Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Read Free

dried mud.
    He stopped at the peak of a slight hill and ran a hand along the rugged bark of a primeval oak—rumored to be the oldest in England—and gazed out over the cluster of thatched cottages nestled around a Norman church in the distance. The village was surrounded by timbered hills, and what were once open fields and meadows were now seamed with hedgerows and low stone walls. Thin trails of smoke left the rooftops, adding a little twist of coal ash to the pottage of fragrance.
    Nearly there. Excitement, tempered by a little anxiety, traveled swiftly through his veins. Better not stop, for then his feet hurt. As long as he kept moving, he didn’t feel the pain.
    Suddenly a tribe of young women in white frocks tumbled down the sloping lane, chattering and laughing, bonnets nodding like a row of droopy daisies. When he tried stepping out of their way, they giggled. The sound rose and fell in a frenzied cacophony as they surrounded him on all sides like a gaggle of excited geese. Then they were ahead of him, running away. He watched as they took turns climbing a stile. When they joined hands to run across the breeze-dimpled meadow, he realized where they were headed. In the distance, a tall maypole waited, bedecked in ribbons.
    He smiled and followed the path of his merry daisies, the box of belongings still perched on his shoulder. Several villagers now observed his approach. Sydney Dovedale was not the sort of place to which people came unless they passed through on the way to somewhere grander, and the sight of a stranger would, no doubt, be cause for concern. So he kept his face merry, his stride confident. Let them see he came in peace.
    Just as long as no one gave him any trouble.
    He set down his box and leaned against a five-barred gate, squinting in the bright sun as the pink-cheeked, boisterous young girls circled the maypole.
    Now, which was the woman he came here to find?
    Moving along the hedge, he stood in the soft shade of a chestnut tree, where the grass was still wet and the dank earthiness tickled his nostrils. He’d just removed his hat to comb his hair back with the fingers of one hand, when something dropped on his head. One corner of it narrowly missed his left eye, and it bounced to the grass at his feet. A stifled curse trickled down through the branches, but when he looked up into the tree, all was very still. If it was possible to hear breath being held, he was certain he heard it. The fingers of a small hand slowly retreated like stealthy caterpillars through the leaves.
    â€œGood morning,” he called, holding his hat to his chest.
    Nothing but a low sigh. Might have been a breeze trailing through the leafy branches.
    When he stooped to retrieve the slender book that had fallen, the tree made a tiny, agitated mewl of distress. And no wonder. The pictures printed in this book were shockingly clear, detailed and instructive, not generally the sort of reading matter one expected to find a lady perusing on a sunny spring morning in the branches of a chestnut tree. Or anywhere, for that matter. He couldn’t read a word printed there, but the pictures spoke a universal language.
    â€œI didn’t mean to disturb you,” he shouted up into the tree even as he wondered why he apologized, since it was her indecent book that almost took out his eye. He knew it was a woman. Her presence rippled against his skin like the soft, sun-warmed waves of a calm but curious sea.
    The tree, however, stared down at him, haughty and proud. And silent.
    He ought to shake the wench out of her hiding place like a ripe chestnut.
    Snapping the book shut, he tucked it inside his waistcoat and turned back to watch the dancers around the maypole. His lips puckered in a careless whistle while he deliberately ignored the tree. His gaze now traveled over the other women.
    No. She was not among them. These girls were all too young.
    A wasp buzzed his ear. He batted it away and then, in his peripheral