Song for Sophia by Moriah Denslea Read Free Book Online Page B

Sickening dread. His panting and grunting in her ear. Gagging with every gust of his putrid rum breath, the horror of choking when everything depended on being able to scream —
    Maple rum, maple rum … mixed with the stench of congealed blood, manure, and crushed petals.
    Her stomach heaved and her ears told her someone had given her a container just in time. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she could banish the tactile sensations of the memory if she pushed them farther from her mind.
    “Rosalie. Breathe.” A gentle hand rubbed warm circles down her back.
    “Oh, damn it all,” she muttered despite herself. Sophia forced her eyes open and saw the bottom half of furniture and a curtain of gold damask — the tablecloth. She sat under the dining room table, cradled in Lord Devon’s lap. He called out quietly and another voice responded, and as he leaned forward she realized he was handing a sorbet dish filled with rather disgusting contents to a footman, who retrieved it and left. By the sound of the quick footsteps following, Aunt Louisa fled the scene as well.
    Sophia squirmed and he let her go. Instead of crawling out, Lord Devon shifted and leaned his back against the thick column of the table support, sliding down and ducking his head so he fit. His outstretched legs framed hers as she sat between his knees, but it was hardly the most inappropriate or bizarre aspect of the situation.
    “So you don’t like rum. Or was it Monsieur Girard’s maple rum cake? I must agree it was a bit soggy.” He reached his hand past the tablecloth, blindly palming the surface of the table. He knocked something over before producing her wine glass.
    She pulled deep swallows, trying to chase away the bitter aftertaste in her mouth as well as the residual horror still kicking her heartbeat into double time. She tried to take the glass from Lord Devon and hold it herself but realized she was shaking and his help prevented her from spilling the wine down the front of her dress.
    “Breathe deeply, Rosalie, and your pulse will calm,” came his mesmerizing low voice. “When your heart calms, your hands will stop shaking.”
    She couldn’t look him in the eye. Sophia covered her face with her hands and slumped over. “I have a very sincere apology on the tip of my tongue, but it sounds inadequate and I haven’t even begun.”
    “Forget it.” Then he simply sat, doing nothing. The silence ticked by without expectation or tension. That soothed her, too.
    Finally she blurted, “I am so sorry, Wilhelm. I had no idea I would be stricken in such a way, or I would not have put us all in such an embarrassing position.”
    “You froze and started gasping — symptoms of poisoning. I am only glad it is not that.”
    “This sounds absurd, but the scent of the rum touched a foul memory and sent me reeling.”
    “And I thought it was some elaborate scheme to get rid of Aunt Louisa.” He nudged her knee with his. “It worked. Well done.”
    “In case forty-five minutes of stiff conversation didn’t already do it, I am sure I have won her over now.”
    “Well, that is the last time we serve rum dishes at Rougemont. Care to explain your trouble?”
    “No.”
    “Very well. Why don’t you join Aunt Louisa in the music room?”
    Sophia would have thought he was punishing her, but Wilhelm handed her out from under the table and supported her so gently, she sensed no ire. In fact, he had been remarkably sanguine about the entire episode.
    He paused at the doorway and smoothed stray tendrils of her hair. “We are more alike than you know, Rosalie. I am also … . haunted. I would never mean you harm, ever. But at times I don’t always know where I am, that is … . I believe I see one thing but it is, ah … .” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Run away. When I seem not myself, or if I frighten you, leave me be.”
    “Run away? What — ”
    Wilhelm kissed her temple again and left her inside the music room to fend for herself with