Banallt grabbed her in his arms when the servants bowed themselves out. “A quick tea, Sophie, a bite to eat so as not to hurt King’s feelings, and then we’ll retire, yes?”
She elbowed him, but she didn’t stop him when he came in close for a quick kiss.
The tea was laid out with a table of sweets and cold cuts that reminded her she was hungry. She knew how Banallt liked his tea. He preferred gunpowder black and that she found in the tin. As a girl she’d preferred gunpowder herself. Once she’d married, gunpowder black tea became an extravagance.
King knocked on the door and came just inside. In this lovely gold and red parlor, King looked more than ever like a brawler from the London stews. His black wool suit highlighted the contrast between the exquisite tailoring and his broken face. He bowed. “Milord. The Llewellyns. Are you at home, milord? Milady?”
Milk sloshed onto the skirt of her Sunday gown, once cream satin, now dyed black and already showing the effects of more frequent wear. “Drat,” she muttered, snatching up a napkin to dab at her lap. She felt her cheeks growing hot.
“What the devil are they doing here?” He reached across the table and clasped Sophie’s hand. “Shall I send them away?” He looked up at King, ready to do just that.
“You can’t,” she said. “They’ve come all this way.”
He scowled. “Please show them in. Thank you, King.” He leaned back on his chair. Sophie’s stomach sank. She gave Banallt his tea and managed to pour her own without mishap. But after one sip, she put down her cup lest her trembling hand give her away.
Banallt rose, holding his saucer in one hand and his cup in another, both incongruous in his hands. He sipped from his tea, then set cup and saucer on the mantel as King returned with Mrs. Llewellyn, Fidelia, and a tall, slender gentleman she didn’t recognize but who couldn’t be anyone but Banallt’s cousin Harry Llewellyn. Banallt whispered, “I’ll have his hide, by God.”
Llewellyn was in his forties with dark hair and light blue eyes. He had Banallt’s pale complexion and something of his height and build, but there the family resemblance ended. He strode in, arms swinging at his side.
“What brings you to Darmead, Banallt?” said Harry Llewellyn. “Did you have a sudden longing to polish the family armor?” Llewellyn’s gaze shot to Sophie then fixed on Banallt. Fidelia and her mother curtseyed to Banallt and nodded to Sophie, but neither spoke. Llewellyn held up a hand. “Margaret, take Fidelia outside. I’ll want a word with Banallt.”
“No,” Banallt said. “They’ll stay to hear what you have to say, and my answers to you.”
“My lord—”
“I insist.”
Mrs. Llewellyn stood well away from her husband. Fidelia was much altered from when Sophie had last seen her. She was thin and much paler, and there was no hint of a smile from her. Sophie recognized the grief that shadowed Fidelia’s eyes. She’d seen it in the mirror every day since John was killed.
“A better question, Harry, is why you are here at Darmead,” Banallt said in a chilling voice.
“I came all the way from Epping’s Field to London only to find you not at home.”
“None of which is any of your affair.” He leaned an elbow on the mantel. “Not that it isn’t splendid to see you.”
Llewellyn stood with his head cocked, studying Sophie in her mourning black. She had put on her gloves before she went down to meet the staff, so he could not see the wedding band, and yet she itched to cover up her left hand. She felt the ring thick and cool against her skin, an unaccustomed pressure around her finger.
“Delightful as it is to see your wife and daughter,” Banallt said from his place by the mantel, “I was under the impression they were happy at Hightower House. There’s a great deal to do in London after all, and very little by comparison here in Duke’s Head. So do tell, Harry, what’s brought you here ... without an invitation, when you might be escorting them to some fete or another?”
“Scandal, what else?”
Banallt picked up his tea. “Scandal. How tedious.”
His cousin straightened his shoulders. “Connected with you.”
“More tedious still.” He waved a hand. “I should think you’d know better by now than to upset yourself over some rumor that involves me. They are often inaccurate, I warn you.”
Llewellyn stood behind his daughter and rested a hand on her shoulders. He seemed a proud man to Sophie, but then his father had been the son of an earl, and, with Banallt having no son, Harry Llewellyn was first in line of inheritance. “I should think that with Fidelia in London, you would be more careful of your reputation. And with hers.”
“Papa,” Fidelia said softly.
“What on earth could you have heard?” Banallt spoke in a low voice that sent shivers down Sophie’s spine. “Nothing true, I assure you.”
Sophie was horrified to feel tears welling up. Fidelia had loved John. John had been deeply loved. The sharpness of her grief, no more the freshness of it, took her unawares. By the time she found her handkerchief, Banallt was putting his into her hand and tears burned her eyes.
“Forgive me.” She took a breath and stood up to excuse herself. “I miss my brother terribly. And I—I didn’t realize how—I’m so sorry.”
“There, there,” said Mrs. Llewellyn.
Banallt reached for her hand, and Sophie, unthinking, let him pull her to her feet and into his arms because he understood her grief. He understood how completely alone she was without her brother. They stood there, she and Banallt, hands still clasped, him with his other arm around her shoulders. Comforting her.
“I take it,” Llewellyn said with a gesture at Sophie, “that this woman is the infamous Mrs. Peters?”
“Infamous?” Banallt said. “Have a care what more you say, Harry.”
“Yes, infamous, by God! I come to London and what do I hear? That you have left Town, with a married woman. Whose husband is even now demanding satisfaction of you. And against all bounds of decency, I find it’s true. She is here with you.”
“Harry!” said Mrs. Llewellyn.
Banallt lifted a hand and Mrs. Llewellyn fell silent. “Allow me to make the introductions.” He took Sophie’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Sophie,” Banallt said, turning to face Harry, “may I present my cousin, Mr. Harry Llewellyn.”
Mrs. Llewellyn’s focus moved from Sophie to Banallt.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Llewellyn,” Sophie said.
“Harry, no,” said Mrs. Llewellyn when her husband took a deep breath to retort.
Banallt bent his head over Sophie and whispered, “Come, it’s time.” She curled her fingers against his chest and in response, he stroked her back. “Margaret. Fidelia,” Banallt said when Sophie lifted her head. “Even you two must be introduced anew. All of you, this is my countess, Lady Banallt.”
“Banallt,” said Mrs. Llewellyn. She darted a glance at her husband and then squared her shoulders. She clasped her hands, raising them to her chin. “This is extraordinary news.”
Fidelia smiled for the first time since she’d come in. She pushed away her father’s hand and leaned forward. “Is it true?” Sophie nodded. “How wonderfully romantic. Banallt, I am so glad for you! And you, Mrs. Evans—or, I should say, Lady Banallt.” She smiled. “I’m so very happy to have you for a relation.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said.
“Your countess?” Llewellyn frowned. “But—”
“I know what you thought, Harry,” Banallt said. “But she is the former Mrs. Evans. Sister to the late John Mercer, whom I believe you once met. So you see, what you heard was false. I did not leave Town with a married woman, but by God, I’ll return with one.”
“Yes. But...married?”
“This afternoon, in fact.” He faced his cousin. “I’m happy to show you the marriage lines if you are thinking to dispute the legality.”
“No.” Llewellyn bowed. “Lady Banallt. I hope you’ll accept my congratulations and felicitations.”
Mrs. Llewellyn did not show her husband’s restraint. Once Sophie became the focus of attention, she went to Sophie and, sitting beside her, hugged her. “We were devastated by your loss, truly devastated.”
“Thank you for the lovely flowers you sent,” Sophie told her. She was horribly aware of Harry Llewellyn glaring at Banallt. “It meant a great deal to know you thought of me.”
She took Sophie’s hand in hers. “Fidelia misses him dreadfully.” She lowered her voice. “She’s taken it hard. Very hard. I think it will do her good to see you.” Mrs. Llewellyn hugged Sophie to her bosom. “This is indeed happy news. Happy news,” she said. “You don’t know how I’ve wished for this. He’s been so unhappy since... Well, I’m certain you know. The moment I saw you two together I knew he’d fallen in love at last. What splendid news!” Banallt was the recipient of another embrace. Sophie, still overwhelmed by the welcome, heard Mrs. Llewellyn whisper to him, “I had so hoped you would see she was the only woman for you. Banallt, you’ve done well. Very well this time.” And then she stepped away, and Sophie had the unwelcome thought that there were now three more people who must eventually discover that the marriage was a sham.
“I am the happiest, most fortunate man in England,” he said. Sophie lifted her chin to look at him. His eyes were that eerie flat and lifeless silver that had been haunting her since the day they met. The impact of his gaze sent her pulse racing.
“Incredible,” Harry Llewellyn said. “You’re actually in love.”
If only he knew the truth, Sophie thought.
Thirty-one
AFTER TEA AND MORE EXPRESSIONS OF CONGRATULATIONS and surprise, Banallt very slyly, or perhaps not slyly at all, gave Harry Llewellyn a recommendation to a restaurant in Duke’s Head. Or, he told them, they could do as he planned to do and have supper in their rooms, if they cared to stay at Darmead. They did, as it was getting late and threatening rain. King appeared to escort the Llewellyns to rooms, and then, Sophie was alone with Banallt. She took one look at him and burst into tears.
“Sophie, darling,” he said.
She wanted to go to him, but her feet refused to move and she was afraid to try because her familiar world no longer existed. If she moved from this spot, she might just vanish into thin air. But Banallt moved the world for her, and before long, she was in his embrace. “Your cousin wanted you to marry Fidelia.” She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat and breathed in the scent of bergamot. “He expected you to marry her.”
“Everyone knows that. He made no secret of it.” Banallt rubbed his hands along her spine. “His hope for a marriage between me and Fidelia was the primary reason he put off your brother.”
Sophie lifted her head. “You knew?”
“I am head of the family. It is my business to know. Harry was quick to inform me I’d a rival. It’s been a favorite subject of his since the year after my wife died.” He shrugged. “I don’t begrudge him that. As such matters go, a marriage between Fidelia and me makes sense.” He tightened his arms around her, and she allowed herself to relax against him. “If I were not in love with you, Sophie, I might have gone through with it. Or if Fidelia’s heart had been free to be won. But after she met your brother, there was no one else for her.” He lay his cheek on the top of her head. “Her affection for him was genuine. I think they would have been happy together.”
“So do I,” she whispered. She blinked and something tickled her cheek. Tears, she discovered, when she swiped a hand beneath her eyes. Weeks of emotional deadness were crumbling away, and unless she found a way to stop the erosion of her control, she was going to break before the night was done. She wanted to be someplace where she would not be confronted by topsy-turvy emotions, and that meant away from Banallt. Far from Darmead.
He brushed her hair behind her ears, his fingers lingering there. “Let’s go where we may be private.” He took a step back, hand outstretched. She put her hand in his, and this time, her feet did move. He walked with her to her room. Her trunk from Havenwood was open at the foot of the bed. Sophie’s maid, Flora, was just closing a mahogany armoire.
“Ma’am,” she said. “Lady Banallt, begging your pardon.”
Her presence must be Banallt’s doing. Sophie hadn’t arranged for her to come here. He’d thought of everything. Flora was a pretty woman, young, too, but if Banallt noticed, he hid it well.
“Flora,” he said. He never hesitated calling her maid by name. He knew instantly who she was. “You are free to go tonight. I’ll look after Lady Banallt myself.”
“Milord.” She curtseyed again. “Milady.”
With Flora gone, Sophie stood in the center of the room, the tips of her fingers over her mouth. This couldn’t be real, she thought. This was Darmead, after all, the place where she’d had more foolish dreams than most girls had in their lifetimes. If this was one of her stories, Banallt would be the villain, and her marriage a sham. She knew it wasn’t because she was the villain here; she had entered into this marriage without love.
Banallt went to the fireplace and added more coals. He intended to stay with her, she realized. Her husband turned. “Come, Sophie. Let’s sit before the fire a while.”
There was a bottle of wine and two glasses on a table along with bread, a plate of cold meats, and fruit. Banallt ignored the food as he led her to the sofa arranged before the fireplace. She sat, at once glad of a reprieve from the intimacy to come and perversely disappointed. Banallt sat beside her, but rather far away, with his back against the sofa arm and one foot on the floor, the other on the sofa.
“Shall we speak,” he said, “of your long and trying day?”
“No.” She looked at him, but without meeting his eyes. Coward, she thought, but she still stared at his ear rather than risk locking gazes with him. She straightened her shawl, settling it very precisely around her shoulders, and then felt foolish. The gesture gave away her unsettled state of mind. She did look into his eyes then. Yet another confusing reaction washed over her.
“You’ve sailed between Scylla and Charybdis, Sophie, and survived.”
“Have I?”
He held out both hands as if weighing the air on his palms. “You chose between Havenwood where you were intolerably miserable”—one hand dipped below the other—“and marriage to me. A monster, yes, an infamous scoundrel, but all the same, a man who adores you.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“Hm. The words have been used. We’ll settle for scoundrel, shall we?”
“Infamous scoundrel.”
“Have you made the right choice?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” she returned. “The choice is made.”
He smiled at her, and Sophie’s emotions went to war. She had always admired Banallt’s intellect and his easy manner with her. He never had condescended to her or made her feel unworthy or insignificant. But how could she forget him arriving at Rider Hall with Tommy, drunk and with a woman who was not respectable? All the times he’d watched her with his unsettling eyes and then left with Tommy. The night he’d admitted he was unfaithful to his marriage and saw no reason to change.
“You needn’t stay here,” she said. His eyes went wide the moment the words burst from her. “I mean, London is more convenient for you and I am happy to stay here at Darmead. I should be very happy here, with the castle to myself.”
Banallt didn’t reply right away. He tipped his head ever so slightly toward the back of the sofa. “What do you suggest we do instead? Carry on a passionate correspondence via the post? I think not, darling. You’ve not proven yourself a good respondent.”
“Your cousin mentioned Mrs. Peters.” Her cheeks burned, but he wasn’t looking at her and so did not see.
“For which I ought to have his head.” Banallt turned toward her, his lashes partially hiding his eyes. “He spoke out of turn.”
“An affair, Banallt, is nothing irreparable if both parties are aware in advance.”
“Indeed?” The word dripped with ice.
“I daresay neither of us would have any deep regrets if you carried on as before. There’s always been talk about you, and it needn’t matter. Not between us. It didn’t used to, after all.”
“What else needn’t matter, Sophie? Your vows to me? Because I assure you, you are wrong in that assumption.” Banallt sat up and stared at the ceiling. When he looked at her again, his expression was familiarly cool. “That was uncalled for. My apologies.”
“I’m only trying to find a way for us to get on, Banallt. That’s all.”
“You’re trying to find a way for you to stay in the past,” he said. “The past is dead. Let it stay that way. I don’t mean for us to get on as we did at Rider Hall, Sophie.” He stood, and she watched him only long enough to see him walk to the table where the wine had been left. Anger added stiffness to the set of his shoulders. She curled her legs beneath her, put her arms on the back of the sofa, and buried her face there. What a farce this night was becoming. She burned hot one moment, cold the next. She didn’t want him to leave her. She couldn’t bear to be near him. He was her friend. He would break her heart. Behind her closed eyes, the darkness increased. Banallt had turned down the lamp. She lifted her head, thinking perhaps that he meant to leave. The room jumped with shadows.
“What am I to do then?” she said into the darkened room. She curled in a corner of the sofa. “When I hear your name connected with some other woman’s, am I to let your affair break my heart as Tommy’s did? I should think that you, of all men, would prefer a wife who isn’t jealous.”
He was by the table with the bottle of wine and both their glasses in one hand. He rejoined her on the sofa. Not too near, but not far, either. The wine and glasses he set on a folded-up card table at his elbow. She could see his face, pale and intense, and she remembered all those times at Rider Hall before she knew him, when he was Lord Banallt only and a stranger to her, the possessor of a familiar name, and then a friend of Tommy’s of whom she deeply disapproved. And somehow he’d become a friend to whom she had confessed things she’d never told anyone else. How she loved Tommy and how she kept her writing income secret from her husband.
Scandal Page 27
