A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  This wedding was different than all the others. Brandon was in attendance. She watched as he arrived and took his seat—he sat at the other end of the same pew. If she were to lean forward just a bit, and casually glance in that direction . . .

  She caught his eye and smiled as much as she was able to, given that weddings upset her and anything reminding her of his looming wedding—such as seeing him here—upset her all the more.

  Focus, she commanded herself. Breathe.

  “Seamstress or servant . . . Oh, hell and damnation,” she muttered. It was no use.

  Sophie had her pencil and tablet at the ready to mark down all the details of the ceremony: the names of those in the bridal party, what they wore, if anything unusual happened, and, most interesting to her, how the bride and groom acted toward each other.

  She had taken the following notes this morning: love match, pink roses and orange blossoms, crowded church, a fortnight until . . .

  A fortnight left until what? In that time, would she convince Lord Brandon to jilt his perfect fiancée for a girl reporter? Or did she have fourteen days to steel herself against the oncoming heartache?

  Both seemed impossible.

  She glanced in his direction again.

  He caught her eye. That was the thing, she thought: it wasn’t just her. He thought of her, too. He glanced at her, too. It was so very magnetic; there was a pull to him that was impossible to resist. She simply could not look away.

  “What do you keep looking at?” Julianna asked. And then she saw Brandon and said, “Oh.”

  “I know,” Sophie admitted, thinking that the sensation of butterflies in one’s stomach was overrated and quite unpleasant.

  “I thought you did not care for him because he is going to be married to someone else in two weeks time,” Julianna stated so matter-of-factly. It was not that simple, and her friend did not seem to grasp that. Sophie didn’t care to try to convince her otherwise, at least not presently. It would require confessing to deeper feelings than she wished to own.

  “Thank you for reminding me,” Sophie said instead.

  “You don’t sound glad of it,” Julianna remarked.

  “I’m not,” Sophie replied. She knew she had to confront the facts that she was falling for a man who would marry another in just a fortnight. Perhaps some other time; getting through a wedding was difficult enough.

  “What is going on?”

  “I’m falling for him, Julianna,” Sophie whispered. She began to fan herself with the voucher for her admittance. Why did it always get so blasted hot in St. George’s?

  “Oh, my,” her friend murmured.

  “Where is the bride? The ceremony is supposed to start now,” Sophie said, changing the subject. The symptoms were beginning in earnest now: her stomach was queasy and her palms were damp. Oh, how she hated this!

  Seamstress or servant, governess or mistress.

  Perhaps she did want to be a mistress—Lord Brandon’s mistress. She glanced in his direction again; he did not see her. He was standing to greet the Richmond ladies.

  “And for that matter, where is the groom?” Julianna wondered.

  “Is he not here?” Sophie asked, worried. This was another reason to have Julianna—she was taller and had a better view of the altar.

  “Not that I can see.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Sophie whispered fiercely.

  “Sophie!”

  “I’m afraid I cannot stay,” Sophie said, as she stood to go. Julianna knew better than to stop her. Instead of running out into the streets, Sophie took refuge in the vestibule and proceeded to pace. Brandon was here, and her desire to be near him won out over her desire to quit the church.

  As she paced back and forth on the stone floor, she cursed Matthew Fletcher and grumbled about how she suffered for her work. All of those brides, and she wasn’t one of them—and it didn’t seem likely she ever would be.

  She thought of Brandon—he was never far from her thoughts—paused and sighed. She wanted him, yet he could never be hers.

  She wiped away a tear, because what ought to be a pure, magical love was a dangerous, hurtful, complicated emotion she couldn’t control.

  This time last year, she had been blindsided by heartache. Now she was positioned to experience it again. First, she had fallen for the man that left her and now she was falling for a man that would never leave another woman for her.

  “Sophie. Are you all right?”

  She spun around and saw to her surprise that it was Lord Brandon, with concern fixed upon his face. She did not want him to see her vulnerable and emotional. And yet, with an equal fervor, she wished to throw herself into his arms and rest her cheek on his chest. But she kept herself in check.

  “What are you doing here?” Sophie asked, looking around for Clarissa, or his mother, or a reason for his presence.

  “I noticed you leave, and that you seemed unwell,” he answered, as if that explained anything. So she waited for a moment, to see if he would explain himself further, and it dawned on her: He cared. For her.

  “I hate weddings,” Sophie blurted out. Only the Writing Girls knew that The Weekly’s celebrated wedding columnist despised, loathed, and reviled those lovely ceremonies that were the subject of pages that paid her wages.

  It was clear in his expression that he had not expected that.

  Brandon stepped aside, pulling Sophie into an alcove that would provide some privacy.

  “Every Saturday morning I subject myself to ceremony after ceremony, when each one makes me . . . makes me . . .”

  The words would not come; it felt as if they were stuck in her throat and she would choke on them. She wanted to tell him that each wedding broke her heart anew, and that she never dreaded a wedding the way she did his.

  For every man that stayed at the altar, she wondered why she hadn’t fallen in love with that one. For every bride that progressed more than halfway down the aisle, Sophie wondered if she would ever take those steps. And the whole damned ceremony and celebration made her feel inadequate and panicked all over again.

  Brandon clasped his hands gently around her upper arms and looked intently into her eyes.

  “Sophie, take a deep breath,” he commanded, and she complied. His voice was so sure and steady. It calmed her significantly. “Tell me why you hate weddings.”

  Would the truth make him find her less desirable? It made her feel that way, like secondhand goods, or a purchase that had been returned to the shop because it wasn’t quite the thing. It might be for the best if he thought less of her.

  For each passing moment that he stood here with her, hidden away from prying eyes—exactly when she needed him—she could feel herself falling more and more in love with him.

  “I was jilted.” It came out in a whisper.

  “He’s a fool,” Brandon said.

  “I made it halfway down the aisle . . .”

  Brandon took her hands in his and gave a gentle, supportive squeeze—and she fell for him a little more. “And now I feel sick until the bride meets the groom at the altar. And just now, the groom walked off and the bride is late . . .”

  “Shhh . . .” Brandon placed his finger over her lips, because her voice was rising in panic. “Look.”

  He pulled her deeper into the shadows as the bride entered the vestibule from a side chamber. Sophie thought she was so beautiful in her silver satin gown dotted with pearls, like moonlight.

  The bride took no notice of them as she smiled happily at her father, stood up straighter, and looked determinedly down the aisle. Sophie guessed that she saw her groom at the altar, for her smile positively dazzled.

  Sophie remembered this moment when it had happened to her, and it had been quite different. She had been late, and she hadn’t paused to look down the aisle to s
mile at her groom to see if he smiled in return. Instead, she rushed straight into disaster.

  She had learned later that Matthew had been trying to speak to her before, but had been shooed away from her chambers; and then she had been late, and he had been ushered up to the altar when he hadn’t been ready. To meet her halfway had been his only opportunity.

  The music started. The bride took one step, and then another, toward her future. And all the while Brandon stood at her side and held her hand.

  Her eyes became hot with tears. This was what she wanted: the man who would stand beside her and hold her hand just when she needed it most.

  “Was yours a love match?” he asked.

  “It had been for me. But love wasn’t enough for him.”

  “What happened?” Brandon asked.

  “He wished for adventure. And for one Mrs. Lavinia Tibbits, a traveling widow whom he had met at the local pub a fortnight earlier.” It still hurt to mention it.

  “You were jilted on your wedding day—” Brandon repeated carefully.

  “Halfway down the aisle, to be precise,” Sophie said.

  “For another woman?” he finished.

  “And now I write about everyone else’s perfect weddings,” Sophie said bluntly. She could tell by his expression that he was stunned. She watched as he processed the information, calmly and thoughtfully.

  Presumably he could understand now that this—whatever it was between them—was no light flirtation for her, but dangerously similar territory.

  Brandon did the one thing to do in this situation: he wrapped his arms around her, and urged her closer. Sophie thought of her ill-fated wedding day, when Matthew had tried to hold her, to comfort her. She had wanted the refuge of a man’s arms.

  Finally she had found her haven.

  Sophie leaned her cheek against his chest. It was warm, strong, and she could hear his heart pounding in a certain and steady rhythm. This was a man that could be trusted with a girl’s heart and love for a lifetime.

  Brandon held her with one hand resting on her lower back, one at the base of her neck, and she felt utterly under his spell, and his command.

  She burned with desire and she burned with jealousy of Clarissa.

  His slightest caress sent delightful shivers down her spine. Her wits were fleeing as primal, wanton sensations were beginning to take over. With her last shred of intelligence, Sophie pulled back and gazed up at him.

  His eyes had darkened considerably, to a shade not unlike grass in the moonlight—dark, but with a hint of color. Sophie loved his eyes, but that paled in significance to the fact that they were engaged in a heated embrace in a church vestibule during a wedding.

  In two weeks time, he would be here for his own wedding to Clarissa.

  The intensely splendid heat she’d been feeling was starting to fade, leaving her cold.

  “What are we doing here?” Sophie asked.

  “Getting into trouble,” Brandon answered with a smile.

  “You do like trouble,” Sophie responded.

  Brandon said, “I do.”

  To hear Brandon say those particular words to her, in a church, made her wonder: How far would either of them go for this magical, magnetic thing between them? Would this man of honor break his word and marry her?

  Lady Clarissa wondered why Miss Harlow had dashed off. She did not wonder why her fiancé went after her; Clarissa’s fiancé, that is—not Miss Harlow’s, though at times it seems one would never know. That idle thought faded in light of a much more interesting matter.

  Namely, who on earth was that gentleman brazenly staring at her?

  This stranger sat across the aisle. His observation was not discreet. She’d been the object of a man’s attentions before and it bored her. This time, it thrilled her.

  She had the distinct impression that he was not just looking at her, but peering into her heart, or her head, or her soul—as batty as that sounded.

  Clarissa sat up straighter, and stole another glance at him. When had it become so warm in here? she wondered.

  The man had shockingly long, dark brown wavy hair that had been tied back in a queue with a black ribbon. His cheekbones were high, sharp slants, his mouth curved into a grin of amusement. His eyes were blue, bright blue, fringed with long black lashes, and they were focused upon her.

  Clarissa felt a queer feeling in her stomach—if it was danger or delight, she knew not—but it was certainly caused by the stranger.

  “Clarissa, pay attention,” her mother hissed.

  Dutifully, she focused forward. But then the music began. In two weeks time this would be her, Clarissa thought as she turned in her seat seemingly to watch the bride.

  But she only watched the stranger, watching her. A flash of silver obscured their connection for a second. It had been the bride, passing by.

  She wanted to ask who he was. Now was not the time.

  “Lord Brandon has not returned. Where is he?” her mother whispered, and then frowned.

  “I have no idea, Mother,” Clarissa said, which was a lie. He was with Sophie, which was not remotely surprising or interesting. Not when that shockingly handsome stranger was right there, with his gaze matching hers.

  Who is he?

  She felt, for the first time, a shiver of anticipation of pleasure—and the first fluttering of butterflies in her belly.

  Clarissa glanced at him again, completely unable to look away. He winked at her. Winked! She blushed, and her lips formed into a genuine smile for the first time since her betrothal.

  Chapter 18

  Twelve days before the wedding . . .

  The Offices of The London Weekly

  53 Fleet Street

  Thanks to Julianna’s notes, Sophie had ample material with which to write her column. There were the mentions of all the weddings she had attended that week, and review of the Winchester and Selby wedding, as well as the progress report on the “Wedding of the Year.”

  She also had a disturbing letter from the Duchess of Richmond, detailing the selection of the cake and relating plans made during meetings that Sophie had not been invited to. Which was fine, really, as Sophie did not particularly enjoy hours spent planning the wedding of a man she adored to someone else.

  She thought of the duchess’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips upon seeing particularly heated glances between Sophie and Brandon.

  It was immediately obvious to Sophie that the duchess was trying to separate them, and she could not find fault with that. But if she lost this story, Mr. Knightly would not be pleased and writers who earned his displeasure did not write for The London Weekly.

  A staff meeting was due to begin in an hour, so she had no time to sigh or lament any of it. As she read over her column, she couldn’t resist adding a dash of snark.

  MISS HARLOW’S MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE

  Weddings, weddings, everywhere! (So sick of weddings am I.) This author particularly enjoyed the beautiful ceremony of Lord Winchester and his bride, Lady Victoria Hodges, daughter of Earl Selby (after being nearly sickened by it). The affection the couple had for each other was noticeable and the joy in the room was palpable as all were swept up in the romantic spirit (including Lord Brandon and myself). Who doesn’t love a love match? (Really, what’s not to love?)

  The bride’s gown was a stunning silver and white satin creation by the talented Madame Auteuil. (Very wished for.) This modiste is also creating Lady Clarissa Richmond’s dress, for her much-anticipated ceremony to the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon (not anticipated by this author, though). The plans for that ceremony continue at a fevered pace—the cake and flowers have been selected—only two short weeks until the Big Day (two weeks in which anything might happen. Dare a girl wish for an upset for a love match?)

  She finished a fresh copy (without paren
thetical asides) for Mr. Knightly to edit with just enough time to join the rush to the staff meeting.

  “Miss Sophie Harlow, we want an explanation,” Eliza declared, once they were all seated.

  “You’ve made the gossip columns,” Annabelle explained, and held up a copy of The London Times, which was The London Weekly’s principal rival. Sophie’s heart sank; this could not be good.

  “Let me see,” Julianna said, taking the paper. She turned to The Times gossip column, “Man About Town,” which was her arch nemesis, and read aloud:

  At the wedding of The Marquis of Winchester and the daughter of Earl Selby, Writing Girl Miss Harlow made a quick exit just before the ceremony, only to be followed by the Duke of H— and B—. We, along with everyone else in London, wonder why and suspect the perfect duke might, for once, be up to no good.

  “I can explain,” Sophie said, forcing herself to speak with a calmness she did not feel. “I did not feel well, so I stepped out for a moment. The duke had business of his own to attend to. It was merely a coincidence of timing.”

  If I lost my column . . . The thought was too horrible to contemplate. She may not love it, but she took pride in her work and cared little for her other options.

  Alistair Grey smiled, and affectionately placed his hand upon hers. “Darling, it is nothing to be ashamed of if you’ve captured the attentions of a handsome duke.”

  “Unless he is betrothed to another,” Julianna said.

  Sophie suffered an intense pang of guilt because of Clarissa, and a surge of indignation because it was indeed a marvelous thing to have captured the attentions of a handsome man like Brandon. But she couldn’t completely revel in it because of his betrothal.

  “Are we really discussing this?” Grenville cut in. “Yesterday in parliament one of the royal dukes requested an eighteen-thousand-pound increase in his allowance! When people are starving in the streets! Isn’t that more worthy of our attentions?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Alistair answered. “Oddly enough, it is not nearly as fascinating as what our own Miss Harlow may or may not have done with a duke, in a church vestibule.”