The room fell silent.
A knot in a log in the fireplace popped, the noise so loud in the quiet room it startled them all. Brian stepped away from the hearth, a protecting hand at his back. Mother
tsk-tsked
while Father closed his atlas.
Sophie felt Rachel’s gaze boring a hole in her temple. She didn’t enjoy the sensation, so she met her sister’s gaze and shrugged helplessly. What could one do in such a circumstance other than shrug? The room spun dangerously, and for a moment she wondered if she would fall sideways. Now, wouldn’t
that
make for an interesting postscript to the headline?
Rachel furrowed her brows, and then leaned closer on the sofa. She grabbed Sophie’s wrist and squeezed. “Breathe, Sophie! You will pass out if you do not breathe!”
The breath she didn’t realize she held came out in a long, unladylike
whoosh
.
Once she began breathing normally the world around her stopped swirling and her head cleared—somewhat. The feeling of astonishment that she—Sophie Teasdale, an ordinary woman leading a very run-of-the-mill existence—had made the society column in
The London
Daily Gazette
was almost more than she could bear. She felt giddy, and would have laughed aloud had her mother not taken that moment to speak.
“Of course they are speaking of you, my dear. It seems you need a new dress before the next event, doesn’t it?” She smiled kindly, the way she had when they had been children with damaged knees or spirits broken over childish squabbles.
No longer a little girl, Sophie was less easily mollified. She returned her mother’s smile with what she feared might appear to be a grimace, but, as it was the best face she could manage given the words ringing in her head, it would have to do.
“Oh, Sophie, you made
The Gazette
. How perfectly wonderful!”
Rachel sounded so awestruck Sophie almost laughed.
The men had been silent since Brian read the last word. Now, they looked askance at her. While she would have greatly preferred not to comment, with four masculine eyes boring into her forehead, some response was warranted.
Feigning indifference, Sophie picked up her embroidery hoop and examined the various stitches. They swam before her eyes, so she blinked twice to pull them back into focus. With renewed determination, she took her needle in hand and began to work the next batch of French knots.
“Sophie?” Brian, for all his jovial humor and sibling teasing, could be sensitive as well. His tone was so sweet it brought a lump to her throat. “Are you all right?”
Chin up,
she thought. Then, she could not help herself. She sniffed.
“Oh Sophie! Don’t let those newspaper people get you upset.” Rachel leaned close again, and would have hugged her tight, but Sophie pulled back slightly, knowing that if she allowed herself to be comforted she would lose all control. “They are a bunch of…a bunch of…”
“Buffoons,” Father inserted smoothly.
Sophie looked up from her needlework, and caught her father’s gaze. A twinkle in his eye and the little smile he bestowed upon her chased the sniffles, as well as the lump in her throat, away.
Straightening her back, she said, “I’m fine. Really, I’m not upset. Those—those
buffoons
cannot take the wind from my sails.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Mother said. The novel she had been reading lay face down on the side table beside her chair. She picked it up, and let one finger trail along the page as she searched to find where she had left off. Speaking slowly, as her mind was otherwise engaged—or at least she wished it to appear so—she said, “There is no reason to take every bit of prattle from the pages of the paper and fly a kite over it. You know what went on, my dear. And if nothing untoward happened, there is no reason for any of us to be concerned.” She stopped perusing the page, peered over the top of the book and met Sophie’s gaze. “Nothing untoward happened, did it?”
A woman’s reputation could not be taken lightly, so her mother’s pointed query did not offend her. It was, after all, part of her parents’ responsibility to keep their daughters from ruin, and their public personas intact.
Sophie rushed to reassure. “Nothing happened. I give my word on that.”
Her father asked, “He did nothing to offend you? Nothing I should be aware of?”
A fast shake of her head. “No, Father. I promise. He was a complete gentleman the whole evening through.”
She recalled the tickle of his breath against her neck when he spoke softly into her ear. The memory sent a flood of emotions through her body, bringing tingles to parts that had no business tingling.
Blaming the heat on her cheeks on the current of hot air released from the hearth, she swallowed hard and hoped her face didn’t look as red as it felt.
Lifting his atlas once again, and opening it to what appeared to be South America, he gave a satisfied “Hmmph.” Then, folding the pages flat against his thighs, he donned his spectacles and dismissed the topic with a muttered, “Fortunate situation for him, I’d say. Mask or no—I would hate to have to hunt him down, but hunt him down I would…
Hmmph!
”
****
The coughing spell lasted only a half minute, but it was enough to make Colin wonder if sometime during the previous night’s activities he had not had his ribs stepped on by a draft horse. His throat was an entirely different matter, leaving no room for conjecture. He was patently certain the lining of his throat had been, at some point last night, raked by a cat’s claws.
Between horse and cat, I am done in,
he thought.
Horse…cat…and angel.
“How do you feel this morning?”
John strode into the room, looking his usual dapper self. Even in casual clothing—brown breeches with matching vest, white stockings, and crisp white shirt—he looked every inch the lord of the manor. He wore no cravat, his top shirt buttons undone, and he carried a heavy wool sweater over one arm. The sweater he draped around Colin’s shoulders before he stood back to survey his guest.
“You look like you have been playing poker with the devil himself. And I would venture a guess to say Old Scratch is beating you soundly.” John put his wrist across Colin’s forehead. He frowned. “He must have brought some heat to the card table. You have a fever.”
“I’m fine,” Colin croaked. The effort cost him but he went on. “And I was not playing with the devil, but dancing with an angel. And the fever is worth having, a fair exchange for last night’s festivities.”
The fire in the hearth blazed, making John’s library as warm as if it had been July instead of January. The draperies were tightly drawn against the cold, and a pot of steaming water sat on the table beside Colin’s chair. Every time it cooled down, and stopped releasing steam into the air, it was replaced by a fresh, steaming pot. He could not help but be impressed by the duke’s capable army of servants. Thus far, they had anticipated his every need and provided for his comfort in a manner he was not accustomed to. It was a lifestyle any man could get used to, and quickly.
“Ah, so that is how it is? I thought as much.” The duke settled himself in a chair on the other side of the hearth. The men were separated by only a few feet and were close enough to speak without Colin’s having to tax his fiery throat. “You enjoyed the party, then?”
“You know I did. Thank you for making sure I got there, John. Without you, I never would have made it through the snow and ice.”
The duke steepled his fingers and looked thoughtfully at the flames beside them. He seemed more pensive than was his ordinary manner, and Colin wondered what was on his friend’s mind.
He did not ask, however. Years of friendship had taught Colin to wait John out. Sooner or later, he would reveal himself. And now that the Atwell’s dance was behind them, Colin had time to spare. He could wait.
A sneeze broke the silence. It tore at his throat and brought a sheen of tears to his eyes.
“Damn it!” Colin blew loudly into the handkerchief he took from his pocket.
“That sounds like it hurts. In light of your…” John swept his gaze over Colin and smirked. “In light of your present condition, you still feel the evening was a success? And, more importantly, worth every sneeze you are sure to be troubled by for the next week?”
“Even if I have the plague, it has been worth it.” Colin stuffed the linen square back into his pocket. Then, he lifted his teacup to his lips and took a long soothing pull of chamomile tea. It quieted his throat. Putting the cup down on the table beside the steaming water pot, he asked, “What about you? We both know how my night went, but what about yours? I saw you dancing with a number of ladies. In fact, I saw you dance with some of them more than once. Tell me, did any of them catch your fancy?”
John waved the notion away. The signet ring he wore on his right pinky finger flashed in the firelight and it struck Colin yet again how far apart their stations in life were. He had never owned anything made of gold, yet John wore his ring so effortlessly it seemed attached to his finger, a part of his person which required neither care nor consideration.
“They were all nice. You know how I enjoy dancing, but honestly, if you had not been so determined to attend the party I would never have bothered to go. Why wet my boots when I could sit at home with my books and a bottle of brandy?”
“Then I’m glad I was persistent, for your sake. The ladies at the party were much more interesting than any bottle or stack of dusty books could be.”
“Are you saying that
Moby Dick
is dull? Or that
Macbeth
lacks romance? Oh, Colin, my man, you have been thoroughly bewitched by this angel of yours!”
A servant came to ask the duke if he had need of anything. John asked that a fresh teacart be brought in, as well as some sandwiches and fruit. When the maid bowed, then left the room, he turned to Colin and said, “What else is there to do on such a miserable day? I have sent for the morning newspapers. We may as well make ourselves comfortable, as we are clearly not going anywhere in this weather. I fear if we do, you will be completely done in. No, better to keep you warm, well fed, and speed your healing so you might get back to the task before you. How to win an angel’s hand—or should I say wing? Now that is the question, isn’t it?”
Colin had known the duke long enough that he knew when he was being diverted. Between the joy in his heart and the heat in his head, he was persnickety enough not to allow John to change the topic.
Stubbornly, he asked a second time, “Did any of the ladies last night catch your attention, John? And don’t give me any hogwash about books and brandy, man. Tell me true—were you charmed by any lady in particular?”
The duke heaved a long sigh before he capitulated. “There
was
one young lady who was especially fascinating…”
A polite knock on the door signaled the arrival of the butler. He carried two copies of a newspaper on a tray. Offering them first to the duke, then to Colin, he said, “
The London Daily
Gazette
was the only one available so early, my lord. I shall send someone in search of the others shortly. Hopefully they will be out soon. It is, I fear, the weather that holds things up this morning.”
“You are probably right, Barnwell. I believe most of London will be shut down today.
The Gazette
will do for now, thank you.”
With a polite bow, Barnwell left the room. Colin placed his paper on the table.
“My head hurts too much to read.” Pulling John’s sweater tighter around his shoulders, he gave a mighty sniff. “You shall have to do the honors this morning. Skip the political news. I’ve no patience for it today. Find something more amusing, if you will.”
The duke opened
The Gazette
. He scanned the pages, found what he searched for, and folded the paper back. He waggled his eyebrows at Colin over the top of the paper.
“At your service. Let’s see what the society column is on about this morning…”
Chapter 6
Louisa was the only servant the family was ever able to afford. She had been with them for so many years her presence was never intrusive. In fact, there wasn’t one Teasdale who didn’t secretly consider their cook to be part of the family.
A fierce gust of wind sent the kitchen door slamming into the wall behind it. Louisa entered, her arms filled with firewood for the stove. Rachel and Sophie had been cutting vegetables at the table for the stew pot, but the clamor at the door claimed their interest.
Rushing across the floor, Rachel said, “Oh, Louisa, that is too heavy a load. Why didn’t you ask one of us to help you?” She took most of the wood, carried it to the wood box beside the stove, and dumped it into the nearly empty box. Dusting her palms on her apron, she asked, “Shall I go for more, or will this be enough?”
Sophie pushed hard against the door with her shoulder. The blustery weather did not give in without difficulty, so she put all her weight into a final shove and was rewarded when the door snapped shut. She rested her back against the cold wood. Then she turned to her sister and said, “That will have to be enough for now. Perhaps later on, if the storm blows through, you and I can venture out to the woodpile and bring a big load inside. Not now, though. That gale is enough to freeze a person’s bones!”
Turning her attention to the cook, she echoed Rachel’s question. “Whatever were you thinking? Honestly, you should have asked us to go for the wood. You will catch your death of cold venturing out in that mess. Come on, let’s get your coat off. Come over by the fire. Rachel, why don’t you throw another log on?”