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  So silent and motionless did the maid remain, that for a moment she thought she hadn’t heard her. She was about to repeat her question when Pansy turned her head and met her gaze. To Sophie’s dismay tears seeped from her red eyes and streaked her pale, freckled cheeks.

  Strangely distressed by the sight of those tears, she clutched at the girl’s thin arm, begging, “Oh, Pansy. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Whatever is wrong can’t be so very awful as all that. Indeed, I doubt it’s anything we can’t set right if we put our heads together and think.” Pansy’s damp eyes widened as if in surprise. “You’d do that? Put yer ‘ead with mine and ‘elp me?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Of course. Didn’t I just say so?”

  Her response prompted a faint smile in return. “Yer a real chum. Sophie Barton.”

  It was Sophie’s turn to look surprised. Chum? Her? She gazed at her companion’s plain, speckled face, utterly confounded. Never once had she stopped to consider the nature of her relationship with Pansy. In truth, she was unaware that they even had one. The girl was simply, well — there — always talking and smiling, always friendly and ready to lend a helping hand to anyone in need.

  A warm, cozy glow spread through her at the thought of that hand and all the times it had come to her aid. Pansy was a comfort. Yes, that’s what she was, a comfort. Why, just knowing she was there and could be depended upon in times of trouble never failed to fill her with a most soothing sense of security. Indeed, now that she thought about it, she realized that she’d come to view the girl as a guardian angel of sorts.

  No sooner had that startling revelation dawned than she was struck by its irony. How singular that she, the granddaughter of an earl, should regard a laundress as her guardian angel. How very shocking that she actually valued her as thus.

  Yet value her she did, and for the first time since arriving at Hawksbury, Sophie considered her not Pansy the laundress, but Pansy the person. Someone who she discovered was as admirable as she was generous; someone who she was proud to call friend.

  Suddenly shy, Sophie dropped her gaze from her companion’s face to stare unseeing at the bonnet in her hands.

  Despite her coarse speech, rough manners, and humble station, Pansy was one of the noblest people she’d ever met. One of the most considerate, too. And loyal. And trustworthy. Oh, and she mustn’t forget to add astoundingly perceptive and sensitive to others’ feelings also.

  By the time Sophie had recorded and tallied those, and all the maid’s other excellent assets as well, she had to admit that they totaled a most worthy person — a person far worthier than herself and her tonnish acquaintances.

  Feeling wonderfully blessed to have been gifted with such a friend, Sophie gave Pansy a quick hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Huh?” Pansy frowned, visibly puzzled by both her words and action. “Wot are you thankin‘ me fer?”

  “For calling me your chum, that’s what. I’m honored you think me worthy of your friendship.”

  The other girl eyed her suspiciously. “You been scrubbin‘ with the Pixie’s special soap again?”

  Sophie shook her head, laughing at the question. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that I suddenly realized what you mean to me and how glad I am that we’re friends.”

  “I’m happy, too, but — gom! Why’d someone like you be ‘onored to be chums with the likes o’ me? Yer quality while I’m — “

  “Kind, generous, and thoughtful, exactly the sort of person everyone wishes for in a friend,” she interjected.

  When the girl merely gaped at her, clearly at a loss as to what to make of her words, she elaborated. “We’re really not so very different, Pansy. Well, except for that you’re much nicer than I.” She paused to grin. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that the way we look and speak, and the station to which we were bom have nothing whatsoever to do with who we are. Beneath my fine ways and your freckles, we’re much the same. Just two woman struggling to make our way in the world and hoping to find a bit of happiness.”

  Pansy considered the concept, her forehead creasing in her concentration. At length she nodded. “I surpose wot you says makes some sense, tho‘ I still can’t ‘elp thinkin‘ that yer better fer talkin‘ like you do and knowin‘ the fancy stuff you know.”

  “And I can’t help thinking that you’re better for being so good and for knowing ever so many sensible things,” Sophie countered, and she meant it.

  Pansy sighed, her face growing pensive as she gazed down at her disastrous bonnet. “If I knew ‘bout sensible stuff, I’d know about makin‘ bonnets proper.”

  “And since when, pray tell, is bonnet making considered sensible stuff?” When her friend merely gazed at her, Sophie grinned and stated, “Bonnets, especially lavishly trimmed affairs like this, most definitely fall into the realm of fancy stuff. That means that fashioning them is more suited to my skills than yours. And since we’ve agreed to share our heads, well, then it falls to me to fashion this one.” Nodding to further reinforce her words, Sophie lifted the forlorn hat from Pansy’s hands and examined it.

  After several moments, during which she poked and prodded it, she looked up and concluded, “With a bit of work, I shall be able to make this into something quite becoming and elegant.”

  Pansy’s face brightened. “Then, I’ll ‘ave a new bonnet for church tomorrow?”

  “Oh, no. It shall take me at least a week to finish it.” “Oh.” The girl looked as disappointed as if she’d declared the hat hopeless.

  For a long moment Sophie thoughtfully studied her crestfallen face, then set the bonnet aside. Taking both her friend’s hands in hers, she quietly inquired, “Is tomorrow in some way special?”

  Pansy nodded. “Ezra’s give me reason to believe that he’ll be askin‘ me to marry ‘im tomorrow. O’ course, we can’t get married fer at least two years, not till ‘e can afford to rent ‘is own farm.”

  “But you shall be engaged, and that is just as important,” Sophie declared, genuinely thrilled for her friend. “How very wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

  The girl looked anything but happy for herself. “It is ‘portant, the most ‘portant day o’ my life, well, exceptin‘ my weddin‘ day, o’ course. That’s why I ‘ad my ‘eart set on ‘avin‘ a fine new bonnet. I wanted to look as special as the day.”

  Sophie returned her woeful gaze for a beat, then grinned. “You, Miss Pansy Blum, shall have a fine new bonnet.”

  “But — *”

  “Just you wait and see. You shall look so wonderfully special tomorrow that your Mr. Shipley will have trouble choking his proposal past his admiration for you.” Feeling happier than she had in a great while, Sophie waltzed to the trunk at the end of their bed and retrieved her valise.

  Ready to burst with excitement, she extracted her best bonnet and presented it with a flourish.

  “Oh! Oh!” Pansy gasped, rushing forward for a closer look. “Oh!” She skidded to a stop next to Sophie, flapping her hands in excitement as she peered at the hat. “Oh! I ain’t nivver seen nothing so fine in all my life.” Sophie gazed at the modish creation, nodding her agreement. Fashioned of sapphire velvet and opulently trimmed with white lace frills, pale blue satin pleats, and a dramatic sweep of plumes, it was beyond exquisite. A millinery masterpiece. True, one of the plumes was a bit bent from being hit by the wagon, but aside from that it was as pristine as the day she’d removed it from its box.

  Remembering all the envious glances cast its way during the Season, she held it out to Pansy. “You shall look like a princess in this. I can’t wait to see your Mr. Shipley’s face when he sees you.” When the girl made no move to take it, she glanced up and frowned. “You don’t like it?”

  Pansy shook her head over and over again, her gaze riveted to the bonnet. “Like it? Oh, law’! It’s the purtiest thing I ever seen. But — ” she looked up, her expression one of wistful uncertainty ” — you sure you want me to wear it? It must’ve cost a fortune.”

>   Sophie laughed and dropped it atop the girl’s head. “Yes, I’m sure. But only if you promise to wear the complimenting shawl.” Laughing again, this time at her friend’s look of slack-jaw ecstasy, she fished a richly embroidered length of blue cashmere from the valise and draped it over her companion’s shoulders.

  For a long moment the girl remained motionless, staring at the wrap as if mesmerized, then she uttered a hoarse cry and flew to the mirror. Turning this way and that, she examined herself from all angles. “Gom! Oh, gom!” she babbled over and over again.

  Her heart gladdening at her friend’s delight, Sophie went to join her in admiring her reflection. Reaching over to smooth one of the plumes, she murmured, “You look radiant, Pansy. The very picture of a bride-to-be.” And she did. With her eyes glowing like topaz stars and her cheeks pink with excitement, the little laundry maid was nothing short of beautiful.

  “Oh, Sophie!” Pansy fiercely embraced her. ” ‘Ow can I ever thank you? Nobody nivver done nothing like this fer me before.”

  Sophie gave her a fond squeeze in return. “No thanks are necessary. I’m thrilled I could help.”

  “Well, if I can ever ‘elp you with anything — anything a-tall! — yer to ask me. Ye ‘ear? You ask.”

  “You’ve already helped me more than I can ever repay.”

  Pansy shot her a mulish look. “I ain’t done much. Not enough fer this.”

  Though she disagreed, Sophie could see that the girl was set on returning the favor, so she nodded. “All right, then. I shall let you know the second I need — ” She broke off, remembering Miss Mayhew’s gown. “Come to think of it, I do need your help.” Praying that the maid could indeed aid her, she fetched the gown and explained her problem.

  “Got a few bosom friends, ‘as she?” Pansy murmured, taking the primrose and azure garment from her.

  Sophie watched anxiously as she turned it inside out and examined it. “Is there anything we can do to get rid of them?”

  “Well, washin‘ ‘d be best,” the girl admitted, squinting at a shoulder seam. “But seein‘ as ‘ow we ain’t got time fer that, I suppose we’ll jist ‘ave to pop ‘em.”

  “Pop them?” she echoed, shuddering at the thought catching and squashing each louse.

  Pansy giggled, clearly amused by her expression. “It ain’t a-tall like it sounds. You pop ‘em with ‘eat.” “Heat? And, er, how do you do that?” she inquired, wishing it weren’t necessary to ask.

  “Easy as blowin‘ yer nose. You jist take a lit candle and run it close to the fabric. The ‘eat makes the crams pop.” She grinned and made a noise to simulate the sound. “O’ course you gotta take care not to scorch the dress, ‘specially ‘round the seams. Scorch ‘em even the wee-est bit, and they’ll give way. Saw it ‘appen to our neighbor, Mrs. Wormby. Sleeve fell right off ‘er dress while she were wearin‘ it.”

  By now she’d finished scrutinizing the garment. “This ain’t too bad. There’s no spots or stains, and the crums ain’t as thick as they could be. My guess is that Miss Mayhew ain’t worn it more’n once. It’ll look good ‘nough when I’m done poppin‘ it.”

  Though Sophie was sorely tempted to let Pansy “pop” the gown for her, she couldn’t. Not if she was to prove the Beast wrong. Knowing Lord Hateful and his infuriating way of marking her every move, he’d somehow find out the instant she shirked her duty. Not about to give him yet another reason to gloat, she muttered, “Just show me how it’s done, and I’ll do it myself.”

  “But I want to do it fer you, to ‘elp you like you ‘elped me,” Pansy protested.

  She forced herself to smile, though doing so proved a herculean effort. “Don’t you see? You shall be helping me by teaching me one of your sensible skills. In order for me to learn it correctly, I must practice. And who knows when I shall ever get another chance to ‘pop crums‘?”

  Chapter 14

  Sophie had done an excellent job, Nicholas reluctantly allowed, glancing at the girl on his arm. Indeed, so improved were both her fragrance and appearance, that he might not have recognized Miss Mayhew at all had it not been for the noise she’d emitted when she’d walked down the stairs.

  Cringing at the memory of that braying giggle, Nicholas wished that Sophie were as adept at voice instruction as she was at primping. Miss Mayhew’s dreadful vocalization, not to mention her appalling choice of conversation, quite spoiled the effect of her improved appearance.

  Oh, well. He sighed, trying to smile at his companion’s lively but nauseating discourse on fish gutting. He supposed there was only so much a person could do to improve another, especially when allowed but a few hours to work their magic. And in all fairness, he must concede that Sophie had done more with the girl in those few hours than he’d have believed possible had she had a month.

  Filled with sudden, grudging respect for his nemesis, Nicholas guided Miss Mayhew through the ancient lych-gate and down the churchyard path. As he led her through the forest of tombstones, he found himself admiring the splendid results of Sophie’s endeavor.

  Gone was the girl’s smelly, tattered gown, deposed for a clean, carnation-scented one in becoming shades of yellow and blue. Her flaxen hair, which he’d thought impossible, had been washed and coiled and coaxed about her face in a shimmering frame of curls. As he gazed at that face, now so creamy and fine, he silently applauded Sophie’s skill with powder and paint. Why, to look at Miss Mayhew’s complexion one would never suspect her fondness for the sun. His respect rose another notch at that feat alone.

  Nodding and smiling at the girl’s choice of gutting knives, Nicholas focused on the chip bonnet atop her head. It belonged to Sophie. He’d recognized the yellow and white confection the instant he saw it, recalling as clearly as if it were yesterday how lovely she’d looked in it at Lady Sainsberry’s picnic.

  For a long moment he stared at the hat, haunted by the memory of that day. Again, he heard the music of Sophie’s laughter, so sweet and seductive; again, he saw the radiance of her smile and felt the warmth of her questing hands when she caught him in a game of blind-man’s buff.

  Again, he experienced the desperate yearning to make her his.

  Vexed and frustrated, Nicholas ripped his gaze away, cursing his stubborn desire. What the hell was he doing, wallowing so in such memories? He despised the chit, damn it. How many times must he remind himself of that fact? He despised her with a vehemence that should render all thought and memory of her repugnant.

  Hating himself for his weakness, he turned his attention to the girl on his arm, determined to lose himself in her stammering conversation. After several moments of listening, he deduced that she spoke of the production of silk fishing lines.

  “Then you s-s-soak the w-worms in p-pickle of vinegar and w-w-water for s-several h-h-hours,” she explained, visibly enamored by her topic. “After you take them out, you h-hold them at each end and t-tear them in h-h-half.” She pantomimed a vicious ripping action. “You’ll s-see two s-s-silk s-sacs inside. P-pull them out and s-s-stretch them until they’re long enough for a line.”

  As she launched into a starry-eyed narrative on the drying and preparation of the rendered fibers, he was abruptly distracted by the sound of an all-too-familiar laugh. Despite his efforts to ignore it and the woman who’d issued it, he found himself stealing a peek over his shoulder.

  Like the good abigail she’d proved to be, Sophie walked several paces behind her charge. Unlike most abigails, however, she was squired by two visibly infatuated footmen. Strangely disturbed by the scene, he sought to place her companions, his eyes narrowing as he watched them vie for her favor.

  That was Charles, the second footman, on her right, and … Terence? Yes, Terence, the fourth footman at her left. His eyes narrowed a fraction more as he noted the way they looked at her.

  There was something about Charles’s covetous gaze and Terence’s love-struck gape that set his teeth on edge. His eyes little more than slits now, he turned his attention to the object of their ogling.
Like Miss Mayhew’s bonnet, he at once placed her fetching gown. She’d worn it the first time he’d taken her walking in the park. As she had then, she looked ravishing in it now. And again he was captivated, utterly and blissfully captivated.

  Her skin blushed like a peach against the gown’s lush coral hue; a ripe, succulent peach that tempted the lips and promised heaven in every taste. As for its cut and fit… ah! Perfection! Absolute perfection in how it cleverly revealed nothing and hinted at everything: long, shapely legs … feminine hips … a slender torso … and full, succulent …

  Nicholas blinked, appalled to find himself gaping at Sophie’s breasts. Mortified, he tore his gaze away and returned it to his companion, praying that she hadn’t noticed his shameful faux pas.

  She hadn’t. Miss Mayhew was squinting in the opposite direction, waving her arm like a drunk hailing a cab.

  Thankful for that small mercy, he followed the direction of her wildly flapping arm. On the pleasant tree-strewn green to the right of the imposing medieval church, stood his father, the viscount, and several of the more prominent members of the local gentry. His father was signaling him to escort Miss Mayhew over. Grateful for the diversion, he promptly did as directed.

  As the marquess introduced the girl about, speaking of her in the most glowing and exaggerated of terms, Nicholas noticed that three footmen and a valet from a neighboring house had joined Charles and Terence in wooing Sophie. As for Sophie, she held court beneath a tree several yards away, clearly enjoying their attention.

  And why not? he brooded, his mood darkening. All six men had the pretty, unblemished sort of faces she favored. To his supreme discomfort he was filled with a sudden, irrational urge to pummel those faces and mar their pleasing perfection. Especially that of Charles Dibbs. The way the footman groped Sophie’s arm and stared at her breasts …