More to the point, why did the prospect of seeing the growly, sleep-deprived tailor again make her belly turn cartwheels?
Across the room from Sophie, Mama appeared to listen raptly as Mrs. Hartley gossiped and waved her fan demonstratively. Lord Singleton looked as though he were embroiled in some sort of political debate with several older gentlemen. Fiona and Lily still whirled on the dance floor.
Deciding no one would miss her if she took a short stroll in the garden, Sophie smoothed the front of her skirt and glided toward the French doors at the side of the room.
The moment she stepped over the threshold onto the terrace, she felt as though she’d ventured into another realm. The sound of the orchestra’s violins faded into the chirps of crickets and croaks of toads. The scents of beeswax candles and pungent perfume faded into the lush smells of dew-kissed grass and blossoming peonies.
At the rear of the terrace, Sophie followed a winding stone path under an ivy-covered arbor and past a charming stone birdbath nestled in a cluster of hydrangea bushes. Lanterns placed at intervals along the path lit the way and added a soft glow to Lady Rufflebum’s meticulously tended garden.
But Sophie instinctively knew that Mr. Peabody would not be waiting for her near the whimsical statuettes of fairies and sprites. He’d no doubt prefer to be away from the house and the lanterns and the other guests. At a bend in the path, she paused and squinted into the moonlit landscape beyond the garden.
“Miss Kendall.” His voice, low and rich as chocolate, heated her blood.
She looked up to find him lounging beneath a large birch tree, his back pressed against the trunk. Dressed in a black jacket, trousers, and boots, he blended into the shadows; only the crisp white of his cravat stood out in the darkness.
He pushed himself off the tree and inclined his head politely. “Thank you for coming.”
She took a few steps off the path, into the soft grass. Toward him. “Mr. Peabody,” she said softly. “What are you doing here?”
He looked down at the ground. “My name isn’t Peabody.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m not the tailor, but I happen to own the building.” He met her gaze, his expression apologetic. “My name is Reese, and I’m the Earl of Warshire.”
Sophie blinked. Not in a hundred summers would she have guessed that Mr. Peabody was an earl. He was too wild and unrefined. Too rough around the edges. “The Earl of Warshire,” she repeated, combing through her mental files for any pertinent information. “Wait. I thought the earl had…” She stopped because she couldn’t bring herself to say what she recalled about the former earl, who must have been Reese’s older brother—that he’d died a few months ago after a tragic hunting accident. “Your brother?” she asked.
He nodded as though he didn’t trust himself to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “You must feel the loss keenly.”
“I do.” His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat. “I should have told you I wasn’t Mr. Peabody that night,” he said. “I’m not sure why I didn’t.”
“Maybe because you thought I was trying to rob you blind?” she replied.
That garnered a half smile. “Maybe.” He swallowed and looked at her earnestly. “In any event, I fell asleep before I could thank you for the tea. You were right about me not sleeping much. And that’s the other reason I asked you to meet me tonight.”
She shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Miss Kendall,” he said, his voice sober. “I require your help. And I think we could strike a deal that would benefit us both.”
Sophie moved a bit closer. Marveled at the way the moonlight cast his face in relief—the faint hollows of his cheeks, the straight line of his nose, and strong edge of his jaw. “What sort of help do you need?” she asked, her curiosity far outweighing any apprehension.
He hesitated, rubbing his chin before he replied. “I need you to spend the night with me.”
Chapter 5
Miss Kendall’s impossibly long eyelashes fluttered. “Forgive me,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “It sounded as though you said you needed me to spend the night with you.”
“I did, and I do.” It was a bold request, but Reese saw no reason to prevaricate. Figured she’d appreciate his candor. “But before you misconstrue my meaning”—clearly, it was too late for that—“please allow me to explain. I’m not suggesting anything untoward. I simply need you to help me sleep. Like you did the other night.”
“Oh,” she said, her relief obvious—and unintentionally insulting. “There’s no need for me to stay the night with you, Lord Warshire. I’ll simply give you some more valerian root.”
He shook his head firmly. “I’ve already tried it. I used the bag you left behind, and it didn’t work.”
She tilted her head. “But it’s the same mix.”
“I know. And it didn’t make me fall asleep.” On Saturday evening, he’d re-created the exact conditions on the night she’d been at the shop. Steeped the tea in precisely the same way. Reclined in the same old chair. Even tidied the room as she had, prior to drinking four cups of the damned potion. But he hadn’t slept a wink.
The tea hadn’t been effective on the three subsequent nights he’d tried it either. Apparently, the missing ingredient was Miss Kendall.
“Interesting,” she mused. She tapped a finger to her lips, thoughtful. “Why don’t I write out the exact steps and proportions I use and deliver the instructions to you in a letter?”
“You don’t understand,” he said as gently as he could, given the panic swirling in his gut. If she didn’t say yes, he’d be reduced to begging. He was terrifyingly close to it already. “It wasn’t the valerian root that helped me sleep for the first time in weeks. It was you.”
A mixture of understanding, pity, and denial dawned on her face. “It’s not me, Lord Warshire.”
“Call me Reese,” he said. “Please. Every time you use the title I’m reminded of Edmund, my brother.” And how he should still be there. Only, he wasn’t.
“Very well … Reese,” she said tentatively. For some reason, the sound of his name on her lips made his heart gallop. “I’m truly sorry that you’ve been suffering from insomnia,” she said, and the compassion in her voice gave him hope. “But if you think I had anything to do with your good night’s rest, you are mistaken. I have neither healing abilities nor magical powers,” she added with a shrug. “I simply brew a good pot of tea—and anyone can learn how to do that.”
Shit. He’d been afraid she wouldn’t believe him. But then, she didn’t really need to believe she could help him. She simply needed to agree.
“All I ask is that you stay with me. A couple of nights a week.”
She gasped. “Impossible.”
“I’d let you use the building,” he said, playing one of his last two cards. “Rent-free. As often as you wish.”
She froze, her beautiful face impassive. But he could tell from her eyes that she was sorely tempted. “You’d bribe me to spend the night with you?”