by Maya Rodale
Sophie tapped his arm, which was crossed with the other over his chest, mainly to keep his hands occupied with not touching her. When she had his attention she gestured, with the slightest inclination of her head, in the direction of Lord Borwick. The old fellow was asleep, his bald head lolling back with his mouth wide open.
In spite of himself, Brandon grinned. Sophie did, too. And they both turned to focus again on the music.
Brandon was then distracted by a loud snore from Lord Borwick. It was audible enough to only disturb those in his immediate vicinity.
Sophie had her hand pressed over her mouth. Her cheeks were turning pink and she tried to hold in her laughter. Her friend was similarly occupied. Clarissa was not laughing; she was making eyes at her prince.
He pressed his own mouth into a firm line and willed himself to scowl disapprovingly. He could not manage it.
“You are a terrible influence on me,” Brandon whispered to Sophie.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said, smirking.
“Cheeky wench.”
She gasped. “Your Grace!” But she was smiling, too, and trying so hard to look affronted. He was shocked that he had actually called a proper young woman a wench.
“Bad. Influence. I am now calling proper young ladies ‘wenches’ to their faces,” he said, wondering what the hell was happening to him. His brain warned, again: DANGER! BEWARE! Every other part of him vibrated, hummed, and pleaded for more of anything Sophie.
At that moment Lord Borwick’s snoring ceased for a second, recapturing their attention. His eyes fluttered open only to close again and then his head abruptly fell forward, in a manner suggesting that the muscles in his neck had taken a moment’s respite. The ensuring jerk of his head woke him.
Sophie turned pink and shook with pent-up laughter.
“Do I need to escort you out to ensure that you are well?” he asked, managing to appear utterly calm even though he was desperate to shout with laughter.
“I’m fine,” she gasped.
“Because you know what happened the last time that happened—I caused a scandal and I’m not sure I’ve sufficiently recovered from the thrill.”
“I’m reminded of a saying,” Sophie stated. “ ‘What happens once never happens again and what happens twice shall happen thrice.’ ”
“Interesting logic, Miss Harlow. Are you suggesting that if I were to escort you out this very moment, I shall eventually do it again, a third time?”
“It’s merely a saying,” she said.
“What happens after the third time?”
“I’m not quite certain. At any rate, I’m fine. So long as Lord Borwick stays awake.”
“Are you sure? Because women always say they are fine when they are not,” Brandon said, provoking her further.
“Men do that as well. And, yes, I am sure.”
“Shhhhhh,” Lady Endicott urged then, and gave “a look,” which quite nearly sent them both over the edge. They were being unpardonably rude, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d never enjoyed himself more at a ton event.
“I haven’t been shushed since I was a mere lad. You are trouble, Miss Harlow.”
“But you like trouble, do you not, Lord Brandon?” she said coyly.
“I find a little trouble amusing,” he said. More than amusing, actually.
He liked her and desired her from the start, but it was her confession at the Winchester wedding that fascinated him. She was not another spoiled, isolated debutante. He had never known another woman like her. A woman jilted, writing about everyone else’s perfect ceremony.
If she became so upset at every wedding . . . He wondered how she would fare at his, then immediately shut down and refused to consider it. At that thought, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
On his left, Clarissa brazenly flirted with a prince.
On his right, Sophie’s fingers brushed against his, hidden in the folds of her skirts.
He remembered that the marriage contract had been signed.
Sophie spent the better part of the musicale wondering how Brandon could have such a splendid time with her when Clarissa was right there, and not consider, maybe, perhaps, changing his bride or, at least, the date of the wedding.
He couldn’t possibly go through with it!
He gave every sign that he intended to go through with it.
The ceremony was scheduled for eleven days, and there was so little time to make a life-altering decision.
Unless he had no intention of changing his mind, or his bride.
Why, then, did he laugh with her, and secretly entwine his fingers with hers?
If things weren’t so exquisite when they were together, she would walk away. But she and he were so perfect. When her heart wasn’t beating with the pleasure of his company, it was aching at the prospect of losing him forever.
It was a delicate situation.
One that may or may not have been complicated by the arrival of the prince. Sophie had noticed the attention he paid to Clarissa, and how she responded to him. And she wondered . . .
“Goodbye, Sophie,” Clarissa said. Her eyes were so bright that if Sophie didn’t know better, she’d think the girl was feverish.
“Good evening, Miss Harlow,” Brandon murmured, and she barely managed a smile because she knew he was about to spend unchaperoned time with Clarissa in a dark carriage and she’d give just about anything to trade places with her.
Sophie sighed and a few moments later was jolted from her maudlin reverie by the arrival of His Highness, the Prince of Bavaria.
Sophie looked over her shoulder to see whom he might wish to speak to, but there was no one else.
“Your Highness.” She sank into a curtsey, wondering why on earth he deigned to give her his attentions.
“Let’s not bother with formalities, Miss . . .” he said, prompting her for her name.
“Miss Harlow.”
“If you would please give this to Lady Clarissa Richmond,” he said, handing out a letter.
“A letter?” she queried, stupidly. Of course it was a letter.
He nodded.
“I thought you only just met,” Sophie asked, and then chided herself that she really ought to refrain from asking inane and invasive questions of royalty.
“It was a small matter to slip into our host’s study and use his writing supplies. I’m sure that he would not mind terribly that a prince would write a love letter upon his stationery,” His Highness replied, even though he didn’t need to explain himself to the likes of her.
“You have a point. She is betrothed, you know.” Sophie felt it her duty to warn him away from suffering the same as she.
“I am as aware of the fact as you, Miss Harlow.”
It dawned on her that the letter in her hand could change everything.
Chapter 21
Ten days before the wedding . . .
Things Brandon MUST do before the wedding:
1. Secure special license.
2. Enlist a best man.
3. Prepare a toast for the wedding breakfast.
4. Cease all and any attraction, infatuation, and manner of interest in Miss Sophie Harlow, otherwise known as Trouble.
It was unlikely that he would accomplish any of those items this evening. He was already wondering if Sophie would also be attending the ball, and remembering that Clarissa would be there, too. Of course.
But first, there was a carriage ride to be endured. Not a ride fraught with restrained passion and lust, as with Sophie. No, he would be enclosed with his mother, and then Clarissa and her mother. Joy.
“How are you faring lately, Brandon?” his mother asked once they were in the carriage, driving through Mayfair.
“Fine, thank you. An
d you, Mother?”
“I’m a bit troubled, actually,” she responded, frowning.
“Is Charlotte still fainting?”
“Yes. But the headmistress and the doctor are of the opinion that it is all a hoax. However, it is you that I am concerned with.”
“Whatever for?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t anything to do with women or weddings.
“You appear to have a great interest in Miss Harlow,” she said.
“She’s an agreeable woman,” he replied. Definitely something to do with women and weddings.
“Allow me to rephrase. You obviously harbor a preference for Miss Harlow over that of your fiancée.”
Oh God. Was he really going to have this conversation with his mother, at this age, now? Things he would rather discuss with his mother: anything else.
“Appearances can be misleading,” he said with the hope that this was in some way relevant enough and an acceptable answer.
“I only mention it because your wedding, to Clarissa, is in less than a fortnight. If you do not wish to go through with it for any reason . . .” his mother’s voice trailed off.
“I gave my word. The contracts are signed,” he said in a tone that declared the conversation finished.
Precisely because he had given his word and signed the contracts, there was nothing to say on the matter. Unless Spencer’s report confirmed . . . No, he would not pin his hopes and future on small-town rumors.
Brandon could no longer deny a passionate infatuation for Sophie. But it was, as Roxbury told him, merely symptomatic of pre-wedding jitters. Not that he was the jittery or panic-stricken sort. He frowned at the dissonance of those two facts. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a reason to cancel “The Wedding of the Year.”
They paused in front of the Richmond residence.
“Good evening, everyone!” Lady Richmond declared after settling into the carriage. She began chattering on and on about the weather. They all agreed that it was warmer than the previous day.
“You look especially beautiful tonight, Clarissa,” Brandon said. And it was true. There was something about his fiancée that was different than usual. It could have been a new way of arranging her hair, but he suspected it was the first blush of romance that was the cause.
His future wife’s first romance was with another man. Brandon frowned. If it was his heart or only his pride that rebelled against this, he knew not.
“Thank you,” she replied sweetly, folding her hands in her lap, smiling, and reminding him that she would be a perfect duchess.
“She’s been corresponding with Miss Harlow all day,” her mother said.
“Will she be in attendance this evening?” Brandon asked. Even in the darkened interior of the carriage, he could see his mother arch a brow.
“She didn’t say,” Clarissa answered.
“All those letters and not one word about the ball tonight! How strange,” Lady Richmond said. Brandon agreed.
He was not aware that the two women had become such close friends in such a short time as to necessitate the exchange of numerous letters in one day. But that was women for you. A man of sense, such as himself, did not trouble himself to understand their odd workings.
“How was the musicale last night?” Lady Hamilton asked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend.”
“I was home, too, with a megrim,” Lady Richmond answered. And then she paused to accept sympathies. “Everyone is raving about it.”
“I heard the Prince of Bavaria was there! Were either of you introduced?” Lady Hamilton asked.
“Yes. In fact, Clarissa sat next to him all evening,” Brandon answered.
“My daughter seated next to a prince! Even if he is a German one, and you know about the Germans,” Lady Richmond said.
No one did, but no one cared to discover it, either.
“What was he like?” Lady Hamilton asked Clarissa.
“He’s not what I had expected. But he is . . . diverting,” she answered. In the darkness, Brandon thought he saw her blush.
By diverting, Clarissa really meant that he was dashing, thrilling, vexing, endlessly fascinating, and a million other wonderful things because he made her feel a million new, exquisite feelings. To think, they had only just met.
It had been only a day since their first encounter. Yet, in that time they had exchanged dozens of letters so that Clarissa knew more about him than anyone else. The curious scars on his cheeks—fine slash lines just under his marvelously high cheekbones—were from a duel he’d fought at sixteen with an older fencing master over a slight to the von Vennigan family. He had recently celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday. He favored Wordsworth and the romantic poets. He spoke six languages and swore in twelve. He had three sisters and was the middle of two brothers and thought she must have been terribly lonely as an only child.
She told him of things she had never told anyone. It had been terribly lonely as an only child and she had often wished for siblings, or more friends, but her mother hadn’t thought anyone was good enough. Clarissa found that unfair and wrong. She had just turned twenty, spoke French, and did not know any swear words and wished he would teach her some.
Perhaps it wasn’t a million feelings but one particularly magical feeling: being understood, and wanted because of who she was and who she could be, not because of her complexion, or eyes, her pleasant countenance, or distinguished family name.
For the first time, she had lied to her mother. The letters she had been feverishly composing all day were not to Sophie because she could not confess to a correspondence to another man, particularly a German one. A German prince would not be welcomed in the Richmond household—not after her mother’s father had met his end due to one. But that was neither here nor there for Clarissa because her prince had finally come.
And now she finally felt those proverbial butterflies in her stomach; they’d been there all day, with a diminishing effect on her appetite. If she sparkled, or glowed, looked especially beautiful, walked on air or burst out in song, it all was because of Frederick von Vennigan, the Prince of Bavaria and of Clarissa’s heart.
Shortly after his arrival in the hot, crowded ballroom, Brandon spied Sophie precariously near the dowager and spinster corner of the ballroom, engaged in conversations with Lady Rawlings.
Correction: There was no such thing as conversation between Lady Rawlings and other persons. One served as an audience for her monologues.
One thing was certain: Brandon must save Sophie from certain boredom. Or, more precisely, that was the excuse he gave for proceeding directly to her. In truth, this temporary infatuation he had admitted to impelled him to seek her out and spend every possible moment with her.
After all, they didn’t have many moments left. Every day brought him closer to the wedding. And after the wedding . . . ? He did not entertain such thoughts.
Not when Sophie looked so pretty in a violet-colored dress, and he wished to dance with her.
“Good evening, Lady Rawlings, Miss Harlow,” he said.
Seven excruciating minutes later, after a lengthy ramble about Lady Rawlings’s gout, Brandon whisked Sophie away under the pretense of introducing her to a dear, dear friend of his.
After they had walked a sufficient distance, Sophie spoke: “We call her Drawling Rawlings.”
He gave a shout of laughter that turned a few heads. “That is brilliant.”
“So who wishes to meet me?” she asked, looking around at the other guests as they passed through. By God, she is adorable.
“I’m afraid that was merely an excuse to save you from her talkative clutches. Perhaps we might dance instead?”
“I’d love to,” Sophie said. And then her eyes lit up, as they do, and he was proud to be the reason. He wouldn’t have many more chances to do that, before the wed— No, he wo
uld not think of that now.
They lined up for the next dance—it was not a waltz, as he wanted, but a slow dance with complicated steps and constant switching of partners.
His fiancée stepped up with the prince.
They all nodded politely, as if there was nothing untoward about this arrangement.
It was a thought-provoking sight to see Clarissa and Sophie standing next to each other.
Clarissa was tall . . . Sophie barely reached his shoulder.
Clarissa had blue eyes . . . Sophie’s eyes were velvety brown and always alight with some sort of mischief or humor.
Clarissa was blond . . . Sophie’s dark curls were upswept, revealing the graceful curve of her neck, and that spot at her shoulder that he longed to kiss. A few tendrils hung loose around her face, framing her lovely features.
He ached to kiss Sophie’s full, pink mouth.
He refused to acknowledge that he never would, or what that kiss would cost him if he did.
The orchestra began to sound the first notes, and the gentlemen bowed to their partners, who curtseyed in return. Brandon took a small step toward Sophie, while she took one small step to meet him. He raised his palm to press it against hers—hand to hand, like heart to heart. With their hands pressed together, they embarked on a slow spin, reversing positions before reluctantly parting and beginning again.
He could not look away from her.
Clarissa may be a renowned beauty, but Sophie possessed the luscious looks of a true temptress. She, and only she, aroused him and tormented him.
After little more than a moment of this, Brandon discovered a new kind of torture. He could only anticipate a fleeting touch of hands; he wished to hold her close.
Hand to hand was insufficient. He wanted the length of her pressed against him.
He could only watch as she spun around him, always moving, and moving away.
Partners were exchanged and Brandon went through the same motions with Clarissa.
He pressed his palm to hers, and she looked away.
They spun, and he thought that she was such a stranger to him. He wouldn’t love her because he didn’t know her. That would change after the marriage, would it not?
