Chapter Nineteen #3
A scratch at the door heralded Duncan with the tea tray.
He looked rather absurd, that great mountain of a man—the once-criminal who now served as her brother’s butler—carrying the delicate silver tray with its shivering cups and accoutrements.
He set it on the table and bowed before quitting the room.
Sophia couldn’t help but notice the glare he sent to Ned—or Ned’s responding wince.
She also noticed Duncan did not close the door.
What a farce.
As though Ned needed a warning to behave himself with her.
She could have the plague as far as he was concerned.
She retook her seat across from him and poured the tea, though she really should have rebelled against decorum and made him pour his own. It was a nonsensical rule that ladies had to pour. Men had fingers.
Without asking, she added his sugars and milk. He took the cup and downed it, glancing around as though seeking reprieve.
“Honestly, Ned.” It was hopeless.
Ridiculous, in fact. Ewan wanted to marry her to a prince, for pity sake. Even if Ned were interested in her, he had little to recommend him but good family. His brother was a duke but Ned was hardly in line for the title since Edward had his heir. And a spare.
Aside from that, Ned was a rebel. A rakehell. Or so her brother averred when he was in his cups. According to Ewan, Ned slept his days away and spent his nights in a wild bacchanal of women, wine and song.
Likely he had all manner of fascinating adventures.
It was hardly fair.
She shoved the plate of cakes at him and he took two.
Unfair that, as well.
As a lady on the market, she had been advised to forgo cakes as they had an unfortunate tendency to collect around her middle, and if she wanted to catch a husband—
Oh bollocks.
She didn’t.
She helped herself to a cake as well. It was delicious, an exquisite mix of lemon and mint. It made her feel decidedly better. Or at least a touch rebellious.
The uncomfortable silence was punctuated only by their chewing and alternate sipping. To break it, and because she burned to know, she asked, “Why do you need to speak with Ewan?”
Ned grunted and swallowed. “I need him to intercede for me.”
Sophia blinked. “Intercede?”
His handsome face wrinkled in chagrin. “I got myself into a bit of a pickle.”
Oh, dear. How utterly unfair. Men were always allowed to get themselves into pickles. Sophia was guarded as though she wore the crown jewels. “I should love to get into a pickle,” she said, refilling their cups.
“I lost a bit too much at faro and, well, Edward was furious.”
“Why should Edward be furious?”
Ned had the grace to flush. “Because he had to pay the debt. As if that weren’t bad enough, there was the bit about the horse.”
“The horse?”
“I bought a horse.” His eyes lit up at that. He’d always loved his cattle. “Ah, Soph, he’s a beauty. An Arabian stallion. Perfect for stud. Races like a champ. Byzantium is his name.”
“Mmm. How regal.”
“He’s magnificent.”
“Why ever would Edward mind that?”
Ned’s enthusiasm crumpled. “I didn’t ask him first. There wasn’t time, you understand. He was on auction. And damn Charles for bidding me up. He knew I wanted him.”
“Still, why would Edward care?”
“He had to pay for that as well.
Sophia chuckled. “How much was it?”
Ned ran a finger around this collar. “That hardly signifies. The point is, Edward has decided I need...seasoning.”
“Seasoning?” She wrinkled her nose. What on earth was seasoning?
“He’s sending me to Italy.”
Her heart stalled. Her breath caught in her throat. A sudden, unaccountable panic rippled through her, dancing shivers over her skin. “I-Italy?”
He stood and paced to the mantel, leaning against it in a classic pose, so beautiful it made her chest hurt.
“A Grand Tour.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t want to go, Soph.
I have a life here. Friends. All right, Edward, and Ewan for that matter, don’t care for my friends, but they’re my friends, don’t you know.
I’m a grown man, for pity sake. I should be allowed to choose my own friends, make my own decisions—”
“I so agree.” She clasped her hands and hid her smile at his adorable snit. He’d called her Soph again.
“You do?” His expression lit up.
“I do. You should also be allowed to lose tremendous amounts...of your own money.”
He frowned at her.
She was used to his frown. She did not allow it to affect her. “How long will you be gone?” she asked, because somehow it was vital to know.
He shrugged. “Two, three years.”
Three years?
Oh heavens.
In three years she would be married, probably to some prancing prince. Ned would be lost to her forever—
Ruthlessly, she scuttled the thought. She was over him. She was. He’d slayed all her feelings the day he’d broken her heart. “That’s—that’s a very long time.”
“It is.” He fiddled with his cuffs. “I am hoping Ewan will help Edward see some sense. He was rather angry.”
“I imagine so.” The bit about Edward being angry. Not the bit about Ewan helping him see sense. That bit was ludicrous.
Ned dropped back onto the divan, this time sitting fully rather than perched on the edge, but his demeanor was rather deflated. “I don’t want to go, Soph.” He scrubbed his face with a palm. “I don’t want to leave.”
She didn’t want him to go. Ah, no, her heart cried out, but her tongue stayed silent. Instead, she forced a smile. “It sounds like a wonderful adventure.” She tried ignore the sudden boil of jealousy and resentment. She’d have jumped at the chance to sail the world.
Ned barked a laugh. “You always did love adventure, Bugnut,” he said with a fond smile, but then, as though he’d realized what he’d done, he stiffened up like a poker.
His retreat annoyed her tremendously. So much, in fact, she responded with, “I’ll be married when you return.”
It was gratifying, watching him pale. It meant nothing, but it was gratifying all the same.
“Will you?”
She sipped her tea. It was cold. “Ewan has a prince in mind.”
Ned took another cake, then set it back on the plate. “Nothing less would satisfy him.”
“Naturally.” Her response was tinged with bitterness but she doubted Ned caught it. He was studying the plate of cakes again. “Heinrich von Wichtigtuerisch from the ?sterreich.”
“Ah.” Ned nodded, but she caught his grimace. “I met him. A fine man. Fine man.”
“Austria,” she said musingly. “I wonder what it’s like.”
““It’s very far.”
“It is.”
Silence welled between them. He slapped his knees. “Well, where the hell is your bother?”
“Such language, Ned.”
He met her eyes. His expression, or lack thereof, scored her to the soul. “My apologies, Lady Sophia.”
“Bollocks, Ned.”
She loved that she could still make him grin.
Regret and a hint of heartbreak swept through her. “If you go to Italy, this is likely the last time I shall ever see you.”
He stilled. Stared at her. She fancied she saw some inkling of desperation in his eyes as well, but it was only a fancy. He blinked and his expression turned cool and remote once more. “I certainly wish you well, Lady Sophia,” he said.
“And I you, Ned.”
Their gazes tangled again but only for the briefest moment. He opened his mouth as though he would say more, but just then Ewan blew into the room. There was no other way to describe it. Like a westerly gale, he swept in. And glared.
First at her and then at Ned.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to—”
“And why are the two of you unchaperoned?”
Sophia bristled. Unchaperoned? This was Ned. There was no such requirement. “We were having t—”
Ewan rounded on Ned again. “I thought I told you—” He glanced at Sophia and stopped abruptly, leaving an opportunity for Ned to respond.
“I need to talk to you, Ewan, if you please. I came to talk to you. It’s urgent.”
Ewan crossed his beefy arms and eyed his brother-in-law askance. “Urgent to you or urgent to me?”
Ned’s throat worked. “To me, of course.”
“Did you lose more money?”
Ned paled. “No, I—”
“Because Edward told me about that debacle. And the horse. And the fight on Rotten Row—”
“He insulted my mother!” It was a well-known fact Ned’s mother had had a scandalous liaison with her husband’s brother, the previous Duke of Moncrieff. Several liaisons. Seven at least, if one were counting Wyeths.
“Irrelevant.” Ewan glowered. “You have a responsibility to the family name. A responsibility to behave with respectability.”
Ned gaped at him. “Seriously? This, from Ewan St. Andrews? The McCloud?”
Oh dear. Not wise.
Ewan bristled.
For a certainty, he had been, at one point, a wild Scottish brigand, but he had worked hard to earn and maintain a modicum of propriety, to secure a reputation amongst society. Throwing his past in his face was hardly the way to gain his support.
“Ned,” she said.
Ewan whirled on her. “Why are you still here?” he snapped.
She crossed her arms. “I live here.”
“Why are you in this room?”
Sophia tipped her head to the side and offered a charming grin. “Because the two of you are entertaining.”
“Out!” He jabbed a finger at the door.
She pouted. “Really, Ewan. Can’t I watch?”
“Out.”
She picked up the plate of cakes and plodded to the door. “I never get to have any fun,” she said in jest.
Though it wasn’t a jest. Not really.
Nothing seemed very funny right now.
She glanced over her shoulder at Ned as she closed the door. He stood, strong and stalwart, bravely facing Ewan’s wrath. There were few men in the world who could do that.
He was so handsome and so dear.
It broke her heart to know she might never see him again. That he would be heading for Italy, possibly this very day if Ewan’s expression was any measure of such things. And if she ever did see him again, she might well be married to some toad of a man from the hinterlands of the Alps.
She glanced down at the plate of cakes, which she planned to eat—one after the other.
It was not fair.
Not fair at all.