by Sara Bennett
“Then I wish she would marry him. Maybe then I could stop thinking about her.”
“Have you tried working out your frustration on other women? I find it helps. Just close your eyes and picture Sophy’s face when you push your cock into—”
“No! I have every intention of being a faithful husband to Evelyn.”
“You’re not married yet,” Adam pointed out.
“I’m sure once Evelyn and I are married everything will be all right. It’s just the waiting and being away from Pendleton. You know how I feel about London.” He frowned. “By the way what did you tell Evelyn about Sophy?”
“Not much. It was the night of your engagement, after you went tearing off after her. Your fiancé was understandably miffed. I said Sophy was someone from the past, brushed it off. Why? Is she suspicious there’s more to it, Harry? I wonder why,” he added in a mutter.
Harry glared but didn’t bother to answer.
Quietly, Adam walked by his side. After a moment he waved down another cab, and the two men climbed inside. “I don’t want to tell you what’s what, Harry,” he said when they were settled. “I’m sure you know your own mind. But let me say this, as someone who has known you all your life and wants only the best for you.”
Harry looked at him in wary surprise. It was rare that Adam was serious, but he could see he was serious now.
“I don’t know why Sophy left Pendleton. I know what Father said, but I’m certain there was more to it than he let on. Maybe you should remember what a scheming bastard he’s been all our lives.”
“Adam, that’s over,” Harry reminded him impatiently. “I don’t want to reunite with her. I just want to get her out of my head and my life.”
Adam nodded. “Very well. I suppose you could take Evelyn away somewhere, a week or two in the country? If she’ll leave London, of course. By then Sophy may be engaged to James and out of your reach.”
The cab rumbled over some cobbles, the only sound in the tense silence. The stink of the perfume clinging to his brother’s clothing was making Harry feel queasy, or at least that was what he told himself.
But it seemed that Adam’s uncharacteristically serious moment had not ended yet. “I’m saying this because, Harry, I am reasonably certain that is what is going to happen. She’ll be someone else’s and any chance you might have had will be gone. I suppose you could have a raging affair with her, or offer her a carte blanche? Have you considered that?” He laughed at Harry’s reaction. “I see you have. What’s stopping you?”
“It would hurt too many people,” Harry snarled. “I don’t intend to be like Father. I refuse to behave as he did to our mother.”
Adam cocked an eyebrow. “Too upright, eh?”
“You’re insane,” Harry muttered.
“Perhaps. My advice? If you want her you must act fast. Stop going round and round in circles. Get your hands dirty, Harry.”
“Even if I set aside every one of my morals, it’s too late,” he said, his voice bleak. “I’m marrying Evelyn.”
Adam sighed. “Yes, I keep forgetting.”
They didn’t speak again for the rest of the journey to Albemarle Street.
SOPHY
Mrs Harding was accompanying Sophy and her two daughters to some exclusive and fashionable shops near Covent Garden. They had entered a haberdasher when Sophy saw a familiar face. Lady Evelyn Rowe was examining some cloth at the counter with an older woman who looked so much like her, she had to be her mother, the Dowager Countess.
Sophy had managed to put Harry completely out of her mind over recent weeks, and apart from one glimpse of him in Hyde Park, she hadn’t seen him at all. It was peaceful not to have that constant riot of emotion inside her, to just enjoy her time now instead of constantly rehashing the past.
With a nervous glance toward Lady Evelyn, she followed Mrs Harding over to a display of the latest summer muslins and tried to show some interest. Sir Geoffrey had offered to have new outfits made for all three girls, and his sister was quick to take advantage in case he changed his mind. Not, as far as Sophy could tell, that he ever did. Sir Geoffrey was one of the most generous men she knew.
“Evelyn, this would be perfect for your wedding veil!” the Dowager Countess’s strident voice rose above the low murmur of the other customers.
Despite her best efforts, Sophy found herself drawn to the conversation. Harry’s wedding. That familiar ache started up in her chest and she wanted to groan aloud.
Evelyn examined the lace, her lovely face pensive, a little frown between her winged brows. “Do you think so, Mama? Is it not a little ostentatious?”
Her mother was easily persuaded. “Perhaps.” She lay the lace aside and picked up something new. “Two such attractive people hardly need embellishments,” she added with a smile.
Evelyn smiled back but Sophy could see it was forced. Was everything not well in paradise?
Sophy sighed, and Mrs Harding shot her an impatient glance. “Whatever is it, Sophy? One would think you were never satisfied. No one likes an ungrateful girl.”
Now it was her turn to force a smile. “I am grateful.”
Lady Helen spoke again in that loud, aristocratic voice. “Where is Harry? I thought he was meeting us here?”
“He is. Don’t worry, Mama, Harry is never late.”
The Dowager Countess looked about her, and suddenly her gaze landed on Sophy. Her face went to stone. “Isn’t that the girl?” she hissed, probably imagining she was keeping her voice lowered.
Evelyn turned her head and her face lost all its colour. Something akin to panic flickered in her dark eyes.
At that moment Sophy felt Mrs Harding’s hand close on her arm. “You were staring, Sophy,” she said reprovingly. “It is very ill mannered.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Sophy protested.
“I think we are finished anyway,” Mrs Harding announced. “Come girls.”
Lucy and Charlotte obediently headed for the door and Sophy followed, aware of the eyes still boring into her back, just as Harry stepped in.
Because Sophy was distracted she bumped right into him. He reached to steady her, and the shock of him touching her, even through her clothing, was such that she gasped. Despite the warning bells chiming in her head she lifted her face to his.
He’d been smiling, about to apologise, but stopped. There were shadows beneath his dark eyes, as if he’d spent a restless night. A lock of hair had fallen over his brow, and his strong jaw was clean shaven above his white neckcloth. He looked fashionable and handsome and completely beyond her reach.
And still she wanted him.
Sophy felt raw and exposed. Her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings because she had had no time to prepare. No time to put on her indifferent mask.
No time for anything but to stare back at him with her heart on display.
“Sophy!” Mrs Harding called sharply, and at the same time the Dowager Countess shrilled, “Harry!”
He came to his senses just as Sophy did, and with a brief and less than elegant bow, brushed past her into the shop. Sophy carried on through the door, feeling light-headed. Mrs Harding surged ahead, clearly angry, but Sophy told herself it wasn’t her fault. How could she have known Harry would appear like that? How could she have been ready for it?
“The way he stared at you!” whispered Charlotte, clasping her arm with excitement. “Sophy, you cannot tell me he does not love you still!”
Mrs Harding hissed out a warning, and they reached the coach that Sir Geoffrey had supplied, climbing inside. Sophy was still too shocked to speak. She looked at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. She didn’t want to talk about it. She needed to gather her wits. She needed …
“There will be trouble over this,” Mrs Harding spoke like a prophet of doom.
Sophy said nothing. She was too busy trying not to remember the look on Harry’s face, as if he had been struck by lightning, and Charlotte’s words: You cannot tell me that he does not love you still.
Chapter 22
HARRY
The Earl of Monkstead was holding one of his famous soirees at his town house in Mockingbird Square. Rumour had it that he liked to throw together the most interesting people from the Season’s current crop for his own amusement. Harry suspected that was why he was here this evening, as well as Evelyn and Oscar, and Adam and Lady Felicia.
He didn’t feel particularly interesting, or amusing. Especially when James and Digby Abbott arrived, followed by Sophy and her steely eyed chaperone, Mrs Harding, and the two daughters. And the fact that Sophy took one glance at his frowning face, and immediately went in the opposite direction … That didn’t amuse him either.
The meal itself was delicious, of course, and there were plenty of other guests to keep the conversation flowing. Monkstead sat at the head of his table, darkly handsome and enigmatic, watching the interactions. Harry had heard there was a wife somewhere in the background but no one really knew the story, although there were plenty eager to speculate.
Sophy wasn’t close enough for him to speak to, but he could see her smiling at those on either side of her. Her blue gown matched the colour of her eyes and the neckline gave him a glimpse of the pale swell of her breasts. A white ribbon was sewn into the high waist, with a bow at the front. His fingers itched to pull it undone.
He watched her smile at her dinner companions and he found himself fascinated by the candlelight shining in her hair, which was starting to escape its pins. The older gentleman to her left seemed smitten by her charming manners while the younger one to her right leered as if he had plans for her that Harry didn’t want to think about. And all that time she didn’t look at him once, which irked him more with every passing moment.
After the meal there was music. A woman sang to the accompaniment of a pianoforte, which also reminded Harry of Sophy, singing with her eyes closed during the Christmas dinner at Pendleton. Everything reminded him of Sophy these days—he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was as if she was locked inside his head and he had lost the key to let her out. Was he turning into his father, fantasising about one woman when he was engaged to another?
While the vocalist performed, he sat toward the back of the room, far enough away from the others to ensure they could not read his expression. After the incident in Covent Garden, he thought it best not to risk it. Lady Helen had chastised him in a furious tone that had made everyone stare.
Had he really looked like a dying duck in a thunderstorm? And who would have imagined Lady Helen to have known such a vulgar expression let alone speak it aloud? All the same he admitted it had been a surprise to see Sophy there, right in front of him. Her big blue eyes gazing up into his and her lips parted as she gave a short gasp. He swore he could still smell the summer scents of the white garden at Pendleton on her skin.
He’d felt a jolt so hard to his heart that he’d wondered if it had shattered. That would have explained his inability to speak or move. Although he’d wanted to. A hot river of need had run through him. He was hard, ready, and close to being out of control, right there in public. If they’d been alone he knew he would have grabbed her to him and kissed her. Kissed her until she did not want to run away ever again.
The music came to an end and there was polite applause, shaking him back to the present. The soloist launched into her next piece. Guiltily, Harry’s gaze sought out his fiancé. Evelyn was seated several seats in front of him, beside an old school friend she had discovered was also present. Harry allowed himself to examine her dispassionately.
The curve of her cheek wasn’t as full as Sophy’s and her nose was more patrician. Her dark hair was caught up in an intricate style, unlike Sophy’s soft curls. As usual she was the most fashionably dressed woman in the room. She was perfect.
But Harry no longer wanted perfection.
He stared straight ahead now as a sense of despair washed over him. His skin felt clammy, as if he was coming down with an illness, and his head ached. Perhaps he was sick. Perhaps this nonsense was all in his mind, like a sort of delirium, and when he was recovered it would all just go away.
He heard soft footsteps behind him and turned just in time to glimpse a woman’s blue skirt as a door closed behind her. Without another thought, Harry stood up and followed.
It was a library. Of course it was. Sophy had always been drawn to books—she liked to lose herself between their pages and at one point she had even talked about writing one. That was before she began to teach the children at the school in the village, sharing her love of the written word with them. She had seemed so very much in her element with those children, patient and as pleased at their successes as they were. Once, when he was home from school, and she had told him what she was doing, Harry had gone to the academy. Silent and unseen, he’d watched and listened as she took her students through their lessons. He remembered thinking the girl he saw that day was right where she wanted to be. So what was she doing here in this place? Had she changed so very much?
Harry paused a moment, listening. He heard the brush of cloth against the shelves and the muffled tap of a slipper on thick carpet. He made his way in that direction, the room barely lit by a single lamp on a desk by the window.
No doubt this was Monkstead’s bolthole and Sophy was trespassing. That was so very typical of her it made him smile.
And then there she was, bending over to examine a title that had caught her attention, her fingers hesitating over the spine. He cleared his throat and she jumped before she straightened abruptly. Harry was suddenly conscious of how quiet it was in here. Just the two of them, alone, as they had not been since the ball at Albury House, when he had abused her just for being there.
“Not fond of the music?” he asked.
Her blue gaze fixed on him, trying to read him. He took a step toward her and she took one back, coming up against the bookshelf. He was close enough now to see her breasts rise and fall with each breath she took, and the hunted expression in her eyes.
“You seem to have settled nicely into London society,” he went on, his voice now rough, even angry. He wasn’t sure if he was angry with her or himself. It didn’t seem to matter. “Almost as if you were born to it.”
“We both know that’s not true,” she countered, finding her courage and standing her ground.
“We do.” He took another step and now he was almost touching her. She swallowed, turning her face and refusing to look at him. For some reason that made him even more angry. “Are you going to marry James Abbott?”
“What business is that of yours?”
He wanted to bluster that it was very much his business but he bit the words back. “Are you?” he demanded instead.
His question had startled her. She looked at him now, eyes wide. Harry knew then that he was lost. Completely and utterly lost. Because he would do just about anything to have her again.
“I could tell him about the night we spent together,” he went on, his self-awareness making him cruel. “I wonder, would he marry you then?”
“Why would you do such a thing?” she whispered.
She should slap him—Evelyn certainly would—but instead she looked as if he had wounded her. Tears filled her eyes.
Hurting her was what broke him.
Harry wrapped his arms around her, his face pressed into her hair, and breathed in her scent. “Sophy,” he said, meshing her body to his. “Why did you leave me, Sophy?”
She had seemed to acquiesce but at his words she stiffened, shoving at his shoulders. “Let me go!” she gasped.
Her voice was loud enough that he did let her go, worried they might be discovered. But he wasn’t ready to walk away just yet. There were questions he needed to ask. Questions he should have asked in the garden at Evelyn’s house, but at the time he had been too full of hurt and rage.
“I came back and you were gone,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm. He cupped her cheek with his hand, forcing her to face him when she would have slid sideways to escap
e. “Sophy? Why did you leave like that, without even a word?”
She blinked at him, frowning, as if she was trying to understand. “You really don’t know?” she asked, mistrust fighting disbelief.
“Your father was a thief, that was what I was told.”
“My father was not a thief. Sir Arbuthnot loaned him money to buy back Audley Farm. They made a bargain that my father would buy the farm and then I would marry my cousin and we would live there together. Because Sir Arbuthnot wanted me gone, Harry, and he was willing to pay.”
“Then why are you here?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you cosying up to your cousin at Audley Farm?”
“Because you and I were seen that night we were together. Sir Arbuthnot found out about us. He feared you would never let me go, so he decided to take more drastic action. He accused father of stealing and sent him to prison, and I went to live with my grandmother.”
His father had perjured himself. Harry had believed that was a step too far even for him but it seemed he was wrong. As for the rest of it, her revelations corresponded with what he already knew. That George had wanted Sophy to have a dowry so that she could marry a man of his choosing. A better man than Harry Baillieu. Or perhaps he suspected Harry was his father’s son and would never marry a girl like Sophy.
He reached into his waistcoat pocket, found the signet ring, and held it out to her.
With a gasp, Sophy reached for it but his fingers curled over. Her eyes darted to his. “How did you get that?” she asked, wariness creeping into them.
“You sent it back to me. You didn’t need it or me anymore. That was what I was told.”
“No. That wasn’t what happened.”
Harry wanted to pretend she was lying, that it was all a game. That he had been right all along. He wanted to believe that because otherwise he had made the worst of mistakes. He said, “George sent it in a letter he wrote to my father from his cell. After my father handed me the ring I made him show me the letter. It mentioned Lambeth, and that you were ‘happily settled’ there.”
