A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  Yet the contracts were signed, and that thought elicited a sigh.

  “I just do not understand how you can persist in doing this when you know what has happened to me. This is just like Somerset,” Julianna challenged. Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie noted Annabelle and Eliza’s heads swiveling back and forth.

  “It is not the same. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that it’s something bigger than me, bigger than him,” Sophie replied. Somerset had been indiscriminate in his affections. Brandon and she had something unique.

  “You can’t help who you love,” Annabelle sighed. “If you could, I would love someone who paid attention to me.” She was referring to Mr. Knightly, the unceasing object of her desire, who only had eyes for society ladies and women of dubious morals. In other words, absolutely not Annabelle.

  Julianna appeared to consider this for a second, and then rejected it. “It’s exactly the same. There is the woman who is legally entitled to her husband’s affections—me, Clarissa. And then there are all those other women who steal it—all of Somerset’s paramours, Lavinia, you.”

  Lavinia. Sophie had not thought of her in a while. She did not care to.

  “Can you really legislate affection like that?” Eliza mused. “Particularly when people do not marry for love, as is the case with Lord Brandon and Lady Richmond?”

  “And would you really want kisses that were contractually obligated?” Annabelle said, picking up the more philosophical and less personal thread of the conversation in hopes of distracting Julianna and Sophie.

  “I wouldn’t,” Eliza said, and Annabelle agreed.

  “Why can you not be supportive of me, and my feelings, in this?” Sophie asked. For the first time in her life, she felt as if there were things she couldn’t tell her best friend.

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Julianna answered.

  Sophie shoved a biscuit into her mouth so that she would not be able to say the thing that had just popped into her head: Did her friend not want to see her get hurt, or did her friend not want her to be happy? It was a horrible accusation (thus, the mouthful of food preventing her from saying it).

  Julianna’s protests were valid, and Sophie understood their origin—infidelity had wreaked havoc on her friend’s life—her father first, and then her own late husband. Sophie wished for some compassion, though, rather than being told that it was hopeless and that she was no better than Lavinia.

  Fortunately, she had Clarissa’s friendship, for she, oddly enough, understood how Sophie felt. Still, she missed the compassion and empathy of her longest and best friend. When had they become so distant?

  “Do you know what this is the perfect occasion for?” Eliza asked. “A test of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections.”

  “Oh, yes!” Annabelle agreed, clapping her palms together with a glee that Sophie could not match. She may have considered taking it, but she had rejected it.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing more than sugar water, or laudanum,” Julianna added.

  “And I’m not sure I want to give up my unsuitable affections,” Sophie said to Julianna’s darkened expression.

  “It probably won’t work,” Eliza replied. “So you could try it and . . .”

  “Are you trying to experiment on me for an article?” Sophie asked suspiciously.

  “Perhaps,” Eliza admitted, and eyebrows arched skeptically all around the table. “Oh, very well, yes.”

  After some cajoling, Sophie was persuaded to take a sip of the strangely blue liquid that promised to cool the blood, soothe the heart, and otherwise end one’s unsuitable affections.

  Chapter 30

  Hamilton House

  When he arrived in his study the next day, Brandon saw the document he’d requested on his desk. It was the marriage contract, detailing the merging and transfer of wealth that would occur with the union of himself, “Lord Henry William Cameron Hamilton, Tenth Duke of Hamilton and Brandon” (and here follows a list of the fifteen other lesser peerages he held) with “Lady Clarissa Elizabeth Gordon, the sole of issue of Lord Reginald Jonathan Francis Gordon, the Sixteenth Duke of Richmond” (this, too, was followed by a list of his numerous other holdings).

  If it were not for his heated encounter with Sophie at the theater last night—and, in fact, every encounter with her—he would not be reexamining his marriage contract.

  He would be blissfully betrothed to the perfect wife and duchess instead of infatuated with a magical temptress.

  Oh, and temptress she was! He’d had a taste and, by God, he wanted more. Having finally taken the liberty of pressing his mouth to that place where the curve of her shoulder met her neck—a spot he had long craved to taste—he was dismayed to discover that it had the odd effect of increasing his desire when it was supposed to be satisfied. It was like crumbs when one wanted a loaf of bread.

  He was thinking in such mundane metaphors. But, as he had said, he was out of sorts. Brandon did not dare to even reconsider the more emotional aspects—the jealousy, the longing, the searing pain of seeing her with another man and understanding how she must feel to see him with Clarissa, or how it must feel to write romantic stories about him and Clarissa for all of London to read.

  Brandon swore under his breath and, for the first time in his life, strongly considered drinking before noon.

  Brandon knew he must review the contract and consider all of his options.

  And yet, after his surprisingly revealing conversation with Clarissa last night, he wasn’t sure it would matter if he did find a loophole as wide as the Pacific. He would not break her heart if things did not go as planned, but she had been clear—she had no intention of breaking their engagement.

  All because of the long-dead Aunt Eleanor.

  Brandon now understood the Richmonds in a way he had not before. While it did not make them more enjoyable company, he did feel some sympathy—and plenty of responsibility.

  That the tragic tale of dear departed Aunt Eleanor was exerting its influence upon his present situation struck him, in his more heartless moments, as a bit ridiculous. How could love go so wrong, so horrifically, and still have such potentially devastating consequences decades later? And upon people she had never met?

  In a way, it was not unlike the loss of his father—twelve years and ten months ago. He was still reeling from it. But that was an agonizing soul search for another day.

  With low expectations, but desperately hoping, Brandon picked up the contract. An hour later, he set it down.

  There was one possibility. If Clarissa were undeniably, absolutely and shamelessly compromised, he could withdraw with no financial consequences.

  But there were other points to consider:

  Reasons why he could not jilt Clarissa:

  1. The damage to her reputation. She would likely never marry.

  2. The damage to his reputation. Even double dukes had to be wary.

  3. Lord and Lady Richmond were up to their necks in debt—as was all their tenants and the tradesmen that depended upon them. There would be no hope for any of them without Brandon’s infusion of funds into the Richmond estates.

  4. Von Vennigan might marry her. But would he do so if he knew of the debts? Was his love the abiding, eternal kind, or a fleeting infatuation? He was so young, so flippant, and Brandon did not trust him with a matter of this magnitude. He would not even trust him with a book from the circulating library.

  5. And then there was the matter of Charlotte, his fainting-prone sister. The condition may or may not have been medical, or it could be symptomatic of a mischievous temper. Neither bode well for her chances after making her debut next year. She did not deserve to come out under a cloud of suspicion and scandal.

  6. There was also the matter of that Awful Secret that may or may not be
true.

  There was a knock at the door and Spencer entered.

  “Your Grace, if I might remind you that you are scheduled for an appointment at Angelo’s with His Highness, the Prince of Bavaria, shortly.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And if I might also have a word with you,” Spencer asked.

  Brandon looked at the clock. Half past three. Good God, he would be late. He was never late.

  “Some other time, Spencer.”

  “But Your Grace! It is of the utmost importance—” Spencer cried out.

  At the moment, Brandon did not care to know. He quit his study, and Hamilton House.

  Drinking in the afternoon, barely knotted cravats, searching for ways to break contracts, postponing business in favor of fencing, and being late. He really was well on his way to becoming a complete reprobate.

  “You do not seem like the type to be late,” von Vennigan said when Brandon rushed into Angelo’s.

  “I make it a habit to keep royalty waiting.”

  “It does keep us in line,” von Vennigan said with a smirk.

  Harry Angelo was utterly beside himself to have not only a prince and a duke in his school but two of the very best swordsmen in Europe. He hovered. He offered to assist. He sent servants running for beverages and food in case the two worked up an appetite. Angelo sent inferior students home; he did not wish to be embarrassed by them.

  “I believe we both have the requisite skill to dispense with masks,” von Vennigan said, and Brandon agreed.

  As they suited up, and prepared for their match, they discussed the weather. With swords drawn, the genuine conversation began.

  “I am curious to know, Your Grace, what made you late,” von Vennigan began, advancing and bringing his point to bear on Brandon’s chest.

  “Very important business to attend to,” Brandon replied with more than a touch of ducal haughtiness in his voice. He suspected his opponent did not have very important business, other than being a foppish princeling and flirting with other men’s fiancées. Cutting his hair certainly wasn’t on his list.

  He enveloped von Vennigan’s blade with a circular parry, removing the imminent threat to his waistcoat. Just because he had dozens did not mean he had to ruin one. He took care of, and protected, his possessions.

  “You must tell me more,” von Vennigan urged.

  “I was reviewing contracts.”

  “Ah. Of what business? Not that it is any of my business,” von Vennigan said with a grin. Brandon resisted the urge to say, It isn’t— because, in a way, it was.

  “If you must know, I was reviewing my marriage contract,” Brandon said casually.

  His Highness stumbled. Brandon restrained a grin and beat the prince’s blade away, forcing him further down the floor.

  “I also like to review contracts before I sign them,” von Vennigan replied.

  “I’ve already signed,” Brandon said, and he noticed his opponent pause for a second as he processed the information, leaving his guard a little more open than usual. It was the faintest of opportunities.

  “And Clarissa?” he queried.

  “She has also signed in exquisite, ladylike penmanship,” Brandon took pleasure in telling his opponent.

  Von Vennigan leaned too heavily on his back foot and Brandon saw his chance: a beat to the blade, a parry evaded as von Vennigan struggled to move backward, and Brandon’s point hit true.

  Touché!

  Von Vennigan swore under his breath at being caught in such a manner but composed himself.

  “And your conclusion upon reviewing the marriage contract?” von Vennigan asked casually, though Brandon knew it was put on.

  “Ironclad.”

  It was difficult to say whose shoulders sagged more at his words. Both men paused to catch their breath.

  “A philosophical question for you, Your Grace,” von Vennigan started as he engaged Brandon’s blade again. “Action or honor?”

  “Honor. Always.” Brandon did not need to think twice about that. For the very beginning, his father taught him that honor was everything. A man that couldn’t be trusted was less than useless. To hold another person’s trust was the most precious gift and one bore a sacred duty to protect it.

  Honor. Always.

  He parried the prince’s steel and pressed his attack.

  “Why does that not surprise me?” von Vennigan asked, stepping back under the onslaught.

  “My honor is legendary. I have a reputation as a ‘Perfect Gentleman,’ ” Brandon recited.

  One that, in his own eyes, was slipping away with every glance in Sophie’s direction, every traitorous erotic dream of her, every time he spoke to her, and every time he wished to kiss her.

  In other words, he was becoming less of a Perfect Gentleman with every passing second.

  “Your reputation precedes you,” von Vennigan said. “Rather confining, isn’t it?”

  “Honor? Yes,” Brandon agreed. Occasionally it felt like a straightjacket or a ball and chain. One still bore it with dignity, however.

  “I meant one’s reputation, whatever it may be. I, for example, am known to be charming, flirtatious, and utterly rakish. Being a prince, I am forever expected to rescue fair maidens,” von Vennigan said, pressing forward with his sword, circling the duke’s in search of any advantage.

  Brandon would have rolled his eyes had it not been dangerous to do so.

  “If you are tired of being charming and flirtatious, I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Are you not going to ask me about rescuing fair maidens?”

  “No,” Brandon said. He did not care to discuss fair maidens, princes, or any of that romantic nonsense. “It’s your turn to answer. Action or honor?”

  “Action. I think it is more honorable,” von Vennigan answered.

  “That you must explain,” Brandon said, for he was intrigued.

  “Often, it is more difficult to act than to remain passive. Action requires thought. One must determine the best course, then one must overcome inertia and find the strength to put thought to action,” von Vennigan said casually.

  With a speed that gave lie to the laziness in his voice, he lunged forward, catching Brandon with a ringing blow to his hand guard that the duke was barely able to turn in time.

  “It is simply more complex,” von Vennigan said succinctly, knowing that if his point had not found its mark, his words had.

  “Indeed.”

  “I think the weak and ignorant are passive. Honor is often passive,” von Vennigan continued.

  “And when it’s not?”

  “It’s action.”

  “I suspect that your argument is flawed and illogical,” Brandon said.

  “The point remains, however, that my honor compels me to act. Yours compels you to be still. I probably should have asked which was more noble, action or restraint, and our conversation might have been much the same,” von Vennigan answered.

  The parrying continued with the sound of steel clashing against steel echoing around the Spartan room.

  Brandon did not like von Vennigan’s insinuations that he was a coward. Had they not already been fighting, Brandon might have challenged him just to prove a point.

  “Nothing to say to that?” von Vennigan reiterated.

  “If my honor didn’t compel me to inaction, as you are suggesting, I’d tell you to go to hell.”

  Von Vennigan’s laughter was short lived. Brandon renewed his attack with a vigor that clearly surprised his opponent.

  Brandon was covered in sweat from the exertions, deeply irritated by this Bavarian’s conversation and presence in his life, angry at the confining contract he had drawn up and signed, and fueled by masses of pent-up lust for a woman he might never touch.

&n
bsp; Even here, now, she was in his thoughts.

  Brandon lunged clumsily and von Vennigan forced his blade to the floor with such force that it splintered, leaving Brandon with a shorter but far more deadly blade in his grasp. He slammed his foot onto the flat of the prince’s weapon, forcing him to the floor.

  Brandon stood above him with the razor-sharp shard of steel pointed at the young prince’s chest. His life was there for the taking, should Brandon care for it.

  “It is my honor that restrains me from finishing you off.”

  Chapter 31

  The Duke’s Study

  Hamilton House

  His honor, his honor, his damned, damned honor. It all came back to that, did it not? Brandon had found no satisfaction from his match with von Vennigan. He paced his study like an exotic animal in a cage, full of unleashed fury and frustration.

  Sophie—he wanted Sophie. He craved her, against all of his best intentions and better judgment. He couldn’t and shouldn’t see her because of his honor, his honor, his damned honor.

  Damn his honor.

  He needed to see her. There was a new opera debuting at Vauxhall tomorrow night, providing the perfect occasion for him to see her discreetly. In the end, he sent her a note that read:

  Meet me at the grove in Vauxhall tomorrow night, eight o’clock.

  —Brandon

  Clarissa’s Bedroom

  Richmond House, London

  She clasped the latest note from him to her heart for merely a second before she just had to read it again:

  My darling Clarissa,

  I must see you. Meet me by the supper boxes in Vauxhall tomorrow night, 8:00.

  Passionately yours,

  Frederick

  Chapter 32

  Five days before the wedding . . .

  Vauxhall Gardens

  Sophie had answered Brandon’s note with a resounding yes. She dared to hope he would confess his love, or ask her to run away with him. She tried on every dress she owned before settling on a forest green gown. She counted the hours, and the minutes, and even the seconds until they were to meet.