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“You mean spirits?”
Sophia nodded.
“I only drink spirits occasionally. When my betrothed married the Duke of Halmesbury, I enjoyed a last hurrah and then mostly lost interest. I was never that fond of the consequences of drinking, and I find I like to keep my mind clear.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Does that make me a more desirable suitor?”
“It does.”
Saunton’s distinctive green eyes blazed. “So, I am to call on you tomorrow? And we will talk? I mean … talk openly?”
Sophia inclined her head. “We are well beyond propriety, are we not?”
The earl’s face lit with the same warm expression she remembered from the night of their last dance. His delight was evident as he gracefully guided her through the steps of the waltz.
Sophia’s heart skipped a beat as her gaze lingered on his sculpted lips. She found herself wondering—what would it feel like to kiss such a handsome rogue?
As if reading her thoughts, Saunton’s gaze grew more intense, dropping briefly to her lips. Nervous, she flicked the tip of her tongue to moisten them, only to catch the subtle tightening of his jaw and a shift in his expression.
It was clear that the earl saw her as more than just a dance partner. The realization sent a flutter of awareness through her, leaving her both flustered and intrigued.
Sophia found herself growing accustomed to the idea of this man taking on the role of her protector. It was a surprising thought, but one she was beginning to accept as a credible escape from her current predicament. Saunton was a bit too tarnished to be considered a conventional hero, to be sure, but she had always prided herself on her ability to set things to rights.
Chapter
Four
“Modesty is the citadel of female virtue.”
Dr. John Gregory, A Father’s Legacy to His Daughters
The following morning, Sophia walked into the drawing room with Nancy in tow. Saunton’s eyes flicked toward the elderly maid as he bowed to greet her. “Miss Hayward, I was thinking we might take a drive through the park.”
As Sophia curtsied, she smiled and shook her head. “Nay, Lord Saunton, I arranged for us to talk in private, as you indicated we had intimate matters to discuss today.”
Lord Saunton narrowed his eyes in confusion as he stared pointedly at the old woman beside her.
“Nancy is hard of hearing, aren’t you, Nancy?” Sophia directed her question to the short maid with the full head of gray hair pinned under her mob cap in disarray.
“Too fancy? I don’t think so, miss. I think you look like a perfect young lady!” Nancy responded with a perplexed expression.
“Nancy was my uncle’s nursemaid when he was a boy, and he is very attached to her. Fortunately for us, she does not wish to retire, so the household accommodates her limited communication abilities,” Sophia explained before raising her voice. “NANCY, WHY NOT SIT HERE AND WORK ON YOUR MENDING?”
“Bending? I don’t really do much bending anymore, miss.”
Sophia blinked, her head beginning to ache at the strain of talking to the beloved but exasperating maid she had sought out thirty minutes earlier to attempt to explain that she would chaperon a visit.
Nancy blinked back, and several seconds of silence ensued before she said, “I think I shall sit here in this chair by the door and do some mending.”
Sophia beamed her approval, nodding enthusiastically before any further conversation was encouraged. Turning back to Saunton, she saw his handsome countenance relax into a relieved expression. He stepped forward to hand her a bouquet of hothouse flowers with a bow. She smiled in pleasure at the gesture, thanking him warmly. He gestured to the seating area. “Shall we, Miss Hayward?”
Accepting his invitation, she strode forward to take a seat on the hard, silk-covered sofa and primly folded her hands into her lap—the picture of maidenly modesty. She had no intention of being proper this morning, but if Nancy looked up, she would not find any cause for alarm.
As Saunton flicked the tails of his wine-colored coat to take his seat, Sophia could not help but notice that the infamous earl boasted a masculine form that was near perfect, with a flat stomach and powerful thighs encased in buckskin breeches. His black and brown Hessians were polished, his shoulders broad, and his silky, curling hair brushed his white stock. She had heard him compared to Lord Byron, but she personally thought Saunton had a friendlier and more approachable demeanor than the arrogant poet she had heard tales about.
“Tell me about your crusade of amends, my lord.”
