by Julia London
Apparently, she was not dreaming. Sophie glanced over her shoulder at Trevor. His jaw was set stiffly, his eyes like two nuggets of coal as he watched his father pause to attempt to speak with an acquaintance. He slid that hard gaze to Sophie. “And you are making a laughingstock of me.”
His words sliced the warm, moist air between them. “I am?” she asked, despising herself for sounding so tentative.
“You danced with a man who would steal my rightful fortune from me,” he said with not a little disdain. “Did you think I would not mind it?”
The sheer arrogance of that remark infuriated her. “Pardon, sir, but I was not aware I required your permission.”
Trevor’s frown deepened; his gaze roamed her face, lingered on her hair for a moment. “Perhaps you have been so long in her company that you have forgotten proper etiquette. I cannot hold it against you, Sophie. I regret that you did not think before you acted. But I suppose I might take comfort in the knowledge that we likely won’t have any more frivolous behavior as the Imposter has gone and cannot harm you further.”
His announcement stunned her. How could he be gone? Without a word? No, no, she didn’t believe him; she went up on her toes, her eyes frantically scanning the room for Caleb. But Trevor’s low chuckle made her stomach roil.
“You may trust me, he has quit his charade for the evening. My father was not of a mind to speak with him at all, I am grateful to say, and since he could not press his claim further, the Imposter departed. I think he came merely to make a scene and discredit my father’s good name even further. Now why do you look so disbelieving, my dear? Did you expect differently? Or is he perhaps as charming as they say?”
She would not dignify that stab with an answer. Her head ached with confusion—where would he have gone? How could he leave without so much as a word of good night? How could he leave her here, with Trevor, with all eyes upon her?
“I rather imagine he is,” Trevor said.
“Is what?” she asked, almost on a whisper.
“Charming. His reputation with women is well known. But I should think a woman of your tender sensibilities would not understand how a man may use his charms.”
Oh, but didn’t she?
Trevor put his hand on her arm. “Come, let me fetch you something to eat. You are looking quite pale again.” He wrapped her hand around the crook of his arm, pulled her close, and began to lead her toward the dining room.
Sophie followed mutely, too disconcerted to do differently.
Trevor brought her a plate of sandwiches and a glass of punch, then stood by as she tried to force herself to eat. But she couldn’t; she stared at the plate, already full with her dismay and the swelling sense of dread. Ann and Victor came into the dining room and took seats around her, but Ann barely spoke at all. The only thing she remarked upon was Honorine and Lord Hamilton. “I’m certain it is not good for him a’tall to be moving so awkwardly about the ballroom.”
Even that remark was said with a tone of disapproval, the same tone she had heard in so many of the voices around her. It was enough to drive Sophie quite mad. As Victor and Trevor began to speak of the events surrounding Parliament, Ann avoided her gaze, and Sophie wondered if she hadn’t already gone round the bend.
All her life, she had dutifully done what her sisters and her brother told her to do; she never dreamed of doing or thinking otherwise, with the notable and disastrous exception of William Stanwood. Apparently, they would hold that over her head for the rest of her life, using it as an excuse to question her judgment about every little thing. Even someone who had been as kind and as gracious to her as Honorine would be subjected to their scrutiny and their impossible rules. Yet what they failed to understand, all of them—all of London for that matter—was that in the last eight years, she had discovered there was a Sophie inside her, a living, breathing being with thoughts and desires and opinions all her own. A Sophie who was capable of making her own decisions.
Then why in God’s name didn’t she make a few? Angry with herself for being so meek, for letting Trevor lead her around like a prized calf, for allowing Ann and Claudia to enhance her wardrobe—enough! Ann was right—it was time she acted like a grown woman. If she would only stop pretending to be one and stand up for herself!
She wanted the ball to end. She wanted it to end so badly that she picked up a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, frowned at Trevor’s grunt of disapproval, put down the strong urge to toss the contents of the flute into his face, and drank it. Then she helped herself to another.
When Trevor insisted on accompanying her to the main salon, she took another flute, this time smiling boldly when he gave her a questioning look. That third flute of champagne was the one that made her feel rather light on her feet, and she realized it was she who was laughing gaily when Fabrice and Roland collapsed, exhausted, on the throne Honorine had made Lord Hamilton. When the viscount returned, flushed and smiling from his attempt at dancing, Trevor spoke with his father for a few moments, at which point Sophie took the opportunity to help herself to an unprecedented fourth flute of champagne.
As she lifted the flute to her lips, she caught sight of Caleb, alone in the back of the room, leaning insouciantly against the wall.
He hadn’t left.
He hadn’t left! In her hazy, intoxicated state, she realized that Trevor had lied to her. Unthinkingly, she started for Caleb, but a firm hand on her arm stopped her.
“Sophie, where are you off to? There is something I want you to hear.”
Trevor’s voice was sickeningly sweet. “Wh-what?” she said, peering up at him. “Hear what?”
“Give me the champagne, will you?” He took the flute from her hand, then lifted it over his head and in a strong voice, called out, “Pardon! Pardon, please, everyone! If I might have a moment of your attention!”
What in heaven’s name was he doing? Sophie took a wobbly step backward, looked at Honorine. She was staring at Sophie, her expression a curious mix of terror and bewilderment. Trevor’s hold on her arm slipped to her hand, which he grasped tightly in his. So tightly, that it hurt.
“If I may have your attention for just a moment!” Trevor called again, and waited till the din of the many conversations had died and all eyes were looking at him. Sophie looked to Caleb and tried to smile, but his expression was so dark, terribly dark—
“First, if I may, I would thank our lovely hostess, Madame Fortier, for this evening and providing such a splendid venue for an announcement.”
How odd, Sophie thought dreamily as a polite round of applause rose up, that Honorine should look so deathly pale. She adored compliments.
“Most of you know I have been alone with a young son for two years. He is in need of a loving woman to guide his passage to manhood, and I am in need of a loving wife. It is therefore my great honor to publicly offer for the hand of Lady Sophie Dane.”
Whatever else he might have said, if anything, was lost in the sudden swell of voices and cries of surprise. It took several seconds for his words to sink in through the chaos that was suddenly Sophie’s brain. Ann’s unmistakable cry of relief was what shook her; she looked up at Trevor in horror. He stared down at her with a smile that appeared forced, then lifted her flute of champagne to his lips and drank, draining the entire contents. How could he? How could he? Revulsion, astonishment, humiliation, and champagne all began to mix in the pit of her belly, sickening her.
Caleb.
She jerked around to where he was standing; he was still there, staring at her, his expression one of fury and…did she imagine it?… despair.
She moved forward, but Trevor’s hold on her hand tightened painfully, and he held her back. “You will stay, Sophie,” he said through clenched teeth. “I just publicly offered for you. You will at least do me the courtesy of not humiliating me by running off.”
He had just yanked the world out from under her feet, and he worried she would somehow humiliate him? Dumbstruck, mute, and unbalanced by the cham
pagne, Sophie stared across the room at Caleb, feeling her despair mix with his.
Amid the chaos, Honorine struggled to lead Will Hamilton from the agitated crowd in the stuffy salon and onto the veranda. Will had asked her to, having felt suddenly powerless upon hearing his son’s announced intentions. Once Honorine had managed to free him from the melee inside, he stood leaning against the wall for support. She marched to the railing, punched her hands to her hips, and dragged the night air into her lungs.
Will felt his body sigh—he did not blame her for being so terribly upset. Trevor had no right to do what he did, no right at all. But it was always that way with Trevor, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
There was something he wanted to remember, something that seemed to swirl around his broken mind, something he was not quite able to grasp. A mystery for which the answer lay at home, he was certain of it—he had no idea how he knew it—he just instinctively knew the answer was there, at Hamilton House, his country estate.
Will looked again at Honorine, still at the railing. “Honor,” he said.
She turned immediately at the sound of his voice, came to him, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Oui?”
“I want to g-go home,” he said, more clearly than before, his voice stronger these last few days. “Please. T-take me home.”
Honorine nodded instantly. “Oui, oui…home. This you want now?”
Will reached a twisted hand to her waist. “Now,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
FROM HIS POST in the shadows of the alcove, Caleb watched Sophie as she took another flute of champagne and lifted it to her lips, nodding to something one rotund woman said. His heart was silent now, perhaps even dead, having somersaulted in his chest a dozen times when Trevor announced his intentions. He didn’t want to be angry with Sophie—after all, she hadn’t made the announcement—but frankly, he didn’t know what to think or believe anymore.
It just seemed impossible that the woman who had met him each day in Regent’s Park could have deceived him. The one thing he thought he knew above all else was that she was guileless. And he had believed with all his heart…still believed…that she loved him. So how could she just stand so obediently and let Trevor do it? Why didn’t she throw up her arms, cry out, do something, anything, to stop him?
Unless Trevor had employed her help to somehow destroy him.
It was a thought that had flitted across his mind more than once in the last half-hour since the stunning announcement was made. Although he could readily believe it of Trevor—there was no point so low to which he would not stoop—Caleb could not believe it of Sophie. But her complacence—what had she done to them with her complacence?
Whatever else might happen tonight, he would not leave until he had that answer. It was simply a matter of waiting until he could speak with her alone, even if it took all night.
He had no idea how long he had been standing in the shadows of the alcove just outside the main salon, but he had done so undetected as many guests began to make their way home. The rotund woman finally left Sophie; she took the opportunity to leave the salon, wobbling down the corridor on the legs of a woman who had drunk too much champagne. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Caleb followed her.
He walked silently, two or more lengths behind her, past the hat that someone had left lying carelessly on the floor, past a woman’s cape draped over a console, the jeweled clasp glistening in the dwindling light of the candelabras. Past the gaming room, where four men still held cards and cigars, turning right at the door to the morning room as Sophie had done, into a corridor that was dimly lit.
Light spilled out from one open door just ahead. He paused there to look inside, surprised to see Roland sprawled across a settee, staring up at the ceiling while his fingers idly thread through Fabrice’s hair, who sat on the floor, propped against the settee.
He moved on quickly, to the end of the corridor, to a pair of French doors that were opened onto the veranda. As he stepped outside, a rush of cool air hit his face, made him release the breath he had held that was burning his lungs.
He strolled to the railing. There was a handful of people milling about the expansive lawn; lights still glittered in the windows of the orangery, but the music had long since ended. There was no sign of Sophie, although he was certain she had come this way. He walked to the edge of the veranda, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness beyond the light that spilled from the house. He scanned the grounds, could make out no one who even remotely resembled Sophie, no one who was wearing the pale, shimmering color of pearls. All right then, it was to the bedroom suites above, if he must, and Caleb pivoted on his heel, almost colliding with Sophie.
Her sudden appearance gave him quite a start; he reared back, put his hand over his heart.
Sophie cocked her head to one side and peered at him curiously.
“You startled me out of my wits,” he said gruffly, lowering his hand.
She seemed not to hear him. “Why did you leave?” she asked, the pitch of her voice a measure of her inebriation.
“As there was hardly anything left for me after hearing my brother’s astounding announcement, I thought to take some air,” he said caustically.
Her eyes narrowed. “I mean before,” she said carefully, swaying slightly with the effort. “Why did you leave me here, Caleb?”
“Leave you here? What on earth are you saying? You dashed off upon the conclusion of our dance. I waited for you for a time until I was finally forced to consider that you were perhaps permanently indisposed! I merely accompanied Lady Paddington to the dining room. After all, it was she who invited me to escort her tonight.”
For some reason, that seemed to incense her; she snorted with displeasure and looked down at the lawn. “You didn’t leave.”
She said it as if she were surprised. “I did not leave you, Sophie, is that what you thought?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
She nodded absently, frowning.
“Why would you think such a thing?”
“Trevor said that you had left.”
How he hated the sound of that man’s name on her lips. “Do you think me a boor?” he asked, the indignation swelling, and dropped her hand. “I should hope you would know me better than that.”
“I am not certain I really know you at all,” she said, and awkwardly gripped the railing to steady herself.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning…meaning you have a rather strange habit of disappearing. Or appearing, as you did tonight. You disappear, then you reappear—”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” he demanded.
She shrugged, lifted her chin.
The fury was stirring deep inside him. He, too, gripped the railing in an effort to maintain his composure. “Please do me the courtesy of clarifying your accusation, Lady Sophie.”
His tone apparently startled her; Sophie took a step backward and stared up at him. “What was I to think?” she demanded uncertainly. “He said you had left, and I thought you had gone without a word. I didn’t know what to think…” Her voice trailed off; she grimaced, put a hand to her forehead.
What was she supposed to think? Had he imagined the hours spent between them? Had he imagined the way she had looked at him on those warm, sunny afternoons? The way she had laughed, had spoken of her travels with great animation? And had he been the only one to feel the sense of togetherness they shared as they worked side by side on the booth for Covent Garden?
“You are drunk, Sophie,” he said evenly, “or else you would have known to think that I adore you. You would think that perhaps I care a great deal for you, so much that I attended this event with Lady Paddington in spite of my better judgment. You would think that I would devote myself to you entirely until the end of time if it were necessary. But you would not think that I was playing you for a fool!”
“Oh,” she said softly, dropping her gaze so that her long lashes formed dark crescents against her sk
in. “I…I did not dare to think all of that.”
The indignation in him soared. “I am sick unto death of your mistrust. Why won’t you believe that I love you?” he demanded.
“Because I can’t!” she blurted. “I don’t understand why you do! I am not the sort to inspire men like you!” she cried, sinking down to her knees, clinging to the railing with one hand. “Don’t you know? I loved a man once, but he loved my fortune. I am afraid to trust you, Caleb, I am afraid.”
How was it that he could love her so much when she could doubt him so? He leaned down, gripped her wrist, and pulled her up to her feet. “Listen to me carefully, Sophie. Hear what I say to you. I love you. No other! There will never be another, do you quite understand me?”
She started, looking up in alarm as he pulled her forward, into his embrace. He did not let her speak, but kissed her fiercely, hoping insanely that he could pass his heart to her, make her feel his love flowing through it, making it beat.
Sophie’s body relaxed in his arms; she tilted her head back to better reach him, returning his kiss with tenderness in spite of his attempts to make her feel him.
But the ugly image of Trevor standing in the salon invaded his mind’s eye, his chest puffed as he looked at Caleb and made his grand announcement. Caleb abruptly lifted his head and turned away from Sophie’s beatific face, to the east, where the sky was beginning to lighten.
“What was I to think, Sophie?”
“What?” she asked, sniffing.
He forced himself to look at her. “Was I a fool to believe in the promise of us?”
Her look of bewilderment grated on him; he clenched his jaw. “Trevor, Sophie! What am I to think? The hours we have spent in one another’s company making love…they have led me to believe you held me in some esteem. What is the truth? Did you traipse from one picnic to the other? Laugh at my attempts to capture your fancy while you dine with him?”
She was shaking her head, denying it. He stepped away, suddenly not wanting to hear any excuses.
“I told you, Caleb, I did not encourage his suit,” Sophie said. “I gave him no reason whatsoever to believe I would consider marriage!”
