Chapter Three

Sophie stormed out of her workroom, leaving Nash balled up on the floor. It served him right, taking such liberties with her as if she had no choice in the matter. She headed upstairs toward the main entry hall. She had to escape this madness and speak with someone who wouldn’t look at her with pity and tell her nothing could be done.

One of her dearest friends, her sister by choice, Frannie, the Duchess of Lionwraith, was not available. She was still in her confinement at Lionwraith Estate in the Lake District after giving birth to twins. But Celia, the Duchess of Hasterton, Sophie’s other trusted sister by choice, lived across the way, within easy walking distance of Rydleshire House. Celia would not only provide sound advice but also sympathy. After all, she understood the direness of the situation, since she had been the first daughter of the Sisterhood of Independent Ladies to survive the same sort of troubled waters.

Sophie growled and increased her pace at the thought of their common enemy: heirs male to the body primogeniture. For all three of them, only firstborn sons could inherit their fathers’ titles, entailments, and wealth. As firstborn daughters, the laws felt they deserved nothing unless their parents’ marriage contract provided some negligible income to help them survive until they married well and became the responsibility of their husbands. To overcome the outrageous unfairness of it all, their mothers had not only created the Sisterhood of Independent Ladies as a support system but also fabricated imaginary sons to hold on to everything that should have been rightfully bequeathed to their daughters if only the law allowed.

Rather than depend on the kindness and generosity of others or cast aside their widowhood and capture a husband willing to accept the financial burden of another man’s daughter, their mothers built their own empires behind the fa?ades of their imaginary sons. And Sophie’s empire had just been snatched away and given to the beastly man who had not only broken her heart all those years ago but had also been too pigheaded at the time to realize it.

“May I be of some assistance, Lady Sophie?” Thornton called out as she barreled past him.

She skidded to a stop. “Yes. If it is still raining, I shall need my umbrella.” She glanced down at her bare hands. Drat it all. She would have to go upstairs and fetch a pair of gloves too. Heaven forbid anyone should see her outside the house without them. “I don’t suppose my gloves from earlier are still down here, are they? Has Marie already taken them up?”

“I shall recover them for you, my lady. And yes, it is still raining. Shall I have Marie select a cloak for you as well, and should I also summon the carriage?”

“No. No carriage. And thank you, Thornton, it would be lovely if you could see to my gloves and a cloak. I shall wait in the library.” She didn’t want to be discovered fidgeting in the hallway by the abominable Nash or Maman. The parlor would be just as hazardous, but surely the library would be safe. She hurried inside it and thumped the door shut behind her.

“You cannot hide from him,” her mother said from somewhere deep within the multi-level room.

Sophie caught a hand to her chest and sagged back against the door. “Maman, really? Today has been filled with enough startling surprises without your adding to them.” As the pounding of her heart calmed, she pushed away from the door and squinted around the dim interior. “Where are you, and why are you sitting in the dark? Is this your hiding place as well?”

A heavy sigh came from the vicinity of the windows. It helped Sophie locate her mother’s silhouette against the soft gray day outside. “Maman?”

“I am not hiding. Merely thinking. Did you compare the handwriting on each of the letters? Have you discovered any additional information?”

Sophie joined her mother and stared out at the drizzly day. “They all came from the same author, but I cannot discern if the writer was male or female.”

“And still no sign of the marked banknotes you included in each of the payments?”

“No. And I was so certain that would be the way to discover the blackmailer. Even Mr. Anderly at the bank thought it a brilliant trap.”

“What did young Bromley think?”

Sophie chewed on her lip and wished Thornton would hurry and return with her cloak and gloves so she could make her escape.

“Sophie? He found you, did he not? I had Thornton show him to your workroom.”

“Oh, he found me.”

“Your tone suggests something ill is afoot. What have you done?” Maman shifted her attention away from the rainy street and pinned it on her. “Answer me, young lady.”

“I merely kneed him in his manly pride and left him writhing on the floor.”

“Sophie.”

The disappointment in her mother’s voice made her heart hurt. Maman had always been so proud of her, so loving and supportive, but at the moment, she was not pleased.

“I had to,” Sophie said. “He kissed me without my permission.”

The dowager exhaled another long-suffering huff and started massaging her temples. “If he brutishly forced himself upon you, then you should have shot or stabbed him as you have been trained to do. I assume that since you merely took him to the floor, his behavior was not entirely unwelcome.” She dropped her hands to her sides and leveled a burning glare on her. “In other words, you set a trap for him.”

“I did not.”

“Then I shall go shoot him myself.”

As her mother stepped away, Sophie caught her by the arm. “Do not shoot him. He might have been slightly provoked. I made him a little angry.”

“And so he channeled that anger into a kiss rather than striking at you?”

Sophie recalled the moment, and a hot surge of oh dear heavens flashed through her, making her wish she had her fan. Thankfully, the room was dim enough that Maman could not see the furious blush burning across her cheeks. “I believe that is what he did. Yes, indeed. Kissed me in anger.”

Maman shook her head, and even in the low lighting, Sophie could tell she rolled her eyes. “Nash Bromley is to be your husband. Do you truly wish to live the rest of your life in a state of constant conflict?”

“The queen had no right to command that!” It was the same thing she had bemoaned all the way home from Kew, but maybe, just maybe, saying it while standing on Rydleshire property might make her mother finally agree. “She took it all and gave it to him. To him, Maman. He deserves none of it! All he deserves is what I gave him in my workroom.”

“You once loved him.”

And there it was. Out in the open between them. Sophie swallowed hard, her throat aching with tears of anger that frustrated her to no end. Why in heaven’s name did she always cry whenever she got angry? She sniffed and squared her shoulders. “I was a love-struck child smitten with an older boy. A ridiculous infatuation that was never returned, and thankfully, I outgrew it.”

“You cried into your pillow every night,” Maman said. “For him. My heart ached as you softly wept his name over and over into the darkness.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Her mother caught hold of her shoulders and turned her. “My darling daughter. My precious late bloomer. The brilliant child fathered by the love of my life. Do you not understand how I noticed your suffering? Your sweet antics to get young Bromley’s attention? Your efforts to get him to take the slightest notice of you? I silently watched over you at night from the darkest corners of your room because I was so afraid you would try something foolish you might not recover from.”

“I did think of sneaking into his room once,” Sophie softly admitted.

Maman nodded. “I know. Why do you think I hastened his training so he could leave?”

Sophie stared down at her fists clenched against her middle. “That was the past. I am a great deal wiser than that awkward girl of almost ten and six. I intend to find a way to either avoid or change this command from the queen.”

“You know that cannot be done, my girl. We owe Her Majesty a great deal for all she did for us after you were born. It would be most rude, and also very unbecoming of genuine friends, to ignore her wishes or go against them.”

“But—”

“Do you wish Queen Charlotte publicly shamed, or for her to suffer something possibly even worse because you defied her, and the blackmailer got the upper hand?”

Sophie wanted to scream. This was so unfair. So damned unfair. She pulled in a deep breath, held it to the count of five, then allowed it to ease out. “No, Maman. You know I would never wish Her Majesty to suffer because of us.”

A light tapping came from the library door, and then it opened. “Your things, Lady Sophie,” Thornton said from the doorway.

“Running away, child?” her mother asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“I need to speak with Celia.” She curtsied and rushed out before Maman shared an observation regarding that.

After donning her gloves and cloak, she stepped out onto the front step and opened her umbrella. At least it was just drizzling enough to make everything unpleasantly damp. She gathered up her skirts and gingerly crossed the way to Celia’s townhouse. As soon as she clacked the bronze knocker, the door swung open. “Good afternoon, Gransdon. Is Her Grace receiving today?” she asked before the butler could formally greet her.

The older man hurried her inside with one of his rare smiles. “Her Grace will always receive you, Lady Sophie. Do come in.” He took her cloak and umbrella and handed them off to a cheerful maid. “Properly attend to the dampness of Lady Sophie’s things, Miss Anna.”

The maid dipped a quick curtsy. “Yes, Mr. Gransdon.”

He turned back to Sophie and led her toward the library. She wasn’t at all surprised. At this hour, Celia was probably reviewing her business ledgers. He tapped on the door, then quietly opened it. “Lady Sophie to see you, Your Grace.”

“Sophie! Thank goodness. These columns have grown quite wearisome today.” Celia, more formally known as the Duchess of Hasterton, rose from behind a desk littered with papers, ink-stained quills, and open ledgers. She rounded the desk while reaching for both of Sophie’s hands. After catching hold of them, she turned and nodded to the butler. “A lovely tea, if you please, Gransdon. Here in the library.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He excused himself with the barest tip of his head.

“I was so hoping you would come straight away and tell me what happened.” Celia tugged her deeper into the library, leading her to a pair of wingback chairs in front of the hearth. “Was it terribly awful? How was the queen?” Her dark brows arched higher over her ever-widening eyes. “And how is your mother now? Is everything all right? Do tell me all will be well. I am so worried about the both of you, what with those terrible threats.”

Sophie waited for her cherished friend to calm down and allow her to get in a word. She folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head while waiting.

“Sorry,” Celia said. “I am going on a bit. Aren’t I?”

“Just a bit.”

“Shall we need brandy with our tea?” The duchess went to the bookcase behind the desk and opened the cabinet to display several decanters.

“Most definitely.” Sophie sagged into the depths of the sumptuous leather chair and blew out a very unladylike huff. “Queen Charlotte did not receive us at Kew. She met with us at her private cottage.”

“Oh dear.” Celia hurried over with a glass of brandy for each of them, then returned to the cabinet and fetched the decanter, setting it on the low, bandy-legged table in front of them.

Sophie fortified herself with a sip, then unleashed another frustrated huff. “Her Majesty has commanded that I marry Sir Nash Bromley by special license. She has also commanded that the fourth earl be proclaimed dead without an heir, and has sworn to order Prinny to bestow the Rydleshire title upon Sir Nash—thereby giving him all the fruits of Maman’s and my twenty-five years of endeavors.”

“Oh my.” Celia stared at her in open-mouthed dismay, then her astonishment shifted to bewilderment. “Sir Nash Bromley. Why do I know that name?”

“Ten years ago,” Sophie replied. “When I wrote to you about that insufferable cove who refused to acknowledge my existence.”

“Oh dear,” Celia repeated.

“Is that all you can say? Oh my. Oh dear. I came here for your help! How can I avoid marrying that infuriating whore bird?”

Celia refilled her glass just as Gransdon entered with the tea. “Set it on the table, Gransdon, thank you.”

The butler placed the tray on the table beside the brandy and hurried back out.

“If the queen herself has commanded this, I fear that you have no recourse, dear sister.” Celia settled down into the chair beside Sophie but perched on the edge of its seat. “You must admit, doing so will disarm the blackmailer. If he persists in following through with his threats and publicizes the truth about the Rydleshire title, very few would believe it once you have done everything the queen ordered.”

Sophie slid her glass to the table, leaned back into the comfortably supportive wing of the chair, and propped her head in her hand. “I never thought you would side against me.”

“Do not be precious. I am not siding against you, and you know it. I am merely voicing what you yourself already know to be true. You have been well and truly snared.” Celia poured them each a cup of tea and sweetened it with a hearty slosh of brandy. “What does the whore bird say about all this—or does he know yet? And why him? How has he curried such favor with the queen? An earldom given to a mere knight?” She frowned. “You did say he came from landed gentry, did you not? It has been quite some time since I read your letters about him.”

Sophie glared at her, willing Celia to stop firing off questions without taking a breath. “Initially, I do not think he wanted the leg-shackling any more than I did. But now that he has had time to ponder it and all he stands to gain, I believe he’s quite warmed to the idea.” The burn of his kiss still simmered deep within her, demanding she acquiesce without a fight. But she couldn’t. He had been so…so mean to her all those years ago, when she had loved him with all her heart.

“Well, of course he warmed to the idea.” Celia thoughtfully pursed her lips as she held her teacup aloft while cradling its matching saucer in her other hand. “And why did Queen Charlotte choose to gift him with such a prize? Any idea?”

“According to Maman, Sir Nash brilliantly handled some sort of delicate matter within the royal household some years ago, and ever since, Queen Charlotte thinks him quite the darling.”

“Something to do with Mad King George, I’d wager.” Celia tipped a glance at the decanter. “More brandy? I daresay you deserve it.”

“No. Becoming muddle-headed is something I can ill afford right now.” Sophie gave a sad shake of her head. “Maman refuses to consider anything less than doing exactly as the queen has commanded.”

Celia set her saucer and cup on the table and scowled off into the distance before shifting her attention back to Sophie. “I am so sorry, dear sister. But I do not see a way out of this, especially since your mother insists that it must be done.” With a soft tsk, she offered Sophie a sympathetic pout. “Have the years turned him into a disgusting toad?”

“Quite the opposite, in fact. If anything, he is even more handsome than I remembered.”

“Well, there is that, then.” Celia reached over and rested her hand atop Sophie’s. “I am sorry, dear sister. Truly, I am.”

“As am I.” After a disheartened groan, Sophie pushed up from the chair. “I suppose I should return home and attempt to be civil.”

“At least there is the silver lining that this might assist you in catching that fiendish blackmailer.” Celia rang a bell on her desk, then led Sophie into the hallway.

“I suppose.”

Celia kissed her on the cheek. “I should be proud to be a witness for your wedding, and I am sure Elias would as well. Name the date and time, and we shall be there.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

Sophie forced a smile as she accepted her cloak and umbrella from Gransdon. She turned back to Celia, struggling to keep her smile from faltering. “I promise.”

Her dear friend squeezed her arm. “Take heart, sister. If I think of absolutely anything that can be done, I shall hurry right over.”

With a defeated nod, Sophie headed back outside and opened her umbrella. It was raining harder. An ominous sign, indeed. By the time she made it back inside Rydleshire House, her slippers and stockings were soaked through. She had managed to keep the hem of her dress from getting too muddy, but it was quite soppy as well.

“If anyone asks for me, I have retired for the day, Thornton,” she told the butler as she slogged up the stairs. She didn’t bother waiting for his standard yes, my lady, knowing the man’s loyalty to be unquestionable. As soon as she entered her private sitting room, she perched on her favorite chair with the decorative brass inlays and removed the cloyingly wet footwear and hosiery. Marie would have readily come at her call to handle the task, but for now, she simply wished to be alone with her troubled thoughts. Just as she was about to enter her bedchamber, a sharp knock on the sitting room door made her jump.

“Who is it?” she snapped.

“Nash.”

A combination of disgust, resentment, and an absolutely unreasonable longing for another kiss surged through her. She started to shout go away, but admittedly that would hardly be considered civil. Bracing herself for what she felt certain would be another unpleasant encounter, she strode across the room and yanked open the door, but stood so as to bar his entry.

“How can I help you, sir?” She clenched the door latch so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t bend.

He stared at her, the muscles in his square jaw twitching. His focus then shifted to the dripping slippers and stockings she held aloft in her other hand. “Thornton informed me you had retired for the day. Are you unwell?”

“I have enjoyed as much of today as I can possibly stand, Sir Nash,” she forced out so sweetly she nearly gagged.

His light blue eyes seemed even icier than before, unblinking and sharply watchful. “You and I must eventually come to an accord if we hope to capture the assailant who caused this day. You do understand that, do you not, Lady Sophie?”

“Contrary to what appears to be your very low opinion of my intelligence, I assure you that I now understand every facet of today. With great futility and dismay, I might add.” Before he could comment, she continued, “But I shall strive to be civil, keep your houses in good order, and be a polite hostess to whatever parties your new title requires of you. However, that is all I can promise. No. Forgive me. That is not true at all. I shall also do my very best to capture the infuriating blackmailer, so I might throttle him myself for throwing my life into such an upheaval.”

Nash jutted his chin higher and narrowed his eyes. “Then I have your word that a real truce between us is now in force? That there will be no more physical attacks?”

A wicked smile twitched at her mouth, begging to be unfurled. With more control than she realized she possessed, she held it at bay. A knee to a man’s pride apparently did wonders to make him fear you. “You have my word, sir. I shall make no more attacks upon your person.” She dangled her soggy footwear higher. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

He pushed past her and marched over to the settee beside the window. Defiance and determination shouted from the set of his broad shoulders. “I shall excuse you long enough to sort your”—he flicked a hand at her slippers and stockings as if shooing them away—“your situation, and then I wish to speak with you.”

“A gentleman would politely ask, sir, rather than force his way into a lady’s room and make demands.” His condescending manner tempted her to send him to the floor again. She glared at him, fighting to control her temper.

His brow lightly puckered, whether from bewilderment or frustration, she couldn’t quite decide. He apologetically tipped his head and offered her a formal bow. “Forgive me, my lady, if my behavior came across as demanding. I assure you, I did not mean it as such. I beg you to realize that today has placed a strain upon us both.”

Deep down inside, the little girl whose heart he had broken so long ago wept uncontrollably because the only reason he was marrying her was to obey the queen and gain a place among the aristocracy. Sophie swallowed hard and gently shushed that poor, foolish child back into the shadows of her memories. She would deal with those silly feelings later because, in truth, she did not wish to marry Nash any more than he wished to marry her. Her past self would do well to realize that and be done with it. Neither accepting nor rebuffing his insulting apology, she went into her bedchamber.

Marie, her lady’s maid, emerged from the dressing room. “Good heavens, my lady. Give me those things, and I shall have you dried and in a fresh gown quick as can be. I am sure that wet hemline is most uncomfortable.”

“Sir Nash is waiting to speak with me in the sitting room.” Sophie rolled her eyes to convey exactly how she felt about that.

The tiny, dark-haired maid who had always reminded Sophie of the woodland imps and fairies from her childhood storybooks shot her a mischievous look. “Shall I order you a bath drawn, my lady? For a long, hot soak after such a trying day?”

“Better not this time. I already kneed him in his pride and dropped him to my workroom floor earlier.”

Marie yipped a sharp laugh before clamping her mouth shut to prevent more from escaping. She tried to calm herself but sadly failed. Her shoulders shook as she sputtered with hissing giggles. “I shall make haste, then, to get you sorted in no time at all, my lady.”

True to her word, the maid had Sophie changed into a lovely muslin gown in record time. She emerged from the bedroom, hoping her future husband had changed his mind and departed. He had not.

“Shall I ring for something?” she asked, attempting to sound as serene and in control as her mother always did. “Tea or something stronger?”

“Not for my sake, thank you. But if you wish for something, then by all means, do not abstain on my account.” He wandered around the room with his hands clasped to the small of his back and the muscles in his jaw flexing as though he was grinding his teeth.

Sophie yanked on the bellpull. This conversation required something stronger than tea. When Thornton opened the sitting room door, she made her wishes known in a single word: “Brandy.”

The butler nodded and left.

“Brandy?” Nash repeated, eyeing her as if she had requested poison.

“Do none of your ladybirds ever drink brandy?” She couldn’t resist goading him.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I have no ladybirds—nor will I ever have any ladybirds.”

“Never say never, Sir Nash. From what Maman tells me, every man has his needs. Except for priests or monks, of course. Or is it your intention to take a vow of celibacy?”

His expression shifted to one that sent a sudden surge of heat through her and made her swallow hard. “As my wife, you shall fulfill my needs, my lady.” He gave her a smile that made her wounded past self swoon. “As I will fulfill yours, I assure you.”

“I understand the need to consummate the marriage,” she managed to say in an even tone that made her quite proud of her control. “But after that, further”—she flipped a hand—“whatever you wish to call it, shall be unnecessary.”

“We shall see.” He steered his meandering path to encircle her, keeping his gaze locked on her as he walked.

“Must you pace like a caged animal? Circling me as if I am your prey causes me to wonder if our truce was agreed upon too soon.”

He directed her attention to the settee by the window. “Then sit with me, my lady. After all, a true gentleman does not sit while a lady stands.”

She took a seat in the chair beside the settee and folded her hands in her lap. With an overly gracious nod at the settee, she smiled. “Have a seat, Sir Nash.”

He sat on the end closest to her, perching on the edge of the seat as if ready to spring upon her at a moment’s notice. “Do you ever do as you are asked, my fractious swan?”

“It depends on who does the asking.”

“As your husband—”

“You are not my husband yet, and might I ask why you called me a fractious swan? The fractious part is self-explanatory, but the reference to a swan bewilders me. You have done it more than once now, and I wish you to define it so I might know whether to be insulted.”

A daunting look flashed in his eyes, like ripples of lightning warning of a coming storm. She found it both seductive and disconcerting. She was out of her element here. Men were not her expertise.

“Well?” she prodded.

The smile he gave her not only brimmed with mischief but was also dark and dangerously delicious. It sent a series of shivers through her. “Even though I am sure it will nettle you, since everything I say does, I will tell you.”

She adopted an aloofness, determined to never allow him to see how he still affected her even after all these years. “Go on.”

“All those years ago, you reminded me of an awkward duckling just at the point of getting its feathers. Not ugly, but clumsy and determined for everyone to believe you were grown and ready to fly.” He paused and took in a deep breath, possibly bracing himself for a well-deserved slap. “But when I first saw you in the queen’s cottage, you took my breath away. The gangly young thing always squawking and causing trouble had transformed into a stunningly beautiful swan who behaved with such regal grace, I struggled not to kneel at your feet.”

The awkward duckling, as he had so ungraciously called her, longed to treasure his words about becoming the beautiful swan, as if they were priceless gems mined only for her. But she knew better. She might not be experienced when it came to men, but she was with this one. Never would she believe any compliment falling from his lips. She gave him an unimpressed look. “You should write poetry. Or perhaps romantic stories for ladies to enjoy reading on rainy afternoons.”

A knock at the door interrupted them.

“Come in,” she called out, noting Nash’s irritated expression with no small amount of smug satisfaction.

Thornton entered with a silver tray that contained a decanter of brandy and a pair of glasses. As he set it on the low table in front of them, he proffered a polite nod her way. “Shall I pour, my lady?”

“No, thank you. That will be all.”

With the soundless steps of the perfect servant, Thornton left the room and closed the door behind him.

“I know you declined before,” she said to Nash, “but would you not care for a drink after all?”

“Yes—and do not be stingy with the pour, my lady.”