Chapter Six
The following day, the mantel clock in Hayden’s bedchamber chimed three times.
In precisely fifteen minutes, Miss Camden would enter the room with his afternoon tea. The woman was as regimented as a general in the Royal Navy.
A faint tap sounded on the door. It slowly swung inward, and Mathews crossed the threshold like a thief in the night. Hayden noticed the crutches in the valet’s hands and smiled. “Where did you find them?”
“She hid them behind a tall cabinet in the laundry room.”
The sly vixen. Last night, he’d leaned the crutches against the bedside table and awoken today to find them missing. When he’d asked his nurse where they were, she’d smiled with that wide, sensual mouth of hers.
Hayden swung his legs over the side of the bed and tugged his nightshirt down. It was damn inconvenient wearing the garment. “Where is she?”
Mathews tiptoed to the bed as if expecting Sophia Camden to burst through the door, rip the wooden braces from his hands, and strike the valet over the head with them. “She is conversing with a maid in the kitchen. She should be here shortly.”
A laugh escaped Hayden’s lips. Perfect. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on his pretty nurse’s face when she found him up and about again. Balancing himself on his good leg, he tucked the crutches under his arms, and hobbled toward his private sitting room.
He’d reached the doorway when a gasp sounded behind him.
Damn, he wanted to see her expression, but turning around on these blasted crutches was precarious at best. He continued across the room.
“My lord!” There was no mistaking the displeasure in her sharp tone.
Mathews, the coward, squeaked and dashed from the room.
Upon reaching the mahogany desk, Hayden lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind it. He tried to keep his countenance impassive, but the steady throbbing in his leg made it a difficult task.
Hands on her hips, Miss Camden strode toward him. A rosy pink tinged her honey-colored cheeks. She looked lovely when irate. “Do you comprehend the damage you may be causing?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. She’d look even more attractive if she stood before him gagged. He opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew some business correspondence that required a reply. “Madam, I have no intention of staying in bed all day.”
“You are a most obstinate man.”
“Then we are evenly matched, aren’t we, my dear?”
The corners of her lips turned up a fraction. “Well, if you insist on this reckless course, at least elevate your leg.” She moved to the corner of the room, lifted a small chair, and placed it next to him. “Please, put your leg up on this.”
The pain in his thigh was so intense he didn’t dare move.
As if sensing his discomfort, she knelt, gently raised his leg, and set it on the upholstered seat. Almost immediately, the throbbing slowed, and all he experienced was the pleasant warmth of her fingers on his calf.
Her head was right below his chin, and the scent of lemon and lavender drifted to his nose. He leaned forward and drew in the enticing fragrance at the exact moment she turned and peered up at him. Only inches separated her mouth from his. Her almond-shaped eyes grew round.
This close, he could see her irises were a few shades lighter than her pupils. A deep, warm chocolate. The urge to brush his fingers over the texture of her silky skin nearly overrode him.
He jerked back.
Bloody hell. She was his adversary. He wanted to win the dare. He wanted her gone. Didn’t he?
She scrambled onto her feet, looking as disconcerted as he felt, and tugged at the waistband of her white pinafore. “I brought your afternoon tea. It’s in your bedchamber. I shall bring it in here.”
As she walked out of the sitting room, he leaned sideways to get a better view of the sway of her hips. He grasped the edge of the desk as he nearly toppled out of his chair. “Damnation, get ahold of yourself, old boy.”
Miss Camden stepped back into the room. “Did you ask me something?”
“No,” he grumbled.
“Do you wish me to pour?” She set the silver tea service on the desk.
He grunted an affirmation, and watched as her delicate hands lifted the teapot. Her fingers were long and elegant, and he imagined them sliding down his abdomen to his—
“It’s hot,” she said, jerking him from his naughty daydream. She set the cup and saucer on the corner of his blotter. Her head tipped to the side and she wet her lips. A habit of hers that made the brainless appendage below his waist react. Thankfully, her gaze wasn’t on him, but on something on the desk.
She bent closer. “I know that emblem.”
He slapped his hand atop the parchment emblazoned with a Hereford bull and the name J. H. MASON scripted beneath it. “Do you mind?”
“I do beg your pardon, my lord. It’s just that I see a great deal of crates and barrels burnished with the J. H. Mason mark at the Whitechapel Mission. Do you conduct business with the wholesaler and grocer?”
“What concern is it of yours?”
She pursed her lips. “I daresay it’s not. However, Mr. Mason donates a prodigious amount to the charity. And Mrs. Hamblin, the mission’s matron, says what he sends is of superior quality, not rancid like most of the other alms they receive.”
He swept the correspondence up and folded it.
“Miss Camden, Mason is far from a saint. He buys his goods in quantity, which in turn, allows him to procure them at a better price. Moreover, when he opens a new grocer’s shop, he immediately undercuts his competitors. Believe me, a man like Mason doesn’t reach the success he has attained without treading ruthlessly upon others. Indeed, if he is in possession of a heart, it is black at best.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I beg to differ. Any man who is so generous to the poor and friendless cannot be without merit.”
“If you met him, you’d disagree. Now, I have work to do, if you don’t mind.” He picked up a fresh piece of paper and started writing correspondence to his banker.
“Is there anything else I might do for you before I go?”
Go? His gaze snapped back to her face. “Where? I hope you’re not returning to that hellhole again.” His gut tightened.
“Do you mean Whitechapel?”
“Yes.”
She smiled, causing those two dimples on her cheeks to make an appearance. “No, I was only going to have a cup of tea in the kitchen.”
“Very well, I don’t need your coddling.” Yet, even as he said it, he had a feeling he’d sit here and wonder when she would return. Sophia evoked an odd dichotomy within him. At times, he wished to wring her slender neck and at other times, when she wasn’t about, he experienced a loneliness he couldn’t explain.
* * *
Sophia strode out of the private sitting room and into Lord Westfield’s bedchamber. Her black medical bag sat on a low mahogany dresser, and she rummaged through it. Alice, the chatty maid, was suffering with a terrible toothache.
Ah, here it is. She withdrew a bottle of Dr. Young’s Soothing Syrup. Though not a proponent of the tincture, she’d give the maid a single dose to alleviate her pain.
She descended the servants’ steps to the kitchen. Alice sat at a long table, holding the side of her face. The ginger-haired girl was as pale as a ghost.
“You need to visit a dentist,” Sophia said. “I’ll give you a spoonful of this to ease your discomfort.”
“Thank you, miss.”
“Alice, it will only get worse if you ignore it. The tooth might become abscessed. There’s a dentist on the Strand. A Dr. Weber. He is most gentle.”
The young woman swallowed the syrup and stood. “Mrs. Beecham has already agreed to give me the afternoon off to see a dentist. Thank you, again, miss.”
Still clutching her cheek, Alice exited the room.
Sophia poured herself a cup of tea from the porcelain pot on the sideboard. As she sat in the now empty kitchen, she noticed the chef and Elsie, a kitchen maid, in an adjacent room washing root vegetables at an oversize copper sink. The robust Frenchman waved his hands in the air as he spoke to the young girl.
This morning, instead of porridge, Monsieur Laurent had made warm cinnamon rolls and eggs for the staff. He’d acted irate at the additional work involved in preparing such a breakfast, but had smiled repeatedly as the staff oohed and aahed as they ate. Obviously, this change from the normal fare was Westfield’s doing. His lordship was a bit of an enigma.
After finishing her tea, Sophia made her way upstairs and entered the bedchamber she’d been given: a lovely cream-colored room with a large tester bed with green velvet bedding and a wide mahogany armoire. Not a servant’s room, but the closest in proximity to his lordship’s apartment across the corridor.
Sophia sat on the edge of the bed and touched her cheek where Lord Westfield’s breath had fanned against it, his lips only inches from hers. His blue eyes had stared intensely at her. For a moment, she’d thought he might kiss her. Her heart had fluttered in her chest. Was it all part of his plan to unsettle her? The scoundrel.
A noise drifted up from under the bed, pulling her from her thoughts. She jumped and dashed to the far corner of the room.
Something was under there. She prayed it wasn’t a rat. The beasts terrified her. She’d endured them when she’d first returned to London. They had infested her sister Maria’s tenement, scurrying about the dark recesses of the squalid room, gnawing in the walls, especially during the night. The recollection dried her mouth.
She reminded herself that she was much larger than any rodent, and one must expect to see rats, especially in a city as crowded as London. Yet, already her palms grew sweaty, and her heart pounded in her chest.
The noise sounded again. Louder.
Sophia lifted her skirts, darted to a small gilded chair, and leapt upon it in a most unladylike manner. The delicate chair creaked, and for a terrifying moment, she feared it would shatter and send her unceremoniously back to the floor.
Another noise filled the quiet room. It didn’t sound like vermin, but like a giggling child.
Gathering her skirts high, Sophia stepped off her perch, walked to the bed, and lifted the edge of the counterpane.
A young girl, wearing a white silk half-mask adorned with blue plumage, popped her head out from beneath the bed like a turtle emerging from its shell.
“Why did you jump onto that chair?” the child asked.
Sophia’s face warmed. The girl clearly thought her a lunatic.
“Hello,” Sophia said, ignoring the question.
The child, who looked to be about seven or eight, crawled out from the darkened space. “You’re not a maid. The maids sleep on the fourth floor, and the color of your navy dress is not as ugly as the gray ones they wear.”
“Thank you.” Sophia took no offense. She’d learned long ago, children were the voice of honesty. She dried her damp palms on her starched apron.
The girl cast her own clothes a dubious glance before she smacked the dust off the skirt of her yellow dress and white stockings, sending a flurry of dust motes into the air.
Sophia smiled and plucked a large dust ball out of the girl’s long brown hair and another off the blue plumes darting out from her mask. “Quite a pretty mask you’re wearing. Are you to attend a ball this evening?”
“Lawks, no. I found the mask while rummaging through some old trunks in the attic one day. I thought they belonged to my mama, but Mrs. Beecham says they belonged to my grandmama.”
This was obviously Westfield’s daughter.
“What’s your name?” The girl didn’t wait for a reply, but continued, “I’m Celia.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Celia. I’m Sophia, your father’s nurse.”
“I thought so. The last nurse was a man. He stayed in this room as well. I wouldn’t want to be a nurse.” Celia ran her small hand up one of the long feathers and bit her lip. “I don’t like blood. I saw lots of blood when my papa was shot.”
Who took care of the child? Why hadn’t they kept her away from seeing such mayhem? “Where is your governess, Celia?”
“Papa gave her the boot last week. Called her a narrow-minded old biddy.”
No wonder Lady Prescott offered such a generous salary; it appeared Westfield went through employees like most people went through coal in January.
“He called her another name too. I didn’t know what it meant, and when I asked Aunt Edith, she nearly swooned. Then she took out her Bible and prayed all afternoon. Aunt Edith says I shouldn’t eavesdrop. Do you know my aunt Edith?”
“I do,” Sophia replied, wondering how the religious Lady Prescott had ended up with such a rascal for a brother, and how he had ended up with such a lovely daughter.
“She and Papa are going to interview for a new governess as soon as he’s better. I’ve been staying at Aunt Edith and Uncle Henry’s. But Papa sent a missive saying he wishes me to return home. Aunt Edith doesn’t think it wise. She is talking to him right now.” Celia frowned.
“You wish to return?”
“Yes, I miss Papa when I’m away.” The child bit her lower lip again. “I know I shouldn’t be in your room, but when I went to my bedchamber to visit Albert, the little crumb was missing, so I’m searching the house.”
“Albert? Is he your cat?”
“No, he’s a fancy white mouse.”
Mouse? Sophia fisted her hands in her skirts and inched them upward. She didn’t care for mice either, though usually they had the decency to scurry away.
“Do you believe him to be in here?”
The child shrugged her narrow shoulders. “He could be anywhere.”
“Indeed.” Sophia scanned the floor.
The girl’s eyes lit up behind her mask. “Would you like to help me find him?”
Sophia suppressed the urge to shudder. “No, my dear, I have to check on your father shortly.”
Celia’s shoulders slumped. “Papa doesn’t like Albert to run willy-nilly about the house.” She sighed. “Great-Aunt Hortense gave him to me. Papa was not pleased. He said Albert is a country mouse and would be happier living with Great-Aunt Hortense in Kent.”
This tidbit shocked Sophia. She found it difficult to imagine Westfield gently trying to persuade his daughter to return the mouse. She figured him for the type to have one of the maids or footmen just squash the animal with a broom while the child wasn’t looking.
Celia pulled off her mask, and Sophia noticed the resemblance between Westfield and his daughter. Except Celia did not possess her father’s startling blue eyes. Hers were brown. “I might get a fancy rat instead,” Celia said, moving to the door. “They like the city.”
Sophia’s legs felt weak. “A fancy rat?”
“Yes, Lady Marley has one. She keeps it in a gold birdcage.”
Sophia’s breath tightened in her chest. “A rat?” she echoed again with more disgust and utter disbelief than she meant to show.
“Yes, I hear the queen has one.” The child’s voice radiated more than a modicum of excitement.
“I prefer cats myself.” Sophia opened the bedchamber door. She didn’t elaborate on the fact she had several as a means to control vermin. The child would think her heartless.
As they slipped into the corridor, Celia glanced at her father’s closed bedchamber door. Lady Prescott could be heard talking inside the room. “I like cats, but if I got one, I’d definitely have to bring Albert to Great-Aunt Hortense’s first.”
Celia skipped down the corridor. She placed her hands on her hips. “Albert, you little gadabout, Papa won’t be happy if he hears you’ve taken to roaming around the house.” She stopped to peer under a hall table before turning back to Sophia. “I’ll bring Albert back after I find him. He likes his tail petted.”
Sweat prickled Sophia’s palms again. She nodded, but as soon as Celia turned around, Sophia gave an involuntary shudder.
* * *
An hour later, when Sophia went to check on Lord Westfield, she found him sitting on the sofa in his private sitting room reading Beauty and the Beast to Celia. His lordship wore a sapphire-colored robe of rich velvet with silk lapels over his nightshirt. The child was nestled in the crook of her father’s arm while her stockinged feet were propped upon Lady Olivia’s back as if the dog were an ottoman.
From the doorway, Sophia surveyed them. The scene emitted peace and contentment. Such a stark contrast to the images she had formed with regard to Westfield and his relationship with the child—especially after Thomas’s conversation in the carriage.
But had not Celia’s own words implied a loving regard?
“Sophia!” Celia called. “Have you met Lady Olivia?”
The dog lifted its head and excitably slapped its tail against the ottoman Westfield’s injured leg rested upon. His lordship lowered the book and narrowed his eyes at the animal.
“I have.” Sophia tried not to laugh at the surly expression on Westfield’s face.
Celia stroked the dog’s back with her small feet. “Isn’t she darling?”
Westfield’s glower darkened.
“Yes,” Sophia replied unable to quell the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“I am to remain home tonight,” Celia said with exuberance. “And Lady Olivia is to sleep in my room.” She turned to her father. “Right, Papa?”
“Only if you wish, dear; otherwise she is going to warm Hawthorne’s bed.”
Celia giggled. “Oh, Papa, don’t be a silly goose.”
Sophia blinked. Had Celia just called her father a silly goose, and had Westfield smiled in response?
“Was there something you needed, Miss Camden?” his lordship asked.
“No, I wished to know how you are faring.”
He smiled down at his daughter. “Quite well.”
“Then I shall leave you both to enjoy your story,” she replied.
Westfield started reading to Celia, then glanced up. “Are you fond of books, Miss Camden?”
“Yes, very much so.”
He motioned to a row of mahogany bookcases that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. They were crammed with novels, while two more stacks rose from the floor to nearly the height of Celia. The earl was obviously an avid reader. “You are more than welcome to borrow any of the books in this room or the library downstairs, if you wish.”
Without waiting for her response, he returned his attention to the child, and began to read again.
“Thank you.” Sophia strode toward the bookcases. Her eyes perused the leather bindings, stopping at a familiar brown cover with gold letterings. Robinson Crusoe. She blinked away the moisture blurring her vision, and drew the book off the shelf. Grandfather had loved reading this tale to her and her sister, Maria. For a brief moment, she clutched the novel to her chest. Feeling the heat of Westfield’s gaze on her, Sophia turned around. He peered at her over the edge of the book he held. Her heart fluttered. Was he looking for a crack in her armor?
“I appreciate the loan of the book, my lord.” Sophia moved toward the door.
“No, please stay, Sophia,” Celia called out.
“Yes, Sophia,” Westfield said, his voice as smooth as silk. “Join us.”
His lordship’s charismatic voice sent a shiver down her spine. His deep blue eyes held hers as he smiled warmly. This was the roué—the man who made the ladies of the ton behave so recklessly. Heat coursed through her veins. She prayed she was not blushing like a young schoolgirl.
She should offer an excuse as to why she could not stay. But somehow the words came out differently. “Thank you.”
“Sophia,” Celia said. “You may sit on the other side of Papa on the sofa.”
Next to his lordship? Goodness, no. Westfield’s gaze jerked to his daughter. He appeared as startled by the suggestion as she.
“Celia, because I do not wish to crowd your papa’s injured leg, I think it best I sit here.” Sophia walked to a navy velvet chair that faced them. She sat and opened the thickly bound edition of Robinson Crusoe. The leather binding creaked and a musty scent, common in old books, made her nostrils flare.
A soft tap sounded on the open door to the sitting room. The gray-haired housekeeper stood at the threshold. “Excuse me, my lord,” Mrs. Beecham said, “but Mr. Talbot is here for Lady Celia’s piano lesson.”
“Oh, Papa, do I have to have my lesson today? Mr. Talbot smells like dirty socks.”
Westfield laughed. “Really?”
Celia nodded. “I wish he smelled like Sophia. She smells nice, doesn’t she?”
His lordship peered at Sophia, a twinkle in his eyes. “Indeed, she does. Quite lovely.”
A spark of current burst in Sophia’s stomach. How silly to allow the scoundrel’s flattery to affect her so easily.
Westfield kissed the child’s forehead. “Sorry, dear. Today you will have to contend with Mr. Talbot’s less-than-gardenlike fragrance.”
Celia wrinkled her nose, but slipped off the sofa. She stroked Lady Olivia’s head. “Do you wish to come?” she asked the dog.
The Saint Bernard trotted to the door, its tail wagging in an excitable rhythm. Celia’s face lit up. “What a smart dog she is.”
The smile on Westfield’s face faltered. Obviously, the man realized the longer the dog stayed, the more his daughter’s attachment would grow.
“I will return after dinner, Papa.” Celia darted from the room.
Sophia closed the book and begun to rise from the chair.
“You don’t need to rush off.” He flashed a boyish smile.
How innocent he looked. Bears looked just as lovable—if one forgot about their claws. Did the man have something up his sleeve? Did he wish to ask her more scandalous questions about anatomy?
She tipped her chin high and sank back onto the thick cushion. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Yes.”
She braced herself for more of his wickedness.
“Of all the books I possess, I want to know why you chose Robinson Crusoe.”
The question startled her. Not at all what she’d expected. “It is the same edition my grandfather enjoyed reading.”
“Ah, that explains the expression on your face upon seeing it. You may keep it.”
“Keep it? Thank you, but I couldn’t.”
“I have another copy in the library downstairs.” As if the matter were settled, he picked up the leather-bound novel lying next to him on the sofa and flipped it open.
“You are too kind.”
He nodded, but didn’t look up.
As they read, a quiet, companionable silence settled over the room. A comfortable, momentary truce.
The story of the shipwrecked Crusoe caused echoes from the past to drift through Sophia’s mind. Grandfather’s deep baritone, reading English words in his heavily accented voice, and Maria correcting him when he would occasionally lapse into Italian. The memory tightened her throat. She lifted her gaze from the pages to Grandfather’s painting hanging on the wall. How odd that it was here in Lord Westfield’s house. Though not Grandfather’s largest painting of the River Thames, it was one of his best. He’d painted it standing on the Chelsea Embankment.
“Do you like it?” Westfield asked, peering at the painting.
“Yes, it’s lovely.”
“It’s a Gianni. Very few of his pieces come up for sale. I found this one at a dealer’s shop on the Strand. Are you familiar with his work?”
Very. “Yes, I’ve seen several of his paintings at the National Gallery.” She’d bestowed a collection to the museum.
“So you visit museums when not tending to the poor or infirmed?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else do you do for entertainment, Sophia? Play whist? Backgammon?” He grinned. “Visit Vinton’s gambling hell or dance on the tables at Morley’s Music Hall?”
Wanting to shock him, she lied. “The latter, but only on Mondays.”
He snorted, and her own laugh bubbled forth.
“Careful, Sophia, your wit is showing.” Slowly he lifted his legs onto the sofa and stretched out. He closed his eyes and draped an arm over them.
Sophia’s gaze drifted from his bare feet, over his robe and broad shoulders, and to his mouth. Ignoring the fluttering in her belly, she lifted the book and forced herself to read instead of gawk.
* * *
With his eyes closed, Hayden listened to Sophia as she softly turned the pages of the book she read. Every once in a while, she would make a small noise. A little sigh that somehow sounded musical.
After several minutes, the sounds ceased, leaving him feeling bereft.
Of course, this fixation with the woman must be due to his interminable boredom. Though he did enjoy their sparring and the way her lovely dark eyes flashed when she grew agitated, along with how easily her cheeks flushed. It had been a long time since he’d associated with a woman who blushed.
Why was she so quiet? He lowered his arm and peered at the chair where she sat. Sophia no longer wore her austere navy dress and starched apron, but a vibrant green gown that clung to her body like a second skin. The low décolletage exposed breasts so tightly corseted they almost spilled out of her bodice. His gaze lifted to her unpinned hair, absent her abominable starched cap. The dark, shiny strands flowed over her shoulders, a magnet to the light streaming through the sitting room windows.
Sophia looked breathtaking.
She stood and drifted across the room as if her feet floated on air. The corners of her wide mouth tipped upward as she surveyed him from beneath the veil of her lowered lashes. Without a word, she lifted a hand to the silk-covered buttons that lined the front of her bodice and started unfastening them.
His mouth grew dry. When was the last time he’d experienced such intense anticipation for the sight of a woman’s naked body?
Her bodice fell open to reveal the warm hue of her skin and a black, almost sheer corset. She wore no chemise, and the gauzelike fabric did little to disguise the tawny color of her nipples. He’d seen dancers in the northern district of Paris garbed in such erotic clothing.
The little coquette leaned forward and lightly trailed her fingers over the swell of her breasts.
A quick rush of blood stiffened his already thickened rod.
Straightening, she gave a little wiggle and pushed the gown’s shimmering fabric off her hips until it pooled at her feet. She now stood before him wearing a sheer hourglass corset and black gartered silk stockings that encased her long slender legs—legs that seemed to go on forever. His taut bollocks drew almost painfully against his heavy shaft.
She stepped closer to the sofa. So close, he could smell the scent of lavender and lemon emanating off her warm silky body and hair.
“My lord,” she said, her voice soft and dreamlike. “My lord, it’s time to rise.”
If he rose a bit more, he’d cause irreparable damage.
He snaked an arm around her slender waist and pulled her body on top of his.