The problem was far more likely to be her grandfather's overly indulgent attitude toward his orphaned grandchild. Women were quick to take advantage of a weak-willed man.
Her age might also be a factor. Julian had considered her years an asset in the beginning. He'd already had one young, ungovernable wife and one was quite enough. He'd had sufficient scenes, tantrums, and hysterics from Elizabeth to last him a lifetime. He had assumed an older female would be more levelheaded and less demanding; more grateful, in fact.
It was not as if the girl had a great deal of choice out in the country, Julian reminded himself. She would not have all that much choice in town, for that matter. She definitely was not the type to attract the attention of the jaded males of the ton. Such men considered themselves connoisseurs of female flesh in much the same way they considered themselves experts on horseflesh, and they were not likely to look twice at Sophy.
She was not fashionably extreme in her coloring, being neither strikingly dark-haired nor angelically blond. He tawny brown curls were a pleasingly rich shade but they appeared to have a will of their own. Tendrils were always escaping from beneath her bonnets or straggling free from a painstakingly arranged coiffure.
She was no Grecian goddess, the look currently fashionable in London, but Julian admitted to himself that he had no quarrel with her slightly tilted nose, gently rounded chin, and warm smile. It would be no great task to get into bed with her frequently enough to ensure himself of an heir.
He was also willing to allow that Sophy had a fine pair of eyes. They were an interesting and unusual shade of turquoise flecked with gold. It was curious and rather satisfying to note that their owner had not the least idea of how to use them to flirt.
Instead of peeking up at a man through her lashes, Sophy had the disconcerting habit of looking straight at him. There was an open, forthright quality about her gaze that had convinced Julian that Sophy would have a great deal of difficulty pursuing the elegant art of lying. That fact suited him, too. Picking out the handful of truths buried amid Elizabeth's lies had nearly driven him insane.
Sophy was slender. The popular high-waisted gowns suited her figure but they tended to emphasize the rather small curves of her breasts. There was, however, a healthy, vibrant quality about her that Julian appreciated. He did not want a weakling. Frail women did not do well in childbirth.
Julian reviewed his mental image of the woman he intended to marry and realized that, while he had assessed her physical assets accurately, he had not, apparently, taken certain aspects of her personality into consideration. He had never guessed, for example, that beneath that sweet, demure facade, she had a streak of willful pride.
It must have been Sophy's pride that was getting in the way of a proper sense of gratitude. And her willfulness appeared more entrenched than expected. Her grandparents were obviously distraught and quite helpless against their granddaughter's unanticipated resistance. If the situation was to be salvaged, Julian decided, he would have to do it himself.
He made his decision as the carriage rocked to a halt in front of the two stately arms of the crab-pincer staircase that marked the imposing entrance to Ravenwood Abbey. He climbed out of the equipage, stalked up the stone steps, and began giving low-voiced orders as soon as the door was opened for him.
"Send a message to the stables, Jessup. I want the black saddled and ready in twenty minutes."
"Very good, my lord."
The butler turned to relay the message to a footman as Julian strode across the black-and-white marble-tiled hall and up the massive red-carpeted staircase.
Julian paid little attention to his grand surroundings. Although he had been raised there, he had cared little for Ravenwood Abbey since the early days of his marriage to Elizabeth. Once he had felt the same possessive pride toward the house as he did toward the fertile lands that surrounded it but now he only experienced a vague distaste toward his ancestral home. Every time he walked into a room he wondered if this was yet another chamber in which he had been cuckolded.
His land was quite a different matter. No woman could taint the good, rich fields of Ravenwood or his other estates. A man could count on the land. If he took care of it, he would be amply rewarded. To preserve the lands for future Earls of Ravenwood, Julian was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice: he would marry again.
He hoped the act of installing another wife there would scrub some of the lingering traces of Elizabeth out of the Abbey and most especially out of the oppressively lush, exotically sensuous bedchamber she had once made her own. Julian hated that room. He had not stepped foot in it since Elizabeth 's death.
One thing was for certain, he told himself as he climbed the stairs, he would not make the same mistakes with a new bride as he had made with his first. Never again would he play the part of a fly in a spider's web.
Fifteen minutes later Julian came back down the stairs dressed for riding. He was not surprised to find the black stallion he had named Angel ready and waiting. He had taken it for granted that the horse would be at the door when he was. Everyone in the household took care to anticipate the master of Ravenwood. No one in his right mind wanted to do anything that might invoke the devil's wrath. Julian went down the steps and vaulted into the saddle.
The groom stepped back quickly as the black tossed his head and danced for a few seconds. Powerful muscles shuddered under the glossy coat as Julian established control with a firm hand. Then he gave the signal and the animal surged forward eagerly.
It would not be hard to intercept Miss Sophy Dorring on her way home to Chesley Court, Julian decided. He knew every inch of his estate and he had a good idea of just where he would find her taking a shortcut across his land. She would undoubtedly use the path that circled the pond.
"He's like to kill himself on that horse someday," the footman remarked to the groom, who was his cousin.
The groom spit onto the cobbled surface of the courtyard. "His lordship won't make his exit from this life on a horse. Rides like the devil himself. How long's he going to stay here this time?"
"They're sayin' in the kitchens that he's here to find himself another bride. Got his eye on Lord Dorring's granddaughter. His lordship wants a quiet little country miss this time. One who won't give him any trouble."
"Can't blame him for that. I'd feel the same way if I'd been shackled to that wicked hellcat he picked last time."
"Maggie in the kitchen says that first wife of his was the witch who turned his lordship into a devil."
"Maggie's got the right of it. I tell ye, I feel sorry for Miss Dorring, though. She's a decent sort. Remember how she came by with those herbs o' hers this winter when Ma got that bad cough? Ma swears Miss Dorring saved her life."
"Miss Dorring'll be gettin' herself an Earl," the footman pointed out.
'That's as may be, but she'll pay a high price for the privilege of bein' the devil's lady."
Sophy sat on the wooden bench in front of Old Bess's cottage and carefully wrapped the last of the dried fenugreek in a small packet. She added it to the little bundle of herbs she had just finished selecting. Her supplies of such essentials as garlic, thistle, nightshade, and poppies in various forms had been growing low.
"That should do me for the next couple of months, Bess, she announced as she dusted off her hands and rose to her feet. She ignored the grass stain on the skirt of her old blue worsted riding habit.
"Ye be careful if ye need to make up a cup o' poppy-head tea for Lady Dorring's rheumatism," Bess cautioned. "The poppies came in real powerful this year."