by Maya Rodale
“Thank you,” Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher responded in unison.
An awkward silence reigned. Matthew cleared his throat. Lavinia smoothed her skirts. Brandon stroked her lower back. Sophie had a dozen questions to ask, all of them rude, and thus she bit her tongue.
“Well, it was nice to encounter you like this. Quite surprising and nice,” Matthew said, and Lavinia smiled, nodding. They were about to walk away and Sophie would likely never see them again, nor get the chance to ask even one of those dozen inappropriate questions.
“Before you go,” she blurted out, “I have a shockingly forward question for both of you, and I sincerely wish for an honest answer.”
“Sophie . . .” Matthew said, visibly uncomfortable. “Now might not be the best occasion for this.”
“Matthew, you jilted me on our wedding day, subjecting me to extreme mortification, and a life-altering inconvenience. I’m sure you have a moment to answer a question of mine.”
“Of course,” Matthew acquiesced. Lavinia nodded. Sophie resisted the urge to say, “I thought so.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brandon subdue a grin.
“Did you regret leaving me, Matthew? Lavinia, have you felt any regret for stealing him?”
They were silent at first. It was a long silence, more awkward than the first.
Matthew toyed with the buttons on his waistcoat. Still, he had not broken his nervous habit. Lavinia noticed, and took his hand in hers. Sophie wondered why she had never thought to do that for him.
“I know it’s so very unpleasant of me to ask, but I shall be vexed with myself for the rest of my life if I do not take this opportunity.”
“I understand perfectly,” Lavinia said. “I had no prior knowledge of Matthew’s actions. He came to me afterward and explained what he had done. My heart did ache for you and I absolutely took him to task for the manner in which he, ah, conducted the conversation. I am so very sorry that we hurt you. It was not our finest hour.”
To reiterate her point, she turned and smacked him on the shoulder. Matthew flinched, but did not complain. Sophie smiled wryly.
“And yet,” Lavinia continued, her tone gentle. “I felt, and still feel, that he is the man for me. I could not let him go.”
Sophie nodded. She understood. “Matthew?”
“Sometimes, Sophie, I wonder how things might have been if I had gone through with the ceremony,” Matthew began. “We’d be married, obviously. We’d probably have a baby by now. We’d still be in Chesham—I would have never traveled and you would have never gone to London.”
“You don’t regret it at all,” Sophie said plainly.
“I hate how I hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. Deeply, deeply sorry. But I don’t think I would have been happy with the life we had planned and I am very happy now. In short, I regret the hurt I have caused you but I do not regret my choice.” Matthew punctuated this by clasping Lavinia’s hand. His wife.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Sophie said, and though she felt quite numb at the moment—surprisingly—she recognized a gift.
All of them were eager to move on, so goodbyes were quickly said. With that, Matthew Fletcher vanished from her life once more.
Brandon handed her a handkerchief, but, oddly enough, her eyes were dry. It was the shock, most likely. Or her store of tears for Matthew Fletcher had been exhausted long ago. It had been some time since she missed him.
“He’s not sorry,” she repeated, once they had walked a suitable distance. She had to say it again. She hoped that Matthew burned with remorse, and expected a small measure of regret. She was shocked he did not, and confused as to what Brandon might think of it all.
“He’s not sorry that he left me. He’s not sorry that he left one woman for another,” she echoed again.
Good sense had deserted Brandon when he had invited her to walk with him. He was compelled by a mad and wild desire to take the woman he desired far into the gardens of Vauxhall, to a secluded space that declared ROMANCE and SEDUCTION.
He’s not sorry.
Brandon stepped off the path and brought Sophie with him, only pausing when he’d found a suitably private area. It was shaded by trees and hidden with tall hedges. He turned to face her. There was just enough moonlight for him to see the deep pink of her lips, her smooth, pale skin. She looked into his eyes in a way no one ever had and, he suspected, ever would.
He did not regret it . . .
He wanted her so much that staying away from her was the great and only failure of his renowned and usually reliable self-control.
Brandon reminded himself that he was a gentleman.
In that moment, for the first time, Brandon absolutely understood the saying, An English gentleman is someone who knows exactly when to stop being one.
This was that moment.
Brandon pressed his mouth to hers.
And then he knew what it felt like to be swept away, to lose oneself, to surrender, to fully ignore logic and reason in favor of tasting, touching, and kissing a woman he couldn’t have, but could not let go of. It felt like a rush of heat, it felt unreal and unbelievable, and it felt like he was suspended between two worlds.
They could be discovered at any second. Hundreds of people were strolling along these same pathways.
But he wasn’t thinking. For once, he allowed those strange things called feelings full supremacy. And thus he was only aware of darkness; the sweet, intoxicating scent of Sophie, like roses and woman. Faintly, he heard strangers talking and walking nearby, but mostly he heard the roaring of blood coursing through his veins and his heart thundering.
Her lips were soft and tender under his. As gently as he could manage, he urged her to open to him. Her lips parted, his heart thudded hard.
The last remaining shreds of his self-control were devoted to preventing him from completely plundering and ravishing her, for now that he had allowed himself to let go this far . . .
No, this could be all they would ever have.
She tasted sweet and wild and like something he could never possess. He explored the contours of her mouth, and his tongue tangled with hers, save for when he urgently needed to nibble upon her plump bottom lip. And then he urgently needed to taste her again, so he did. Brandon sunk his fingers into her mass of soft curls to cradle her head and hold her close, and he wondered how he would ever let go. He banished the thought and focused upon Sophie, upon her delicious mouth, and her wicked and wonderful kiss tempting him to abandon everything for her.
“Sophie,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she answered.
When his lips had pressed against hers, Sophie’s heart had slammed in her chest: This One!
She swiftly bowed to the perfect pressure of his mouth upon hers, and parted her lips. She was surprised, she was hot with desire, and she wanted to give him everything, or, the one thing the double duke in possession of numerous estates and unimaginable wealth did not have: Her. Her love.
The kiss deepened. Sophie arched her back, pressing closer to him, because it was impossible to be too close.
She vaguely recalled that they were in public and might be found at any second. The thought, and its attending fear, passed when he cradled her head with his strong hand, but then let go to trace his hand along her breasts, the dip of her waist, her hip, and back again, leaving a trail of heated skin that tingled, desiring more.
She moaned softly, and he captured the sound with his kiss. She reached up to run her fingers through his hair, mussing it up as she had longed to do the first day they met.
She pulled him to her. He did not resist.
“Oh, Sophie,” he murmured.
“I know,” she whispered. Some things were too perfect.
With this kiss, she gave herself up to him, and he pleasured her with his mouth, and the way his han
ds roamed over her, and she thought she’d explode from all the deliciously wicked sensations.
She grasped a handful of the fabric of his shirt because she needed to hold on to something before she was completely lost. His kiss was hot, strong, and sure. She’d never experienced anything like it and she’d give anything to be able to kiss him forever.
The kiss came to an end, as all good things must.
“What are we doing here?” Sophie asked.
“My desires are not honorable,” he said, and she turned her head to look at him. He looked her in the eye. “Though my intentions are.”
“You desire me, though you will not—” Sophie started. Take me, have me, kiss me, love me . . . She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.
“I want you, but I cannot,” Brandon said. He opened his eyes—gray green like a field on a cloudy day—and he gazed upon her. “I have reasons, Sophie. It’s not just about me.”
She knew this feeling—the little cracks in one’s heart, multiplying so quickly that a small cut suddenly turns into a big wound and hurts accordingly.
“It’s almost quite funny,” Sophie remarked. “On my ill-fated wedding day, I vowed—to myself, mind you—that I would find an honorable man, a reliable man, a man who would not jilt a girl.”
“And you did.”
“Funny how the universe works,” Sophie said, finding it not at all funny in this moment.
“Uproariously hilarious,” he said dryly. They understood each other, then. She smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The smile he returned to her was the same.
It was clear—he would marry Clarissa, and he would not marry Sophie. That was not a thought that she could dwell on presently—perhaps later, in a dark room with a thousand handkerchiefs.
How could he possibly marry anyone else after that kiss?
Honestly, it was unimaginable.
She could ask him why, but she knew he could offer her no answer that she would like. Besides, he had, in so many words, explained it to her.
He didn’t love her, couldn’t love her, or was afraid to love her. He had the dukedom to consider, and his reputation as a man of honor. Knowing him, he likely had a list of Reasons Why He Must Not Marry Sophie.
She did not care to hear them. In the end, she said, “It’s getting late. We ought to return.”
They stood and walked in the direction they had come from.
This situation was a mess and had all the makings of a spectacular disaster, and she would have to report it all. She had managed the first week. The second installment had been hard, but this one would surely make her heart hurt and her stomach ache. She could not even fathom having to write the fourth, and final, installment.
Provided, of course, that she did not lose her position.
Sophie sighed at the thought. Brandon took her hand in his. Just before they came to the end of the path, he ducked into another alcove and pulled her with him.
Lord Brandon dared to kiss her once more.
This kiss was fierce, and urgent, and quite possibly the last one. His mouth was hot and passionate upon hers. She sucked on his bottom lip, he groaned. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and she sighed.
She placed her hands upon his chest, as if to steady herself, and she felt his heart pounding. Hers was beating in triple time. She felt faint, and she wanted to cry because this was too magical, too exquisite, and too damned perfect. Sophie didn’t have much experience, but she knew that kisses like these did not come along every day. Because they did not, she kept her tears in check and kissed him thoroughly, with all of her wild, fiery desire.
Brandon enfolded her in his arms, and kissed her back with a passion to match.
And then this kiss, too, came to an end. They could not spend all night together. She bid him goodnight, but not goodbye.
Sophie emerged from the garden paths, alone. Brandon would wait there until a suitable time elapsed. She cursed every minute they had to stay apart for the sake of propriety, for decency, and because he was a stubborn fool who refused to fall in love with her.
She wove her way through the crowds and unintentionally stumbled upon a horrible sight: Mr. Knightly in conversation with Lady Richmond, while Clarissa stood by her.
Sophie’s heart leapt into her throat and stuck there. While she was debating whether or not to join them, the duchess spied her.
“There she is! Ask her where she has been, and who she was with,” she huffed.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, you seem to have me confused with someone who cares. I am her employer, not her parent or guardian,” Mr. Knightly informed an increasingly enraged duchess.
Sophie’s panic subsided. Slightly.
“I could have you banned from the best society,” Lady Richmond hissed.
“I have yet to be welcomed anyway,” Mr. Knightly remarked.
“I demand she be taken off the story,” Lady Richmond demanded. Clarissa’s eyes widened.
Sophie held her breath and resumed her internal panicking. Clammy palms—yes. Aching stomach—affirmative. Labored breathing—indeed. Urge to cry—absolutely. Making lists like the man she loved?—Oh, dear.
“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Mr. Knightly said evenly. Sophie exhaled. He caught her eye and nodded, but she didn’t understand it.
“Then I shall take my story to The Times,” the dragon duchess threatened. Sophie thought she might be sick.
“By all means do so, Lady Richmond,” Knightly said, much to Sophie’s surprise.
But then he grinned and said, “Nothing like a high-class wedding covered by a second-class newspaper.”
Lady Richmond pursed her lips, and turned her back to him. His aspirations to be welcomed by the aristocracy had just suffered a tremendous setback.
Then the dragon duchess focused her narrowed eyes upon Sophie.
Obviously, she was trying to decide what she wanted more: Sophie off the story, or the story in the best paper.
Sophie held her breath.
Chapter 34
Later that evening
Clarissa finally understood the sonnets and the dramas, and all the other love stories—for love had happened to her at last. It came in the form of a letter, and a kiss, and a Bavarian prince.
That kiss! Oh! In the carriage ride home, she relived it again, instead of listening to her mother.
He had held her cheeks, and she had liked that. His lips were soft, and feeling them against her own set off strange and delightful sensations within her. And then when his tongue slid past her lips to make it more intimate she felt, for the first time, a little bit wicked. It was surprisingly delightful.
It was also another reminder that something had to be done about her fiancé—and their wedding day.
With Frederick’s kiss still burning on her lips, Clarissa vowed to confront her mother and father before they retired.
“I had the loveliest time talking to Lady Bickford about flowers for your wedding. We must, I think, reconsider the lilacs. And did you see Lady Millicent Merritt wore a dress that was quite the wrong shade of red for her,” her mother said, handing her rabbit-fur wrap to a maid and proceeding into the drawing room.
Her father sat by the fire, smoking his pipe and resting his muddy boots on a small footrest. He must have been out in the stables until late. It was his usual position; something seemed different about the room, though Clarissa could not discern what had changed.
“Mother, Father. I need to ask you something,” she started.
“And then Lord Radley . . .” she continued, apparently not having heard Clarissa. As Lady Richmond nattered on, she strolled around the room, readjusting the frame on a picture, brushing lint off the upholstery, and picking up the few remaining knickknacks, examining them and set
ting them back down.
“Mother,” she said firmly, in a higher volume than before.
“Yes, dear. What is it?” she said absentmindedly.
“Must I marry Lord Brandon?” The words tumbled out, and upon saying them, Clarissa realized she had waited a long time to release them.
“I beg your pardon?”
Her father removed his pipe and looked at her curiously.
“Is it imperative that I marry Lord Brandon?” Clarissa repeated.
“Is it imperative that you marry Lord Brandon?” her mother echoed. And then she exploded: “Of course it’s bloody imperative that you marry him! You are betrothed. The contracts are signed and the invitations have been sent.”
“But, Mother . . .”
“You will marry him and do you know why? Because the fortunes of this family depend upon it. We are broke, Clarissa, utterly broke. Have you not noticed that half the paintings in this room have been sold?”
Now she saw what was different about the room: half the paintings had been removed and the remaining ones had been rearranged to cover the losses.
“And all because of your father’s stupid horses,” her mother said meanly, with a glare in the direction of the duke, who continued to calmly smoke his pipe.
“Your dresses cost a pretty penny, too, madam.”
“Those are investment pieces and what would you know of any of it, spending all your time in the barn?” she snapped, and then turned back to her daughter. “I have selected a good husband for you. I can’t believe you would be so ungrateful as to refuse him. And at this late date!”
“But I don’t love him!” Clarissa cried.
“That is irrelevant,” Lady Richmond declared.
“I don’t think it is,” Clarissa said, stomping her slippered foot on the carpet (at least that had remained) to no effect.
“Your opinion is of no consequence,” Lady Richmond shrilled, and Clarissa had to agree with her, though she wished it weren’t so. “It’s done, Clarissa, done!”
And then, from somewhere deep within her, a courage that she hadn’t known herself to persist, emerged in one defiant syllable: “No.”
