The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  Caleb laughed. “I beg your pardon, ladies, but there don’t seem to be enough pegs to go ’round.”

  The women dissolved in laughter, but it seemed to Sophie that more than one looked rather wistfully at him.

  So did Roland and Fabrice, who became frequent callers at the house on Upper Moreland Street, too. Fascinated by the endless possibilities the many gowns and accoutrements presented for the ladies and themselves—Sophie did not want to know how many possibilities, really—the two Frenchmen could not seem to tear themselves away from the little townhouse. They had, naturally, been quite surprised by Caleb’s presence at first, but they soon grew accustomed to seeing him about, just like the women, and would watch him covertly from beneath the veil of their lashes. Just like the women.

  Caleb also insisted on building a suitable booth at Covent Garden. Fabrice and Roland successfully located an ideal spot for the sale of the gowns, and Caleb leased it for them. The very next morning, he arrived with two workmen borrowed from the construction of his house and began building the booth.

  Feeling enormously pleased with herself, and rather liberated of the ton’s stifling mores about such things, Sophie bounced about the market square, directing the men as they began to erect her booth, handing them tools as if she knew something about the construction of booths. Caleb watched her, grinning, and at one point, surprised her by grabbing her wrist and abruptly yanking her around to face him. Smiling wickedly, he had anchored her to him with one arm around her waist. “I cannot abide it another moment,” he said, and kissed her so fiercely that he literally snatched the breath from her lungs. As always, the moment his lips touched hers, she was melting into him, wallowing in the pool of desire he created in her as he devoured her lips. He kissed her thoroughly and completely in the middle of Covent Garden, in front of his workmen, the crowds, and even Fabrice and Roland, then left her standing in the middle of all that chaos in something of a daze, still feeling the softness of his lips against hers, the taste of his mouth, and the bold touch of his tongue as Fabrice clapped delightedly.

  Sophie stopped worrying about the appearance of it and gave way to the exquisite feeling of being in love.

  The man knew how to kiss. He knew how to make love. And her body yearned—no, pleaded—for more, much more. His mastery drove her higher—he knew when to be gentle, when to be hard, where to touch her, where to kiss her. He knew every inch of her body that could elicit pleasure, and laved each place until she surrendered to her own private madness.

  Unfortunately, those moments were rare. Their shared fear of a pregnancy and its consequences was quietly spoken between them, but there were those days they could not deny the intense desire flowing between them, and succumbed to their emotions.

  Oh yes, she loved Caleb Hamilton, loved the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he listened when she spoke. She loved the way he treated everyone around him with respect. She loved everything about him, and the man he was.

  The one thing she did not love about Caleb was the fact that it was his half-brother who was attempting to court her. She had been truthful with Caleb about Trevor—she told him she had no interest in him, despite what the ton rumored, and he seemed to believe her. Yet her assurances could not remove the pall Trevor cast over them.

  Which made Trevor Hamilton’s calls increasingly intolerable.

  Sophie was beginning to realize that Trevor imagined nothing more than a woman seated at his table, a figure that made his little family complete. He did not want a companion, he wanted someone to watch over Ian. Worse, his vision of the world around him, and even his future, was astoundingly narrow—not broad and colorful and with a view of the entire world, like Caleb’s. He seemed to have few outside interests, and on those rare occasions she attempted to engage him in conversation by asking about his day, he would grow cold and noncommunicative, as if he did not want her to know what he did.

  Nor did Trevor have much tolerance for Sophie’s attempts to broaden their conversations. He told her very pointedly one day that he did not care to listen to the tales of travel with Honorine as he found that woman’s character to be questionable and preferred not to think of Sophie in her employ.

  It had taken her aback; she had no idea how to respond to something so blatantly cold. She replied unsteadily that his preference was all well and good, but she most certainly was in Honorine’s employ, and that for all her idiosyncrasies, she was a kind person and a dear friend. “And,” she added curtly, “I should think it obvious how giving she has been with your father. Look at the improvements he has made!”

  “My father,” Trevor replied tightly, “is a sick man. She aggravates him.” Trevor did not seem to recognize the improvements Lord Hamilton had made under Honorine’s care. He didn’t seem to recognize anything except his own needs.

  But what truly astounded Sophie was that no one seemed to notice his character. The only thing anyone seemed to notice at all was that Trevor was the legitimate heir to the Hamilton fortune and therefore, a prized catch. Not a day went by someone didn’t remind Sophie how fortunate she was that a man of his caliber had noticed her.

  She was so very fortunate, her sister Ann told her time and again, to catch the eye of a man like Trevor Hamilton. How very fortunate, said Claudia, that Sophie had chosen this particular time to return to England, for she never would have met the gentleman who everyone speculated would offer for her. What good fortune, Julian said, that this man would overlook her unmentionable past.

  Her blood boiled when they openly speculated about Caleb’s character and his claim. “Seems rather coincidental, does it not,” Julian opined one day, “that he should make his claim now, when Lord Hamilton cannot legitimately confirm or deny it? Ah well. There is little he can do to further his scheme, not with Trevor handling it so very cleverly.”

  “Cleverly?” Sophie asked. “What is so very clever about his handling of it?”

  “That’s unkind to Mr. Hamilton, darling,” Ann quickly chastised her. “This is most trying for him, you can be sure. He is handling it as well as anyone could under the circumstance.”

  “Yes,” Julian agreed. “He is handling it all quite well—now there is a man worthy of your esteem, pumpkin.”

  Sophie ignored that. “Why should you be so certain Caleb Hamilton is a swindler?” she demanded.

  Her brother and sister looked at her with some astonishment that she would challenge them.

  “Has he inquired about a fortune? Made any claim at all?”

  “What has come over you, Sophie?” Ann asked. “You are betraying Trevor’s goodwill.”

  Beside her, Julian’s dark scowl penetrated her pique. Sophie shrugged. “It just seems unfair to judge him,” she muttered, and avoided any further eye contact with her brother.

  Of course she knew why they were so desperate for her to embrace Trevor’s overtures. For years they had assumed she was destined for the life of a spinster, surely Julian most of all, who now beamed brightly anytime the Hamilton name was mentioned. And truthfully, Trevor’s interest in her was incredible, if not unbelievable. For the first time in her life, she was being courted—an extraordinary turn of events, something no one had expected.

  Certainly nothing had prepared her for the outrageous possibility of two men courting her.

  It baffled her, amazed her—she was Sophie Dane! The plainest of the Dane sisters, the one who had to be sent to a Swiss finishing school if there was to be any hope of a suitor. She was the clumsy one, the foolish one—not the desirable one. But here she was in London again and in the unimaginable position of being courted by one of the ton’s most eligible men.

  And on the other hand, by the world’s most handsome man.

  That delighted her beyond compare.

  What did not delight her was Honorine’s ball, for which they had now received almost two hundred confirmations.

  It was, without a single doubt, a disaster in the making, a looming storm on the horizon. With the
strangely united forces of Fabrice, Roland, and Lucie Cowplain to help her, Honorine was in the throes of joyous planning for a ball that was quickly turning into what could only be the event of the Season. The four of them argued over every detail, right down to the color of the flowers on the tables and the wine that would be served. (“Mon Dieu! What does she know of wine?” Roland complained of Lucie Cowplain.) The food, the music—nothing was left to chance.

  “Dear God, Honorine!” Sophie had exclaimed one day as they counted the latest replies. “How shall we ever hold them all?”

  Honorine clucked, nonchalantly waved a hand beneath the voluminous sleeve of her cranberry red caftan. “Here and there! You must not fret of these things!”

  Here and there indeed. “How can I not fret? It seems as if the entire ton is determined to attend this ball!” Little wonder, since Trevor had sought sole guardianship of his father in the high courts.

  Sophie only knew this from the gossip mill, for certainly neither Trevor nor Caleb had discussed their growing feud with her, save an occasional remark. It was Ann who told her what Trevor had done, and Ann had it all from Lady Paddington herself. Up until that point, Caleb had not acted on his claim, except to try and see his father. But when rumor reached him that Trevor sought to obtain legal guardianship over his father, the gloves purportedly had come off.

  Caleb denied any such goings-on when Sophie told him the latest gossip over luncheon one afternoon. She had heard just that morning from Ann that he had supposedly lost his temper, publicly proclaimed Trevor would obtain that right over his dead body, and then had promptly gone about the hiring of a solicitor. “Now everyone is waiting on tenterhooks for the challenge they feel sure Trevor will issue you,” she finished.

  Caleb laughed roundly. “All lies, sweetheart,” he told her, and laughed with great amusement again.

  But it was clear that the Hamilton story, complete with speculation of romance between Sophie and Trevor and the bizarre companionship of Honorine and Lord Hamilton, was better than any novel currently being passed about the ladies’ drawing rooms.

  And it was only going to get worse, Sophie realized two days before Honorine’s ridiculous notion of a ball, when she received Trevor and Ian in the salon.

  As usual, Trevor spoke of Ian as if the child were not physically present. Sophie glanced at the boy—he was frowning at her, of course, seemingly fixated on her hair. Why the child found her so objectionable was beyond her—any attempt she made to gain his trust was quickly rebuffed. And he had become particularly good at avoiding her. But he couldn’t avoid his father’s conversation any more than Sophie could and sat rigidly as his father had instructed him, with only his small foot moving, back and forth, back and forth, as he absently shifted his gaze from the window to frown at Sophie and back again.

  She rather doubted Ian heard a word his father said of last year’s harvest, and God only knew how impossibly bored she was with Trevor. His conversation was stifling, and to make matters worse, Sophie had the feeling that he had an unusual drive for perfection. There was something about Trevor that gave her an uncomfortable reminder of William.

  Even his kiss was devoid of any feeling—not that she didn’t avoid that occurrence like the plague, but from time to time, she could not escape the hard and almost motionless buss of his lips.

  All in all his attentions left her feeling very restless; she found his calls excruciatingly hard. Her mind wandered from his speech to how she might end his visit without hurting him or bringing the entire wrath of the Dane family down on her head.

  And when Trevor mentioned Honorine’s ball with almost childish glee, Sophie thought she might be ill. She could very well imagine the scene—everyone watching him watching her, her brother beaming with unconquerable pride, her sister crying from sheer relief.

  The thought suddenly propelled her from her seat, startling Ian and causing Trevor to stammer. “Sophie, my dear? Is something amiss?” he asked, quickly gaining his feet.

  “No. No, nothing. I thought I would take some air.”

  “Shall we walk in the gardens, then? Come, Ian—”

  “Umm, actually,” she said hastily, preferring torture to walking in the gardens, “I’ve a bit of headache. I don’t mean to offend, but—”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?” he asked anxiously, attempting to reach for her hand.

  Sophie moved abruptly—the thought of him touching her, if only to hold her hand, was repulsive. “Nothing serious,” she readily assured him. “But I think perhaps I should rest a bit.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, and impatiently motioned for Ian to come to him. “You should rest. After all, Madame Fortier’s ball is soon upon us.”

  As if she could possibly forget that.

  Trevor put his arm around Ian’s shoulders. “Well then. I hope with some rest you will find yourself much improved.”

  “Thank you.”

  He glanced at the door, then to Sophie again. “If you should need anything, anything at all…”

  “You are too kind,” Sophie said, and looked meaningfully at the door. Trevor frowned, gently pushed Ian in the direction of the door. The boy was only too happy to oblige his father; he walked as quickly as he could without running, pausing only to push the heavy door open before disappearing into the corridor.

  Trevor hesitated, then took several steps toward Sophie, catching her elbow. “I do not like to see you unwell,” he murmured, and dipped his head to kiss her.

  Sophie turned her head; he caught the side of her mouth. It surprised him; he lifted his head, blinked down at her for a moment before forcing a smile to his face. Her face flamed; she looked away, toward the window as Trevor ran his hand lightly down her arm. “Rest, then, my dear,” he said simply, and quietly took his leave.

  She waited until she heard the door shut behind him, then sank onto the settee. What was she doing? Did she think to push away the one man who might offer her marriage? And for what? An affair with his brother? But she loved Caleb—they were kindred spirits. Trevor was a gentleman, an upstanding member of Britain’s elite, a good provider…but he did not spark the deep heat in her like Caleb did. He did not make her sigh, did not make her feel anything but restless and cross. Sophie was long past trying to convince herself that she could, somehow, grow to care for him.

  She could not.

  And she wasn’t convinced that he cared for her. There was more to his interest, of that she was certain—or was she only imagining things, manufacturing what her heart wanted her to think? Nevertheless, no matter how hard she tried, she did not particularly care for Trevor or his thinking. She did not want to be told what to do, by him or her family. She did not want to be shackled to him or his son for all of eternity. How ironic it was that she had spent the last eight years convincing herself she was miserably enslaved to her scandal, when in truth, she had been free. She did not want to give that freedom up to anyone, and most of all, Trevor Hamilton.

  How she dreaded Honorine’s ball.

  The one saving grace, she supposed, was that Caleb would not be there. He had not received an invitation. Thankfully, Honorine was not nearly as deaf to the gossip as Sophie had feared. True to her word, she had not invited Caleb, deferring to the possibility of scandal. “How cruel is this société! I wish very much I should have all of Will’s sons to come to my ball,” she lamented one evening.

  “Oui, the handsome one,” Fabrice said on a sigh.

  “Tsk-tsk, Fabrice, are you to duel with Sofia for his favor?” Honorine asked, and laughed roundly at herself while Fabrice and Sophie turned several shades of red and Roland pouted.

  The next afternoon, Will Hamilton watched his son leave in a gig and wondered if he hadn’t had a grander conveyance at one time—he seemed to remember one. Honorine sat beside him, peering closely at the paper in her lap. He appreciated her efforts, he truly did, and he struggled daily with a way to tell her so. But there was something that didn’t seem quite right, something in
the far reaches of his mind that taunted his inability to grasp it.

  The only thing he knew for certain was that it had to do with his sons.

  What? What could he not remember?

  “Aha! You see, Will Hamilton! You write now very well!” Honorine praised him as she held up the paper on which he had scratched his full name and title. “Now. You write what you want,” she said, and pushed the paper back beneath his hand that held the pen.

  What did he want? The answer was there, just there on the tip of his tongue. He grasped the pen again, tried to force his mind to form the words.

  After several minutes of frustration, he scratched his answer out and pushed it to Honorine.

  She studied his scratching, her head cocked to one side. After a moment, her face lit up with a beautiful smile. “Ooh, I see this now!” she exclaimed brightly. “This is what you want. To go home!”

  “Y-yes, Honor. I want to g-go home.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE EARLY EVENING of Honorine’s ball was a brilliantly sunny one. Naturally, Honorine saw that as an excellent omen and proclaimed the evening a grand success before it had even begun. She flitted from one room to the next to inspect the preparations in a gown made of pink, purple, and grass-green silk brocade. Roland and Fabrice were anxiously on her heels, dressed in identical black tails and matching red waistcoats and neckcloths. The three of them were sure to catch more than one eye.

  As for her gown…Sophie surveyed herself in the forest-green brocade Claudia had worn before her pregnancy. It was simple; a flounced hem with no adornment, suitably austere, the cut of the bodice very modest.

  “Perfect,” Ann had proclaimed earlier. “Not too risqué, I think,” she had added, eyeing the bodice critically. One could not help but wonder exactly what coverage Ann would deem appropriate for a spinster. She had then fussed with Sophie’s hair, displeased with the curls over her temple. “Too tight,” she muttered. When she was satisfied Sophie was appropriately dressed—“Oh my, won’t Hamilton find you appealing,”—she had left Sophie to finish dressing on her own.