Page 47 of Dukes for Dessert

The presence of Dr. Pierson helped. Pierson knew full well how David felt about Sophie, and yet he chatted cheerfully about inane things like what sort of farming David did here and the history of the village church.

David took Sophie and Dr. Pierson over the house, from the attics to the gallery of famous paintings, to the ballroom and parlors made to host kings.

“It’s like you,” Sophie said on the last day of their visit. She and David lingered on the terrace, in full view of Dr. Pierson in the library—that is, they would be if Pierson bothered to look up from his books and maps. “The house, I mean.”

“In what way?” David glanced at the walls behind him, the mansard roof high above. “Pray tell. I do like a good metaphor.”

Sophie gave him the smile he’d grown to love. She’d softened since her first night here, when she’d been brittle, fearing to believe the troubles in her life could ever be over.

But they would be. David would see to it.

“Outwardly hedonistic,” Sophie said. “Bathing the senses in sumptuous luxury, promising delights. But solid beneath, comforting. Steady. Peaceful.”

“Steady and comforting.” David huffed a laugh. “What every gentleman wants as his epitaph.”

She gave him a look. “I know you are not offended, so do not pretend to be so.”

“Nothing you do offends me, Sophie, love.”

Their hands rested near each other’s on the railing, hers slender in dark brown gloves, his hard in black leather. Their arms were nearly touching but not quite.

This waiting was horrible. And there was nothing to say that when Sophie found herself free she’d turn to David.

All he could do was see what would come. When foolish and young, he’d thrown himself at a woman, and he’d fallen on his face.

He refused to do that again.

Sophie said nothing more, but what he saw in her eyes told him the waiting was difficult for her too. He moved an inch closer, still not touching her, but sharing her warmth. They stood so, in silence, drinking in the night and each other, before Pierson emerged to rattle on about ancient methods used in these parts to till the earth.

The next morning, the Fleming coach pulled to the front steps to take Sophie and Dr. Pierson to the village station. David handed Sophie in.

“I thought you were coming with us,” Pierson said in bewilderment as David stepped back once the vicar had settled himself. Sophie remained quiet—she, being more observant, had probably noted the footman loaded only the valise she and her uncle had brought with them. No bags for David.

“Things to do,” David said. “Worry not, dear sir, I will turn up soon in Shropshire, clad in ragged tweed, ready to break my back for you once more. I have business to take care of. Trial to face and so forth.”

Sophie sent him a worried look. “Mr. Griffin is still pursuing the suit?”

David had deliberately not spoken of his impending trial or Sophie’s marriage since their first night. It had been pleasant to talk about houses and gardening, archaeology and local history. Who’d have known such topics could be so entertaining?

“He is, confound him.” David kept his voice light. “Do not worry, my friends. Basher McBride will shred the prosecution and have Griffin on his knees abjectly begging my pardon.”

Pierson nodded, believing him. Sophie looked more trepidatious, but David shut the coach’s door, deliberately not touching the hand she lay on the windowsill.

Sinclair’s last message had indicated that Griffin was out for blood. David had angered so many people in his life that he might well have to face the music now—Griffin had many supporters. David had confidence that Sinclair would win the day, but they might have to concede much to Griffin before the man backed off.

But facing a trial that might end in David breaking rocks at Dartmoor did not gouge him as much as saying good-bye to Sophie that day. He folded his arms over his chest to contain his emptiness, watching dust rise as his coach carried her down the drive and perhaps out of his life.

Sophie went through the next weeks with difficulty. Dr. Gaspar had continued with the dig, unearthing a stash of pottery that excited him and Uncle greatly. No gold or treasure could have made Uncle Lucas happier than these everyday cooking pots.

David remained absent. Sophie made herself cease scanning the road hopefully or rushing to the door of the vicarage when any cart rumbled by.

Eleanor did not return either, though she sent the developed photographs to Uncle Lucas and promised to take more when the London Season let her escape.

Sophie tried to shut out the world and concentrate on helping her uncle, but it was difficult. She found herself, during the tedious process of brushing dirt from the mosaic or the potsherds, thinking of nothing but David, how safe she’d felt in his arms, how decadent under his kiss.

His voice, his deep laughter, the scent of smoky wool and brandy, the gleam in his eyes before he launched into one of his satirical speeches.

He’d burned his way into her heart, and Sophie knew he’d not leave it soon.

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