Jo Manning - Excerpt from Seducing Mr. Heywood

Seducing Mr. Heywood by Jo Manning

Chapter One

Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by their hearts than by their understandings. The way to the heart is through the senses; please their eyes and their ears, and the work is half done.
---Lord Chesterfield, Letters to His Son, 1774

Rowley Hall, North Riding, Yorkshire, 1811

      Blond, elegant Lady Sophia Rowley, clad in clinging ivory muslin, strode briskly into the drawing room, her cerulean eyes searching for the vicar of St. Mortrud's. Her signature Floris fragrance, frangipani, perfumed the air in her wake. Where was this gentleman? This vexing interview was not at all to her liking, but George's lawyer had suggested that she and Mr. Charles Heywood should become better acquainted, in keeping with the late baron's wishes, if only for the sake of the boys.
      There was a young man sipping a glass of what appeared to be George's best sherry – the bottle was uncorked on the silver tray atop the Elizabethan tulipwood sidetable – a young man gazing fixedly at her portrait over the mantel. Irritation marred Sophia's perfect features. She hated that painting of her as Diana, the virginal Roman goddess of the hunt, which had been completed but a scant year before the death of the artist. What had Romney been thinking? He must have already begun his descent into senility; it was the only explanation. She, the notorious Lady Sophia Rowley, portrayed as a virgin?
      But George had loved it, had loved the way the moon and her hair were the same pale, burnished gold, and had given it pride of place at Rowley Hall. Dear, dear, sweet George. Well, now he was gone, and no longer had a say in the interior decoration of his home, so that annoyance could easily be disposed of. Unfortunately, other annoyances would not be so easily dealt with as the Romney portrait her husband had so admired.
      "Sir?" she called. "Have you seen Mr. Heywood?" Who was this stranger, and where was the vicar?
      The young man turned, and Sophia was taken aback at his good looks. The gentleman was not much above average height, slender, and possessed of a pleasing, handsome countenance. Perhaps not so much handsome, she thought, as almost beautiful. He had a clear, fresh, young complexion, direct eyes of a stormy gray; a short, straight nose; and curling brown hair that tumbled artlessly over a high, aristocratic forehead. Not outwardly a very masculine appearing man, not the kind of large, muscular man she usually favored, but attractive, nonetheless. It was a face, she mused, that one would not tire of looking at. He was simply garbed in well-fitting buff inexpressibles and a dark blue coat. His linen was spotlessly white, per Beau Brummell's dictum, and his brown leather boots were polished to a high shine. Yet, he was no dandy. His cravat – always the mark of a dandified gentleman – was simply tied in an unobtrusive fashion.
      "Lady Rowley! I am Charles Heywood, at your service." He stepped forward somewhat eagerly to greet her; too eagerly, as he unfortunately caught the toe of his boot on a rucked-up end of Oriental carpet. He pitched forward, spilling the contents of his drink in a great, wide arc that splattered a rich umber stain over Sophia's bosom, seeping into the ivory muslin of her gown. The glass flew, shattering in glittering shards on the polished wood floor not covered by the thick carpet.
       Charles Heywood extended his arms to steady himself, even as he lost his footing and landed heavily upon Lady Sophia, knocking her to the floor. An ominous ripping sound was heard and Charles's left hand inadvertently grasped the bodice of Lady Sophia's dress, tearing it below the high waistline. Lady Sophia's bosom, creamy white and wondrously full, was exposed before Charles fell upon her, knocking the breath out of her with a loud "whoosh."
      "Beg pardon, my lady," Charles sputtered, even as Sophia's generous curves cushioned and caressed his torso. The lady reared up, pushing the astonished clergyman off her, and against the fireplace hearth. A dull thump registered the meeting of Charles's head with the hard marble surround. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he lay unconscious.
      Bromley, the butler, had heard the impact even as he scratched on the door to ask if her ladyship required tea. He saw his mistress lying on her back on the thick, bunched-up rug, her torn dress exposing her bosom, her skirts riding up her limbs. She was breathing hard. He discreetly backed out the door and closed it quietly. Like all well-trained ton retainers, he was schooled never to show emotion, and he did not disgrace himself now. Everything he had heard about the baroness – gossip brought back to the Hall by the Rowleys' town servants – seemed as thought it might be true. But, the vicar! Bromley rolled his eyes disbelieving what he'd seen. He had thought much better of that good young man.
      Enraged and breathing hard, Lady Sophia scrambled to her feet, one shaky hand holding the shreds of her dress and her dignity, the other reaching for the bell pull to alert her servants. This fool! This clumsy, stupid oaf! Sophia swore. She'd learned a number of strong barnyard oaths from her first husband before he met his demise in a fall from his horse, and now she muttered her favorites, even as one of the housemaids ran to answer her summons.
      "You! Fetch Bewley, now!" The girl looked puzzled. Sophia raised her voice. "The butler, girl, what is the matter with you? Get Bewley and hurry!" The maidservant ran to do her mistress's bidding, even as Bromley reappeared in the hallway.
      "Mistress says to fetch ye," the girl stammered, then snickered, "Mr. Bewley!"
      "None of your cheek, Lizzie, or this house will see the last of you! What has transpired here?" Bromley stepped into the doorway as Lizzie, suitably chastised, lowered her eyes and shuffled away. The butler frowned. The other servants, though they resented it, seemed at the same time to think it a great joke that the mistress did not know their names, but he did not join in the general hilarity. Baron Rowley had known all of his staff by name, their correct names. Lady Rowley, however, was perhaps more typical of her class; Bromley had served an earl in London before joining the baron's staff and knew this to be so.
      "My lady?" Bromley inquired, his face free of emotion as he viewed the bizarre tableau of the unconscious vicar lying on the floor of the drawing room.
      "Do something!" Lady Sophia's contralto voice rose to a shriek. "He has passed out."
      Bromley dropped to one knee and attempted to shake the vicar awake. He frowned, rose, and addressed his mistress. "We shall have to send someone for the doctor, my lady," he suggested.
      "Do it, then! See to it, Brimley, and get this…this…man out of my house." She turned in a flounce of skirts, her head held high, her shoulders squared.
      "Yes, madam," Bromley nodded, a muscle at the side of his mouth twitching in displeasure. Brimley!
      Charles Heywood moaned. Bromley knelt beside him. "Sir?" He took the vicar's hands and chafed them in his. "Sir? Are you all right?"
      The vicar opened his eyes slowly. Bromley took a glass from the sideboard and poured him another sherry. Sip this slowly, sir," he suggested, lowering the glass to the vicar's lips.
      Between sips, Charles winced. "What happened? My head…"
      "You appear to have fallen, sir," Bromley ventured.
      Charles gazed at the disordered rug and the glistening pieces of broken glass. He winced again. "How…?"
      "Do not move, sir," Bromley told him. "I shall send for Mr. Alcott."

***

      In her bedroom, Sophia called for Joan, her Abigail, and began to undress, muttering and strewing her clothes all over the floor. Her beautiful new gown was ruined, stained and torn.
      Joan was aghast. Her fastidious mistress had been out of sorts these last few months, but never had she seen her so discombobulated. "My lady! What has happened?" she asked.
      "Hot water, please, and hurry! I am all over sticky." Sophia discarded her dress, not waiting for the maid's assistance. Her fine, low-cut silk chemise was soaked through from the liqueur.
      As Joan moved to do her mistress's bidding, Sophia abruptly put out a hand and stopped her, demanding, "What is wrong with that vicar? Is he deranged?"
      Joan seemed perplexed. "The vicar, my lady? Oh, but everyone says he is a lovely man…"
      Sophia's oath turned the maidservant's ears pink. Joan exited quickly to carry up the water for her mistress's bath.
      Lady Rowley peeled off her chemise and took down her hair. Several more epithets warmed the rafters of her dressing room as she stomped about. In the hallway, one of the footmen raised an inquiring eyebrow as the noise level rose. Joan shrugged her shoulders, shook her mop of red curls, and scurried away.

***

      Sharing her news in the kitchen with one of the housemaids, her friend Sarah, Joan was overheard by Mrs. Mathew, the cook, who snorted rudely. "If the madam wore black mourning clothes as she ought, by all that is right and holy, that wine stain would not have ruined her fine new dress, I wager."
      "Don't you remember? 'Twas in the baron's will he didn't want her to wear mourning for him," Joan turned on the cook and defended her mistress. "He said she'd worn too much black in her life already."
      Mrs. Mathew snorted louder. "She's bad luck, that one! Three husbands dead, and her still a young woman! There's something wrong with her, mark my words. Worse than the Regent's doxy, that Mrs. Fitzherbert! And she's not through yet. She'll kill all and every one of them that's foolish enough to---"
      Bromley was horrified to catch the end of this unseemly, heated exchange among the female work staff as he appeared in the kitchen carrying the broken pieces of wineglass on a silver tray. "That is enough!" he scolded them, waggling his index finger in disapproval. "'Tis not up to you to judge your betters! I do not want to hear any more of this loose talk! Mrs. Mathew, you have dinner to prepare. Sarah, there is laundry to sort. Joan, your mistress is waiting! Hurry now, girl, and make haste. Her ladyship does not like to be kept waiting."

***

      "You won't die, Charles, not yet." Lewis Alcott assured his patient as he checked the large bump, the size of a goose egg, at the back of Charles's skull. Lewis laughed.
      "It may be vastly amusing to you, Lewis," Charles Heywood grimaced as his friend touched the grotesque swelling. "But it is hardly cause for such raucous laughter."
      "Tell me again how you came to be the object of the beauteous widow's wrath, Charles," Lewis urged, a wicked gleam showing through his wire-rimmed spectacles.
      Charles glared at the burly, sandy-haired physician, who looked more like a coachman or a farm laborer than the excellent surgeon he was in truth. "I knew that I would regret detailing those unfortunate circumstances to you! I do hope you have the discretion to keep this embarrassing business to yourself."
      Lewis adjusted his eyeglasses. "I never betray a patient's confidences, Charles, you know that." He continued to grin, nonetheless, enjoying the vicar's discomfiture, for all that he was a good friend. Jovial Lewis could not resist teasing, and he especially could not resist teasing the more sober-tempered Charles Heywood.
      Charles groaned, running his long fingers through his tousled hair, a nervous habit from childhood that he had never overcome. "How can I ever apologize? Lady Sophia will not want to see my face again."
      "Ah, but, Charles," Lewis teased, "it is such a nice, handsome face. Rumor has it that the wicked baroness is partial to handsome faces."
      "Most unchristian of you, Lewis, those remarks. Very uncharitable, unworthy in a man of your profession. Lady Sophia is hardly wicked, and as for your allusion to her…er…habits---" Charles shook his head, unable to go on, then groaned at the discomfort the slight movement caused him. He might not have cracked his skull, as Lewis had assured him, but it certainly felt as though he had.
      "At any rate," Lewis continued blithely, "you shall have to face the lovely Lady Sophia again. You are now, per the will of your late mentor, Baron Rowley, the legal guardian to her two sons. You have become part of the family." He squeezed his good friend's shoulder in close, comradely fashion and chuckled, ignoring the murder glare the vicar sent his way.