him out of his rigid posture. "But that cannot be true," he said, as much to her as to himself. "Our conversations in the hospital were spirited and entertaining." His tone softened in memory. "She even said I had a stimulating perspective on the world."
"Are you certain she said that?"
His posture stiffened, and he found himself somewhat offended. "Those very words."
The lady sighed, then ambled forward through her garden while Anthony hurried to fall in line with her. But even as they moved, his gaze shifted upward, to Sophia's bedroom window. He had to speak with her. Surely, face to face he could find a way to convince her.
Then her aunt was speaking, jolting him out of his thoughts. "You must prove to her that you can be flexible. That you can serve."
Anthony frowned. "I was a soldier in His Majesty's army. I served every day of my career."
Her chuckle set her ribbons to dancing about her hair. "A wife is a much more difficult taskmaster than His Majesty."
Anthony stopped walking, his impatience getting the better of him. "My lady, I beg of you, call your niece outside. Allow me to speak with—"
"Major, I have decided it is time for Bowen to visit his mother. He is our butler, you understand, but he neglects his poor parent so, I really feel I must insist he visit her more often."
Anthony frowned, wondering at this apparent non sequitur. What could the butler have to do with anything?
"My lady, if I could just speak with Sophia—"
"I shall have to find a replacement, you understand," she continued without pause. "Starting tomorrow." Her keen gaze once again fell full on his face.
Suddenly, he understood. He felt his eyes widen, and his shoulders pulled back with astonishment. "You cannot possibly think I would make a good butler!"
"Well, of course not!" returned the lady. "You will, no doubt, make a perfectly wretched butler, but for Sophia's sake, I feel I can make the sacrifice."
"Madame, I am the son of an earl!"
"Well, what is that to the point? I am the daughter of an earl, and yet I tend my own garden. If rank made a difference with Sophia, she would no doubt already be married to that stiff-rumped duke with the watery eyes and wandering hands."
Anthony clenched his teeth in anger. Sophia had not told him about any duke with wayward hands. But he was not given time to dwell on such things as Lady Agatha continued, her voice as sharp as his old nurse's.
"The only way to see Sophia is to come into the house. And the only way into the house is as a servant."
"Could you not just invite me in?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
"Well, of course I could, but she will not come down. And she asks now if we have visitors to dine before coming to table. I told you, Major, she is as stubborn as that vine, but together we can move her."
Anthony flinched, not appreciating her analogy, but he was nevertheless forced to admit certain similarities. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because I must observe you two together." She turned to him, and her face softened into a mischievous smile. "And because you make her mad as I have never seen her before."
"But—"
"Never underestimate passion, Major. It stirs the blood to all sorts of things. Anger. Recklessness. Sometimes even love." Then Agatha wandered off, her basket once again on her arm. Her last words floated over her shoulder. "Do try not to get mud in the house, Major. As our butler, you must be more careful with your appearance."
Then she was gone.
* * *
Sophia's defense against the Major's "flanking maneuver" had been well planned. She left word with Bowen to refuse posies, sweets, or even impassioned letters; she refused to take trips into the village for fear of "accidentally" meeting him; and she even stopped her daily walks in the dale near her aunt's house.
Nothing happened. In the three days since the major's proposal, no letters were refused at the door. No trinkets were pushed through her window. Indeed, no impassioned cries came from the
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