Sex and the Single Earl, Page 6

  Robert winced as Matilda, standing right behind him, brayed something to her sisters. He turned his quizzing glass on the new Mrs. Tuddle, distaste writ large on his face, before swinging around to critically survey the dancers.

  “You seem to have the right of it there, sis. What a mob. And a more ill-favoured set of mushrooms I’ve never seen in my life. I swear Bath gets worse every year. Doesn’t look like there’s one person worth knowing in the entire place.”

  Annabel shook her head at her husband, who returned the gesture with a sheepish grin.

  “Well, it’s true,” he protested. “I don’t see anyone we know.”

  “You sound just like Grandfather, Robert. And it’s not true,” Sophie said. “Lord Trask arrived just the other day.” She did her best to keep her voice unconcerned. “Mr. Nigel Dash is in town as well, visiting his mother.”

  “Oh yes, you’re right,” replied Annabel, craning her neck to look at the dancers. “I see Lord Trask now, in a set with Lady Randolph.”

  “You do?” Sophie twisted in her seat. She couldn’t help searching the dancers for a glimpse of Simon. “Where?”

  “Over there. Just under the portrait of the king,” Robert supplied helpfully.

  There Simon was, looking magnificent as he always did when attired for a ball. The stark black of his beautifully cut tailcoat and trousers, set off by his frost-white waistcoat and cravat, suited his dark looks and powerful masculinity. She could have swooned at the sight of him, if not for the fact that his partner for the dance was the equally magnificent Lady Randolph.

  Sophie’s heart thumped painfully as she watched Simon’s latest mistress—clad in the flimsiest gown imaginable—trail her silk-gloved hands down his muscular arms. She couldn’t believe his paramour had actually lowered herself to come to Bath. Everyone knew Lady Randolph rarely left London, and certainly not for one of the provincial spas. Perhaps the rumors were true after all—that Simon intended to make her his wife.

  Along with her thudding heart, Sophie’s temples began to throb.

  “Sophie, are you not feeling well?” Annabel’s quiet voice reached her through the din. “You look terribly pale.”

  Sophie cleared her throat. “No, I’m fine. I’m just admiring Lady Randolph’s unusual dress.”

  Annabel looked doubtful, but forbore from replying. Robert, unfortunately, did not share his wife’s discretion.

  “Well, I don’t admire it. She looks like a demirep with her bosom hanging out like that. Never could understand what Simon saw in the woman.”

  A grudging laugh forced its way from Sophie’s throat at the naiveté of her brother’s response.

  “Really, Robert. You’ve grown so stodgy since your marriage. Truly, Lady Randolph is a beautiful woman.”

  He grunted. “If you say so. She don’t hold a candle to you and Annabel, though.”

  She smiled, grateful for her brother’s loyalty. But there was no denying that Bathsheba, Lady Randolph, widow of one of the richest earls in England, was a fascinating and sensual creature.

  Petite in stature, she had luxuriant hair styled in the latest fashion, almost the exact shade as Sophie’s. In fact, now that she thought about it, the countess looked quite a bit like her—or at least she would have if Sophie had larger breasts and fuller hips, and wore her gowns practically falling to her waist. Even the woman’s large, expressive eyes were the same clear hazel as hers, although Lady Randolph’s were more green than brown. And, of course, she didn’t have to hide her gaze behind spectacles.

  The countess was just the kind of woman Sophie wished to be and, certain physical attributes aside, knew with a depressing certainty she never would be. Rich, charming, and beautiful, Lady Randolph held the world of the ton in her dainty grasp.

  Including, it would appear, the Earl of Trask.

  The flush of heat on the back of his neck came not from the closeness of the room or from Bathsheba’s attempt to seduce him. Rather, it alerted Simon to Sophie’s presence in the ballroom.

  And to her eyes on him.

  Some months ago he had become aware of his uncanny ability to sense whenever she came near him. Regardless of the size of the room or the crowd, he could feel her presence. It both mystified and annoyed him, and was responsible for the sudden death of more than one flirtation.

  “A sixpence for your thoughts, dear Simon.” Bathsheba’s husky voice intruded on his reverie.

  “Believe me, dear Countess, they aren’t worth that much.”

  “But Simon, you know everything about you fascinates me. There was a time, not long ago, when you were as interested in me as I am in you.” Her purr held a faint trace of bitterness.

  Fortunately for him, the movements of the dance separated them for several minutes.

  Nothing this evening had transpired as planned. He had arrived early with the intention of claiming Sophie for the first dance, thus securing her to his side for the rest of the night. But there had been no sign of her, and the dancing began before she arrived. Then Bathsheba had unexpectedly appeared—dressed for battle in her flimsiest décolletage—and had practically dragged him onto the ballroom floor.

  Bathsheba hated Bath, claiming no person of fashion ever set foot in the place. Simon had a grim, certain feeling she had followed him here with the firm intention of trying to seduce him back into her bed.

  The violins scraped out the last chords of the dance, and Bathsheba dropped gracefully into a low curtsy before him. He took her arm and led her from the floor.

  “Simon, why is that young man waving at you from across the room?” Bathsheba’s voice was laced with boredom. “Does no one know how to behave in this benighted town?”

  “It’s only Robert Stanton. I assume he wants to make sure he attracts our notice.”

  “Good Lord, must we speak to him? Robert Stanton is such a silly boy. And his wife! A provincial nobody. She is fortunate indeed her grandparents even acknowledge her.”

  Simon ignored her comments, regretting he was forced to keep her by his side. He could already see Sophie, demure in her pretty muslin gown, inspecting Bathsheba’s wisp of a bodice with disapproving eyes.

  He ground his teeth—the last thing he needed was for Sophie to think him still engaged in an affair, discreet or otherwise.

  “Well, at least Sophia Stanton is good ton.” Bathsheba’s light, disdainful chatter prattled on. “But I’m amazed to see the girl wearing her spectacles to a ball. Really, it will be a miracle if she doesn’t end up on the shelf. She’s perilously close to being an ape leader as it is.”

  Simon almost laughed out loud. By the ton’s standards, Sophie was about to make the best match of the Season. And he, for one, felt nothing but relief that she had finally developed the good sense to wear her spectacles on social occasions. At more than one grand event—when her mother had insisted she remove them—Simon had been forced to rescue her from encounters with potted plants, or to pull her back from tumbling down a flight of stairs.

  “Hallo, old fellow,” exclaimed Robert, as Simon and Bathsheba joined the little group. “Didn’t think to see you here in Bath.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Bathsheba in a catty voice, “I think we all find ourselves surprised to be here.”

  Sophie stiffened. Annabel looked startled and moved to stand closer to her.

  Simon quickly took Annabel’s hand. “Mrs. Stanton, may I say what a great pleasure it is to see you again? I didn’t expect to have the privilege of your company in Bath.”

  She returned his greeting with a heartfelt smile. “Lord Trask, it’s always wonderful to see you. Robert and I thought we would spend a few weeks with Sophie since she was so close by, visiting your aunts.”

  “How are Lady Eleanor and Lady Jane, Simon?” Robert’s voice expressed genuine concern. “Sophie tells me Lady Eleanor is troubled by the damp weather.”

  “It’s a miracle only the weather troubles her,” purred Bathsheba. “This town is so lifeless, so full of ennui and decay, it is
a wonder she hasn’t expired from boredom. What is there to do from day to day? Visit the Pump Room, walk about the Orange Grove, and drink so much weak tea that one feels almost drowning in the stuff. And the company! Such a combination of invalids and shabby genteels. I wonder, Lord Trask, how your relations, of all people, can bear to live here the year round.”

  Simon repressed a surge of anger. He hated the place as much as Bathsheba, but no friend of his had the right to criticize his aunts.

  Sophie jumped in before he had a chance to deflect Bathsheba’s vitriol. “I wonder, then, your ladyship, why you would choose to come here? It would, of course, be a great hardship for the citizens of Bath to be deprived of your presence, but I’m sure we’d manage to scrape along without you. When may we expect your departure?”

  Robert choked back a laugh. An ugly scowl darkened Bathsheba’s features, rendering her almost plain. The evening was going downhill, and fast.

  Nigel Dash popped up at his side, breaking free of the herd around them. “Trask, I thought I’d finally catch up with you tonight. Where the devil have you been keeping yourself? Haven’t seen you in the Pump Room all week.”

  Simon had never been so grateful to see his friend. The fellow might be a complete rattle, but he had impeccable timing.

  Nigel executed a faultless bow. “Lady Randolph, Mrs. Stanton, Miss Stanton, charmed to see you all looking so splendid. Robert, you dog, no need to ask you how the married state agrees with you. You look in fine trim.”

  He chatted away in his usual, rapid-fire style. If Simon didn’t know better, he’d think his friend had no idea he’d just averted a social disaster. But the other man’s eyes darted back and forth between Sophie and Lady Randolph, clearly noting the flushed cheeks of the one, and the sneering countenance of the other.

  “Lord Trask.” Lady Randolph ruthlessly interrupted Nigel as he inquired after the health of Robert’s grandparents, General and Lady Stanton.

  Simon tore his gaze away from Sophie’s tense face. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the card room? We really should leave the children to their amusements.” Bathsheba flashed her teeth at Sophie. “I’m sure we could find more adult diversions to beguile our time.”

  Her seductive tone suggested what those diversions might be, as did the slender hand stroking his arm. Simon’s gut clenched as he saw the color leach from Sophie’s face. He removed Bathsheba’s hand, bowing over it before letting go.

  “Your ladyship must forgive me, but I am promised to Miss Stanton for the next set.”

  He wasn’t, but he suspected Sophie wouldn’t object, especially if it meant escaping Bathsheba’s wrath. Not that Sophie ever ran away from a fight.

  Bathsheba’s admittedly spectacular breasts heaved with indignation. She was, no doubt, about to administer him a verbal stab when Nigel intervened.

  “I say, capital idea, Lady Randolph! Allow me the pleasure of escorting you to the Octagon Room. I’ve been longing to play a round of whist all evening.” He gallantly offered his arm.

  Bathsheba fixed her gaze on Simon, her breath coming more slowly now as she studied him. She must not have liked what she saw on his face, for she quickly wiped all traces of anger from her countenance.

  “I would be delighted, Mr. Dash. Thank you for your kindness.” She regally nodded her head to the others, before turning a seductive smile back on Simon. “Lord Trask, I look forward to seeing you again very soon.” With that pointed innuendo, she turned and allowed Nigel to escort her from the room.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of that old harpy,” muttered Robert.

  “Lord Trask, how long do you intend to remain in Bath?” Annabel said brightly. Simon didn’t miss Robert’s wince as his wife trod heavily on his foot.

  “I can’t really say,” he replied, turning his attention back to Sophie. Her usual tea-rose complexion now looked as white as his cravat. The effect was stark, set off by the halo of her burnished curls and her amber gown.

  “What’s the matter, Sophie?” Worry sharpened his voice. “Are you ill?”

  “No. I…I just have a touch of the headache, that’s all.”

  Robert inspected his sister with concern. “You look like a piker, old girl. Best to get you out of these hot rooms. We’ll take you home.”

  Her mouth, which she’d held in a tight line, loosened into a slight smile. “Thank you for the charming description, Robert. But I would indeed be grateful if you took me back to St. James’s Square.”

  Simon grasped her elbow and pulled her gently to his side. “I’ll take her.”

  Sophie gazed up at him, eyes wide and startled.

  “Nonsense, Trask,” Robert said. “You stay and enjoy yourself. We’ll…ouch!” He yelped as Annabel again stepped on his foot.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, my lord,” Annabel said, ignoring her husband, “I want to pay my respects to Lady Jane. We’ll tell her you’re taking Sophie home.”

  She gave Sophie a quick hug and dragged a protesting Robert off through the crowd.

  Simon tucked Sophie’s small hand into the crook of his arm and led her toward the door. He glanced down, surprised to see tears glittering on the end of her eyelashes.

  “What’s wrong, Puck? Is it the headache that bothers you so?”

  “No,” she said, rapidly blinking the tears away. “I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

  He steered her out into the hall, worry and frustration gnawing at his gut. Why wouldn’t she tell him what troubled her? He would fix it—he always did.

  Whatever it was, as soon as he got her alone he would worm it out of her. It wasn’t too early for Sophie to learn that she might be able to keep secrets from others, but never, under any circumstances, from him.

  Chapter Five

  Sophie blinked back her foolish tears, silently chiding herself for being a watering pot. The last thing she needed was to draw Simon’s attention. He had a certain look in his eyes—a look that said he wouldn’t rest until he had discovered the cause of her tears. If he thought something was wrong, he would hound her until he got it out of her. She had never been able to say no to him, and she didn’t suppose she could start now.

  But how could she say anything about Lady Randolph, or ask him if he intended to marry her? She couldn’t bear the humiliation of revealing her own feelings in such a petty manner.

  She peeked at his handsome face as he guided her through the hot press of bodies crowding the entrance to the ballroom. He looked grim and not at all likely to be sympathetic. If only Robert and Annabel had taken her home tonight instead of Simon. She could have confided in them about him, and even about the workhouse. Robert always listened to her, and he always understood.

  At the thought of her brother and how much she missed him, her eyes filled up again. She blinked harder, and prayed Simon wouldn’t notice.

  He noticed. Glancing down, brows knit with concern, he led her toward the antechamber by the front entrance. She groaned inwardly, dreading the interrogation that surely would follow once they exited the Rooms.

  “Miss Stanton. What a pleasure to meet you again, and so soon. I hardly expected to see you at the Assembly Rooms this evening.”

  Sophie tripped over her own feet, stunned to see Mr. Crawford’s cheery countenance emerge from the crowd in front of her. If Simon hadn’t snaked an arm around her waist she would have tumbled down to the floor.

  “Mr. Crawford! Goodness me,” she gasped, righting herself. “How do you do? I didn’t expect to see you at the Rooms at all. But one is always running into everyone here, don’t you find? Such a mad crush tonight! I’m sure my dress is ruined.”

  She heard the inane chatter pour from her lips, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Her heart began to thud with panic at the thought of what Mr. Crawford might reveal to Simon.

  The cleric hesitated, his glance sliding from her face to her companion’s.

  Simon cut in. “Sophie, perhaps y
ou would like to introduce me to your acquaintance?”

  Oh, God. He had adopted what she had secretly long ago dubbed The Voice of the Imperious Earl.

  “Oh, certainly. Mr. Crawford, allow me to introduce you to the Earl of Trask. My lord, this is Mr. Crawford, the curate of St. Michael’s Church. I have heard him preach many times whilst visiting your aunts in Bath.”

  Simon looked down his patrician nose at the plainly dressed cleric, barely acknowledging the other man’s respectful bow. Sophie had to repress the urge to pinch him. Sometimes his bloody lordship was such a snob she wondered he could even see the rest of them from his elevated perch.

  The polite smile faded from Mr. Crawford’s lips, no doubt blighted by Simon’s haughty expression. “My lord, it is an honor to meet you,” he replied.

  After an excruciatingly long pause, Mr. Crawford’s gaze moved back to meet hers. His light brown eyes glowed with a surprising—and disconcerting—amount of warmth. In fact, he looked quite adoringly at her.

  The muscles in Simon’s arm transformed into iron beneath her hand.

  “Miss Stanton, I hope you didn’t suffer a chill from your time out in the rain today.” Mr. Crawford ignored Simon’s hostility, which Sophie thought a remarkable feat. “I would never forgive myself if you did.”

  “What were you doing out in the rain with Mr. Crawford?” Simon’s glacial tone sent shivers up the length of her spine.

  “Nothing, nothing really. We were simply talking out in the courtyard behind the church offices when it began to rain. The downpour was quite drenching, really, but I assure you I suffered no harm.” She opened her eyes wide at the cleric, trying to signal her intentions.

  Mr. Crawford frowned earnestly back. He stared at her for a few seconds before comprehension dawned on his features.

  “Oh, yes, of course! We were discussing, ah, the parish orphanage when the skies opened up. A regular Noah’s downpour, one might almost say. I tried to urge Miss Stanton to take a chair home, but she would have none of it.” He beamed at her, clearly pleased he had understood her silent plea. For a clergyman, he seemed quite an accomplished liar.