A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  She had done nothing but fall further in love.

  It had begun so innocently and she keenly missed the exhilaration of those few days between when they first met and when she discovered they could never be together. And though she had tried to put a stop to any sort of romantic feelings for him, it was too late. He stood by her and held her hand when she was at her most vulnerable. How could she not give her heart to him?

  The conversation ceased when Mr. Knightly entered the room.

  “Good morning,” he said to the staff. His gaze settled on Sophie, and her stomach began to ache. “Miss Harlow, I saw you made the dailies.”

  She nodded, suddenly terrified. What if she did lose her job over this? Was she ready to starve for Brandon? Or become a seamstress for him? No, she was not that far gone. Yet.

  “I have a hunch that a scandal involving one of our own will lead to an increase in sales,” Knightly said, and she exhaled a little.

  “Scandal equals sales,” the entire staff recited in unison.

  “However, should it jeopardize the content of your own column, Miss Harlow, I shall feel differently,” Knightly said. “If Lady Richmond were to take her story to another paper, I would not be pleased.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sophie answered. She understood him: an adulterous spinster reporting on weddings wasn’t quite the thing.

  “Now, ladies first, of course,” Knightly said, flashing a grin. Sophie exhaled with relief. She was safe for today, though with Lady Richmond very aware of the flirtation between Sophie and Brandon, she had to watch her every step.

  “I will refute the rumors about her supposed liaison with His Grace in my column,” Julianna said.

  And then they went through the rest. Sophie would continue with her wedding reports, Annabelle was answering letters that asked wedding-related questions, and Eliza would report on the efficacy of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections. It had been started as a jest, but the sales of this potion were tremendous.

  The rest of the pages of the next issue would be full with the usual assortment of foreign and “Fashionable Intelligence,” Parliamentary accounts, and passionately biased political articles, scathing and raving theater reviews, reports of accidents and offenses, and stock numbers.

  Sophie left the weekly meeting feeling out of sorts. Infatuation. Scandal. Dukes and Writing Girls. When and how had this become her life?

  Chapter 19

  Eleven days before the wedding . . .

  The Residence of Lord and Lady Westbrooke, Mayfair

  The crowd was thick at Lady Westbrooke’s musicale, but Sophie quickly spied Clarissa standing off to the side, by herself.

  “Good evening, Lady Richmond,” Sophie said.

  “Call me Clarissa, please,” she implored. “Otherwise I shall look over my shoulder for my mother, who is at home with a megrim this evening.”

  The two women exchanged a look that spoke volumes about the significance of the elder Lady Richmond’s absence.

  “I’m sorry to hear that she is unwell,” Sophie said. Clarissa must have arrived with her fiancé. Sophie stifled the urge to look around for him.

  “It’s nothing fatal, and it is rather interesting to be out without her,” Clarissa said, looking around at the other guests before pausing to gaze at one in particular. She looked away before Sophie could determine who had captured her interest.

  “Clarissa, I wanted to apologize for the other day, at the Marquis of Winchester’s wedding. I had been feeling out of sorts and Lord Brandon came to ascertain that I was well. And then the ceremony began and . . .”

  “It’s fine, Sophie. I’ve noticed that you two seem to get on well together,” Clarissa said, and Sophie was not sure how to reply to that. Her tone did not reveal much. Nevertheless, Sophie wondered if, perhaps, Clarissa did harbor feelings for her fiancé that she dared not show.

  “It must be nice,” Clarissa said, filling in the silence.

  “Indeed,” Sophie replied, not knowing what else to say.

  “May I ask you something, in the strictest confidence?” Clarissa asked, leaning in closer.

  “Of course,” Sophie said, intrigued.

  “Who is that man?” Clarissa asked, ever so slightly inclining her head toward a small gathering of guests. Sophie paused a moment, and quickly peeked over her shoulder.

  First she saw the lecherous Lord Borwick with a brandy in hand and his face already red from drink. She quickly dismissed him as a candidate for Clarissa’s interest, and then noted a striking stranger.

  He was a tall man, with brown hair that was shockingly long, reaching almost to his shoulders. It was an oddly attractive style, especially combined with the perfectly refined evening attire he wore. So wild, yet so civilized. He leaned easily against the mantel, with a crowd of men and women surrounding him while he looked past them, with a slightly amused, slightly bored expression.

  “I have no idea, but he is deuced handsome,” she answered.

  “He is,” Clarissa said, with a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Let’s ask Julianna. She’ll know who he is, and everything pertinent about him, along with a few irrelevant details,” Sophie suggested.

  They wove their way through the crowd of guests who had yet to take their seats before the musicale.

  “His name is Frederick von Vennigan and he is the Prince of Bavaria,” Julianna informed them when they found her.

  “Oh,” Clarissa said, breathlessly. “A prince . . .”

  “I remember now! You spoke of him the other day,” Sophie said.

  “He’s been mentioned in the papers,” Clarissa said, her face lighting up.

  “He is friends with the Marquis of Winchester, and they met when the Marquis held the ambassadorship to the Bavarian court. The Prince is in town for the wedding, and, I understand that he is in no rush to return for he left in the throes of a scandal.”

  “A scandal over what?” Clarissa asked, obviously curious.

  “Oh, the usual. Women and wagers or something of the sort,” Julianna said flippantly.

  “Good evening, ladies. I hope that I am not interrupting,” Lord Brandon said with a smile that seemed to be just for Sophie. To see him, to hear his voice, to be near him—all made the whole world seem brighter, and she couldn’t help but smile at him.

  He handed Clarissa a glass of lemonade that had presumably been requested earlier. She thanked him, took a sip, and her gaze darted in the direction of the prince.

  “My friend Lady Julianna Somerset was just telling us about the Prince of Bavaria,” Sophie explained.

  “Apparently, he is scandalous,” Brandon said dryly. Everyone, it seemed, was discussing him. One did not encounter young, handsome, scandalous princes every day.

  “And you are now as well, Your Grace. I noticed your debut appearance in the gossip columns,” Julianna said to the shock of her two friends. And the duke.

  “Something every man should do once in his life,” Brandon remarked. Clarissa took a sip of her lemonade and Sophie saw her glance in the direction of the prince. Again.

  “Ah, but I am not certain that most men can restrain themselves to only once,” Julianna replied.

  “This is when you ought to declare that you are not most men,” Sophie told him.

  “That is the expected retort, is it not?” he replied with a grin.

  “Indeed, I had set you up admirably for it,” Julianna said, smiling.

  “You have my deep and eternal gratitude,” Brandon replied, ever the gentleman.

  “You had better take care, Lord Brandon, or you might find yourself making your second appearance in the gossip columns,” Sophie warned. Everything and anything was fodder for her friend—not that anyone knew that she authored “Fashionable Intelligence,” though it was widely suspected.<
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  “It seems that we are encouraged to take our seats for the musicale portion of the evening,” Julianna said. They made their way into the large, airy ballroom, which had been filled with an assortment of chairs and settees.

  Two enormous chandeliers, lit with hundreds of candles, hung from the ceiling, which had been painted to look like heaven with clouds, plump cherubs, fair-haired angels, and golden rays of sunshine.

  One settee was sufficient for the four of them. When it became clear that some delay was in effect, Brandon left to procure lemonades for Sophie and Julianna, who fell into conversation when they saw that Clarissa was otherwise occupied by none other than the Prince of Bavaria.

  Within a second of Lord Brandon’s departure someone took the seat on Clarissa’s other side. She turned to politely acknowledge whomever it was, and was stunned to discover the mysterious, staring stranger from the Winchester wedding and, as she had been lately informed, the Prince of Bavaria.

  She was overwhelmed by excited, nervous energy because this was a situation she’d never expected to find herself in: she was with a man who aroused her interest—and her mother was on the other side of town.

  Clarissa smiled, truly smiled.

  “Are you going to sing for us this evening?” he asked without any sort of polite introduction, and her smile vanished because he caught her off guard.

  She was also distracted. Up close she noticed that he had one fine-lined scar on each of his chiseled cheekbones. She wondered about them, and him, and why it was suddenly so very warm, yet she shivered.

  “Are you?” he asked, again. How embarrassing. What strange manners!

  “Oh, no,” she replied, and her pleasure was fading, to be replaced with panic. Of all the subjects in the world, of all the things they could possibly discuss, their first conversation had to be about her greatest flaw!

  She twisted her betrothal ring around her finger.

  “Why not?”

  “Lady Westbrooke has already selected the musical performers for this evening,” she answered.

  “Exceptions are made all the time. I shall offer to play a tune, and you shall sing,” he said. He smiled and she was too nervous to respond in kind.

  “I have a sore throat this evening,” she told him.

  “You sound fine to me,” he rejoined, and she despised him for calling her a liar in so many words.

  “I’m certain that is not necessary, or even desired by the guests,” she answered, growing more mortified by the minute. This was not how this was supposed to go!

  “I wish for it,” he said plainly. Typical of a prince, she thought, to wish for something and expect it promptly.

  “Sir, we are not even acquainted! I am in no position to grant your wishes, nor do I intend to ever do so,” she replied confidently. Really, he was rude, intrusive, and strange-looking with his long hair, scars, and unnervingly blue eyes.

  She had no idea what had come over her previously that she should be so attracted to him.

  “My name is Frederick von Vennigan. I am the Prince of Bavaria.”

  “Lady Clarissa Richmond.” Good manners were so instilled in her that she answered automatically.

  “Is it because you are nervous performing in front of an audience?”

  “No,” she answered, and then thought better of it, saying, “Yes.”

  “Or are you not confident in your singing abilities? I’m sure that you sound like the angel you appear to be.”

  “I am, in a fact, a wretched singer. Were I to regale the audience with my talents,” Clarissa said, “I should be shunned from society.” She might as well admit it, since she no longer cared about impressing him.

  “That bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can’t all be perfect, I suppose,” the prince said. “I am, of course. Perfect, that is.”

  “What you are is excessively provoking,” she muttered. Too late, she clamped her gloved palm over her mouth. She had just told a member of royalty that he was excessively provoking.

  But he was! His presence and his conversation were making her out of sorts. He teased her, and she was not used to it. Something about him made her shiver, and now her heartbeat had quickened and it was so loud she was afraid he might hear it and tease her about that, too.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are delightful?” he asked, to her shock. She had just been horribly rude and he liked it, and liked her for it. How peculiar.

  “Yes,” she answered. This was the first time it was for something other than her pretty face or sweet disposition.

  “You have received many compliments, I suspect. Raves about your beauty, to start. I can’t imagine you receive many on your manners,” he persisted.

  Clarissa paused at the sound of Sophie’s laughter. That reminded her of the other afternoon: how she was so witty and at ease, how she made Brandon seem human, and how Clarissa wanted to be like her.

  This was her chance to try something different. Her mother wasn’t here and, she suspected, the prince would be amused by it.

  “My manners are usually exquisite. You bring out the worst in me,” she dared to say.

  “So it is my fault that you have been impertinent to visiting royalty?”

  “I couldn’t say,” she murmured.

  “I’m not going to apologize and I shall tell you why,” he said, leaning in closer to her, and she was thrilled by his nearness and intoxicated by the waves of emotions he inspired in her. “Because when you are flustered and vexed, you are adorable.”

  Clarissa smiled and asked: “How long shall you stay in London?”

  “Eager to be rid of me already?”

  “My manners, which I am recovering, forbid me from honestly answering that question,” she answered with a sly smile.

  It would be shockingly forward to tell him the truth, which was that she hoped he stayed for a long while, because this was the most fun she’d had in ages.

  “My stay here depends upon the tides, my whims, the weather,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just seeing how long I have to discover one of your flaws, which I may then taunt you mercilessly with,” she dared to reply. It was so uncharacteristic of her to tease, but Sophie inspired her, and this man encouraged her.

  The prince grinned. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Clarissa—I know you have not given me leave to use your given name, but you should know by now that I do not wait for permission—I like you.”

  “Your conversation has amused me . . . Your Highness,” she said. But her blush and smile gave away her true feelings. She was swiftly on her way to falling madly in love with him.

  “Call me Frederick,” he told her.

  Lord Brandon returned just then. She had quite forgotten about him, and if it had not been for Miss Harlow seated at his other side, she might have felt ashamed for her flirtatious conversation with another man.

  The gentlemen eyed each other, suspiciously appraising the other in a manner that put Clarissa in mind of the way her father examined a horse at Tattersall’s. He studied the creature for strength, character, intelligence, and dominance. No doubt that Brandon was noting the slim scars on the prince’s cheeks. Clarissa was outrageously curious about them. Rather than ask, she performed introductions.

  “Your Highness, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon. My fiancé. Lord Brandon, this is Frederick von Vennigan, the Prince of Bavaria.”

  Before further conversation could occur, Lady Westbrooke informed a hushed crowd that it was her great pleasure to present the lovely singer Miss Octavia Catalani. After a round of polite applause, she began to sing.

  Clarissa snuck a glance at the prince and caught his eye. She blushed, he smiled, and she was smitten, and, though Lord Brandon was seated ne
xt to her, she forgot entirely about the man she had promised to marry.

  Chapter 20

  Lord Brandon’s fiancée was openly flirting with one of the few men that outranked him. It was a strange and novel sensation to see his fiancée act thusly.

  Brandon had never thought of Clarissa as the flirtatious type, and didn’t know anyone who did, other than this prince—von Venison, or whatever his name was. This, naturally, led him to the conclusion that the prince was the one to unlock that part of her that he had not.

  To his surprise, Brandon experienced something like jealousy, or annoyance. Perhaps it was shock; she was not the woman he thought. He couldn’t make sense of the situation, which rankled all the more.

  Spencer’s alleged secret only complicated matters more. Though he wouldn’t credit it without actual proof (which he had yet to receive), Brandon occasionally had trouble dismissing the thought from his mind.

  To his left was his fiancée—a bright-eyed, blushing, suddenly intriguing stranger.

  On his right was Sophie—a tempting woman for whom he had a temporary infatuation. Or so he hoped.

  At night, he was plagued by erotic dreams in which he explored every inch of Sophie, with his bare hands or even his mouth. He dreamt of her below him as they made love—and then above him, inside her and passionate with frantic kisses.

  During the day, everything made him think of her.

  A man could only continue for so long in this state.

  Brandon tried to ignore such thoughts, but it was presently impossible. The settee they sat on was not large, and thus he and Sophie were quite close. If they were alone, he’d need only to turn his head to kiss her.

  He’d slide down one sleeve of her bodice, and then the other, and then the whole damn thing. He’d cup her breasts, caress them lightly and then . . .

  Brandon took a few seconds to banish the image from his mind. During a musicale in the drawing room of Lord and Lady Westbrooke was neither the time nor the place to have vivid daydreams of an erotic nature about the young woman seated next to him.