by Maya Rodale
“What was that?” Lady Richmond demanded, and Sophie nearly shrieked from the shock of the other duchess’s unexpected approach. She hadn’t heard her at all. Suddenly, Sophie and Clarissa were surrounded. With one illicit proposal letter from a prince stashed away.
“Hand it to me, please, Clarissa. Pray, do not make me ask twice,” her mother ordered. The footmen and maidservants greatly slowed the pace of their work and ceased their chatter to divert their attentions from the unfolding scene.
“It’s nothing, Mother.” Clarissa was, as one might expect, a terrible liar. She stared at the floor, and colored up tremendously.
“Then you’ll have no qualms about giving it to me,” Lady Richmond declared. Her voice echoed off the gleaming parquet floors and the high ceiling. The acoustics in this room are remarkable, Sophie thought.
“Really, it’s insignificant, Mother. No need to concern yourself,” Clarissa mumbled. Sophie bit her lip.
“Lady Richmond, I’m sure it’s nothing to fuss about,” Lady Hamilton said in a very duchesslike voice: commanding but absolutely gracious.
“I’ll thank you to tend to your children and leave me to mine,” Lady Richmond snapped, apparently impervious to commands from her peers. And then she turned her attention back to her daughter. With only a Look—a very strong, terrifying look that made even Sophie wilt a little, she obtained the obedience she sought.
Clarissa, with tears in her eyes—from sadness, defeat, and mortification—handed over the letter.
“ ‘My darling, la, la, la. Marry me, la, la. Yours with everlasting love, Frederick.’ A marriage proposal?” Lady Richmond questioned, looking accusingly at her daughter.
“It’s mine. It’s to me,” Sophie blurted out.
“Miss Harlow, do you mistake me for an idiot?”
Sophie declined to provide an answer.
“Ah, smart enough not to answer that. I know very well that Frederick is that blasted Bavarian that keeps waltzing with my daughter, who I only tolerate because he is the toast of society and it would look bad to make a fuss about it—even though a Bavarian murdered my father. I do not hold them in high esteem.”
“Mother—” Clarissa said.
“Lady Hamilton, I am mortified that you had to witness this episode. Clarissa will pen her refusal this very moment.”
“What if she wishes to accept?” Lady Hamilton asked, casually fanning herself. This perplexed Sophie.
“I assure you she does not.”
“She might,” Sophie said, daring to enter the conversation.
“You have ulterior motives in this, and thus, cannot be trusted,” Lady Richmond said dismissively.
“I’m most interested in Clarissa’s feelings,” Lady Hamilton said, and then she turned to her. “Dear, do you wish to marry Frederick?”
Clarissa nodded yes while refusing to look up from the floor.
“How dare you,” her mother hissed.
“Why, Lady Richmond, can she not marry a prince? He outranks my son. He is wealthier than my son. She obviously cares for him more than my son.”
“The Richmonds are an English family and have been for generations. They live here, marry here, procreate here, and die here . . . with other English,” Lady Richmond said, and Sophie was taken aback by her lack of tolerance for anything non-English (other than, one had to presume, French fashions).
The duchess continued: “The Richmonds keep their word and honor their commitments. They do not embarrass themselves with scandalous affairs with longhaired foreigners. They do not refuse sound matches for a little thing like love, which shall fade and lead to the ruin of us all. They put their family first, above themselves.”
Lady Richmond took a heaving breath after venting her spleen. It was surprising to witness such an outburst.
“Hmmm,” Lady Hamilton murmured. Sophie suspected that she did not quite agree, and probably did not wish to provoke her further.
“Clarissa, you are writing a refusal,” Lady Richmond reminded.
“Mother, please don’t make me do this,” Clarissa gasped as she choked on her tears. “Please, Mamma.”
The duchess stood still, unyielding and impervious to her daughter’s pleas. Clarissa was sobbing now, creating quite the scene.
The servants looked away and Lady Hamilton stroked Clarissa’s back. Sophie took her hand and stared at Lady Richmond wondering how on earth she could be so unmoved by her daughter’s heartfelt and heart-wrenching sobs. It struck her as downright unnatural.
“You may do it now or you may do it at home. But you will refuse him.”
Sophie watched, tense and on edge, because her own heart was on the line, too. She was hopeful when Clarissa lifted her chin and swiped the tears away with the back of her hands.
“Fine,” Clarissa said, and picked up the pen. She spoke aloud, and her voice echoed for all to hear, as she wrote,
“My darling Frederick, My horrible mother insists that I refuse you. You have my love, my heart, and my desperate pleas that you shall rescue me. Yours, Clarissa.”
She handed it to a very shocked Sophie.
“You are the only one I trust to deliver this,” Clarissa said.
“Absolutely. Even if I must deliver the message to him verbally,” Sophie said. She hoped that von Vennigan was as dashing, romantic, and heroic as he seemed. Perhaps he would whisk Clarissa away, so they might live happily ever after in Bavaria and then Brandon would be free to be her hero.
“You, Miss Harlow, are an ungrateful, low-class, impertinent hussy and I rue the day I invited you to participate in my daughter’s wedding,” Lady Richmond informed her. It was a very understandable sentiment, and one Sophie elected not to respond to. “My ungrateful, wretched daughter and I will depart. Terribly sorry for the scene, Lady Hamilton. We’ll return on the morrow to complete the preparations for the wedding, which will go on as planned.”
Sophie immediately sent the letter to von Vennigan. She then related the entire tale to Julianna who offered to pepper her column with unflattering rumors about Lady Richmond, and declared that this pretty much cleared up the matter of who would marry whom. In other words, Sophie should plan on writing an excruciating, gut-wrenching version of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life” which did not, actually, detail Miss Harlow’s own marriage in either high or low life.
Even with the dramatic turn of events this afternoon, Annabelle’s advice to Sophie to speak to Brandon had not been forgotten. She did have questions about his intentions, especially in light of Frederick’s proposal, and she deserved answers. After pacing and debating, she wrote him a note. “I must speak to you. Urgently. Yours, Sophie.”
Chapter 39
Within the hour, Brandon’s carriage was outside of her door and it was too late to second-guess herself. Sophie had questions, and now she would obtain answers. With a fleeting prayer that she would receive answers she liked, Sophie climbed into his carriage.
“Where are we going?” she asked, hoping he would say Gretna Green.
“I thought we’d drive around town. This was the only private, discreet place I could think for us to meet,” Brandon explained.
“Perfect,” she said. She was nervous to be alone with him, even after all this time.
It was dusk outside, and rather dark inside the carriage, though a little periwinkle light shone through the windows providing sufficient illumination for her to see Brandon.
Oh, he took her breath away with his green eyes, noble nose, the strong line of his jaw, and his mouth. Oh God, his mouth and his kiss. Knowing it made her crave it all the more. His posture was perfect and she wished to crawl onto his lap and be clasped in his arms.
“What did you need to speak to me about?” he asked.
“So many things,” Sophie said. “Have you heard from your mother?”<
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“I have not. She’s engrossed in some book and took a tray in her room for supper.”
“You missed a very dramatic scene this afternoon, in which Clarissa was caught with a letter from von Vennigan by her mother and yours.”
“What did the letter say?” Brandon asked.
“He asked her to marry him.”
Brandon merely nodded, and Sophie did not know how to make sense of it. If he cared so little that another man had made such a blatant claim on his fiancée, then he really shouldn’t be marrying her at all. But then again, Sophie was biased. It was still remarkable, though.
Unless, of course, Brandon had already heard and already run von Vennigan through with his sword. Always an option.
“Her mother insisted she refuse. Your mother almost sounded as if she supported the match.”
“How so?” he asked, finally expressing some curiosity and interest in the matter. It was a very interesting matter, one in which their fates depended upon.
“She was the only one to ask Clarissa what she wanted, or what was so wrong with her marrying a man who outranked you, and was wealthier.”
“And much more handsome, talented, and charming,” Brandon deadpanned.
“I find you much more handsome than von Vennigan.” Or any other man. No one else made her feel so many things, and so intensely. Brandon made her feel like the brave, beautiful woman she’d always wanted to be. But then when he smiled at her, she felt shivers of delight. To laugh with him was divine. To touch him was heavenly, except for it being so very wicked. He had to feel all these things, too, she thought.
She wondered, again, How could he marry someone else?
“Thank you,” he said, and he offered a shy grin. Sophie forged on with the conversation.
“In the end, Clarissa was forced to write her refusal then and there. I was entrusted with the letter.”
“The affection they hold for each other is no secret,” Brandon said, stating the obvious. But what did he think of the situation or how did he feel about it all, and, for lord’s sake, was he going to do something or not?
Honestly, men—even one a woman was madly in love with—could be tremendously vexing. Though she was scared to initiate a conversation about them, she knew that she had to if it was going to be discussed at all.
“I’m more interested in the affection we have for each other,” Sophie said, and then rushed on nervously: “We do, do we not? Or am I the only one that feels this way?”
Her words drifted in the air, unanswered, for what seemed like an eternity before he finally said, “No, Sophie, I do as well.”
“I hate to pry,” she said, and he grinned faintly at the recollection of their first meeting. “Brandon, but I must know what your intentions are. Are you going to marry Clarissa? What is going to happen with us?”
A long silence ensued. Sophie looked out the window at all the people the carriage was passing and marveled at how they were blissfully unaware of the agonies she was enduring. She had asked him to state his intentions and hadn’t thought to fear that he might not have any to declare.
Within her gloves, her palms were becoming clammy. Her throat was tightening, breathing was a laborious activity, and she feared she would faint or cast up her accounts. In short, as she waited for Brandon to speak, she felt as she did at her own wedding and at every other one she attended.
She felt rejected. Unwanted. Unloved. So very alone.
Those weren’t feelings that could be soothed by her chant of “seamstress or servant, governess or mistress” because this had nothing to do with weddings, or being a Writing Girl, and everything to do with a lonely woman offering her heart and no one taking it.
“Brandon, I am beginning to panic,” Sophie managed to say, willing him to speak.
“I don’t know, Sophie,” he burst out. “I have feelings for you—feelings so intense that I am kept awake at night, and I question everything I’ve ever believed or held to be true. But I don’t want to have these feelings for you.”
“Why?” It was a whisper.
“Because love is the one thing that I cannot afford. Because it complicates things, and it makes what I fear I must do so damned hard. I am also a man of honor. You know that. I am not the kind of man that would jilt a woman. That is one of the things you like about me. I know that, too. I cannot win.”
“But she’ll marry von Vennigan . . .”
“Will she? Now that she’s refused him, will he still wish to have her?”
“He loves her,” Sophie said, as if that was enough. It was, was it not?
“But would he still wish to marry her if he knew of the masses of debt that she comes along with, or if he discovers certain secrets from her past that I hate, which I am privy to? Will he still want her then? And what of my sister making her debut next year? And what of my conscience? What of the life I had planned and wished for? A quiet life, uncomplicated by—”
“By love, or honor, or jealousy, or anything in the realm of feelings. Yes, I know,” she retorted. She made a note to ask later about the certain secrets from Clarissa’s past.
“You saw the list of qualities that I looked for in a wife,” Brandon said. “You knew all of this.”
Clarissa was cool, calm perfection. Sophie was a mess, a walking disaster, and a constant intrusion. She was the sort of woman a man dallied with, but did not marry.
It was clear that he was torn by trying to accommodate so many conflicting interests. As he said, here were more than feelings at stake. But it was also true that he wanted her, too. She knew he could provide no answers, and little consolation. She could push now, but she sensed she would not like the answer.
“I would like to go home now,” Sophie said. Brandon, ever the obliging gentleman, informed the driver even though she keenly wished that he would refuse and instead order the carriage to drive all the way to Gretna.
“We’ll find a solution, Sophie,” he said calmly.
“When? Your wedding is in two days’ time!” she cried.
“It’s not simple and I have a lot to consider,” he persisted. Oh, she knew that! She didn’t expect it to be easy, but was it too much to ask that he arrive at some course of action sooner rather than later?
All he had to do was follow his heart, she thought, but then she conceded that wasn’t such an easy thing when one had been ruled by his head for so long—and a very hard head, at that.
She also understood that in his position, as a man—as a head of a family, as a duke, as a powerful double duke—meant that he was delicately trying to balance competing interests, and often neglected to consider his own.
She also knew that as a powerful duke, no one spoke to him plainly and told him when he was being vexing, bullish, or simply wrong.
“You are hiding behind honor. I think it is cowardly, not heroic. I think that is just an excuse because you are afraid to trust von Vennigan, afraid to love me, and terrified to upset the order of things to do something for yourself for once.”
“I am a duke. Many people depend upon me. I do not have the liberty of doing something for myself.”
“Brandon, I have defied all expectations of what a woman has the freedom to do. I will not accept that excuse from a man, least of all a duke. If anyone can do whatever he pleases, it is you. But I shall not argue or debate this with you. If you can’t see this . . . then I cannot make you.”
The carriage stopped promptly at the perfect moment for her to make a grand exit. She reached for the latch to open the door. Brandon’s hand closed over hers.
If he kissed her now . . .
Involuntarily, her lips parted at the thought. If he kissed her now, she knew that it would not merely be a kiss, but that she would be thoroughly, utterly, wonderfully ravished in a carriage. Her skin tingled at the mere suggestion.
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She would finally be able to run her fingers through his hair, to slide her hands beneath the fabric of his shirt, and feel his heartbeat under her bare palm. They would be skin to skin, heart to heart. They would kiss, oh yes, for hours. Hot, frantic, delicious, and illicit kisses. Yet pleasure would tangle with uncertainty within her. Would it be the end? Or would duty compel him to make it their beginning?
Sophie felt herself leaning toward him slightly, involuntarily, and he was, too. His hand still covered hers, holding her captive.
A kiss seemed to be suspended in the air between them. One need only to lean forward a little more to find soft, yielding lips. Such a kiss would swiftly lead to an act that would not be lovemaking, but only another complication.
They had been so good.
If that was going to happen, she wanted it to be a consummation of their love, not a hurried, frantic affair in a carriage because they were overcome with passion and could not think clearly. They could do that later.
But his hand still covered hers, covering the latch, thus keeping her in.
“Brandon, I’m trying to make a grand exit here,” Sophie said frankly. That elicited a faint smile.
“This is not goodbye,” he said, and then he let her go, when she wished he would ask her to stay forever.
Chapter 40
Brandon ordered his driver to take him to White’s. A drink was absolutely in order. Upon his arrival, he took a seat in the back room, which was, thankfully, mostly empty save for a few second sons of minor lords playing a game of billiards. Lord Biddulph and Mitchell Twitchell were drinking and watching the billiards game, and occasionally absentmindedly rearranging the balls, to the great frustration of the players.
As he proceeded to consume an excessive amount of brandy, Brandon composed a list in his head:
Truths that must be acknowledged, though he desperately wished to avoid them:
1. He had been an ass during that carriage ride with Sophie. But he had felt as if he was on the rack, and the screws were tightening, and he must not confess at all costs.
