by Maya Rodale
“If only that tonic for unsuitable lovers did indeed exist!” Sophie lamented.
“If it did, it would be a hoax and we both know it. It would contain little more than sugar water, which might actually work if you drank it instead of the champagne you are consuming in copious quantities,” Julianna said smartly.
“It is one glass and I had to take it, for not doing so when toasting the happy couple would have been rude. Having said that, I do find myself in need of air.”
On her way to the terrace, Sophie successfully dodged encounters with Lord Borwick, a notorious letch, and Lady Rawlings, who could trap a person in conversation for thirty minutes. She and Julianna had renamed her Lady Drawlings for her slow and leisurely manner of speaking.
Once outside, Sophie pulled her shawl tighter around her, for there was still a chill in the spring air. Enough moonlight passed through the fog to faintly illuminate the garden below. Sophie was not alone on the terrace, as other guests had also stepped out, and she freely eavesdropped on their conversations.
“Oh, he is such a bore, I thought I’d never escape!” a woman said to the giggles of her friend.
“Cigar?” one man offered to another.
“We are so very lucky to have this match,” a woman said. Sophie could easily identify that voice; it belonged to the elder Lady Richmond.
“Yes, Lord Brandon is a good man,” her companion said. She suspected it was the Duke of Richmond. Glancing over, she could see that he had a stocky stature, tufted white hair, and stood as tall as his wife.
Lady Richmond muttered something that sounded like “utterly ruined” but Sophie could not be sure.
“I would have to sell off my stable,” the duke said forlornly.
“Hush about your stupid stables, Reginald,” she hissed. “They’re what got us into this mess in the first place.” And then, in a smoother voice: “I was so worried when Miss Selby snatched up Lord Winchester.”
“But it all turned out in the end, my dear. You shall have our Clarissa married to a duke, the title will continue, we shall be wealthy again, and I will have the funds to breed my mare Magnolia to my stallion Eclipse. ’Tis my lifelong dream, you know.”
“I am well aware,” she said bitterly before returning to the ballroom.
Now, that’s interesting, Sophie thought. Either Lord Brandon had been duped into believing them wealthy, or he was so rich that he didn’t need a bride with a large dowry. If that was the case, then he must have other reasons for marrying her. A list of reasons, in fact.
Sophie reminded herself that none of this was at all her business and she’d best forget it and leave gossiping and speculating to her friend, the professional.
As she heard Lord Richmond returning to the ballroom, she intended to follow, but then she became keenly aware of another male presence.
Chapter 9
Lord Brandon had come to the terrace for a respite, and discovered too late that it was not to be found.
“Miss Harlow, good evening,” Brandon said, coming to stand beside her at the banister because she had turned, caught his eye—and it would have been rude to ignore her.
To discover Miss Harlow alone in a dimly lit and fairly secluded place was not what he wished. In fact, it was in direct violation of a rule he had made for himself just the other day: Avoid her at all costs.
Rationality dictated that he return immediately to the ballroom. Oddly enough, Lord Brandon did not.
“Your Grace. Good evening.”
“I trust I am not interrupting something,” he said, and it was not true. If he were interrupting, he would have a polite excuse to make a quick exit.
“I am awaiting an assignation with my lover,” she declared. He was shocked first by her boldness to declare her private information. Then he was struck by a wave of jealousy, which was ludicrous, because he did not possess her nor did he want to. And then, finally, he noticed that she was teasing.
“I shall keep you company until he arrives, then,” Brandon said, ever the gentleman. It would not do to leave a woman unaccompanied on the terrace where she might be prey to rakes and lechers. She was safe with him, however.
“Then you shall stay a very long time. I am a very respectable girl.” To make her point, she tightened her shawl around her.
“As respectable as a scandalous, history-making woman can be,” he said lightly. It was happening again: she was teasing him out of his armor, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop it.
“I’m not scandalous anymore. At first I was gossiped about frequently and I was invited to parties to create a sensation. But I behaved myself and now people have become accustomed to me.”
“You are even sought after.”
“An interview with two duchesses is surely the stamp of respectability.”
“And a duke,” he added. He reluctantly noticed how quickly they fell into an easy banter. That had yet to occur between him and Clarissa, and he couldn’t imagine that would change. Upon feeling surprisingly disappointed at the realization, Brandon reminded himself that the lack of deep conversation was precisely why he was marrying her.
It all had to do with avoiding distraction and focusing on the things that really matter—but with Miss Harlow before him, it was impossible to pay attention to anything other than her.
“How could I forget?” she teased. “I ought to ask you a few questions,” she said.
“For this story of yours?”
“Yes, and because it should look improper for the two of us to be standing out here chattering away, quite alone . . .”
He liked that she considered the propriety of the situation, even as he was besieged by improper thoughts about her plump pink mouth and all the curves of her figure that begged for exploration.
Miss Harlow reached into her reticule to pull out a tablet. As she sorted through, presumably in search of a pencil, her shawl loosened and slid from her shoulders. One errant sleeve slid down to follow, exposing her shoulder and leaving it quite bare.
It forced him to imagine her in nothing more than a negligee as it slid off her body and onto the floor. His mouth went dry.
Her hair, a dark mass of curls, was swept back, yet a few brushed against this expanse of exposed skin, suggesting the faintest whisper of a caress. He wished to trace the curve with his fingertips, to press his mouth right in the half-moon spot where her neck met her shoulder.
One milky, smooth, beautifully curved shoulder and he was utterly entranced.
That he should be so inflamed by a mere shoulder and a wayward sleeve suggested that perhaps he should not have ended things with his mistress just yet.
“My apologies. I can’t find my pencil because I’m forever losing things,” she said, glancing up at him with a slight smile. “It’s a terrible habit of mine.”
She had a slight dimple when she smiled. He thought it adorable and erotic all at once.
“It’s chilly this evening,” she said, pulling up her sleeve and wrapping the shawl tightly around her. The spell was broken—mostly. Moments like those were why he did not like her. She was trouble. She was Dark Magic and he was Logic. Reason. Rationality. These things were not compatible.
“How are you enjoying your betrothal party?”
“It’s a fine event.”
She wrote something quickly. He noticed that she had procured a writing implement whilst he was ogling her bare skin like a sailor on shore leave.
“How involved do you intend to be in the planning of your wedding?”
“At the appropriate time and place, I will be present to recite my vows,” Brandon replied. What else was a man expected to do? He certainly would not help select the flowers or plan the menu for the wedding breakfast.
“It is a bit silly to ask a man about wedding matters, is it not?” Miss Harlow quer
ied with a grin and a flash of that dimple.
“On that matter, Miss Harlow, we are in agreement,” he replied. She laughed at that, a wonderful, genuine sound that he was thrilled to have caused. He caught himself on the verge of leaning against the banister, with the intention of a lengthy conversation.
But dukes did not lean, and decent gentlemen did not ogle or engage with other women at their own betrothal party. Thus he excused himself and returned to the hot, bright, crowded ballroom, even though he desired nothing more than to be alone with Miss Harlow in a dark, secluded place.
Chapter 10
Twenty-five days before the wedding . . .
The Shop of Madame Auteuil, Modiste
Bond Street, London
“The dress ought to be the very height of fashion, yet also timeless,” the Duchess of Richmond informed Madame Auteuil, the premier modiste for the aristocracy and the unfathomably wealthy.
Though Sophie had gazed in the windows countless times, this was her first time in the shop. It radiated elegance, glamour, and wealth. The floor was covered in plush carpets the color of crimson. Delicate chairs upholstered in the palest shades of blue with white wooden legs were scattered about. And then the fabrics! Shelf after shelf of silks, satins, cottons, cashmere, velvets, tulle, twill, taffeta, and lace were bolted up and just waiting to be made into a lucky woman’s gorgeous gown.
Mirrors reflected everything with Sophie wide-eyed in the midst of it.
While Lady Richmond provided contradictory instructions to Madame Auteuil—who patiently nodded her head in agreement to declarations that it should be kept simple with flounces, lace, and extensive beaded detailing—Clarissa drifted over to Sophie, who was intensely coveting a particular dress on display.
“That is lovely,” Clarissa whispered in reverence, daring to brush her fingertips against the fabric.
“Oh, yes,” Sophie added. The cut was simple—a high waist with short, capped sleeves and a low, rounded neckline. Clear glass beads and pearls were embroidered close together over white silk. This dress would absolutely shimmer and sparkle as it moved.
It reminded Sophie of moonlight reflecting on freshly fallen snow.
She had never wanted a dress more than she wished for this one.
“Clarissa, my dear,” Lady Richmond called out, “we must select the fabric for your gown. Do come.”
Ever obedient, she stood still while different swatches of fabric were held to her cheeks to determine which best suited her complexion: an eggshell-colored taffeta, or a milky white satin? A watered silk in pale primrose or a changeable silk in silver and white?
As Sophie looked on, her thoughts drifted from fabric swatches to full bridal dresses, from Clarissa in the modiste’s shop to Clarissa at the altar. Each one was more vexing than the last.
Sophie’s wedding dress had been beautiful and she’d spent six months making it herself. She had sold it within days of the disastrous almost-wedding. The funds helped pay her way to London.
Thoughts of Clarissa at the altar led, inevitably, to thoughts of Brandon standing there with her and that inspired a full scowl. Against her best intentions and sincere wishes, Sophie found herself daydreaming about him more often than she liked. She thought of the way he had looked at her with bright green, smiling eyes on the day they first met. She imagined witty things to say to make him laugh, because she loved the sound.
“Miss Harlow.” The duchess demanded her attention, and focused intently upon her. “What are the other brides wearing this season?”
Oh, yes, all those other brides whose ranks did not include her. Honestly, she was jealous. Her deepest envy was reserved for the love matches, but all it took was a groom who went through the ceremony to make her green.
That aside, it was quite clear that she was not invited to participate in this simply because of a newspaper story, and the glory that brings.
The duchess was determined to have the wedding of the year, perhaps even the wedding of the decade. Thus, she needed to know what was popular, what had been overdone, what would be most likely to set tongues wagging, and what would be the newest, freshest trend. Sophie, thanks to her position, knew it all.
“Silver has been growing in popularity,” Sophie answered. “Pastels are a classic choice, as always. White is still a novelty.”
“Madame, could you tell us about the dress to be worn by Miss Selby?”
“I have been sworn to secrecy, Your Grace, however”—Madame Auteuil said, and the duchess’s expression went from peevish to beaming—“I can say that it will be silver with white accents.”
“Then we shall go with white with silver accents,” the duchess declared, and Sophie made a note of it in her tablet.
Once again, Clarissa drifted away to be nearer to Sophie. Her mother, engrossed in the fabrics, did not notice.
“Have you no preference for satin versus silk? Snow white or lily white?” Sophie queried, teasingly.
“No, but even if I did, it would be irrelevant,” Clarissa answered. There was no malice in her answer; it was merely a statement of fact. Sophie offered a sympathetic smile.
“Did you enjoy your betrothal ball the other night?” Sophie asked. It had been a pleasant evening. The brief time chatting with Lord Brandon was the only memorable part—and that had been delightful and thrilling, mingled with a slow burn of guilt. Altogether, she felt flummoxed by all the contrary emotions Lord Brandon inspired within her. She shouldn’t be intrigued by him, she didn’t want to be and yet . . .
“It was a nice party, though I am never quite comfortable being the center of attention like that,” Clarissa answered, and she examined a bolt of sea green silk.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I dream of being a wallflower,” Clarissa said with the slightest of sighs. They both knew that her looks, and her mother, would never allow her to stand unnoticed in a corner and merely watch the people at a ball. As the next Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, she would never have the chance.
“I would have never guessed. You conduct yourself so well,” Sophie said, and it was the truth. Clarissa was so gracious, patient and kind, and everything a duchess ought to be. No wonder Brandon selected her, Sophie thought, with a twinge of jealously. She could never compete with such a paragon.
“Thank you. Usually it is tolerable, but to waltz with half the ton watching, and lacking any other distraction, was a real test to my nerves,” Clarissa confided.
“You hid it admirably.”
“I was reassured by Lord Brandon, for he’d never allow a lady to miss a step or turn in the wrong direction,” Clarissa said.
“He wouldn’t,” Sophie agreed. “One can rely on him. He’s so very assured all the time.” It was one of the many reasons she adored him. Some girls fell for the dashing, wild, and dangerous sort. Sophie had learned about those the hard way.
Of course, there was a certain amount of danger surrounding Brandon too but only because of her own feelings, and not his conduct.
“I’ve never seen him act in any other way than with the utmost composure. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, or forget his manners, or anything like that,” Clarissa continued.
“He sounds almost too perfect,” Sophie said, and she realized then why it was so delightful to make him laugh—because it was a glimpse of a part of him that was usually masked behind his reserved demeanor and perfect behavior. She brought that out in him, and doubted that Clarissa did.
“I’m sure he has a flaw. Everyone does,” Clarissa said.
“What is yours?” Sophie asked, curiously, because like her fiancé, she seemed so perfect. When Clarissa colored up and looked around to ensure that no one was listening, Sophie grinned with delight.
“Promise not to tell?” Clarissa asked in a whisper.
“You have my word,” Sophie answere
d.
“I cannot sing,” Clarissa confessed. That was all?
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I cannot sing on key or carry a tune and live in mortal fear of musicals. I often spontaneously develop sore throats,” Clarissa confided with a blush.
Sophie giggled.
“Now you have to tell me yours,” Clarissa requested.
“I frequently lose things. I spend a vexing amount of time searching for misplaced items. Earbobs, hair ribbons, reticules, my tablet of notes, my pencils . . .”
“I shall not give you anything of value to hold on to for me,” Clarissa said.
“Please don’t. I shall certainly lose it and feel terrible,” Sophie replied.
“Clarissa!” the duchess called out. “Do come look at these preliminary sketches. Miss Harlow, I wish to know how they compare to the other wedding dresses this season.”
Clarissa duly complied, as always.
Harry Angelo’s Fencing Academy at The Albany
Brandon lowered his sword and swore under his breath.
“Distracted today?” Harry Angelo asked. This master swordsman was the owner of the school, and he taught there as well. He was the only man in England at Brandon’s level. They fenced together regularly, always challenging each other.
What was that?
Yes, distracted.
Brandon was still riveted by the slip of a sleeve and a glance at the bare shoulder of Miss Sophie Harlow from the previous evening.
There were so many things wrong with that preoccupation. First, the object inspiring his desires was a shoulder. It was so elementary, the stuff of a green schoolboy.
Alternatively, it suggested to him that he found Miss Harlow that alluring.
Warning bells sounded in his head.
Brandon lifted his sword in salute and tilted his head in an invitation to Angelo for another round. The challenge was accepted.
