The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  Sophie stood in front of the full-length mirror, frowning. She looked too austere, too rigid. Someone’s governess. The ton’s most famous spinster. She thought of Caleb, felt a strange sense of resentment. She did not want to be a spinster, and moreover, she certainly did not want to look like one. Ann meant well, but Sophie was tired of all the decorum given her scandal, tired of the prudish manner in which Ann expected her to conduct herself.

  The image of Caleb flashed in her mind’s eye again, and something snapped. She walked to her wardrobe, threw it open, and looked at the pale cream silk she and Nancy had found among the donations at the Upper Moreland Street house. Sophie had added a translucent pink silk organza to overlay the skirts, and Nancy had embroidered the bodice in pale pinks and browns and greens. The result, much to Sophie’s great pleasure, was one of the most beautiful ball gowns she had ever seen. She had kept it hidden in her wardrobe, however, because she was certain Ann and Claudia would not approve, principally because it had come from the Upper Moreland Street house.

  Well, it was her life, and her reputation. If one gown was going to ruin it, then so be it—there were certainly worse things that could happen to a body. In a sudden fit of frustration with her inability to stand up to her family, Sophie squirmed out of the forest-green gown, carelessly tossed it aside, and donned the pale cream silk. She struggled with the buttons, finally managing to fasten them all, then stalked to the mirror.

  Whether it was the candlelight or the flush of her exertions, Sophie was actually astonished by her appearance. The gown was beautiful—and she looked like a princess in it. Her only regret was that the previous owner had been a bit smaller than she; the dress fit snugly, and the sleeves dipped so that her shoulders were bare, and…really, she might very well fall out of the thing. But determined to wear a gown of her own choosing, Sophie yanked the bodice up for all the good it did, and finished dressing.

  She dreaded the evening. All eyes would be on her, including those of Trevor—a notion which made her skin crawl. Being a veteran of this sort of event, she knew very well that the gossip would be rampant. But for all her fear, there was a rebellious side of her, a side that could scarcely wait for this ball, if for no other reason than to show the ton she was not the old Sophie, but the new one…this one. Her only regret was that Caleb would not be there to see her in a gown as fine as this.

  As there was no way to avoid the inevitable, Sophie tugged one last time on the gown, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and walked out of her suite, head held high, wearing her hand-me-down princess gown.

  Sophie was not alone in her misgivings.

  At his temporary home in Cheapside, Caleb dressed carefully, brushing the lint of disuse from the formal black tails he wore. He straightened his neckcloth once more, smoothed an unruly wave of hair above his temple, and wondered for the thousandth time what he was doing.

  He had no business, no business at all attending this ball. Lady Paddington’s invitation to escort her was not entirely sincere, he was well aware of that. Everyone wanted to see him in the same room with Trevor, including Lady Paddington, but it was a potentially explosive situation, particularly after Trevor had so coldly informed him, through an intermediary, that he would seek to have him permanently barred from ever seeing Lord Hamilton again. Why Trevor was so determined in this, Caleb could not be sure. He had tried on more than one occasion to explain through the same intermediary that he sought nothing more than his father’s well-being—it wasn’t as if he had made any claim, public or otherwise, to the viscount’s fortune. Whatever Trevor feared, it was baseless.

  Nonetheless, misguided notions or not, Caleb’s contempt for the man was growing. Admittedly, part of him relished the thought of being a thorn in his side this evening; but the desire to put Trevor Hamilton in his place was not enough in and of itself for Caleb to subject himself to a public display he was so certain he would endure. Sophie, on the other hand, was. He could not abide the thought of Trevor anywhere near her, or touching her…or dancing with her. Even when Sophie had assumed he would not be attending the ball, as Madame Fortier had not sent him an invitation, he had let her think that and had avoided an inevitable argument. He had simply smiled, assured her all would be well, and tried to force the ugly image of her in Trevor Hamilton’s arms from his mind. He could not.

  He sighed, thrust his arms into the coat.

  Damn it to hell, what had happened to him? What depravity had so invaded him that he would think he might be in love with the woman? Love. A foreign word. Did he even know this emotion? Hadn’t he avoided it all his life and quite successfully at that? It hadn’t been hard to do—from the moment Miranda Snipes, the object of his great esteem at the tender age of ten years, had informed him his lineage was not of a suitable caliber, Caleb had instinctively understood what he was to the world. A bastard, nothing but the by-blow of a rich and important viscount and naturally unworthy of society’s esteem. Nothing his mother could say would divest him of that notion—Miranda Snipes had been painfully clear in what society thought of people like him.

  Once the boundaries had been set in his young mind, Caleb had adjusted well. There had been plenty of willing women through the years to ease the needs and desires of his male flesh, some of whom he still considered friends. But there had never been a woman who had made his heart pound with the anticipation of seeing her, or empty his mind of all useful thoughts and responsibilities just so he could remember her laugh or the sparkle in her eyes. There had never been a woman he could believe was genuinely interested in him beyond what he could give her, certainly no one who was particularly interested in what he thought or felt, what moved him, what made him laugh. What hurt.

  And truly, Caleb had never once believed he had missed any of those things. He never once thought he needed the touch or companionship of a woman. He had scattered himself about the world, making his own way, leaving one wench for the next as it suited him.

  Until he met Sophie Dane.

  Caleb straightened his cuffs, took one last look at his besotted self in the beveled mirror.

  He had not expected to feel anything for Sophie. He simply had been intrigued by the woman who appeared every day across the pond, had found her peculiar, solitary habits amusing. He did not know then that he was desperate for love. Her love. Sophie had, somehow, reached the deepest part of him. He needed her, needed to feel the warmth of her smile when his struggle seemed hopeless. He needed her sweet kiss hello, her sultry kiss good-bye to remind him that he was quite alive.

  She was pretty, in an unconventional way, free of cosmetic artifice, seeming to prefer the natural state God had given her. He found that terribly appealing. Her carriage was graceful, as if she were quite content to move about in her skin. Her figure was perfectly shaped in all the right places and she seemed fitter than most; her arms and face were slightly tanned, as if she had spent a great deal of time out of doors. She thought nothing of physical labor. The time he had spent with her working on his house or her booth at Covent Garden had been some of the most enjoyable of his life. And the woman looked radiant with a bit of exertion.

  But it was more than the physical attraction he felt toward her. He had fallen in love with Sophie because she seemed to accept him for exactly who he was. There was no judgment about his birth that he could detect, nothing but what seemed to him a genuine interest in his person and his life. She made him laugh, shared his view of the world around them. Her interest in his work, his house, in everything he did, made him feel as if she truly cared about him. He very much enjoyed the time he spent with her, enjoyed it so much that he was beginning to imagine what it would be like to spend all of time with her.

  It certainly compelled him into agreeing to attend Honorine’s ball with Lady Paddington. As disastrous as his gut told him the evening could or would be, the forces drawing him there—Sophie and his father—were too great to ignore. But his instincts were strong—he was flirting with disaster.

  That i
nstinct had his gut in knots by the time he and Lady Paddington arrived at Bedford Square. Carriages lined the streets and as they slowly wended their way to the house; he could see that the guests had already spilled out onto the veranda. Strains of the music from a quartet lifted softly into the evening sunset; the sound of voices and laughter and crystal upon crystal could be heard in the street. All of London seemed to be crammed into that house.

  “Ooh, it seems as if everyone is here, does it not?” Lady Paddington whispered excitedly, and plumped her gray ringlets one more time.

  “It does indeed,” Caleb muttered as he offered her his arm. He looked up at Maison de Fortier; the urge to flee while he could was almost overwhelming—but he thought again of Trevor and the rumors of his intentions toward Sophie. He sucked in his breath, smiled down at Lady Paddington. “Shall we?” he said pleasantly, and led her up the walk.

  Judging by the stir of people as he entered the foyer—and in particular, Lady Paddington’s titter—he surmised he had arrived before his father. Lady Paddington’s beaming smile created folds of plump flesh as she surveyed those around her, obviously pleased with the reaction they were getting.

  Mrs. Clark, another elderly woman who Caleb had surmised was her closest friend, was the first to remark on his presence. “Mr. Hamilton! And they said you would not come!”

  “Not come?” he drawled, bowing over her hand. “But I would do my friend Lady Paddington an insult if I were to refuse her kind invitation.”

  “Oooh, do you see?” she fairly shrieked to Lady Paddington. “He’s such a charming young man!”

  “Very charming,” Lady Paddington hastily agreed, and thrust her hand in the crook of his arm just as Honorine sailed into their midst.

  “Monsieur Hamilton, soyez le bienvenu! Très heureux de vous, mon frère!”

  “Thank you. I am delighted to be here,” he lied.

  Honorine laughed and grabbed his hand, oblivious to the twin looks of disapproval at her brashness from Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark. She promptly turned and yanked him aside.

  “I did not expect you,” she murmured in French. “Are you quite mad?”

  “Perhaps,” he admitted.

  “Unfortunately, your father has not yet arrived,” she said as she led him down the corridor to the main salon. “But there are many others here who look forward to making your acquaintance. My friend in particular I think.”

  She paused as they stepped across the threshold and looked around, ignoring the many people who were suddenly moving toward them. “Ah, there she is now,” Honorine said, and inclined her head across the main salon before greeting the first guest to reach them with a very cheerful “Bonsoir!”

  Caleb did not immediately see her. It wasn’t until he had greeted several of Honorine’s gawking guests, that he caught sight of her across the room. He didn’t recognize her at first; her hair was done up in a very appealing style, and her gown…bloody hell, that gown hugged every curve. His gaze boldly swept the length of her; a slow, very appreciative smile spread his lips. Sophie seemed to sense him, or perhaps the raw heat in his gaze; she turned suddenly. A glorious smile lit her face, and she laughed gaily, her delight evident. The sight of it made him burn slowly from the inside out.

  He nodded pointedly in her direction, tried to relay what he was thinking. Several around him turned immediately to see whom he would acknowledge.

  A fan tapped on his arm; Caleb reluctantly dragged his gaze from Sophie to Lady Paddington. “Mr. Hamilton, would you be a dear and fetch a punch for a parched old woman?” She followed that request with a coy smile.

  Right. His charge for the evening. “I’d be delighted, Lady Paddington.” He set off in the direction he had just come, but not without overhearing Lady Paddington remark to Mrs. Clark, “He is so nicely mannered in spite of everything, is he not?”

  Yes, that was right. A nicely mannered bastard, he was.

  Caleb found the dining room, which had been set up with all manner of punches, wines, finger sandwiches, and an amazing number of fig tartlets. He fetched the punch like the good little bastard he was, thinking he would deliver it and then make his way through that insufferable crowd to Sophie. God, but she looked radiant tonight. He had not seen her smile quite like she just had or felt the weight of it quite so strongly.

  He strode back to the main salon, prepared to take a temporary leave of Lady Paddington, but the moment he stepped over the threshold he was distracted—by almost walking directly into Trevor’s back.

  His half brother stood stiffly behind his father, who had, apparently, entered the room on his own two feet, albeit unsteadily, aided by a cane. He seemed oblivious to everyone around him but Honorine, who was instantly at his father’s side, helping him navigate the throng to a huge, leather wingback chair she had arranged in a prime location. Caleb watched as she helped him to sit, then fussed about him like a hen. Even when Father waved her away, she continued to stand close by, her hand lightly on his shoulder as she regaled the guests around them with some story Caleb could not make out.

  He stared blindly at the punch in his hand and swallowed a lump in his throat. It was painful to see his father like this—he had always been larger than life to Caleb, a big man with a big smile. His hero. Seeing him like this, so physically undermined, was almost unbearable, and Caleb was almost lost to his memories for a moment, until a palpable tension began to seep into his consciousness. He looked up; Trevor stood before him, staring daggers.

  “Good evening, Trevor,” he said, and watched without surprise or emotion as his brother turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, to the great titillation of the many guests around them.

  From across the room, Sophie watched the exchange between the two men and felt a stirring in the cold dread lying in her belly. She had warned Honorine of the disaster that awaited them, but had never suspected it would have to do with Caleb. Although the sight of him elated her, she was not prepared for this. She wondered madly why he had come, and with whom? What did he think to do here, knowing the entire ton would be in attendance? But there was no time for that now—Trevor was pressing through the crowd toward her now, his gaze boring a hole right through her.

  Sophie managed to force a smile to her lips, but by the time he had made it to her side, her smile had degraded. Trevor nodded curtly, glanced at her bare shoulders, and she could see the displeasure in his eyes. She did not care for his expression at all, not at all. In fact, his whole demeanor made her uncomfortable, and as they exchanged an obligatory greeting, she began to feel as if she had done something wrong. There was something ugly about his manner, the way he stood so rigidly, looking at her shoulders so disapprovingly—it reminded her of William, an abrupt and almost violent reminder that kicked her in the gut.

  She suddenly felt a desperate need of air.

  “You look rather peaked,” Trevor said authoritatively, and grasped her elbow as if he had the right to do so.

  Sophie surreptitiously tried to dislodge it from his grip, but his fingers sank into her flesh. “It’s the heat, I think,” she said. “I am quite all right, really.”

  “You could use a breath of air. Let’s walk on the veranda, shall we?” He did not wait for her answer, but began to propel her through the crowd.

  Sophie unconsciously looked over her shoulder, to where Caleb had been standing.

  She could not see him anywhere.

  Trevor moved purposefully, pulling Sophie along with him, his eyes locked on one of four pairs of French doors leading onto the veranda. The music for the second set of dances was just beginning to drift across the lawn from the orangery as they stepped out onto the veranda. Couples who had come out on the lawn to cool off began to move languidly toward the music, their laughter spilling out onto the night air as Trevor led Sophie to the railing. She thanked him, turned her head to the gardens and took a deep breath. Where was Caleb?

  Trevor said nothing, but stood by as she breathed in the cool air, then sighe
d impatiently. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She looked away from his frown, to the crowd moving toward the orangery.

  “Splendid. Then perhaps you will do me the honor of a turn about the dance floor?”

  Sophie closed her eyes, tried to shake off the feeling of aversion.

  “My dear?” he pressed her.

  She turned halfway toward him; he was already holding out his arm for her, impatient to move on. There was no graceful way out of it, nothing she could do to escape this dance, not without causing a scene. “Umm, yes. Yes, of course,” she mumbled, and put her hand very lightly on his arm.

  Trevor quickly covered it with his own and squeezed possessively. “I understand that you are a bit anxious. After all, it has been many years since you turned a waltz in London. As I recall, you did not turn many then, hmm? But you mustn’t fret—I am an expert dancer and I will not let you falter with so many eyes upon you.” He patted her hand.

  Sophie almost bit through her tongue in her effort to keep her mouth shut.

  Apparently unaware of her resentment, Trevor led her down the veranda steps and across the lawn, crowding in behind the others into the orangery.

  The room had changed dramatically from the dusty old structure it had been several weeks ago, transformed into a kaleidoscope of color and opulence. Gone were the cobwebs and old drapes, and in their place, crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. The large floor-length windows were bare, reflecting the light of dozens of candles back into the room. The women moved about in brightly colored, jewel-encrusted gowns, softly muted by the candlelight. At the far corner of the room, the string quartet sat surrounded by various potted plants. A host of servants moved about with crystal flutes of champagne on sterling silver service trays. But not Fabrice and Roland. They were openly enjoying the ball as if they were invited guests, each with a flute of champagne in his hand.