by Maya Rodale
Did von Vennigan truly love Clarissa, beyond her beauty? Brandon wasn’t sure, and how could he be when the man was a known jester, so often spouting poetry and philosophic rot about honor. Looking at him as he rubbed his shoulder, the prince did not seem in the mood for jokes now.
Would this prince still love her if he knew what Brandon knew?
He might love her, but would that be an honorable married love, or an illicit one? Or would von Vennigan set sail for his native land, alone, by sundown?
In short, Brandon doubted von Vennigan’s love for Clarissa. And he knew that she needed him in a way that Sophie did not.
But Sophie called to him. If Clarissa appealed to his brain, then Sophie tempted the rest of him. When she was near, it felt like his blood coursed faster, driven by a swiftly beating heart. Sophie was heartbeat and lust, the air in his lungs, and a feeling in his gut. How could he possibly live without her?
It was the final point. Both men labored up and down the floor, their swords weighing heavily in their hands, the sweat stinging their eyes. Brandon decided, against all rationality, to follow his teacher’s example. With what little energy remained, he feinted to von Vennigan’s inside left and then threw his body into a desperate flèche, arrowing his sword toward the prince’s chest. His sword jarred as it hit true and Brandon continued past the prince only to stop, panting a few paces beyond.
“It seems you can be a man of action when the circumstances demand,” von Vennigan said ruefully as he rubbed what would surely be a welt by morning.
Chapter 36
The Offices of The London Weekly
53 Fleet Street
Sophie had never been so overjoyed to attend a staff meeting. Knightly had no intention of firing her. In fact, he said he owed her. The paper had been doing well, but it hadn’t been the stellar success it was until she came in and gave him the idea to hire a woman and cause a scandal.
Irate duchesses were a dime a dozen, Mr. Knightly had said, but there were only four Writing Girls.
She had confided in Julianna about the events of the other night. Mostly. She had not mentioned the kisses because merely mentioning the long, private, moonlit walk had set her off on a lecture about propriety, decency, and yet another reminder that the man she loved was practically married to another woman.
The story of Matthew and Lavinia had been of great interest to her, however.
“Sophie had a chance encounter with Matthew and Lavinia,” Julianna informed the group, and repeated the story. Naturally, the Writing Girls asked what she was doing in the gardens at Vauxhall, and it wasn’t long before the entire story of Sophie’s magical evening had been told (minus the kisses; those she kept for herself).
“What is so sad to me is that we are so perfect together, and yet it seems that he is going to marry her,” Sophie explained. “I can’t understand how he can go through with it.”
“I thought we knew that he was going to marry Clarissa,” Eliza said.
“He can’t possibly cry off, and neither can she,” Julianna said.
“Julianna . . .” Annabelle murmured, wanting her to be supportive.
“He does not love her, and she loves another and neither of them believe in marriage for love. And Matthew told Brandon and me that he did not regret jilting me. So I hope that perhaps he would consider it,” Sophie said. And then he had kissed her passionately! Just when her hopes had been dashed utterly after that long conversation about his refusal to love, Brandon had kissed and restored her hope.
“It would be such a scandal,” Eliza remarked.
“The likes of which we’ve never seen,” Julianna repeated, smiling eagerly at the thought of it, and the exclusive she would land. Sophie turned away; this was about true love and the rest of her life, not about a gossip column.
“What, oh what, do I do, dear Annabelle?” Sophie asked. That was the problem—she did not know what to do now, and Brandon’s intentions were still unclear. She did not know when she would see him next, or speak to him.
“Have you spoken to the gentleman about the situation?” Annabelle asked.
“A little.”
Julianna’s brows shot up. Apparently, she thought it less serious than it was.
“Did you?” Eliza said, leaning in excitedly. “What did he say?”
“He said it’s complicated. I did not want to force the matter,” Sophie said, explaining why she did not have a more concrete answer. She wished Brandon would just come to his senses and say he loved her, and ask her to marry him—all without her initiating a truly intimate conversation.
“But Sophie, that awkward conversation might become the splendid moment he decides to marry you,” Annabelle pointed out. Sophie had not considered that.
“I should talk to him,” Sophie concluded.
“Yes,” Annabelle and Eliza answered in unison.
“That sounds rather sensible,” Sophie agreed. It sounded like a disaster.
“It is. Remember, I am expert advice-giver,” Annabelle said, smiling sweetly.
“I thought maybe I could have a near-death experience so that he might truly realize his love for me and that he cannot live without me. I shall recover and we’ll live happily ever after.” Sophie sighed.
“Talk to him,” Annabelle said firmly. Eliza, and even Julianna, nodded in agreement.
“Ladies first,” Knightly declared, as he always did at the beginning of a staff meeting. “Miss Harlow?”
“The third installment of the ‘Wedding of the Year’ has been completed.” She finished it early this morning with the notes previously provided by the Dragon Duchess herself. She’d had to rewrite it once, because her teardrops caused the ink to run on the first draft.
“See that you attend the wedding itself, by any means necessary,” Mr. Knightly told her with a firm stare.
“Yes, sir,” Sophie said with a sinking heart.
“What Fashionable Intelligence do we have this week?” he asked.
“Everyone is talking about The Duke of Hamilton and Brandon’s attentions to a certain Writing Girl. When they are not discussing that, the other favored topic is his fiancée’s affections toward the visiting Prince of Bavaria.”
“Love triangles, dukes, princes, The London Weekly’s Writing Girls. Well done, Miss Harlow. I love it. Miss Swift, your next column should offer advice, solicited or not, to the couples.”
“Of course, Mr. Knightly,” Annabelle said, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Miss Fielding, what is your angle?”
“I’m reporting on the efficacy of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections.”
“Is Miss Harlow one of your subjects?” Mr. Knightly jested.
“Yes. It doesn’t work,” Sophie declared.
The meeting went on, and Sophie had not paid attention to a minute of it. Three days until the wedding! It was not much time to change a man’s mind, or even to find the time to have a conversation to tell him her true feelings, which may or may not factor into his decision to marry Clarissa.
Perhaps these three days were best spent becoming accustomed to the idea of no more Brandon and addressing Clarissa as Lady Brandon. Her breath caught, and she struggled to breathe.
He couldn’t!
What about love?
He didn’t believe in love.
“Annabelle, what if I talk to him and he is still going to marry Clarissa?” Sophie whispered.
“Then you have to let him go,” Annabelle answered with an affectionate squeeze of Sophie’s palm. That was not what she wanted to hear, though she knew in her heart that it was the right thing to do.
Chapter 37
Later that evening
Clarissa’s Bedroom
It had been so long since Clarissa had last corresponded with Frederick. Her moth
er was refusing the letters; she knew, because she had taken to spying, and eavesdropping, and soliciting information from her maid, Nancy, who was not terribly forthcoming. She had also been unable to send letters. Her attempts had been thwarted and her writing supplies confiscated, except for one small, secret and dwindling stash.
Furthermore, her mother had insisted that she stay home and rest for The Big Day, which was only three days away.
It had been a miserable existence to live without word from Frederick. Was he worried for her? Did he miss her? Would he rescue her after all? Oh, how she wished he would simply steal into her room and carry her off in the night!
Nancy was currently styling her hair for this evening’s dinner honoring Marlborough’s military campaign in Germany. It was highly unlikely that a Bavarian prince would attend, and thus, Clarissa had little interest in it.
Clarissa’s gaze traveled away from her reflection in the mirror (the very image of a distressed, melancholic maiden), to the bottle of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections that had arrived with her breakfast tray. She had yet to sample it, but she had certainly considered it.
The Royal Society Dinner Commemorating Marlborough’s Campaign in Germany
Like everyone else in attendance, the elder Lady Richmond was clearly surprised to see a Bavarian prince at the dinner. He wouldn’t have gone, except that he desperately needed to see Clarissa. When he wasn’t watching her, which was most of the time, it did not escape his notice that her mother was hawkeyed in her attentions to Clarissa. Whenever Frederick dared to get close, she swooped in and made it impossible for him to come closer.
Brandon, the lucky, ungrateful bounder, did not leave Clarissa’s side. He had tried to but Lady Richmond always dove in with a dear, dear friend to be introduced to the couple.
Frederick slipped away from the drawing room and took a liberty with the hostess’s seating arrangements so that he was next to Clarissa and Lady Richmond was below the salt.
Alas, the hostess caught the violation of her sacred seating arrangement and fixed it before all the guests arrived in the dining room. Frederick found himself seated next to persons of no interest.
Instead of making conversation, he gazed intently at Clarissa. What had caused their sudden silence? What was happening in her heart?
She lifted her eyes away from her plate—she was not eating, darling little bird—and focused her gaze upon his. He thought he detected tears, but that might have been a trick of the candlelight. That he could not go to her, could not reach out to her, could not console her was utter anguish.
He despised this situation.
Clarissa touched her mouth—her sweet, gorgeous lips he had tasted in that soul-stunning kiss—with her fingertips, and he saw that the ink stains were gone. She had not been writing at all.
She had refused his letters. She had not written her own. And yet, he could read her face as if someone held a mirror up to his own.
“Clarissa, Lady Byrnham was asking about your wedding dress. Do describe it for her,” Lady Richmond cut in.
How, how, how, how was he supposed to stand idly by while she married another?
Frederick understood that Clarissa was, in a way, confined to a tower, stowed away from his grasp and his kiss.
With Clarissa’s attentions occupied elsewhere, if only for the moment, Lady Richmond darted a glance at Frederick. Upon catching his eye, she smirked, as if she had outsmarted him. As if she had won the battle. As if she was certain Frederick would never possess Clarissa because she was locked up.
Frederick excused himself. He proceeded directly to the host’s study, and availed himself of the writing supplies. A maid was liberally supplied with coins and clear instructions for the fate of the letter.
Chapter 38
Two days before the wedding . . .
Hamilton House
“No, no, no, no, NO! The orchestra should be on the other side of the room,” Lady Richmond said impatiently to one of the footmen. She fanned herself furiously because of the heat, and because of the sheer pressure of pulling off the perfect wedding for a couple that had little interest in each other, and even less in their big day.
Sophie hung back, trying to be as little noticed as possible. That she was still invited to participate in these proceedings was only because Lady Richmond’s quest for social fame and her name in the papers exceeded her loathing for a girl she perceived to be her daughter’s rival. Little did she know that she had selected the perfect husband for her daughter and for this scenario. The one who wouldn’t leave a woman.
Even if . . . Sophie sucked in a gulp of hot air, which did nothing to ease her feelings of suffocation. It was the heat, of course, and the fact that everyone and everything was proceeding as if the wedding were going to happen as planned. Clarissa would walk down the aisle, to where Brandon waited. They would promise to love, honor, cherish, etc, etc.
But . . . but . . . and yet . . . they couldn’t possibly . . . No, no, no, no, NO!
Sophie’s heart rebelled. Her stomach ached. And breathing—that was proving to be a challenge. How could they carry on? Clarissa didn’t love him, and Lady Richmond had to know about her daughter’s affections. Brandon did not love Clarissa, and . . .
That didn’t mean that he loved her. He hadn’t said it and he had told her frankly his thoughts about that tender emotion. If he wasn’t going to call off the wedding for love, why would he?
It wasn’t as if she possessed all four of his Desired Qualities in a Wife. She was a lowly, slightly scandalous, passably socially acceptable newspaper writer. Dukes didn’t marry women like that; if anything they set them up in little apartments with spending allowances and discreet late night visits.
Perhaps . . . oh, it ached to acknowledge this . . . perhaps he wasn’t going to leave Clarissa for her. Sophie could tell that he enjoyed her—in spite of himself. She could tell that he desired her—and that he didn’t want to.
But did he want her more than he wanted that calm, quiet, well-ordered life of his?
Sophie closed her eyes and willed such thoughts to cease.
Lady Hamilton was quietly and calmly meeting with the housekeeper. Clarissa had been put to work recounting replies to the invitations. Sophie wanted to talk to her, but every time she approached her, Lady Richmond asked a question about how this person had arranged the tables at their wedding breakfast or how many servants per guest so and so had, and all other sorts of distracting nonsense.
“This weather is horrible,” Lady Richmond complained, beating her fan at a fast clip. “The heat is unbearable.”
Everyone, duchesses and servants alike, nodded and muttered that, indeed, it was far too hot for comfort.
“Some more lemonade perhaps?” Sophie offered.
“It shall be my third glass, but I think I must,” Lady Richmond answered. Any minute now she would need to use the necessary and Sophie could have a frank conversation with Clarissa.
“No, no, no,” Lady Richmond corrected. “The potted palms should be centered between the windows.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” a footman mumbled as he and the others moved the heavy pots of palms a few inches in the other direction.
“I’d be so very appreciative if you could manage to do something right while I step out for a moment,” Lady Richmond said bitterly. She fanned herself furiously as she left the ballroom. Lady Hamilton pursed her lips disapprovingly.
Sophie set down her notebook and pencil on the sideboard and approached Clarissa, seated at the large, long dining table.
“We finally get a moment to chat,” Sophie whispered conspiratorially. “How are you today, Clarissa?”
“Oh, I’m fine. And you?” Clarissa said, and her voice wavered. She decidedly was not fine.
“As well as you are,” Sophie said.
“
So you are wretched, too?” Clarissa asked.
“Utterly,” Sophie sighed. And then Clarissa handed her a sheet of paper that had clearly been read and reread (and read and reread).
“You must advise me, Sophie.”
Sophie read the letter:
My darling,
I love you, and cannot live without you. Come away with me, as my bride. Your prince wishes to live happily ever after with his princess. Marry me, Clarissa.
Yours, with everlasting love,
Frederick
“Oh, Clarissa,” Sophie said with a heartfelt lilt in her voice. “He has proposed, and yet you look sad!”
“I must say no!” Clarissa said, and then there was a strange sound, as if she was choking back a sob. “I must refuse.”
“Because of Brandon?” Lady Hamilton glanced in their direction.
“That is not the only reason. There are delicate family matters that I mustn’t speak of, but they are . . . it makes it so that . . .”
“He’s a prince, Clarissa, and princes fix everything, no matter the problem,” Sophie said, because she knew about the decline of the Richmond fortunes but did not want to share her knowledge. “And he loves you. Everlastingly.”
“But what if it’s like Aunt Eleanor, what if it fades, and I’ve ruined everything and what if . . .” Clarissa whispered with panic.
Sophie, to her shame, wished to shake her and yell, “It’s true love! It can last forever!” She wanted to remind Clarissa that this was the escape plan that they both desperately needed if they wished to even attempt a happily ever after.
But one did not have an easy time being rebellious after a lifetime of blind obedience, and Sophie knew this was a large part of what was holding Clarissa back. Unfortunately, now was not the time to talk sense into her (the clock was ticking away), for out of the corner of her eye, Sophie saw Lady Hamilton walking toward them. Sophie turned back to Clarissa, who swiftly snatched the letter and stuffed it into her bodice.
