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  Up his sprawled legs her gaze moved, up over shapely calves and powerful thighs. So snug were the yellow trousers sheathing them, that they might as well have been bare for all the detail they revealed. Despite herself and her savage reluctance to do so, Sophie found herself admiring that detail.

  Strong was the word that came to mind as she stared at those legs: strong, masculine, and perfect in their muscular contours. Rather than casting him in a more favorable light, having to add legs to his growing list of physical attributes merely deepened her dislike.

  Wishing him to the devil and herself anywhere else, she attempted to look away. To her exasperation, her gaze defied her will and continued its greedy exploration.

  Excellent thighs, yes. A grudging point for Lydia and her skills of observation. An impressive bulge — ur — uh —

  Praying her face wasn’t as red as it felt, she hastily dragged her attention upward. Hips and belly? She gritted her teeth. Lean and flat, respectively. Perhaps …

  Her stare intensified as she tried to discern a telltale corset line beneath the thin trouser fabric. After a beat she heaved an inward sigh. Oh, blast! Another credit to his list.

  Ah, well. Glumly she raised her gaze to his torso, hoping to see a lumpish waist or sunken chest. Another silent sigh. There was no mistaking it, not with the superb cut of his gold tailcoat, and blue-and-cream-striped waistcoat: His torso was as flawless as the lower half of his body. The wretch!

  Beyond annoyance now, she eyed his slim waist, resenting the dramatic and undeniably attractive manner in which it curved into an impressive chest. Knave! As for those shoulders —

  Wanting to scream her displeasure she forcefully ripped her gaze from his broad, obviously unpadded, shoulders up to Miss Stewart, who stood behind him.

  So? Who cares if his body is perfect? she decided, adding a mental sniff for emphasis. A lot of good it does with that face.

  Assuring herself that his ruined face indeed canceled out the splendor of his form, she focused on the lady’s maid. As she did so, she became aware that the woman’s lips moved and that she peered at her in the oddest of manners. Sophie didn’t have to hear her words to know that Miss Stewart spoke to her.

  Oh, curses! He’d done it again. Once more the Beast had confused her into embarrassing herself. Wanting nothing more than to wrap her hands around his despicable neck and wring it hard, she murmured, “I’m sorry. Pardon?” She could almost feel him smirk.

  “Lady Beresford wishes you to move nearer, to here.” Miss Stewart motioned to a place a scant yard from where the scourge of her existence sat.

  Though she’d have preferred to remain where she was, Sophie saw no choice but to obey. Not unless, of course, she wished to voice her objections, which would no doubt amuse his odious lordship to no end. And since she’d rather be flayed alive than provide him with yet more entertainment —

  She stiffened her spine and strolled forward. As she took her assigned place, she became aware of an all too familiar, all too disconcerting sensation of heat. He was staring. She could feel his eyes upon her, blazing through her flesh and wilting her composure.

  For what seemed like forever she stood at attention before the trio, bedeviled by a most vexing urge to fidget. Just when she was certain she could bear the torment no longer, her ladyship coughed and said, “Yes, Miss Stewart. You are quite right. She is indeed a most genteel gel. Pretty, too. Isn’t she pretty, Colin?”

  Slow fire raked her length. “M-m-m. Yes. Very.” Another soft cough, then, “You are probably wondering why I requested this interview, Miss Barton.”

  “Yes, my lady.” For the first time since entering the chamber, Sophie lifted her lashes and gazed at the marchioness. It was, after all, highly improper to look at an older lady of rank unless spoken to directly. Now that she did look at her, she saw where Lord Quentin got his breathtaking beauty.

  Hers was a face of ageless perfection, exquisite in both contour and feature. Like her son, her ladyship’s eyes gleamed a rare shade of pansy, one startlingly more violet than blue. Her hair, though now peppered with gray, held vestiges of a mahogany legacy, the bright heritage of Quentin’s much admired curls. After pausing a beat to envy the classic elegance of her nose, Sophie demurely glanced away.

  In spite of her ghostly pallor, the Marchioness of Beresford was without a doubt the loveliest woman she’d ever seen. Had she been thirty years younger, Sophie would have thoroughly despised her. Since, however, such was not the case, she felt only wonder, wonder at how such a beauty could have borne a beast like Lyndhurst.

  H-m-m. Could it be that she’d suffered a fright while carrying him? She’d heard that a fright could mark an unborn babe in a most hideous manner. She had just concluded that such was the case when her ladyship murmured, “Miss Stewart informs me that you are a gentlewoman, Miss Barton.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Your father was a baron, I am told?”

  “Is a baron,” Sophie corrected her, growing uneasy at the line of her questioning. “As far as I know, he is still alive.”

  “He abandoned her after he lost their estate. Remember, my lady? I told you all about the poor girl’s misfortune just this afternoon.” A reminder from Miss Stewart.

  A faint snort from Lyndhurst.

  A choking cough from his mother. “So you did. A tragic tale, most — ” another cough ” — tragic indeed. A gentlewoman forced to work as a maid. How devastating it must be to suffer such a dreadful reduction in circumstances.”

  Another snort from the Beast, then, “Ah, well. Matters could be much worse, you know. She could have been unable to pay her debts and ended up in prison. Isn’t that so, Miss … um … Barton?” The heat from his stare intensified. “How very fortunate for you to have escaped such a fate.”

  “Very fortunate indeed, my lord,” she gritted out. Oh, how she longed to kick him!

  The marchioness nodded weakly in agreement. “Yes, well, to get back to the purpose of this interview, I — ” She broke off abruptly with a frightful gurgling noise, a noise that rapidly evolved into an alarming fit of choking.

  Sophie stared at her in horror, at a loss as to what to do or say. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

  To her relief, Miss Stewart sprang into action. In a flash she had her mistress up off the pillows, now patting her back, now pouring some sort of liquid down her throat.

  The Beast, she noted with shock, merely folded his arms and tapped his foot, clearly impatient with the whole episode. More disturbed than pleased to be doing so, she added cruel and callous to his list of faults.

  When the seizure finally passed and Miss Stewart had laid her mistress back upon her pillows, the marchioness feebly rasped, “You tell her what we require, Claire. I haven’t the strength.” With that, her head rolled to the side and she lay still as death.

  Sophie stared at her for several beats, trying to detect the rise and fall of her chest. When she discerned none, she looked at Miss Stewart in alarm. Miss Stewart returned her gaze with a gentle smile. “No need to look so distressed, dear. Her ladyship shall be fine. She’s just exhausted from her illness.”

  Sophie smiled back in relief.

  As for the Beast, he simply grunted as if exasperated by the lot of them.

  Either deaf to or simply ignoring his lordship’s disdainful noise, Miss Stewart turned her attention to straightening her mistress’s covers. Gently tucking them beneath the woman’s chin, she said, “What her ladyship wishes me to tell you, Sophie, is that you are to act as Miss Mayhew’s abigail during her stay here.”

  “An abigail? Me?” Sophie pointed to herself, astounded.

  Miss Stewart nodded. “With your education and breeding, you shall do quite splendidly.”

  “But I know nothing about being an abigail,” she protested.

  “Of course you do. You know what sort of gown is to be worn at what time of day, what hairstyles are fashionable and becoming, and I venture to say, how to apply rouge and such should it be require
d. Having been raised and educated as you were, you are also qualified to guide the girl in matters of deportment.” The woman smiled and nodded. “So you see, you shall be perfect for the post.”

  Sophie eyed her dubiously, trying to recall her own abigail and her duties. H-m-m. From what she remembered, the woman was nothing more than a glorified nanny with fine manners and a superior eye for fashion. Still doubtful, she murmured, “Is that truly all that is required of me?”

  Lyndhurst chuckled. “That and a good hand with a scrub brush.”

  “Colin!” Her ladyship’s eyes popped open, and she glared at him with a vigor surprising for one so dreadfully ill.

  He chuckled again. “You’re right, Mother. She needs a firm knowledge of delousing as well.”

  The marchioness scowled and raised her head.

  Miss Stewart pushed it back down again. “Your health, my lady. Please do remember your health.” After shooting Lyndhurst an admonishing look, she returned her attention to Sophie. “Miss Mayhew requires a bit of guidance in grooming. Just the tiniest bit, mind you. Nothing that you’re not equal to, I assure you.”

  “That must be a relief, seeing as how you have but the tiniest bit of skill, eh, Miss … Barton?” the Beast purred, his voice too low for anyone save Sophie to hear.

  She gritted her teeth against the tart retort on her tongue. O-o-o! The wretch! She’d show him skill. She’d show him so damn much skill that he’d gag and hopefully die on his disappointment.

  Parting her lips into a rather overly toothy smile, she said, “Miss Stewart, you may tell her ladyship that I shall be honored to accept the position.”

  Chapter 13

  The Beast wasn’t jesting when he said that she’d need a good hand with a scrub brush and a firm knowledge of delousing. Miss Mayhew was beyond filthy, a veritable walking paradise for hair and body vermin. Why, she’d seen gutter water cleaner than that in the tub following the first of the girl’s three successive baths.

  Grimacing at the remembrance of that water, brown as muck and afloat with dead lice, Sophie stretched her arm farther from her body, holding her charge’s gown as far from her as possible. Like Miss Mayhew’s person, it, too, crawled with heaven only knew what.

  Wondering how the girl could live with herself, she started up the dark back steps, lifting her candle aloft to light her ascent. But stand herself Miss Mayhew did, and quite cheerfully at that. Indeed, she was actually pleased with the way she smelled, proudly referring to her foul odor as “angling aroma.”

  Angling aroma, she had stammered out, came from the natural body oil that only one lucky woman out of a million was able to secrete. That oil, when allowed to accumulate for several months, created a scent much like that excreted by mating female fish, thus acting as a powerful aphrodisiac on the males.

  According to her aroma blessed charge, male fish, sturgeon and salmon in particular, found her fragrance so enticing that they swam up to the shore and practically hurled themselves at her.

  Sophie sighed. Why the viscount allowed his daughter to go about as she did, she couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as if he himself were dirty, or that he’d failed to notice her poor hygiene. By the girl’s own admission he’d once mistaken her odor for that of a creel full of fish … a creel he’d misplaced three days earlier.

  Shaking her head in bemusement, she climbed the last three steps to the attic. Could it be that he, like the fish, preferred the reek of “angling aroma” to sweet, ladylike scents like French Violet or Heliotrope?

  Unable to believe that anyone, even the rattle-pate viscount, could have such a loathsome predilection, Sophie made her way down the corridor toward the room she shared with Pansy. Were it not for her candle and the light seeping from beneath the closed doors on either side, the hallway would have been blacker than oven soot.

  As she walked through the gold-hazed murk, Sophie gave thanks for Mrs. Pixton and her competence. Not only had she concocted a most effective delouser, she had cunningly persuaded the girl to part with her precious “angling aroma,” thus allowing for its use.

  Unsporting, the Pixie had pronounced Miss Mayhew’s odorous fishing advantage. It was extremely unsporting not to mention out-and-out fraud to call herself an angler using such unqualified methods. A true angler depended only on her skill with rod and tackle to hook her catch. Everyone knew it was so. When the housekeeper then slyly expressed doubts that Miss Mayhew possessed such skill, the girl bit at the bait and took the challenge.

  From then on Sophie’s abigail duties went smoothly enough. Indeed, not only did the girl not object to being bathed thrice, she insisted on adding carnation oil to the final rinse water.

  Carnation, she stuttered in a most affronted tone, was a natural fish repellent. By dousing herself with it she put herself at a severe disadvantage, which would serve to prove her angling skills all the more. As Sophie tucked her into bed, vermin-free and smelling like spring, the girl had sleepily vowed to empty the stream of trout on the morrow.

  That left but one obstacle to proving her own competence to the Beast — well, two really, but she’d think of a way to part Miss Mayhew from her lucky fishing bonnet later — that obstacle was how to rid the girl’s only decent gown of crawlers in time for church.

  Washing it, of course, was out of the question. It would never dry by morning. And since neither she, her ladyship, nor Miss Stewart were as petite as her charge, her chances of finding something else for her to wear were zero to none. That left only one hope: Pansy.

  Praying that her roommate wasn’t with her suitor and that her laundry-maid experience included dealing with a same such problem, Sophie practically flew the rest of the distance to their chamber. To her considerable relief, light spilled from beneath their door.

  “Pansy. Thank goodness,” she exclaimed, barging into the room.

  Pansy, who sat before the shelf that served as their dressing table, turned from the age-mottled mirror patting the most awful bonnet she’d ever seen. “Well? Whadda you think?” she chirped, visibly pleased with the monstrosity.

  Sophie eyed the mishmash of flowers, ribbons, and bedraggled feathers, trying to think of a tactful response. “Uh … with all those colors, I … um … daresay that you shall be able to wear it with just about anything. Is it new?”

  The laundress nodded, a move that sent a haphazardly attached hyacinth tumbling down her back. “It’s new to me, but it ain’t exac’ly newnew, if you get my meanin‘.”

  Sophie didn’t get her meaning having worn only new new bonnets. When she said as much, the maid explained, “Well, it’s like this: Miss Stewart give me the fuss ‘n flowers fer trimmin‘, and I found the frame in the dustbin. I put ‘em ta’gather to make this.” She indicated the monstrosity. “Been workin‘ on it fer two weeks.” Grinning as if it were a creation from La Belle Assemblee, she leaned down and retrieved the fallen flower. As she did so, two peach roses and a mangled-looked poppy-anemone fell off.

  “Oh, gom!” she muttered, her brown eyes crossing to watch a feather flutter past her nose. “If this keeps up, it ain’t gonna ‘ave a bloom or tribble left fer church.” The instant the words left her mouth, four more “blooms and tribbles” showered forth.

  Sophie didn’t miss the dismay on Pansy’s face, or the dejected droop of her shoulders as she removed and examined her molting masterpiece. As she gingerly turned it over to inspect her stitching, three of her namesake flowers and a rumpled loop of orange ribbon pulled away from the pink chip frame.

  For a long moment the maid scowled at where the clump of trim dangled from a thread, then her face crumpled and she burst into tears. “O-o-oh! ‘ateful old thing! Whadda I want with such a turdy bit o’ trash anyhow? Faw!” Enraged by disappointment, she hurled the hat to the floor.

  Not certain what to do or say, Sophie simply stood there, awkwardly watching as the girl buried her face in her hands and wept in earnest. In truth, she’d never seen anyone cry like that before, not so openly or with such unbridled anguis
h. It was, after all, the very height of vulgarity to demonstrate one’s distress in company — well, beyond a discreet, but attractively shed tear or two, that is. One most certainly did not wail and snivel, and make an altogether disagreeable scene.

  Oddly enough, she felt neither disdain or offense at the girl’s shameful display, though she knew she should. What she felt was … well, she had no name for the sensation. All she knew was that she had a most curious urge to go to the girl and comfort her. It was almost as if she actually — cared — about Pansy.

  Sophie frowned at the preposterous notion. That she should notice, much less care about, the feelings, of an inferior was shocking to the extreme. Yet, shocking or not, there was no other explanation for what she felt.

  Not certain what to make of her startling feelings, or what to do about them, Sophie uncomfortably turned away and wandered to the chipped green chair by the bed. After blowing out her candle and setting it aside, she draped Miss Mayhew’s dress over the chair back, trying to look busy as she decided what to do.

  Oh, but she felt helpless. And frustrated … so very frustrated by her ignorance of how to handle the situation. Should she simply ignore Pansy’s tears and act as if nothing were amiss? Or should she follow her instinct and offer solace? And if she did opt for the latter, how did one go about consoling a servant?

  As she wrestled with the dilemma, growing more uncertain by the second, Pansy heaved a long, ragged sigh and whispered, “I did so wanna look special pretty fer Ezra tomorrow. ‘E’s to meet me at church and take me walkin‘ after.” Looking as glum as a cleric at a funeral, she leaned over and retrieved her castaway bonnet.

  Ah! Ezra Shipley. But of course. Sophie smiled with sudden inspiration. If anything could make Pansy smile, it was prattling about her suitor. Determined to provoke the girl to do just that, she said in a teasing voice. “So, I’m finally going to meet your dashing farmer, am I?” When Pansy remained mute, staring at the bonnet as if it were the world and she’d just lost it, Sophie began to wonder if there was more to her doldrums than a few fallen flowers. Unable to imagine what sort of troubles might plague a laundress, yet compelled to find out, she went to the girl and knelt beside her three-legged stool. Trying to see her averted face, she murmured, “Is something wrong, Pansy? Something besides your bonnet, I mean?”