by Katy Madison
She didn't understand.
He had shown her through the house, pointed out the nursery and secured his father's permission that she might redecorate the rooms as she saw fit. All of that was well and good, but she rather suspected more would have to happen between them before there would be any need to modernize quarters for an infant.
What had happened out in the snow hadn't felt complete. She moved to stand in front of the cheval glass. Her hair was already falling from it's arrangement, largely because she had tugged on it while trying to pen an epistle to her new husband. Her gown was frumpy, the waist too low, the skirt too full, too many petticoats.
She raised it up and shed the petticoats underneath. The dress hung limply, the style simply not flattered by the lack of undergarments.
Was she an embarrassment to Keene? Was that what he meant when he said she was not ready for London? Was her ignorance of card games and dancing all too easily confessed? Her lamentable lack of fashion too glaringly obvious? Should she have withheld from him the things she wanted to learn?
Certainly his friend George had frowned at her more than once, but his friend Victor had given her encouragement. But now that she thought about it, he had given her advice as though she were the merest of imbeciles.
She whipped around and headed for the door, her petticoats a froth on the floor. Her new father-in-law sat in his study poring over papers. She trounced into the room, wanting an answer. "What have I done to displease him?"
Lord Whitley raised his silver-laced blonde head and looked her up and down. "Very likely nothing. What have you done with your skirts?"
* * *
"Do you mean to leave her long?" Victor stared at the man seated on the opposite side of the carriage.
Keene shrugged.
"An odd business to be sure. I'm certain Victor and I could have made it to London without assassinating each other," said George.
Keene turned and stared out the window where rain streamed down.
"With no ill purpose in mind, I think Sophie is delightful, and she seemed quite disappointed to be left behind."
Disappointed was putting it mildly. She appeared crushed. Her blue eyes had grown bright, and Victor noticed she had donned her traveling cloak as if her husband hadn't warned her that she would be staying with his father rather than accompanying them to London.
"She's not ready for the ton," said Keene.
Victor knew why Keene thought she was not ready for polite society. He didn't want the evidence of her pregnancy springing to life before the ever-watchful and scandal-hungry eyes of the season attendees. Still, if she had confessed her sin, all should be well.
"No, she is not. She is a rather rambunctious young lady, is she not?" commented George.
"Well, we cannot all have the privilege of marrying a perfect gentlewoman and lady, like you, sir," said Victor.
George glared in Victor's direction.
Keene put a hand on George's shoulder as if to stop him from lunging forward. Turning the conversation back to a less objectionable subject, he commented, "My wife is rather impetuous."
"I say. She scrambled over a footstool like a monkey and had her skirts raised to her knees when she ran into me in the hall."
"Ah, raising skirts seem to be a fault of both your wives."
"Shut up!" said Keene at the same time George made an offer to blacken Victor's other eye.
"I cannot think you explained to her why you left her behind," said Victor, instead.
George gave him an angry look and turned in Keene's direction. To Victor's surprise he echoed his sentiments. "I do say that it is rather odd that you have left your bride in your father's keeping."
"I daresay I shall return to her soon enough."
The odd thing of it was that Keene looked as miserable as his wife had appeared when he left her. There had been a passionate embrace as though the choice to leave his wife behind was not his. But of course, it had been his option.
The carriage rattled and pain lanced through Victor's wound. He grimaced. The way of it now, he should stay alive so he might have the wedded bliss promised by the dueling pistols, because clearly Keene was the real loser in their battle. Although a part of him wished that one of his friends would take enough offense to permanently put him out of his misery. Lord knew, he had not the courage to do it himself, and he was damn tired of pain and poverty.
"If you leave her in the country, the gossips will say you have only married her for her money," said George.
"Is she so rich an heiress? You should have introduced me sooner, for you have no need to add to your largesse." Victor tried to settle more comfortably against the squabs.
"Of course he has need of money. His father neglects his pecuniary needs."
"He does not," objected Keene. "I had no interest in Sophie's inheritance."
"Indeed, I am sure he did not," echoed Victor, remembering the refused annuity.
Keene grimaced.
There was more at stake here.
"I had it straight from Richard. It must have been painful to apply to one's younger brother for funds," said George.
Keene's mouth flattened. He looked out the window again. Victor stared at the sour expression on Keene's face. Was it true that Keene's father knotted the purse strings tight with his heir? Victor knew George to be honest. Why should he make up something like that?
"I cannot fathom why your father found your exploits so distasteful when often Richard was along," said George.
"No one found Richard's affairs worth mentioning," Victor observed. As a second son, Richard's deeds were hardly a concern to the gossips. Of course, the real reason Keene's father withheld funds was not Keene's peccadilloes.
"We are a scandalous bunch, are we not? I think I shall divorce my wife and top both of you in providing grist for the mill."
Stunned silence greeted George's statement.
"You cannot," whispered Victor.
"I can. I have thought much about this these last few days."
"You have been drunk these last few days."
"That does not mean one cannot think."
"Clearly, perhaps. Surely, George, you do not wish to drag your situation before Parliament. Do think on this. Amelia loves you dearly. She should be ruined. Even if you do not love her, do not regard her devotion so cheaply," said Keene.
"Good God, man. What would she do? She has not much in the way of family or fortune to defend her." Victor leaned forward. George couldn't divorce his wife.
"What need of family has she, when my best friends will plead her case? Although I should not consider anything he says upon the subject." George nodded toward Victor.
"Go slowly. Do not make this into everyone's business. As it is, only the three of us know," said Keene calmly.
"Tell him you would not do such a thing," said Victor. "Tell him." Panic rose in him. What would happen to his daughter? She would be ostracized by polite society. What would happen to Amelia? She would have to set up as some man's mistress, or hope that George settled enough on her to live in genteel poverty abroad.
Keene shook his head. "Tell him to banish his wife to his estate?"
No, that was not what he meant. Keene should tell George about Sophie's condition and end this talk of divorce. "Why not?" demanded Victor.
"Now is not the time. I will not have a loose tongue."
"Tell him."
"Tell me what?" demanded George.
"That Victor has offered to set up your wife in a cottage should you discard her."
"I did not mean it." He couldn't set up a mistress when he was on the verge of seeking a marriage. Yet how could he fail to take care of Amelia when her predicament was his fault?
"I care not." George took refuge in a bottle.
Victor silently pleaded with Keene to tell his own situation. But at the same time he understood that George spilled secrets he should not divulge. At some time in the future he should have to reevaluate what he knew of Keene's f
inancial situation, which was damn little. But right now he was more concerned with what would happen with his daughter and her mother, the woman he couldn't marry.
"Nothing is done yet. There is time," soothed Keene.
"I never would have touched her if I had known it would come to this." Victor squirmed in his seat. "She always loved you best, even when she despaired of you ever making an offer. If you remember, you escorted a Miss Thorton to several events around the same time."
George ignored what had been a terribly hard thing for Victor to admit. Keene's gaze was far too penetrating. Victor covered his face with his hands. How had their lives gotten so tangled? Last year he hardly cared beyond the next moment's pleasure; this year he had seen the crumbling façade of his house and realized it clearly mirrored his life. Should he not look to the future, everything would disintegrate around him. The problem was, the actions of the past cast piles of stones in front of every step.
"I wish the rain would stop," said George plaintively.
"I daresay it has just started," said Keene.
Victor muttered an expletive echo, and he wondered if his ancestral home had sprung any new leaks in his absence.
* * *
"I should like to see how the current fashions look on me," answered Sophie, undaunted by the disapproving look Lord Whitley offered. She'd suffered too many more-terrifying, disapproving looks from her own father to be fazed by one from her new papa-in-law.
"That is not it."
"Yes, I quite realize." She should have put her petticoats back on, but she'd quite forgotten she'd removed them until he cast a frown in her direction. Well, it wasn't as if she had entered a London drawing room naked.
She sat in a chair across from Lord Whitley. "Keene is quite up on fashion, is he not? At first I thought he dressed rather plainly in sober colors, but on reflection, he is never flamboyant to the point of ridiculousness, is he?"
"If you came in here to talk of my son, please leave."
"Why?"
Lord Whitely's faded blue eyes opened wide as he raised his head to meet her gaze.
She guessed Lord Whitley was rather taken aback by her directness.
"I have work to be done."
"Oh, pish. I shall do it for you. Are you keeping the accounts? I have a very neat hand and a good head for figures." She stood and leaned across his desk.
Lord Whitley closed the ledger.
She sat back down. Had she had offended him? Keene had seemed interested in her ability to manage her father's accounts. "I often check over my father's figures. You could ask him, but only if you should wish assistance. For I confess it is not my favorite occupation."
"What is, miss?"
"Well, I do prefer pursuits which require exertion. I imagine I should greatly enjoy dancing. I like to ride, and of course go for long walks, but it is raining, which cancels the last two, and I cannot dance without a partner, let alone that Papa—my real papa, not you—did not see fit to allow me to learn. Although Mama says one must be able to dance in London. Do you think that is why Keene didn't take me with him?"
"You shall have to put your question to him."
"Should I? I mean I already did, and he said I was not ready for London. Mama gave me a bank draft to use to furnish my trousseau. We knew Papa would not allow me to purchase gowns in the latest fashion, and Mama says one must buy in London or be hopelessly provincial-looking."
Lord Whitley rubbed his forehead with his sausage-like fingers. Sophie couldn't help but compare his square hands to Keene's elegant long fingers that could touch so devastatingly and leave her aching.
"I mean, do you think that is what he meant? I am not dressed properly and cannot dance. Actually, I cannot play cards, either. I understand I should do that."
"Since he specifically requested permission to allow you to refurnish the nursery, I would presume he has plans to make me a grandfather."
Sophie blushed and looked down at the ring on her finger. In a hesitant voice she said, "Then I imagine I should be in London with him, rather than sitting here alone. I would wish your advice. He is your son, and I am afraid I displease him with my unfashionable appearance."
Lord Whitley leaned back in his chair. "I do not think your looks displease him, but your pert manner, miss."
Sophie pushed back the chair and headed for the door. She hadn't come into the room to be insulted.
"You say you are good with figures?"
She paused, her back to him. "Yes, sir."
"There is a deck of cards in the dining room sideboard. Fetch them and the housekeeper and come back here."
Sophie did as she was bade. The housekeeper stood in the doorway as Lord Whitley took the cards from Sophie's outstretched hand.
"Mrs. K., is there not a dancing master residing in the village?"
"Yes, sir. Him used to teach for that young ladies' academy up in Perth. He is old now and only takes occasional students."
"Send around an inquiry to see if he would consent to teach our Sophie here."
Sophie leaned forward and threw her arms around Lord Whitley's neck. "Oh, thank you, Papa."
Lord Whitley gave her an awkward pat on the back before clearing his throat, indicating that her exuberant hug had gone on long enough.
Sophie spent the next few days learning as much as she could. She pored over the copy of the Times that Lord Whitley received each day. She forced herself to wade through the political news, understanding little. Lord Whitley found her a quick study at cards, and her old dancing master, whose bones creaked with every knee bend, pronounced her a highly adequate student.
* * *
Keene paced through the house like a caged tiger. He couldn't tame his restlessness. Partly it was because the house was empty. Without Richard, silence hung like a pall over the rooms. Yet, it wasn't entirely Richard's absence that provoked his agitation. There had been plenty of times when Richard had not been in residence.
When he had combed through every room and found nothing to soothe his spirit, he called for his horse. What he wanted was to ride to his father's estate and see if Sophie was willing to talk to him yet. He had given her every opportunity, held out hope until the last minute before leaving that she would divulge her secret. He'd told her nothing in the past mattered. She'd dipped her head and stared at the floor, while he waited in vain.
Keene rubbed his face. It was not in the least like Sophie to act reticent. What reason would she suddenly start now? What reason other than her pregnancy?
He pulled on his gloves and walked down the front steps to his horse. It had only been a few weeks, not long enough, yet. He had only a few months to wait. Yet waiting drove him to distraction. He needed to be doing something, anything. He rode to George's house.
The butler stood implacably at the door and said the Keetings were not at home. Keene could hear the shouts that belied their servant's statement. George, at least, was home, and his tirade could only be directed at Amelia.
"Let me in, man, before he does something he should regret."
The servant's reserved exterior crumbled before Keene's eyes. "It's an awful row, it is."
The butler refused to announce him. Keene turned the door handle of the morning salon and stepped inside. Amelia sat on the edge of a sofa, her hands gripping the cushions at her side, her face white. George stopped mid shout, his face red.
"Are you all right, Amelia?" asked Keene.
She nodded. "I am fine."
"He hasn't hurt you, has he?"
Amelia gave a fractional shake of her head. "He would raise nothing stronger than words against me."
Keene glanced at his friend. Did George realize how painful words could be?
"You interfere, sir."
"Your shouts can be heard in the street."
Silence greeted his quiet observation. Only the silence was incomplete. In the distance a small cry signaled a baby's distress.
"Oh, my." Amelia rose from the sofa. "I hadn't heard her."
"Take care of your brat," said George.
"I'll get her," offered Keene.
He paused outside the room, drawing a deep breath. Was this how his father had responded to him as an infant? His hands shook as he contemplated the anger he shared with George and the anger he felt toward George. He thought of Victor and the shoulder that was taking so long to heal. As he climbed the staircase his body felt heavy. He had shot the wrong man.
* * *
Victor pulled on his shirt and gingerly slid his right arm into the sleeve. Finally the wound was beginning to heal. His arm felt weak and useless, although for the most part he could control its movement. He lifted it to shoulder height, both fearing to use it and terrified that if he never used it, the limb would wither to nothing.
A knock on his door brought his man from the wardrobe, a cravat in hand. Victor moved to his bedroom door while his valet opened the door to his apartments.
"Sir, there is a young woman to see you."
Victor raised his eyebrows in a silent question, who?
His man shook his head slightly, indicating he did not know.
Victor crossed to the door. "Sophie!"
"Oh, good, it is your place. I wasn't quite sure. I found this address among some of Keene correspondence. I didn't wish to read the letter to be sure it was current."
"What are you doing here?" Victor reached to pull her inside, thought better of it and stepped out onto the outside stair, then changed his mind again and pulled her inside. Standing outside was more likely to draw attention than pulling her inside. Just showing up at his door was bad enough.
His manservant discreetly disappeared into the back rooms. Keene would kill him if he knew his wife had called on him in his bachelor quarters. No decent woman was ever seen calling on a gentleman living alone.
"I came up to London to have some dresses made. I wish to appear more fashionable. I am sure I am quite dowdy. Papa—Keene's father—gave me his address, but I decided I should just stay in a hotel. I do not have any acquaintances here, and I hoped you could recommend a proper place to stay."
"Keene doesn't know you're in London?"
"No. He did wish for me to stay at his country home, and I do not wish to be disobedient—although it is ever my nature to be so—but I did wish to furnish my trousseau, and the draft that Mama gave me is to be deposited in an account,"—Sophie reached into her reticule and pulled out a folded paper—"at One Pall Mall East. I believe it would be wise to have a gentleman accompany me, and I hoped you would consider assisting me."
