Yet, that worm of unease continued to make his belly feel slightly ill.
When the coach arrived at the Bersard residence, David ordered his coachman to stop a small distance away from the townhouse. Not quite wanting to step out into the chilly wind again, David sat inside and watched, not even certain what it was he was watching for.
Still, his gut told him something was not right, and one way of discovering exactly what was wrong was to watch, wait, and see. After an hour passed, he thought himself a fool, for what could he see by staring at the front door?
Just before he ordered his coachman to drive him to his own house, another carriage drove up the drive to the Bersard townhouse, and stopped. David held his breath—he recognized that coach. It belonged to none other than the Duke of Wellingson.
Sure enough, Lady Sophia alighted and hurried up the steps to knock on the door, her lady’s maid behind her. She was admitted immediately, and vanished inside, the door closing the moment she did.
“Now what in the devil?” David asked himself, rubbing his jaw with his fingers. “Lady Alicia and Lady Sophia are rivals for Bersard. Except Lady Alicia loves me and wants to marry me. What does the Dowager Duchess have to gain by asking both of them to her house?”
The thought struck him between the eyes. “Lady Sophia came to see her betrothed. To find Lady Alicia there might give her the wrong idea.”
He realized that perhaps all this was a coincidence, and that Bersard was in there, waiting to see his fiancée. Lady Sophia brought her chaperone so she might visit him properly. Lady Alicia was invited to attend her mother visiting her friend, the Dowager Duchess.
David did not have enough evidence that something scandalous was going on just by watching the Bersard property. However, the uneasiness in his stomach did not go away by his reasoning. David learned long ago that his instincts for trouble were seldom wrong.
However, sitting and staring at the house accomplished nothing. Tapping on the roof of the carriage garnered his coachman’s attention. “Take me home,” he called.
The coachman snapped his whip over the team, and the coach lurched sharply before rolling smoothly down the lane. As he passed the Bersard’s townhouse, he caught a fast glimpse of Lady Sophia leaving through the front door.
Though he could not be certain, it appeared to him that she was close to tears.
Sophia had never been more humiliated in her life.
Hurrying down the steps to her carriage, Erin behind her, she recalled Wesley’s words to her before he left her home the evening he came to dinner: Stop by anytime, Sophia, I will be home a great deal, as Parliament is in recess.
Taking him at his word, she stopped by his home, hoping to pay him a visit, and who did she find?
Lady Alicia Keaton.
Hot jealousy seared Sophia’s blood as she recalled being escorted to the parlor by the butler, the door opening, and Wesley smiling, laughing, with that worthless chit while both their mothers looked on happily.
Embarrassed, Sophia struggled to find the right words, to not stammer. “I, er, thought to pay a visit, Your Grace. As you had asked.”
She remembered the blush heating Wesley’s face, the rapid surge of anger that followed his hot flush of embarrassment. No doubt that anger was directed at her, his embarrassment at being caught in his infidelity. Sophia wanted to weep at the recollection of both their mothers’ expressions—triumph.
Spinning on her heel, Sophia stormed from the house, refusing to acknowledge Wesley calling her name, rushing across the foyer before his footsteps caught up to her. Tears blurred her eyes as she climbed into her coach, Erin with her, ignoring Wesley’s pleas for her to stop, to let him explain. Her coachman drove her away even as her tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I am such a fool,” Sophia sobbed. “I fell into his games. His mother was right.”
“No, m’lady,” Erin said, trying to soothe her. “You are not a fool. You are too smart.”
“He played me false,” Sophia wept, burying her face in her handkerchief.
“Did he?” Erin asked. “I saw nothing that should not be, m’lady. Your fiancé did chat with a guest, not alone as there were two chaperones. Had your positions been reversed, would you not also be polite to a guest, even though he be a gentleman?”
Sophia swallowed her tears, and wiped her face. “You think that was all, Erin?” she asked, hope filling her. “He merely laughed and chatted with a guest, not my replacement?”
“As I said, I speak of what I saw, m’lady. I saw His Grace being polite to a visitor, even if that visitor was a woman, a high-born lady.”
Clutching the damp handkerchief, Sophia stared out the window. “I saw his embarrassment, his anger, at being caught out. That is what made me flee. What caused my hurt.”
“Perhaps he was embarrassed and angry,” Erin said softly. “But not for the reasons you may believe.”
Erin’s encouraging words held her until she reached home, and walked into the foyer, the warmth inside soothing both her chilled flesh and her emotions. Until Williams bowed to her with a letter on a silver tray.
“This came for you while you were out, My Lady.”
Hoping it was from Wesley, though how could his letter reach her before she arrived home she had no idea, Sophia eagerly tore the paper open, void of any return name and address. In a hand she did not recognize she read:
My Lady Sophia Appleton, greetings.
I write to you to warn you that your beloved Duke of Bersard, is madly in love with Lady Alicia Keaton. He needs your father’s wealth and connections, thus he plans to wed you publicly and properly.
He will keep Lady Alicia as his willing mistress, as she shares his love and ambitions.
I write this warning anonymously, but you must believe it to be truthful, and in your best interests. I beg you, for your sake, do not marry Wesley Fifett, the Duke of Bersard.
Shocked to her core, stunned and emotionally numb, Sophia carefully refolded the letter, and walked on feet she did not feel up the stairs to her rooms. Distantly, she felt Erin support her when she stumbled, and sat her down in a chair by the fire.
Erin removed her wool cloak, her shoes, and poured her a glass of wine. Sophia drank it, held it out for a refill, then drank that one as well. Only then did her emotions spill from her in hoarse, racking sobs, her grief and pain roaring from her, pouring like a flood.
Erin murmured words of comfort, she knew, even if she paid them no heed. When her maid insisted she rise and go to her bed, Sophia did not resist. Erin undressed her, and urged her under the thick coverlets, and Sophia obeyed.
Her pillow soon grew wet with her tears, and from a dim distance she felt Erin stroking her hair. Erin sang her a soothing lullaby, the words Sophia scarcely heard. Even so, her sobs drained away, and within moments, Sophia slept.
Furious, Wesley returned to the townhouse after seeing Sophia’s carriage take her away, her face tense and upset.
He knew, the moment he saw her look from him to Lady Alicia and back again, what she thought she saw. Him, flirting shamelessly with another lady. The very lady whom his mother wanted him to marry.
Returning to the parlor, he refrained from bellowing his rage at the three ladies. Lady Alicia’s expression informed him of her embarrassment, her shame at being the cause of such humiliation in Sophia. Her face had flushed a bright pink in mortification, and she refused to look up from her hands folded in her lap.
“Why did Lady Sophia depart in such haste?” the Dowager Duchess asked, her tone sweet, innocent. “If she came to pay a call on you, Wesley, then of course she should have stayed.”
The Countess sniffed. “I fear it is bad breeding on her part, Caroline. Her parents obviously neglected to raise her with proper manners of a high-born lady.”
Seizing a tight hold on his temper, for he could not unleash the words he wished to say on valued guests under his roof, Wesley studied the expressions of the two ladies. What he saw there—triumph and
satisfaction—made him realize they had planned this.
They intended for Sophia to see Lady Alicia and myself together, to make it appear as though I were unfaithful to Sophia.
“Wesley, you must reconsider this mad marriage to that unstable young lady,” his mother demanded. “She has clearly demonstrated her unfitness to be your bride and Duchess.”
“Your sainted mother is quite correct, Your Grace,” the Countess added. “Obviously, Lady Sophia has not the temperament required of a lady of high stature, and she is an opinionated bluestocking. She will only embarrass you should you marry her.”
Wesley put his hands behind his back to hide the fists he clenched. “I fear I must depart, ladies,” he said, his anger all but choking his throat as he tried to keep it from showing on his visage. “I have urgent business to attend to. Good day.”
Forcing himself to walk and not stomp, Wesley departed the parlor upon the dissenting whispers of his mother and the Countess. Ordering the butler to have a groom saddle his horse, he sent for his hat, gloves, and outer coat.
Pacing the foyer as he waited, Wesley reflected on the ways and means in which he could possibly stop the vile machinations of his mother and the Countess of Swinton. He certainly could not command his mother to not see her, nor could he order the Countess to cease and desist.
I will not marry Lady Alicia, nor will I interfere with her relationship and affections for Lord Montrose. I can but hope and pray that Sophia will listen to me, and understand that I am her true and faithful love.
Riding at a fast clip through the streets of Mayfair among the other travelers who braved the icy wind, Wesley rehearsed what he would say to Sophia that would clear his name in her eyes and heart.
Dismounting at the Wellingson residence, Wesley tied his horse, then ran up the steps to the door, clutching his coat closer around his neck. The door swung open, and the butler’s cold demeanor put the wind to shame.
“Her Ladyship has stated she wishes for no callers, Your Grace,” he stated firmly.
Wesley shut his jaw tight against a gape. “But I must speak with her urgently.”
“Lady Sophia has closeted herself in her chambers, and will not come out, Your Grace. I am sorry, but she will not see you.”
Chapter 27
“Good God!”
David stared at the newspaper in his hand, his teacup halfway to his lips, horrified by what he saw there. “That is impossible.”
The Dowager Duchess of Bersard is happy to announce the marriage of her son, the Duke of Bersard, to the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Swinton. The Earl and Countess are ecstatic to have successfully negotiated the hand of their daughter, Lady Alicia Keaton, to Wesley, the Duke of Bersard.
The date of the wedding has not yet been set.
Folding the paper, David slammed it to the table, furious, upset and a little frightened. With this message, everyone in the ton would believe that this had truly transpired, and he might lose the lady he loved to the Duke of Bersard.
Only a terrible scandal would follow if he and the Duke were to publicly negate it.
“I cannot let this happen,” he grated, staring at the breakfast he was no longer hungry for. “Scandal or no, this travesty must be stopped.”
Leaving his dining room, David called for his carriage to be prepared. He then went to his study, where he quickly wrote a note to announce his intent to pay a call on Lady Alicia as well as her father, the Earl of Swinton.
Taking it to a footman, he ordered crisply, “Get this to the Earl of Swinton immediately. Place it in no one’s hands but his.”
“Yes, My Lord.” The footman bowed, and left the house.
David then went to his chambers, and changed into more appropriate dress for paying a call on his fiancée.
If, indeed, she is still my fiancée.
Deeply worried about this entire debacle, he paid no mind to the wind turning his hair into a wild mess, even though he had carefully brushed it before striding quickly out to his carriage.
I cannot lose her. I will not lose her.
Shock and horror ripped through Wesley as he read the words printed in the morning’s paper. “No,” he whispered. “This cannot be.”
“You are muttering, Wesley,” the Dowager Duchess said, carefully cutting into her ham.
Dawning realization stole over him as he lifted his eyes from the paper to stare at her in rising anger. “Did you have something to do with this?” he demanded.
“To do with what?” she frowned, clearly annoyed at his tone. “I can hardly answer the question if I do not know what you are referring to.”
Folding the paper so that only the marriage announcement was available for her to peruse, Wesley shoved it across the table at her. “That.”
He watched his mother read it, then her brow rose in confusion, and her eyes widened. “You changed your mind about Lady Sophia and did not inform me?” she asked, her voice elated.
“No,” he snapped, fury rushing through him. “I certainly did not. However, I suspect you told the paper that I had negotiated for the hand of Lady Alicia when in fact I had not.”
The Dowager Duchess took another bite from her ham, and replied calmly. “Do not be absurd, Wesley. I said nothing to the paper, or asked that this announcement be written.”
Uncertain whether he believed her or not, continuing to glare at her, he grated, “If you did not, I daresay you asked the Countess of Swinton to do so.”
“What Lady Swinton has to do with it, I am sure I do not know.”
“The two of you have conspired to halt my relationship with Lady Sophia. I will not tolerate it, and I will write a retraction stating that this was false immediately.”
She gazed at him in shock, and he felt certain it was feigned. “And create the scandal that will surely follow? You must not.”
Wesley stood, throwing his napkin on the table in fury. “I do not care if a scandal follows, Mother. If I discover that you or the Countess ordered that written in the paper, the scandal shall resound about the pair of you, and not me, Lady Sophia, or Lady Alicia.”
“You do not mean that.”
Wesley grimaced in what he hoped was a threatening smile. “I will indeed.”
Spinning on his heel, Wesley stalked from the dining room. “I must see Lady Sophia,” he muttered, fear adding to his rage. “I have to convince her that this is a farce, and that I love her. She must listen to me.”
Only by sheer force of will did Sophia not break down in brazen sobs in front of her parents at the breakfast table. The damning wedding announcement stared up at her, almost accusatory, and certainly shocking. It, added to Wesley’s flirtation with Lady Alicia, as well as the anonymous letter, all told the true story.
Wesley never loved her.
He had played her for a fool.
“Sophia,” her father said, and she wrenched her gaze from the horrible news to glance at him. “What is wrong?”
Without speaking, knowing that if she tried to answer verbally, she would not be able to control her flood of weeping, Sophia passed him the paper with the terrible announcement. He took it from her, and frowned heavily as he read it.
Her mother watched her with clear distress on her face. “Sophia, my dear, are you all right?”
“No, she is not,” the Duke snapped as he slapped the paper down. “This is outrageous.”
“What is it, James?”
“Someone, and I strongly suspect I know who, has placed a wedding announcement stating that the Duke of Bersard will be marrying Lady Alicia Keaton.”
“No!” the Duchess stared at him in shock. “Who would do such a thing? His Grace clearly loves and wants to marry our daughter. The banns have been read, all the documents signed.”
“No.” Sophia’s unshed tears closed her throat, and she fought to breathe. “He does not love me.”
“Sophia.”
Her father’s stern voice forced her to look at him again, and the cold anger in his expressio
n shocked her almost as much as the wedding announcement.
“Heed my words carefully, daughter,” he said. “I cannot sway your mind about your fiancé, the Duke. However, I can and will point out several facts. Firstly, the Duke of Bersard made his intentions to marry you clear. He signed all the documents, he made no attempt to hide his love for you. Second, we already know that Lord Montrose has contracted to marry Lady Alicia. So how does this piece of writing justify two gentlemen claiming to be marrying the same young lady?”
Numb, uncertain of what to think or feel, Sophia reached into her pocket and pulled out the hateful, anonymous letter. “I received this yesterday, Papa.”
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