Lord Will & Her Grace (11 page)

"Mr. Mornington"—Sophie smiled up to his
pleasing countenance—"Lord William is our guest, and as such,
should be accorded every
courtesy
due him. In fact, I should
make a greater effort to be a better hostess to all of you."

It was so easy after that. She flittered
about and engaged in conversation with everyone. Turning the pages
of music for both the Misses Mornington proved to be the best
possible employment. The Mornington sisters murdered the music
quite exquisitely. There were copious missed notes and Sophie was
gratified that the music was altogether too loud to permit much
conversation.

"Did you know Lord Will composes music, Miss
Somerset?" Miss Mornington pulled a small sheath of musical score
from her voluminous reticule. "I brought this copy of a sonata he
gave to my mother many years ago when he came to Hinton Arms on
holiday one summer. I've been practicing it to play for him. I
shall surprise him," she continued, excitement filling her
face.

"I don't remember Lord Will ever playing
music for us," Felicia Mornington said, annoyed. "I would've
remembered."

"Not at all, Licia. You were still a mere
infant, three or four years old to my seven years. And I remember
it well. Charles and Lord Will both turned fifteen on Midsummer's
Eve and were allowed to dine with the adults, leaving us to dine
alone." She pouted in remembrance, then continued. "And Lord Will
wrote this for Mama because she loved to hear him play." Anna
Mornington clearly enjoyed lording over her seniority at every
opportunity. "And father forbade Mama to play the sonata after the
boys returned to Eton. But it is so beautiful, I will play it for
everyone."

The girl began keying the haunting score.
Sadly, she made many jarring mistakes and rushed the piece.

The younger sister jumped to her feet and
went to Lord William. "Really, we should ask you to perform this. I
understand you play like no one else." She giggled, and fluttered
her eyelashes.

He turned to Sophie. "I’m certain enough
talent has been exhibited for one evening." He wore a curious
remote expression, which was replaced within moments by his usual
charming yet superior air. "I think it best we take our leave.
We’ve long outstayed our welcome. And—the sooner we go, the sooner
we will have the pleasure of seeing you in future." He clasped her
hand and raised it to his lips.

Mari was flustered by the mention of a
departure. "Oh, but it is much too early for leave-taking, surely.
We have not even set out the card tables yet." She had no eyes for
anyone save Mr. Mornington.

That gentleman glanced at his pocket watch,
then at Sophie almost sheepishly. "His lordship's correct. We've
forgotten we're outside of London and, as such, should adhere to
country hours."

Another disappointment was voiced from behind
the pianoforte. Only the strongest stare from the brother silenced
the sister. With the briefest of words, and the longest of glances
between Mari and her smitten swain, the party from Hinton Arms took
their leave.

Mari begged fatigue with a glow of happiness
on her face, but Sophie wasn't in a good enough humor to follow her
upstairs to hear for the umpteenth time Mr. Mornington's praises.
Instead, she returned to the music room.

She could have no more stayed away from the
sheets of music still propped above the pianoforte's keys than a
moth resists a flame. It had been months since she had played, a
lifetime ago it seemed. She hadn't had the heart to try this
magnificent instrument because it would bring back poignant
memories of playing the pianoforte at home for her father who had
loved to hear her play.

She stared at the bold strokes of notes on
the page, hearing the music in her mind.

Softly, ever so softly, she stroked the keys.
The lilting music began so achingly sweet and simple. It then rose
higher and higher in such passionate intensity that it was almost
impossible to play.

Sophie was amazed Lord Will had composed it.
Could it be possible that there was perhaps just the smallest bit
more to Lord William than met the eye? And yet he had refused to
play, which went against his usual preening character. Was there
something beyond the façade he presented? Perhaps a shocking
flicker of humility deep beneath the veneer?

Sophie shut her eyes and stilled her hands on
the keys. She was obsessed with thoughts of him again. It was
ridiculous. She was reading into his minutest actions implausible
ideas. He had had that strange expression after the piece was
played because the Mornington sisters had played so long, and so
ill that it had given him the same headache she now had
herself.

He was returning to his chambers probably to
dissect the sheer stupidity of the evening to his, his devoted man,
Mr. Farquhar. And they would laugh as they drank brandy and waved
about their fans with only Mrs. Tickle to bear witness to their
merriment.

He had said he would come—tonight—for some
sort of clandestine rendezvous. More likely he was laughing,
picturing her waiting up for him in the shadows of the front hall.
He was undoubtedly telling his valet how she wore her heart on her
sleeve and how he was tiring of acting the eager lover.

Sophie was sure Lord Will was perceptive
enough about the human condition to know that her professed hatred
was as obsessive as love and frequently could be reversed most
thoroughly.

She had failed miserably at acting the
lassitude of a truly disinterested party. And so he would continue
to pursue her and wear her down and she wasn't sure she would be
able to resist him.

There was just the smallest part of her ego
that was screaming in her head that maybe, just maybe he had fallen
in love with her. Opposites did attract. Her father had told her
that many times. She was sure, on several occasions, such as the
one tonight, she had glimpsed something more in his eyes than just
amusement. It hinted at strong emotions and sometimes, of something
darker, more vulnerable.

Or perhaps it was just pure deviltry. She
would not put it past him to have wagered that he would have her,
and to make a game of it. It was much more likely.

But one did not deceive the person one loved.
She would never fully understand the devious machinations of the
members of the
beau monde
. But why the trickery?

He was so handsome, titled and supremely
eligible. He could have his choice of almost any lady.

Sophie shivered.

She was going to have to go away again. She
was going to have to write a letter to Aunt Rutledge and tell her
that she was returning to Porthcall. She had put it off long
enough. She was never going to be able to return to London. And,
really, she didn't care about that silly wager she had made with
his lordship. She would leave without a word, to avoid listening to
his boasts at having her forfeit the bet.

It was not that he didn't like her, but
simply that his amused affection for her would torment her if she
stayed since her sensibilities ran so much deeper. He obviously had
nothing better to do, lolling about the countryside and taking
pleasure in ridiculous games to fill his time frivolously. Well,
she would not go along.

The hair on the back of her head prickled.
She sensed someone's presence. Sophie swung around from the bench
and saw no one. All at once, she spied a man's shadow at the open
glass doors leading to the terrace.

Sophie held her breath and rose from her
seat.

She stared at the dark profile. A hand rose
to the face and the bright orange tip of a cheroot glowed.

It was he.

"You are a liar, chérie," he said, quietly.
He stirred from his hiding place in the shadows of the doorway.
"You play well."

"What are you doing here? This is highly
improper."

"I was hoping you would be more original," he
said dryly.

Lord Will slowly strode into full view at the
doorframe, throwing the cheroot into the pea gravel walk
behind.

"I'm sorry to disappoint, but you must leave.
I can't be found alone with you."

He walked through the music room to the door
leading to the hallway and turned the key.

Sophie shivered and stroked her arms when she
heard the loud click of the lock engaging.

"So much for your fears,
chérie
." Lord
Will came toward her, his heels clicking on the parquet floor. He
moved next to her on the bench, casually flicking his coat tails
behind him as he sat next to her and posed his hands above the
keys.

"You almost had it right. Only the last part
was ill played," he said.

Sophie scooted to the other end of the bench,
her skin scorched by the contact of his large thigh and arm
brushing hers. She watched his beautiful hands poised over the
instrument and her heart constricted.

He began to play the music with a level of
expertise Sophie had rarely, if ever, witnessed. Perhaps there
might have been some soloist at a musicale in London who rivaled
his talent, but she doubted it.

He was a master.

He built from the light, joyful beginning to
a crescendo of intense magnitude. The music then became mournful
and haunting in the finale. It spoke of longing and seemed to end
with a question. His hands dropped from the keys.

She stared at him. This was the dishonest
dandified fop of a man who cared only for frivolity and games?
There had to be something more, only a man of strong, real emotions
and vast intelligence could have composed and played music such as
this. Oh yes, there was a good deal more.

He sat, his eyes closed, his head dropped
forward, in deep thought. He opened his eyes and looked at her. For
just the slightest moment she beheld an expression of such profound
intensity that the revealed emotion and veiled vulnerability was
almost painful to witness. And then it was gone, replaced by his
usual expression. He reassumed the aristocratic tilt to his head,
half closed his eyes and smiled.

"
Alors
, I've pleased you with this
serenade,
chérie
?"

He leaned toward her and brushed a gentle
kiss on her cheek, then moved closer. "Have I won your respect?
Perhaps it is enough to have earned your much promised lesson?" he
asked.

"Why are you here, my lord?" Sophie
whispered. She turned her attention to the piano keys and gently
rubbed one.

He paused in his reply. "Why, I told you I
would return—bearing gifts no less." He inched closer again, the
heat of him tantalizing her senses. She felt suspended in time as
she watched him pull an object from his breast pocket. It glittered
in the candlelight.

"Sophie, I daresay I went about it all wrong
yesterday. And so, I'm asking you to reconsider, my darling. I
apologize for deceiving you. And yes, I freely admit I was a
complete oaf in all my actions. But I must also declare that I am
falling, rather amazingly I must add,
in love with you
and I
desire to make you my wife. I'm determined to make you mine."

Sophie could not say a word. She looked at
the beautiful sapphire and diamond ring he held before her in his
long, elegant fingers.

"This was my mother's ring, given to her by
my father on the occasion of their betrothal. Will you accept it? I
promise to make your happiness my mission in life," he continued.
"Let us give all the gossipmongers of London the juiciest tidbit of
their lives to chew over. They'll say the daughter of a Welsh vicar
has finally tamed the notorious rogue using her natural goodness
and honesty to enslave him. Undoubtedly, we'll be doing a good turn
for all the other bachelors in town as chits will then attempt to
employ your novel methods."

He paused to sweep behind her ear a lock of
hair that had fallen. "Darling, I find myself rambling along here,
hoping you will look at me at some point so I can see in your eyes
if you plan to make me the happiest of men tonight."

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep
breath. She finally looked at him.

"Oh, my love. No, don't…" he said gently.
"There's no need for tears. If you intend to reject me, I would
much rather face your wrath. I am no good at tears."

She tried to hold back, but felt one tear
escape down the hot flesh of her face.

"Sophie, for God's sake, say something. Do
you want me to leave? I shall if you insist. Darling… I'm so sorry
I hurt you. I've never been much good at exposing my heart and the
rest as I suppose I didn't see much goodness until you, my sweet
Sophie. I promise I shall never hurt you ever again. And I pledge a
most glorious life together." He finally pulled her into his arms
and forced her head to rest on his wide chest.

He smelled of night air, and tobacco, and
that wonderful masculine scent that was him. She couldn't resist.
It, he, everything was surreal and intoxicating.

She loved him.

And he loved her.

She was sure.

She would not let pride stand in her way. She
had never really had much pride anyway. There had been little use
for it in her life in Porthcall. Only the rich could afford
pride.

She pulled away from him and opened her
clenched hands. Blood rushed back into the aching palms where her
nails had bitten into her flesh.

"I accept your offer," she said softly,
offering her hand. "I should be happy to marry you and I shall
promise to forget our unfortunate beginning."

"My darling, I will make every effort to
measure up to your standards of the best of husbands."

Her heart surged with indefinable joy. She
could not fully accept it. He loved her after all. Oh, perhaps it
had started out as a game to him, but it had ended differently than
he had most likely envisioned.

She was her father's daughter, and
forgiveness was her forte. She would forget his silly trickery, and
remember only the laughter, and growing tenderness they had
shared.