by Nichole Van
Contents
Dedication
BEFORE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
AFTER
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Reading Group Questions
Other Books by Nichole Van
About the Author
Copyright
Preview of Suffering the Scot: Brotherhood of the Black Tartan Book 1
Preview of Seeing Miss Heartstone, A Regency Romance
Preview of Intertwine: House of Oak Book One
Preview of Gladly Beyond: Brothers Maledetti Book One
To Scotland—
And the warm, kind-hearted, generous people who live here.
I am grateful every day for the joy you bring into our lives.
Slàinte.
To Dave—
For suggesting we move to Scotland in the first place.
Best. Idea. Ever.
Before . . .
Four years earlier
London, England
1815
1
Lady Sophie came to a decisive conclusion six weeks into her first London Season—
Ballrooms were a microcosm of the entire animal kingdom.
And she belonged to a nearly-invisible species.
Neither fact particularly surprised her.
Sophie had long felt metaphorically invisible. Rendering herself literally unseen had simply required a bit of drapery.
She currently peeked out from behind a damask curtain. The small alcove with its heavy drapery provided an excellent vantage of the ballroom, allowing her to carefully study Lord Rafe Gilbert as he flirted with the young, widowed Lady Lilith Westover.
The pair were typical of the human species of the ton. Sophie had already spent weeks categorizing Polite Society into sub-classes and species according to the rules of Linnaean taxonomy.
For example, Lord Rafe—
Genus . . . Rakus.
Species . . . Lasciviosus.
Lady Lilith? Venus admirata.
Of note, those of genera Venus and Rakus generally disregarded women like Sophie. After all, she belonged to another genus altogether—Femina studiosa, often considered the most peculiar of all the Femina genera.
Or in the laymen’s vernacular . . . a bluestocking.
Hence, Sophie’s invisibility.
She was spending this ball like all the others she had attended this Season—fourteen so far and counting—studying the room from the security of an obliging curtain, forgotten by her mother, unnoticed by her father and siblings. Instead, Sophie had her field notebook in hand and scribbled the occasional observation of romantic behavior.
Lady Lilith’s blond head gleamed in the candlelight as she leaned toward Lord Rafe. She giggled, tapped his arm with her fan, and angled her upper body in a way that displayed her bosom to particular advantage.
Never one to dissuade a beautiful woman, Lord Rafe responded with his standard romantic lure—tilting his head to an angle of 45 degrees, raising both eyebrows, and slowly smiling. It was a maneuver Sophie had noted over and over at previous balls.
Tall and strikingly handsome, Lord Rafe was a prime example of Rakus lasciviosus—an attractive gentleman whose endless charm and wit excused his scandalously hedonistic behavior.
Sophie had a rather lengthy journal entry dedicated to him. It read like this:
Lord Rafe Gilbert
Taxonomy: Rakus lasciviosus
Description: Twenty-four years of age. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Height slightly above six feet (though precise measurement has not yet been taken).
Parentage: Second son and spare heir of the Duke and Duchess of Kendall. Pater veras and Mater veras assumed. The duchess, his mother, is the former Lady Elspeth Gordon, third daughter of the Earl of Ayr in the Scottish peerage (Source: Debrett’s Peerage of Scotland and Ireland, Volume II, 1814).
Notable Behaviors: Excessive flirtation, striking appearance, given to much laughter.
Sophie watched Lord Rafe lean in to whisper to Lady Lilith, his hair tumbling across his brow in dramatic fashion. Pursing her lips, Sophie quickly added dashing coiffure to his list of traits.
To be fair, Lady Lilith’s record was similar: Venus admirata, the third daughter of a marquess, charmingly beautiful, the widow of a wealthy banker, Mr. Westover.
Sophie’s own entry—endlessly edited and tweaked—was not nearly so compelling:
Lady Sophronia Catharine Sorrow
Taxonomy: Femina studiosa
Description: Twenty-two years of age. Brown hair. Green eyes. Height of precisely five feet, six and three-fourths inches.
Parentage: The fifth acknowledged child of the Earl and Countess of Mainfeld. Filia veras—true daughter—of Anne Sorrow, Lady Mainfeld. A member of the Sorrowful Miscellany, an epithet often used to describe the children of the Sorrow family whose Pater veras—true father—is not Lord Mainfeld. Identity of Lady Sophronia’s Pater veras? Currently unknown.
Notable Behaviors: Student of the natural sciences, given to rambling on about biological topics, nearly invisible to other genera.
She went back to studying Lord Rafe, noting how Lady Lilith seemed nearly entranced, hanging on the man’s every word.
In truth, Sophie found it most puzzling.
The scientist in her longed to speak with a Rakus, just a brief conversation or a passing comment. Women flung themselves at rakes with such shocking regularity. Her scientific mind was desperate to understand one simple fact—
Why?!
Why did women cast themselves into a rake’s clutches?
To Sophie, interacting with a rake seemed akin to casting one’s self upon a funeral pyre, burning one’s reputation to ash for little gain. She had certainly watched her mother respond to their charms over and over.
As if he had heard her unasked question, Lord Rafe lifted his head and pushed back that dashing lock of hair, his gaze drifting across the room to look in Sophie’s direction.
His eyes locked with hers.
Oh!
But . . . why would Lord Rafe look at her? She must be mistaken.
And yet, a quick glance to her left and right confirmed that Lord Rafe, was indeed, looking straight at her.
His gaze held, steadfast and intent, trapping her with its intensity.
Sophie’s heart lurched in her chest, a startled thu-thump.
He continued to stare, as if she were anything but invisible to him.
And then . . . he winked.
Sophie jerked her head back behind the curtain, biting her lip and pressing a hand to her sternum.
That was . . . unexpected.
Moreover, her entire body bore evidence of the brief interaction. Her heart raced and bounced in her chest. Her lungs heaved, and a thin layer of moisture dotted her upper lip.
How . . . fascinating.
Utterly, absolutely intriguin
g.
Was this the explanation she sought? That a rake could cause such a reaction in a woman even from a distance?
If so, the allure of Rakus was more formidable than she had supposed. No wonder women fell so thoroughly for their charms. Perhaps she should have more compassion for her mother. There were hitherto unknown factors at work.
Sophie tapped her pencil against her lips, pondering, before scribbling notes.
She had many follow-up questions.
Was this reaction unique only to a member of Rakus lasciviosus such as Lord Rafe? Or did all members of the Rakus family—Rakus ferox (feral rake) and the mythical Rakus reformus (reformed rake)—possess the power to incite heart palpitations from a distance of fifty feet?
She made a few additional notes and then poked her head out of the curtain again. Unfortunately, Lord Rafe had moved out of sight. Lady Lilith was now flirting with a baronet, employing the same giggle, fan tap, lean maneuver.
“What a lovely, cozy spot you have here,” a deeply masculine voice said behind her.
Sophie barely stifled a high-pitched squeal.
She whirled to find Lord Rafe a mere three feet away. The man had slipped behind the opposite edge of the curtain without her noticing.
Gracious heavens above!
She clutched her field book to her chest, as if the bound sheets of foolscap would keep her overly-excited heart in her chest.
Or, at the very least, could act as a defense against a Rakus, like a crucifix against a vampire.
Stand back, you flirtatious fiend, or I shall scourge you with scientific minutia and logical deductions. Begone!
Lord Rafe had been potent at fifty paces. At close quarters, he was positively overwhelming. That lush dark hair sweeping across his brow, the sharp angles of his handsome jaw casting shadows on his pristine neckcloth, his brown eyes melting puddles of rich chocolate, and—
Oh no!
How truly unnerving!
He had dimples . . . deep, luscious dimples punctuating the smiling corners of his mouth.
Words escaped her. Thoughts fled.
She was, in all honesty, fortunate to still be standing.
“Oh!” was all she managed, followed by a weaker, “you!”
“Yes.” Those dimples deepened along with his grin. “Me.”
Sophie willed herself not to stare, mouth flapping agape like a simpleton.
But . . . Lord Rafe was just so . . . him.
“I hope I am not intruding.” His wide smile said no one ever considered his presence a nuisance. “The curtain kept twitching over here.” He flicked his wrist indicating the damask fabric behind her. “I had to investigate its cause.”
Sophie disliked how much she liked his instinctive curiosity. It reflected her own.
He bowed as much as possible in the small alcove.
“Lord Rafe Gilbert at your service, madam.”
Such a thrillingly improper greeting, giving her his name without a formal introduction. Her governess would have an apoplexy.
Sophie mentally added, Displays a blatant disregard for propriety, to his list of Rakus behaviors.
She immediately curtsied, a reflexive, involuntary motion that she always found vaguely troubling. If someone bowed, she curtsied. Could she break free from the muscle memory of it, if she truly wished?
Regardless, she lifted her eyes back to his.
Seize this moment, Sophie. Research.
To that end, she breathed in deeply, inhaling an enormous whiff of air.
That . . . he did notice.
His easygoing manner stiffened slightly, shifting from flirtatious to more alert.
“Did you . . .” He paused, sending a dark eyebrow upward. “Did you just smell me?” A slight trace of Scotland laced his words.
“Yes.” Lying was not one of Sophie’s strengths. She was, after all, a scientist at heart. She might never have another chance to conduct such research. “You smell divine.” She took another deep sniff. “’Tis most distressing.”
He blinked, eyelashes drifting up and down. “My smell?” A small frown appeared. His spine stiffened further. “You . . . you find my smell divinely . . . distressing?” That same hint of Scotland lingered in his speech, the slight rolled ‘r’, the sibilant ‘s’.
“Well, yes,” she said mournfully.
If Sophie were the type to be easily embarrassed, she was quite sure her cheeks would be flaming.
Instead, she soldiered on. “You see, I have long considered a man’s scent to be inversely proportional to his moral character.”
A momentary pause.
She could practically see the gears in Lord Rafe’s brain recalibrating their conversation. He mouthed her words.
Inversely proportional to his moral character.
“Interesting,” he said after a brief pause. “You assert that there is a correlation between scent and conduct, that the better a man smells, the worse his behavior?”
“Precisely. And based on this measurement—”
“You mean . . . my distressing smell?”
“Yes. To be quite clear, you smell marvelous.” A brief pause. “Therefore . . . your behavior must be truly appalling.”
His dark eyebrow hiked further. How did he do that? she wondered. Why would a man be given such expressive eyebrows?
“And your name?” he prompted.
His face relaxed again into a slow smile that said she could trust him.
Sophie was not entirely sure that would be wise.
But he didn’t raise both eyebrows, as he had for Lady Lilith. Did he reserve that signature lure for the genus Venus then? And why did that thought invoke a sinking sensation?
“Lady Sophronia Sorrow.” She cleared her throat. Again, a biological reflex.
She knew how others reacted to her name, to the weight of all that it implied. Lord Rafe, in particular, would realize that he likely should not be speaking with her.
“Lady Sophronia Sorrow?” he asked, forehead wrinkling, that same eyebrow lifting.
Did he not make the connection to Lady Mainfeld then?
“Yes.” Sophie should have just left it at that, but her brain decided to babble on. “It’s a terrible name, Sophronia Sorrow.”
For so very many reasons, least of all that it confirmed her a member of the Sorrowful Miscellany, as the ton called them.
Lord Rafe’s solitary eyebrow angled sideways, as if asking a question.
Her mouth took that as permission to continue. “Sophronia Sorrow . . . it’s dreadfully melodramatic. It’s the name of a simpering miss from a gothic penny novel. You know, the foolish girl who doesn’t survive an early encounter with the villain and then spends the rest of the book as an object lesson for the true heroine.”
His head went back. “Ah.”
“Sophronia Sorrow is never the heroine.” She had to clarify that point. “Imagine living your life as a cautionary tale.”
He paused and then said, “Now that, I do understand.”
An emotion rippled behind his easy-going gaze . . . something tense and serious and entirely un-rake-like. For a brief second, he appeared a different person, one more akin to herself—a student of life rather than an active participant—
But then Lord Rafe gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, and the moment was gone.
“So, I presume you are a daughter of Lady Mainfeld?”
Ah. So he had made the connection. Was he not concerned about being caught speaking with her? It would certainly cause tongues to wag.
“Yes.” Sophie did not miss that he had mentioned her as being her mother’s daughter, not her father’s.
His dimples faded and a puzzled ‘V’ appeared between his brows. Sophie could practically see the cogs turning in his brain.
It was obvious that she was not one of the Filii veri—true children—of the Earl of Mainfeld. Lord and Lady Mainfeld were both fair of feature, blond-haired and blue-eyed. Sophie’s dark hair and green eyes loudly proclaimed her s
ire to be someone other than Lord Mainfeld.
Lord Rafe tapped his lips. “The Italian dancing master?”
Sophie instantly understood. “No, that is my brother, Richard.”
“Lord Farris?”
“My sister, Mary.”
She batted aside his comments in much the same way she attacked a ball with a cricket bat—with practiced ease and ready anticipation.
This was a game she knew how to play.
Anne Sorrow, Lady Mainfeld—Sophie’s mother—was a notorious flirt and, to put it bluntly, an adulteress. A Femina adultera. She was easily lured by rakes of any species.
Of Sophie’s eight brothers and sisters, only three were undoubtedly the children of Lord Mainfeld. The rest of them were the result of their mother’s illicit liaisons. Such muddying of a bloodline only underscored, yet again, why genus Rakus was a problem.
Sophie’s father-in-name, Lord Mainfeld, accepted his wife’s children as his own.
Why, Sophie couldn’t quite say.
Unlike an animal, her father (for lack of a better way to describe him) knew that she and her siblings were cuckoos in the nest. And yet, he acknowledged and treated them all as his own, shouldering the obligation to care for his wife’s illegitimate children.
Was her father genuinely oblivious to their true parentage? That seemed incredibly unlikely; all of London knew of her mother’s indiscretions. Or did Lord Mainfeld do it as a means to silence scandal? Or did he truly love her mother enough to accept the result of her flagrant infidelities?
It was most puzzling.
Regardless, despite their lofty titles, Sophie and her siblings were on the edge of respectability, tolerated and received but only barely.
For example, Lord Rafe’s father, the Duke of Kendall, had been appalled to meet her. Sophie had been introduced to Kendall at a musicale evening five weeks past. But instead of a murmured greeting in reply, His Grace had stared at her, caught between astonishment and loathing. Finally, he had nodded his head, muttered something incoherent, and then turned his back on her with an outraged scowl. Not quite a cut-direct, but close enough to set tongues wagging.
