by Maya Rodale
After the wedding. It was unfathomable. And yet, in only a few days’ time . . .
Brandon caught sight of Sophie with von Vennigan, and to see her touched by another man made him feel as if he were punched in the gut.
He despised the inventor of this dance. The ton had thought the waltz scandalous, because of the temptations of the constant proximity. But this damned dance gave and took away, and only made him want more of what he could not have.
There was a tightening in his chest every time Sophie’s deep brown eyes met his own.
What was she thinking? He wished to know.
Partners were exchanged again, and Sophie was back with him, hand to hand.
What was happening between them? It was something—of that he had no doubt. In his waking hours he sought her out. As he slept, he dreamt of her.
With that gorgeous mouth of hers that he ached to kiss, she would say something to make him laugh. Slowly, but surely, his pulse would rapidly increase and his nerves would hum with energy, and he would feel more alive than ever—all as he battled certain disaster.
When he was with her, logic and reason became irrelevant, everything became slightly and delightfully off kilter, his senses were heightened to a nearly intolerable level.
He imagined what it would be like to embrace her, to taste her, to possess her. When they were apart, he thought of when he would see her again, and he wondered what would happen next.
Sophie Harlow was his adventure story.
But the course of action was not clear to Brandon. He could not withdraw from his marriage for a multitude of reasons he did not care to dwell on presently. He could always indulge in Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections, but enough logic remained for him to know that it was sheer quackery and it would take far more than that to diminish her allure, or to cure his symptoms of joy, agony, exhilaration, and ecstasy he experienced when he was with her.
For this moment, he savored the brief touch of Sophie’s hand against his. And he looked into her beautiful brown eyes and allowed himself to get lost in those depths.
One step closer. He could not get close enough.
Hand to hand. He ached for her touch.
Step, step, slow spin around. He could not look away.
Hand in hand, they turned to the left and took four steps. They stopped, turned, and took four more steps, only to end up where they began: hand to hand, like heart to heart. Step, step, slow spin. Always, always looking into each other’s eyes.
And then the dance concluded, and the din of the ballroom overpowered the sweet music. The controlled and organized formation of the dancers gave way to a chaos of bodies as some left for air and lemonade, and others crushed in for their turn. Brandon placed his hand on the small of Sophie’s back to draw her close to him so that he might protect her from the jostling crowds.
She looked at him questioningly. He nodded that, yes, something had just happened in those few minutes. Sophie’s smile quickly faded.
“Clarissa, darling! Lord Brandon!” It was the Dragon Duchess herself, with some dear, dear friends eager to be introduced to the couple of the season.
“Lord Brandon, may I introduce you to my dear, dear friends Lady Endicott and Lady Chesterfield?”
He considered saying, “No,” but suspected it wouldn’t make a difference. He nodded his assent. She began her introductions, including His Highness, and neglected to mention Sophie. In fact, Lady Richmond positioned herself so that Sophie was entirely cut from the circle.
That was not acceptable.
“And I would like to introduce Miss Harlow of The London Weekly,” Brandon said, drawing her in.
“Oh! You are one of the Writing Girls! I read your column every week, and I utterly adore it,” Lady Endicott exclaimed, fanning herself in excitement. Most journalists were reviled; the Writing Girls were an exception.
“We’ve been eagerly awaiting each installment of the story on Your Grace’s wedding. I do love hearing all the details,” Lady Chesterfield added with an equal measure of enthusiasm.
They embarked on a female conversation with a flurry of wedding details—something about satin, seating arrangements, and hyacinths—which he, as a man, was fundamentally incapable of comprehending. They chattered away about Sophie’s writing, too—what it was like to work for a newspaper, how she started, gossip about the publisher—and Brandon paid attention to how Sophie responded.
She was so gracious. Every question was patiently and modestly answered, joyfully even. She laughed with Ladies Endicott and Chesterfield and asked them questions, such as what they liked best about the paper. Within moments, they were all acting as if they were dear, dear friends.
Lady Richmond was seething. Her face had taken on a hue that was beginning to blend remarkably with her crimson gown.
Clarissa looked genuinely interested in the conversation. Her wide blue eyes focused upon whoever was speaking, and she laughed with the others.
Von Vennigan seemed bemused, when he wasn’t mooning over Clarissa. Brandon assumed that it was not often that princes were not the center of attention, and exceedingly rare that they be upstaged by girl reporters.
“Clarissa, did you not promise this waltz to your fiancé?” Lady Richmond cut in with a fantastic lack of subtlety.
“I did. Thank you for reminding me, Mother.” Clarissa had done no such thing, of course. She did not contradict her mother, and Brandon, as a gentleman, never contradicted a woman. However, he wondered what else Clarissa would do for her mother without voicing complaint.
The prince took that opportunity to take his leave and Lady Richmond ushered her friends along. Sophie was left there, suddenly alone.
Brandon smiled at her—a sad sort of smile—as he walked away. It was the correct, honorable thing to do and yet he was disgusted with himself.
His waltz with Clarissa reminded him of two things:
1. She would be a lovely wife and duchess: endlessly obliging, deferential, and beautiful.
2. He would care for her, but he would never love her.
Brandon wondered why, if this was what he wanted, did his thoughts stray to a woman who was not at all what he wanted in a wife or a duchess?
As he waltzed with his fiancée, Brandon saw Sophie walking out onto the terrace—alone. As soon as the damned dance ended, he followed after her.
Chapter 22
Sophie went to the terrace and lingered there. It was easier to avoid conversation, and she was not in the mood to make polite chatter. Even though she was not surprised by it, receiving a cut direct from Lady Richmond frightened her. That woman, along with her dear, dear friends, could destroy Sophie socially.
If she were not invited to weddings, she couldn’t write her column. If she couldn’t write her column— Sophie sighed. There was no need to mull over the details of such a downward spiral, not when there was an awful cut from Brandon to contemplate. Sophie understood that he had to go waltz with his fiancée, especially given the circumstances.
The fact remained that if he wouldn’t cry off for a waltz, then he would never cry off his engagement.
The truth of it was harder and harder to accept, or ignore. Only ten days until the wedding . . . for there certainly would be a wedding.
Oh, she would not weep. Not here. Not now.
“There you are,” Brandon said as he joined her. “I’ve been searching for you.”
“Hello,” Sophie said softly. There was nowhere she’d rather be than with him, but she loathed that she had to wait to take her turn for his attentions.
“You should not be out here alone. It isn’t proper,” he said firmly.
“Really, there is no need to worry. I am chaperoned by half the party,” she said with a sweep of her hand. Many people had also elected to take a stroll on the terrace.<
br />
“You do have a point,” he said, taking her hand and leading her around the corner of the terrace to a significantly more secluded alcove formed by the wall of the house and two large stone pillars. A sconce high on the wall above their heads created flickering shadows and sparks of light.
Oh . . .
They were alone—except for the hundreds of people just around the corner, any one of whom could stumble upon them at any moment.
It was very dark—except for the moonlight and firelight providing faint light and gray shadows.
The setting was ripe for the particular kind of trouble known as seduction. Given the things they risked—her livelihood, his honor, and their reputations—they should not be here.
There was no way she was leaving.
“I must apologize about that situation earlier,” Brandon said.
“With Lady Richmond? It is perfectly understandable, and I cannot blame her,” Sophie said. It had been hurtful, it frightened her, and she did not want to talk about it when she had a moment alone with the man of her dreams.
“She was snubbing you. That is not acceptable,” he said. She loved how he championed her—until she realized that he only did so up to a point.
“I am obviously a rival to her daughter for your affections. What you witnessed was simple feminine warfare, and a very gentle form of it,” Sophie explained. A cut direct from a duchess was mortifying—until one had been jilted at the altar, and then it felt like little more than a bee sting.
It could have much more disastrous repercussions, though.
“I confess that I do not understand why women cannot solve their problems as gentlemen do—with fisticuffs and a brawl.”
Sophie laughed, and her fear and dismay started to fade. “I’m not certain I would wish to engage in hand-to-hand combat with Lady Richmond.”
“I don’t think I would, either,” Brandon answered.
“We shall hide here on the terrace, then,” Sophie suggested, even though that was a terrible idea. Honestly, she’d be delighted to stay hidden here with him for hours. “Though it is cowardly of us.”
And far too dangerous . . . and far too pleasurable.
“I prefer to think of it as wise to avoid a battle one does not wish to fight,” Brandon replied.
“It’s not always possible is it?” she asked, and he shook his head no. “At any rate, it is much more pleasant out here than in there,” she said. It was easier to pretend that he was hers, and only hers.
“Yes,” he agreed, leaning against the wall, and gazing down at her. Oh, how she loved the way he looked at her! As if she were his very own secret treasure.
“Though it is surprisingly warm,” she added. It was a hot summer night. Sophie allowed her shawl to slide further from her shoulders, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
She entertained a fleeting thought of disrobing for him entirely—lud, if that did not make her blush and inspire some very exquisite sensations!
“I suspect that one familiar with such matters would say this was all very romantic,” Brandon said, adding that dashing grin that weakened her knees and her resolve to be good.
“Yes, the stars, and moonlight, and . . .” Sophie added, allowing her voice to trail off.
“You,” Brandon murmured.
“And you,” Sophie whispered.
Would he kiss her?
God only knew how she wanted him to, wanted him so much that she’d been waking up from heated, wanton dreams. Wanted him so much that, in weaker moments, she considered being his mistress even though her head and heart rebelled against such immoral behavior, for she was desperate to be with him. Her heart longed for him, her brain said that he was a very suitable candidate (other than that damned betrothal), and her body tormented her with its cravings for him.
And yet, she did not want him to kiss her. Whether Lord Brandon or Mere Mr. Brandon, he was a man of honor and that was not a small part of his appeal. She adored him for his honor and goodness, and did not want her illusions dashed. She also did not want a kiss that was rightfully owed to someone else.
She ached to kiss him and loved him because he wouldn’t.
“I have a question for you, Sophie,” Brandon said, and her heart started fluttering. “Did you love him?”
That was not the question she was hoping for. In fact, the last thing she wanted to think about was a massive heartache just as she was facing an even bigger one.
She couldn’t be anything but honest with Brandon, and she could not refuse him anything.
“Oh, I loved him as if there was no such thing as heartache and as if happily-ever-after was for certain,” Sophie answered truthfully. “But I don’t think that’s nearly as brave as knowing about the hard parts, and loving anyway.”
He paused thoughtfully. She was dying to know his thoughts, because what she had said was massive—even though she knew deeply and intimately how horribly wrong love could go, she was still taking the leap and falling in love.
“Or perhaps it’s just foolish,” she added.
“But how do you recover from something like that?” Brandon persisted.
“I’m not entirely certain that I have completely recovered. I loved and I lost, and that is horrible. I had plans, Brandon, and they changed on me. I know that you understand the horror,” Sophie said with a teasing smile. It was necessary to lighten up a little in such a serious conversation. “There is still a part of me that wonders what might have been.”
“Yet you still laugh and smile and write and . . .” Brandon added.
“My heart still beats, yes. I can wring some enjoyment from life. Quite a bit, actually,” Sophie said, and here she longed to touch him, but knew that one caress could lead to their downfall.
With her luck, that would be the moment they were interrupted by one of the hundreds of party guests milling about, just around the corner.
In the life she had planned with Matthew, there had been no allowance for soulful conversations in the moonlight on the terrace at a London ball with a man like Brandon. And now, in this moment, she wouldn’t trade places for anything.
“Impressive,” he murmured.
“Have you suffered the same?” Sophie asked him softly.
He leaned against the wall of the house, angled toward her, and much less than an arm’s length away. Sophie felt it was not close enough.
“Something similar, yes,” he answered quietly. She could hear the snap of the flames burning in the sconce above, and the low hum of chatter from a far part of the terrace.
“A woman?”
“No, my father.”
“Your tone suggests that we do not speak of this,” Sophie observed.
“We do not.”
“Shall we converse upon another subject?” she asked, more brightly.
“Yes. Let’s talk about how adorable you are,” Brandon said, smiling.
“Oh, Your Grace,” Sophie teased, with batting eyelashes for the full effect. It was flirtatious, and it also kept back the tears. How could they have heartfelt conversations and flirt outrageously and not talk about The Big Wedding that was only ten days away.
“What did I say about calling me that?” he said sternly, but mockingly.
“Very well, Brandon. Tell me how adorable I am,” Sophie said with an exaggerated sigh, as if it were a massive trial to undergo the reception of compliments from the man of one’s dreams. In her situation, it was indeed bittersweet.
“To me, you are so damned adorable. You are so beautiful, and I never want to stop looking at you. And . . .”
“There is more?” Sophie asked breathlessly.
He belongs with me, she thought, and she could barely tolerate the fact that he did not.
“Here,” Brandon said, daring to trace his finge
r along the curve of her neck to her shoulder. “I have dreamt of kissing you here ever since the night your sleeve slipped down, like this,” he murmured, and then he slid the scrap of fabric acting as a sleeve down just a touch. The slide of the silk against her skin, along with the warmth of his hand, was an irresistible sensual combination. She swiftly surrendered and closed her eyes to savor it all the more.
“My brave, and beautiful, damned adorable Writing Girl,” Brandon murmured with a small laugh. “I’m not much of a poet.”
“It’s a perfect compliment. From a perfect gentleman,” Sophie said, and she meant it. To be told she’s beautiful is every girl’s dream, but to be declared brave by a man like him . . .
Brandon knew her, really understood her, and found her adorable.
For the love of anything holy, how could he possibly marry another?
Sophie bit her tongue to silence the words. She would not have this conversation yet, and certainly not in this moment. A kiss—that is what she wanted. Wasn’t it?
“I’m not a perfect gentleman right now. My thoughts are decidedly impure,” Brandon murmured, and in the moonlight she saw that although there was a note of jesting in his tone, he definitely was Very Serious.
Would he kiss her now?
Would this be the moment that desire and an intoxicating connection overwhelmed their better judgment so much that he would lower his mouth to hers? She could see the intensity in his gaze, darkened so much that his bright green eyes appeared to be black. She could see the tension in the line of his jaw. She placed her poem on his chest. Underneath the evening coat, waistcoat, shirt, and hot skin, his heart was beating in a strong and steady rhythm.
Sophie was aware of her back arching slightly, tilting her forward and closer. She was drawn to him by a force that she did not understand and could not control. Every part of her—every nerve, inhalation, heartbeat, exhalation, thought, or sensation all whispered the same thing: This One.
He wanted her. But something was holding him back: Clarissa, his honor, and a reluctance or even refusal to surrender, to love.
