THE wind rushed through William's hair during his ride at dawn along a muddy track among the low marshes and ditches of Battersea Fields. He knew better than to risk the remote chance that one of the three male Tolworths trolling London would take it upon themselves to search Hyde Park's infamous Rotten Row. He cursed the Tolworths and his ill luck and urged his mount to a breakneck pace.
The varying green shades of summer foliage flashed through the gray mist at a dizzying speed. It failed to bring him a moment's cessation of his constant thoughts of her. Sophie. Damn her goodness, her kindness, her Venus-like self. If it had only been a matter of his physically still wanting her. That would be eminently curable. In fact, he knew of a certain lush actress at Drury Lane who would satisfy his every— The image of Sophie's gentle eyes, encouraging him to take her innocence that night in the music room, flooded his mind. He suddenly experienced the same gut-wrenching sensation that had been torturing his thoughts and dreams since last he saw her.
He came to an abrupt stop then allowed his horse to walk off his exertion. Steam from the horse's flanks rose to mingle with the mist. William dropped the reins at the horse's withers and took great gulps of air.
He must get her alone tomorrow. All his previous efforts had failed. He had never met with such a run of ill luck. She had refused his calls, which was not surprising, he supposed. But she had also been ruthless in her endeavors to evade any possibility of seeing him—on the street, in the park, even in church she had surrounded herself with a clutch of females and increasingly with a band of besotted gentlemen. It was the latter that perturbed him the most.
William thought about what he would do to Drummond if he ever came face-to-face with the peer. He felt violently ill at the thought of that lapdog having the audacity to kiss his Sophie. Last night had been the worst. Watching the pompous twit waltzing with her in his arms had unleashed a fury he had never known. If Mornington had not been there to bash some sense in him he would have created a scene in the Mayne's ballroom that would have been talked about for the next century.
William supposed it was a good thing that Mr. Derby, the architect, and now Mr. Baird, the man Will had employed to oversee construction, consumed so many of his hours each day. They were making genuine progress ever since his spectacular win at a gaming hell a fortnight ago. This would hold off the creditors for at least another month. But he must raise more funds, and it was horrendously difficult to secure an audience with possible investors when he was in hiding.
His original idea of creating a new banking institution with progressive ideas about investments and credit was losing, in his more desperate, darker days, some of its brilliance. If he had not already invested so much time and effort into his dream of restoring his family's name and properties, he had to concede that he might have chosen a simpler method. But simplicity had never been his strong point. And damn it all, his idea was sound and it would be a boon to so many, notwithstanding his primary goal of reestablishing himself and his brother.
William reached the end of the track and pulled his pocket watch from its resting place. Noting that he had but five minutes before he was due to meet Jack and Mornington at a costumer's, he urged his mount into a fast trot across Parkgate Road. The shop owner had accepted a significant monetary incentive from Mornington to open his shop early for a clandestine viewing of his wares.
A man wearing a vibrant yellow waistcoat surrounded by a robin's egg blue coat loomed up ahead. A bark and a hiss confirmed William's guess and he shook his head. A commotion was in progress. Blending in with a crowd had never been Jack Farquhar's forte.
"Now, now, Mrs. Tickle. Mustn't tangle with the shop's mouser, my love," Jack said when William arrived. "Now, my good man, if you would just let us into your delightful establishment, I'm sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement about my dog." He turned his head and whispered loudly to Mornington. "Give him a few more quid, if you please."
William plucked Mrs. Tickle's leash from Jack's hand and gave it and his horse's reins to an aproned assistant shopkeep nearby. A coin and a word directed the man to walk the horse and the dog.
"Well, I never—" Jack crossed his arms before William hustled him into the shop, Mornington's stout form skulking in behind them all.
"I know you never. Come on, then, let's collect our costumes before the rest of Mayfair arrives," interrupted William.
"But we need to outfit Mrs. Tickle too."
"All in good time. Now, sir"—William turned to the shop owner—"will you be so kind as to show us various costumes from say, two or three decades ago?"
"Oh goody," said Jack, quick to reapply his smile. "I do so love wigs, and powder. Oh, and patches, and higher heels, and those divine cosmetics."
The shopkeeper looked over Jack and sized him up in an instant. Without batting an eye, he turned to enter the back of the shop. "Let's start with hoops and panniers for you, madam."
Mornington and William burst out laughing.
Jack sniffed. "Well, I don't see anything remotely funny—"
"Mr. Charles Mornington, lately of Burnham-by-the-Sea and"—the Master of Ceremonies leaned in close to Momington—"and?" he repeated.
Charles whispered something into the man's ear.
"And Lady Jacqueline and Mr. Barclay," the man announced to the ballroom full of people who turned to catch sight of the late arrivals.
"Thank you, my good man," Jack said in a high voice. Will's erstwhile valet dazzled the lorgnette-clinging crowd in his high-necked, gold-colored gown with six-foot wide panniers and enough white powder on his face and hair to look like the queen of the dead. Only the bright red lips and quivering heart-shaped patch near his left eye proclaimed he was, indeed, alive.
The Master of Ceremonies' eyebrows rose three notches after noticing Mrs. Tickle, wearing a miniature court-jester costume complete with a hat, tucked firmly against Jack's bodice.
"Stop gripping my arm, you imbecile," Mornington hissed at Jack.
"The better to make sure you don't escape, my dear," Jack replied under his breath.
"You owe me, Will. You owe me," Mornington sputtered.
William looked through the dark eyeholes of his mask, which covered all but his lips. His simple black domino and hat hid his identity and the stark evening clothes beneath. "Did I not promise to repay you in spades? With Miss Mari Owen's hand, no less."
"Yes, but, I fail to see how—"
"Keep smiling, now. The hosts are at twelve o'clock," Will gritted out while he smiled.
They scraped and bowed and did their duty to their hosts. And the countess was so taken with Mrs. Tickle that she didn't notice Lady Jacqueline's faint shadow of a beard.
"Do you see them?" Mornington leaned toward William to capture his attention.
"No. It's next to impossible to make anyone out in all this court dress. There are more gray wigs here than when Prinny visits Parliament," William replied, half hiding behind a gray marble column.
Jack turned to Mornington. "Would you be a dear and fetch me and Mrs. Tickle a little something to wet our throats? Hmmm? Or perhaps a little dancing first? I long for a waltz, don't you, Mr. Mornington?"
Mornington, flustered and red in the face, replied, "I think not." He plastered a smile on his face and bowed as a dowager duchess passed and nodded to him.
"Why, I do declare," Jack continued, staring at a couple waltzing. "I should have opted for male attire, after all, if they're going to allow that sort of thing. How very liberal our good hosts are in their way of thinking."
William stared at the dancing couple. The taller figure was a gentleman clad in full court dress, only a mask obscured his face. He held in his arms another gentleman—or no. William squinted. It was a person dressed in similar clothes, complete with a powdered gentleman's wig. A tall, voluptuous figure. At that moment, the figure tilted its head and laughed, in a gloriously warm, utterly feminine fashion.
William's gut clenched along with his hands.
He forced his gaze toward the circle of people surrounding the dancers and spotted the aunt and Miss Owens. "All right Mornington, here's your chance, man. Dance with Jacqueline here and show us some teeth. In front of the object of your affection, if you please. Then ask Miss Owens for the supper dance. I shall think you a complete dolt if you are unable to whisk her away for an impassioned proposal." He pushed the couple toward the dance floor, one much more willing than the other.
Jacqueline laughed, handed his pug to William and launched into an exaggerated waltz with Mornington.
William narrowed his eyes as he watched Sophie and her partner dance toward the far corner of the room. He tried to regulate his breathing. It was just a simple waltz and the gentleman was maintaining the proper distance between them. It was just the enchanted expression on Sophie's lips and her tight articles of clothing, emphasizing her every curve that aggravated him.
"For the love of God, doesn't she know there is a reason females should not show their wares so blatantly?" Will spoke to himself. Mrs. Tickle cocked an ear.
He forced himself to look at Mari Owens. That young lady was watching Mornington with Lady Jacqueline and fanning her face rapidly. The color had drained from her cheeks. Sophie's aunt was firmly entrenched in conversation with three older ladies.
His plan might work, but only if…
William scanned the dance floor. They had disappeared. He cursed to himself and stalked the outer edges of the ballroom toward the doors and the terrace beyond. The room was bursting with bejeweled members of the haut ton packed tighter than a tin of sardines. It was two steps forward, and one step back to avoid each paniered court gown and leaning wig.
The terrace, illuminated with colorful lanterns, was empty save for an older couple taking the air and a footman carrying a tray of canapés. William snatched one off the tray, then took the stairs two at a time down to the gently sloped garden. He paused in the shadows to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Mrs. Tickle, still firmly tucked under his arm, growled.
A sensuous, throaty laugh sounded and William quickly edged the ivy covered low wall around a curve.
There, silhouetted in the moonlight, stood a pair in a classic, theatrical pose.
“…pray don't deny me, Miss Somerset. You know I have nothing but honorable intentions." The taller figure was moving in for the kill, lips puckered into service.
Will jiggled Mrs. Tickle, and whispered in her ear, "Get him, girl."
The pug fairly leapt from his arms and tore across the space separating them from the object of prey. Small needlelike teeth sunk into the swain's stockinged Achilles heel and the dog's jester hat swayed side to side. It was all Will could do not to give himself away in his amusement as he darted behind the nearest ancient oak.
A howl of pain erupted from the gentleman, along with concerned noises from Sophie. The man littered the air with a string of foul curses as he jangled his leg in an effort to rid himself of the pug. Mrs. Tickle eventually released him, but continued growling and snapping, forcing the man to flee in a most enjoyable, cowardly fashion toward the terrace. Not the smallest effort or word of concern for Sophie's welfare left the man's lips in his hasty retreat.
Mrs. Tickle barked once her delight, brushed her hind legs in the grass as a sign of victory and trotted to the oak tree for a reward.
William emerged from behind the tree and surreptitiously gave the canapé to the dog before facing Sophie. One look at her made him glad he had stifled the urge to chuckle. Hands on hips, legs spread wide, she looked the veritable impenetrable fortress.
"I see now why you allow your man the luxury of a pet. How very clever and brave of you. And you did not even have to dirty your hands," Sophie said.
"You allowed me little choice, chérie, given your refusal to see me. I thought the plan moderately clever, actually. Separating a gentleman from a lady must be handled delicately." He stepped closer to her. "You should be thanking me. I exposed him for the chicken-hearted individual that he is."
"I'm sure he'll send someone out for me. You'd best be prepared to go."
"We shall see. Most men of his ilk rarely expose their weaknesses to others, especially if a lady is at stake."
"How true, Lord Will. You taught me that quite well."
William's mind raced, trying to find the words necessary to bring her about. His memorized speech fled as she lowered her mask and he gazed into her beautiful face. A patch next to her full lips glittered in the moonlight.
"Sophie, are you with child?"
"Ah, is that what this is about? No. I am sorry to snatch your last shred of hope for a most advantageous marriage. I suppose this means the Dowager Marchioness of Heathern did not accept you?"
"Sophie…" William closed his eyes. He had so hoped there would be a child.
"Ah, I see, no."
"Sarcasm does not become you."
"And grasping does not become you, my lord."
"Sophie," he said again, taking hold of her cold hand. She instantly retrieved her fingers from his. "I realize my motives appear suspect to you, and I should have explained it all to you sooner, but you must understand that—"
"You are a fortune hunter?" she interrupted. "Yes, I must say I never could understand why you took such pains to hide the fact from me when so many marriages involve matches much like ours would have been. But I dislike duplicity. I can forgive it once, and in your case, I did. But no one likes to be played the fool twice."
"And that is why I am here, Sophie. To apologize. Will you at least allow me that?"
Sophie looked down to find Mrs. Tickle scratching her buckled shoe. She kneeled down to gather the pug in her arms and scratch behind her ears. "I don't know."
"Then may I be allowed to explain it all to you?"
"No. I'm tired of hearing all the various reasons why gentlemen are in need of funds. But I think I will accept your apology for deceiving me. I think if only because I must thank you for teaching me more than anyone the machinations of the upper circles."
William felt wretched, watching her. She had the same cynical yet charming countenance he had caught on his face many a time. He had put that expression on a face that had only ever been open and honest in the past. He hardened himself to his resolve. He would restore her.
"And," Sophie continued, "as I am always generous when gratitude is in order, I shall offer a serious candidate to help you solve your dilemma."
"Unless you're willing to reconsider my proposal, I assure you that you will be unable to tempt me with someone else," William said.
"No, it is not I. It's Lady Mary Russell, the Earl of Shanet's daughter."
William grimaced.
"As you might have heard, she was left at the altar a fortnight ago and the poor dear confided in me that she's in search of a fast marriage of convenience as she cannot bear the pitying looks. I think the two of you would suit. An added benefit is that you'd be forced to move to her father's estate in Surrey, well away from the lure of the vices that tempt you in town."
William knew she wouldn't believe any attempt he made to cleanse his character. In fact, she'd assume it was all a pack of lies. Unconsciously he reassumed the façade he'd taken more than two decades ago. "I suppose you've tired of the idea of wearing men's pantaloons, despite tonight's intriguing display, then? If I wed this jilted bride, this might be the last time you'd be able to wear them, my dear, in case you've forgotten." When he saw the question in her eyes he continued. "The wager. How soon they forget."
"No, I haven't forgotten wagering is of prime importance in your life. But I wouldn't be so sure of your success in this particular gamble."
A flicker of fear snaked up his spine. "You're not betrothed, Sophie, are you?"
She looked straight at him through half-shuttered eyes. A look that filled him with grief anew, so much did it look like a mirror of himself.
"Why, yes. Yes, I am, most assuredly." She wore a half smile on her lips.
"To whom?" he whispered.
He finally forced her to break contact with his gaze.
"Why, I haven't decided, precisely," she replied.
He exhaled with relief. "So you've more than one prospect?"
"I thought you knew. And I shall select one by the end of the month."
"So you've not given your word." It was more of a statement than a question. "And who are the lucky bastards?"
"Now, now, my lord, such language."
"Sophie, it will not do. I shall have you in the end, my darling. I shall slay whosoever dares to assume my place. You became mine in the music room at Villa Belza."
Sophie stiffened. "You presume too much. By your reasoning a goodly portion of the women in England and France are yours as well."
If she would just allow him to hold her once again, he was confident, over time, he'd be able to convince her of his honest feelings and intentions. He must change tactics.
"Miss Somerset, you are too good. Thank you for granting me this quarter hour and your forgiveness of past events. I'll not trouble you any longer, I promise, if you'll grant me the final pleasure of a farewell kiss."
"No."
"Then a set of dances?"
A long pause heightened his hopes.
"Perhaps. But only if you promise never to seek my acquaintance again."
"Agreed." He would say whatever was necessary to get her into his arms again, fire and brimstone be damned.
Sophie handed the dog to him and walked resolutely back to the ballroom. At the last moment, Will touched her slim arm. "I shall seek you out for the next waltz."
He turned on his heel before she could respond, then went in search of Lady Jacqueline and Mornington. William discovered them cooling their heels in the front entrance hallway, their heated whispers echoing within the arches.
"What's going on here?" Will asked.
"I'm leaving," Mornington ground out.
"Old fiddle-faddle got a mite peeved when I found myself in a most uncomfortable situation," Jack replied, lifting his chin in the air.
"And the situation was?"
"He was going to relieve himself in the ladies' withdrawing room, for Christ's sake," replied Mornington.
Will bit back a grin.
"Thank heavens a delightful— You would have found her amusing, I'm sure," Jack said, looking at Will through his lorgftette. "Anyway, a delightful little French maid, by the name of Mademoiselle Karine Marcher, took one look at me outside the withdrawing room and led me to a nice secluded place where I could take care of my needs. She was most entertaining. We've become the best of friends."
William blinked. "Petite, with a cynical, razor sharp wit?"
"Exactly."
"Miss Somerset's ladies' maid," William stated.
Jack clapped his hands excitedly. "How convenient. By the way, I agreed to give her a small token of appreciation, which I am sure one of you will happily supply."
Mornington sighed.
"Have you proposed to Miss Owens?" Will asked his friend.
"Absolutely not. This has been a complete unmitigated disaster between Jacqueline's needs and flamboyant dancing, and I haven't been able to find Miss Owens. I think she was so crestfallen when she saw me with Jacqueline that she disappeared."
"Come on now, back to the ballroom. I saw her and the Cornwallis relation next to the hosts just a moment ago. Time for us both to face the music," Will winked and handed Mrs. Tickle to Jack.
"And what am I to do then? I refuse to be a wallflower. A girl has to have some fun once in her life," Jack said, then looked down at his pug. "And have you had any fun, my love? I do believe you have if that"—Jack sniffed the dab of yellow on her snout—"curried egg on your nose is any indication."
The crush was miserable tonight. All the young misses must have begged their relations to accept so they could wear something besides the modest white dresses that were their badges of innocence. Why, oh, why had she agreed to a set of dances with him? Normally her card would've been full but her costume had worked against her in the end. Her admirers hadn't recognized her in gentleman's dress or were lost in the uproarious crowd.
She feigned interest in her aunt and Mari's less than scintillating conversation all the while considering her situation. After glancing at Mari's pallid countenance, she'd determined to ask her aunt for an early leave-taking. But Lord Coddington's father approached and preceded her request by soliciting the great lady's hand for the next set, giving rise to a giddy expression on her relation's face.
Sophie sighed. How in heaven was she to get through a waltz with William? She'd thought when she'd agreed to a set that it would be a minuet, or a country-dance, but he'd disappeared into the crowd before she could refuse.
She'd barely maintained her controlled façade in the garden. And it had almost slipped entirely when he'd taken her hand. As it stood, the only reason she was able to slip inside this caricature of feminine charm and wit extraordinaire was for the noble purpose of pleasing and aiding her family, and perhaps, just perhaps, if she was honest, it was a way to hide her hurt and mortification.
The first swelling notes of a waltz filled the air.
All thought of good deeds fled with the notion of dancing with William. A cowardly act looked tempting indeed. Maybe she would retreat to the ladies' withdrawing room and face Karine's inquisition.
Sophie turned and a hot swirl glided along her tightly corseted waist. She glanced down to see the familiar bronzed and long fingered hand she knew all too well. William pulled her against the solid wall of his chest.