by Maya Rodale
“Of course,” he continued, “I’d probably feel differently if the woman in question was one of my sisters, or my wife.”
Sophie was, unfortunately, reacquainted with the sensation of hopes crashing and one’s heart sinking.
“Do you have a wife?”
“No,” he said, and she waited for him to say “however” or “but” or anything to send her hopes and heart into a tailspin, but he did not, and she dared to dream and entertain thoughts of This One.
Brandon was caught off guard by the question, and he had paused in answering. In truth, he did not have a wife. He did, however, have a fiancée. Were he to see Miss Harlow again, he would certainly inform her about his betrothal. But they had only this one afternoon walk—one determinedly chaste walk—so Lady Clarissa didn’t really signify.
“It would be very rakish or roguish if you were to be walking around with other young ladies when you had a wife,” Miss Harlow pointed out and he hoped she did not notice the furrow in his brow.
“It would be rakish of me,” he agreed. “I would need to be reformed.”
“Reformed rakes make the best husbands,” Miss Harlow recited.
“Is there any truth to that?” Brandon wondered aloud. One couldn’t spend ten minutes in town without hearing that hackneyed phrase uttered, yet he was not aware of any evidence supporting it.
“I would not know. Would you? Are you a rake?” Miss Harlow asked. Brandon caught her taking a coy, lingering, sidelong glance at him with those mysterious dark eyes of hers. For a second his breath caught in his throat.
“I don’t know,” he answered in response to her first question.
“You don’t know if you are a rake?” she teased.
No one ever teased him anymore. No one suspected him of rakish behavior, either. He liked not being the duke and just being Mr. Brandon. It was too bad that this could not last.
“I am certainly not a rake,” he answered honestly.
“That’s what they all say,” she retorted.
“I’m sure,” Brandon said with a slight bitterness, thinking of his companions back at White’s.
“Oh, let’s pass through the park,” she said as they approached Bloomsbury Square. “I do love the greenery.”
Bloomsbury Square was particularly nice with its manicured paths cutting through the lawn shaded by large oak trees. Once in the park, the volume of the city seemed to decrease just a bit, and the air was just a touch sweeter.
“Are you by any chance from the country, Miss Harlow?”
“Yes,” she said. “Could you tell that I’m not a native Londoner?”
“I did not suspect a thing until you expressed an interest in trees and grass. How long have you been living in town?”
“Just over a year. I am happy here, but occasionally I miss the countryside. Particularly the sense of space, and the sound of wind in the trees and crickets at night . . .”
“None of those things in London,” Brandon admitted.
“Which do you prefer?” she asked.
“I like both,” he said.
“That’s not a fair answer!”
“But it’s the honest one. I enjoy the energy of the city because I can easily escape to the calm of the countryside and vice versa.” It was a luxury to be able to go back and forth as he did. It made the management of multiple residences worth the effort.
“Lucky for you to be able to just go whenever you wish, even at a moment’s notice,” she said wistfully.
“Oh, I never do anything at a moment’s notice. Everything is carefully planned far in advance,” he answered.
“I used to be that way. But I learned that having a plan is no assurance that it will be carried through,” she said.
He was curious about the sadness in her voice. Asking was out of the question. A man of sense avoided a conversation upon sensitive emotional topics that could lead to a lady’s tears.
“That is why one must have a secondary plan in place as well,” he offered instead and she laughed.
“You must be prepared for everything. I bet you never forget an appointment, or are caught without an umbrella in the rain, or run out of wine at a dinner party.”
“How did you know?” Granted, he had staff to assist him with these things, but he was notorious for reminding them.
“You’re not bamming, are you?” Sophie asked.
“No,” he said. “I am always prepared for any event,” he said. Except for you, he thought.
She paused before a small gray brick townhouse with white trim. Even though he had no use of the information, he made note of her address: 24 Bloomsbury Place.
“Well, Mr. Brandon, you have done your duty as a gentleman and have seen me home safely. I greatly enjoyed our walk.”
“And I as well,” he said. He wanted to tell her it was the happiest hour he could recall, and that he did not want it to end. He wanted to walk to Scotland and back if it meant listening to her and making her laugh.
But he had a fiancée, an inviolable sense of honor, and a life that belonged to the dukedom, not to him. Though he was a master of self-restraint, a man could take only so much temptation. Brandon wanted to tell her all of these things, so she would understand why they wouldn’t meet again.
In the end, he only said, “Goodbye, Miss Harlow.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Brandon,” she said with a pretty smile that made him fleetingly consider a second visit. But, no, this was his last glimpse of the lovely Miss Harlow.
Mr. Brandon, indeed. If only she knew . . .
Chapter 4
Twenty-eight days before the wedding . . .
The Offices of The London Weekly
53 Fleet Street, London
“I met someone,” Sophie declared to her companions: Lady Julianna Somerset, Miss Eliza Fielding, and Miss Annabelle Swift. Together they were the famed Writing Girls of the popular newspaper The London Weekly. At present they were gathered for the weekly staff meeting at the offices on Fleet Street.
Two editors, Damien Owens and Oliver Grenville, looked up from their note-taking, and dismissed Sophie’s news as women’s stuff, then went back to scribbling notes. Between the two of them, they managed the reporters responsible for news both big and small: acts of Parliament and acts of God, shipwrecks, accidents, and offenses, as well as foreign, domestic, and fashionable intelligence.
The London Weekly offered “Accounts Of Gallantry, Pleasure And Entertainment.” Those in search of serious news looked elsewhere.
“Details about this ‘someone,’ please,” Julianna stated. Shortly after Sophie had been hired, her friend wrangled a position as the author of “Fashionable Intelligence,” which had quickly become the most adored, feared, and quoted gossip column in London. The column was attributed to A Lady Of Distinction, and its authorship was widely speculated upon but never confirmed or denied. Like Sophie, she had begun her career because of a want of money.
“And how have I not yet heard of this?” Julianna asked.
“It happened while you were at the wedding,” Sophie answered, “and I wanted to tell everyone all at once.”
There was a pause as writer Andrew Mulligan offered a particularly loud blow-by-blow account of a boxing match to Mitch Radnor, who covered horse racing and cricket.
“Well, don’t keep us waiting!” Eliza urged.
“His name is Mr. Brandon. He is breathtakingly handsome, charming, and a perfect gentleman.” Sophie sighed once more at the recollection of that completely and utterly magnificent encounter.
He had saved her life. And he had saved her from an intense loneliness that had plagued her ever since Matthew jilted her. Merely knowing that he existed in the world made her hopeful, and was reason enough to consider loving again.
One look into his eyes and she ju
st knew: This One. She dismissed the feeling because, really, how could you know something so significant, so quickly?
But then he said something that made her think yes, or he laughed at her humor, and he said he was always prepared. It could not be forgotten that he had saved her from certain death.
He was the kind of man a girl could trust her body, soul, and heart with.
And he was handsome, too. Lord, was he ever!
Sophie had relived it all hundreds of times, cementing every moment into her memory.
She knew that his chest was firm, his arms were strong, and that she didn’t disentangle herself from his grasp as quickly as she ought to have done.
She adored the faint lines at the corner of his bright green eyes when he smiled at her, and she was sorely tempted to muss up his short dark hair only because it was so neat and perfect.
Even now, at the thought, she felt her cheeks turn pink from desire, just like the other day.
They talked so easily, as if they were soul mates, not strangers.
This one. She wanted this one.
“How did you meet him?” Annabelle asked. Her column, “Dear Annabelle,” answered readers’ requests for advice. She was possibly the sweetest and kindest person anyone would ever meet. Sophie was incredibly jealous of Annabelle’s slightly wavy golden hair, quite the contrast to her own dark, unruly curls.
“Oh, he merely saved me from being trampled by an oncoming carriage,” Sophie said, and then she explained their easy banter and lovely walk to her home.
“You let a stranger see where you live?” Annabelle was aghast at the risk. Things were certainly different in London. Had Sophie been in Chesham, walking with a man would be more of a danger to her reputation than to her person.
“I know,” Sophie agreed. “But he seemed trustworthy. And he was! He did not take liberties with my person.”
They were all distracted by the loud laugh of Alistair Grey, theater reviewer, who was currently previewing one of Randolph Winter’s cartoons, mocking the excesses of the new king, George IV, formerly the Prince Regent.
“So he walked you home . . .” Eliza reminded Sophie to continue with the story.
Sophie related the events of the afternoon and concluded with, “But he did not mention calling again. That was two days ago. He knows where I reside, though, so he could have sent a letter . . .”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know what to say,” Annabelle offered with a slight shrug of her shoulders. Sophie had already thought of that possibility. In fact, she considered every plausible, and impossible, reason for him to simply vanish after what was a magical encounter.
“Such a letter would be easy,” Julianna stated. “For example: Miss Harlow, It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance the other day. I look forward to furthering it. May I call upon you?”
“Speaking of letters.” Sophie nodded in the direction of Fergus, the mail clerk for The Weekly, who had just entered with a sack of mail to be delivered.
“For you, Miss Harlow,” he said with a grin, and handed her a packet.
“Thank you, Fergus. Who will be marrying this month?”
Not she, that was for certain. A year had passed since Matthew had jilted her and she still grew anxious and suffered damp palms, a struggle to breathe, and a vow that she would quit her position. But as soon as the bride joined the groom at the altar, the symptoms subsided.
She reminded herself of her employment alternatives—seamstress or servant, governess or mistress—and decided writing about weddings wasn’t such a terrible fate and she would remain a Writing Girl with The London Weekly.
“Perhaps there is a letter from your Mr. Brandon included?” Annabelle wondered. She was always so optimistic, occasionally heartbreakingly so.
“No, I did not tell him I was a Writing Girl and he didn’t seem to make the connection on his own,” Sophie answered, slightly distracted by one letter in particular. “Oh, I have received a personal letter from the Duchess of Richmond! What possible reason could she have to write to me?”
“What does it say?” Julianna asked while Sophie unfolded the sheet.
“It says, ‘Dear Miss Harlow,’ and that is as far as I read before I was interrupted.”
“Just read it aloud,” Julianna said impatiently, and Sophie obliged.
Dear Miss Harlow,
I write to propose a newspaper story to you. I would like to offer you the exclusive opportunity to cover all the details of my daughter’s upcoming wedding to His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon. You may report upon every step of the wedding preparation, including the selection of the bridal attire, flowers, and wedding breakfast menu. Our social circle is desperately interested in all the details, and I would think your newspaper’s other readers are as well.
Most sincerely,
Lady Wilhelmina Gordon, Duchess of Richmond
“That is quite an offer,” Annabelle said, slightly awed.
“It will be a huge story,” Julianna stated.
“Hamilton and Brandon. As if one dukedom wasn’t enough!” Eliza remarked.
“Indeed! Taking two when some people don’t have any dukedoms!” Sophie teased, and the girls laughed.
“Do you know him, Julianna?” Sophie asked.
“Not personally. And there is so little gossip about him, I couldn’t fill a column on him if my reputation depended upon it.”
“Good morning, everyone. Let’s begin,” Mr. Derek Knightly said as he entered the room. Everyone hushed and turned their full attention to the dark-haired, dashing publisher of the most popular paper in town. They would all take turns pitching their stories, and he would either approve them or request something else.
“Ladies first,” Mr. Knightly said with a grin, as he started every meeting. They were all used to it by now, though the inclusion of women had not been tremendously smooth at first. However, once the editors discovered that women were always very interested in hearing they worked with the Writing Girls, and this connection could be capitalized on, relations between the sexes at The Weekly had improved considerably.
“I have an exclusive story,” Sophie announced, well aware that “exclusive story” were two of Mr. Knightly’s favorite words. As expected, his vivid blue eyes brightened even more. “The Duchess of Richmond has invited me to participate in, and report on, the plans for her daughter’s wedding to the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon.”
It was an unconventional proposal, and yet it made sense. Society hostesses were always angling to have their parties and dinners covered in the newspapers, particularly The Weekly—occasionally submitting written accounts that would hopefully be included in the gossip columns. Even if the planning of such a massive social event, as this wedding promised to be, was tremendously dull, people always gobbled up any details about duchesses and other lofty personages.
“Some are calling it the wedding of the year,” Julianna added.
“Excellent,” Mr. Knightly said, and one could practically see him calculating how many additional readers—and profits—the story might bring in.
“I could focus on wedding-related advice letters in the weeks leading up to the ceremony,” Annabelle offered hopefully. It was plain to anyone—other than Mr. Knightly himself—that she was hopelessly infatuated with him.
“Great. Miss Fielding, what is your angle?”
“I could report on the penny weddings of the lower orders, to contrast with the excesses of the aristocracy’s weddings,” she offered. Eliza’s anonymous articles provided a counterpoint to the grandiosity of the ton’s behavior. Though not always popular, her anonymous stories were provocative and, as Mr. Knightly often reminded everyone, scandal equals sales.
Chapter 5
Twenty-seven days before the wedding . . .
The London ducal residence of the Duke
of Hamilton and Brandon was twice as massive as one might expect. To describe it as imposing was an understatement; the surrounding buildings seemed like miniatures beside it. The Palladian mansion was three stories tall, constructed of gray stone, and had so many windows that Sophie suspected the duke paid a fortune in window taxes. It took her a few minutes to walk across the vast cobblestone courtyard to the front door.
Upon her arrival, the butler greeted Sophie, although “greeted” implied a cheer that was not present; “acknowledged” might be a more appropriate description. As per the butler’s orders, a maid led Sophie through six drawing rooms (she counted) before they arrived at the intended blue drawing room in the south wing. Thus far, the residence (she hesitated to call it a home) was like nothing she had ever experienced or even imagined.
“Here we are, Miss Harlow,” the maid said quietly. Sophie quickly tucked one errant curl behind her ear and smoothed her pink skirts. Then the maid opened the tall paneled door and stepped aside so that Sophie could enter.
The room was a painted pale blue, the color of a robin’s egg. Landscapes in ornately carved gold frames hung on the walls. Tall windows overlooked the garden, full of plants in first bloom.
Three elegantly dressed women sat around a small table with a highly polished silver tea service. Two duchesses, one duchess to-be, and she, little Miss Sophie Harlow, daughter of a country squire, was to join them.
This was one of those moments when she was awestruck by the direction her life had taken. Had Fletcher not been such a monumental cad, she might have been a little wife out in the country, concerned only with housekeeping and child rearing.
“You must be Miss Harlow. I am Lady Hamilton,” one of the women said, rising from the moss green velvet settee to greet her. Her dark brown hair was streaked slightly with gray and elegantly arranged. She wore a plum-colored dress that suited her tall figure and highlighted her bright green eyes.
