“And you’re a man. You can do whatever you like.” There was a sharpness to her tone.
Rather than guess at emotions he couldn’t see, he swept the veil back from her face. Even with the irritated look that she threw his way, she was beautiful. Fresh-faced and glowing with good health.
“That’s why you dressed as a widow,” he surmised. “You are under the presumption you can do what you like.”
She smiled. “Exactly. No one questions a widow. No one judges her.”
“I assure you, widows are still judged,” he muttered.
Those crystal-blue eyes narrowed slightly, seeing perhaps more than he liked. “You don’t like me dressed this way, do you?”
“I don’t have fond associations with widows.” He kept his tone bland, but the words bore a torrent of pain, like a cat o’ nine tails ripping through the inside of his chest.
“Really?” Lady Sophia asked with incredulity. “I was under the impression most men had especially fond associations with widows.”
It was a brazen implication. But Kendal was not like other men, who found pleasure in women with relaxed freedoms. Regardless, his surprise must have shown on his face, for she gave a short laugh. “Don’t be so shocked, Lord Kendal. I may be innocent, but I hear gossip just the same.”
The topic was one he did not wish to continue. “Order anything you like from the inn,” he said abruptly. “I’ll ensure any debts are settled before our departure tomorrow.”
She nodded and looked at her feet. “Thank you.”
It was polite and demure and absolutely nothing like the Lady Sophia he knew. But it was reminiscent of the gratitude of one who often relied on others for payment. No doubt Lord Gullsville had been operating on credit for some time, and his children also bore the humiliation of its burden.
Kendal offered a small bow and took his leave, allowing her the privacy to enter her room on her own.
Later in the solitude of his small bedchamber, with a rustic wooden tub set before the hearth, he found himself thinking about Lady Sophia, who was doubtless bathing at that exact moment. He pictured her in his mind’s eye, sliding the black bombazine off her body to reveal smooth skin, faultless even before the light of the fire could cast its golden sheen.
Desire stirred low within his groin, and this time, he didn’t bother to fight it. Rather, he encouraged it. Better to have a hard prick now, when he could do something about it, than tomorrow as they planned their impromptu wedding around their return to London.
But he didn’t stop thinking of her. Not through his bath, or the soul-shuddering self-satisfaction that followed, or even through the dinner he’d arranged downstairs that she did not bother to attend. And it continued through the night and into his dreams.
She lit his blood with lust and piqued his interest to know more about the lovely, sought-after woman who had become something of an enigma to him. Not that he blamed her for not wanting to marry Mongerton—that was entirely understandable—but he did admit to being curious as to why she had yet to marry at all.
The following morning, after a fitful sleep, he made his way downstairs and found the innkeeper.
The man flashed a nervous smile. “How are ye this fine morning, my lord?”
“Ready to be on our way.”
The innkeeper’s left eye gave a slight twitch. “Indeed.”
Kendal narrowed his gaze on the man. “I say, are you quite all right?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The man clasped and unclasped his hands. “Is there something I might help ye with?”
“I’m looking for…” Dash it, what had she said her name was?
The innkeeper was no help and simply lifted his brows in expectation.
“Lady Weatherborne,” Kendal finished, recalling the name with no thanks to the owner of the inn. “Have you seen her this morning?”
The man’s eye twitched once more.
Unease twisted in Kendal’s gut. Something was amiss.
“Lady Weatherborne?” The innkeeper gave an odd, pitched giggle.
Kendal’s patience snapped. “Damn it, man. What are you not telling me?”
“She left. Quite early this morning.”
A sinking sensation tugged at Kendal’s stomach. He had always been an early riser as it was. If she’d already departed, she would have done so before the sun even rose. “Are you serious?”
The man grimaced. “Perhaps three hours ago.”
Three hours would already have miles between them by now. Confound these people whose loyalty could be so easily bought.
“She clearly paid you more than I did,” Kendal said through gritted teeth. “Can you tell me where she was going? You owe me that at least.”
The inn’s owner at least had the good sense to appear shamefaced. “Glasgow.”
Kendal turned away in preparation to leave.
“My lord?” The innkeeper called. “She said you would settle what was owed.”
Kendal’s shoulders crept up to his ears, but he returned to the desk and threw several coins on the counter to meet the bill's exact total before stalking off once more. If the man said anything else, Kendal did not hear him, for he was already striding away at a brisk pace.
Lady Sophia would have a head start on him in her carriage, but he would be on horseback and might head her off. If he couldn’t, however, finding her in the large city could prove difficult. He could only hope her inexperience at duplicity, the spectacle of a veiled widow and the wealth of her gems would leave an easy trail for him to follow.
Not only was Lady Sophia’s reputation at stake, so too was Marguerite’s. And Kendal would rather die than let his sister once more endure the ton’s cruelty.
There had been little sleep for Sophia in the pre-dawn carriage ride as it bounced over the rough road from Gretna Green to Glasgow, especially when there had been several stops in between to change out the horses. Nor had there been any the following night while her driver rested in preparation for their second day of hard riding.
All the while, she had anticipated seeing Lord Kendal on the horizon, racing toward her to force her into marriage. Not that marriage to him proved as distasteful as a union with Mr. Mongerton.
Except she didn’t know Lord Kendal. She hadn’t made the choice to marry him.
She wanted love.
And happiness.
It had been the promise she’d made so many years ago when cholera took her mother and little George and Julia, the twins who had only seen three short years in this world. They’d never even had the opportunity to live their lives.
That was when Sophia had done it, when she’d made the vow to live for all of them. For herself, for the twins. And even for her poor dear mother, who had given everything to her children and who had contracted the disease after insisting on caring for the twins herself.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and the door was snapped open. A strong odor of fish and brine wafted in on the damp air. She ignored the urge to put her glove beneath her nose to dilute the offensive smell and stepped out of the carriage. The buildings that greeted Sophia were reminiscent of those in London, tightly pressed against one another, as narrow as they were tall.
If it really was like London, she could easily lose herself among the faces there. Her driver secured a room for her within the lodging house, saw to it that her belongings were placed within, and then was on his way.