by Julia London
Unfortunately, Honorine would not let her forget it, and was obviously intent on driving her quite mad, as she continued well into the evening, ranting about Mr. Hamilton, Sophie’s lack of male companionship in general, and her obvious need to…ahem…tend to all her needs. By the middle of the next morning, Sophie was imagining all the inventive ways she might strangle her. To make matters worse, Honorine went to Regent’s Park on a lark and accosted the little moppet son of Hamilton’s, along with his governess, after a walkabout with the boy’s grandpapa. Somehow, Honorine had managed to convince reasonable adults that the boy should call at Maison de Fortier. Lord Hamilton was, apparently, quite smitten with Honorine.
And Honorine decided, much to Sophie’s annoyance, to teach young Ian to dance. She coerced Roland—who happened to be a passable violinist and, having no other apparent occupation in London, was available—into playing. Young Ian proved to be an eager and capable little dancer, in spite of his governess’s attempts to tell him that one did not dance precisely that way in England.
Fortunately for his governess, Miss Hipplewhite, Honorine soon grew bored of dancing with a seven-year-old boy, and sprawled on a settee, regaled Ian with outrageously creative stories of her life. Ian lay on his stomach on the Oriental rug, his chin propped on his fists, his eyes wide with awe at some of the more colorful tales presented him.
Miss Hipplewhite sat on the edge of her chair, her mouth agape in horror.
Sophie could hardly keep from rolling her eyes or muttering her disbelief of the more inventive tales, particularly the one that had Honorine rescuing a child from some sort of Norwegian pirate-viking. Sophie’s demeanor, however, did not sit well with her employer. When Honorine suggested, in proper and distinct French, that she might perhaps find another activity more to her liking than drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair and muttering under her breath, Sophie could not agree more.
She set out for her daily walk and found herself in Regent’s Park.
Inevitably, she came to the pond she visited every day, in spite of having already made a monumental fool of herself there. She paused at the wrought iron bench where she usually sat and looked across to where the men were normally working, but was surprised to see that there were no activities at the house today—it was silent. That was just as well, really; she was not very keen to see the foreman after the awful display of her conversational skills yesterday.
But still…she was rather disappointed.
She sat on the bench, stared at the water, and wished she had thought to bring a book. A carriage rumbled by in the distance; Sophie adjusted her bonnet, folded her hands primly on her lap.
After a few minutes of that, she stood up, walked to the edge of the pond and around the banks, deeper into the flora than she had gone before, trying to see past the dark surface to gauge the depth of it. But the lily pads were too thick and the water murky. The sound of a frog captured her attention, sitting on a lily pad beneath the overhang of a willow tree, his chest puffed proudly. For some strange reason, he reminded Sophie of all the gentlemen of the ton.
She glanced down at her feet, spied several pebbles.
He didn’t think she had come today. He had ridden around the park twice now, had given up hope that she would appear. He was on his way out of the park when he saw the flash of pink bonnet around one side of the pond.
She had come, this woman whose solitary existence had so intrigued him.
He had watched her watching him, had wondered who she was and why she came every day with her basket and her book. He had even fantasized that he knew why—there was something about her that reminded him of himself. She was a loner, not really fitting into the world around her, preferring her own company to that of society. And when he had seen her yesterday, up close, her chocolate-brown eyes and pristine skin had enchanted him. The woman was pretty in an unconventional way. But anxious. Extremely anxious. And that just made him wonder all the more.
He dismounted, tethered his horse, and strolled to the wrought iron bench where she usually sat. A flash of pink again, and he saw her, squatting down, looking in the grass for something. When she stood, she adjusted her bonnet backward and slightly off to one side, apparently aiming at something. He looked to the pond, saw the frog, and smiled to himself.
Suddenly, she jerked her arm back and threw the stone with such enthusiasm that she very nearly wrenched her arm from her shoulder. The stone sailed wide of the frog and landed with a splash great enough to make the creature inch nervously about on his lily pad.
The second pebble, thrown delicately as a little girl would, was far too short. She muttered under her breath as the frog inched closer to the edge of his pad, shook her arm a bit to loosen it, then assumed a firmer position with her feet planted widely apart.
Lord. “You’ve got it all wrong, I’m afraid,” he called out to her.
At the sound of his voice, the woman nearly toppled over backward as she whirled around and clasped her hand to her breast, stone and all.
Bloody hell, then—she was even prettier than he had thought. Her brown eyes, wide with surprise, were so dark that they almost looked black; her pursed lips, plump and red, stood in stark contrast to the creamy paleness of her face. He had startled her badly; her chest was heaving up and down in a tantalizing shade of green brocade.
He idly slapped his riding crop against his thigh. “As a veteran of frog-tapping, I can say with some authority that you’ve got to get your weight behind it. May I demonstrate?”
“I…ah, I don’t really…I mean that I’m not usually in the habit of throwing stones,” she said, and instantly closed her eyes, pivoting away from him toward the pond in a self-conscious manner he found utterly charming.
He walked down and stood beside her. “I beg your pardon, but that is rather obvious, madam. You’ve no idea how to go about it.”
Her cheeks flushed, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I…I was getting the feel for it.”
He chuckled, squatted down, and picked up a few stones. “It appeared as if you were getting the feel for launching the stone all the way to Scotland. If I were so intent on unseating that frog, I would take a stance to improve my aim. Put one foot back thus,” he said, planting one foot back and the other forward.
Now she leveled a completely baffled gaze at him, as if he were speaking a foreign language.
“Won’t you try it?”
For a moment, he thought she would tell him to leave her be, but she slowly put one foot behind her, the other forward, without once taking her eyes from him.
He couldn’t help himself; he chuckled again at her charming discomfiture. “Ah, there you are. All right then, when you throw, shift your weight forward onto your forefoot.” He threw his stone, which landed just shy of the lily pad to force the frog away from the edge. “You see? Now you have a go.”
She regarded him skeptically, then just as skeptically regarded the frog, and mimicking his movement, threw her stone. It landed almost exactly where his had, but the splash sent the frog leaping off the pad and into the water.
They both stared at the empty lily pad for a moment.
“There you go—can’t have them all, you know,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Perhaps you should consider croquet.”
A quiet smile spread across her lips. “Ah yes, croquet,” she said softly. “I am particularly skilled at that sport.”
“Then perhaps you might teach me,” he said as he reclaimed his riding crop. “I’ve only played the game once and found it rather tedious.”
She smiled fully then, but said nothing.
He tapped his crop against his leg, cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold…having now shared this moment of rock throwing, might I inquire after your name?”
The request instantly doused her smile. Coloring slightly, she looked off to the left. “Ah…well…”
Embarrassed regret swept through him and he cringed inwardly; he certainly should have known better.
He glanced up the embankment to where his horse was tethered, suddenly anxious to be on his way—women of the aristocracy did not consort with men like him—
“Sophie. Sophie Dane,” she said softly.
Sophie. The name sounded sweet on her breath. “Miss Dane, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Mr. Caleb Hamilton, at your service.”
The quick but unmistakable look of bewilderment on her pretty face unnerved him. He was accustomed to the reaction to his name, naturally, particularly in this part of London. But to think that she knew the lies said about him was very bothersome, more so than it had ever been before.
“A pleasure, sir,” she said politely, and nervously adjusted the cuffs of her walking gown.
“Well then. I suppose I’ve done all the good I can do here for today,” he said with a smile, and took a tentative step backward. “I shall leave you to your walkabout then, Miss Dane. I thank you for sharing a bit of it with me.”
She nodded, watched him as he took another step backward. But he hesitated, alarmingly uncertain what to do with himself. This was highly unusual for him, this awkwardness and indecision—he was hardly inexperienced with pretty women, but this was oddly, disturbingly, different. There was obviously nothing left to say—he could hardly confess to having watched her surreptitiously from across the pond these last few days. So he did what any gentleman would do and lifted his hand to tip his hat. With a final look at her pretty brown eyes, he turned away.
“Mr. Hamilton?”
His heart leapt; he looked over his shoulder. “Yes, Miss Dane?”
“W-what are you building, if I may ask?”
Irrationally pleased she had asked, he could not help the smile he knew was impossibly broad. “A house. My house.”
“Oh.”
She said nothing more, and Caleb told himself he should continue on. But his feet would not move—they apparently were not willing to say good-bye just yet. She was too intriguing, this Sophie Dane, seemingly so unlike the women he typically consorted with. Her countenance, her demeanor, was so unlike that of society women. That, and she simply had too many enticing curves for a man to just walk away.
She was still looking at him with a sweet expression of curiosity.
“If you come for your walk tomorrow, I would very much enjoy the privilege of showing my house to you.”
With a beguiling smile, she glanced down at her hem. “Perhaps,” she murmured.
Now that was the best thing Caleb had heard in several days, and in fact, her tentative response thrilled him like a child. As absurd as it was, he wanted to show this woman his house. He wanted her to see what he was capable of building, the house he would one day call a home, would one day fill, God willing, with children and happiness and love.
Shyly, she peeked at him through her lashes; Caleb grinned, gave her a jaunty wave with his riding crop. “I shall come round here on the morrow to see if you are so inclined. Good day, Miss Dane.”
“Good day, Mr. Hamilton.”
He turned, walked up the hill without looking back, feeling more buoyant by the moment. He sensed something wholly unique about Sophie Dane. There was something about her that made him feel hopeful in a strange sort of way.
And he needed to hope.
He was, of course, far more handsome than she had thought, impossibly rugged and strong and…the bulge between his legs…Sophie practically floated back to Maison de Fortier and through the rest of the afternoon, closeting herself in the small library off the west corridor.
Seated in an overstuffed chair, she brought the book she was supposedly reading up to bury her face in it for the thousandth time since her encounter with Mr. Caleb Hamilton. She felt hot, red hot, burning from the inside out with her racy and hopeful thoughts, exactly the way she had felt when she had first seen him standing above her on the embankment of the pond. Her own behavior had astounded her—she had never been so bold as she was today, calling him back as she did. The very thought of it made her blush furiously, and she could think of little else but him, his image seemingly affixed permanently to her mind’s eye.
So enrapt in the memory of him was she that she scarcely heard Fabrice when he wandered into the study.
He cleared his throat impatiently; Sophie slowly lowered her book.
“Monsieur Trevor Hamilton,” he said, and Sophie all but sent the book flying across the carpet as Trevor Hamilton strolled in behind Fabrice.
“He said I should follow,” he said apologetically, to which Fabrice shrugged and paused to adjust his neckcloth just so, then promptly strolled out of the room, his duty complete.
“I…I…Won’t you come in?” Sophie stammered nervously as she tried to artfully kick her book beneath the ottoman.
“Thank you.” He moved to the hearth, watching her, pausing there with his hands clasped behind his back, a smile playing on his lips.
What was he doing here again? Several things fluttered through her mind—none of which she found terribly appealing. All right, there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, and if she would take a breath and stop acting so addlepated, he might very well tell her! Sophie clumsily gained her feet, preparing herself…Because of your reputation, I’d prefer my son not be seen in your house—
“Lady Sophie, won’t you sit? You look a bit flushed.”
Oh, she was flushed, all right. Her heart was battering so wildly against her chest she was surprised it didn’t leap from her bodice and land squarely on the carpet between them.
“I…Yes. Yes, thank you.” She should be the one asking him to sit! She moved abruptly to a chair at the hearth, hardly able to think what to do. She sat—fell, really—and weakly motioned to the leather wingback chair directly across from her. “Please, Mr. Hamilton.” Tea. Yes, she should ring for tea!
“Thank you,” he said, and took his seat at the precise moment she stood to ring for tea. He quickly came to his feet again, but not before Sophie had flung herself into the chair again. He crouched, halfway between standing and sitting, eyeing her warily. “Are you quite certain?”
“I thought to ring for tea,” she said, feeling the rush of blood to her cheeks. She could not do this. No one was more incompetent at this sort of thing than she; she always had been. “Please, sit,” she urged him.
He cautiously took his seat. “Thank you for receiving me without notice, Lady Sophie. I won’t keep you.”
“Oh, think nothing of it.” She clasped her hands in her lap, noticed her knuckles were white with the exertion of it. Get on with it, then. Say it, say it, say—
“I’m not usually so impulsive, but I confess, I have thought a lot about that tea we agreed to, and I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps something a bit more enduring is in order. After all, Madame Fortier has said that you traveled extensively and to locales that are not often on the grand tour, so to speak.”
This was certainly not what she expected to hear—what tea? She had never agreed to any tea! Just what did Honorine think she was doing!?
“I was hoping that you would agree to be my guest at supper, Wednesday next,” he continued. When she did not immediately answer, he cocked his head to one side and patiently awaited her answer.
“Supper?” Was it her imagination, or had she shouted the word?
“If it pleases you.”
“I…well, I—”
“My father would like it very much.”
His father? All right, no man of his stature in the ton would want to associate with a woman who had eloped and then divorced her husband! This was some sort of trickery—
“Unless, of course, you are previously engaged, in which case I would be happy to offer the supper at a time when it might be more convenient for you to attend.”
Sophie swallowed, unable to move.
“Are you previously engaged, then?”
“No. No, I am not previously engaged…” What was she saying? She could not sup at the home of Mr. Hamilton!
“Splendid! Then shall we s
ay eight o’clock?”
“Mr. Hamilton, I—”
“Naturally, the invitation extends to Madame Fortier.”
“That is very kind, but I hope you—”
“I am very pleased you will come. Well then, I shan’t keep you from your book a moment longer. Thank you, Lady Sophie. I look forward to our evening with great anticipation.” He stood, shoved his hands into his pocket, and was already walking to the door before her mind could comprehend that she had, somehow, accepted his invitation. Her mind was spinning now, thinking furiously how to call him back when he paused at the door and turned toward her, smiling.
“I had in mind a rather intimate gathering. Not more than a dozen, I assure you.” Sophie gripped the arms of the chair to keep from slipping out of it in sheer mortification. The suggestion of meeting a room full of the haut ton was enough to make her ill—astounded, petrified, and completely discomfited, she frantically sought to put an end to this ridiculous situation. “Mr. Hamilton, I truly appreciate your offer, but I—”
“It is my pleasure. Thank you again, Lady Sophie. Until Wednesday next,” he said cheerfully, and walked out of the room.
Chapter Five
HONORINE WAS NO help at all.
The woman was ecstatic when Sophie told her about Trevor Hamilton’s call, observing first that Sophie would need to quickly replace all her undergarments, which Honorine considered too plain—“the frilly little things, the men, they enjoy them”—then secondly that her little peanut of a heart might at last fill up with amour.
And she topped it all off by proclaiming that the supper party was a grand opportunity for Will Hamilton to continue to court her.
When Sophie offered her own, less enthusiastic opinion about the supper, Honorine waxed romantically about her Will, then promptly quit the room, humming an old French love ballad to drown out any protest from Sophie.
It was enough to make a person positively deranged.
Frankly, Sophie had never seen Honorine quite so enamored of a man before. She could only attribute it to being several weeks in London now without dozens of fawning males. That, and the viscount Hamilton was undoubtedly paying her quite a number of grand compliments. Honorine adored compliments.
