by Maya Rodale
Instead, he braced himself for a self-inflicted torture that could have been avoided.
“Thank you,” Miss Harlow said. “I hope this will not inconvenience you terribly.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, eyeing her warily. The green dress she wore was temptingly low cut across the bodice. She carried a pale silver shawl that had fallen off one shoulder carelessly that night at the betrothal ball.
“Are you saying it’s fine because it’s true or because good manners oblige you to?” she asked, smiling, and revealing that little dimple. Her curls bounced as the carriage clattered across the cobblestones. She was adorable.
“Both.”
“After we turn the corner, and are out of your mother’s sight, I shall get out and carry on my way,” Miss Harlow offered.
“You’ll do no such thing. First of all, you are already out of her sight in this blasted fog. Secondly, she’ll ask me to assure her that you’ve returned home with no harm done and I would like to honestly say yes.”
“Very well. For the ease of your conscience, I shall stay. For my sake, I hope you are V.S.I.C.”
“I beg your pardon?” He must not have heard her correctly; either that, or she was batty.
“Very Safe in Carriages,” she explained. “Usually we say V.S.I.C.P.Q. Very Safe in Carriages Probably Queer, but I do not doubt your . . . inclinations,” she said, blushing slightly.
“Good.” Brandon merely stared at her for a second before arriving at the conclusion that this was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with a woman. If only the novelty didn’t make it so intriguing, and slightly thrilling.
“And then there is always N.S.I.C.,” she carried on.
“Not Safe in Carriages?”
“Exactly.” She beamed at him, and he was annoyed by the rush of pleasure that it brought him.
“What is the purpose of these abbreviations?”
“Quick, discrete communication between women. For example, Lady Somerset—my dearest friend—might be in conversation with a suitor who I’ve heard is F.U., so instead of pulling her aside and making a scene I can just whisper it to her.”
“F.U.?” he queried.
“Financially Unsound,” she explained.
“I had no idea,” he said. And truly, he didn’t.
“Most men don’t. Although . . .” Here she paused and he finished her sentence.
“They think they do. I see where this conversation is going and I shall not engage,” he said. He fought to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up into a smile.
“If a subject change is in order, then I shall defer to you, Your Grace.”
“Call me Brandon.”
“Very well, Brandon,” she said with a hint of a smile. He liked the way his name sounded upon her lips.
“You seemed very upset at the mention of the Hunt and Bailey wedding today,” he said. His curiosity had not faded.
“Oh, it was really nothing.”
“You’re blushing again. I am now incredibly intrigued.”
“Some other time. I’ve had my fill of discussing weddings for today,” she said pertly.
“I did not think that women ever tired of talking about that.”
“Some women do not live and breathe weddings, as I do. I suppose for you it might be akin to discussing account books. It is a chore.”
He gave a wry smile. He understood her. He was also reminded of their very first meeting, when they had talked briefly of account books, planning excursions, newspapers, and whether or not he was a rake.
The answer was undoubtedly no, and yet Brandon thought of what a rake might do upon finding himself in this secluded, enclosed, and intimate space with a woman as alluring as Sophie. Certainly not converse with her about account books or weddings.
An awkward turn of the carriage sent Miss Harlow’s reticule flying across the seat and onto the floor. Before he had the chance, she bent over to retrieve it, thus giving Brandon a sublime view of the swell of her breasts. A rake would look.
Brandon made no effort to avert his gaze. His mouth went dry. His hands balled into fists so that he could not touch her. At that moment, he would have traded a house of his for one caress.
“Shall we discuss your account books? Or have you read anything more interesting. The new Wordsworth, perhaps?”
“God, no,” he said.
“No—let me guess.” She held up one hand to shush him. Then she tapped her fingertip on her lips as she thought, and he was entranced. “Parliamentary reports, agricultural testaments, or improving religious tracts?”
The little minx was teasing, or at least he certainly hoped so. What did it say about him that she thought he was V.S.I.C. and read improving religious tracts in his free time? The answer was mildly horrifying.
It was not how he thought of himself. And he couldn’t stand it if she—funny, witty, smart, pretty, daring, and dangerous Miss Harlow—thought him a boring prig.
“Can you keep a secret, Miss Harlow?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, slightly breathless in anticipation. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward, providing him with another exquisite and distracting view. So he wasn’t hopeless.
“I do not read improving religious tracts. I occasionally read agricultural testaments and parliamentary reports because my position obliges me to. But given the chance and the choice, I read adventure novels,” he said.
“That makes perfect sense,” she said. “You like to read about long ago, faraway, thrilling, dangerous adventures because you are stuck in England on the same old plots of land.”
He stared at her for a second.
“Oh, blast, that was a horribly insensitive thing to say. I do apologize.”
“So very astute, Miss Harlow,” he said softly. She, of all the people in the world, seemed to understand him, and to know him, after so little time together. It was frightening, of course, and he thought he should STAY AWAY. And yet she was so intriguing . . .
“Which ones do you like?” she asked.
“I have just finished The Pirate—the latest by the author of the Waverly novels.”
“Everyone is reading that one, save for me! I love his, or her, books. Every time I go to the circulating library, it’s always checked out.”
“Is that a hint, Miss Harlow?” he asked, lifting his brow, and making a mental note to have a copy sent to her.
“It is nothing of the sort and do call me Sophie. It seems we shall be spending a fair amount of time together in the next few weeks.”
“It’s best that I do not,” he said. “I might accidentally use your given name in front of the duchesses and then what will they think?”
“Is there anything for them to think about?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to one side, looking curious and adorable.
“What do you think?” he responded, raising one brow in challenge.
“I think . . . I don’t know what to think,” she confessed with a laugh.
“Well, I think we are making excessive use of that word.” He grinned in spite of himself. He didn’t want to enjoy her company, but he—the master of self-restraint—couldn’t help himself.
“And I think that was dodging the question,” she challenged. And then she smiled at him, and he surrendered.
“It is a constant battle to not think of you, Miss Harlow. One that I do not always win. I am betrothed to another, and . . .”
“That is precisely why we should not think of each other, I know. And yet, I cannot stop thinking about you,” Sophie confessed.
He had not wondered if she found herself attracted to him, as he did her. But now that he knew the desire was mutual his brain shouted DANGER and his heart thudded in an uneven pattern that was not altogether unpleasant.
She t
hought of him.
If he were not such a perfect gentleman, Brandon would have immediately capitalized upon this moment with a touch, a kiss, or something more. But he was bound by honor, and that was not an easy bind to break.
Still, he considered it. He could easily reach out, take her hand in his, then proceed to feather kisses along her palm and then to the delicate, sensitive skin of the inner wrist. She would lean in closer to him, of course, impelled by instinct and desire. And then, he would claim her mouth with his for a kiss. What came next was not even worth considering because it would never happen.
“This is dangerous territory,” he said finally.
“As if in an adventure novel,” she pointed out, perfectly. He felt a twinge in his chest, because, again, he sensed that she seemed to know him so well, like no one else, and after such little acquaintance. And they could never be more than that—mere acquaintances.
“I suspect that you would be the adventure of a lifetime,” he confessed. His eyes roamed over the curve of her shoulder that he knew fairly well, and he thought of all the other curves he would never get to explore and felt an ache in his chest.
“Just not yours,” she said wistfully.
“Not mine,” he repeated firmly, for his benefit more than hers.
“Well, this conversation took a rather serious turn. I had not expected that,” she stated. A long silence followed in which she looked out the window at the fog, and occasionally glanced at him. Meanwhile, it dawned upon him that she felt the same as he, and hadn’t intended him to know of it. She was going to spend countless hours involved in the planning of his wedding—to another woman. She was going to write about it, for all of London to read. And she was going to think of him all the while and tell no one.
It impressed him, that fortitude and sense of integrity. An attraction to Miss Harlow was one thing. An admiration for her complicated that. As if things weren’t complicated enough.
He knew he should have sent her home in another carriage.
“Lord Brandon, we have arrived at my house, so this little adventure has come to an end. But you should know that I have tried to quit the story and Mr. Knightly would not accept it. So I shall be underfoot again tomorrow and the day after . . .”
“I’ve been warned,” he said. Like him, she had tried to stay away and he did not know what to make of it. “Good day, Miss Harlow.”
And then she flashed him a smile, thanked him for the carriage ride, and disappeared into her little gray townhouse with white trim at 24 Bloomsbury Place.
24 Bloomsbury Place
“Was that the duke?” Julianna asked, stepping back from the window to speak to Sophie as she entered the drawing room.
“Who else do we know with such an impressive vehicle?”
“No one,” Julianna said, and she turned to give her friend “a look.”
“It was suggested by his mother and one does not refuse Lady Hamilton, and nothing untoward happened, so you can stop looking at me like that,” Sophie answered. She set down her reticule on a small table that was littered with circulating library books, ear bobs, hair ribbons, and other assorted female things.
“Nothing? Really? So he is V.S.I.C.?” Julianna asked.
“Not entirely. He said he cannot stop thinking of me!” Sophie told her. She couldn’t stop the smile, or the glee in her voice.
“Oh my lord.”
“Is it wrong that that makes me so utterly delighted?” Sophie wondered, sinking onto the dark green damask settee and availing herself of the tea tray that Julianna had already set out. Bessy, their maid, had baked Sophie’s favorite ginger biscuits, but she was too exhilarated to have an appetite.
“Probably, but anyone would feel so. What did you say back?” Julianna said, sitting down in a blue-and-white-striped chair opposite.
“The same thing, basically,” Sophie answered.
“You have captured the attentions of a duke! A double duke!” Julianna declared, and then, in a more sober tone, “It’s too bad that nothing shall come of it.”
Of course nothing would come of it, but . . . Sophie took a sip of tea, considering this for a moment before arriving at the conclusion that, No, dukes did not jilt fiancées for lower-class girls, and definitely not for scandalous Writing Girls. They did not. Ever.
Perhaps this once?
No.
They did not. Which didn’t matter, because she would not indulge in such an illicit affair.
And yet . . . he could not stop thinking of her, and she, him. That meant something—there was a connection and a mutual understanding between them. It was the sort of thing that might one day, under proper conditions, turn into love.
They were not under proper conditions.
And yet, already her heart beat a little faster. He thought of her! The world seemed a little bit brighter and warmer. The man that she had fancied, that she thought about, returned the sentiment. Sophie’s smile broadened. It was so rare, so precious, and so sad that nothing could come of it.
But the glow of pleasure remained.
“The Weekly sent over a batch of invitations for us. The vouchers for your Wedding of the Year have arrived, too. You mustn’t lose yours, Sophie, otherwise you won’t be admitted, and then your column—”
“I know, I know. I promise I won’t lose it,” Sophie said, helping herself to another biscuit. Ton weddings attracted large crowds, and vouchers were often necessary for entrance.
“Also, we have the wedding of the Marquis of Winchester and Miss Victoria Selby—the big rival for the title of wedding of the year,” Julianna informed her.
More weddings. “I cannot contain my joy,” Sophie deadpanned, and Julianna smirked.
“There are rumors that the groom counts the Prince of Bavaria among his close friends and that the prince shall be in attendance,” Julianna confided.
“How on earth does an English earl befriend a Bavarian prince?”
“The earl had an ambassadorship there before he inherited. Apparently, the prince is a very friendly fellow,” Julianna said.
“That does explain it. Any other gossip?” Sophie asked, settling into a comfortable position on the settee. This is when she was happiest—with her very best friend in their very own home, sharing delicious gossip before anyone else knew it.
“Well . . .” Julianna started with a sly grin. “You would not believe what I have learned about Lord Roxbury . . .”
Chapter 14
Sixteen days before the wedding . . .
The Duke’s Study, Hamilton House
“Your Grace, there is one last order of business,” Spencer informed Brandon.
“What is it?” Brandon asked wearily. They’d spent the morning reviewing accounts, correspondence, and documents for Parliament—and Brandon was more than ready to conclude for the day.
“It’s a very delicate matter, Your Grace, and I do hesitate to mention it but I have searched my soul, and I am of the firm opinion that you must know about this!” Spencer finished. His cheeks flushed nearly as red as his hair.
The only expression of his curiosity that Brandon allowed was a slight lift of his brow.
“It is about your marriage, Your Grace.”
Brandon’s heart began to pound.
“I have received a letter . . .” And Spencer related his news about a curious letter from a parish registry in a very hushed tone of voice.
Brandon had known about the Richmonds’ debts, and this was something else.
Because he was a man of logic, facts, and common sense, Brandon would not credit such an outrageous tale—unless his secretary could confirm such a shocking, potentially life-altering assertion.
Chapter 15
Fifteen days before the wedding . . .
Hamilton House
That their
attraction was forbidden made it so much more alluring. But that was the way of the world, the laws of the universe, and it was even in the Bible. Miss Sophie Harlow was powerless to stop it.
Not that she wanted to.
But she knew she ought to.
“I cannot stop thinking of you, Sophie,” he had said, and she relived the memory repeatedly. His gorgeous eyes had darkened from the bright green of new leaves to a dark evergreen. His mouth had been set firm, and she wanted to soften it with the touch of her lips.
But she couldn’t.
Even the thought of it now made her feel hot, and her skin tingled in a very lovely way.
But it shouldn’t.
Thus, while the duchesses discussed flowers for the wedding, Sophie harbored illicit thoughts and feelings for the groom. She also had done this during previous sessions in which they had determined the guest list and other utterly dull logistics. In short, she hated weddings more with each day, as her romantic feelings for Brandon increased.
Would he join them today? Of course not, she told herself. He had informed her that the extent of his involvement in the wedding would be to attend at the designed time and place.
Perhaps he was here, under this same roof . . .
“I have brought a volume on the language of flowers so that Clarissa’s bouquet, and all the other arrangements, shall be both beautiful and meaningful. Lady Effrington gave me the idea to do so at Lady Carrington’s soiree.”
“It is a lovely idea, Lady Richmond,” Lady Hamilton said.
“Indeed, it is sure to become a trend,” Sophie added, and Lady Richmond beamed.
Perhaps as Sophie left today, she might get lost again . . . accidentally, of course.
“Clarissa, have you given any thought to what flowers you prefer?” Lady Hamilton asked.
“I’m fond of white irises,” she answered. It was the perfect flower for her: tall, delicate, pale, and beautiful. Sophie had always been partial to lilacs, and she had once loved their fragrance. But now it only reminded her of her ill-fated bridal bouquet, trampled on the church floor.
