Sophia found this information about her brother-in-law surprising; he had always appeared to be a middling sort of man with middling sorts of interests.
Ophelia’s teasing turned more sober. “If you are to be in such close contact with Aidan over the guardianship, you might consider . . . You are a widow, and he’s known to be quite obliging. Perhaps you could seduce him into relinquishing the guardianship.”
“Ophelia! I expected you to encourage a life of celibate devotion to your brother’s memory. But instead . . .” Sophia searched for words.
“Sophie, Tom is dead.” Ophelia’s voice turned stern and firm. “Despite his wishes, you continue to wear full mourning. If you will not remarry, at least embark on a discreet liaison. No man in the ton is reputed to be more attentive during an affair or as well-tempered after as Aidan. And certainly no man is more tight-lipped than Aidan about his liaisons.”
“Then how do you know so much about them?” Sophia accused.
“It’s the women, dear, the women. They can’t keep quiet that they’ve been in his bed. Nor would I, if half the things they say are true!” Ophelia laughed at the look of horror on Sophia’s face. “Oh, I don’t mean it—it would be like kissing a brother. But if you aren’t going to take Aidan to your bed and seduce him out of the guardianship, you’ll need to come up with some compelling argument for him to relinquish it. And his own questionable reputation isn’t likely to work.”
At that moment, Kate and Ariel flung open the door and ran to embrace Sophia, ending all possibility for further private conversation.
* * *
On the way home, Sophia searched for a compelling argument that might encourage Aidan to relinquish the guardianship. During tea she had observed Ariel carefully. Lighthearted and laughing, Tom’s youngest sister showed no indication that her abduction had any lasting effects. Yet had Aidan been less attentive to her absence or less dogged in his pursuit, Ariel’s life would have been much different.
It was another story to add to Sophia’s collection. In Italy she’d gathered information about Aidan like a starving woman hoarding crumbs of bread. But the picture the scraps created only revealed an enigma. He had acquitted himself admirably in the wars, but where exactly he’d served or what he had done, she had never known. He had a reputation as a gambler, but never sustained irreparable or even substantive losses. He had engaged in one or two duels, but why or over whom, she didn’t know. And she could never ask; she couldn’t risk revealing to Tom how much Aidan remained in her thoughts.
She’d never been able to reconcile the stories. In some he was ruthless and remote; in others he was engaging and seductive. But none described the young man she’d loved. The Aidan she had known was confident and ambitious and witty and kind. His touch had made her feel safe long before it had made her burn.
She still remembered the day they had parted. Aidan’s father—an armchair patriot—had bought his younger sons commissions as they came of age, promising a piece of land and an annuity when they defeated Bonaparte. For Sophia and Aidan, the settlement was their hope of a life together. Soon, he and his brother Colin were set to join their older brother Benjamin, an adjutant to Wellington, on the Peninsula.
She’d waited in her uncle’s summerhouse to say good-bye. She had determined to be brave, to let him go without crying. But when he came to her—calling her “my only love, my heart”—his own eyes were already wet. She’d touched his face, wiping his tears away. He’d pulled her into his embrace, and they’d made love, savoring each tender caress as if it were their last; then they’d dressed each other tenderly, carefully, memorizing each touch.
“Will you wait for me, Sophie?” His eyes had searched hers earnestly.
“Do you promise to come home to me?” she’d teased.
He refused to tease back. Instead, he’d pulled her into his arms and held her against his heart. “If you are waiting, there’s not a bullet in Boney’s army that will keep me from you.”
She pulled back just enough to look in his eyes. “There’s nothing in the world that would keep me from waiting. No man alive compares to you.” She put both hands on his cheeks to emphasize her words. “You are my love, my only love.”
He’d lifted her, laughing, and swung her around in a circle. “How can I be so lucky that the cleverest, most beautiful girl in the whole world loves me? A girl who can ride and draw and conjugate Latin and Greek. You know I’m not worth you.” He’d kissed her forehead. “But I’ll try, sweeting; I’ll devote my whole life to being worthy of your love.”
She’d felt without a home for so long that his words had fed her lonely soul. She’d closed her eyes, savoring his love, the feel of his hands, warm in hers. The moment had been perfect. Then his hands were gone, leaving her bereft. She’d opened her eyes to find him kneeling before her.
“Sophia Elliot, when I return, will you marry me, be my wife, live with me, have children, laugh, cry, grow old with me? Will you be my fiancée from this day forward?”
She’d laughed at his alteration of the marriage rite. “From this day forward, yes, my love, yes.”
He looked sheepish. “I haven’t a ring or anything, nothing for you to remember me by.”
She’d kissed him, longingly, sweetly. “I don’t need anything. But I do have something for you, a token of my love, to remember your . . . f iancée . . . by.” She’d held out a folded piece of oilcloth, no bigger than his thumb.
He’d unwrapped the gift, a small hardboard wafer on which Sophia had sketched a self-portrait. “I drew it mostly with ink to get the lines sharp enough.”
“It’s beautiful. I can see your spirit, here in the shape of your eyes, in the curve of your lips.”
“I know you can’t take it with you. But I wanted you to have it.”
“I can take it. Look here.” He’d pulled off one of his boots to reveal halfway down a slit in the lining that formed a shallow pocket. “It’s just deep enough.” He put the wafer in, then pulled his boot back on. “I must go my love, but until I return, I’ll carry you with me in my heart”—he smiled mischievously—“and in my boot.”
He kissed her once more, a perfect kiss filled with longing and tenderness and passion. Then he’d stepped away, still holding her hand. Their fingertips had been the last thing to part.
* * *
After a decade of rumors and stories, Sophia wondered if she had known Aidan Somerville at all. Or if, like her, he had simply changed. If she could transform from a trusting girl who’d leapt freely into love into a more sober woman with an estate to administer and a child to rear, who might Aidan have become? More than anything else, remembering the authoritarian tone of his missive, she wondered which man she would meet tomorrow.
Chapter Five
“No, no, no, I need no introduction.” Ophelia’s voice carried as she approached Sophia’s room.
Sophia stepped back from the balcony, pushing the French doors nearly closed, and depositing her cat on the ottoman.
In the hall, Ophelia waged a small battle with Dodsley. Sophia could only hear Ophelia’s part, but she could well imagine Dodsley’s objections from Ophelia’s responses.
“Of course her ladyship will see me—whatever are you thinking, Dodsley?” . . . “Well, I can’t imagine why it would matter if her ladyship is dressed or not.” . . . “We are family, after all.”
Sophia reached the door to her dressing room just as Ophelia flung it open. Her sister-in-law strode victoriously into the room, resembling far more closely Boadicea the warrior queen than the weepy Shakespearean heroine her parents had named her after. Sophia nodded her acceptance of her sister-in-law’s invasion, and Dodsley, looking woeful, retreated.
“Oh, darling, I can only stay for a few minutes.” Ophelia kissed Sophia on both cheeks. “But I brought you a gift for your meeting with Aidan this afternoon.” From behind Ophelia, a footman entered carrying a dress box followed by Sally and a wan young girl Sophia didn’t recognize.
�
�Over there, Phillip. Put it on the ottoman, then meet me downstairs.” Ophelia waved her directions, then turned her attention back to Sophia. “I’ve just picked it up from the modiste, but I’m sure it will fit. Your Sally has been so good about giving us your measurements, and I brought the modiste’s girl along in case. We have plenty of time before two, and I will be back to help after I deliver Sidney.”
“Oh, Phee, I’ve already chosen . . .”
“No, not one of those dreadful black things you have worn till the fabric is thin. If you wish to have any influence over Aidan in this guardianship, then you must be Lady Wilmot, a woman of his class, a woman he cannot command. If you are available to meet with him, it must be because you condescend to do so.”
The modiste’s girl opened the dress box and began to remove layers of paper until the dress was visible. Then she raised the dress from the box. French in design, the day dress was formal, suitable for visits in the late afternoon or family dinners. The muslin was a cerulean blue decorated with small, black raised dots. Narrow black lace repeated at the neck, the waist, and the wrists, then in five flounces alternating with black, brocaded-satin ribands at the base of the dress below the knees.
“Oh, it’s lovely.” Sophia lifted the muslin in both hands, feeling its weight and texture between her fingers. Then taking the dress from the seamstress, she held it in front of her before the pier glass. “But for half-mourning, the color . . .”
“. . . is beautiful,” Ophelia interrupted, “and it will be beautiful on you. Tom was very specific that the dress should be ready by the anniversary of his death. He must have intended you to wear it when you met with Aidan.”
“Tom?” Sophia’s eyes misted, but only for a moment. “But how?”
“You are not the only one who received a letter.” Ophelia motioned Sally and the seamstress into action. “Mine came some weeks ago and included a fashion plate and that exquisite material. Tom gave me permission to reject the design if it were out of style, but it was lovely. Now put it on. I’ll be back within the hour.”
* * *
“So that’s how it is then?” Barlow assessed the clothes Aidan had chosen for his meeting. After more than a decade of service, Barlow measured Aidan’s mood better than any other man.
“Yes, that’s how it is. To dress too much à la mode would suggest I can be swayed by society or by the vagaries of public opinion.”
“Or by an old lover, barely out of mourning,” Barlow muttered.
“I never claimed we were lovers.”
“No need to; I had my own eyes in the camps for that.” Barlow held out the forest-green superfine waistcoat with matching velvet collar. “Beware vengeance, your grace. It clouds the judgment.”
Aidan adjusted the puffed edge of the neckline, then lifted his chin for Barlow to twist the starched linen into a complicated cravat knot. “Much between us remains unresolved, that’s all.”
Barlow snorted and went to the wardrobe to retrieve Aidan’s boots.
Barlow was wrong, Aidan assured himself. His revenge was already a decade in the making; he would not misstep. During the long years of the Wilmots’ absence, he’d mastered the double-edged reply. “I was there when they met” suggested that he’d known of Tom’s tendre for Sophia from the first. Instead Aidan meant that he had never forgotten the day he and Tom had gone to a country fair and seen Sophia, in a blue muslin gown with flowers embroidered above her feet, sunlight falling on her rich dark hair. Her serious gray eyes had met Aidan’s gaze and not turned away, and he had found himself desperate for an introduction. No, if anyone asked Aidan’s opinion of the Wilmot marriage, he would offer a knowing wink and a conspiratorial “clever Sophia,” appearing to compliment Lady Wilmot’s success in catching a husband when he actually meant that Sophia had deceived him thoroughly.
Aidan already knew what he wanted from the end of their affair, for an affair it would be. He would gain Sophia’s trust, then betray it, watching the expression in her large gray eyes change as she realized his deception. Confusion, disbelief, awareness, hurt, betrayal, and then perhaps even despair. Best yet if he could leave her wondering not if but when he would reveal her frailty. Yes, he would leave her no peace as she had left him none.
But he did not yet know how to accomplish that revenge. First he would have to meet his opponent and take her measure. Would Sophia be the lover of his youth, the cold fortune hunter who married Tom, the distant and inscrutable statue of Aldine’s experience—or the ghost in the garden filling him with desire? Aidan would adapt his campaign and his demeanor to whichever Sophia came to their meeting.
Straightening his cuffs, Aidan examined himself in the mirror. His clothes were well-tailored, boasting enough color to suggest wealth and class and enough restraint to convey power and control. Exactly the image he wished to convey—he wanted to leave no room for Lady Wilmot to remember the callow boy she had so easily deceived. “This will do.”
Barlow snorted, brushing the shoulders of Aidan’s coat. “It’s one thing, your grace, to destroy a person for the nation’s sake; it’s another to do it for your own ends. In the end, you’ll wound yourself as much as her ladyship.”
“My enemies would say that sympathy is no longer part of my nature and that I have no heart to wound.”
“A man who judges his own character by the opinions of his enemies is a fool,” Barlow countered.
Aidan pretended not to hear. If he lacked sympathy, it was Sophia’s doing. And if she suffered for his hardness of heart, then she deserved no better. He could hear his father’s admonition as if it were yesterday: “Never trust a woman, lad. Their affections are only as deep as your pockets.”
Chapter Six
Aidan arrived at the Wilmot house promptly at two. A solid Georgian, with three floors above the ground level, and one below, the house faced north into the last block of Queen Anne Street, abutting the lower estates of Portland Place. At the corner there, Chandos Street led south to Cavendish Square, to the park—and to his house. After receiving Tom’s letter, Aidan had waited until night, then he had traced his path from the now spent flowers in the Cavendish Square garden, out the iron gate, up the block, and around the corner, until he’d found the Wilmot home, several houses in. The ghostly Sophia in the garden had been no ghost.
Lady Wilmot—as he reminded himself to call her—had instructed her staff to expect him. Her butler opened the door at the first knock, then disappeared to deliver Aidan’s card. A lithe Italian wearing secondhand gentleman’s clothes took Aidan’s cloak and gloves. Likely Tom’s clothes, Aidan realized with a pang.
Waiting, Aidan felt unexpectedly unsettled. To calm himself, he assumed the posture of an officer at ease. Hands folded behind his back, he turned his attention to a mental inventory of the house. Pocket doors on either side of the entry led to public drawing rooms, but the butler had disappeared instead through a third doorway, leading to the back of the house. A large open stairway curved on his right, up to a second-floor landing, where a large Palladian window filled the whole space with light. On a sunny day, the window could light the front of the house, an efficient floor plan, given King George’s regressive tax on windows.
Aidan paid little attention to the hall furniture; it had most likely come with the property. The paintings on the walls offered precise architectural scenes of Italian cities. Tom’s choices, Aidan assessed. Rational, intellectual.
No hint of Sophia, her taste, or her preferences. Oddly, he relaxed. In the larger scheme of his life’s experiences, this was not so significant a meeting. His own life, the lives of thousands of British soldiers, did not depend on the outcome of his and Sophia’s discussions, and he doubted Lady Wilmot would kill him with her penknife if he made a misstep. No, he thought, and breathed deeply, this was simply another diplomatic mission. He would set her at ease, so that he could discover what she held valuable and what she deemed expendable. And when he knew what she hoped to gain and what she was willing to lose, he would kn
ow how to proceed. Until then, he would give nothing away.
When Dodsley returned, Aidan followed the silver-haired butler to the back of the house.
* * *
Competent, serious, responsible. Sophia repeated the words, as she waited for Dodsley to escort Aidan to the library. A woman who could be trusted with the care of her own child. A woman who can command, she heard Phee’s voice correct her.
Even in cerulean blue, the dress Tom had sent her was subtle and reserved. She would not greet Aidan in frothy silks and remind him of those silly, ill-educated society beauties he knew best. “Hothouse flowers,” Mary Wollstonecraft had called them, arguing that such women should be educated, if nothing else, to become fine mothers. I am, if nothing else, a fine mother. In Sophia’s hair, black brocaded velvet twisted through the bun above the nape of her neck, complementing the black ribbons in the dress. Seeing herself in a color other than black, she could almost hear Tom’s voice whisper, “Courage.”
Her dress and her house—both chosen for her by Tom—bolstered her confidence. When she had returned from Italy, she had immediately claimed the library for her own. A harmonious room, long and narrow, the library boasted a fireplace in the middle of the interior wall, flanked with bookcases and cabinets on each side. She’d hung Tom’s portrait over the mantel, and sometimes she felt as if his spirit comforted her. On the exterior wall, bookcases alternated with tall windows, and beyond the windows, a wide expanse of lawn bordered with flower beds made up the garden.
When she felt anxious and unsettled, the library’s order offered a peaceful calm. Order suggested control, a control over her life and circumstances that she had never felt she had.
Treasures from her married life filled the room. Near the garden door stood her easel. In the bookcases behind it, topped by busts of the Greek poet Sappho and the botanist Carl Linnaeus, were her botanical books and her collection of bound woodcuts and engravings. The cabinets below the bookcases held her pots of paint, her cakes of watercolor, brushes, and paper. She rarely painted anymore, but she often used the easel to sketch her botanical illustrations, laying out the image in pencil or pastel, then moving to the desk to trace the lines with pen and ink if the sketch was destined to be engraved. Her portfolio of sketches rested in a wooden frame like those in print dealers’ shops, but made of finer wood and more richly finished, a gift from Tom at Ian’s birth.
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