Behind the Courtesan(8)

She gauged her escape. He knew it more surely than he knew his next breath would come. He lowered his voice. “I’m not going to touch you, Sophie. I was merely going to remove the field of straw you have in your hair.”

“Oh?” She patted her hair until she located the offending stalks and dropped them to the ground, but not before her hands trembled enough to betray her. “I can do that myself.”

As she whirled away from him, color high on cheeks that had been so pale, he wondered what the hell had just happened. How was it that she let men touch her for coins and trinkets, yet she’d been terrified to have her childhood friend approach? He meant no harm. She had to know that. Never once in their younger years had he raised a hand or even his voice to her. He’d loved her more than his own life in those fragile years when a boy becomes a man.

There were only two conclusions he could draw. Either she had been hurt at some stage of her sordid London life. Or she was repulsed by his callused hands. If he were to do more than slide a fingertip over her skin, he would probably scratch her. He was no gentleman, nor did he have the soft hands of one.

“Go and get cleaned up,” he snapped, angry at each and every scenario that played through his mind. “I don’t want one of my patrons to find flakes of horse shit in his soup.”

He never resorted to these types of games with anyone else of his acquaintance. Even the men he hated with a bloodthirsty passion didn’t receive the insults and scorn he heaped upon her. But then they hadn’t hurt his heart the way she had. A heart he never knew he had until her disappearance had shattered it into a thousand pieces.





Chapter Four



Her body felt hotter than the blazing fire she stood in front of as cool, clean water dripped down Sophia’s neck to seep into the edge of her gown. It was both refreshing and odd.

“That water is for washing the benches, not your face,” Blake chastised. He’d done nothing but tell her off since they’d left the barn. Now it was mid-afternoon and they’d only stopped to eat a piece of buttered bread. Lunch had been served and cleared away an hour beforehand, yet they plowed on regardless of the hunger pains gnawing at her stomach. What she would have given to rest for an hour. To have a cup of tea or a sandwich.

“You have to keep stirring that or it will burn.”

“No one would notice,” Sophia muttered under her breath but moved the spoon in clockwise circles anyway. The stew appeared to contain every ingredient the kitchen had to offer, yet she couldn’t define what color it was other than brown. Burning it would probably add to the flavor. The foul mood she had fallen into would not allow her to recall how divine this same stew had been the night she’d arrived.

“And make sure you season it properly.”

Her hands stilled. Season it? What was that supposed to mean? Summer or winter? A chuckle escaped her. Today had been the nightmare she’d known it would be, and the occasional satirical thought was about her only salvation.

Already they had been awake for ten hours and the day was only half-done. Blake told her every five minutes how much work they had yet to accomplish. More than once she’d wanted to tip the pot of hot stew over his head and beat him with the spoon. But she hadn’t. She wouldn’t resort to violence or more insults. No matter how hungry and delirious she became.

When he’d railed that she couldn’t cut through the large pumpkin he’d asked her to slice, she had merely smiled and asked him to show her how it was done. When he’d shouted chores at her as if she was the kitchen maid, she nodded and set to work despite how much her feet and back already ached.

The only way to make Blake treat her as a human being was to win his stupid challenge and smile the whole time she did his bidding. It grated. It gnawed on her senses until she wanted to tear at her hair and scream right back but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Perhaps if she showed him what she was made of, he would treat her less like a pariah and more like an old friend.

Already she’d given away too much, shown him more of the real her than she’d intended. In the barn when he’d reached for her, when she hadn’t been able to discern the intent in his shadowy eyes, fear had lodged in her brain and held her immobile. It had taken her back to her days as a girl in London and before, in the days before she’d fled this place, when she had argued and pleaded with her father not to do it, not to sell her to the duke. Days she didn’t want to recall. Her mask was very carefully, firmly in place to those who saw her, even if occasionally she was caught off guard.

It wasn’t a nice feeling. When you didn’t know what the man before you would do. What he was capable of. The scars he could inflict. But Blake was not his father and she had to keep reminding herself of that fact. Although they had the same eyes, the same aristocratic nose and full mouth, the same commanding tone, Blake was as far removed from the ton and walking in his father’s footsteps as she was from being a lady.

“Stir the pot, woman!”

Sophia jumped. Damn him for scaring her witless again. She really had to stay with the task at hand. But she was exhausted. From the day and from the lies. For once she didn’t want to be strong. She didn’t want to be sensual or womanly. She wanted to be a petulant child and poke her tongue out at the oaf who ordered her about with a raised voice.

The spoon moved around the pot, occasionally hitting the edges with a clang and scrape, but Sophia had no real notion of what she was doing. Even if she did, she was sure he would tell her it was wrong. It’s what he had done with the carrots, the fire, even boiling water. It’s what he had done in the barn with that damned fork.

Hopping from one foot to lean on the other, she nearly lost her balance and had to place a hand on the wall of the hearth to steady her body. Hearing Blake’s heavy tread, she straightened and began to stir in earnest.

“Watch out,” he warned, coming to stand beside her.

Sophia shuffled back and let him have access to the pot. When he tipped the green beans and corn into the stew, his elbow brushed her breast. Her cheeks heated but she refused to move, to acknowledge the accidental touch. A different kind of warmth—expected but unwanted—began to blaze its way through her body.

Blake stilled for a split second, a vein in his jaw throbbed just once, and then he stalked away, his bowl hitting the preparation bench with a thud.

She went back to stirring the stew, but she was so uncomfortable in her blouse. Every time she reached the far side of the pot, her top buttons threatened to choke her. With a quick glance to be sure Blake was occupied with his vegetables, Sophia undid her top five buttons. Right away, she felt a difference and her neck finally stopped itching.

“Damn it, stir that pot!” Sophia jumped again. She turned half her body to snap and snarl the same way he did but then remembered her plan to show him she could keep up.

When she finished with the stew and it was off the heat of the fire, Sophia considered doing her buttons back up but she found her body temperature more comfortable without her blouse choking her. She also found Blake couldn’t not stare. He tried valiantly and snapped his head this way and that whenever she happened to catch him in the act of ogling but still his gaze wandered back again and again.

When it came time to serve the evening meal, Sophia was surprised to find the table in the private dining room set for two.

“Are you expecting someone special for supper?” she asked Blake. Perhaps the man was meeting a lady friend and wished for privacy. There were no other guests staying in the upstairs rooms as far as she knew.

“No,” he replied, his head resting against the door jamb.

“We are not having dinner together.” That was his intent. It shone from his face.

“We can eat in the tap if you would rather.” He shrugged and pushed away from the wall.

Yesterday he’d been adamant about her staying out of the tap. It took everything she had left not to narrow her eyes at his sudden change in attitude. “I’ll take a tray to my room.”

“Running away, Duchess?”

“What have I to run from?” she asked. The past few hours had been spent in relative peace. Were they to revert to mortal enemies once the hard work was done?

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I’ve had enough games for one day. I wish to dine and then retire.”

“I have to hand it to you, Duchess. I really didn’t think you would make it.”

Sophia shook her head rather than admit her own surprise. “You know nothing about me, Blake. Why don’t you concede defeat and we can move on from this ridiculous contest of strengths.”

“I will not concede. You have worked but one day. Not so hard for a woman used to physical exertion. I wonder if you can stand another?”

Physical exertion? He said the words as though they carried the plague and she knew exactly what he didn’t say out loud. “Hmm,” she murmured. If he was going to remind her of her occupation to make her angry, perhaps she would use it to spark his own temper in return. “It is true, I am capable of exerting a reasonable amount of stamina, but even I must go to bed at the end of the day.”