by Maya Rodale
“Sophie . . .” Brandon murmured her name and she loved the sound of it from his lips.
“Yes?” Her face tilted up to his, not expectantly but hopefully. Will he kiss me now?
“I can’t.” His voice was a harsh whisper.
Then he left.
Chapter 23
White’s Gentlemen’s Club
Later that evening
Brandon suspected that his slumber would consist of tossing, turning, lusting, wishing, and cursing it all. In short, a mockery of sleep. Instead of returning home, he went to his club. A drink was in order.
He had been dangerously close to throwing away his pride, his honor, and the value of his word for a kiss. It would have been one hell of a kiss, and probably even worth it. But old habits died hard, and to act recklessly rather than hold back was unfathomable to him.
There was a time and a place for rules to be—if not broken—at least bent. Though he could not go so far as to indulge his desires of a hot, deep kiss with Sophie, he could go for a drink at White’s, even though he almost never went out after a ball.
With rule-bending in mind, His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon also deigned to loosen his cravat—something he never did in public. He took a sip of his brandy and considered joining the game of whist being played in the far corner. If he were so inclined, he could wager an outrageous sum of money—or even a house or two—on the turn of the cards.
He was considering it when that damned Bavarian prince arrived. Brandon watched him, with narrowed eyes, as he graciously accepted the attentions of the other club members. He had also spent the better portion of the evening graciously accepting the attentions of Brandon’s fiancée, which he could not complain about without sounding like the worst sort of hypocrite. Still, it rankled. Clarissa might not be the woman he thought she was.
A quarter of an hour after his arrival, von Vennigan intruded with an offer for a game of billiards. Brandon agreed. Hitting something would be just the thing.
Von Vennigan started at Brandon’s urging, striking the break.
“The ball was enjoyable,” the prince said in an attempt to initiate conversation.
“Yes,” Brandon replied as he lined up his shot. He did very much enjoy dancing with Sophie, probably as much as von Venison enjoyed waltzing with his fiancée. There was something wrong about that.
“Was it an example of a typical English ball?” the prince asked.
It had been hot, crowded, and loaded with romantic intrigues.
“Yes,” Brandon said.
Von Vennigan sunk two balls into the pocket.
“Cigar?”
“No, thank you.”
His father had frequently smoked cigars, and stank accordingly. It was the one thing that Brandon had not liked about the man he so idolized.
As he lined up his next shot, Brandon idly wondered how things might be different had his father lived. Brandon would have had more years free of the responsibilities that came with a seat in Parliament and the management of six estates. He would not know the fear of losing someone close to him, and thus he might have married for love.
Brandon took his shot, and sent the balls careening across the table. Was he really going to entertain thoughts of love, marriage, and what might have been? No good could come of that, only misery. These thoughts turned his mood blacker.
“It seems that you are not very interested in social niceties and pleasantries,” von Vennigan mused.
“Yes,” Brandon said. He took another shot, and sunk another three billiard balls. He missed a few, too. Instead of focusing on the game, he recalled Sophie gazing up to him adoringly, and the glow of the moonlight on her skin. As a duke, there was very little that he could not have—Sophie Harlow might have been the only thing, and because of a trap of his own making.
“So I shall not, what is the saying? . . . Beat around the bushes. None of that,” von Vennigan said.
Brandon paused expectantly. The prince’s eyes were far too blue.
“We are rivals,” von Vennigan said. Bluntly.
Rivals. There it was again.
“Yes,” Brandon said, now tempted to crack a smile. It was good fun to be less than perfectly obliging.
“I wonder, Your Grace, at the attentions you allow me to pay to your fiancée,” von Vennigan mused, leaning against the billiards table. Apparently they were taking a break from the game.
“Did you hurt her?” Brandon asked. This prince did not seem interested or capable of hurting a woman. He might bore her to tears by reciting poetry perhaps—the prince was a known devotee of the Romantic poets—but was no actual physical danger.
“Never,” von Vennigan vowed, looking straight into Brandon’s eyes.
“Did you take advantage of her?” Brandon asked. He, too, leaned against the billiards table, holding his cue stick with both hands. It kept his hands occupied and from something other than pummeling his so-called rival.
“No,” von Vennigan answered.
“I will not tolerate the slightest mistreatment of her,” Brandon said firmly as he looked von Vennigan in the eye. It was the truth. She was under his protection. A man did not take that lightly.
Clarissa seemed to take great pleasure in this prince’s attentions, and the distraction afforded him more time with Sophie. It would all end soon enough, when he and Clarissa married. Because they would marry.
He’d invested too much, and there was too much at stake to back out because he was temporarily infatuated with another woman—or because a longhaired sapling of a prince fancied himself in love.
Sooner or later he’d return to his senses and recall that Clarissa was what he wanted, and the most suitable wife for a man of his position and disposition.
Dukes did not marry scandalous girl reporters, and Brandon never did anything that was just not done.
“Good,” von Vennigan said, nodding approvingly, as if Brandon needed his approval. “I also wonder, Your Grace, how you might react differently if I were to pay the same attentions to Miss Harlow. For example, if I were to waltz with her, and have long conversations with her in a dark, secluded alcove . . . no liberties taken, of course, but it would be dimly lit, intimate . . .”
The cue stick Brandon had been holding cracked under his grip and snapped into two halves.
“I suspected as much,” von Vennigan said smartly. “We are rivals, of a sort. You would fight for Clarissa out of duty, but I would fight for her out of passion.”
“Are we fighting?” Brandon asked. Clarissa was not a prize to be won, for she had already been claimed.
“Do you wish to?” von Vennigan queried.
“Not particularly,” Brandon lied.
“I have heard that you are a master swordsman,” von Vennigan said, slightly changing the subject.
“I’ve heard the same of you,” Brandon replied.
“So we shall fight and see if we can discover if duty is a stronger motivation than passion,” von Vennigan proposed.
“Or merely who is the superior swordsman,” Brandon stated.
He would certainly fight von Vennigan, and would take great pleasure in it. But he was not prepared for a full-scaled battle for a lady’s favor. It was much more complicated than that—not that this young pup could be expected to understand that. There were contracts, debts, and reputations at stake—all things far greater than one’s feelings.
Chapter 24
Nine days before the wedding . . .
Hamilton House
Brandon dreamt of that moment last night when he almost kissed her. He had seen the conflicting desire in her eyes, and it mirrored his own feelings. In this dream of his, however, he kissed her, deeply, hotly, and fervently.
He dreamt that he pressed her up against the wall, and that she liked it. He g
rabbed fistfuls of her satin skirts, hiking them up so that there was nearly nothing between them. Slowly but surely, he did away with those last remaining scraps of fabric.
She did not protest, but she did blush.
First he tugged down her bodice, and cupped her naked breasts in his bare hands. He dreamt of taking the pink centers in his mouth, and he heard her gasp with shock and moan in pleasure.
In his dreams his bare hands roamed over her, exploring all those curves: her breasts, her hips, her derriere. In his dream, he kissed her passionately, held her close, and was on the verge of owning her when he woke up to crushing disappointment and unsatisfied desire.
A short while later, when his brain resumed functioning, he recalled other parts of his evening—namely, the game of billiards with that strangely longhaired prince of Bavaria. He thought they were rivals. It was a quaint interpretation of the situation.
Brandon was not going to step aside because someone else took a liking to his fiancée, or even just because he had taken a liking to someone else. It wasn’t that simple.
He may have vividly erotic dreams about another woman, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to change his mind about values that had governed his existence. He wanted a wife he would not be preoccupied with, a wife befitting his station, a woman he could never love.
Passion ought to be tempered with restraint. Brandon’s feelings were always held in check by duty. He wondered what this young prince knew of anything other than indulging his desires.
He did not doubt the young puppy’s feelings for Clarissa, but Brandon wondered if that romantic, starry nonsense might fade when he learned about the debts, and other obligations, never mind Spencer’s startling assertions. Then again, the prince was young, in love, and rich. It might not matter at all.
For better or for worse, Clarissa was under Brandon’s protection, and he would not take that responsibility lightly.
Brandon rang for Jennings, his valet, and Spencer, his secretary. Upon their arrival, they got quickly to work. While Brandon shaved himself—an unusual habit for a man of his position, but a preference of his—Jennings readied his clothes and Spencer recited a list of the day’s events.
“First, you are due at Parliament,” Spencer began.
“Are we voting or just listening to inane and mind-numbing speeches?”
“The latter, Your Grace. The topic will be the Marriage Act.”
Brandon set down the razor and took a bracing sip of hot black coffee.
“Following that,” his secretary continued, “you have allotted time to review your accounts book and other business.”
“Fine.”
“Lady Richmond has written, requesting to know your progress regarding the special license. I have looked into the matter. The peer who wishes to marry must make the application to the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, but from there I may make all the other arrangements.”
“Remind me to do that later.”
“I have also noted your other obligations for the wedding. I have taken the liberty of making a list of potential best men, and have drafted some possible toasts for the wedding breakfast.”
“Spencer, you are a godsend.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “This evening, you have planned to escort the Richmond ladies to the theater with His Grace, the Duke of Richmond.”
Brandon finished his shaving, took another sip of his coffee, and thought of what an impossibly dull day he had ahead of him.
“Spencer, would you say this is a typical day for me?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Parliament, estate management, social engagements. Every day.”
Horror was dawning upon Brandon. His life was dull. By God, he hoped that he wasn’t dull. Now he understood why his mother was forever nagging him to “enjoy a spot of fun.”
“Thank you, Spencer,” Brandon said, and his secretary quit the room. “Jennings.”
“Ready, Your Grace. That is quite a day you have ahead of you, Your Grace, if I may be so bold as to say so,” the valet said as he assisted with the boots.
“You may be so bold, Jennings.”
Brandon knew it was not very ducal of him to encourage such liberties with his servant, but he was often amused by Jennings’s outspoken opinions on anything and everything.
“By quite a day,” the man went on, “I mean it sounds bloody boring.”
“We are being so very bold today,” Brandon said. But he agreed. He put his waistcoat on. It was gray. Plain gray.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Your Grace. I am glad to have a sober, intelligent man like yourself looking after government matters.”
“Thank you,” Brandon said. His valet continued talking as he helped him into his coat.
“And then the theater with your future in-laws. Don’t worry, Your Grace, I won’t go on being so very, very, very bold today.”
Brandon was well aware of what his valet thought of the Richmonds. His opinion was based upon one pink-and-red-satin waistcoat, and that was reason enough to despise.
“Your point, Jennings?”
“You’re a young, wealthy, healthy man. Do something for yourself for once. Oh, blast. I’ve got to get another length of linen to get this cravat just right. Be right back, Your Grace . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. This will do.”
“My God, Your Grace, you can’t possibly go out with your cravat like that!”
“Thank you, Jennings. Have a good day.”
Out in the hall, Spencer was pacing nervously.
“Your Grace! There is one other matter of business I need to discuss with you,” Spencer said. “Privately.”
Brandon indicated that they should speak quietly as they walked. Spencer related his news about further correspondence from informed persons who had promised to offer proof of the scandalous assertions. All of this was related from secretary to duke in a very hushed tone as they traveled from the master bedroom to the grand foyer. Boots thudding on marble floors covered the sound of their voices.
If there was proof—well, that would change everything.
Madame Auteuil’s
Bond Street
Finally, the wedding dress was ready for Clarissa to try on, and she modeled it for them now. The gown was fashioned from white satin in the current style of a high-empire waist, capped sleeves, a modest square neckline, and three lace flounces at the hem. What made it truly stunning was the overlay of the palest silver lace in an intricate pattern of plump roses. A small pink sapphire adorned the center of each ornamental bloom, providing the faintest glow of sparkle and color.
This was a gown for a duchess, the bride of the year, or even a princess.
Sophie took notes on the dress—not that she would forget any detail of it, but just in case. Out of the corner of her eye, her dress, as Sophie thought of it, was still there. She put away her paper and set down her pencil in order to trace her fingertips over the beadwork, and the silk, and imagined that she could afford it.
“I agree with you,” Lady Hamilton said, surprising Sophie as she came over to stand beside her. “That is a gorgeous gown.”
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Sophie said. She had browsed many shop windows and perused hundreds of ladies’ fashion periodicals. The quality of this dress was unparalleled and it was just ornate enough without being overwhelming.
“Have you tried it on?” Lady Hamilton asked.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t,” Sophie said with a shake of her head. “It would be torture to wear it for just a few moments in the shop, and then to change into my regular day gowns.”
“You wouldn’t purchase it if it fit you perfectly? I know you have many occasions to wear it,” Lady Hamilton said. Sophie bit her tongue to resist pointing out that they were not all duchesses with acco
rdingly sized purses.
“There are other things to consider,” Sophie said delicately.
“So you shall admire it from a distance, but never make an effort to own it?” the duchess asked quizzically.
“Yes,” Sophie said with a sigh. “Rather tragic, isn’t it?”
“Not if we are just talking about a dress,” Lady Hamilton said cryptically, before giving Sophie a smile, a pat on the hand, and leaving to attend to the matter of her own dress for the wedding.
Clarissa, finally free from her fitting, took a seat at the small table that had been set with a tea tray. Sophie joined her.
“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked. Clarissa seemed rather downcast for a girl trying on her wedding dress.
“I was having a bittersweet moment. The dress is lovely, of course. And Lord Brandon is so nice . . .”
Nice! Nice? The weather was nice. New hair ribbons were nice. Lord Brandon could not possibly be considered in the same breath as such banal, nice, items. He was a man, the man, who made her heart pulse with longing, who occupied all her dreams and nearly every waking thought, who aroused in her sensations that could not be discussed in polite society. Nice was not the word for him.
“. . . And as I stood there in the dress, it made me realize that soon I would be saying goodbye to Frederick and donning that gown, and facing the rest of my life. Without Frederick,” Clarissa finished.
Sophie bit her tongue, and refrained from asking if Clarissa considered crying off.
She must have done, surely. But it would be lunacy to back out of a match like hers without another one secured. The prince, she presumed, had not proposed.
One might use, say, a dress as a metaphor for the situation. Sophie couldn’t just ask Clarissa to give up her dress simply because Sophie liked it and wished to have it—because the dress fit her perfectly, complemented her strengths, and disguised her weaknesses, because it made her happy and exhilarated—and she ached to feel its touch on her skin, and to kiss it . . .
