Annabel nodded. “I agree that announcing your betrothal without your permission was foolish and arrogant, and I hope you box his ears for it. But he did it to protect you, Sophie, because he cares for you so much.”
“The way he cares for Lady Randolph?” she retorted.
“Sophie,” Lady Jane broke in. “I would swear on my life that Simon is not conducting an affair with that woman.”
A pulse of anger shot through her chest. “You weren’t in the bookstore, my lady. I was. I can assure you—”
Her godmother cut her off with a chop of her hand. “I can’t speak for his previous behaviour, but I’m certain whatever happened between my nephew and Lady Randolph is at an end, and has been for quite some time. You mustn’t allow that to influence your decision. Only your feelings for Simon—and his for you—should be of relevance in this situation.”
Annabel leaned on the arm of the rosewood chair. She stared earnestly into Sophie’s eyes.
“Lady Jane is right. Robert would never have agreed to the proposal if he thought Simon was not finished with Lady Randolph. I’m certain of it.”
Sophie’s mouth gaped open as she absorbed that bit of information. “Simon asked my brother’s permission to marry me? You mean Robert knew about the announcement in the Chronicle even before this morning?”
Annabel began to look annoyed. “Yes, it was very bad of them. We’re agreed upon that. But when Robert admitted to me this morning what he had done, I questioned him closely. I’m certain, as is Robert, that Simon wants to marry you primarily for the right reasons—because he feels deeply for you, and wants to care for you.”
Sophie couldn’t help but notice Annabel had avoided saying he loved her. The knowledge twisted like a rusty blade in her gut.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he cares a great deal for me. According to Lady Randolph, he cares a great deal for the estate in Yorkshire that Grandpapa added to my dowry this year.” Sophie no longer cared if she sounded as bitter as she felt.
Lady Jane made an impatient sound and rose to her feet. “Sophia Stanton, Lady Randolph is a manipulative bitch.”
Annabel’s rosebud mouth dropped open with shock at the unexpected profanity. Sophie knew just how she felt. She doubted anyone had ever heard Lady Jane utter a vulgar word in her entire life.
“My lady—” Sophie had to choke back a laugh that was partly a sob.
“No, really, Sophie,” her godmother ruthlessly interrupted her. “Only a fool would allow her future to be determined by one who bears her such ill will. And I know you’re not a fool.”
“No,” Sophie muttered, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing temples. “My future will be determined by a man who only sees me as a commodity that will enrich his financial empire.”
Lady Jane closed her eyes, seeming to withdraw into herself for a long moment. When she opened them again, her godmother’s normally mild gaze filled with sadness. The older woman seemed to be wrestling with some kind of painful question.
“I know that’s not true, my dear,” Lady Jane said. “Simon loves you. Surely you haven’t forgotten how he cared for you after your father died?”
The knife twisted again. Sophie half expected to look down and see blood flowing from a wound in her abdomen.
Her father’s unexpected death from a fever had nearly destroyed her entire family. Her mother had succumbed to a spell of profound melancholy that lasted for months. Robert had tried to console both mother and sister, but he had been little more than a boy himself. And in all too short a time Grandpapa Stanton—grief-stricken at the loss of his only son—had sent Robert back to school, deeming that a return to normal life was the best course of action for his new heir.
After her brother’s departure Sophie had tumbled into a bewildered panic, wandering the empty, black-shrouded rooms of their townhouse, finding comfort only in the arms of her grandmamma, Lady Stanton.
And in Simon’s arms, as well.
He had come down often from Cambridge during those bleak months, enveloping her in fierce hugs before whisking her away in his curricle for long rides outside the city. He spent hours with her, allowing her to hold the reins while he told one silly story after another in an effort to make her laugh. In his company, she could forget the terrifying void her father’s death had created deep within her. Simon had drawn her back to the world of the living. He had eased her pain and tempered the fear of death that haunted her childish dreams. He had made her feel safe again.
“Ah…you do remember.”
Lady Jane’s murmur broke into her thoughts. Sophie pushed the image of that strong but affectionate young man as far from her mind as she could. She stood, slipped around Annabel, and began to pace the room. Her godmother’s steady gaze followed her.
“Yes, I remember,” Sophie replied, her voice brittle and much too high. “But he’s changed, and I don’t think he can go back.” She had never thought she’d feel anything equal to the wrenching loss of her father, but Simon’s act of betrayal threatened to pitch her headlong into that place of raw vulnerability once again.
Lady Jane nodded. “He’s a man, with a man’s responsibilities. But I believe that, deep down, he is the same as he always was. He’s been caring for you almost since the day you were born. You must remember—”
“No!” Sophie jerked to a halt in front of a window that looked out over the small garden, faded to the color of burnt almond now that the chill of autumn had arrived. “I don’t want to remember anymore. There’s no point. I have to make my decisions based on how he treats me now.”
“Memory is the receptacle of life, dear child. Without it, we are nothing.” Lady Jane’s voice was full of compassion.
Sophie gripped the polished wood of the window frame, resisting the gentle pull of her godmother’s words. “I will not allow myself to love a man who treats me with so little respect…who treats me as if I were a child, unable to make decisions for herself.”
She heard the defiant note in her voice, but she didn’t care. Sophie couldn’t marry a man who thought so little of her, no matter what her family wanted.
Lady Jane sighed, and Annabel slumped down on the floor once more, leaning against the chair leg in weary resignation.
“And I thought Simon was stubborn,” Annabel said with a huffy little growl.
Sophie shrugged. An awkward silence fell over the room, but she felt no compunction to break it. Eventually, her godmother joined her at the window as she stared out into the lifeless garden.
“Sophie, did you know I was once engaged to be married?”
Sophie blinked, surprised by the revelation.
“Richard was the most wonderful man in the world. It was many years ago, of course,” her godmother said in a soft voice. “I was nineteen, and was thought to be one of the prettiest girls out on the town that Season. He was the second son of a viscount. I met him here, in Bath, where his father had sent him to take the waters. Richard was quite frail, you see, and had been ever since he was a little boy. He suffered greatly—”
Lady Jane broke off. Sophie forced herself to remain motionless, to not say a word or ask a question.
“But he had the heart and soul of a lion, and he loved me passionately,” the older woman continued. “He was determined to marry me, though his doctors were quite certain he wouldn’t live to see five and twenty. His father feared for him, but he saw how much we loved each other and didn’t stand in the way of our betrothal. I always thought he hoped our marriage would give Richard something to live for.”
A gentle melancholy descended on Lady Jane’s features, as if the old sorrow had been filtered through a cool October mist.
“What happened?” Sophie whispered, her heart already breaking with the answer.
“He died one week before our wedding,” she replied as a bittersweet smile touched her mouth. “He passed in his sleep, a few hours after a small dinner party to celebrate our betrothal. He was so happy that night, and I have always been grateful that he l
eft this world with a heart full of love and contentment.”
“Oh, my lady, I’m so sorry.” Sophie’s chest ached with the weight of her godmother’s old sorrow, which somehow seemed bound up with her own.
Lady Jane ignored her, lost in her memories. “Eleanor wanted us to leave Bath, but I couldn’t. Though I was surrounded by reminders of him everywhere—at church, in the Assembly Rooms, where we used to walk together in the Orange Grove—I couldn’t leave. I was too afraid I would forget his dear face, his precious voice, if I didn’t have the images of our time together all around me.”
She looked at Sophie, her eyes blazing with stark intensity.
“Did you think this was the life I wished for, Sophie? A spinster’s life? Without children to love, or a husband to cherish me? Did you think this was the life that Eleanor wanted? She gave up everything for me. And here we are—two lonely old women who cling to each other for comfort.”
“But you were young.” Annabel’s voice cracked with emotion. “Surely there were other suitors who courted you. Why did you never marry?”
Lady Jane glanced at Annabel, her misty blue eyes dark with pain.
“There was only ever him for me, my dear. I think you know how that feels, don’t you?”
Annabel nodded.
Lady Jane looked back at Sophie, her gaze no longer gentle. Her expression grew stern.
“As there is only one man for you, Sophie, and you know it. I’ve seen how you look at Simon. How you are with him. He’s the only one in the world for you, and if you relinquish him you’ll surely end up like me.”
A bolt of panic streaked through her, but Sophie refused to concede defeat. “What’s wrong with being like you? You’re happy, aren’t you?”
“I’ve learned to be happy, yes. But I’ve never felt joy again.”
Sophie pushed against the old grief and sorrow. Her godmother’s loss had been tragic, but her betrothed had loved her with all his heart. What could Simon give her but a life of small and ordinary misery, unchanged from day to day?
“Joy hurts,” she whispered, feeling as brittle as Venetian glass.
“Life hurts, my dear,” replied Lady Jane in a suddenly brisk voice. “That was a lesson you were forced to learn at a very young age. I’m sorry to say there is another difficult lesson you must learn today. One of self-discipline.”
The older woman turned Sophie by the shoulders to look at her. Her mouth compressed into a surprisingly stern line.
“Eleanor was correct. Scandal would surely result from the sudden dissolution of your engagement to Simon. If you won’t think of yourself, then you must think of your family. You will not break your engagement to my nephew, at least not immediately. If, after a respectable period of time, you cannot bring yourself to marry him, then you will act as you see fit. Until such time, I expect you to behave with dignity and consideration, both to Simon and to the rest of us.”
Annabel scrambled up from the floor and hurried over to join them.
“Sophie, dearest, please give Simon another chance. I’m sure he never meant to hurt you—he’s just a silly man. They don’t really know how to behave properly. After all, look at Robert.”
Her sister-in-law’s winsome smile pierced the angry shield Sophie had erected around her heart.
“I know Simon cares for you above all others,” Annabel said, laying her small hand on Sophie’s arm. “Let him prove it to you.”
Sophie looked miserably at her godmother. Lady Jane hesitated, then delivered the final thrust of the blade.
“Think of your mother, my dear. And the general.”
Sophie’s resistance collapsed. Her mother and grandfather would be devastated by her rejection of Simon, and by the resultant scandal. As much as she wanted to, she knew it was pointless to resist the combined efforts and the anxious concern of the Stanton and the St. James families. No matter what her relatives might think, she had as keen an appreciation for the families’ reputations as they did. She didn’t fear scandal—like Simon did—but she wouldn’t court it, either.
Sophie bowed her head in silent submission, though she knew her heart would never recover from the blow. Despite what Annabel said, Simon would never be the man she needed. He would never be the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago. She’d been a fool, a blind, sentimental fool, to believe he was.
As Sophie followed her godmother and Annabel from the room, she vowed she would never be a fool again.
Chapter Seventeen
Simon paid off the hackney driver, hunching his shoulders against the rain that hissed down in ash-colored streamers to the broken cobblestones. Ice water dripped from his hat and seeped under the collar of his greatcoat.
Avon Street was a hellhole at the best of times, but on a wet October day it had to be one of the grimmest corners of the kingdom.
Almost as grim as his mood.
The chill that leached through his coat failed to cool the heat of his anger—anger with his blasted relations, but mostly with himself for mishandling such a delicate situation. Posting the betrothal notice in the Chronicle had been a colossal mistake, but what else could he have done to bring Sophie under control?
That question had plagued him from the moment she stormed out of Aunt Eleanor’s drawing room until now, when he found himself standing outside The Silver Oak. Given how devastated she had been—he still winced when he recalled the look of anguish in her eyes that even her spectacles couldn’t hide—he counted himself lucky she was still his fiancée.
He’d spent the longest hour of his life waiting in the drawing room after Aunt Jane and Annabel followed Sophie upstairs to her bedroom. Aunt Eleanor had delivered a scathing lecture on the idiocy of men in general and of Simon and Robert in particular. After a short-lived attempt to defend himself, Robert had subsided into a miserable silence, relieving his wounded pride by casting resentful glares across the room at his coconspirator.
Simon hadn’t bothered to respond to his aunt’s accusations. After all, she was correct.
After an eon, Aunt Jane had finally returned with the news that Sophie had agreed to honor their engagement. His relief had been short-lived. Aunt Jane had tartly added that Sophie’s acquiescence had everything to do with her wish to avoid a scandal, and not with a desire to marry Simon.
Shrugging off his lingering guilt over the morning’s events, Simon stepped under the sheltering porch of the tavern. He pulled off his sodden beaver hat, flicked the water from the brim, and absently put it back on his head.
The problem, of course, was that Sophie no longer trusted him. Her irrational female brain had convinced her he was still involved with Bathsheba. How Sophie could ever imagine he would treat her so dishonorably was beyond his comprehension.
He reached for the door of the tavern, guilt bleeding through him once more as he thought of the pain she had made no effort to conceal. Yes, dammit, he wanted her dowry. But he wanted her, too—every soft, sweet inch of her. His need to claim her in the most elemental way possible was fast becoming a compulsion that threatened to consume every logical thought in his brain. How Puck had managed to blow all his careful formulations to smithereens was something he still couldn’t fathom. Well, if she needed proof that he cared for her then prove it he would, and in a way she couldn’t possibly deny.
He pushed through the battered oak door into the foul-smelling tavern. Even though the street had been dark and dreary, the light was so poor he had to strain to make out the shapes before him. A small fire emitted greasy smoke from a dirty hearth. Cheap tallow candles and a few battered lanterns provided a fitful glow that struggled to reach into the dank corners.
In the late afternoon, the tavern was half full of dockworkers seeking shelter from the rain and warmth from a dram of blue ruin. The sound of rough voices and harsh laughter faded as the men turned, one by one, to study him.
Simon ignored the wary inspection as he threaded his way between the tables and benches to the rough-hewn bar at the oppo
site side of the room. He deliberately dropped his wet hat on the scarred wood of the bar, brushing the rain from his shoulders before meeting the eyes of the barkeep. He knew Taylor by sight, and he looked every inch as ugly as his reputation.
Taylor was a big man, broad-featured with an openly hostile gaze. Simon frowned, taking in his fine wool coat, expertly tied cravat, and large, pearl-headed stickpin nestling in folds of crisp linen. Toby and Becky had been dressed in near-rags, but from his clothes it was clear the owner of The Silver Oak had another source of income besides the meager wages of the local dockhands.
He returned Taylor’s hostile regard with a steady silence, allowing a brief smile to lift the corners of his mouth. A charged minute ticked by as the two men stared at each other. Finally, Taylor snorted in disdain and reached for a glass under the bar.
“What’ll it be, guv? Fancy a bit of daffy to chase away the cold?”
“I’ll take a pint of heavy wet.” Simon extracted a coin from inside his coat and tossed it onto the bar.
Taylor pocketed the coin with a massive fist before turning away to pour a tankard of cloudy-looking stout. He slammed the pint down on the counter, allowing the liquid to slosh onto the bar.
“Quality don’t usually do their drinking at The Silver Oak, guv. At least not so early in the day. Lost your way?”
Simon tossed back a large swallow of the bitter liquid before answering. “I have business with you, Taylor.”
“Do tell,” he sneered, lips curling back from a surprisingly good set of teeth. “And who might you be that you have business with Jem Taylor?”
“I’m the Earl of Trask.”
Taylor’s brows shot up as his sneer slid into a crafty grin. “Ah! Pleased to meet you, my lord. Everyone in Bath knows of the Earl of Trask. Never thought to see you in my humble little tavern, though. How can I be of service?”
Before Simon could answer, a door next to the bar swung open, and Becky emerged, carefully balancing steaming bowls of food on a heavy-looking tray. He watched as she served the men, her slender form moving between tables with an unconscious yet seductive grace. She was only a child, but her beauty drew forth lewd comments and foul leers in her wake. Becky tried to ignore them, but her stiff shoulders and tight face gave away her distress as she hurried to complete her tasks.
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