by Eloisa James
Sophie sat silently for a moment. “I still don’t know what else I could teach Madeleine,” she said.
“You can give her a top-up on the manners front,” Braddon replied. “My mother is a nasty old battle-ax. You know that. But she doesn’t deserve a dunderhead like me for a son, either. And if I try to pull the wool over the eyes of the ton, and it doesn’t work out, she’ll never be able to show her face again.”
Sophie had to acknowledge the truth of Braddon’s summary. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before,” she pointed out.
“I know it,” Braddon said wretchedly, “but I never was the best at thinking out schemes afore time.”
“Oh, all right,” Sophie finally said with a sigh.
The next morning she woke with a sense of happy satisfaction. Madeleine had appeared with Mrs. Trevelyan at a champagne musicale the previous evening, and no one could have missed the fact that the Earl of Slaslow was greatly taken with her. He sat next to Madeleine during the second half of the program and assiduously plied her with champagne. Given that the ton had been privileged to see Braddon single-mindedly pursue a suitable wife for some three years, no one had any difficulty in surmising that the pretty young Frenchwoman, Lady Madeleine Corneille, was now the target of Slaslow’s marital ambitions.
Bets were immediately laid in the betting book at White’s as to whether Madeleine would take him, and (for larger amounts of money) whether she would jilt him at the last moment and marry another, as Lady Sophie Foakes had done. Braddon read through the bets with a frown, but with secret relief. He hadn’t heard a shard of gossip suggesting that Madeleine Corneille was not exactly what she seemed to be, the daughter of a French marquis.
In fact—although the ton didn’t know this yet, of course—Madeleine and Braddon were planning to cause an even greater sensation tonight. They were going to a ball being held by Lady Eleanor Commonweal, in honor of her daughter Sissy’s engagement, and Madeleine was going to allow Braddon to take her in to supper.
By nine o’clock Patrick had not appeared to escort Sophie to the Commonweal ball, so she drifted around the house by herself until she finally summoned the carriage and went alone, head held high.
It happened just as she entered the ballroom. The Duke of Cumberland happened to be at the door. He looked at her with his usual lustful kindness. He was very much the royal duke this evening, wearing a large swath of royal blue wrapped around his shoulders and held in place by a medal of honor granted by the king some years ago.
“Hear you’re a duchess now, m’dear,” he said, plastering his wet lips against the back of her hand.
“Excuse me, Your Grace?”
“You’re a duchess, aren’t you? Let me see, Duchess of Gisle, that’s it! They don’t tell me much,” he said, stepping as close as he possibly could to the beautiful new duchess, “but they couldn’t keep it from me. Heard it passed the Parliament this afternoon.”
Seeing her look of complete bewilderment, the duke smiled. Obviously the rumors did not underestimate the discord between the lovely Lady Sophie and her husband. As soon as she dropped the brat she was carrying, he would make his move, the duke thought.
“Parliament has granted your husband a title,” he explained slowly. “They’ve made him the Duke of Gisle. That makes you the Duchess of Gisle.”
Sophie instinctively stepped backward, away from the royal duke’s hot breath on her neck.
“Oh, of course,” she murmured, dropping into a deep curtsy. “For a moment I had forgotten. Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace.”
She read in Cumberland’s eyes the humiliation she felt deep in her bones. He’d never be able to keep it to himself—the delectable news that the Duke of Gisle hadn’t even bothered to tell his wife that he was being made a duke. A duchess who didn’t even know her own title!
Patrick never appeared at the ball. After an hour or so Sophie went home. Cumberland’s gossip had spread like wildfire. She couldn’t bear any more people addressing her as “Your Grace,” their carrion eyes bright with curiosity. (“Where is the duke tonight, Your Grace? Such an honor he received! One might think he wasn’t interested in his new title.”)
At the house she had a word with Clemens and then walked into the library.
Patrick was seated comfortably in front of the fire, reading a book.
Sophie flushed a deep, furious red. “How dare you not arrive home in time to escort me to the Commonweal ball?”
Patrick looked up and politely rose to his feet. “As it happens,” he said nonchalantly, “you didn’t tell me where we were going, m’dear, or that we had accepted an invitation. Had you informed me that you wished my company, I naturally would have accompanied you.”
Surely she had told him about the ball. Although she was forgetting all sorts of details these days. She might have forgotten after all.
“You should have assumed that I needed your escort,” Sophie retorted.
Patrick’s eyes were shadowed, black with reserve. “In that case, I apologize.”
“Well,” Sophie said impatiently, suddenly remembering why she was furious, “that doesn’t matter. You—you didn’t tell me that you’re a duke!”
“Oh, did Breksby push it through so soon?”
Sophie looked at her husband as if he were a visitor from a foreign land. Patrick seemed mildly interested, as if he’d heard that his favorite horse had won the Ascot.
“Are you entirely deranged? What are you talking about?” Her voice rose nearly to a shriek.
“I’m talking about the title,” Patrick said with a touch of hauteur. “I hadn’t realized that Lord Breksby managed to get it through Parliament.”
“And it didn’t occur to you to tell me?” Sophie was in a fine rage now. “Do you know how embarrassing it was to have the Duke of Cumberland inform me that I am now a duchess? Do you have any idea how dreadful it felt to have no idea why one has suddenly been made into a duchess, and to find a roomful of people tittering because my husband had obviously not bothered to tell me about it?”
Patrick’s face took on a wry, unreadable look. He moved over to his wife and took her arm, leading her to a chair. “I can see that it upset you very much,” he said soothingly. “To be frank, it slipped my mind.”
“It slipped your mind!” Sophie stared up at her husband as he stood before her. Then she erupted back out of her chair. “It slipped your mind that you were becoming a Duke of the Realm! It slipped your mind that you might want to tell your wife that she was becoming a duchess!”
“I don’t see why you are so irritated about it,” Patrick retorted, starting to lose his temper now. “You always wanted to marry a title, as I recall. Well, now I outrank your precious Braddon!”
There were a few fiery moments of silence. Sophie tried to think of ways to answer Patrick’s attack, but it was so outrageous that she couldn’t think of a response.
“What makes you think that I wanted to marry a title?” she asked, finally.
Patrick shrugged. “I always knew you did.” He certainly wasn’t going to sound like a pompous ass by declaring that Braddon was plump and foolish. Besides, he suspected more and more that Sophie actually had had a true affection—if not love—for that blunderhead. Truth be told, Braddon was rather lovable in his own way.
Sophie felt a huge, desolate emptiness pressing on her heart. Her husband’s reasoning processes were utterly incomprehensible to her. “Would you care to inform me,” she said, her tone dangerously gentle as she sat down again, “why the Parliament made you a duke? The Duke of Gisle, I believe?”
“I’m off to the Ottoman Empire as an ambassador in the fall,” Patrick said with a shrug. Now he really felt like a muckworm.
“You are going to the Ottoman Empire … something to do with Selim III?” Patrick registered his wife’s unusual knowledge without surprise. Sophie was a remarkably intelligent woman. At least he’d learned that about her during their marriage. “In the fall?”
Sophie
looked at him. In the candlelight, her eyes were as black as his. “Well, you needn’t worry about us,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I shall move back with my mother.” Her hands compulsively caressed her stomach.
“Of course you won’t move back with your mother,” Patrick retorted irritably.
“Why on earth not? I will be giving birth to my child in early autumn, as I believe you have forgotten.”
Patrick registered with a pang that Sophie talked of her child. “You won’t move back with your mother because it wouldn’t look right,” he said dismissively.
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “It wouldn’t look right.” Her tone was glacial. “I gather you spend a good deal of time worrying about how our marriage looks to outside eyes, Your Grace.” She punctuated the title with an awful irony.
Patrick flushed. “I apologize for not informing you about the title, Sophie.” But he couldn’t see the point of going into further explanations. What was he supposed to say? Admit that he had entirely forgotten about the useless title? His wife didn’t think titles were useless! Look at all the fuss she was making because she had been made a duchess.
“You’re a duchess now. Can’t you just be pleased about it?”
Sophie stared at her husband’s back as he looked down into the fire. Pleased? Her marriage was a disaster, worse than she had ever pictured in her youth.
“Perhaps it would be better if you did stay with your mother,” Patrick said now, kicking the logs with his foot. “I shall likely be gone for several months.”
This is the end, Sophie acknowledged to herself. Even her own mother had never been sent home by her husband. Patrick cared so little about her that it seemed he’d forgotten she existed. How else could he have neglected to tell her that he was becoming a duke? And he certainly had ignored the forthcoming birth of their child. It appeared he wouldn’t even be in the country at the time.
Tears prickled so hard at the back of her eyes that Sophie had to swallow, so she rose and quietly walked out of the room. There was, literally, no point in talking further.
Only innate, fierce pride kept Sophie’s head high during the next few weeks. She registered Madeleine’s social triumphs with some pleasure. But Patrick came home late every night now. Twice she sent a message to Charlotte and joined their party for the evening, since her husband was no longer accompanying her to social events.
Alex looked at her with his black eyes that were so like and unlike Patrick’s, but neither he nor Charlotte ever asked her why Patrick had seemingly disappeared from London society. Sophie drew strength from Charlotte’s silent support.
Only Eloise demanded an explanation. Sophie was taking tea with her mother and rather absentmindedly fending off the suggestion that she eat at least one partridge a week in order to sustain the growing babe.
Then her mother folded her hands in her lap and looked at her. As always, Eloise’s back was as straight as a poker.
“Was it the languages, Sophie, chérie?”
For a moment Sophie didn’t understand the question.
“Languages?”
“Was it the languages that pulled you and Patrick apart?”
Sophie flushed. “Oh no, Maman. At least, I don’t think so.”
Eloise’s eyes sharpened. “You don’t think so?”
“When he found out—in Wales—he did seem—”
“It’s my fault,” Eloise cried, anguish in her tone. “I should never, never have allowed your father to have his way! All that education has given him a dislike of you, hasn’t it?”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t think so, Maman. Patrick simply doesn’t care very much for me either way. He forgets that I exist.”
“He couldn’t do that,” Eloise said simply.
Sophie smiled at her. Whatever her mother’s faults, she was fiercely loyal. “It’s not so bad, Maman, really. I don’t mind very much. And Patrick … he has his own amusements.” She shrugged. “He does not appear to notice whether I’m around or not. In fact, he suggested that I come back here and stay with you and Papa in the fall. He will be traveling to the Ottoman Empire as an ambassador.”
Eloise’s face was as sharp as an eagle’s. “Your father will see about that! So Foakes thinks he can toss his bride out like a piece of laundry, does he! And what about the babe?”
Sophie’s hands twisted in her lap. Somehow it all sounded so much worse when her mother formulated it. Her eyes filled with tears. Sophie cried at the drop of a hat these days.
“Please, Maman,” she said, her tone half stifled. “Can’t we just let it be? There’s nothing anyone can do—please don’t tell Papa.”
Eloise sat down next to her daughter on the couch and wrapped a loving arm around her. “Don’t worry, mignonne,” she said soothingly. “You think about yourself and the babe. We would love to have you make us a long visit in the fall.”
Tears dripped onto Sophie’s hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.” But she continued anyway. “I never made a fuss about Patrick’s mistress. But it made no difference. He stopped coming home in the evenings. And then … and then he … We don’t talk. So I didn’t know that he was a duke, and I didn’t know he was going to Turkey—just when the baby is to be born….”
“We won’t mention it again,” Eloise said soothingly.
After a moment they collected themselves and the Marchioness of Brandenburg reseated herself. Eloise looked over at her lovely daughter, now the Duchess of Gisle.
“Have I ever told you how proud I am of you, darling?”
Sophie laughed. She didn’t see anything Eloise should be proud of. Her daughter had managed to make a disastrous marriage.
“I am proud of you because you show true breeding these days,” Eloise said fiercely. “I know how cruel one’s so-called friends can be when a marriage is faltering. But you have behaved with absolute grace on every occasion. I am truly proud of you, Sophie.”
Sophie swallowed, tears rising to her eyes again. It was an odd legacy to hand from mother to daughter: the ability to stand proud among the ruins of one’s marriage.
“Thank you, Maman,” she said finally, swallowing the terrible lump in her throat.
Chapter 24
The following morning, Sophie had barely made her toilette when Clemens announced that Lady Madeleine Corneille had come to call.
Sophie entered the drawing room a trifle anxiously. She had seen Madeleine the preceding evening, and she had said nothing of making a morning call.
With her usual charm, Madeleine made sure that Sophie was comfortably seated—not an easy thing, given her increasing girth—before she spoke of the reason for her call.
“I have decided to stop the masquerade.” Madeleine’s voice rang clear, calm, and unshakable in the quiet chamber.
Sophie gasped. “Why?”
“It is not honest. I cannot have a marriage based on this … this foundation of lies. Can you imagine pretending to be a false person, for the rest of your life, Sophie? I cannot do it.”
“But you won’t have to,” Sophie pointed out. “Once you are married to Braddon, you will be the Countess of Slaslow, and no one will care a fig for your background.”
“I will,” Madeleine replied simply. “Braddon and I will have children … and what will we tell them? When will I tell my son that I am a liar, a pretender from the lower classes? How old will he be when I tell him that I grew up over a stable, and that he will have to worry his whole life that people might find out about his mother’s past?
“And what of my children’s grandfather? Will I make my father into Braddon’s stable master? I would not do such a thing to my father! This is not possible, Sophie. We were fools to think it so.”
Tears came to Sophie’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant to …”
Madeleine looked equally teary. “Oh, Sophie, in no way is it your fault! I am so grateful to you for your friendship, as well as for what you taught me. But Braddon and I were living in a
fool’s paradise. We would never have a happy marriage on this basis.”
“You can’t know that,” Sophie protested. “Braddon loves you so much, Madeleine.”
“We cannot have a good marriage when our life is based on falsehoods,” Madeleine replied, French practicality resonating in her voice. “Love is not enough.”
“Yes,” Sophie murmured. She loved Patrick, after all. But somehow her marriage was falling to shards and tatters … love or no. “What will you do now?”
“Braddon and I discussed it last night. We may go to America. Braddon says he will not stay in England without me, and Braddon is very determined.”
“He will never let you out of his sight,” Sophie confirmed. “But what of his family, Madeleine?” She hesitated, remembering Braddon’s anguished fear that his mother would be humiliated.
Madeleine nodded. “It is a problem, that. So we have come up with a new plan, Sophie. I will continue the masquerade until next week. At Lady Greenleaf’s ball, our engagement will be announced. The following day, we will let it be known that I have suddenly fallen ill. Then,” she said briskly, “when I am dead of a fever, Braddon will make a trip to America to recover his spirits.”
“And you will go with him? Oh, this is a true Braddon scheme!” Sophie said. She felt a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
Madeleine wrinkled her nose. “I—I do not care for it. But I can see that I have woven my lies, and now I must play to the finish. I shall go to America and be a plain horse trainer’s daughter, and if the Earl of Slaslow is foolish enough to marry an American horse trainer’s daughter, well, so be it. Our children may return to England someday. I shall not.”
“I shall miss you,” Sophie said. And she meant it.
“I am so grateful to you, Sophie, for teaching me to be a lady,” Madeleine said. “I too shall miss you.” She hesitated, then rushed on. “Your Patrick … he does love you, you know.”
Sophie started. A glow of humiliation heated the back of her neck.
