by Maya Rodale
“I’m sure they are lovely and, if not, they at least live in the country,” Lady Hamilton said. The carriage came to a stop in front of the shop.
“They are good people and they are not name-droppers.”
“Splendid. Wait here for a moment, until I will have taken Lady Richmond aside.”
Sophie remained in the carriage and tried to sort out the welter of thoughts and feelings storming around within her. One horrid thought kept bobbing to the surface: what if she was jilted at the altar again?
It would be so much worse this time because she loved Brandon so much more.
It would be so much worse because it wouldn’t happen in the tiny little church in the sleepy town of Chesham but in St. George’s of Hanover Square in front of two hundred members of the ton, with another large crowd outside.
The last time she’d just been Sophie Harlow, small-town girl. Now she was Miss Harlow of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life” of The London Weekly, the largest newspaper in London and thus the largest in the world. All the rival papers would relish the story of the wedding columnist that got jilted. Twice.
Sophie suspected that she wouldn’t be able to feel the slightest shred of embarrassment because the heartache of being rejected by Brandon would nullify her capacity to feel anything, ever again.
His hesitancy scared her, but it would not scare her off. She was sure they belonged together and she was hopeful that he would figure that out before it was too late.
But to be jilted again . . .
Oh, she would NOT be sick in the carriage.
And then she remembered that she was brave and that he admired her for that.
Brave, beautiful, Writing Girl Sophie emerged, scaring away the small-town, panic-prone version of herself.
The woman who had once before dared to go after a grand fate emerged from the carriage. She would dare to do it again.
She entered Madame Auteuil’s shop and quickly found Clarissa—standing in her wedding dress.
“If I have a plan for you to marry Frederick and for me to marry Brandon, would you do it?”
Clarissa continued to stand perfectly still while her hem was slightly altered and she considered Sophie’s question.
“I have always been so very good,” she said finally, and Sophie’s heart seemed to stop beating. “But if ever there was an occasion for disobedience, it is now.”
Sophie exhaled with relief and felt her heartbeat quicken.
“It will require me stealing your wedding, to an extent,” Sophie said, keeping her voice low.
“It’s my mother’s wedding, as she selected everything, and I couldn’t care less about it. Now, tell me what must be done.”
Sophie wasn’t sure what had occurred with Clarissa to make her readily agree when Sophie had been braced to convince her of the merits of this plan. She did not take time to question it. Instead, she whispered the details—the devilishly simple, unfathomably scandalous, potentially life-altering details—to Clarissa.
“But what if something goes wrong? And what about the carriage driver?”
Sophie whispered more instructions.
“I think I can do this,” Clarissa said finally. “Although I am already terrified.”
“I as well,” Sophie said. And then she reached out for Clarissa’s hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
“I’ll miss you, Sophie.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” she answered truthfully. They were from different circumstances, they lived in different worlds, and they had little in common except for a few very important things: Lord Brandon; illicit, secret love affairs; and, now, high-stakes gambling for a love match.
“And you must select a dress now,” Clarissa said, and urged her out of the dressing room. Sophie knew just the one.
But first, Lady Richmond took notice of her. “Miss Harlow, what are you doing here?”
“Good day, Lady Richmond. I have come to purchase a dress for the wedding tomorrow.”
“You are still attending?” she asked in disbelief, with a scowl upon her features.
“Unless you do not wish for it to be written about in the newspaper,” Sophie answered lightly, knowing full well that she very much did.
“Is there not someone else that could write about it?”
“No, there is not,” Sophie said proudly. The column was “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” She wrote it, and it belonged to her and no one else. And yet, on the spot, Sophie decided that tomorrow’s wedding would be the last one she reported on, whether she married Brandon or not.
Perhaps she could convince Mr. Knightly to allow her to write about ladies’ fashion. Or perhaps she would be a seamstress, servant, mistress, or governess after all.
Maybe, she might even be a duchess.
Sophie hadn’t considered it that way before. A tremor of fear at the magnitude of the events of the next twenty-four hours coursed through her.
“If you must, Miss Harlow,” Lady Richmond conceded. Her passion for social glory far surpassed her disdain for Sophie. “Do sit in the back, though, to save the prime seats for our more esteemed guests.”
Sophie merely nodded and turned away. She said hello to Lady Hamilton, as if they had not arrived together.
“Hello, Miss Harlow. I’m sorry that I cannot stay longer, but I have an urgent errand to take care of,” Lady Hamilton said with a wink. She was off to procure the special licenses.
Finally, Sophie had the attention of Madame Auteuil herself.
“You are here for a dress?” the modiste asked.
“Yes. How much is this one?” Sophie asked, gesturing to the gorgeous one she thought of as Her Dress. It was made of snow-white satin, which contrasted stunningly with her dark hair and eyes. On the bodice, hundreds of glass beads were sewn in, nearly covering the satin. They splayed out on the skirt, and intermingled with pearls. As before, it made her think of moonlight reflecting upon freshly fallen snow.
“For you? It is gratis,” Madame said with a smile.
“I’m sorry, I do not speak French,” Sophie answered, hoping that “gratis” was not a very large number.
“Free, my dear, for you.”
“No, you couldn’t possibly mean that!” Sophie exclaimed. Her mouth dropped open. Even in her wildest dreams, she had never considered free dresses.
“Absolutement! Since you have begun mentioning my shop in your columns, my business has increased tenfold. It is the least that I can do. Besides, I have watched you admire it for a month now.”
“I adore it,” Sophie said softly.
“Come on, try it on. We haven’t much time for alterations,” the modiste urged. An hour later, Sophie and Bessy and The Dress hailed a hackney to return them to 24 Bloomsbury Place.
Hamilton House
Later that afternoon
When Brandon returned from his errand to procure a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, his butler informed him that his sisters and their families were due to arrive shortly. Thus would commence the wedding celebrations. They would dine with the Richmonds this evening.
Brandon thanked the butler and retired to his study.
He had not actually seen the archbishop, because he was engaged with someone else, but he quickly provided the necessary document after being alerted to the urgency of the situation. After treating the clerk to his most haughty, lofty, ducal stare, Brandon had left with a license lacking any names.
Brandon set the incomplete special license on the desk, adding it to the growing pile of papers scattered all over the surface in no conceivable order. Not so long ago, the top of his desk was polished to a high gloss and devoid of clutter. His habit was to neatly sort his papers, which Spencer filed promptly. Lately, he had been too occupied with other things.
&n
bsp; Sophie. Something seized up in his chest at the thought of her.
Because of Sophie, he had woken up hungover, his desk was a mess, his mind uncertain, and his heart actually ached. His life was a disaster and he was a stranger to himself. All this disarray and confusion was her fault.
Brandon tried to recall how things were before Sophie, before that moment he looked into her smiling face and felt his breath knocked out of him.
He had been at his club, not drinking, thinking he knew better than everyone what it meant to be a gentleman, and wishing that he wasn’t so damned constrained by the dictates of everyone else all the damned time.
He had indulged in selfish behavior, just a little. And, as if he had allowed himself one sip and then finished the bottle, there had been no turning back. This was inevitable. She happened to be present at his weak moment, that was all. It was not Sophie’s fault.
Brandon did not care for the results of his overindulgence—his mind was muddled, his desk was a mess, and his life was a fiasco. Longing for calm, for order, for logic, for reason, for his damned head to stop throbbing overtook him.
Because he had brought this upon himself, it logically followed that he would be the one to sort it all out. Beginning with his desk was a capital idea.
Methodically, he began to sort through his papers. Parliamentary papers formed their own pile. Matters pertaining to his estate were another pile, and then those were ordered by estate (alphabetically, of course). There were stacks of personal correspondence, invitations, and legal documents. There were also personal notes and lists, namely, that troublesome list of Desirable Qualities in a Wife.
A review seemed prudent.
Attractive:
It would, as Sophie pointed out, be nice to look at a pleasant face across the breakfast table. He had been thinking more along the lines of bedding. Clarissa was beautiful, but he had no desire to touch her. But Sophie . . . he hardened at the thought of their naked limbs tangled as they made passionate love to each other.
Reasonable Intelligence:
Sophie was smart, well-educated, well-read and could certainly write, but she was far more than reasonably intelligent. She knew truly important things, like how to make him laugh, say just the right thing. She knew him. That was far more important than being able to maintain household accounts and find England on a map, which had been his original and inadequate definition.
Easy Temperament:
He had meant that she would not bother him. But he found his gaze settling on the door, and recollecting the memory of Sophie getting lost, entering, finding this list, and giving him her unsolicited opinions upon it. During that same interview, he had been sorely tested to wrestle her to the ground for this damned sheet of paper and have his way with her. Oh, she bothered him in every possible way. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind.
From a Distinguished Family:
This one had been included so that he didn’t think to consider any attractive, biddable servant in possession of a modicum of intelligence who would qualify. Brandon knew little of Sophie’s family, other than they were gentry in some small country town. Translation: they were respectable enough and not near enough to meddle. And as for Clarissa . . . She was not who she said she was, and he sincerely doubted that she even knew it. It was a secret that he would keep.
It was logical and reasonable to conclude, based upon this review of his list, that Sophie was, in fact, the perfect bride for him. She was a scandalous choice for a duchess for many reasons, but she would be a good one. More importantly, she would be a good wife and he would be happy with her. Because he l—.
No, not yet.
Brandon placed the list in a drawer and turned to the last remaining document requiring his attention: the special license. He filled in his own name on the place marked for the bridegroom.
As for the bride . . . he hesitated.
Sophie was the one for him, that he was certain of now. But could he, notoriously perfect, upstanding gentleman, cause what would surely be the scandal of the decade?
If von Vennigan did not marry Clarissa, she would certainly be a spinster. The Richmonds’ fates depended upon his wealth. They would attempt to sue him for breach of contract and he would either have to pay or blackmail them with that awful secret.
His reputation and the good name of his family would be blackened.
Charlotte, his younger unmarried sister, wouldn’t have a prayer of finding a suitable husband when the ton would have legitimate cause to suspect that she, like her elder brother, might cry off at the last possible minute.
Could he do it? Could he risk everyone’s fates so that he might marry Sophie?
There was a knock at the door.
“Your sisters, Amelia, Penelope, and Charlotte have arrived, as have their husbands and children,” a servant informed him. Brandon quit his study to greet them.
By the time he had arrived in the hall, his mother had returned. The front foyer, typically the quiet and stately domain of the butler—the one man more organized, orderly, and neat than Brandon—had become unrecognizable. There were massive piles of luggage, which footmen attended to. Shouts and exclamations echoed on the marble floors and off the epically high ceiling. There were embraces, tears of joy, small children running and shrieking. It was an explosion of activity.
It was rare that the family all gathered under one roof. Amelia and Penelope lived some distance far away, and for the past few years one or the other was in her confinement. It made it easy to forget what it was like. One by one his sisters launched themselves into his arms. He shook hands with his brothers-in-law. He made the acquaintance of his newest nephew, who promptly spit up on Brandon’s jacket.
The baby’s mother, Amelia, laughed and said she finally had her revenge for the time he pushed her in the mud, ruining her best dress. They had been seven and five, respectively.
At long last they were all together for their only brother’s wedding. They would celebrate with singing, dancing, feasting. It would begin tonight when the Richmonds would join them for the first supper uniting the two families.
Four hours later . . .
The Dining Room, Hamilton House
Dinner that evening took place under the glow of dozens of candles, with the warm light reflecting off the crystals and glass of the chandeliers. It illuminated the murals on the walls depicting epic battles in English history, the elaborate place settings comprised of all the very best silver, delicately etched glasses, precious china, fine linen and lace tablecloths, bouquets of pink and white tea roses, two attending servants per guest, and the clock.
Brandon had checked the hour four times before the first course had even been served. One hour and twenty-three minutes later, he was still in agonies.
At the far end of the table, the Duke of Richmond had engaged Amelia’s husband, John, Lord Brentford, in a discussion upon his preferred subject.
Above the murmurs of the ladies’ chatter, Brandon could just discern their conversation. Among Brentford’s many fine traits was that he was a good listener. That he was also genuinely interested in the subject, having land and horses of his own, meant that, for once, the duke had a suitable companion.
John asked questions. The duke answered at length.
“A stallion has two duties,” the duke lectured loudly. “Protection of the herd and mating, of course. Occasionally, however, he must be kept from the first in order to ensure the second. It can be lonely being a stallion at times, I should think.” Here he paused thoughtfully, and took a sip of wine while John nodded with interest.
Brandon thought the role of a man was much the same. It did not escape Brandon’s notice that the introduction of the Richmonds had greatly and obviously diminished the liveliness of his herd. He suspected that Sophie might integrate with much more success. It was something to consider.
Did he dare . . . ?
Brandon wondered where Sophie was at this very moment. Was she upset? Was she, heaven forbid, sobbing alone in her room? Or was she at the theater with Alistair, or waltzing with some other man? Merely considering any of those options pained him.
If she were here, they would certainly share sly smiles and winks and bite back laughter at the conversations and dynamics around them. Then again, if she were here, as his fiancée, the Richmonds would not be. There would be no talk of horses, no mention of prestigious friends—and there would be much more laughter.
If only . . .
Could he do it . . . ?
Brandon drummed his fingers on the table. She ought to be here, sitting next to him. He glanced at Clarissa, seated at his right-hand side. Her back was rigid, her hands were folded in her lap, and she was twisting the betrothal ring around and around. While she had responded politely to his attempts at conversation, she would not meet his eye. Even in the glow of candlelight, she seemed pale.
Sophie would be chattering away with him and everyone, and secretly holding his hand under the table. She was not terrified of him, as Clarissa seemed to be.
If only . . .
Did he dare . . . ?
Lady Richmond glowered at her husband’s conversation—when she wasn’t presenting faux smiles to his mother and sisters, who were nodding politely and murmuring “hmm” when Lady Richmond paused to breathe between mentioning her deep friendships with Lady Endicott and Lady Chesterfield. They nicely asked “Is that so?” when Lady Richmond mentioned the sweet gift that Lady Carrington gave to her. And they said “How wonderful for you” when Lady Richmond declared how blessed she was in her friendships. And then she proceeded to list them. Name after name . . .
Occasionally, Brandon received curious glances from his two oldest sisters. His mother was, by now, desensitized to Lady Richmond and her more grating qualities. Charlotte, however . . .
Charlotte was fiendishly amusing. She made him resent that he had to maintain an appearance of patriarchal foreboding for, dear God, how he wanted to laugh at her latest mischief:
