Page 20 of Dukes for Dessert

Sophie warmed her hands on her teacup. “If he has such a bad reputation, why have I heard nothing about him?”

Uncle crossed his slippered feet on the ottoman and took a slurp of brandy. “Because your parents shielded you well. His name would never be mentioned to a debutante, and you’d never be allowed to a gathering he attended. On the other hand, David has done much work—behind the scenes and admittedly by being a manipulative villain—to relieve the poor, improve conditions for factory workers, and other numerous reforms he will forever deny.”

“Why should he deny them?” Sophie asked in bewilderment. “If he’s helped people.”

“Because he likes to be seen as a reprobate—and he is.” Uncle gave her a dark look. “He achieves his goals by means it’s best not to examine too closely.”

Sophie studied the dregs of her tea, a few leaves floating in the bottom. “He told me he’d fallen in love with a woman and that she broke his heart. That she was now his closest friend’s wife.”

Uncle nodded. “Indeed. He was head over heels for the Duchess of Kilmorgan—Lady Eleanor Ramsay at the time. She was being arduously courted by Hart Mackenzie, before he became duke. Lady Eleanor refused Mackenzie’s proposal, quite rightly, I thought. Mackenzie was not the finest of men then, and believed he could have anything he wanted without question. David, poor chap, was potty about Lady Eleanor, but willing to step aside for Mackenzie. When Eleanor threw Mackenzie over, David thought he could easily step into the man’s shoes, but he later told me he hadn’t realized Eleanor’s very deep love for Hart. Lady Eleanor did not regret her choice to jilt Mackenzie, but she was not interested in substituting another for him. She retreated to her father’s house near Aberdeen and became his assistant, housekeeper, gardener, bottle-washer, and David had to leave her be. He was in agony over it for a long while, poor chap.”

“I know the Duchess of Kilmorgan slightly,” Sophie said, trying to hide her discomposure at the tale. David had obviously loved Lady Eleanor more intensely than his glib words had let on. “She has little to do with me, because her husband despises mine. They are on different sides of the wall that is politics.”

“And that gulf will never be breached,” Uncle said decidedly. “Which is why I chose the clergy, though that can also be fraught with political peril. Give me a country church and a simple life. The bishops can enjoy fighting in the House of Lords all they like.”

“Did David—Mr. Fleming—never marry? Or court any other?”

“No.” Uncle gave Sophie another piercing look. He might prefer the life of an unsophisticated country vicar, but he was uncommonly wise. “Fleming is a captivating young man, my dear. I know this—I have been captivated by him for a very long time. But his charm is tarnished. He and his father quarreled mightily days before his father’s death, and that haunts him. Fleming fears he caused his father’s illness—which is nonsense, of course—and mourns that he had no chance to reconcile with him before it was too late.”

“Oh, how sad,” Sophie said in genuine sympathy.

“David took it to heart, yes. But do not decide that he turned into a libertine because of it. He was one long before that, and he has always enjoyed being unconventional and shocking. Whenever the Duke of Kilmorgan wishes to defeat an opponent, he asks David to bring out the dirt on that person and hound the unfortunate man until he surrenders. Morals fly out the window. David is ruthless.”

Sophie swallowed. “I see.”

Uncle softened his voice. “I refuse to shield you from the truth, my dear. As much as I love him, David Fleming is not a respectable gentleman. I allowed him to stay under this roof with you because I know he pursues only ladies of questionable virtue, which you are not. In spite of what others are currently claiming about you, you are innocent and he knows it. He has an instinct.”

Except that David had kissed her like a storm and then raged at himself for it. Sophie’s heart stung when she thought of the kiss—the imprint of which she even now felt on her lips.

He had taken her mouth in hunger that matched her own. David might believe her innocent of her husband’s accusations, but he had kissed her like he would a lover.

“The Duchess of Kilmorgan has never been a lady of questionable virtue,” Sophie pointed out, her throat tight. “Yet Mr. Fleming fell in love with her.”

“She was the exception.” Uncle nodded. “I knew Fleming would come to grief over her, but he would not listen to me. Never does. He is a chap who needs to find things out for himself, even if it half-destroys him to do so. I keep hoping that someday …” Uncle let out a rueful breath and shrugged.

“You hope he’ll become the man you see deep inside, and make you proud,” Sophie finished. “But people won’t always be what we want them to be.” She trailed off, pain filling her heart.

Uncle sent her a look of sympathy. He understood that Sophie had wanted Laurie to be the man of her dreams, but the dream had never come true. The day Sophie realized that her ideal husband and the real Laurie were worlds apart—when she’d found out about his string of mistresses, including a few of her own maids—was the day her marriage had died. She’d fallen out of love with Laurie long before he’d decided he wanted to rid himself of her.

“Fleming will discover who he is someday,” Uncle said. “Or he will not. Not everyone achieves a happy ending.”

“Including me.” Sophie sighed. “The question is, what do I do now? The divorce has already ruined me, and it is a long way from being final yet. I do have one idea, but I must have your approval.”

“Yes?” Uncle, who’d started to drift into a contemplative state, gave her his attention again. “Tell me this idea.”

“I’d like to become your assistant, if you’ll have me.” Sophie spoke rapidly, before she lost courage. “You’ve told me much about your digs and I know how to take notes and make sketches, how to measure, how to notate the finds. Between the two of us, we should be able to reveal this Roman villa, and then—who knows? Go on to excavate more sites in Britain, perhaps. Or you can return to the Middle East, as you’ve always longed to. I’m not afraid of a little dust or sunshine.”

Her uncle listened, eyes lighting. “That is true. I’d love to try my luck in Palestine. There’s the ruins at Masada …” He gazed off into the distant past before dragging himself back to the present. “Of course, my dear, you are welcome to stay here and help with this dig. An excellent scheme, and a good way for you to gain experience. You will be my secretary—I always need someone to go over my articles and get the punctuation correct. Though I must warn you …”

His expression turned dire, and Sophie stilled, worried.

“Mrs. Plimpton has the rheumatics, and she’s complaining about difficulty playing the organ. Says she wishes to retire. So you might be recruited to plonk out the hymns on a Sunday.”

Sophie relaxed. “Oh dear. Are you certain your parishioners will let the Whore of Babylon into their church? The walls might fall down.”

“No one believes you the Whore of Babylon, child,” Uncle said kindly. “Truth to tell, the parishioners rather like having a scandalous person in their midst. It gives the village a certain cachet.”

Sophie knew her uncle was trying to make her feel better, and she was grateful. She smiled. “Thank you, Uncle.”