Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (46 page)

Gradually allowing his eyelids to droop to a close, Marcus was still unable to banish the truly gut-wrenching image of Sophie’s horrified face from the forefront of his mind. Would she even care that he had been hurt, should she ever come to hear of it, he wondered, as sleep began to wash over him. Very probably not, was his last distinct thought.

Several hours later, having eventually persuaded Jack to allow her use of a carriage, Sophie, accompanied by one of the abbey’s footman, arrived at the front door of Marcus’s Grosvenor Square mansion only to find that both bell-pull and knocker had been removed from their housings—the latter a generally accepted signal that the dwelling’s occupants were not in residence. Since there were clear sounds of activity issuing from the basement below, with sinking heart Sophie could only assume that Helstone’s injuries had been far worse than Jack had been prepared to admit, and that the Viscount must be, at this very moment, lying at death’s door!

Ignoring the footman’s muttered disapproval, she raised her hand and rapped briskly on one of the door’s panels. To her surprise the door, swinging open almost immediately, revealed the odd sight of a rather stately
looking individual—the butler, Sophie assumed—who was regarding her with a severe frown on his face while one of his fingers was pressed firmly against his lips.

‘If you please, miss,’ the man whispered, casting a nervous look towards the highly impressive-looking stairway that stretched away to his right, ‘we have illness in the house. I’m afraid I must ask you to state your business and be on your way.’

‘But his lordship—’ began Sophie, her voice tremulous with apprehension. ‘Is he—? That is—I really need to know that he is all right!’

‘I’m afraid his lordship is not receiving visitors at the moment, miss,’ came the butler’s haughty reply. ‘If you would care to leave your card?’

Since Sophie had not yet availed herself of the Egremonts’ offer to order her a set of visiting cards, she was at something of a loss. A sudden sob rising in her throat, she gave a reluctant shake of her head. ‘Just tell your master that Miss Pendleton-Flint called,’ she choked and, turning swiftly on her heel, she hurried down the steps, desperate to gain the sanctuary of her borrowed carriage before finally dissolving into the tears that she had succeeded in holding back for the past two days.
If only I had had the courage to accept Helstone’s offer,
she found herself thinking,
none of this would ever have happened. Please, God, don’t let him die—even if I can’t have him, please keep him safe!

In spite of Danson’s determined efforts to achieve absolute silence throughout the building, it was actually the sound of Whitcombe’s somewhat aggrieved footman slamming the carriage door rather too vigorously that roused Marcus from his sleep. Feeling much refreshed, he hauled himself up into a sitting position and reached
out his hand for the pitcher of water that sat on his bedside table.

‘Allow me, your lordship.’

Ferris was there before him, already pouring water into the waiting glass.

‘What the devil was that infernal noise outside?’ demanded Marcus, as he quaffed back the much needed liquid. ‘Sounded like an explosion of some sort.’

‘Just a carriage door, sir,’ soothed his valet who, having had little else to occupy his time while his master slept, had been standing at the bedroom window aimlessly contemplating the passing traffic. ‘The Earl of Whitcombe’s, by the look of the door crest.’

‘Viscount Bingham, I suppose,’ murmured Marcus lazily, allowing his eyes to close once more as he leaned back against his pillows. ‘Dare say he’ll call again tomorrow.’ Having been unable to express his thanks to the young Viscount for his part in that morning’s events, Helstone was determined to make sure that Jack was fully aware of how grateful he was for his support.

‘No, sir,’ returned Ferris, stretching across Marcus to straighten his covers. ‘The visitor was a young lady.’

His eyes flying open, Marcus shot up. ‘A young lady?’ he croaked in disbelief as he flung back the bedclothes and staggered across to the window. Sophie! It just had to be Sophie! Who else but Sophie would be calling on him in one of Whitcombe’s carriages?

‘Sir, I beg you!’ cried Ferris, his face a picture of distress. ‘I must insist that you return to your bed immediately.’

Having discovered that Whitcombe’s carriage had disappeared from view, Marcus turned on his valet in disgust. ‘Rubbish!’ he retorted, already engaged in the rather intricate task of trying to remove his nightshirt
with only one good hand. ‘Stop wittering, man, and get me out of this damned thing.’

‘But, sir!’ protested his hapless valet. ‘Major Wolfe gave specific instructions—’

‘No doubt he did,’ grated Helstone, doing his utmost to fight off the disturbing sense of weakness that was threatening to overcome his efforts. ‘However, unless I am much mistaken, I am still master in this house! So, do as I say and sort me out something to wear—and while you’re at it ring for Kimble and tell him that if my curricle isn’t round at the front door in ten minutes flat, he can start looking for another position!’

Muttering fierce imprecations under his breath, Ferris felt he had no option but to carry out his master’s orders, although he managed to retain sufficient forethought to send down for the brandy decanter while Marcus was engaged in dowsing his head in the basin of cold water that stood on the room’s marble-topped washstand.

‘Good man!’ exclaimed the Viscount when, having dried off his face, his gaze fell on the drinks tray. ‘That ought to do the trick!’

Exactly seven minutes and a couple of hefty swigs of brandy later, he was up on the driving seat of his curricle, an anxious Kimble at his side, intent upon chasing after Whitcombe’s carriage in the hopes of making some sort of peace with Sophie.

But even as he unhooked the whip from its mounting it became clear to him that, with only one good arm at his disposal, such a task was going to prove well-nigh impossible. A resigned sigh left his lips as, reluctantly passing the reins to his groom, he urged, ‘Spring ‘em, Kim!’

Having finally cried herself out, Sophie dried her eyes, straightened her bonnet and cast an indifferent
look out of the window, simply to ascertain how much further she had to go. As far as she could make out, the carriage was just passing through Chelsea village. As the sudden memory of that magical afternoon flashed into her thoughts, her lips curved in an unbidden smile. Leaning forward, with no clear understanding of what she was doing, she gave a sharp rap on the front window.

‘Take the next left, Clifford,’ she instructed the coachman. ‘I have another call to make.’

Just one little peek,
she told herself, as the carriage drew up outside the driveway leading to Marcus’s secret hideaway.
I won’t even go up to the house. I’ll just creep round to the lake and take a quick peek at the view, just to see if it’s really as perfect as I remember it!

Two breathless minutes later and there it all was, exactly as her mind had pictured it…the rose arbour…. the white-painted pavilion…the ducks at the waterside. In a sudden rush, the closely guarded memories of that truly wondrous afternoon came flooding back to her. The scent of the honeysuckle…the warmth of the sun on her face…the succulent taste of the strawberries…the touch of Marcus’s hand as he draped the soft woollen shawl over her shoulders…the captivating smell of his cologne …

Countless minutes drifted past as the poignancy of all she had lost threatened to overcome her. She stood silently on the pavilion steps, doing her utmost to ignore the relentless ache in her heart and heaving in deep breaths of the softly scented air, until at last her senses were once more beguiled by the peaceful beauty of her surroundings.

She still had not moved when Marcus rounded the corner of the house. The sight that met his eyes stopped
him in his tracks. Whilst he had always considered this vista to be the most attractive of his secret hideaways it seemed to him that, at this moment, Nature had surpassed herself. The exquisite loveliness of the scene now took on a new and more compelling meaning, the fundamental essence of which was Sophie, the captivatingly winsome beauty who had stolen not only his heart but his very soul. How could he ever have imagined that taking her as his mistress would ever satisfy the deep hunger he felt for her? He knew now that, should he live to be a hundred, it would never be possible to have his fill of her.

But what if he was too late? His heart executing a painful somersault at the thought of such a possibility, the Viscount squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and, with no little trepidation, strode purposefully towards her.

Her reverie shattered by the sound of booted footsteps on the gravel path, Sophie, her eyes widening in shock, spun round to face him, a bizarre combination of intense joy coupled with faint apprehension coursing through her body.

‘W-what are you doing here?’ she gasped, her eyes anxiously raking his body for outward signs of injury.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ replied Marcus, stepping up into the pavilion and positioning himself directly in front of her, the breadth of his shoulders completely blocking her view of the lake.

Even though his expression was unreadable, Sophie could not prevent her heart from giving a little skip at seeing him standing there before her. ‘I just wanted to take one last look—shouldn’t you be in bed?’

‘Very probably, but that’s beside the point at this particular
moment. I believe you came to see me. May I ask why?’

‘I just wanted—needed—to see how you were,’ she said, finding herself incapable of tearing her gaze away from the penetrating look in his eyes.

‘Needed?’ Marcus’s pulse quickened. ‘I rather got the impression that you had washed your hands of me.’

A puzzled frown crept over Sophie’s brow. ‘No such thing. If you really must know, I—’

She stopped, her colour rising rapidly as she struggled to find the words.

‘Yes?’ he prompted her. ‘I really think I must know, as it happens.’

‘I came to tell you that I had changed my mind,’ she said in a low voice.

Marcus held his breath. ‘Changed your mind about—me?’ he asked softly.

Sophie shook her head, the words tumbling out almost without thought. ‘About accepting your offer—if you still want me!’

Want her!
Scarcely able to believe what he was hearing, Marcus stared down at her, his mind in a whirl.
She couldn’t be referring to the
carte blanche
he had offered her, surely? He had long since dismissed that idea as being quite out of the question!
Needing to make sense of what Sophie seemed to be saying, Marcus, passing his hand across his forehead and uttering a faint groan of dismay, turned on his heel and made for the water’s edge, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the placid scene before him.

Having come to realise that she could no longer envisage a future without him, Sophie had already made the momentous decision that the only way she could have Helstone in her life was to accept the proposition he had
offered her. But now, as she studied the rigid stance of his body, her heart seemed to shrivel within her. She could only assume that the Viscount was regretting his former offer and no longer desired her. Bitter chagrin swept over her as she watched him turn and retrace his steps to stand, once more, directly in front of her.

Unsure how to begin, Marcus cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid that I am obliged to decline your very generous offer,’ he said eventually. ‘The truth is that I no longer find myself in the market for a mistress.’

Dropping her eyes, as every vestige of colour drained from her cheeks, Sophie was too shaken to formulate any sort of reply. Her lips trembling, she made to turn away from him—only to have him reach out his hand to catch hold of hers.

‘I do have another suggestion that might be of interest to you, however,’ he ventured, with just the hint of a smile on his lips. ‘But first I have to know what caused you to change your mind.’

Another suggestion!
thought Sophie bleakly.
A quick and tawdry dalliance in some out-of-the-way hotel or other,
she could only suppose. But then, she found herself reasoning, if that was all that he was prepared to offer her, could she really find the strength to turn him down, only to live out the rest of her life dreaming of what might have been? Having already thrown the last vestiges of her pride at his mercy, she resigned herself to the realisation that she really had nothing to lose by acquainting him with the true reason for her unexpected
volte face.
Stiffening her shoulders, she raised her chin defiantly and looked him directly in the eye.

‘I love you,’ she said simply.

Marcus, closing his eyes briefly, felt a surge of exhilaration flooding through his body, temporarily nullifying
the throbbing pain in his injured arm. ‘Oh, God, Sophie,’ he gasped, as he pulled her towards him with his one good hand and buried his face in her hair. ‘My dearest, darling girl! You can have no idea how I’ve yearned to hear you say those words!’

Almost convinced that she must be dreaming, Sophie pulled back and stared up at him, her face full of confusion. ‘Are you trying to tell me that—?’

‘—that I love you, too,’ Marcus interrupted her, as he tightened his hold. ‘Utterly and to distraction.’

‘You love me?’ faltered Sophie in disbelief.

‘Now, always and for ever, sweetheart,’ Marcus assured her. ‘With every fibre of my being and with every breath I take.’

Even as a wild torrent of joy coursed through her veins, Sophie was unable to contain her mystification. ‘Then what was the suggestion you were about to make to me?’ she challenged him.

The Viscount gave a self-deprecating shrug, a rueful expression crossing his face as he replied. ‘I was going to suggest that you might care to take pity on me and do me the honour of marrying me instead. I find that my life seems to make very little sense when you are not part of it.’ His eyes darkened as he held her rapt gaze. ‘The truth is that I simply didn’t recognise that what I felt for you was a good deal more than just unadulterated lust.’