by Maya Rodale
Sophie treaded softly across the plush Aubusson carpets, drawn closer by his story and by the image of him as a young boy bravely exploring such a grand house alone. When, she wondered, did he develop the proud, reserved demeanor she had seen him display during their meeting? It was such a contrast to the mere Mr. Brandon on her walk, and the man talking to her now.
He continued: “But it was my father who found me in the maps room in the east wing.”
Maps room? How large was this house?
“You must have been very scared. I certainly would be in this house after nightfall,” Sophie said. If ghosts existed, they would certainly haunt gigantic ancestral homes such as this one.
“Well, that’s because you’re a girl,” he said matter-of-factly. She was about to protest when she caught a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“I can admit it because I am a girl,” Sophie retorted. “Did that misadventure put an end to your explorations?”
“Oh, no. After that, I had Cook pack sustenance for me, because—”
“One must always be prepared,” she said, finishing his sentence.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t suppose that among those papers you have a map of this house,” Sophie said, referring to the neat piles on his desk. “I haven’t time to get lost again on my way out.”
“Let’s see,” he said, picking up a stack and thumbing through the lot of them, as if there might actually be a map of Hamilton House. As he did, one sheet escaped from the group and fell gently to floor, resting on the carpet.
Sophie bent down to retrieve it, and so did the duke. Their heads collided.
“Ouch!” Sophie said, laughing a little. It was more shocking than painful.
“Ouch, indeed,” he responded, grinning and rubbing his temple.
“You have a hard head,” Sophie said, hastily adding, “Your Grace.”
“You are not the first to say so, Miss Harlow, but you are the first to speak literally.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Sophie wondered.
“Would it be ungentlemanly of me to say that you, too, have a hard head?” he asked.
“I’m not quite certain of the etiquette on that. I could ask ‘Dear Annabelle’,” Sophie said, mentioning her fellow Writing Girls’ advice column in The Weekly. “Should it turn out to be improper, I shall not hold it against you.”
“Thank you. I do pride myself upon being the perfect gentleman,” he said as he stood and held out his hand to help her up.
She placed her right hand in his. She wore beautiful cream-colored kidskin gloves that were ever so soft to the touch. Brandon’s hands were bare, warm, large, and strong—everything a man’s hands should be.
With the slightest effort, he helped her to her feet and she stood before him, as close as if they were about to waltz. Sophie tilted her head back so that she might look up at him rather than straight into his chest that she knew to be firm and strong.
Lord Brandon was gazing down at her intently.
They were still holding hands.
She took a deep breath and felt him tense. Brandon released her hand and took a small step away. A sense of shame and guilt tempered her pleasure.
She recalled that troublesome half-sheet of paper, which she held in her other hand the whole time.
“Now, what has caused all this trouble?” she wondered aloud, surprised to find her voice oddly shaky.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, reaching for the paper.
Years of experience with her older brother made Sophie instinctively turn quickly, presenting her back to Lord Brandon as she held the paper far in front of her, and far from his grasp. Vaguely, she was aware that this was wrong, rude, and in violation of every known rule of etiquette.
But it was too late to surrender. Lord Brandon reached out and closed his hand around her wrist—gentle, but still commanding. Sophie was suddenly hotly aware of him and this strange half-embrace. If she were to lean back, she would certainly find his chest there to stop her fall. Mere inches of air, if that, and a few layers of clothing kept them from touching.
Sophie knew what it felt like to be held by him and that it was worth risking everything for. She ached to close her eyes, surrender, and lean against him to savor the blissful and rare sensation of being held in a man’s arms. Sophie gave in to temptation and relaxed into his embrace.
This was inappropriate. She didn’t need to ask “Dear Annabelle” about that.
“Miss Harlow,” he said softly, and his warm breath swept gently across the back of her neck, making her shiver. If she were to turn her head ever so slightly, her mouth would be in kissing distance of his. It was so very, very tempting.
It was outrageously unacceptable.
Instead she focused her attention on the sheet in her hand, and read aloud: “Desired Qualities in a Wife.”
“Miss Harlow . . .” he repeated, and the warning tone was unmistakable.
“Item the first: ‘Attractive.’ That is understandable,” Sophie commented. “A pretty face across from yours at the breakfast table would be pleasant.”
She dared not refer to other reasons why an attractive spouse might be preferred for fear that she could not control the blush.
“I thought so,” he said tightly as he loosened his grip and took a step back.
“Item the second: ‘Reasonable Intelligence.’ That strikes me as . . . reasonable,” she said. The duke now stood away from her, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Obviously he was not pleased with this but would patiently allow her to continue with this ridiculously rude charade of hers. She could not stop.
What did a man like the esteemed and illustrious Duke of Hamilton and Brandon wish for in a wife?
Thus far, Sophie liked to think she qualified—not that she was a candidate for the position.
She thought herself of reasonable intelligence and fairly attractive. No odes and poems had been written to her beauty, as many had done for Lady Clarissa, but she had been called pretty often enough. As for intelligence, well, she was a history-making journalist. If she wasn’t smart, then she was absolutely mad. But that was not to be debated at present. There was this list in her hand . . .
“Item the third: ‘Agreeable Temperament,’ ” she said, and then continued: “Again, I do concur that is a reasonable request in a spouse. One would not wish to deal with hysterical tantrums or violent outbursts or the like.”
“I do not care for episodes of disruptive or highly emotional behavior,” he remarked. Sophie decided to ignore that and carry on with her disruptive behavior.
“Item the fourth: ‘From a respectable and distinguished family,’ ” Sophie concluded. That was all. That was all that he required in a wife. An attractive woman, with a modicum of intelligence, placid personality, and distinguished lineage.
“It seems to me,” Sophie remarked, “that you have found the perfect woman in Lady Clarissa, for she fulfills all of these qualities.”
“I am in agreement with your assessment.”
“Anyone would think so. But I notice something, Your Grace. Love is not mentioned on this list,” Sophie said, daring to carry on. She had traveled so far out of the bounds of propriety that there was really no going back now. Lord Brandon did not stop her.
“Of course not,” he said, responding in the same tone one might have if one were to say, Naturally, I do not wish to marry someone with a second head.
“Why would you not wish for love? Or at the very least, companionship, friendship, or affection?” Sophie asked. She had always wondered why one would marry for anything less—if they already had money and status and security. Lord Brandon could certainly afford the luxury of a love match.
“Because, Miss Harlow, the purpose of marriage is to combine assets and pr
otect them for the future generations, which one is to create. Love does not enter into it at all.”
“But love will make all of that so much more happy, pleasant, wonderful . . .”
“Or it can lead to crushing and devastating heartache that numbs one to any and all other pleasures in life,” Lord Brandon said sharply, and Sophie was taken aback. “I trust that none of this will find its way into your column, Miss Harlow?” Lord Brandon said softly, but firmly.
“Of course not. I should hate to crush the romantic notions of my readers,” she retorted.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he said sharply.
Lady Clarissa opened the door and joined them. Again Sophie suffered a rush of guilt for being alone with another woman’s fiancé, even though it was an accident, and even though nothing truly untoward had happened. Although, it did feel like something. They had laughed, nearly embraced, and almost fought. It was so very wrong.
“I only wished to inform you that my mother and I are departing now,” Lady Clarissa said.
“It was a pleasure to share your company today. I look forward to seeing you again at our betrothal ball,” he added, taking Clarissa’s hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles.
“I was also about to depart,” Sophie said, noticing her opportunity to have someone guide her to the exit of this loveless house. “Goodbye, Your Grace. I shall cease to distract you from important matters of state and other tasks of grave importance.”
Sophie set that troublesome list on his desk, curtseyed, received a nod of dismissal from the duke, and crossed the room to leave with the attractive, reasonably intelligent, agreeably tempered, and ancestrally distinguished Lady Clarissa Richmond.
There was a maid with her, who walked ahead, showing the way.
“I still get lost in this house and fear I always will,” Clarissa confided. And then, horrified at her confession, she begged that Sophie would not include that in her column.
“I would never. And I completely understand. In fact, I got lost myself and stumbled upon His Grace’s study.”
“I see,” Clarissa said. “Please do write to me should you have any further inquiries. I would be delighted to answer them myself. “ With that slight emphasis, Lady Clarissa made herself clear: she would answer the questions, and not her mother. Clarissa was too polite to say so directly, and Sophie was also too polite to say it herself. But a conspiratorial smile crossed each of their mouths. They understood each other.
“That is very kind of you to offer. Thank you.”
Sophie also saw that Clarissa may be quiet, demure, endlessly obliging, but she was nobody’s fool.
Chapter 7
In His Grace’s Study
That Miss Harlow was trouble, and Brandon was glad when she shut the door behind her. No more interruptions, distractions, or head collisions and childhood confessions. He could resume his review of his marriage contract before he signed it.
She had him talking about his childhood and his father! He rarely did so with his three sisters, and merely endured such conversations when his mother brought them up. He never willfully offered information about his ten-year-old self and the hero and idol that was otherwise known as his father. Was.
Brandon turned his attention back to the contract he’d been reviewing, then set it down a moment later.
Her luscious figure and wicked sense of humor had managed to pierce all his defenses and shatter his ducal armor.
That was trouble, and it was unacceptable.
It—she—would be best avoided in the future.
Brandon took a deep breath and willed his pulse to subside. The worst part—he could barely bring himself to admit this—was that he enjoyed her company. She was quite funny and made him laugh more in their two meetings than he had done in years.
She was quick, smart, impertinent, and adorable. He suspected her notes in that book of hers were devilishly insightful. She was a tempting pleasure to look at.
And in that moment when he held her and kissed her at parting . . . His body was reacting to the memory in a manner his brain and morals disagreed with.
She was trouble. He did not care for trouble.
But, damn it, if trouble didn’t feel amazing in his arms.
He definitely must take the greatest care to stay away from her.
Clarissa was like a refreshing and restorative glass of cold water. His good sense returned to him upon seeing her.
Her cool beauty and obliging temperament would not disturb him. She would never interrupt him. He would not be tempted to leave his work and walk halfway across London with her. She would never burst into his study and engage him in chatter about his boyhood self, or tempt him to embrace her, kiss her, or make love to her on the floor. With Clarissa as his wife, Brandon was certain of smooth sailing, free of storms, never to be blown off course.
He would care for her, but he would never fall in love with her.
That was what he wanted.
He found his list—Desirable Qualities in a Wife—and reviewed it once more. Brandon was utterly certain that he was correct. These were excellent qualities for a duchess and a wife. He had betrothed himself to the perfect woman. In a few weeks, he would marry her.
Though he hadn’t given the contract as thorough a review as he would like, Brandon gave it his signature. There was really no point to sparing a thought for Miss Harlow at all.
Lady Jane’s Salon
Mayfair, London
After her meeting with the duke and duchesses, Sophie met Julianna at the salon of Lady Jane, a witty, eccentric woman who invited writers, artists, scientists, and all manner of interesting people for witty, brilliant conversation. It was the sort of social circle that simply did not exist in Chesham, and was even a rarity in London.
Upon her arrival in Lady Jane’s drawing room—decorated in stunning chinoiserie style that had recently become the height of fashion—Sophie found an empty seat next to Julianna on a velvet settee and was served a cup of hot tea, along with a slice of vanilla sponge cake with butter cream frosting. It was just the thing, after the events of earlier in the day.
“Do tell all about the duchesses, darling,” Julianna began.
“Lady Clarissa is smarter than given credit for, and Lady Hamilton is guilty of not letting her good nature overpower Lady Richmond’s tendency to dominate every conversation.”
“Oh, my. And the duke?” Julianna asked, taking a sip of tea.
“Is my Brandon,” Sophie said.
Julianna spit out the tea.
“I cannot bring you anywhere,” Sophie said with a laugh, and looked around. Everyone else seemed deep in private discussions and did not seem to have noticed, though a maid swiftly appeared with napkins and promptly vanished.
“The Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, engaged to the daughter of the Duke of Richmond, saved your life and escorted you home! I cannot believe it!” Julianna exclaimed. A few people turned in their direction.
“It’s true. Of course, he pretended not to know me when we were introduced,” Sophie said with a twinge of bitterness in her voice. She took a bite of the cake and found it sweet and comforting.
“Distasteful, slightly rude, but ultimately understandable,” her friend replied.
“I know. But it very much made the situation clear to me and markedly diminished my feelings for him,” Sophie said, wishing it all ended there. She took another fortifying bite of cake before she carried on. “But then . . .”
“Then what?”
“I am waiting for you to swallow your sip of tea,” Sophie said.
“Done.”
“Then I accidentally entered his private study. While he was in it . . . Are you aware of how massive the ducal residence is? One could quite easily get lost. In fact, one did get very
lost . . .”
“What did you do, Sophie?” Julianna asked, sounding nervous about the answer.
“I might have declined an escort of a maid, or the duke, in a fit of pique,” she answered truthfully, with a sheepish smile. Honestly, it had been ridiculous behavior on her part, but it felt so very essential that she not spend any more time with Brandon.
“Oh, Sophie,” Julianna said, laughing a little. But then she became serious. “You were alone with the duke?”
“Oh, yes.” And then, when Julianna had set down her tea, Sophie related the scene to her wide-eyed friend—particularly the collision of heads, and the dramatic recitation of the list of Desirable Qualities in a Wife—to Julianna’s great amusement.
Though she wasn’t sure why, exactly, Sophie didn’t relate the part about their embrace and the dangerous temptation to kiss him. The moment had been too magnificent, and Sophie did not want to be lectured on the impropriety of it. She wanted to keep the memory special. And private.
Her stomach began to ache. She told herself it was the tea, but it was more likely guilt.
“I don’t suppose you tried to quit the story on the grounds of extreme emotional distress?” Julianna queried.
“Naturally. Knightly refused, saying it was the equivalent of allowing Mitch Radnor to only cover sporting events in which his team, person, or horse wins.”
“Men. Sports,” Julianna scoffed, with a roll of her eyes.
“I’m not quite sure that my situation compares to a horse race or boxing match. But his point was taken,” Sophie said. She was to suffer for the newspaper and to report the news, regardless of the cost to her emotions and tax upon her nerves.
“Of course, you shall not entertain feelings for him any longer. Really, there should be no distress at all,” Julianna said as if it were that simple.
