Page 47 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)
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Sophia marched to the sanctuary of her bedchamber and leaned against the closed door, unable to summon any powers of concentration after Wallace’s shattering revelations. It was time to dress for dinner, anyway.
Wallace had to be mistaken. Mrs. Royston had shown Sophia the wedding portrait of Wallace’s grandfather to an Italian Contessa, a woman with black hair and similar facial features to Fairfax.
Agnes had painted the wedding portrait decades before Fairfax was born, so obviously Fairfax resembled his Italian grandmother, not the other way around.
If Wallace truly believed Fairfax’s birth was the result of a liaison between his mother and a Greek shipping merchant, that would explain the tension she had noticed between the brothers.
And possibly the bruise on Wallace’s cheek?
Maybe that was also why his nose had a slight crook to it, as though it had been broken long ago.
The friction between the brothers was clearly not new, as evidenced by Mr. Huntley’s toast at dinner their first night, about the roof not falling in with all three brothers in one place at the same time.
Had Wallace made his accusations directly to Fairfax at some point? And Fairfax responded with his fist, breaking Wallace’s nose? Perhaps he had been banished to his aunt’s home after doing so, especially if they continued to fight.
How devastating that would have felt, to be accused by one’s siblings of not truly belonging in the family! Of not being the rightful heir.
It was one thing for married ladies to have their discreet affairs, just as husbands often kept a mistress … but the unwritten rule in society was to present one’s husband with his heir before seeking pleasure in another man’s bed.
Aching for the hurt Fairfax must have endured as a child from his brother’s accusations, Sophia began to change for dinner. Unlacing her boots, she couldn’t help remembering the last time she started to remove them, back in the flooded cave, until Fairfax insisted on carrying her.
Her cheeks heated as she recalled riding on his shoulders, his strong, broad shoulders. Her legs wrapped around him, her skirt rucked up scandalously high. How he’d caressed her knees, covering them with his hands. It was only to keep hold of her, she’d thought at first. Purely practical.
Until she’d felt him caress the bare skin above her stockings. Just his thumbs, slowly sweeping back and forth on the sensitive, naked skin.
Too stunned to reprimand him for taking such a liberty, she’d sucked in a deep breath, shocked at how much she’d enjoyed his touch. Grateful for the sound of the crashing waves that drowned out her ragged breathing and how loud her heart pounded.
Crossing the room to open a window so the breeze could cool her face, a package on her bed caught her attention.
She picked up the slim, rectangular box, dealt with the string and brown paper, and lifted the lid.
Inside was a white silk fichu, woven in a delicate jacquard pattern, with lace edging.
She fingered the fichu tucked into her gown that had once looked just as elegant but was showing signs of its frequent wearing.
She stroked the new one, delighting at the feel of the smooth silk, and noticed something dark underneath. Lifting out the top fichu, she found another one folded in the box.
Black. Such a fine silk it was nearly sheer, like the one she had worn the night she’d become trapped in the cave with Fairfax.
She had treated herself to it last Christmas, even though it cost the equivalent of a week’s wages, and regretted her frivolous indulgence when the Academy abruptly closed two months later.
When she lifted this one up, a small square of paper fluttered out of its folds.
Apologies for ruining yours.
The note with bold handwriting was unsigned, but she felt confident she knew who wrote it.
Replacing the black scarf she had ruined by using it as a bandage for Fairfax seemed a gentlemanly thing to do. But why had he bought her the white one?
She stared in the mirror, trying to see herself through a viscount’s eyes.
Her serviceable gown of sprigged cotton in sunny yellow and spring greens had been designed to last and still set a proper example for her students, rather than be in the first stare of fashion.
The print was fading and showed several new ink stains.
She noticed every broken thread of lace on her fichu tucked into her neckline, the greying of the white fabric against her neck.
Well.
Was the black fichu a replacement and the white fichu a gift? Was he taking pity on the spinster schoolteacher who couldn’t afford to replace a worn garment, even a relatively inexpensive accessory like a fichu?
Her mind was still spinning in useless circles when she heard a scratch on the hall door and Ruby poked her head in. “May I help you dress for dinner, miss?”
Sophia waved her in, and gave a last, thoughtful glance at the two fichus. “Yes. Let’s see what masterpiece you can create with my hair.”
Soon she sat at her dressing table, wearing her second-best gown—indigo blue velvet accented with narrow black vertical stripes that the linen merchant assured her would make her seem taller—with the new black fichu tucked in, while Ruby brushed out her braids.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Ruby retrieved two letters from her apron pocket. “These arrived for you today.”
Sophia eagerly broke the seal on the first while Ruby worked on her hair.
Thank you for your inquiry. We regret to inform you the position has already been filled.
Best wishes, etc.
“Bad news, Miss?”
Suppressing the urge to sigh, Sophia gave a tight nod. “I would dearly have loved to teach in Plymouth, but they’ve hired someone else.”
“Perhaps the second letter has better news.”
Sophia stared at the letter from a school in Manchester.
Until she opened it, it could contain good news or bad.
Did she really want to know if she’d been rejected again, just before she went down to dinner and would be expected to spend the evening among other people, a polite expression on her face?
“Oh!” She read the letter again, then a third time. “I’m hired,” she whispered, clutching the paper to her chest in relief. She met Ruby’s smile in the mirror. “They want me to start in September. With the Michaelmas term.”
“Congratulations!” Ruby retrieved the curling tongs she’d been heating in the coals.
“I know how anxious it can make a body, not knowing where you’ll be working next.
” Ruby had already swept up the back of Sophia’s hair in an elegant chignon and ruthlessly secured it in place with at least two dozen pins.
Now she tried to curl tendrils on either side of her face.
They would likely be straight again by the time the tea tray was brought, but Sophia determined to enjoy the curls while they lasted.
* * *
Vincent tried not to grit his teeth during dinner. The food was excellent, as always. His heart had quickened when Miss Walden entered and gave him a discreet nod of appreciation as she made a minute adjustment to her new black scarf. He’d tried to choose one similar to the one he’d kept.
But he’d forgotten to bring a coin for the footman, and not only was Vincent seated on the opposite side of the table from Miss Walden, she was at the far end, giving him zero chance of conversing with her. He’d have to have a talk with the footman later.
He was not jealous that Matthew and Xavier were chatting with Miss Walden. Or making her laugh.
No, he could not be jealous. Because if he was jealous, that meant… That meant that he had feelings for her. Feelings that went beyond doing the gentlemanly thing like offering marriage after he’d compromised her when they’d been trapped in the cave.
She pursed her lips to delicately blow on her soup, and he was reminded of how it had felt to kiss those lips this afternoon.
To hold her in his arms, tucked up tight against his chest, or carry her on his shoulders.
Slide her body down the front of his before …
eventually, reluctantly … letting her feet touch the ground.
He’d encountered dozens of women in London who would have been ecstatic to consider themselves compromised by him.
Not because he had a high opinion of himself; he was cognizant that he was considered a good catch by society because of his current title, wealth, and yes, his looks didn’t hurt, but he was an especially good catch because of the title of marquess and even greater wealth he would inherit upon his father’s passing.
An event that he hoped was still many years in the future.
Yet she had scampered away from the chance to have their impropriety witnessed. To exploit the situation to her benefit. To be his viscountess. She had prevented him from even offering marriage after they spent the night together in a cave.
At least she’d accepted his gift of the scarves.
As the group drifted into the drawing room after dinner, Matthew gave him a look that silently told him he recognized and was puzzled by Vincent’s preoccupation.
“Xavier, do you know Haydn’s Fantasia in C ?” Matthew called as he thumbed through a folio of sheet music. “We could play a duet on the pianoforte and harpsichord.”
Xavier wandered over to the music cupboard.
Vincent looked forward to sitting beside Miss Walden on the sofa while his brother and friend entertained the gathered company, but the vexing woman walked to the fireplace instead, her head tilted back as she examined the painting newly hung above the mantel.