What You Desire (Anything for Love 1)

You hate him, she cried silently, chastising her fickle heart.

“Indeed, I am in desperate need of new gloves,” he continued, no doubt much to Mrs. Potts’ delight. “And I can see you have an excellent selection.”

In the small confines of her curtained prison, Sophie did not hear the rest of the conversation. Her mind drifted back to the study, to the young girl hiding behind the drapes desperate to hear more from the handsome buck.

“I will speak to Sophie,” her brother James had said. “Every time I turn around she is nipping at your heels like an annoying little dog.”

He spoke then and she remembered her tummy flipping somersaults. “That’s what country girls do, James. They are tedious and tiresome and will not rest until you die of boredom. I can picture your sister married to a vicar, listening to him drone on about the righteous and eating supper at six. She will sit with her hands in her lap and only speak when spoken to.”

James chuckled. “What you desire is someone more seasoned.”

“Precisely. Did I tell you about the lady I met in London recently? She had the sweetest mouth …”

Sebastian Ashcroft broke her heart that day.

And the irony of her current situation was not lost on her.

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

Her long black curls were tied loosely at her nape as opposed to the ridiculous knots she wore as a girl. Her slender, shapely figure no longer resembled an over-sized dumpling. No one thought her weak and insipid; the whole village knew her to be strong and fiercely independent. The silly little girl had grown into a woman and she did not need to hide behind curtains anymore.

With renewed confidence, she straightened her back, lifted her chin and threw back the velvet curtain. “The bonnet is divine, Emily,” she said striding out of the dressing room. “I shall call and collect it tomorrow.” As she approached the door, she could feel the heat of his gaze and he rushed forward to hold it open. She refused to look at him directly but decided to be civil. “Good day, Mrs. Potts. Good day, my lord,” she said, resisting the temptation to run all the way home.

Chapter 3

Sophie sat behind the large mahogany desk, staring at the crumpled pieces of paper scattered over its surface.

James should have been home over a week ago. Despite writing numerous letters to his forwarding address, she’d still not received a response.

She thought of writing to a great-aunt, but the lady never ventured as far as London. Then she wondered if James had met up with friends, but she didn’t know where to send her missive. They had a cousin in Kensington; though he enjoyed gloating over other people’s misfortunes and would turn what was no doubt a simple misunderstanding into something far worse.

Then there was Sebastian Ashcroft, the Marquess of Danesfield, known simply as Dane to his male friends.

She would rather walk the plank and dive into shark-infested waters than ask for his help. She would rather stand naked in a field dodging a shower of barbed arrows.

A loud rap on the door broke her reverie.

“There is a gentleman to see you, miss,” Rowlands said, struggling to hide his surprise. He extended his arm to offer the salver, the pristine calling card proof he spoke the truth.

A visitor?

Panic flared. He had decided to call.

Her heart fluttered up to her throat forcing her to gulp as her mind tried to rouse a coherent thought.

What on earth was wrong with her? Why wouldn’t the marquess want to visit an old friend? She did not have to invite him for dinner or partake in a lengthy conversation. Struggling to control the warm feeling blossoming in her chest, Sophie stood abruptly and snatched the card from the tray, expecting to see Dane’s pompous script.

She stared at the crisp white card for a moment, bringing it closer until it touched her nose. “Who is the Comte de Dampierre?”

“I have no notion, miss,” Rowlands replied, his expression somewhat vacant. “The gentleman did mention an acquaintance with his lordship.”

Sophie’s hand flew up to rest on her throat. “He is acquainted with the Marquess of Danesfield?”

A deep furrow appeared between Rowlands brows. “I was referring to your brother, miss, to Lord Beaufort.”

Her face flushed. Of course he meant her brother. Since Dane’s return her brain had turned into a wobbly pile of mush.

“Very well, you may show him in,” she said trying to hide her embarrassment. Perhaps the gentleman had come to offer an explanation for her brother’s absence.