“Yes, but he didn’t give me any details.”
“You know what Mr. Brentwood did was the best thing for you. He needed to step aside and let you continue with what you need to do. The Season is more than half over.”
Yes, she knew, but she didn’t want to face it. She would put on a happy face as she did this morning and be brave for all to see, but she felt wretched and empty inside.
Sophia placed her plate on the table and saw an envelope with her name on it. For a fraction of a heartbeat, she thought perhaps it was from Matson, telling her he was sorry and she would be his partner after all. A closer look at the writing told her it wasn’t from Matson. The large fanciful script writing was from Lord Snellingly’s hand. She pushed the note aside and sat down.
“Aren’t you going to open your letter?”
“No,” she said. “Lord Snellingly sent me three notes yesterday, and all of them were filled with poetry he’d written for me. I can’t read any more of it.”
“You know the earl will be the best one for you to make a match with, don’t you?”
Sophia’s stomach tightened as she looked up at Sir Randolph. She didn’t want to think about the fact that she needed to decide on a man to marry, so she remained quiet.
But Sir Randolph didn’t. “I know Lord Hargraves is younger, more handsome, and probably more to your liking, but I would have doubts about his handling of your inheritance.”
“Why is that?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of hot chocolate.
“I’ll just say that he’s known to be free with his own inheritance, so I wouldn’t want to trust him with yours. He gambles without setting boundaries or control. I fear the bigger his pockets, the bigger his borders will be, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, she knew what that meant, and that wasn’t the kind of person she wanted to be in control of her father’s company.
“You know, Sophia, your father didn’t want me picking a husband for you, he wanted me only to guide you. He wanted the man to be your choice. He never wavered on that point.”
“My choice as long as he is titled, Sir Randolph,” she said, placing her cup on the table and taking a seat.
“Yes. He never wavered on that either.”
“Good morning, Sir Randolph,” June said when she walked into the breakfast room.
“Miss Shevington,” he said and picked up his newsprint, stuck it in front of his face, and went back to his reading.
“Would you like me to help you with your plate, Auntie?” Sophia asked.
“I’m crippled, not helpless. I can handle it.”
Sophia spread butter and plum jam on her scone while she thought over what Sir Randolph had said. There was no way she was going to consider Lord Bighampton. She didn’t want to spend her life being chased around the settee, or being isolated at his country estate. She agreed with Sir Randolph. Lord Snellingly would be the most likely husband to give her the freedom she desired so she could continue to help oversee her father’s business. But could she live with his incessant need to write and read his poetry to her?
And what about his touch? He had never tried to kiss her, and when he touched her hand while they were dancing, she felt no spark of desire, no craving to see him or touch him or to be with him like she felt every time Matson crossed her mind.
She laid her scone down without having taken a bite. Lord Snellingly’s poetry was the least of her worries. Could she ever let him touch her after Matson? Her only hope was that she could find some measure of solace in Shevington Shipping.
“You have a note by your plate, Sophia,” June said when she took a seat at the table. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
Sophia sighed. “I can tell by the writing that it’s from Lord Snellingly, and I don’t want to read more of his poetry right now. I will let Aunt Mae read it. She seems to be enthralled with every word he writes.”
“May I?” June asked.
“Of course,” Sophia said and pushed the card toward her.
“Sophia, this isn’t poetry,” June said. “Something has happened.”
Sir Randolph lowered his paper. Sophia’s heart sped up again. “What? Did Matson ask for me to be his partner again?”
“Matson?” June and Sir Randolph said at the same time.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Aunt Mae, Sir Randolph. I think of him by his first name sometimes. Just tell me, am I to be his partner?”
“No, but neither will Lord Snellingly be your partner. Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes, please,” she said, wondering if the entire event had been canceled.
June read:
My dearest and most lovely Miss Hart,
I regret having to tell you that I cannot participate in the eagerly awaited May Day Fair Day games and alfresco entertainment of Old London with you at Hyde Park tomorrow. I have had the unfortunate displeasure of being stricken with a painful uprising of gout, and the beast has laid me low. So it is with great sorrow that I have had to ask my cousin, who’s just arrived for a visit from Cornwall, to act as my proxy. He will arrive in my carriage precisely at half past nine in the morning for you and the Misses Shevington, so that you might be on time for the festivities starting at ten. I’m sure he will make a good showing for me.
I am with all due respect yours very truly,
Lord Snellingly
Sophia put her elbows on the table and dropped her forehead into her hands. “Oh, Aunt June, what am I to do? I will have to spend the entire day with a stranger. I could just—”
“What, dear?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I could scream at Mr. Brentwood for putting me in this position.”
“Sophia, you know what he did was the best thing for you,” Aunt June said. “I’ve said this before. You can’t marry him.”
A deep longing stirred inside Sophia. “I have not lost sight of what I need to do, Auntie.”
She just wished she didn’t have to do it.
Twenty-three
Love is a second life; it grows into the soul, warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.
—Joseph Addison
Saturday dawned with blue skies and a big yellow sun heating the air.
Matson had dressed in his lightest shirt, waistcoat, and coat. He had loosely tied his neckcloth and made sure his collar wasn’t too tight. He knew the day was going to be long, and if the sun was any indication, very warm for the last Saturday in May.
Lord Tradesforke’s people must have worked all night to set up the fair. They had roped off a large section of the park near the Serpentine to keep out the uninvited. But plenty of onlookers were already crowding the edges of the ropes in hopes of getting a glimpse of all that would be happening.
Crowds were already gathering inside the ropes too. There were booths laden with food, drinks, and games. The cubicles that housed puppets singing and dancing were drawing the largest crowds. Card tables had been set up at various places around the ringed area, and some eager souls were already playing loo, piquet, and commerce. Another section had been roped off separately, where there were monkeys, bears, an elephant, and other animals caged for everyone to see. As Lord Tradesforke had promised, there would be no lack of entertainment.
Matson had arrived at the park early to pick out which boat he wanted for the race. There were several different races to participate in throughout the day, but he wanted only to compete in the rowboat race, and then only if Lord Snellingly and Sophia participated in it. Outwardly, he was making a good show of looking forward to the day, speaking to gentlemen and tipping his hat to the ladies. He would do his job and see to it that Miss Craftsman had a lovely time, but as for himself, he would only be pretending to enjoy himself.
Once he had picked the one he wanted and put a flask of water in it, he then looked at the watch he’d stuck in his coat pocket. He’d told Miss Craftsman to be on the banks of the Serpentine by ten, but she had already missed that by thirty minutes. The race wasn’t until half past one, but he’d wante
d to go over some of the rules with her that he had covered with Sophia.
It didn’t matter what Matson was doing, his thoughts always drifted back to Sophia. He had often been hit with mild interest in young ladies, but he felt stirrings of lust the first time he saw Sophia. There was no doubt he wanted her. But over the weeks he’d known her, those rash feelings had changed to something more reverent than lust, and he was still trying to recognize, understand, and accept them.
His mind took him back to that day on the Serpentine with Sophia. He would never forget how fragile she was when she was reminded of the fire. He would never forget how right she felt in his arms, how satisfying she felt beneath him, or how sweet she tasted to his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment and imagined his lips on hers. He heard her soft sounds of passion and felt her fingertips on his bare skin. He would always remember her willingly giving herself to him with such innocence and eagerness to know what being with a man was all about. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that she belonged to him and no one else.
When Matson looked up, he saw Sophia walking in his direction. His heartbeat slowed and started thumping hard and determined. He couldn’t help but smile. She was dressed perfectly for the day, in a dark gray dress that wouldn’t show soil easily. There were no bows, lace, or ribbons adorning it, and it was just the right length. On her feet were safe, comfortable work boots. Her hair was tucked under a short-brimmed oval bonnet, perfect for protection from the sun but would not impair her vision. Matson smiled. She’d listened to every word he’d said, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen her look more beautiful.
He had an overwhelming desire to rush to her, pick her up in his arms, and swing her around until she was dizzy with delight. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, and touch her. He wanted to ease the ache in his chest.
He knew the moment she saw him. Her steps faltered slightly. She blinked and quickly looked away from him. His gut wrenched. He didn’t blame her, only himself. This was what he’d wanted. The turn of events for this day were all his own making, but looking at her now, he wished like hell he could go back and change what he’d done. But he couldn’t. No matter the feelings eating away inside him, they didn’t belong together.
Matson didn’t see Lord Snellingly walking with her. Where was the fop, and who was that young buck walking beside Sophia? Why was he talking to her on such friendly terms? And why was she smiling and laughing with him?
Matson studied the man, certain he hadn’t seen him before. He was about Matson’s height and almost as broad in the shoulders. He supposed the man could be considered handsome by the ladies. Matson figured the blade looked to be about six or eight years younger than he was.
Where was the earl? Matson grimaced. He scanned the crowd that had grown quite large over the past half hour but didn’t see him. He followed Sophia and the man to a gaming booth, where the buck easily knocked over all the bottles with a ball and won Sophia a little doll not much bigger than her hand, but it certainly put a smile of appreciation on her face.
Matson was suddenly plagued with huge bouts of the green-eyed monster Shakespeare so cleverly wrote about in The Merchant of Venice. He couldn’t stop following them. They left and walked to another booth, where the man purchased her a sugared tart. It drove Matson crazy watching her eat it while she conversed with the man, who appeared to be trying to charm her out of her chemise.
Finally, when Matson could no longer stand watching the buck make her laugh with such ease, he walked over to them and said, “Good morning, Miss Hart.”
Sophia turned toward him. She was still holding the doll in her hand. Matson had a sudden urge to rip it from her and throw it in the Serpentine.
The smile on her face dried up instantly when she saw him. “Mr. Brentwood,” she said, and turned to the man beside her. “Have you met Mr. Adam Beckett?”
The men greeted each other coolly. “No, I don’t believe I have.”
“Perhaps you know Mr. Beckett’s father, Viscount Rosenwall.”
Matson scoffed a bitter laugh under his breath. He should have known. The man would have a title one day. Why didn’t that surprise Matson?
“I’ve heard of him.”
Sophia smiled at Mr. Beckett before looking at Matson again and saying, “Mr. Beckett is Lord Snellingly’s cousin and my partner for the day.”
Shock registered on Matson’s face before he could stop it, so there was nothing to do but admit it. “That surprises me.”
Sophia gave him a look that seemed to say “I bet it does.”
Matson’s jaw tightened. The reason he’d traded Sophia to Lord Snellingly was because she was safe with the earl. He envisioned the man reading poetry to her while she rowed the boat. It never dawned on Matson that she might somehow be put into the hands of another man—a much younger, stronger, much more handsome, and soon-to-be-titled man.
“What happened to the earl?” Matson asked.
Sophia said, “Lord Snellingly took to his sick bed with an affliction that comes on him from time to time. It’s nothing serious, and it seems to pass in a few days.”
It was Matson’s turn to give Sophia a look that said “I bet it does.”
“It’s gout,” Mr. Beckett said.
“How fortunate it is for Miss Hart that you were able to step in and fill his shoes for today’s events,” Matson said.
“Isn’t it, though? I just arrived in London a couple of days ago to enjoy the last two weeks of the Season.” He looked down at Sophia. “I had thought about not coming. Now I’m glad I did.”
“And do you write poetry like your cousin, Mr. Beckett?” Mason asked.
Beckett wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “No.”
Matson smiled. “That’s too bad. Miss Hart loves poetry.”
“Look, Mr. Brentwood,” Sophia said, “here comes your partner for the day, Miss Craftsman. And see how lovely she is.”
Matson looked behind him and swallowed hard. Miss Craftsman was dressed as if she were going to a dinner party rather than a fair day in the park. Her dress was not only sweeping the ground with every step she took, it was ballooned with lace-trimmed flounces and ribbons streaming from her cuffs and the waistband. Her bonnet looked to be the size of a washing tub, and still she carried a parasol decked with ribbons.
The tables had turned on Matson, and he didn’t like it. He had hoped to see Sophia stranded in the middle of the lake while the earl read poetry to her, and instead, he was the one with the albatross in his boat. Damn that Snellingly. Why did the man have to get sick and turn Sophia over to Mr. Beckett?
Hadn’t it been punishment enough that he’d verbally lashed himself over and over again for the foolish move of exchanging Sophia for Miss Craftsman?
“Hmm.” Sophia said. “It looks like you didn’t have any rowing practice with Miss Craftsman.”
“No, I didn’t,” Matson mumbled tightly, but looked directly into Sophia’s eyes. “There’s only one person I want to be in a rowboat with.”
He saw her swallow hard.
“Are you a betting man, Mr. Brentwood?” Mr. Beckett asked.
“As much as any man,” he answered without taking his gaze from Sophia’s. He had a feeling she knew she was torturing him.
“What about a friendly wager between us on who wins the rowboat race on the Serpentine? I think I can beat you.”
Matson forced himself to take his eyes off Sophia. The man looked strong, capable, but Matson had done a lot of rowing when he was in Baltimore. Many times their ships wouldn’t have docking space at the harbor, so they would anchor offshore. He’d never minded rowing out to the ships. He was confident he could take this young man.
“All right,” Matson said. “If I win, I get to be Miss Hart’s partner the rest of the day, and you take mine.”
He heard Sophia’s intake of breath.
Mr. Beckett looked from Sophia to Miss Craftsman, who was walking delicately toward them, and he said, “That’s not what I ha
d in mind. I was thinking we’d lay down a little blunt to make the race interesting.”
“I don’t care if it’s interesting, and I don’t want your money. If I win, I get Miss Hart. I’m a shipbuilder. If I lose, I’ll build and present you with a small ship.”
Beckett grunted.
“That’s my wager. Take it or leave it.”
Sophia gasped. “Matson, have you lost your mind?”
“I have no use for a ship,” Mr. Beckett said.
“Thank God,” Sophia whispered.
“But I accept your bet,” Mr. Beckett added.
“No,” Sophia whispered, and then said, “Stop this madness, both of you right now. There will be no betting on this race. How dare you suggest a wager, Mr. Beckett, and how dare you offer such a prize, Mr. Brentwood.”
Matson stared at Sophia. She was outraged, but she would get over it. He was determined to right the wrong he’d done. He wanted her back, and he’d risk everything to get her.
“It’s a deal,” Matson said, reaching out his hand to Mr. Beckett.
Mr. Beckett snorted a laugh and folded his hands across his chest. “Not so quick. How do I know that you will build me that ship when you lose?”
Matson spread his arm out toward the crowd. “Ask any of the gentlemen you see here. They know me as a man of my word.”
“Don’t be foolish, Mr. Beckett,” Sophia said. “And take my word for it that you cannot trust Mr. Brentwood’s word.” She turned to Matson. “He says no, Mr. Brentwood. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have other people to see.”
Mr. Beckett stuck out his hand and said, “I accept that you are an honorable man, and I accept your terms.”
“But you can’t,” Sophia said, looking from her partner to Matson. “This is outrageous.”
Yes, but you are worth it, and I will win you back!
Sophia stared at Matson. “What if you lose?” she continued.
“I will pay my debt.”
Her eyes softened, and she implored him, “Don’t do this, Matson.”
Amelia Grey - [Rogues' Dynasty 06] Page 23
