Lady Sophia's Lover

CHAPTER 8

"You are aterrible patient," Sophia exclaimed when she saw that Ross was dressed and out of bed. "Dr. Linley said that you should stay abed at least another day."

"He doesn't know everything," Ross replied, working his feet into his shoes.

"Neither do you!" Exasperated and worried, she followed his movements as he went to his dresser and searched in the top drawer for a fresh cravat. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to my office for an hour or so."

"No doubt you'll spend the entire day working!" In the past four days since Ross had been shot, it had been increasingly difficult for Sophia to make him rest. As his strength returned and his shoulder mended, he wanted to resume his usual breakneck pace. To keep him still, Sophia had brought piles of paperwork from his office, and had taken reams of notes while he dictated in bed, or in a chair by the hearth. She had served his meals and spent hours reading to him. Often she watched over him while he dozed, her gaze taking in every detail of his sleep-softened face, the way his hair tumbled onto his forehead, the relaxed lines of his mouth.

Sophia had become familiar with his scent, how his throat moved when he drank his coffee, the dense texture of his muscles beneath her fingers as she changed his wound dressing. The bristle of his jaw before he shaved. The rusty catch of his laughter, as if he were not used to making the sound. The way his black hair sprang in unruly waves before he brushed them smooth each morning. The way he surprised her with kisses when she collected his tray or straightened the pillows behind him...kisses like dark, sweet conspiracies, his hands gripping her with gentle insistence.

And instead of denying him, she responded with abandon.

To Sophia's shame, she had begun to have lurid fantasies about him. One night she had dreamed that she climbed into Ross's bed and laid her naked body full-length against his. She had awakened to discover that her sheets were damp with perspiration, her heart was thumping, and the place between her legs was alive with sensation. For the first time in her life, she had put her fingers to that throbbing peak and stroked gently. Delight shot through her loins as she imagined that Ross was touching her again, his mouth tugging at her breast, his fingers working skillfully between her thighs. Steeped in shame and guilt, she continued to stimulate herself, discovering that the more she rubbed, the sharper the pleasure became, until it ended in a wash of heat that drew a shaken moan from her lips.

Rolling onto her stomach, Sophia lay there dazed and puzzled. The feeling ebbed and her body became pleasantly heavy, and she wondered how she could face Ross the next day. She had never known such a feeling, a physical need that was alarming in its urgency. In addition to her sexual attraction to Ross, Sophia felt an inescapable liking for him. She was fascinated by the quirks of his character. When confronted with an unpleasant duty, he did not try to avoid it, but instead threw himself into it with singular determination. Duty meant everything to him. If called on to wear a hair shirt for the sake of his dependents, he would have donned one without question.

She was amused by the fact that although Ross never lied, he shaded the truth to suit his purposes. If he ever raised his voice, for example, he asserted that he was not shouting but being "emphatic." He denied being stubborn and instead described himself as "firm." Neither was he dominating, only "decisive." Sophia laughed outright at his claims and discovered, to her delight, that he was not certain how to react. He was not a man whom anyone dared to tease, and Sophia sensed his cautious enjoyment of her baiting.

As they talked in the quiet evening hours, Sophia had shared the few memories she had of her own childhood: the feel of her father's whiskers when he had kissed her good night...a family picnic...the stories her mother had read to her. And the time when she and her little brother had mixed water into her mother's face powder and played with the paste, and how they had been sent to bed without supper.

Ross was able to draw more confessions from her despite her effort to hold them back. Before she quite realized it, she had found herself telling him about the months after her parents' death, when she and John had run wild in the village. "We were horrible little fiends," she had said, sitting in the bedside chair with her knees curled up and her arms locked around them. "We played nasty tricks, and vandalized shops and homes, and stole..." She paused and rubbed her forehead to ease a sudden pinching ache.

"What did you steal?"

"Food, mostly. We were always hungry. The families that tried to look after us did not have much to spare. When our behavior became too wicked to tolerate, they washed their hands of us." She hugged her knees more tightly. "It was my fault. John was too young to know better, but there was no excuse for my behavior. I should have guided him, taken care of him..."

"You were a child." Ross spoke with apparent carefulness, as if he understood the weight of the guilt that threatened to crush her. "It wasn't your fault."

She smiled without humor, not accepting the consolation.

"Sophia," he asked quietly, "how did John die?"

She stiffened as she fought the temptation to tell him. That deep, soft voice was asking for the key to her soul. And if she gave it to him, he would scorn and punish her, and she would shrivel into nothing.

Rather than answer him, she had laughed unsteadily and invented some excuse to leave the room.

Now, as Ross extracted a dark silk cravat from the dresser, Sophia's thoughts were forced back to the present. The fact that Ross had taken it upon himself to leave his sickbed provided her with a welcome distraction, and she pounced on it eagerly.

"You will overtax yourself and collapse," she predicted. "And you will get no sympathy from me. You should heed the doctor's advice and rest!"

Standing before the looking glass, Ross tied the cravat with a slight wince of discomfort. "I'm not going to collapse," he said evenly. "But I have to leave this room, or I will go mad." His silvery gaze met hers in the reflective glass. "There is only one way you will get me back into that bed--and I don't think you are ready for that yet."

Sophia looked away from him immediately, turning hot with embarrassment. It was a sign of how familiar they had become, that he would acknowledge his desire for her so openly. "You must at least have some breakfast," she said. "I will go to the kitchen and make certain that Eliza has boiled the coffee."

"Thank you." The corners of his lips tilted in a wry smile, and he finished knotting his cravat with a deft tug.

Later that morning Sophia filed reports and depositions in the criminal records room while Ross conducted meetings in his office. Straightening the piles of paper before her, Sophia sighed despondently. During the first month of her employment, she had begun to copy information that she believed would be damaging to the Bow Street office and all who worked there. Most of it concerned mistakes that a few runners and constables had made, from procedural errors to mishandling of evidence. Ross had chosen to discipline the men privately, as the last thing the public office needed was a potentially ruinous scandal.

Sophia knew she had to gather much more information if she wanted sufficient ammunition to destroy Ross and his runners. For the past three weeks, however, she had done nothing to further her goal. To her self-disgust, she did not have the heart for it. She no longer wanted to hurt Ross. She despised herself for her own weakness, but she could not bring herself to betray him. She had come to care deeply about him despite her efforts to avoid it. Which meant that her poor brother's death would never be answered with justice, and his short life would therefore have no meaning at all.

Gloomily Sophia sorted through files until Ernest appeared suddenly and interrupted her labors. "Miss Sydney, Sir Ross wants ye."

She stared at the errand boy with immediate worry. "Why?"

"I don't know, miss."

"Where is Sir Ross? Is he all right?"

" 'E's in 'is office, miss." The boy left in his customary haste, off to perform more errands.

Sophia's stomach flipped with anxiety as she wondered if Ross had pushed himself too hard. It was possible that he had somehow ruptured his wound, or succumbed to fever once more, or exhausted himself with too much activity. She went to the office in a headlong rush, ignoring the startled faces of barristers and clerks she pushed by in the narrow hallway.

The door to the Chief Magistrate's office was open. Sophia crossed the threshold with swift strides. Ross was sitting at his desk, looking pale and a bit tired, his gaze lifting as he saw her. "Sophia, what--"

"I knew it was too soon for you to go back to work!" she exclaimed as she reached him. Impulsively she put her hands on him, feeling his forehead, the sides of his face. "Do you have fever? What is the matter? Has your shoulder started to bleed again, or is it--"

"Sophia," he interrupted. His large hands wrapped around hers, his thumbs nestling in her soft palms. A reassuring smile touched his lips. "I'm fine. There is no need for concern." She stared at him closely, ascertaining for herself that he was all right. "Then why did you send for me?" she asked, bewildered.

Ross's gaze moved to a point beyond her shoulder. To Sophia's sudden consternation, she realized that they were not alone. Twisting, she glanced behind her and saw that Sir Grant was seated in the large leather visitor's chair. The giant was watching the pair of them with startled interest. Sophia snatched her hands away from Ross's and closed her eyes in humiliation.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, wishing she could somehow disappear. "I--I overstepped my bounds, Sir Ross. Forgive me."

He grinned at her embarrassment and spoke to Sir Grant. "Morgan, I have something to discuss with Miss Sydney."

"Apparently so," came Morgan's dry rejoinder. He bowed briefly, his green eyes twinkling as he glanced at Sophia. The door closed behind him.

Sophia covered her reddened face with her hands. Her voice filtered between her stiff fingers. "Oh, what must he think of me?"

Ross came from behind the desk and stood before her. "No doubt he thinks that you are a kind and caring woman."

"I am sorry," she said again. "I did not realize that Sir Grant was here. I should not have come to you so impetuously, nor should I have...It's just that I am in the habit of..."

"Of touching me?"

She squirmed in discomfort. "I have become too familiar with you. Now that you are well again, things must return to the way they were before."

"I hope not," he replied quietly. "I enjoy our familiarity, Sophia." He reached for her, but Sophia stepped back hastily.

Averting her eyes, she asked in a subdued tone, "Whydid you send for me?"

A long moment passed before he replied. "I've just received word from my mother of what she assures me is a great crisis in her household."

"No one is ill, I hope?"

"I'm afraid it is far more serious than that," he said sardonically. "It pertains to an upcoming birthday party she is giving for my grandfather."

Perplexed, Sophia looked up into his dark face as he continued.

"Apparently my mother's housekeeper, Mrs. Bridgewell, has suddenly gotten married. She had been seeing an army sergeant, who proposed to her when he learned that the regiment was soon to be moved to Ireland. Naturally Mrs. Bridgewell wished to accompany her new husband to his new post. The family wishes her well, but unfortunately, her absence occurs in the midst of preparations for my grandfather's ninetieth birthday celebration." "Oh, dear. When will the event take place?"

"In precisely a week."

"Oh, dear," Sophia said again, remembering from the great household she had worked at in Shropshire that such large festivities required meticulous planning and near-flawless execution. Food, flowers, guest accommodations...there would be an overwhelming mass of work involved. Sophia pitied the underservants who would be required to step in to manage things.

"Who will arrange things for your mother, then?"

"You," Ross muttered with a scowl. "She wants you.

The family carriage is waiting outside. If you are willing, you are to leave for Berkshire at once."

"Me?" Sophia was stunned. "But there must be someone else who can take Mrs. Bridgewell's place!"

"According to my mother, no. She has asked for your assistance."

"I cannot! That is, I have no experience in taking care of something like this."

"You do quite well at managing the servants here."

"Threeservants," Sophia said in agitation. "When your mother must have dozens and dozens."

"About fifty," he told her in a deliberately offhand manner, as if the number were of little significance.

"Fifty! I can't be in charge of fifty people! Surely there is someone far more suitable than I."

"Perhaps if the housekeeper's departure had been less precipitate, they would have found someone else. As it is, you are my mother's best hope."

"I pity her, then," she remarked with great feeling.

He laughed suddenly. "It is only a party, Sophia. If all goes well, my mother will no doubt take the credit for everything. If it proves to be a disaster, we'll blame it all on the absent Mrs. Bridgewell. There is nothing for you to worry about."

"But what about you? Who will take care of you and manage things here while I am gone?"

He reached out and fingered the white collar at the neck of her dark blue dress, the back of his knuckle brushing the tender underside of her chin. "It appears I will have to make do without you." His voice lowered to an intimate pitch. "I expect it will be a long week indeed."

Standing so close to him, Sophia could smell the tang of his shaving soap, the touch of coffee on his breath. "Will your entire family be there?" she asked warily. "Including your brother and his wife?" The prospect of abiding beneath the same roof as Matthew was distinctly unappealing.

"I doubt it. Matthew and Iona prefer the pleasures of town life--the country is too quiet for them. I expect they will wait until the weekend, and arrive at the same time as the other guests." Sophia considered the situation carefully. There seemed to be no graceful way to refuse Ross's mother. She sighed in consternation at the Herculean mission that had been set before her. "I will go," she said tersely. "I will do everything in my power to make your grandfather's party a success."

"Thank you."

His hand slid around the back of her neck, and his fingers brushed over the braided coil pinned at her nape. His fingertips found a few delicate wisps of hair and stroked gently.

Sophia drew in an unsteady breath. "I will pack my things."

His thumb traced a slow, tiny circle on the side of her neck. "Aren't you going to kiss me good-bye?"

She licked her dry lips. "I don't think it is wise for us to...to do that anymore. It is not appropriate. This separation is a timely one, as it will allow us to go back to the way things were--"

"Don't you like kissing me?" He picked up a stray lock of hair on her neck and fingered it lightly.

"That is not relevant," Sophia heard herself say. "The point is, we shouldn't."

His eyes glinted with challenge. "Why?"

"Because I think...I am afraid..." She gathered her courage before blurting out, "I cannot have an affair with you."

"I have not asked for an affair. What I want from you is--"

Impulsively Sophia put her hand to his lips. She did not know what he had been about to say, but she did not want to hear it. Whatever his intentions were, she would die if he put them into words. "Don't say anything," she begged. "Let us be separate for a week. After you take some time to reflect, I am certain that your sentiments will change."

His tongue touched the seam between her fingers, and her hand jerked away. "Are you?" he asked, lowering his head.

His lips brushed over hers in a communion of moisture and warmth that filled her with unbearable pleasure. She felt the tip of his tongue against her bottom lip, softly teasing, and her resistance melted away. Gasping, she strained upward, and was caught against his hard body, one of his hands fitting beneath her buttocks. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him hungrily. She was unable to deny the attraction between them, which was, of course, the point that Ross was now intent on making. He rewarded her response with an even deeper kiss, his tongue sliding past her teeth, until she sagged against him in helpless pleasure.

Suddenly she was released. Stunned, Sophia put her fingers to her damp mouth.

Ross looked arrogant and amused, his own face flushed. "Good-bye, Sophia," he said, his voice thick. "I will see you in one week."

The vehicle provided by the Cannons was by far the most luxurious Sophia had ever ridden in, with French windows and velvet curtains, the dark-green-lacquered exterior decorated with gold-leaf scrolls, the interior upholstered in glossy brown leather. The well-sprung carriage traveled jauntily over the twenty-five-mile distance between London and Berkshire.

Although the prospect of arranging the weekend party was intimidating, Sophia was eager, to see the country estate where Ross had spent his childhood. The county of Berkshire and its environs were just as he had described them, with abundant pasturelands, fertile woods, and small towns with bridges arching over the Kennet and Thames rivers. The smells of freshly turned sod, river breezes, and grass mingled to create a pleasantly earthy fragrance.

The carriage turned off the great road onto a much smaller one, the wheels bouncing and jolting as the paving became ancient and uneven. As they approached the town of Silverhill, the scenery became even more picturesque, with fat sheep grazing in the meadows and half-timbered cottages dotting the green countryside. The road led through a series of timeworn gates covered in ivy and roses. The carriage skirted the periphery of Silverhill and started down a long private avenue. They passed through the stone gates of the Cannon estate, which Ross had told her was about fifteen hundred acres in size.

Sophia was impressed by the beauty of the land, which featured groves of oak and beech, and an artificial lake that sparkled beneath the cool blue sky. Finally the outlines of a Jacobean mansion rose before her, its roofline arching in a profusion of turrets and gables. The rubbed-brick facade of the home was so magnificent that Sophia felt a painful jab of anxiety in her stomach.

"Oh, Lord," she whispered. The towering entrance of Silverhill Park Manor was fronted by fifteen-foot-high hedges and bordered by a terraced walk featuring huge beds of primrose and rhododendron. A row of immense Oriental plane trees led the way to an orangery on the south verge of the walk. In Sophia's most extravagant dreams, she had never expected the Cannons' country estate to be so imposing.

Two thoughts assailed her at once. First, why would a man with this kind of wealth consign himself to live in the Spartan quarters at Bow Street? And second, how was she going to survive the next seven days? Clearly, she was wholly inadequate to the task that lay before her. She was too inexperienced to direct an entire regiment of servants. They would not respect her. They would not listen to her.

Sophia clasped her hands over her stomach, feeling sick.

The carriage stopped before the central entrance. White-faced but resolute, Sophia accepted the footman's assistance from the carriage and accompanied him to the door. A few knocks of his gloved hand, and the oak-paneled door opened in well-oiled silence.

The stone-floored entrance hall was immense, with a grand central staircase that split on the second landing and led to the east and west wings of the mansion. The walls were covered with gigantic tapestries woven in apricot, dark gold, and faded blue. Sophia was interested to see that two sets of receiving rooms flanked the entrance hall. The set on the left was decorated in a masculine style, with elegant dark furniture and blue tones, whereas the set on the right was predominantly feminine, the walls covered with peach silk, the furniture delicate and gilded.

A butler showed Sophia to the peach receiving room, where Sir Ross's mother awaited.

Mrs. Catherine Cannon was a tall and elegant woman, dressed in a simple day gown, with shimmering amethyst combs in her upswept gray hair. Her face was angular, but her green eyes were kind. "Miss Sydney," she exclaimed, coming forward. "Welcome to Silverhill Park. Thank you for rescuing me from a terrible disaster." "I hope I may be of some use," Sophia said as the older woman took her hands and pressed them warmly. "I explained to Sir Ross, however, that I have little experience in these matters--"

"Oh, I have every faith in you, Miss Sydney! You strike me as a very capable young woman."

"Yes, but I--"

"Now, one of the maids will show you to your room so that you may freshen up after that long carriage ride. Then we will walk through the house, and I shall introduce you to the servants."

Sophia was shown to a small but serviceable room that had belonged to the former housekeeper of Silverhill Park. She exchanged the white collar of her dark dress for a fresh one, brushed her skirts and shook the dust from them, and washed her face with cool water. As she returned downstairs, she marveled at the loveliness of her surroundings; the ceilings of interlaced ribs and painted panels, the galleries filled with sculpture, and the endless rows of windows providing lush views of the gardens outside.

Rejoining Catherine Cannon, Sophia accompanied her on a tour of the house, doing her best to commit every detail of the place to memory. She was vaguely puzzled by the way Ross's mother treated her, which was with far more solicitude than a servant merited. As they strolled through the house, Mrs. Cannon told her stories about Ross--that as a boy, he had been given to playing pranks on the butler and wheeling his friends about on the gardener's flat-barrow.

"It seems that Sir Ross was not always serious and solemn, then," Sophia commented.

"Heavens, no! That came only after his wife passed away." Mrs. Cannon's mood changed suddenly, her lips taking on a regretful softness. "Such a tragedy. Devastating to all of us."

"Yes," Sophia said softly. "Sir Ross told me about it."

"He did?" Catherine came to a halt in the middle of a huge drawing room papered in a white-and-gold French-flocked design. She regarded Sophia with an arrested stare.

Sophia returned her gaze uneasily, wondering if she had said something wrong.

"Well," Mrs. Cannon murmured with a faint smile. "I have never known my son to mention a word about Eleanor to anyone. Ross is an unusually private man."

Feeling that Mrs. Cannon was perhaps drawing some conclusion that should not be drawn, Sophia tried to remedy the woman's misunderstanding. "Sir Ross mentioned a few things about his past during his fever. It was only because he was weary and ill--"

"No, my dear," came Catherine's gentle reply. "My son obviously trusts you, and values your company." She paused and added cryptically, "And any woman who is able to draw my son away from that sordid world of Bow Street will have my blessing."

"You are not pleased by his position as Chief Magistrate, Mrs. Cannon?"

They resumed their stroll through the drawing room as Ross's mother replied, "My son has given ten years of his life to public service and been remarkably successful. Naturally I am quite proud of him. But I feel the time has come when Ross should turn his attention to other matters. He must marry again, and sire children. Oh, I am aware of the impression Ross gives that he is somewhat cold-natured, but I assure you, he has the same needs as any man. To be loved. To have a family of his own."

"Oh, he is not cold-natured at all. Any child would be quite fortunate to have such a father. And I'm certain that as a husband, Sir Ross would be--" Suddenly realizing that she was chattering like a parrot, Sophia snapped her mouth shut.

"Yes," Catherine said with a smile. "He was an excellent husband to Eleanor. When he marries again, I am positive that his bride will have few complaints." Seeing Sophia's discomfort, she spoke in a brisk manner. "Shall we go to the formal dining room? It is sided by a serving room--quite a convenient area to keep the dishes hot during a long supper."

During the day, Sophia was so busy that she had little time to think about Ross. However, there was no escape from the longing and desolation that filled the quiet evening hours. Utterly defeated, she admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with the man she had wanted to ruin. She had been vanquished by her own heart. There was nothing to do but abandon her plans for revenge. There would be no seduction...no tainted victory. She would leave her position at Bow Street as soon as possible and try to go on with the rest of her life.

Her new resolve left her feeling drained but peaceful, and she concentrated on the coming weekend party with wan determination.

Twenty-five bedrooms in the main house would be occupied with guests, as well as another dozen in the nearby gatehouse reserved for the use of bachelors. Families from Windsor, Reading, and surrounding towns would attend the masked ball on Saturday night, bringing the number of guests to three hundred and fifty.

Unfortunately, the written notes and plans left by the former housekeeper, Mrs. Bridgewell, left much to be desired. Wryly Sophia reflected that the absent Mrs. Bridgewell had probably been far more concerned with her own romantic affairs than with the upcoming weekend party. Sophia busied herself with taking inventory of the china and flatware, the contents of the butler's pantry and wine cellar, the larders and linen closets. Consulting with both the cook and Mrs. Cannon, Sophia made notes on menu suggestions, and the proper china for each course. She met with the butler and the master gardener, and laid out plans for a score of housemaids. The village butcher, grocer, and milkman came to call and took Sophia's written orders for the approaching celebration.

In the midst of this activity, Sophia made the acquaintance of Mr. Robert Cannon, the elderly gentleman whose ninetieth birthday was the cause of all the excitement. Ross's mother had tried to prepare Sophia for his outspokenness. "When you meet my father-in-law, I should not wish you to be disconcerted by his manner. As he has aged, he has become quite blunt. Do not be put off by anything he says. He is a dear man, if a trifle lacking in discretion."

Walking back from the icehouse, set apart from the main house, Sophia saw an old man sitting beneath a canvas awning in the rose garden. A small table laden with refreshments had been placed beside him. His chair had been fitted with a leg rest, and Sophia recalled Mrs. Cannon mentioning that her father-in-law was often troubled by gout.

"You, girl," he said imperiously. "Come here. I have not seen you before."

Sophia obeyed. "Good morning, Mr. Cannon," she said, dipping into a respectful curtsy. Robert Cannon was a handsome old man with a ruff of silver hair and a craggy but distinguished face. His eyes were a steely blue-gray. "I suppose you are the girl my daughter-in-law told me about. The one from Bow Street."

"Yes, sir. I hope very much that I may help to make your birthday celebration satisfactory--"

"Yes, yes," he cut in impatiently, waving his hand to indicate that the event was trivial nonsense. "My daughter-in-law will seize on any excuse for a party. Now, you will tell me exactly how things stand between you and my grandson."

Caught completely off guard, Sophia stared at him openmouthed. "Sir," she said cautiously, "I am afraid I do not understand your question."

"Catherine says that he has taken an interest in you--which is a welcome piece of news. I want to see my family line continue, and Ross and his brother are the last of the Cannon males. Has he come up to scratch yet?"

Sophia was too shocked to reply quickly. How in the world had he arrived at such a conclusion? "Mr. Cannon, you are entirely mistaken! I--I have no intention of...of...and Sir Ross would not..." Her voice trailed into silence as her mind searched futilely for words.

Cannon regarded her with a skeptical smile. "Catherine says you are a Sydney," he commented. "I knew your grandfather Frederick quite well."

The revelation astonished her further. "You did? You were friends with my grandfather?"

"I didn't say that we were friends," Cannon replied crustily. "I only said that I knew him well. The reason we did not get on was that we both fell in love with the same woman. Miss Sophia Jane Lawrence."

"My grandmother," Sophia managed to say. She shook her head in wonder at the unexpected connection to her family's past. "I was named after her."

"A lovely and accomplished woman. You resemble her, although she was a bit more refined in appearance. She had a regal quality that you lack."

Sophia smiled suddenly. "It is difficult to be regal when one is a servant, sir."

His blue eyes remained on her, and his rugged face seemed to soften. "You have her way of smiling. Sophia Jane's granddaughter, a servant! The Sydneys have fallen on hard times, eh? Your grandmother would have done better to marry me."

"Why didn't she?"

He gestured to a nearby chair. "Come sit by me, and I will tell you."

Sophia cast an anxious glance at the main house, thinking of the work that had to be done.

The old man made a surly sound. "That can wait, my girl. After all, the weekend is supposed to be in my honor, and here I am, set out to pasture. I wish for a few minutes of your company--is that too much to ask?"

Sophia promptly sat.

Cannon settled back in his chair. "Your grandmother Sophia Jane was the loveliest girl I had ever seen. Her family was not wealthy, but they were of good blood, and they desired their only daughter to marry well. After Sophia's come-out, I dedicated myself to winning her hand. Her lack of a substantial dowry was no obstacle, as the Cannons are a family of means. But before I could persuade the Lawrences to agree to a betrothal, your grandfather Lord Sydney made an offer for her. I could not compete against the allure of his title. Although the Cannon name is distinguished, I am not a peer. And so Sophia Jane went to Lord Sydney."

"Which of you did my grandmother love?" Sophia asked, fascinated by the piece of family history that she had never been aware of.

"I am not quite certain," Cannon replied thoughtfully, surprising her. "Perhaps neither of us. But I suspect that in time, Sophia Jane may have come to regret her choice. Lord Sydney was a pleasant enough fellow, but there never seemed to be much depth below the surface. I was a far better catch."

"And modest, too," Sophia said, laughing suddenly.

Cannon seemed to enjoy her impudence. "Tell me, child, were your grandparents content in their marriage?"

"I think so," Sophia said slowly. "Although I do not recall seeing them together very often. They seem to have led separate lives." She fell silent, reflecting on the past. In retrospect, her grandparents had not seemed especially affectionate with each other. "Fortunately, you found another love," she remarked, trying to put a happy end to the story.

"No, I didn't," Cannon returned bluntly. "I admired my wife, but my heart was always with Sophia Jane." His eyes glimmered suddenly. "I love her still, though she is long gone."

Sophia felt a surge of melancholy as she reflected on the statement. No doubt that was how Sir Ross would always feel about his wife, Eleanor.

She did not realize that she had spoken the words aloud until Robert Cannon replied with a snort of irritation. "That fragile flower! I never understood my grandson's attraction to her. Eleanor was a winsome girl, but my grandson needs a vital woman who will bear him strong sons." He gave Sophia a measuring gaze. "You look as though you're up to the task."

Alarmed by the turn the conversation was taking, Sophia stood hastily. "Well, Mr. Cannon, it has been a pleasure to meet you. However, if I do not attend to my responsibilities, I fear for the outcome of your party." She added a flirtatious note to her voice. "To my regret, I am not being paid to converse with handsome gentlemen, but rather to work."

It was evident that Cannon tried to maintain his scowl, but he let out a chuckle. "You do favor your grandmother," he commented. "Very few women are able to say no to a man in a way that flatters his vanity."

Sophia curtsied to him once more. "I bid you a very happy day, sir. But I must tell you again, you are mistaken about Sir Ross. There is absolutely no possibility of a marriage proposal, nor would I accept one from him."

"We shall see," he murmured, and lifted his glass of lemonade as she hurried away.