Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (29 page)

‘It was delivered along with yesterday morning’s post,’ she replied, somewhat taken aback at his abrupt manner. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You were expecting an invoice from this Mr Broomfield?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, but my bill would only have been for three shillings and sixpence, and as you see …’

‘Yes. Quite.’ Giles nodded, continuing to stare at Sophie in the most searching manner.

‘Steady on, Giles!’ protested Marcus, laughing. ‘Why the interrogation? Miss Flint is not the one who has got her sums wrong!’

‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ said the Major abruptly, shooting his brother an exasperated glance before turning once more to Sophie and asking, ‘Would it be possible for me to borrow this invoice for a day or so, I wonder? I would like to have one of my men take a copy, if you have no objection.’

‘Take a copy!’ exclaimed Sophie in astonishment, while Marcus simply looked at his brother in dumbfounded incredulity. ‘Whatever for? Surely Mr Broomfield just needs to tell his clerk to sharpen up his ideas?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Giles briskly, rising to his feet, his tea still untasted. Folding the bill of sale carefully, he raised his eyebrows questioningly at Sophie and, at her mystified nod, tucked it into his jacket pocket, bowed neatly and bade them both farewell, before exiting the tea shop in considerable haste.

‘Well, I’ll be well and truly damned!’ muttered Marcus under his breath, as he glared at his brother’s departing figure in mystified disbelief.

Her sharp ears having caught his nonchalant profanity, Sophie was all at once put in mind of the scurrilous tales she had heard the servants whispering about the notorious Viscount, causing her to ask herself what on earth she thought she was doing, sitting in a public tea shop with so infamous a character as Hellcat Helstone. ‘Oh, I do hope not,’ she murmured softly, as she allowed her eyes to drink in the never to be forgotten contours of his features.

He, not having missed her words, stared across at her, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

‘It would appear that your earlier opinion of me has undergone little alteration since our last encounter,’ he sighed. ‘Doubtless you have spent the past two weeks perusing the gossip columns—might I venture to suggest that I’m not actually as black as I have been frequently painted?’

A sudden flush covered her cheeks as she recalled her previous ruthless assessment of his worth.

‘I seldom have the opportunity to read gossip columns,’ she said, carefully avoiding his eyes. ‘I usually prefer to make up my own mind about people.’

She paused, her brows furrowing slightly as she searched for the words. ‘I am, however, sometimes a little too swift to reach conclusions,’ she added, albeit somewhat reluctantly. ‘My father was often obliged to remind me never to judge people on first appearance.’

His pulse quickening, the Viscount leant forward eagerly, finding himself inexplicably keen to learn whether her former opinion of him had changed.

‘And so, after due consideration,’ he said, hiding his
innermost feelings behind the light bantering tone that he was wont to employ when he was not entirely in command of the situation, ‘may I be so bold as to enquire what conclusion you have now reached in regard to my reprehensible character?’

Frowning, Sophie gave a quick shake of her head. ‘I have decided that I really don’t know you well enough to have formed any worthwhile opinion, my lord,’ she replied carefully. ‘And, whilst your sterling efforts back at the tavern were certainly more than enough to revise my original view of you, I still do not understand why you felt it necessary to hide your true identity from all of us there—were you afraid that someone might try to take advantage of your lofty position?’

Shifting uncomfortably, the Viscount gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘It has been known,’ he replied. ‘But I have to say that on that particular occasion it all came about rather by accident. I supplied my name—which
is
Marcus Wolfe, as it happens—and merely failed to qualify my title. Besides which …’ Here he gave a rueful grin, before continuing. ‘Following my behaviour towards you on the previous evening, I judged that it might be more circumspect to remain relatively anonymous for the duration of my stay there—I fear my reputation in that particular direction has the habit of preceding me.’

‘Yes, I imagine that it must,’ returned Sophie in a somewhat distracted tone of voice, unable to prevent her colour heightening as the well-remembered sensations of that encounter once again flooded through her being. But then, as she observed the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders, her heart turned over, causing her to add gently, ‘That being so, I have to say that, whilst you may not be quite as black as rumour
seems to have painted you, you do appear to be verging on a rather dark shade of grey!’

At this, Marcus tipped back his head, letting out a sudden shout of laughter that reverberated across the room, causing several of the other customers to turn and cast disapproving frowns in their direction.

Still grinning, he then rose to his feet and held out his hand to her. ‘Thoroughly hoist, then, I would say!’ he chuckled. ‘Let us hie ourselves off to your bookshop, then—it seems clear that I am desperately in need of a tome on moral rectitude, and you, my dear Miss Flint, seem to be the very person to point me in the proper direction.’

‘But I no longer have the bill of sale to take to Mr Broomfield,’ protested Sophie, as she got to her feet and began to pull on her gloves. ‘What am I to say to him?’

‘There is no need for you to mention anything about it—the fellow’s not to know that you received the wrong invoice. The other note—the one that this Mr Nyne is now very likely in possession of—was probably to tell you that the book you had asked about had arrived. That being so, it will be perfectly in order for you to call into the shop and enquire after it.’

Yes, she could do that, thought Sophie, her eyes brightening at the notion of extending this chance meeting for a further half hour or so. Having given up all expectation of ever setting eyes on Marcus again—especially once she had been made aware of his true identity—there was no way on earth that she was even going to consider rejecting such an opportunity. Besides which, she reasoned, surely there was little need for her to concern herself with all those unproven rumours of the Viscount’s less than perfect reputation since, after today’s out-of-the-blue reunion, the chances of the pair
of them ever crossing each other’s paths again were extremely unlikely. That being so, the mere idea of spending even just a few more precious minutes in his company was far too tempting an offer on which she was prepared to turn her back. Regrettably, however, there was still that one troublesome drawback to consider.

‘But if Mr Broomfield should happen to have my atlas in stock,’ she felt constrained to point out, ‘he will be expecting me to pay for it there and then, and—’

‘Let’s not cross that particular bridge until we get to it, shall we?’ retorted Marcus, cutting her off before she had a chance to remind him of her lack of finances. ‘I merely wanted a plausible excuse to take a quick peek at this numbskull clerk of his. My brother seemed extraordinarily interested in that invoice of yours—maybe this bookshop of yours is the hub of some shady goings-on and this Mr Broomfield is some sort of master criminal!’

Taking hold of her elbow, he manoeuvred her across the tea shop’s threshold and out into the busy street where, on a sudden impulse, he beckoned over a nearby flower-seller and selected a large bunch of violets from her tray. Dividing the bunch into two halves, he drew Sophie towards him, and before she had any idea of his intent he had tucked one small posy into the top buttonhole of her threadbare pelisse.

Smiling down at her, a mischievous glint in his eye, he held the remaining flowers out towards her, allowing their delicate fragrance to waft into the air.

‘I believe I have already earned the right to relieve you of that confounded cap, but if milking a cow is what it takes, I dare say I could prevail upon one of the milkmaids in the park to allow me to manhandle one of her charges!’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly—’ she began, uncomfortably aware of the crowds milling all about her, but then, as the powerful look of entreaty in the Viscount’s eyes threatened to stop her breath entirely, a soft flush covered her cheeks and she began shakily to unravel the bow of her shabby grey bonnet, saying, ‘I really cannot imagine what it is about the poor thing that annoys you so!’

‘Apart from it being quite hideous in its own right,’ he retorted softly, as he reached across and whipped the offending article from her head, before stuffing it into his jacket pocket, ‘it makes you look about a hundred and five. But, more to the point, it has the damned effrontery to cover up your glorious hair.’

And then, before she was even aware of what he was about, he had tucked the stems of the remaining violets under the top ribbon of her bonnet, settled it back on to her head and was busily engrossed in retying the bow.

‘Well, really, my lord!’ exclaimed Sophie in stupefied amazement as, stepping back, the smiling Viscount gave a satisfied nod. Even though she was thoroughly astonished at his quite audacious behaviour, she could hardly help but feel secretly delighted at his rather gratifying comments regarding her hair, for, as she well remembered, her father had always considered her bright chestnut locks to be her crowning glory. It had been only as a result of Arthur Crayford’s insidious pestering that she had taken to covering up what she had decided must act as some sort of catalyst to his repulsive conduct. Not that her actions appeared to have dissuaded the youth to any great extent, she was obliged to remind herself. But then, as Marcus, an oddly intent expression in his eyes, reached out and fingered a wayward curl that had escaped its confinement, all thoughts of Crayford and his irritating ways were wiped immediately from her mind.

‘S
o where exactly are we heading?’ enquired Marcus, as he skilfully steered her through the heavy throng of Saturday afternoon promenaders. ‘I thought I knew all the book emporiums in this part of town but I don’t recall ever seeing a Broomfields.’

‘His establishment is in an alley off Gilbert Street,’ explained Sophie, somewhat guardedly. ‘It is not a very grand place, but one of the assistants at Hatchards was good enough to recommend it to me as a possible source of the atlas for which I was searching.’

He looked down at her, his curiosity fired. ‘And what’s so special about this particular atlas?’ he asked.

‘It has some rather nice sketches in it, making it more suitable for younger children.’

‘And Hatchards don’t stock it?’ The Viscount sounded surprised. ‘They are usually pretty well up to snuff with that sort of thing, if my memory serves me aright.’

‘As a matter of fact they did have several copies in stock,’ replied Sophie, after some slight hesitation. ‘But
they were priced at three guineas each, and I—well—as you know—’

His face clearing, Marcus nodded. ‘Ah! Now I begin to see! I take it that your Mr Broomfield is more of what we might term a “
used
” bookseller? May I ask how much he is asking for his copy?’

‘Just three shillings and sixpence.’ She sighed, uncomfortably aware of the fact that she no longer had such wherewithal available. ‘He told me that he was sure that he had one somewhere in his stock—it really is most vexing!’

‘I still don’t understand why you feel it necessary to purchase the book yourself. Surely that sort of thing falls within your employer’s domain? I should have thought that any household capable of employing a governess would be equipped with an adequate supply of necessary textbooks.’

‘That’s probably because you never have to involve yourself with people like the Crayfords,’ muttered Sophie under her breath, but then, having reminded herself that this unexpected bonus of an hour or so in the Viscount’s company was far too precious to be marred by petty grievances about her daily life, she tipped back her head and awarded him one of her most brilliant smiles—the effect of which was to cause Marcus to veer awkwardly into the path of an extremely stout gentleman who was struggling under the weight of a large assortment of boxes and packets.

‘I say! Have a care, young fellow!’ yelped the man, clutching at his mound of parcels.

Inwardly cursing, Marcus stooped to retrieve the lone packet that had fallen from the pile, before returning it to its former position with a bow and an apologetic smile.
No second-hand books for this extravagantly dressed
figure of fun,
he thought bleakly, having instantly recognised Hatchards’ distinctive wrapping paper on the neatly packaged item.

All of a sudden the fact that Sophie should feel obliged to make do with someone else’s cast-off reading matter filled him with a red-hot fury the like of which he had never before experienced. That her employers were clutch-fisted upstarts was becoming increasingly clear to him, and to think of her having to live her life in so penurious a manner was becoming almost more than he could bear. He was consumed with an overpowering desire to sweep her up into his arms and carry her off to some secluded retreat where he could lavish upon her every luxury at his disposal—silks, satins, jewels, furs, perfumes—whatsoever she might wish for. He would be only too happy to see her every desire fulfilled—not to mention one or two of his own! Not that there was the least likelihood of being able to persuade the lady in question to even consider such a plan, he was obliged to remind himself as, with a painful jolt, the realisation that they had finally reached their intended destination brought him swiftly back to earth.

Still,
he mused, standing back and allowing himself to drink in the reflection of Sophie’s lovely features as she peered through the bottle-glass window of the bookseller’s cluttered-looking premises,
hope springs eternal, as they say, and in the meantime the odd little gentle nudge in the right direction can’t do any harm!
For now that he had finally managed to run his chestnut-haired temptress to ground, the Viscount had no intention of allowing her to slip through his fingers again.
It’s high time my sweet Sophie started to learn that I can be quite as intractable as she is
, he thought, carefully hiding a
self-satisfied smile as he pushed open the door to allow her to precede him into the shop.

‘Good afternoon, sir, and what may I have the pleasure of doing for you?’

The small, bespectacled, bald-headed man who was peering out at them from behind a huge pile of books located on a desk to one side of the shop being the only creature in sight, Marcus could only suppose that this was, indeed, Sophie’s Mr Broomfield.

‘I believe that you are keeping a copy of an illustrated atlas for Miss Flint here?’ he said, motioning Sophie forward.

Casting her a condescending glance, the bookseller gave a deprecating nod before turning to rummage in a nearby box for several moments. Finally extracting a decidedly tattered-looking version of a map book—one that Marcus had little difficulty recognising as having been one of his own childhood favourites many years back—he slapped it down on the desk in front of the Viscount. ‘Three shillings and sixpence!’ he announced, holding out his hand.

‘Is that the best copy you have available?’ asked Marcus stiffly.

‘It’s the cheapest I could find,’ returned the shopkeeper with a careless shrug. ‘The young lady was quite firm on that point, as I recall.’

Conscious of a slight tug at his elbow, Marcus turned, only to be confronted with an expression of earnest entreaty in Sophie’s eyes. Heaving back a sigh, he bent his head in her direction.

‘This book is perfectly adequate for my purpose,’ she murmured into his ear. ‘If you would be so good as to advance me the money, you have my promise that I will very soon find the means to reimburse you.’

At the thought of her being obliged to skimp and scrape to gather together such a pitiful outlay, Marcus felt his anger deepen and, turning back to the waiting Broomfield, he curtly ordered him to have the book wrapped.

‘Bargain books don’t usually warrant—’ began the man, but, catching sight of the steely glint in the Viscount’s eye, he gave a quick nod and, picking up the atlas, began to make his way to the rear of the shop.

‘You stay here for a moment,’ Marcus directed Sophie as he made after the shopkeeper. ‘I just want to take a quick peek at that clerk of his.’

Although she was finding it well nigh impossible to comprehend how merely looking at the fellow could possibly determine his ability to add and subtract figures correctly, Sophie gave the Viscount a brief acquiescent smile and sat herself down on Broomfield’s rather rickety-looking chair to await further developments.

‘No need for you to come along, sir,’ protested the shopkeeper as he observed Marcus’s intention.

‘Just want to see that you do the job properly,’ came the Viscount’s reply. ‘Wouldn’t do for Miss Flint’s parcel to fall apart while I was carrying it, now, would it?’

Mumbling crossly to himself, Broomfield pushed open the door to the tiny back room that served as an office. Seated before a high desk, his head bent in deep concentration as he carefully inscribed a row of figures on one of the bookshop’s bills of sale, was a sharp-nosed gangly youth of possibly sixteen or seventeen summers.
Not exactly the stuff of subterfuge or other under-the-counter deeds of derring-do,
thought Marcus, as he stepped across the room’s threshold and studied the clerk.
Easy to understand the accounting errors, though!

Emerging from the office some few minutes later, he found Sophie immersed in a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

‘Would you care to have that too?’ he asked, smiling down at her.

‘Oh, no!’ She laughed, jumping up and placing the book carefully back on its pile. ‘I already have my own copy—I was just enjoying reading them again, that’s all.’ Eying the neatly wrapped volume under his arm, she then observed, ‘It was very good of you to go to so much trouble on my behalf.’

‘No trouble at all,’ he assured her, as the now surprisingly compliant Broomfield stepped forward and cheerily ushered them both out of the shop. ‘My pleasure entirely.’

‘You do seem to have quite a remarkable habit of winning people around,’ she said, the shopkeeper’s
volte-face
having thoroughly confounded her. ‘I suppose it comes with being born with the proverbial silver spoon in your mouth?’

‘Shouldn’t be surprised,’ replied Helstone nonchalantly, as he raised his hand to signal an approaching hackney carriage.

Realising his intention, Sophie immediately let go of his arm and stepped away from him. ‘Oh, I’m not at all sure that I can agree to this,’ she said pensively. It had temporarily slipped her mind that her very agreeable companion was still none other than the notorious Hellcat Helstone, and, while sitting in a public tea shop with him and strolling along London’s busy thoroughfares whilst surrounded by scores of other shoppers might be considered quite unremarkable, climbing into a hackney
carriage with so infamous a character might be regarded in a somewhat different light.

Raising his eyebrows at her uneasy expression, the Viscount let out a soft chuckle. ‘My days of seducing females in carriages are long gone, I assure you,’ he twinkled, as he unceremoniously bundled her up into the cab. ‘Decidedly uncomfortable business it was too, as I recall! I just figured that we might avoid the inevitable battering experience if we resorted to wheels for our return journey?’

In point of fact, being closeted in such a confined space with so charismatic an individual as Marcus was showing himself to be was turning out to be the icing on the cake as far as Sophie’s afternoon was concerned. Throughout the whole of the journey from Gilbert Street to Lennox Gardens the Viscount had no difficulty keeping her fully entertained with his charming and witty observations. At least now she would have plenty to fill her dreams in the coming lonely days and nights, she thought, mentally hugging herself with delight as she gazed across the carriage at the Viscount’s smiling countenance. Although on the other side of the same coin was the painful realisation that this short afternoon spent in his company could only serve to bring her greater heartache when the inevitable parting finally came. And come it must, she was forced to concede, given the wide disparity of their respective circumstances.

‘I do hope that my employers don’t see me arriving home in a hackney,’ she ventured, with a nervous laugh. ‘They will begin to think that they are paying me too high a salary!’

Having spent the whole of the past fifteen minutes or so fighting off a rapidly growing desire to haul her into his arms and feast his lips on hers, this disagreeable
reminder of Sophie’s disadvantaged situation was too much for Marcus to bear.

All at once he was at her side as, with a despairing groan, he pulled her towards him, murmuring huskily, ‘Accept my offer, then, why don’t you? How can you think of going back to humiliations of that sort when I could give you everything your heart desires!’

And then, before Sophie had either the wit or sense to prevent him, he had captured her lips with his and her whole world seemed to explode into a million sparkling fragments. Every single fibre of her being suddenly leapt into life as he trailed the tip of his tongue across the contours of her lips before finally forcing entry and deepening the kiss. Her entire body was awash with such indescribable feelings of rapture that the temptation to give in to his request was almost too much for Sophie to resist. The thought of never again having to bite back a stinging retort to one of Mrs Crayford’s constant put-downs, never again having to grapple with Arthur Crayford in unexpected corners of the house, having a home of her own—with a fire in every room, should she so desire it, a well-stocked larder and wardrobes full of the most fashionable wear imaginable. Why, mother and Roger would—

At that sudden thought she froze and, wrenching herself away from his grasp, shunted to the far end of the seat, crying, ‘How could you? You led me to believe that you would not attempt anything of that nature! Can it be that you truly are as black as you are painted?’

His jaw set, the Viscount flinched visibly at her accusation and, his body still aching with unfulfilled desire, sank back against the squabs, struggling to catch his breath as he tried to come to terms with his inexplicable behaviour.

What the hell is happening to me?
he thought, as he stared across the carriage at Sophie’s dumbfounded, wide-eyed expression.
Have I lost my wits entirely? Am I really reduced to behaving like an unfledged stripling on his first outing?

‘Please accept my apologies,’ he managed eventually, desperately trying to summon up his customary air of insouciance. ‘I really had not intended that to happen—some sort of fleeting aberration appears to have overruled my better judgement.’ Summoning up a smile, he held out his hand. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise you. Please don’t let us part as enemies.’

Having had all her newly formed dreams so violently fractured, it was as much as Sophie could do to shake her head and wriggle herself more securely into her corner, and, since she was conscious of the carriage slowing down, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the door handle, ready to make as speedy an exit as possible the minute the vehicle stopped.

But then, to Marcus’s bewilderment, just as she leant forward to wrench open the carriage door, upon raising her eyes to peer out of the window she slumped back into her corner, her fingers to her lips, and uttered a moan of dismay.

Leaning across and staring through the glass in order to ascertain what it was that could have caused her such unease, the Viscount could see nothing amiss. The hackney driver had pulled his vehicle up outside number twelve, as instructed, and apart from the rather flashily dressed young man who was in the process of mounting the steps to the front door of the house there was no one else about.