by Mary Nichols
She looked back at him. There was nothing of the austere duke about him now, nothing of the autocrat; his blue eyes were like the morning mist before the sun breaks through, soft but not clear enough to fathom. Why had he kissed her like that? It could not have been because he had any feeling for her; he had only the moment before been roasting her, telling her how inadequate she was, talking to her as if she were a child. But there had been nothing childlike about that kiss. It had been sweet beyond anything she had ever dreamed of, but then wasn’t he a master of l’amour? Hadn’t Alfred Jessop said how dangerous he was? And she had been fool enough to succumb!
‘Is that how you go about silencing everyone who has the temerity to disagree with you?’ she demanded.
‘No, only the ladies.’ It was said with a rueful grin.
‘Then Cousin Alfred was right to warn me. He said you were an incorrigible rake, who gambles with people’s lives and whose path is littered with broken hearts.’
‘And, of course, you believed him.’
‘Not until now. Goodnight, your Grace.’ She stepped back and closed the door before he could see her tears.
He had destroyed her dream. Oh, she knew those protective arms carrying her to her bed and the gentle voice bidding her go to sleep had been a dream, but the aftermath had been a glow of contentment, a feeling that someone cared and it had been comforting to imagine the arms belonged to the Duke himself. But something he had said when he first knocked on her door, nagged at her mind. And then it came to her. He had said he was afraid she had left her lamp burning again. She had thought she had forgotten putting out the lamp and getting into bed on that occasion, but she hadn’t. He had done it. He had been in her room; it had not been a dream, but reality. And now he had ruined it, ruined not only the dream but her hopes for the future. She could not stay here now, could not pretend nothing had happened. And, until she found somewhere else to live, she would make sure her bedroom door was kept locked.
Never in all his life had James done something for which he was so deeply ashamed. It was unforgivable and he had no idea how to put matters right, except to offer for her, to say he had meant to do so before stealing a kiss. He raised his hand to knock on the door again, but let it drop to his side. Now was not the time. He turned on his heel and went back to his own quarters, unaware of the broken heart he left behind him.
Sophie hoped desperately that he would not be at the breakfast table when she went down the following morning. How could she face him? What could they possibly have to say to each other? Would he be able to tell from her face she had spent a sleepless night, alternately raging and weeping? Should she cut him or pretend nothing had happened. Did one dare cut a duke, especially if he was your sponsor? On the other hand, to pretend nothing had happened might make him think she was accustomed to being kissed, even welcomed it. The shameful thing was that, just for a moment, she had. She had responded with a warmth that had taken her by surprise. Her whole body had glowed with it, until she was a molten heap of desire with no will of her own. Her legs had not been able to support her and he had had to hold her up, making matters a hundred times worse. She would never be able to look him in the face again.
She entered the breakfast parlour, her heart in her mouth, ready to turn tail if he were there. Harriet was sitting at the table alone, though the place at the head of the table bore evidence that he had been there: his chair pushed back, a used plate, an empty cup. Harriet looked up from reading her correspondence when Sophie entered. ‘Good morning, Sophie,’ she said, just as if nothing had happened, as if the world was still smoothly turning. ‘Did you sleep well?’ Then, ‘My dear, whatever is the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ She pulled out her chair and sat down, but the thought of eating choked her.
‘Forgive me if I do not believe you. You look dreadful.’
‘I did not sleep well, that is all.’
‘And why did you not sleep well? You are surely not brooding over that set down James gave you?’
‘Set down?’ She had forgotten what that had happened before that kiss. It had wiped everything else from her mind.
‘Yes. You know he does not mean to be hard on you. You said yourself his bark is worse than his bite.’
‘That was before—’ She stopped, unable to go on.
‘Before what? Sophie, please tell me.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, her face fiery and her eyes downcast. ‘It is too shameful.’
‘I cannot conceive of anything you might do which you could not tell me about. Unless…’ She paused. ‘What did he say to you?’
‘It wasn’t anything he said.’
‘Something he did? Oh, Sophie, you are alarming me.’
‘He kissed me.’
‘Oh.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘He is very fond of you.’
‘It did not seem like that to me. He was demonstrating his power over me. It wasn’t fair!’
‘No, it certainly was not and I shall tell him so.’
‘No! Oh, please say nothing. I shall find somewhere else to stay.’
‘Sophie, you must not think of such a thing. To begin with, every bed in London is taken up this Season and in any case it will start the most dreadful rumours. James has made himself responsible for you and everyone knows it.’
‘Responsible! He should have thought of that before—’
‘I agree.’ She reached out and took Sophie’s hand. ‘My dear, you must not take it to heart so. No damage has been done and I will wager James already regrets it bitterly.’
She looked puzzled when Sophie burst into uncontrolled laughter. Harriet might say no damage had been done, but it had; her whole body and soul was in torment from the revelation that she loved him—she, Sophia Langford, who had sworn she had no time for men at all, loved the Duke of Belfont to distraction, and to be told he regretted kissing her made it infinitely worse.
‘You will feel better about it in a day or two,’ Harriet said. ‘Promise me you will do nothing precipitate like running away.’
‘I have never run from anything in my life!’ Sophie, the independent intrepid traveller, was suddenly resurrected. ‘If and when I go, I will give you due warning.’
‘Good. I do believe the weather is set fair. Shall we take a carriage ride in the park? The fresh air will restore you.’
Sophie did not think anything would restore her to the girl she had been. She had thought that looking after her father and enduring his up-and-down moods and coping with the strange fellows with whom he consorted and insisted on bringing home had made her worldly wise, but it had not. She knew nothing, nothing at all, about men. But she had become very fond of Harriet and did not want to hurt her. ‘I think I should like that,’ she said.
Nothing more was said about that kiss and James was not mentioned at all as they set off in the open carriage, parasols up against the sun. But he could not be forgotten because everyone they met seemed determined on asking how he did and if either of the two ladies had been invited to any of the official functions with him. ‘It must be gratifying to be so close to the court at an exciting time such as this is, Lady Harley,’ one lady simpered, as their carriages came to a stop together, the press of vehicles making progress impossible. ‘It must be exceedingly tiring.’
‘Oh, it would be,’ Harriet replied with a smile. ‘That is why we do not attend them if we can avoid it. Miss Langford and I prefer to visit friends.’
This reply did not seem to please the lady. She sniffed audibly. ‘It is a pity Lady Colway does not share your dislike of his Highness’s hospitality, my lady. She appears on every occasion and her poor husband sick at home.’
‘I am sure her ladyship’s affairs are of no interest to me,’ Harriet said as the traffic untangled itself and they were able to proceed. ‘Good day, my lady.’
‘That will silence the critics who wonder why he does not always accompany us,’ Harriet said. ‘In any case, they only wish to know if I have any court gossip to pass on, which
I would not do even if I knew anything.’
‘You mean about Lady Colway?’
‘Oh, she is not to be considered, Sophie. James once had an interest in her, but it did not last and I am glad of it. It did not take her long to find someone else.’
‘Cousin Alfred?’
‘Alfred? What makes you say that?’
‘We met them together, the Duke and I, when we were out riding. She asked his Grace to bring me to her soirée, but he refused.’
‘I should think so too!’
This talk of the Duke and Lady Colway was not helping Sophie’s peace of mind. She found herself wondering if the Duke kissed the lady as he had kissed her and imagining them in each other’s arms. It was sheer torture.
As soon as they arrived back at the house, Harriet ordered refreshments and then produced a pile of cards, which she put on the dining-room table together with pens and ink and a long list of names. ‘Now, let us sit down side by side and write out these invitations to your ball,’ she said. ‘I have decided to make it the last day of June. The weather should be good then and it will be daylight until quite late and we can utilise the garden. A large tent, perhaps, and coloured lights…’
‘Harriet, I wish you would not refer to it as my ball. It puffs me up too high and makes me feel uncomfortable. And it will be prodigious expensive. I wonder the Duke allows it, considering his poor opinion of me.’
‘Poor opinion! What nonsense! He is very fond of you.’
‘How can that be? He is for ever roasting me. And, if he is not roasting me, he is—’ She stopped, unable to bring up the subject of that kiss again, though it never left her mind for long.
‘Oh, Sophie, do not mind that. He will undoubtedly apologise and explain.’
Sophie did not see what good explanations would do, or apologies either; the deed had been done and her life had been changed for ever. She told herself she was glad he stayed away from the house, but she could not make herself believe it.
She did not see him again until the evening they went to the opera at Covent Garden. She suspected he had been staying away on purpose to avoid her and she had gone from being angry to longing for him to come. She wanted to see him, speak to him, try to ascertain from a look or a gesture just how he felt about that kiss. Did he realise the effect it had had on her? Had he felt anything at all himself? Or was she just another broken heart left on the trail behind him?
The opera was unimportant—what was important in the eyes of those fortunate enough to obtain tickets was that the Regent and his illustrious guests were to be there in the royal box. Everyone was dressed in their grandest and began arriving long before the performance was to begin. Sophie was in a gown of floating gauze, open down the front to reveal an underskirt of green satin trimmed with rows of matching velvet. The elbow-length satin sleeves had undersleeves of lace cascading over the backs of her hands. The décolletage was lower than she had ever worn before and made her feel half-naked. She filled it with a scarf of gauze and her mother’s pearls and had to admit that, when she looked in the long mirror in her room, it became her very well.
‘Oh, you look beautiful, Miss Langford,’ Rose said when she had finished dressing her hair in a simple Grecian style. ‘You cannot fail to be noticed.’
Sophie did not want to be noticed; it was the very thing the Duke had complained of. But when she tentatively suggested to Harriet she should wear something less attractive, perhaps her lilac muslin or her plain black mourning gown, her cousin would not hear of it. ‘My goodness, do you wish to shame us, Sophie?’ she said. ‘You are a Dersingham and we have always been in the forefront of fashion.’ She was dressed in amber taffeta, which gleamed gold as she moved. She wore diamonds at her throat and in her hair, which had been dressed in a complicated style of twisted coils. ‘Now, let us be off. We must take our seats before the Regent and his party arrive. It would be the height of bad manners to arrive after them.’
Nothing had been said about the Duke escorting them and it seemed they were to go alone, for he had not appeared. Sophie was both relieved and disappointed, which was typical of the muddled way she felt these days, one minute elated, the next deflated. It was taking its toll of her mental strength as the longing in her heart did battle with her determination to put him from her mind. Unfortunately her heart was winning and she berated herself for it. ‘What about the Duke?’ she asked, as they made their way to the carriage. ‘Will he sit with us or the Regent?’
Harriet paused in the act of stepping into the carriage to look back at the girl, then smiled. As far as her plans were concerned, all was not lost. ‘He will have to be in the Regent’s party, but no doubt he will come to our box in the interval. You will have your chance to speak to him then.’
Sophie climbed in and settled herself beside her cousin. ‘I am not at all sure I want to. We will only quarrel.’
Every seat in the theatre seemed to be taken and Sophie was glad they had a box, where she had a good view of everything that went on, both on the stage and in the audience. They had barely taken their seats when the royal party arrived and made their way to boxes on the other aside of the auditorium. Both men and women were resplendent in colourful clothing, jewels flashing, but Sophie had eyes only for James, following behind his Highness’s immediate entourage. He was in burgundy silk, with knee breeches and white stockings. There were ruffles at his wrist and at his neck, where a diamond pin gleamed in the folds of lace. He was carrying a chapeau-bras under his arm and talking to Captain Summers who walked beside him. The audience rose and cheered.
‘Oh, how magnificent he looks,’ she murmured.
‘The Regent?’ queried Harriet, picking up her opera glass.
‘No, the Duke.’
‘Yes, to be sure.’ She leaned forward as the crowd cheered louder than ever. ‘Goodness, there is the Princess of Wales.’ She pointed to a woman in a black wig, her gown and throat glittering with jewellery, who was making her way with her attendants into another box. ‘Now, what will happen? He can hardly order her out.’
The Regent, with great aplomb, stood and, smiling, made a stately bow, pretending the cheers were for him. ‘Oh, how clever of him!’ Harriet said, as the cheers died down and everyone resumed their seats for the performance.
Sophie did not care about the Regent’s troubles; she was watching James, aching for him to notice her and give her one of his lopsided smiles. She had forgiven him that kiss; how could she not when it had given her so much pleasure? But she could not tell him that because he had never asked for pardon. To him it was an everyday occurrence, not worth mentioning again, and when she saw Lady Colway take her place beside him and whisper something that made him smile, her heart plummeted still further. He could smile at his mistress when he could not spare her a single indulgent glance. Cousin Alfred had been right; his Grace was a rake, a man who did not give a second thought to those he used. And the lady in the park had been right, Lady Colway was everywhere and that was undoubtedly how the Duke liked it.
When he came to their box during the interval, she could not bring herself to do more than bow her head in recognition and then try to ignore him while he talked to Harriet. But his nearness as he pulled up a chair to sit beside them, his breeches-clad thigh almost touching the fullness of her gown, was having a devastating effect; she was shaking so much she had to hide her hands in her skirts and concentrate on watching the audience, who were drinking and eating oranges and apples and throwing the pips and cores at each other. And then she caught sight of a figure she knew.
It was the Count Cariotti, she was sure of it. Had he seen her? What was he doing in London? If they should meet, what ought she to do? Could she pretend she had never met him? Or had forgotten him? Or remember and behave as if he had merely been a friend of her father? And then she recalled that she had been foolish enough to tell that gaggle of young people about him; they would make much of it if they put two and two together.
‘Do you not agree, Miss Langfor
d?’ James’s voice hauled her back to him.
She shook herself. ‘I am sorry, I was wool-gathering.’
‘Indeed? Then am I to assume you were not interested in what I was saying?’
‘Yes. No. I mean… What were you saying, my lord?’
‘It is of little consequence. Go back to your dreaming.’
‘His Grace was commenting on the opera,’ Harriet said, trying to soften the blow of what appeared a set down. ‘He asked your opinion.’
‘Oh, it is well enough, but comes nowhere near those I have seen in Italy.’
‘No, one must suppose those would be superior. Did you attend many, Miss Langford?’
He was addressing her formally again, which proved he thought nothing of her, that he had kissed her because he felt like it and because he could, knowing she would not dare complain. ‘No, not many, your Grace.’ They could not afford to pay for visits to the opera, but they had been once as the Count’s guests. It was the night he had proposed and been rejected. Papa had been furious and would not speak to her for a week. And the Count had disappeared. Now he was here and she prayed they would not meet.
Chapter Six
Sophie was shaking with nerves, had been all day as Harriet endeavoured to amuse her until it was time to dress for Lady Myers’s ball. She had seen so little of the Duke in the last week that she had begun to wonder if, after all, he would not be escorting them, but Harriet had told her firmly that he would not break his promise, even though it had been made before that encounter outside her bedroom door. The thought that soon he would return from his duties at Carlton House or St James’s Palace and she would be once again in his company, subject to his scrutiny, recipient of his criticism, object of his laughter, was almost more than she could bear.
