to try, Miss North. It is only bound to provoke a nasty scene,” Travers said mournfully.

“Ah!”

Malcolm swung around and grabbed her upper arms, squeezing hard. “
Stop it
, Sophia! Strand is healthy and sound. Your babes will be perfect.”

“But what if they aren’t?” she cried, sick with growing fury.

How
dare
Strand have a sister like this? How dare he? He’d ruined
everything
. Yet he just stood there, his eyes hard and cold, judging
her
. She could
feel
his contempt.

“Then you give them to the wet nurse,” Malcolm ground out, “and from there to a nurse, and then”—he glanced at Strand—“send them here. Eh, Strand?”

An ugly smile twisted Strand’s beautiful mouth. “Certainly. Plenty of rooms for rejects at Killylea. We’ll just have to keep you bellyful until you pop out a promising looking specimen and then perhaps a couple more as a contingency. I know my pater would have liked to have had a few more spares laying about. Unfortunately, my mother fled before he could implement the plan. You wouldn’t do that though, would you, Sophia?”

“You…
monster. This
is why you’ve never wed. You knew that once a lady had seen
that
”—she pointed at the creature—“she would never accept you. God, how you must have laughed when you thought you’d got me with child!”

“I assure you, I did not so much as crack a smile.”

“And what of that half brother?” She turned to her father. “No one ever saw him, did they? Was he as repellant as she is?”

Something dangerous sprang to life in Strand’s gaze, like a red-hot epee slicing through snow. “I have no doubt you would have found my brother quite loathsome.”

“You see? I am right! He thought to trap me into being his brood mare. But I won’t. I will not bear your idiot children! Do you hear me? I
will not marry you
, Strand!”

“Please. You break my heart.” His mockery was knife sharp.

“
You bastard!
” Tears of fury and frustration streamed down her cheeks. Her voice quivered with hatred.

“Shut up, you stupid bint!” Her father raised his hand to deliver a stinging slap. “You’ll—”

Strand’s suave voice cut like a whip across the room. “I shouldn’t if I were you, Malcolm, old man.” Her father’s hand dropped to his side.

“The lady has made her position clear. Even should you by force of… shall we say personality?… compel her, I can’t think the marriage would be comfortable. And I do so value my comfort.

“Besides, a fellow likes to be welcomed into the conjugal bed, don’tcha know? Not greeted with shrieks of horror. Bound to upset the servants and, let us be frank, have a dolorous effect on one’s, er, constitution.”

“No. No. She’s just unnerved,” her father insisted desperately. “She’ll come round once she’s had a chance to think things over. Took her by surprise, is all.”