by Maya Rodale
As the duchess of the house performed introductions, Sophie recalled what Julianna had told her about these women.
Everyone adored Lady Hamilton. She was known to be kind, selfless, and pleasant company. She had successfully married two of her daughters, and had one more in the schoolroom. Her son went by the second half of the title, Lord Brandon, to prevent confusion and distinguish him from his late father, who had died suddenly years earlier.
Lady Richmond and her daughter were obviously mother and daughter, for they both possessed the same tall, willowy stature, fair hair, wide-set blue eyes, and milky complexions. The younger had an angelic countenance; the elder seemed a bit more peeved and pinched.
The Duchess of Richmond was considered tolerable. Her rank assured her a prominent presence in society, and invitations to everything, even if her manners and temper happened to be found irksome occasionally. Her primary interest was ensuring her only daughter made an outstanding match.
Lady Clarissa was immediately dubbed a diamond of the first water within the first five minutes of her debut. She had turned down ten offers of marriage her first season.
She scarcely began her second season when she had snared the catch of the season. He was high-ranking, handsome, and supremely wealthy. The Duke of Hamilton and Brandon was known to be a good, honest man, too, but this was generally not considered as important.
“My son sent word that he will be a few moments late and that we should begin without him,” Lady Hamilton said while preparing a cup of tea for Sophie. Ten minutes passed during which they discussed the weather—“pleasant, springlike yet with a touch of winter chill still lingering.”
And then His Grace arrived.
Sophie’s heart skipped a beat, stopped entirely for a second, and then, reluctantly resumed beating.
The double Duke of Hamilton and Brandon was her Brandon after all!
There was no mistaking it—though, to see him now, in all his ducal splendor, made her wonder how she ever thought him a mere mister. The Duke of Hamilton and Brandon stood tall and proud, as a duke ought to do. With his broad shoulders, straight spine, and head held high, it was clear that he was a man certain of himself and his place in the world.
Sophie looked him over, trying to reconcile this version of the man she had met.
His hair was dark, cut short, and kept neat—not that faux windblown style that was popular on most young bucks. She recalled wishing to muss it up. The knot on his cravat was perfectly executed with pristine white linen. His waistcoat was a light gray, complimenting the darker gray of his perfectly fitted breeches, which he wore with shiny black Hessians. He wore a forest green coat that exquisitely highlighted his bright green eyes, shadowed by exceptionally dark lashes.
Sophie had not anticipated seeing him like this. Had not dreamed that she had flirted with and fallen for an unavailable, unattainable man. Had never suspected that her funny and seemingly relaxed Mr. Brandon was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England. Had never expected that she would have to cover every detail of his wedding to someone else.
“My apologies for arriving late,” he said as a footman closed the door behind him. “Mother, Lady Richmond, Lady Clarissa,” he said in acknowledgment. When his eyes connected with hers, she saw a flicker of recognition and surprise in his gaze, while his expression remained inscrutable.
She heard his sharp intake of breath.
“You seem a touch out of breath, Brandon. Did you run to be here with us?” Lady Hamilton asked.
“No.”
Sophie knew the reason: his breath was stolen by the shock, just as was hers.
“I’d like to introduce Miss Sophie Harlow of The London Weekly,” Lady Hamilton said.
Miss Harlow of that rubbish news rag, Sophie thought, and declined to say.
“Miss Harlow,” he replied with a slight nod of his head. He remembered her, that was clear, but he would not acknowledge it. She understood why; it did not lessen the sting.
“Your Grace,” Sophie said, dropping into a curtsy. He was Mr. Brandon no longer. This man before her was a stranger, and she would act accordingly. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”
At least now she knew why he hadn’t called upon her. Because, oh, he was engaged to be married to someone else!
Sophie allowed herself a sigh, resigned to what promised to be a long, awkward, and heartbreaking interview. When it was over, she would return home and cry, but in the meantime, she must focus on the task at hand.
“Shall we begin?” Lady Hamilton suggested.
No, Sophie thought. She did not want to request, record, and report every detail from the first meeting of Lord Brandon and Lady Clarissa to their wedding day. Horrors. Agonies. After this interview, she would tell Knightly she could not complete this story. But first—
“Yes, let’s begin,” Sophie said as brightly as she could manage, because she had a job to do. She fumbled to remove from her reticule a small tablet and a pencil with which to take notes. She was a touch nervous, since this was one of the first formal interviews she’d conducted and certainly one with the most illustrious personages imaginable. Usually, she based her column on her attendance at the weddings or on written reports submitted by the couples. That it was an interview regarding the wedding of the man of her dreams to another woman did not put her mind or heart at ease.
“First, allow me to say that we at The London Weekly are very excited by this opportunity. I’ll start today with some questions about the couple,” Sophie said.
Lady Clarissa folded her hands in her lap. Lady Richmond pursed her lips. Lady Hamilton smiled patiently. Lord Brandon looked as if he longed to be elsewhere. Though Sophie understood perfectly well, she felt no sympathy for him.
“Lady Clarissa, if I may,” Sophie started, “our readers would love to know how the idea for this story came about.”
Clarissa opened her mouth to answer, but her mother spoke first.
“As you might imagine, everyone has been asking about every little detail about the wedding from the second the betrothal was announced. The material of my dear Clarissa’s dress, the flowers, the menu for the wedding breakfast, and so on and so forth. My dear, dear friend Lady Carrington suggested the idea for the newspaper story. I think she might have been jesting, but I took her seriously,” Lady Richmond said, concluding with a large intake of breath to replenish herself.
Sophie was afraid to look at her, lest she understand it as an indication to carry on. Instead, she glanced at Lord Brandon and saw that he was gazing attentively at her. She could feel her cheeks turn pink.
“Lady Clarissa,” Sophie started, “could you tell our readers about meeting His Grace for the first time?”
She looked at her mother, and at her nod of approval answered, “We met at a ball.”
“The ball was hosted by Lady Redleigh, the duchess, and our dear, dear friend Earl Strathmore facilitated the introductions,” Lady Richmond added.
Sophie wrote shameless name-dropper on her tablet.
Of Lady Clarissa’s first impression of His Grace, reported by her mother, Sophie wrote same as mine. In other words: handsome, honorable, kind, and respectful, and “not at all like those good-for-nothing rakes overrunning this town.”
Oh, she had to see what Lord Brandon thought of that. When she glanced at him, he raised one brow, and inclined his head slightly as if to say, “I told you so.”
So he wasn’t a rake. He was handsome, honorable, kind, and respectful. Sophie wondered if Lady Clarissa also found him funny and charming, or if his presence made her cheeks turn pink and her heart quicken its pace. Sophie wondered if Lady Clarissa forgot about the rest of the world when he looked into her eyes and smiled.
There was a long silence while Sophie debated asking, and decided it was best if she did not.
&
nbsp; “Your Grace, I hate to pry—” Sophie couldn’t resist stating. He began to laugh, and covered it quickly with a cough. She bit back a smirk.
“Are you all right today, Brandon?” Lady Hamilton asked with motherly concern.
“I’m fine, Mother,” he ground out. “You were saying, Miss Harlow?”
“Perhaps you could share your first impression of your fiancée.”
“I noticed her beauty and that she possesses all the qualities of a perfect duchess,” he said, providing an answer that made her heart sink. Sophie might have been pretty, but she was no beauty like Clarissa Richmond. And Sophie was so far from being a duchess—due to class and training and education and the fact that she worked—that it was laughable to even give it a fleeting consideration.
She suffered a wave of embarrassment, for she felt like a fool for daring to dream of love, of Mr. Brandon and herself.
Lady Richmond beamed at his answer, though. Lady Clarissa smiled, gazing down at her hands in her lap, twisting a ring around on her finger.
His answer was complimentary, true, and yet rather bland. She wondered what he had thought of her: featherbrained, a danger to herself and others, and shockingly forward, no doubt. And then she reminded herself that his opinion of her didn’t matter.
“And the proposal?” Sophie asked. She did not bother to address her query to anyone in particular, for it was clear Lady Richmond would answer all and any questions.
“His Grace declared his intentions quickly! Within only two weeks we received an offer of marriage,” Lady Richmond interjected.
We?
Lady Clarissa sighed. Sophie caught her eye and they shared a smile. Lord Brandon still looked miserable. And Sophie could have sworn she caught Lady Hamilton roll her eyes. But duchesses did not roll their eyes. Everyone knew that.
“After he had secured my father’s permission,” Lady Clarissa managed to add, “I was called to join them in the library of our home in London. It was there he asked for my hand in marriage.”
“Your parents, Lord and Lady Richmond, were present?” Sophie clarified.
“Yes,” Clarissa said. She pulled a face, revealing that she knew it was not very romantic at all.
“Lord and Lady Richmond wished to stay,” Lord Brandon added, diplomatically blaming his future in-laws for sucking some of the magic from the moment. Well done, she conceded.
Utterly unromantic proposal, she wrote on her tablet. But why should she be surprised? Most ton marriages were not love matches, in fact many were seen as merely alliances for the purpose of accumulating and perpetuating wealth.
“Yes,” Lady Richmond said, and then continued, “we couldn’t very well miss one of the finest moments in Richmond heritage! For more than a century, the Richmonds have married into the best families in England. Keeping this tradition alive and carrying on the family line depends entirely upon my only child, and we are so glad these two illustrious families shall become one, and that, by special order of the king, the Richmond title shall continue through their son.”
Sophie began to write all of this down, and then gave up, scrawling only Richmond’s fate so very important, by order of the king. That was a lot of investment, responsibility, and pressure on a child who had not yet been born or, presumably, conceived.
Sophie glanced at the couple—both of them so reserved and proper and in their bearing—and she doubted they would anticipate the wedding night. Oh, she ought not think of such things!
“Tell us more about the proposal, Lady Clarissa,” Sophie urged, pointedly ignoring Lady Richmond and looking at her daughter instead.
“Lord Brandon said he had great admiration for me and asked if I would do him the honor of becoming his duchess. And upon my acceptance he gave me a beautiful betrothal ring.”
She and Lord Brandon shared a slight smile; it was the first sign of affection they had displayed in this interview. Sophie’s stomach did a little flip-flop.
“The ring is a Hamilton and Brandon family heirloom,” Lady Hamilton said. Clarissa held out her left hand so Sophie might see the gold band bearing a large, square-cut emerald, surrounded by dozens of tiny diamonds.
“It is stunning,” Sophie said truthfully.
“The proposal was such a very touching scene to witness,” Lady Richmond cut in. Again. “In fact, I wept dearly. It’s every mother’s dream to see her daughter betrothed to a man such as His Grace.”
Sophie managed a wan smile and jotted down the words overbearing and meddlesome. There was absolutely no way she could tolerate a month of the woman’s presence without losing her sanity.
“Indeed,” Sophie murmured, looking down at her tablet. All her questions had been answered, except for the grossly inappropriate ones she could not ask, such as:
Why did you not mention you were a duke when we first met? And betrothed?
Why were you so damned charming?
Why did you make me fall halfway in love with you when you knew it would only come to nothing?
“I think I have enough material for the first story,” Sophie said. “Thank you so much for sharing your time.” She put her tablet and pencil back in her reticule. For once, she would remember her things.
“Miss Harlow, I’ll show you to the foyer,” Brandon offered.
“Thank you, Your Grace, but it won’t be necessary.” Eyebrows arched and eyes widened at that. Apparently it was not done to refuse a duke in his own home.
“Are you certain you can find your way?” he asked skeptically.
“Absolutely,” she declared confidently.
Not really at all, actually. But she couldn’t bear another opportunity to find him charming, handsome, and unattainable. Sophie then took her leave of the duchesses and the duchess-to-be.
Once the doors closed behind her, Sophie marched down the hall, promising herself that the moment she finished here, she would inform Mr. Knightly that she would have nothing to do with the wedding-of-the-year.
But first she had to escape this blasted house! She had been certain this was the way to the foyer, but after a few minutes she did not recognize her surroundings at all and concluded she must have made a mistake. She would simply turn around and try again. Yet after a few more apparently wrong turns, she had to admit she was well and truly lost.
Sophie began to feel the creeping, prickling heat of mortification and panic.
Recalling that she had not passed through a corridor to meet the duchesses, but through a succession of drawing rooms, Sophie began opening doors hoping that one would open to a room that looked vaguely familiar. Or perhaps she would encounter a servant who might point her in the right direction or—even better—personally escort her out.
She might not be allowed back after such an episode, which wouldn’t matter because after she quit the story—oh, she prayed Knightly would let her quit the story—Miss Sophie Harlow, Writing Girl of The London Weekly, would have no further business with the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon or anyone of his household.
Perhaps this door, Sophie thought, and turned the knob. She pushed the door just a bit, then peeked in.
Drat.
She tried to close the door before she was seen or heard, but it was too late.
Chapter 6
“Enter,” commanded a firm ducal voice that sounded slightly weary and annoyed. Sophie stepped into the room and saw that she had found her way to the duke’s private study.
Hell and damnation!
His Grace sat at his desk, which was a massive, solid, engraved mahogany piece that seemed as though it would require at least six footmen to move.
Bookshelves lined three walls, and held thousands of multicolored leather-bound volumes behind beveled glass doors. A large globe stood in one corner. Matching richly upholstered chairs and settees, and all the usual expensive things
abounded.
The duke looked up from his work and gave her a thorough perusal, as if he could not make sense of her presence in his study.
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude. I see that you are busy, so I shall call another time. Good day,” she said, and made a move to go. She wondered if she could exit by way of the tall floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the courtyard, but decided against it.
Staying was out of the question. Miss Sophie Harlow would have no business with a man who could grossly mislead innocent young ladies such as herself. Granted, she hadn’t asked if he were betrothed, but still, she had no reason to stay and every reason to quit at once.
“I have a moment now, Miss Harlow,” Lord Brandon said, standing from where he sat behind his desk. As if she needed to be reminded of his height and broad shoulders and positively ducal stature. His gaze locked with hers.
Oh, blast, she thought.
“I had thought of an additional question to ask you. That’s all. But really, it is not urgent . . .”
“It must be important if you took the trouble to find me here,” he said with a faint smile.
“It seemed so at the time, but really, Your Grace, it’s not important at all.”
“You came all this way, Miss Harlow, to not ask a question?” She knew then that he was well aware that she had gotten lost after refusing an escort to the foyer. He was too much of a gentleman to accuse her of such outright, but not so much that he couldn’t have a spot of fun with her.
Which meant she could have a spot of fun with him.
“My question, Your Grace, is whether you ever get lost in this house.”
His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, gave a shout of laughter. And then that settled into the low rumble of a man’s genuine laugh. The sound thrilled her. As if that had broken some sort of spell, he relaxed a little—and she caught a glimpse of the man she’d first met, Brandon the mere mister.
He took a step forward to stand before the desk and casually leaned against it. Glancing left, then right, ensuring no eavesdroppers, he said, “No. At least, it has been some time since I have done so.” He paused, then continued: “I grew up here and spent hours exploring. Although, once I was so lost that I could not find my way back in time for dinner, which is when it was noticed that I had gone missing. All the footmen and maids were sent to search for me.”
