A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  Sophie agreed, even though it was much more complicated. Yes, he was as good as married, which meant that she absolutely would not act upon any amorous feelings for him. That was easy to control; her feelings were proving to be much more unruly.

  She was just so curious about him now—he was so reserved and imposing one minute, and then laughing easily and flirting the next. And then there was the baser attraction she felt for him, one that she could not discuss in polite company. It was the overwhelming desire to be held by him, to kiss him, to forget the whole world while lost in a long, hot embrace . . .

  Julianna noticed her hesitation, and perhaps even her blush inspired by a potent combination of lust and guilt.

  “Sophie! You can’t. He’s married, or as good as married!”

  “I know,” Sophie said. “I know.”

  She was only reporting upon every last detail of his amazingly unromantic betrothal and greatly anticipated wedding.

  “A match that grand will not be broken,” Julianna said firmly. “And, I hate to say it, Sophie, but if it were, it wouldn’t be for the likes of us. He is a duke, after all.”

  “I know.” Sophie was the daughter of local gentry, and wouldn’t be invited anywhere of significance if it were not for her scandalous and sensational profession as a writer for The London Weekly.

  Julianna was a widowed baroness, and thus welcomed to ton events. Her suspected, but unconfirmed, position as the anonymous author of “Fashionable Intelligence” enhanced her social status.

  The finer points of their social status aside, Sophie in no way had the background or position to qualify as a potential duchess. Maybe if he fell in love and forgot about sense and logic, but the duke had made it clear that love was not an option.

  “That way lies heartache. Or, at best, a life as his mistress, and Sophie you cannot do that,” Julianna pleaded. Her late husband had been an unfaithful cad, and Julianna had never quite recovered from it.

  Having been jilted for another woman, Sophie knew the heartache all too well. It was unfathomable that she act the part of a treacherous, adulterous woman.

  Even now, almost one year later, her stomach tightened into a knot at the thought of that awful day. The mortification had faded after a few weeks. For a few more months she had alternated between stunned disbelief and sobs so powerful she could barely breathe. That faded in time, too, thank God. And now she was left with a horror of having it happen again.

  Weddings were distasteful. Daring to love enough to walk down the aisle was incomprehensible. That her actions should subject another to that same agony must be avoided at all costs.

  “You’re right. I shall cease any feelings of an amorous nature at once,” Sophie declared. Perhaps it could be that simple. She doubted it, but it was worth a try. She took another bite of cake.

  “What are we discussing over here, ladies?” Lady Jane fluttered over and perched on a nearby chair. She was petite, with light brown hair and light blue eyes.

  “Do you think, Lady Jane, that it is possible to cease romantic feelings at will for an unsuitable person?” Sophie asked.

  “Now, that is a diverting question, Miss Harlow!” Lady Jane said with a smile. “Jocelyn, I suspect you have something to say about that.”

  “I think that if you could find a way, there’d be a fortune in it—though I personally would be broke!” Jocelyn Kemble, renowned and beloved actress, declared.

  All the salon attendees laughed at that.

  “All the rakes in London would find themselves suddenly short on admirers,” Julianna added.

  “Reformed by default!” declared the famous and beloved actor Julian Gage, to more laughter. Talk of reformed rakes reminded Sophie of Brandon, which was trouble.

  “Just imagine a tonic to cure unsuitable affections,” Jameson Wright mused. It was only natural that he would think of that, since he was a science enthusiast and frequently conducted his own experiments, and, apparently, invented all sorts of concoctions.

  Sophie suspected she would have need of such a tonic, though she also suspected that it wouldn’t work.

  “It would sell well among concerned parents, cuckolded husbands, and jealous wives,” noted Alistair Grey, fellow writer for The Weekly, good friend to Writing Girls, and frequent escort to the theater.

  “But what would the poets write of?” asked a poet.

  “And how would the residents of Gretna find income, if not from elopements?” asked Jack Sinclair, the second son of a baron and renowned rake.

  “And would business increase or decrease for brewers and innkeepers?” wondered Jonathan Harris. He was a kind, handsome man and a barrister. He was the sort of man a girl ought to fall in love with, but could never manage to. Sophie offered him a smile, and wished that his smile made her heartbeat race like Brandon’s did.

  “In short, it would be an economic disaster if unsuitable love was surmountable,” Lady Jane summarized.

  “Except for the person who sold the remedy. He would find himself possessed of a fortune,” Jocelyn said, and she then blatantly made eyes at Jameson to the amusement of all. He merely arched a brow suggestively in response. Julian Gage scowled.

  “Thus, it is our patriotic duty to fall in love with all manner of unsuitables: rakes, rogues, married, betrothed . . .” Alistair declared grandly.

  “Those above our social station,” Sophie said, hoping her voice did not betray too much emotion.

  “Or below it,” someone added.

  “Those prone to drinking, whoring, or wagering,” Julianna said, and Sophie knew that she was thinking of her late husband, Lord Somerset. Brandon did not seem like the sort that would indulge is those vices, if any at all.

  “Those that spend too much,” Jonathan offered.

  “Or misers that spend too little,” Jocelyn said.

  “The excessively vain,” Julian Gage proposed.

  “Those of whom our parents do not approve,” another added.

  “Those that do not return our love,” said Sophie.

  “It is a wonder that any of us do manage to fall in love and live happily ever after,” said the salon hostess, and her guests murmured their agreement.

  It was indeed a magnificent thing, Sophie agreed, and it was so very unlikely to happen to her. Dukes did not break off betrothals to perfect duchesses a month before a wedding. They certainly did not do so for lower-class girls that worked. Only love would drive a man to do such an illogical, irrational thing, and the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon was not going to fall under the spell of that finer emotion.

  She vowed to keep her feelings in check, and to avoid all and any circumstances that would tempt her to do otherwise.

  Chapter 8

  Twenty-six days before the wedding . . .

  Hamilton House

  It had been so simple. Logical. Rational.

  He, the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, needed to take a wife. He set about doing so in the same deliberate and methodical manner with which he did every task. He made a list—in this case, of qualities his future wife ought to possess.

  His course of action was obvious upon making the acquaintance of Lady Clarissa. He proposed, she accepted, they would marry and that was that—or so he thought.

  The decidedly unsuitable Miss Sophie Harlow consumed an embarrassing number of his waking thoughts and all of his dreams. Very wicked ones, too.

  Last night his dream began with a vivid recollection of the scene from his study, in which he held her in his arms, flush against him. Her bottom nestled against his arousal, and his hands resting upon her waist. It seemed he could feel the heat from her body, or had he been that hot with desire?

  He dreamt that, as he held her, there was a knock at the study door.

  She held that damned list in her little hand, and he tore it from her, cru
mpled it, and threw it aside. Someone persisted at knocking on the door.

  In this dream, Brandon then proceeded to kiss her, beginning with the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. Even in his dream, he was aware that it was illicit and indecent. This being his wildest dreams, he did not care about propriety or decency but only about satiating his lust with Miss Harlow. So he caressed her: the ample curve of her hip and moving upward to the full swell of her breasts, cupping them in his bare hands.

  She sighed. He groaned in pleasure. The knocking at the door continued.

  He was about to kiss her full, pink mouth . . . and then he woke up.

  Dressing for the ball celebrating his engagement to the perfect Lady Clarissa was not the time to relive that dream, especially if his traitorous body was going to react as it did last night.

  Would Miss Harlow be there as part of her story? It was quite likely.

  His pulse quickened at the thought of seeing her. Again. Tonight.

  To feel excitement at the prospect of seeing this troublesome Writing Girl or to have lusty dreams that he then proceeded to repeat and repent at his leisure was not acceptable. In his head, he began composing a list:

  Things he ought to think about other than Miss Harlow:

  1. His perfect fiancée.

  2. The Parliamentary bill on tax policy reform that he would be introducing.

  3. The plight of war widows and orphans.

  4. The latest Waverly novel (for such books were his secret vice).

  5. Dressing for his engagement ball.

  Half dressed in his breeches and an unbuttoned shirt—and so heated from his lascivious thoughts that he did not notice the draft that was prevalent in all ancestral homes—Brandon picked up an horrendous scrap of pink satin.

  With a curious expression, he turned to his valet.

  “Jennings, what is this?” he asked, holding the offensive garment away from his person in one hand.

  “It’s a waistcoat, my lord.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Where did it come from? Don’t tell me I chose this for myself.”

  Flowers had been embroidered in scarlet thread. If he selected this, he must have been deep into his cups at the time. Except that he never fell too deeply into his cups, for he had long ago learned exactly how much alcohol he could consume without making an ass of himself or feeling the aftereffects the next morning. He abided by that.

  “The elder Lady Richmond sent it over for you to wear this evening, as to compliment the younger Lady Richmond’s gown,” Jennings explained.

  “We need to match?” Brandon asked incredulously.

  “It appears that Lady Richmond is of the opinion that you and your fiancée should appear coordinated in your appearances this evening.”

  “I will not clothe my person in this horrendous item,” Brandon declared, still frowning at the thing. Pink? He could not wear pink. He certainly could not wear pink embroidered with flowers. He would be the laughingstock of London.

  “Of course, my lord, you do not need to wear anything you do not wish to. However, it is advisable to placate your future wife and her mother-in-law. If I may be so bold as to speak from personal experience, one does not want to make an enemy of one’s wife’s relations. They make for unrelenting enemies that a man can never escape.”

  “I see,” Brandon said. He had not been fully prepared for Clarissa’s parents. Her mother knew everyone and made sure everyone else knew about it. If her father conversed on a topic other than horse breeding, Brandon had yet to discover it. Still, he supposed it could be worse.

  “But Jennings, your honest opinion—is this not the worst garment you have ever set eyes upon?”

  “It is an abomination against good taste, my lord,” the valet agreed.

  “I will give you five pounds if that thing suffers a horrible accident that renders it unwearable,” Brandon declared, handing it to his valet, who promptly threw it into the fire.

  “Might I suggest the gray waistcoat instead, my lord?” he intoned.

  “You certainly may. Thank you, Jennings.”

  A few hours later

  The Ballroom of Hamilton House

  It was official: she was the future Lady Hamilton and Brandon. The announcement had been made, the guests had cheered and toasted with glasses of chilled champagne, and now the prospective bride and groom embarked on a waltz as hundreds of their closest friends and acquaintances watched on.

  Clarissa desperately wished that she were anywhere else. She’d be an absolute wallflower if her mother would ever allow it.

  “Are you enjoying this evening?” her fiancé asked.

  “Very much, thank you. Are you?” Clarissa answered, following two of her mother’s rules: Always agree with the gentleman, and always ask him about himself. Implied was that she shouldn’t discuss herself, lest she bore him.

  “I am,” he answered, and then he added, “You do look beautiful tonight, Lady Clarissa.”

  “Thank you, Lord Brandon.” She didn’t use his first name, Henry. No one seemed to call him that, ever.

  She noticed that he wisely wasn’t wearing the waistcoat her mother had selected for him. Sometimes her mother embarrassed her by what she said, or how much she said, or the gowns and, now, waistcoats she insisted were “so very much the thing” when they were anything but. Clarissa experienced a pang of jealousy that Lord Brandon could simply refuse to wear the offensive item and not suffer a harangue from her mother. She could never be so courageous.

  After a moment of silence, Clarissa dared to hope that they could maintain this comfortable state of non-conversation. She started to relax, just a touch. Lord Brandon was a tall man with a manner of carrying himself that just radiated power, control, and dominance. He was so reserved, too. She never knew quite what to say to him, which didn’t quite matter since she often found herself too intimidated to speak anyway.

  He did not facilitate conversation or attempt to deepen their relationship. Still, he was a good man. He would be kind to her. She would do her best to be a good wife.

  Perhaps she could be silent and smile prettily while he could be impressive and ducal for the remainder of the waltz.

  But then he spoke, and he asked the strangest question: “Do you think love is a requisite component of matrimony?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you think love is necessary for marriage?”

  “My mother says that love is something that comes to a married couple in time. To fall in love before marriage is to risk all manner of foolish and dangerous behavior. In fact, I daresay my mother thinks love is a fatal disease,” she finished.

  Her mother often told the story of her dear, departed sister Eleanor, whose passionate premarital love affair had led to her being socially ostracized, heartbroken, ruined, and dead. This ill-fated affair had profoundly influenced her mother and Clarissa even suspected her own life might have been drastically different if things had been a bit less disastrous for Aunt Eleanor.

  There was a painting of the two of them hanging above the mantel in her mother’s private drawing room. Clarissa, her mother, and her late aunt were practically identical with their honey-hued hair, large blue eyes, and willowy figures. “If only Eleanor had lived,” her mother often said with a sigh. If Clarissa was anything less than perfectly obliging, a rare occurrence indeed, she was cautioned to remember her ill-fated Aunt Eleanor.

  “I would not go so far as your mother to say that love is a fatal disease, but her point is taken. Love and passion lead to irrational behavior and poor choices,” he lectured. “However, an easy and affectionate relationship developing between a husband and wife seems to be a more desirable alternative.”

  “I’m sure we shall be so blessed,” Clarissa said, because it seemed like the thing to say.

  If
Lord Brandon had asked what Clarissa had thought about love—which he did not—she would have told him that she did not know enough about it to make an informed decision. Her own parents barely tolerated each other. The library of Richmond House was devoid of any fiction other than the most tragic love stories. Poetry was forbidden. Plays were merely an excuse to attend the theater, and one never paid attention to the drama on stage but gossiped with one’s acquaintances all the way through. Clarissa had little reason to suspect that love was not a tragedy.

  Sophie accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and turned away from the sight of Lord Brandon and Lady Clarissa dancing. She took a sip, savored the cold bubbles, and wondered what it might be like to waltz with him. She suspected that it would be heavenly, but refused to speculate further. It seemed sensible to avoid any romantic thoughts of him when she was trying to avoid all romantic feelings for him.

  “He is incredibly handsome. I hadn’t realized,” Julianna said thoughtfully.

  “It’s his eyes, I think. Or perhaps his laugh. His mouth, too . . .” Sophie said, and then silently chided herself for indulging in such thoughts.

  “He’s everything a man should be—large and strong but not hulking. Truly dignified,” Julianna said, continuing the assessment. His black jacket, dove gray waistcoat and breeches were cut well, and perfectly fitted. He put Sophie in mind of statues of Greek Gods on display at the British Museum.

  “And his eyes”—Sophie sighed—“they are green, like a forest after a thunderstorm.”

  “Oh, my, aren’t you utterly besotted!”

  “Honestly, I’m trying not to be,” Sophie said, and it was the truth. The duke was not the same man she had become infatuated with. Brandon the duke was rigid, reserved, and practically married. She wanted the Brandon she first met—quick to laugh, gentlemanly and friendly, and not at all betrothed. But both versions made her heart skip beats and her head a little bit dizzy in a lovely way.

  “Is that why you are the only person in this room not watching them waltz?” Julianna asked. A few couples were beginning to join in now, at the duchess’s urging. But by and large, most were content to watch the Perfect Couple execute a perfect waltz.