by Stacy Reid
William took a long swallow of his whisky. “Are you happy, Mother? Does he make you happy?”
“Whenever I am in Bath...my joy is indescribable,” she murmured, a flush mounting on her elegantly slanted cheekbones.
His mother was quite a handsome woman at eight and forty, with no hint of greying hair or wrinkles marring her exquisite face. In her youth she had been considered to outshine all the other debutantes and her hand had been avidly sought by the handsome young men of the ton. His father had been several years older but she had loved him openly and ardently. William knew how greatly she had been crushed by his father’s death. How long she had grieved. Sorrow clutched at William’s heart as he recalled how he had not been there to support her through her mourning. He had fled England’s shore only months after his father’s passing because he too had lost the love of his life and had found it difficult to remain where every sight, scent, taste, and even the rain reminded him of his Sophia.
Now his mother had healed from the loss of his father, how could he object to her affair. “You’ve decided to stop mourning?” he asked softly.
“Unexpectedly a few months ago I realized how alone I’ve been, and that I’ve hardly visited town and Bath. I’ve ordered a new wardrobe. Bright colors,” she said with a wobbly smile.
“Do you wish to marry the viscount?”
She inhaled a sharp breath, her hand fluttering delicately to her throat. “Marry him?”
This was asked with such alarm he could see the thought had never entered her mind. “There is no need to say more, Mother, only know that you have our blessings if you wish to marry Viscount Bunbury.”
The Viscount was a man of solid character according to Simon who’d gone to the trouble of investigating him. The viscount also had a good reputation in the ton and had his fortune. Despite the difference in their ages, the man seemed to genuinely want to be with his mother.
She stared at him for several moments before walking over and enfolding him in a hug. William wrapped his arms around her, carefully holding the glass of whisky away.
“Though you wrote to me often, I’ve missed you excessively, and I am very glad you are home,” she murmured. Then with another squeeze of her arms, she released him and stepped away. “You’ve never really explored town and its attractions. I’ll stay with you until a suitable—”
“Mother, please, return to Bath,” he gently insisted.
“You have been away for so long. Surely you will need my help to navigate the waters of the ton and—”
He took her hands between his and smiled down at her. “Mother, I shall be fine. I am experienced enough to know what I desire in my wife.”
The duchess thought of this for several minutes. “Very well.”
He pressed a brief kiss to her cheek and then went over to the sideboard and refilled his glass with whisky. “I will make arrangements to travel to London immediately. No one will be aware that lady Miranda and I are no longer engaged until I enter the marriage mart. I am quite certain they will not announce to anyone that they’ve eloped.”
The duchess nodded. “I will implore you, William, to recall your oath to your father that you would not marry a lady of inferior rank, fortune, and connections.”
The glass being lifted to his lips stilled as if controlled by an external force. He stared at his mother, an odd pain twisting through him and piercing the numbness which he had carried for so long.
“I am now a man of nine and twenty,” he murmured. “I made that oath to father years ago before he died.” Only a few weeks after he’d lost Sophia and all the hopes he’d possessed for their future.
His mother’s face took on a mutinous cast. “And you must be bound by it. To honor his memory. Your father, even in his illness, only wished to protect the family’s reputation because you wanted to throw it away for that girl and—”
“Enough,” he said with cutting precision. “I still recall with perfect clarity your objections to a girl I adored. I am no longer guided by sentiments or matters of the heart, so I assure you, madam, I will select the future duchess of Wycliffe while keeping in my mind my position and circumstances.”
“And your promise to your father,” she insisted stubbornly.
With a silent curse, he noted the strain across her lips and recalled to mind that Simon had mentioned hearing an odd beat of her heart when he had examined her for melancholia. The very idea of losing his mother to any serious illness or driving her to her sickbed with his remarks tempered him as nothing else could.
“I shall bear my duty in mind, Mama,” he murmured, lifting her hand to his lip and kissing it. “And my promise to my father.”
Some of the tension eased from her shoulders.
“And promise me, William,” she said fiercely, “Promise me the wife you choose will be a young lady of quality whom I can approve and will be happy to call daughter, and her family my own.”
His mother was never one to lose the opportunity to sink her claws home once she sensed weakness. It would not be an awkward thing to promise, for he had no notion of seeking an alliance based on tender feelings. This would be a marriage, one of mutual convenience, respect, and honor to each other. William truly did not care if he ever grew to love his wife or not, nor did he overly examine his apathy to tender sentiments. To his way of thinking, this could be achieved with any lady from the ton, from a respectable family.
“I promise it,” he said, frowning at the cold arrow of discomfort that traveled through him at the vow.
What if…
With an inward snarl, he rejected the very notion. He’d loved already and had lost her. To do so again he could not bear it. There would be no what if…only the simple transactions of a marriage contract to a young lady suitable to be his duchess. As he finished his conversation with his mother and made his way up the magnificent stairs to his chamber, he couldn’t stop the insidious thought which curled through his heart.
What if…
* * *
Meanwhile in Hertfordshire…
Sophia laughed as she rounded the corner of the lanes at breakneck speed, urging her horse to the finish line. She tugged on the reins and slowed her chestnut mare, grinning as young Tommy, Lord Portman, halted his horse, too.
“You cheated,” he accused, glaring at her. “Before I reached three, you darted away like a wild thing!”
“You’ve impugned my honor, dare I not demand a measure of satisfaction, my lord?” she asked with a wink.
Tommy chuckled at her deliberate impudence. “There is no hope for you, my dear Sophia, and it is no wonder mother despairs of finding you a husband.”
Sophia sobered and glanced in the direction of the beautiful estate perched on the hill in the distance. “We all know the reason I’ve not made a match has nothing to do with—”
“Your hoydenish and unenthusiastic manners?” he said, repeating a refrain made by his mother, the countess Cadenham, over the years. “You challenged me to a race and then appeared in trousers! You will have to use the servants’ entrance and sneak to your chamber lest Mama sees you.”
“I daresay my lack of finding a husband has more to do with my lack of connections, fortune, and family than any of my escapades,” she said with a heavy sigh, lifting her face to the last rays of the lowering sun.
He flinched, and shame rushed through her. “Tommy forgive me! I never meant to imply that you are not family.”
“I know,” he said after a few beats. “I own we will never be able to replace what you lost, Sophia.”
She was unable to speak past the knot of emotions, tightening her throat. The acute memory of all that had been lost to her always filled her with overwhelming emotions. Several years ago, a disease epidemic had ravaged the sleepy and idyllic village of Mulford and had taken her mother, sister, and father in one cruel, heartrending blow. Somehow, Sophia had survived the illness after days of battling the fever, pain, and delirium. How she had screamed and torn at her hair when the doct
or had informed her of the loss of her family. Still weakened she had fainted, and upon waking she had been in a carriage with her cousins, Lydia and Tommy, and her Aunt Imogen hovering over her. They had taken her away from Mulford and the unbearably weight of all that happened there.
All the happiness had been drained from Sophia’s heart, and she’d only known bleakness for an exceedingly long time. It had taken several weeks to fully recover, and as soon as she had been able, Sophia had made her way back to Mulford. The memory of trekking for miles to Hardwick Park to the man she’d loved with her soul and being turned away stabbed the pain deeper into her heart, flaming it into agony.
“I did not mean to cast you into a somber mood,” the viscount said.
She pushed away the memories and buried the emotions deep under the surface of her heart. “Please do not regard it, Tommy, I am quite fine,” she said with a smile that trembled on her lips.
“Will you travel to town tomorrow? Lady Pemberley’s ball is one my sister is determined not to miss. I know you are not the sort to like these events, but Lydia is keen on attending, and without you to chaperone her, Mama will find it exhausting to sustain her attendance.”
Lydia was Sophia’s dearest friend and Tommy’s twin sister. She suspected he wanted to pursue his own amusements elsewhere and did not want the trouble of escorting his sister to the ball. For the last few Seasons, the duty to be her cousin’s companion and chaperone had fallen to her shoulders, and she hadn’t protested, owing much to her aunt for taking her in without fuss or questions after the tragedy. Sophia nodded and urged her horse in the direction of the stables.
“My valises and portmanteau are already packed. I’ll be traveling to town with Lydia and you, Tommy,” she said with gentle amusement. “I am sure Aunt Imogen will still expect you to accompany us to the ball.”
“I have other plans,” he said with a wink. “With a delightful widow who—”
“Tommy!” Sophia cried with a blush, knowing what the rogue had been about to say.
“Is that maidenly demureness I am detecting from a lady of five and twenty, one who fences, audaciously swims in the sea, rides astride in trousers and who I know kissed one Lord Sanderson last year in this very garden?”
She glared at him before laughing. Sophia had fallen lamentably short of expectation time and time again as she lived her life as if there were no promise of tomorrow.
“When I grow old, I would like to swim in the sea,” her thirteen-year-old sister Henrietta had said wistfully as she had stared at the crashing waves at the seaside town in Brighton one summer.
“I daresay I would like to ride astride one day, in trousers!” their mama had said with a chortle as they had named the adventures they would partake in if not for society’s expectations and eventual censure, “and even sell my paintings.”
That had been said with an expression of desperate hunger. Her mother had a talent which few could aspire to, but Papa had thought it unladylike and vulgar to actually sell her work. What would people say? That phrase had been a common rebuke from his lips.
Sophia’s father had looked on indulgently, with a smile on his face, and had shocked them all by saying, “I would partake in a horse race with the best of them all. Mayhap a carriage race with the rakes and rogues of London!”
“And I would like to marry Lord Lyons,” Sophia had boldly said to the utter shock of her parents, and the delight of her sister.
Sophia had distressed her aunt as she had endeavored to live her life freely, fulfill all the desires her family had held in their hearts, doing their adventures for them. As she accomplished each one, she would lie on the grass and stare at the heavens and whisper, “Mama, Papa, Henrietta…. I did this…” and spend a couple hours speaking to her departed family.
While she lived her life on the edge of society’s censure, loneliness had crammed her heart full. The few times her aunt had tried to broach the topic of her finding a husband to marry she had shied away from the conversation. She had rejected the notion of ever forming such a lasting attachment. Marriage and a family were no longer in the cards for her. She had lost her family years ago, and Sophia could not bear the idea of letting anyone get that close again, to avoid repetition of such brutal loss and pain.
But she wanted to enjoy life to its fullest and all its offerings. Lately, she had been wondering about the pleasures of the flesh, she admitted with a guilty flush mounting her cheeks. And it had a lot to do with the passionate embrace in which she had caught Tommy with one of his lady loves at a country rout last year. A surge of longing had filled her heart and tears had pricked behind her lids as she’d watched them. Then she had turned away, wishing to give them some privacy.
Memories of being in William's arms had haunted her throughout that night, and when Lord Sanderson had whisked her onto the terrace and away from curious eyes, she had allowed him a kiss. Nothing had been roused in her breast, and with shock she had pulled away from the man. When William had kissed her, she had flamed in his embrace. Could it be that grief and pain had killed all desires in her heart and body?
Sophia urged her horse into a canter, truly wondering if she could continue the wildly improper avenues her musing had been merrily taking her. An affair. One of utter discretion before she put her most exciting plan into effect. She would depart from England’s shores for Europe for another grand adventure. Or perhaps she should wait until she reached Versailles and then find herself a lover.
Utter madness, she chided herself, nudging her horse into a run toward the stables. The only thing she needed to concentrate on at the moment was ensuing her dear Lydia had a wonderful time in London, and to help her secure a proper match by the end of the Season.
Nothing more.
Once in the forecourt, she dismounted and handed over the horse to a stable lad, and quickly snuck inside. The butler, Mr. Ormsby, showed no reaction to her manner of dress. Sophia hurried down the long hallway, and then up the winding stairs when her aunt’s voice halted her from below.
“Sophia?”
She closed her eyes briefly before turning around and peering down. “Yes, Aunt Imogen?”
Aunt Imogen held a vase of flowers—dahlias—in her hand. Her aunt’s gaze skipped over the trousers, half-boots, and white shirt she wore. Disapproval furrowed her brows for a few seconds before she sighed.
“And whose outrageous dream are you acting out today?”
A lump formed in Sophia’s throat and she wanted to rush down the stairs and fling herself into her aunt’s embrace. Years ago, when a few of their neighbors had called her manners wild and improper, Sophia had explained tearily to her aunt that she wanted to live every dream her family had ever had but had been too afraid to explore. Her aunt had struggled to understand, but she too had missed her brother dreadfully, and had allowed Sophia her eccentricities. She had done her best to be discreet when warranted and had even offered to rent her own cottage with the inheritance of five hundred pounds from her father so as not to be a burden to her aunt’s household with her more flamboyant ways. Her aunt had refused but had never shown such understanding before.
“It was Mama’s own,” she said, after taking a steady breath. “She…she had mentioned it once before when we were by the seaside, but in her diary…. she often spoke of being free to race across the moors, feeling the wind of her face as the horse thundered beneath her.”
There was a contemplative air about her aunt as she considered Sophia.
“Well then, I am quite glad you experienced that, I do urge you to keep in mind that we have guests.” Then she smiled and continued toward the drawing room.
With a smile, Sophia hurried to her room and stripped off the trousers and shirt. She stood in her knee-length drawers, corset and chemisette. She rang the bell for help with her corset and bounded breasts, but it was Lydia who arrived.
“Mama mentioned what she caught you in,” Lydia said with a wide smile, ambling over to tug at the tight laces.
&nbs
p; Sophia released a sigh of relief as the whale boned corset loosened and the bindings were removed. It had been tempting not to wear restrictive garments, but her breasts were too bountiful for her to be racing across the country without it. That would have been shocking and scandalous, and possibly even Tommy would have rebuked her behavior.
Lydia sat on the chaise longue by the window, a bright gleam in her expressive brown eyes. “I am terribly excited to be going to London tomorrow. This is my second Season, and I do hope it promises to be more fruitful than my first one! I’ve been missing for so long; I daresay all the beaux who’d been so promising are no longer on the marriage mart.”
Lydia was three and twenty but was only entering her second Season due to a long bout of an infection of the lungs. Aunt Imogen had taken her to the country for fresh air and recovery a little over two years ago, and Lydia was quite keen on returning to town to reacquaint herself with the elegancies and frivolities of town life. Sophia had been her companion and friend for the last few years, and while she did not enjoy the offerings of the ton, she was quite happy to be there to support her friend.
“I’ll try not to hover much as your chaperone,” she said teasingly. “Perhaps you’ll finally be able to get that kiss you have been dreaming of.”
Lydia predictably blushed and tucked a strand of her vibrant red hair behind her ears. “Only if Lord Jeremy Prendergast is still unmarried! I did like him so very much when we met. But if not, I’ll certainly not make a cake of myself and wear my heart on my sleeve. Another suitable lord will do for I am quite determined to secure a wonderful match by next month!”
Sophia tugged a light blue day dress from the armoire and peeked around the dress at Lydia. “Within a month?”
“Yes,” Lydia cried in mock horror. “I am three and twenty, a veritable spinster.” Then she toed off her slippers and folded her feet onto the chaise. “Do you not wish to be married, Sophia? I cannot believe you do not hunger for a man of your own….and children…and best of all to be the mistress of your own home!”
