Seducing Mr. Heywood (13 page)

“I promised to take the boys fishing after their Latin lesson. We are reading Virgil’s
Aeneid
,” he explained.

“Ah, Queen Dido’s most tragic love story. Well, then, perhaps you can stay for luncheon?” She did not want him to go, ever. “Or…here’s a thought, Mr. Heywood. Mayhap I can accompany you and the boys on your fishing expedition?”

“My lady, that would be an honor—”

She smiled. “Hardly that, sir, hardly that, but some pleasant exercise for me in good company. I fished as a child in Kent.”

“We were to practice the Latin conjugations as we fished, but if that would bore you—”

“Latin verbs! It has been so long since Miss Bane drilled them into my poor head! Perhaps I shall remember some of them, the easier ones.” She fixed her eyes on his. “You are in good looks, today, Mr. Heywood. Is it the prospect of conjugating verbs and casting lures with my sons that is the cause of this?” she teased.

Charles blushed, replying gallantly, “My lady, it is simply the pleasure of your company.”

Sophia was brought back quickly to the task at hand.
The pleasure of her company…
She must reply to that invitation and hasten to her rooms to dress for fishing. What attire, she wondered, does a lady don for fishing? Joan, that clever girl, would know. And later, they would discuss appropriate dinner party garb for rustic north Yorkshire.

“Give me a few moments, sir, to dash off a reply to the Ramsbothams and to change into clothes more suitable for fishing.”

“Amo, amas, amat,”
Sophia declaimed in a clear voice. “I love, you love, he loves—” She was wearing a pair of close-fitting doeskin trousers that left little to the imagination, and it was all Charles Heywood could do to keep
his mind on Latin verbs and the trout jumping in the stream in frantic pursuit of cut-up pieces of earthworm.
Trousers!
So far, he was succeeding admirably in keeping his head clear of unwelcome thoughts, but it was hard work indeed to fish while ignoring the lady’s long limbs and Venuslike callipygian charms. Memories of taking his elder brothers’ dares and jumping into icy Lake Windemere in January helped him through the ordeal of having to witness the delectable Sophia in trousers.

He was endeavoring to put aside his long, serious discussion with Lewis. He’d reached the conclusion that he must never again be alone with Sophia, for the sake of his sanity and his principles. It was the only answer. He’d been safe in the morning room, with the two footmen outside and Bromley lurking nearby, but occasions for kisses and for bedding must be avoided, if he was to remain true to those principles.

Ah, temptation!
He had never prayed so fervently in his life. God had probably grown weary of the feeble moans and groans of his disturbed priest, Charles Heywood! If a thunderbolt streaked and burned him to a crisp, he would well deserve it; the Almighty must be sick of his servant, Charles, whose burnings and yearnings had already singed his own skin, if not his soul.

He’d excused himself from luncheon at Rowley Hall following their fishing excursion when John reminded him that they were to visit the Rowley tenant farmers that afternoon. The cook had packed a portable lunch, one they could munch on horseback. Sophia had been visibly disappointed.

“Is this important, Mr. Heywood? Can it not be rescheduled?” she’d wondered.

John had piped up, “Papa always had our steward Mr. Woods take us around to the farms, Mama, but we wanted Mr. Heywood to accompany us this time. He knows the people so much better, and we—” John turned to William, who nodded in somber agreement, “we want to know them better, as well. They are responsible for the success of our agricultural program, after all.”

Sophia looked stunned at his speech, so adult, so…baronial. Charles Heywood smiled at the look on her face, a look that seemed to be made up of equal amounts of pride and amazement. “My lady, the boys have the makings of fine landlords. The baron would be proud of them.” He tousled their blond locks, teasing them. William almost lost his precarious balance on the slippery rocks, but Charles caught him under the arms. “Oops! Mustn’t join the fishes! We might hook you, my plump young man, by mistake.”

“Charles! I have one!” John cried out, forgetting to address the vicar politely.

William saved him from his gaffe. “He means Mr. Heywood, sir,” he assured him. “He is just excited.” William saw the size of the trout John had on the end of his line as it leapt out of the water. “Brilliant! John, don’t lose him! Mama, do you see it?” The youngster began to jump up and down.

Sophia’s eyes widened as John, with Charles’s help and none from the excitedly bouncing William, landed the large fish. She stepped carefully from stone to stone to help him lift it into the creel, as excited as her sons.

“The Irish have a saying, Mr. Heywood,” she called out over the rushing water. “They say, ‘It’s not a trout until it is landed!’”

“An excellent saying, my lady,” Charles agreed. The trout was a sleek fellow, deep in the flank and muscled across the shoulders, its belly a buttery yellow below its brown back. They were so intent on the shining brown fish, its reddish-orange spangles glistening in the sunlight, that they momentarily forgot William, who promptly slid off a mossy stone and into the stream.

“Help!” he shouted.

Charles moved quickly, handing his fishing pole to Sophia and bounding over the rocks to aid the boy. “Got you!” Charles laughed, hauling him out of the drink. William was drenched but no worse for it.

“Nodcock!” John jeered at his younger brother.

Sophia fixed him with a chastising maternal glare. “John!”

“Oh.” John’s voice became small. “I’m sorry, Mama. Sorry, Wills!” He turned his face to his mother, suitably chastised.

“That’s better, darling,” she whispered, giving him a hug.

William was instantly jealous.
“I
am the one Mama should be hugging, Mr. Heywood,” he complained to Charles.
“I
was the one who was almost drowned.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Hardly, William,” he laughed, “but your mama, I am sure, has enough hugs for everyone.”

Sophia heard him. “For everyone, William!” she called out, laughing with Charles.

Charles acknowledged that the astute brothers were correct in their description of the late Baron Rowley’s steward, Herbert Woods, who was competent enough, but had few social graces. He dealt fairly with the farmers, but he was not a naturally friendly person. As the local vicar, Charles had a much different and better relationship with these people. He visited them often, saw them at church services, and consoled them in their grief. He’d lost track of how many babies he’d christened and how many marriages he’d performed—sometimes in that order. He understood rural folk, having been brought up by a father whose open, generous attitude toward his tenants was much like George Rowley’s.

They were visiting the Browns, Bart and Jenny, and their lively little four-year-old daughter, Chloe. The boys were taken with the elfin charmer, Charles noted. She was, in fact, quite beautiful, though the Browns were plain in looks. If Chloe lived up to the promise of her beauty, she’d rival diamonds of the first water among the
ton.

She peeked from behind her mother’s wool skirts, one twinkling green eye fixed on John Rowley. “Who is that pretty boy, Mama?” she piped in a crisp, high voice.

Jenny Brown blushed at her tiny daughter’s bold remark. “Here now, Chloe, show your respect. That’s the new Baron Rowley, he is.”

John squatted on his haunches so that he was eye to eye with the bold little miss. “Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Chloe Brown?” he asked in a loud voice.

The child appeared from behind her mother. “You do, sir.” She smiled prettily, adding, “And I think I will marry you.”

John started laughing. “You think so, do you, lassie?” he teased.

The Browns were horrified at such cheek. “Chloe!” Bart Brown seemed on the verge of chastising his presumptuous offspring, but John stayed them with an upraised, lordly hand. “No, please allow her to have her say. Young women have a right to express their opinions.”

“And if John doesn’t want to marry you, Miss Brown,
I
would be delighted,” William bowed, tongue firmly in cheek, taking advantage of an occasion to tease his older brother.

Chloe frowned, considering the offer. “That is all well and good, kind sir,” she replied, “but I would like to be a baroness, I think, like the pretty yellow-haired lady.”

It was all Charles could do to keep from laughing. He saw from the corner of his eye that the Browns were now enjoying themselves, their lips quirking. She was a little imp, this Chloe Brown, with her eyes green as grass and her curly hair black as ink, a self-assured little beauty. Would that spirit be gone, Charles wondered, sobering, with the harsh realities of farm work as she grew older?

John, his arms akimbo, was facing down his brother. “She asked me first, William, and don’t you forget it!”

William raised his chin in a stubborn challenge. “Hah! We shall see, sir!”

“It is ‘my lord baron,’ you looby,” John corrected him.

The two boys collapsed in laughter. John’s baronial airs and lordly mien evaporated in boyish glee.

“Well, thank you for the lemonade,” said the vicar. It was time to end this visit. “We shall let you get back to work, now, shall we, lads?” He was ushering them out the farmhouse door.

“Wait!”
Chloe called, her tone rather imperious for such a little thing.

“Yes, Miss Brown?” Charles responded.

And in front of them all, Chloe Brown dropped into a perfect curtsey. She dipped, then rose slowly, her pudgy little arms carefully fanning her linsey-woolsey skirt as she flashed them a brilliant smile that showed a charming dimple deep in each round cheek. She dropped her eyelids. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Opening her sparkling eyes wide, she glanced at William. “
And
my lord’s brother.”

The little minx!
Charles thought. She could give Lady Sophia—“the pretty yellow-haired lady”—lessons in elfin enchantment.

The choice was between the white net with the figured-leaf design and the daring red silk with chenille embroidery at the hem, sleeves, and bosom. White gowns were always appropriate, at any time or place; the popular ladies’ magazine,
La Belle Assemblee
, had stated so, but Sophia had never favored white. She’d worn it during her first season when she was paraded about the Marriage Mart by her father, but seldom since then. As a blonde, white was never her color. The red, however…

The deep red of the silk net gown set off her pale coloring well, adding luster to the cerulean depths of her eyes. She knew what suited her and dressed for maximum effect, always. But was the red too daring for a dull dinner party in Yorkshire, even with its relatively high-cut bosom?

Or would they, her neighbors in this godforsaken bit of England, expect it of her? To be daring, to live up to her notorious reputation? Would she disappoint them by leaving off the red gown? (And how disappointed they would be if they found out she was not nearly so notorious as the worst of the gossip would have it!)

“What do you think, Joan?” she asked her abigail.

Joan seemed flattered to be consulted. She furrowed her brow in concentration. “My lady, you are beautiful in any gown you wear…but the red, my lady, it is
you.
”

I?
Sophia thought.
It is I? And who am I now? The notorious London lady? The baron’s relict, his widow? The mother of two boys? Who am I, indeed?
she wondered, fingering the lovely though machine-made net and caressing the thick, colorful chenille appliqué of leaves and roses.

I am what I decide to be
, she mused.
From this day forward, I am the sum of all I was, and am, and shall be. Not exactly a phoenix rising from its ashes, newborn
, she smiled wryly,
but perhaps reborn. Yes, reborn. My past will not drag me in the mire; it is over, it is done. A true part of me, but not the very best part. No
, she promised herself,
the best is yet to come.

“The red, then—the red silk it is. Thank you for helping me decide.” She pressed the girl’s hand warmly. Joan seemed surprised, but pleased, as she bobbed her head in acknowledgment.

Sophia sat down gracefully at her dressing table, her hands smoothing back the pale blond tendrils at her temples. “Now, what shall we do with my hair? A Psyche knot, a coronet, or the usual twist at the nape of my neck?”

Mr. Harold Ramsbotham was a tall, slim gentleman with a merry gleam in his friendly eyes. He’d greeted Lady Sophia and Lord Brent warmly. The earl, pleading the headache, had remained at the Hall. Mrs. Ramsbotham, Katherine, was prettier than Sophia remembered. She was petite, dark-haired, and charming. Sophia’s first impression, from the visit Mrs. Ramsbotham and her daughters had paid to her, had been false; she had not truly seen the woman. There were blinders on her eyes on that first occasion; Katherine Ramsbotham could be a friend. With a start, she realized she had never had a female friend, not a true one; she had never cared to have one.
My life has truly changed
, she thought,
for me to consider the possibility of another woman as a friend.

“And where are your charming daughters this evening, Mrs. Ramsbotham?” Sophia queried the young matron.

“It’s Katherine, please, Lady Sophia,” Katherine replied,
clasping Sophia’s hands in hers. “The girls are in the nursery with my son. It is almost as if he were their baby, not their brother!”

“I’m certain that he is a darling baby, Katherine,” Sophia was careful to say the woman’s name. “And please call me Sophia. Formality is out of place in the country, amongst neighbors.”

Katherine flushed slightly. “It is kind of you to say so, my…Sophia,” she hastily corrected herself.

“I should like to see this sweet boy of yours, Katherine,” Sophia heard herself saying. “Mr. Heywood tells me he will be christened soon.”

“I would be…I would be honored, my…Sophia.” A flush darkened the proud mother’s cheeks. “Please, do come upstairs. The girls will be thrilled to see you again. They so loved hearing about the new London fashions.” Katherine ran her eyes enviously over Sophia’s red silk gown. “And they will adore your gown! It is so beautiful, and you look so well in it.”