Lord Will & Her Grace (3 page)

William accepted the glass and took a long
swallow before dropping into the nearest leather chair. "Well, I
can safely say that even the less prudent mothers and fathers will
shield their daughters from me now. Thank God, I might add." He
leaned his wet head back and closed his eyes in weariness. "I
should have done this years ago."

"Criminy, Will. Stop the hints, and spill the
tale."

With a paucity of words, he relayed his
recent encounter with the calculating Tolworth family.

"Actually, I rather think I did the family a
good turn. If I'd stayed to kill the father, I would've felt guilty
about leaving the females at the mercy of that oafish heir."
William sniffed the soiled arm of the peasant's shirt and grimaced.
"Need I assure you I would've—well, perhaps
maybe
I
would've— married the chit if, ahem, matters had been allowed to
reach their natural conclusion?"

Mornington hid his laughter without success.
"But how did you escape?"

"With Jack Farquhar's help, of course."

"Don't tell me that peacock valet is still in
your employ? Cheekiest man alive."

"Never underestimate cheekiness."

Mornington shook his head.

"I managed to evade the larder," William
continued. "But my clothes were confiscated as an inducement to
remain. Farquhar threw a rope up to my window, I crept into the
stables and rode hell-bent for leather away from the blasted
place."

William swallowed the remaining brandy in his
glass and idly dangled the glass from his fingers over the arm of
the chair. "Halfway to London I traded my ring and nightshirt for
these rags and some food. Those damn Tolworths were on my heels the
entire journey. I finally lost them in the dens of London, near the
docks."

Wrinkling his nose, William pulled off his
shirt and tossed it into the roaring fire. "Excuse the informality,
but this has to be the most foul-smelling rag ever. I don't suppose
you've got some clothes squirreled away I could borrow?"

Mornington grinned. "What's mine is yours, my
friend, although I doubt they would fit."

William perused his friend's short, hefty
frame and bit back a retort. "I guess I'll have to make do with
Farquhar's clothes when he arrives—that is, until I can have some
clothes made up. And, by the by, a London man of business should be
arriving on the morrow—along with Farquhar if the Tolworths haven't
skinned him alive."

"And you think your former hosts—or should I
say future in-laws—won't follow your valet?"

"If Farquhar can't outwit those Yorkshire
bumpkins, I'll eat my hat—if I had one that is."

"Well, I hope you've the right of it because
Anna and Felicia will be arriving in a few days and I'll not have
my sisters exposed to your faux pas and
petites amies
."

"I love it when you speak French, Mornington.
It shows you truly care."

"The last time Felicia saw you she behaved
like a love-struck moon cow for a fortnight." Mornington studied
William's bare chest. "God knows why you have that effect on
females."

William laughed.

"Have a care, my friend. Lock those sisters
of yours in their rooms each night for I'm tired of running, and
more to the point, I've exhausted all possible hiding places." Will
gratefully accepted more brandy. Once again, he closed his
eyes.

"Well, I'm glad to report there's not an
eligible lady for miles," Mornington said, rubbing his eyes and
yawning until his jaw cracked. "Except for two recently arrived
Welsh females who, according to last week's
on-dits
"—Mornington picked up an old newspaper and scanned
the page with his finger— "yes, here it is.

" 'Miss S., of the towering frame and
impressive bosom, dissected in detail here last week, has rightly
put her tail between her legs and retreated into the obscurity of
Burnham-by-the-Sea with her hanger-on dark cousin of lesser
connections. It is to be hoped that retirement by the sea will cure
the ill-refined female of improper conduct. Although it is highly
doubtful she will be able to reassume her role as a marriage-minded
heiress to a dukedom given her audacious behavior and the potential
resulting evidence in nine month's time. Lord C. should be
commended for his gracious efforts to save the unrepentant miss.'
"

Mornington looked up from his paper. "Good
God, I just realized, she must be the heir to the Cornwallis title
and fortune."

"Clearly the case of lost virtue and maybe
worse. The lady has my sympathies. She'll have a more difficult
time than I, repairing a reputation if it can be done at all.
Perhaps she will need comforting," suggested William.

"I'm sure you'd be more than happy to
oblige."

"She's probably as horse-faced as the
Yorkshire girl."

Mornington chuckled.

"No, I've had enough scandals to last a
lifetime. Now that I'm staring at five and thirty years in my dish,
I do believe I must learn to rusticate and reform my ways."

"Wonders never cease," exclaimed Mornington,
grinning.

"That is, unless there is an opportunity,
perhaps"— William lifted an eyebrow—"one with a lilting Welsh
accent. But if there isn't a prospect for a discreet,
simple
dalliance in the neighborhood, I'll settle for tea and giggles with
your dear sisters for the remainder of the Season."

Exhilarated by the morning gallop, Sophie
brought the gray mare back to a more sedate trot when she rounded
the next to last turn before the beginnings of the small seaside
village. The last few days had gone by with surprising ease.

Oh, there'd been the embarrassment of
fainting in the midst of Lord Coddington's proposal of marriage.
Worse had been facing the disappointment of her aunt when Sophie
had told her she wouldn't accept his lordship's offer.

Yet Sophie had triumphed in the end by
attaining her goal of a brief departure from the all-knowing,
all-seeing eyes of wretched London. Aunt Rutledge had called it
"retrenching." Sophie didn't care what anyone called it as long as
she was allowed an escape. She craved the peace of the countryside
where she could dress how she liked and limit the number of people
she would see.

Ensconced in the beautiful turreted mansion
perched high atop a cliff overlooking the sea, she had reveled in
the lonely harsh beauty of Burnhamby-the-Sea. She would never tire
of listening to the cry of the peregrine falcons and the mournful
cooing of the stock doves hidden in the low-lying wild thyme and
horseshoe vetch. The cruel, salty winds reminded her of
Porthcall.

The favored property of her recently deceased
uncle, the Duke of Cornwallis, the Villa Belza had been left to her
along with the other properties of the duchy with the proviso she
marry a proper aristocrat, approved by the duke's sister, Aunt
Rutledge. If she failed to accomplish this task by her next
birthday, the properties, wealth and title would revert to an
ancient fourth cousin, twice removed. Aunt Rutledge had appeared
less than taken with that possibility.

Sophie, intent on her errand to the linen
draper, tossed the reins into the waiting hands of the smithy and
slid from the saddle.

As she trudged toward the shop, Sophie was
aware of the stares she received by all in the little village. The
people probably found her a disappointment over the last occupants
of Villa Belza.

She looked down at her cracked boots and the
frayed hem of her dusty, serviceable gown that was two inches too
short. After wearing the most beautiful and uncomfortable clothes
for the last two months, Sophie was delighted to wear this once
again. And it hid her embarrassingly ample bosom well—it always
had. But glancing about, she observed her gown was uglier and older
than the lowest washerwoman's rag. She felt like a wretch.

Even the parson changed his course after one
glimpse of her. Sophie hailed him anyway.

"Mr. Seymour! I've something for you."

He turned to greet her with an embarrassed
expression. "Miss Somerset. What a surprise."

Sophie reached into her pocket and removed a
coin purse. She emptied almost all of the contents into her palm
and gave him the gold sovereigns. "You've saved me an errand. This
is a donation for the restoration of the schoolroom damaged by the
winter storms."

The parson's eyes widened at the hefty sum
placed into his hands. "Why, Miss Somerset, I don't know what to
say. I never expected a newcomer to behave so handsomely."

"There's no need to say anything. If my uncle
were still alive, I feel certain he would have approved."

The parson looked doubtful.

"Good day, Mr. Seymour."

"And to you, too, Miss Somerset." He walked
away and shook his head while counting the coins a second time.

Sophie took the few remaining steps to the
draper's shop. The bells tinkled when she closed the door and
walked past the bolts of fabrics toward the counter. Seconds later
the bells sounded again. The portly owner of the establishment
barreled around the counter to take her order. She opened her mouth
to speak but was interrupted by the person who had just
entered.

"Pull down your finest wool and linen, sir,"
a tall stranger said, stepping forward. "Also, can you recommend
the services of a tailor?" He turned and smiled at her. "Or perhaps
there are no tailors to be found in this village?"

Just as she was about to give voice to her
displeasure at the man's rudeness, Sophie found herself speechless
before his fascinating appearance. Her mouth agape, she felt like a
beached fish.

The outrageous gentleman sported a pale
lavender waistcoat with an appliquéd design, a sea green coat with
exaggerated cutaway styling and pinned back yellow lining, and
while his shirt was a simple white, it had double rows of lace
creeping from the cuffs and neck cloth. His skin tight breeches
revealed the magnificence of every last inch of his physique.

The gentleman's Hessian boots featured an
unusual white band with extra long tassels. Even among the priggish
dandies in London, this gentleman must appear the veriest
peacock.

Despite Sophie's considerable height, he
dwarfed her by comparison. She drew herself up to her most imposing
posture and tapped him on the arm.

"Excuse me, sir, but I believe the draper was
about to take
my
order." The gentleman raised an ornate
quizzing glass to one eye and looked down his aquiline nose at
her.

What an absurd picture he presented, one eye
magnified to the size of a barn owl's peeper. She stifled a giggle.
His gaze traveled over her from the tip of her head to her poor
excuse for footwear. Bored hauteur was clearly an expression he had
perfected.

"Really?" he drawled with amusement evident
in the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. He bowed and
swept his arm in an invitation for her to step in front of him.
"Pray forgive me. Do proceed."

What had she done? Now she had to place her
order with this giant dandy standing witness. How provoking. Sophie
assembled her thoughts.

"As I was about to say, I'd like to place an
order for a warm cloak and, and for"—a sudden rush of heat flooded
her face—"pantaloons and other suitable clothes for
a lady
who will be going on fishing expeditions and the like."

Sophie had lost her nerve. She'd wanted to
have the fabric purchased and measured at the establishment. But
the presence of the fancy gentleman next to her had overwhelmed
her.

The draper tried to hide a smile but was
unsuccessful. "And who would this lady be, miss?"

"Miss Somerset, lately of Villa Belza."

"The niece o' the old duke?"

"The very one," she replied, looking at her
nails. For some reason she just couldn't bring herself to admit she
was the lady in question. She knew without glancing that the
exceptionally tall man beside her would have an amused arch to one
eyebrow. He probably knew her game. She sneaked a peek at his
expression.

Oh, he knew all right.

"Sorry, miss, my lord"—the man nodded to the
stranger—"our tailor won't return for 'nother fortnight. But I
shall send a message when he's come."

"Oh," Sophie said, with disappointment. "I
see."

"Perhaps you could inform the lady that I'd
be delighted to offer her a pair of pantaloons?" the gentleman
drawled. He lowered his shoulder to look down at her. "I could
deliver them myself, of course. Unless she'd prefer a personal
fitting at the house where I'm staying—Hinton Arms."

He winked at her.

The draper coughed and wheezed in an effort
to withhold his amusement.

Of all the presumptuous audacity. Oh, why
hadn't she just said she was Miss Somerset from the start? This was
awkward in the extreme. Best to retreat soonest.