He kissed the tip of her nose and smiled. “It would help if you were a bit more fearful rather than a bloodthirsty little swan. You must not take risks. Don’t you wish to spit in the fool’s eye once we capture him?”
“Spit in his eye?” she growled. “I would much rather set him up as a target for either pistols or archery.” Her fury quickly mellowed to a wickedly gleeful smile. “Your choice, of course.”
“Whatever makes you happiest, my love.” He buried his face in the curve of her neck and ran the tip of his tongue along the delicious length of her slender throat.
She stroked his sides and hugged her legs around him. “I know what would make me happiest right now,” she said with a suggestive wiggle.
“I agree, my love, and we shall go slower this time and savor it.” He nibbled along her collarbone and enjoyed the silkyfullness of her breast in his palm. He moved lower and traced his tongue around her nipple. “To happiness.”
“Uhm…to happiness and an afternoon of nothing but each other.”
Chapter Thirteen
“And where areyour guardians now, dear sister?”
Sophie cast a casual glance around as she and Celia meandered along Bond Street, idly admiring items in the shop windows. “I believe Mr. Forthrite remained close to the carriage. But the whereabouts of Mr. Tomes and Mr. Freedly escape me. I am sure they are very close, though. Mr. Wethersby spoke to them quite sternly about keeping me safe while Nash was…” She halted, searching her memory, only to discover she couldn’t finish her reply with any reasonable semblance of certainty. Her dear husband had left extremely early before she came down to breakfast.
“While Nash was…?” Celia prompted while arching a brow.
Sophie shook her head as they admired a silver tea set fit for the queen herself. “He had an appointment somewhere today, but I am not certain where. He failed to say when he kissed me goodbye before I was fully awake.” She squinted harder, not at the tea set but at the oddness of the situation. He had left their bedroom so very early. Where on earth would he have needed to be at such a peculiar hour?
“He probably had some boring errand not worth mentioning.” Celia drew closer to the shop window and examined a long, narrow silver tray before pulling a quizzing glass from her reticule and holding it to her eye. “Oh dear, it wasmuch prettier when I couldn’t discern that those small handles on each end were writhing eels rather than delicate scrollwork.”
“Writhing eels? Really?” Sophie took the small magnifying glass and eyed the intricate metalwork in question. “My goodness, you are right. Why on earth would anyone wish to have writhing eels for the handles of such an unusually long tray?”
“To serve eels for dinner, I suppose?” Celia shrugged as they continued on to the next shop window, enjoying the sunny day and balmy weather. “There is the parasol shop just there. Did you not say you wished to examine the newest styles and discover if they would suitably freshen your wardrobe?”
“I wondered if they might have some simple white ones or subtle prints available.” Sophie lightly twirled the pale-yellow parasol she currently held in place to shield her from the sun. “I simply do not see the need for a different parasol to match every bonnet and walking dress. Not only is it wasteful, it is time consuming to ensure that every article of an ensemble is matched to the set with which it belongs.”
“Have you become miserly now that you are married?” Celia teased.
Sophie couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “You know I have never condoned wastefulness. I consider it a vulgar attitude while so many are forced to do without, through no fault of their own.” She halted, adjusted the tilt of her parasol, and squinted against the brightness of the day. Dread and disgust squeezed her like an overly tightened corset. “Oh dear, is that not Lady Bournebridge and her vicious little pets coming this way?”
“Indeed, it is,” Celia said with what appeared to be a forced smile. “Forgive me, but we must speak to them even though she and her cronies gave our dear Frannie the cut direct at Gretna Green. Lord Bournebridge is little Oliver’s godfather.”
Sophie clenched her teeth and braced herself for the unpleasantness of greeting the demoness of Polite Society. Lady Bournebridge’s sole purpose in life was to make everyone either find themselves owing her a costly favor or wishing they had never made her acquaintance—usually both. But if the vile woman had any wits about her, she would tread carefully. After all, Lady Bournebridge knew Sophie had discovered that her only daughter had fallen from grace and shamed the family by eloping to Gretna Green with the head groom of the Bournebridge stables.
Lady Bournebridge, Lady Essendon, and Lady Mardlebon inclined their heads in almost identical snobbish nods as they drew closer.
“Your Grace,” Lady Bournebridge said to Celia before aiming a haughty curl of her lip at Sophie. “Lady Rydleshire.”
“Greetings, Lady Bournebridge,” Celia said, then returned the nods of the other two ladies.
“Good day, Lady Bournebridge,” Sophie replied woodenly, wishing the viperous trio would move on with no further meaningless conversation. “Ladies,” she said, belatedly acknowledging the other two for propriety’s sake.
Lady Bournebridge idly turned and cast a glance back in the direction from which they had just come. “So here you are, Lady Rydleshire. Imagine my surprise when I saw your husband flagging down a coach with a lady on his arm, and it wasn’t you.” She feigned a shamefaced look. “I fear I embarrassed myself by calling her Lady Rydleshire.” Her snide chortling left no doubt she relished the encounter as the lateston dit. “Of course, Lord Rydleshire was good enough to correct me.” She tapped her chin as though struggling with a faulty memory. “Miss Hampshire, he said her name was. Imagine my surprise.”
Sophie forced her smile to remain firmly in place, refusing to give the old crow the satisfaction of a reaction. “Ah yes,my husband’s cousin,” she lied. “Delightful lady. They are quite close.” A sickening knot tightened in her middle, threatening to make her knees give out and drop her to the ground. But no, she would hold strong. Old Bournebridge would report the weakest twitch of an eyelash to the entirety of theton, and Sophie refused to give her any additional fodder for her tales.
“His cousin?” the cruel woman repeated as she arched both eyebrows to even haughtier heights. “I see.” She slid a glance over to her cronies, and they all tittered behind their hands like hags cackling over a cauldron.
“Why, there they are again,” Lady Essendon said, with a snobbish wave at a pair of coaches passing on the street. “Oh dear. I don’t believe they saw us.”
“Which coach?” Sophie snapped, no longer able to curtail her temper.
“That one right there, dear. The hackney.” Lady Bournebridge directed Sophie with a subtle nod just as the coach stopped, Nash stepped out, then turned to help a rather questionably dressed, buxom blonde step down from it. The woman, obviously one of ill repute, rubbed up against him in a most unseemly manner as she took his arm and tugged him into an establishment that bore no sign.
“His cousin, you say?” Lady Bournebridge said with a malicious smile. “Indeed.” She turned to her snickering companions and twirled her parasol. “Come, ladies. Bid Her Grace and Lady Rydleshire good day. After all, I am quite certain they wish to catch up with Lord Rydleshire. Perhaps even join him and his cousin for luncheon.”
