Once her story was delivered into the care of Mr. Murray’s secretary, Sophie set out for Grosvenor Square with a much lighter heart. Despite the feistiness of the wind, she was enjoying the fresh air and the sight of the rain-washed blue sky. However, her spirits flagged again when she knocked on the door of Olivia’s town house and was told by the arrogant butler that Miss de Vere and her guardians were presently “out” and he couldn’t give her any indication whatsoever when they would be returning. He disdainfully accepted her hastily scrawled note to Olivia as though she’d just handed him a soiled kerchief—unlike Charlie, she didn’t own smart calling cards—and then she took her leave.
For want of something else to do, she strolled along Upper Brook Street toward Park Lane and Hyde Park. Of course, she could always go for a walk through the park, but the maid was a slight creature—indeed she looked as though a good gust might blow her right off her tiny feet—and although it wasn’t likely she’d encounter pickpockets, she’d rather have a footman accompany her all the same. She could always call on Lady Chelmsford, whose town house was not far away. But then she remembered the marchioness was also out of town for a few days. She’d gone to Bath to visit a friend who’d taken ill.
Her bright mood dispelling into gloom with each passing moment, Sophie turned around and headed for Hastings House again. She dared not think of it as home, even though Charlie loved her dearly and welcomed her with open arms.
Home. Despite everything, part of Sophie was a little homesick. She missed the peace and quiet of the countryside and the company of her gentle half sisters and mother. She couldn’t really say the same about her stepfather. He was a hardworking, austere man, taciturn most of the time, and when he did speak, his manner was gruff. She wasn’t sure what her mother saw in him, other than the fact that he’d always been a good provider. They’d married when Sophie was still very young after her own father had died at sea, fighting the French.
The only other thing Sophie knew about her real father was that she’d received her distinctive dark hair color from him. Her mother, Alice, and Jane were all fair-haired, and sometimes she wondered if that was the reason why her stepfather had never warmed to her; she clearly was another man’s child.
It didn’t take long to reach Berkeley Square again, and after Sophie dismissed the maid—she’d caught the girl glancing longingly at Hastings House as they walked by—she crossed over to Gunter’s. As usual, it was quite crowded. While she perused the counter, the display cases, and shelves, she became conscious of several other young women to her right, whispering and giggling like a gaggle of geese.
As Sophie pretended to study a plate of tiny petit fours, her stomach twisted into knots of anguish. They were making fun of her. She just knew it.
Lifting her gaze, she gave a startled gasp. Lady Penelope Purcell stood nearby, and the contemptuous expression in her ice blue eyes was so hard and cold, Sophie shivered.
“You’re one of those awful girls who was thrown out of the ladies’ academy a few years ago, aren’t you?” Lady Penelope declared in such a precise, cut-crystal voice, half the tea shop turned to look at them.
At me. Sophie swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. She fought to keep her voice steady as she said, “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Goodness gracious.” Lady Penelope arched a flaxen brow. “It seems you are also a practiced liar. I saw you, Miss Sophie Brightwell, at Lord and Lady Penrith’s spring ball. How you, or your equally scandalous friend, Lady Charlotte Hastings, ever received an invitation, I’ll never know.”
“How do you know my name?”
The young women around Lady Penelope tittered, and their ringleader answered Sophie with a smirk. “Oh, heavens, you are precious. You were announced, Miss Brightwell. The whole gathering knew who you were. I’m surprised Lord Claremont asked you to dance.” Her gaze turned sly. “I’m sure he hasn’t called on you since, has he? But that’s hardly surprising given your reputation.”
Even as a great wave of humiliation crashed over Sophie, she suddenly heard Lord Malverne’s voice in her head. I wouldn’t worry about them if I were you. Apart from Lady Penelope, most of those girls are from ne’er-do-well families trying to snare a rich husband with a title bigger than their papas’.
The thought of Lord Malverne, her own private champion, dismissing them, lent her strength. Raising her chin, she looked this far-from-perfect young woman in the eye. “I might have a besmirched reputation but at least I’m not a cruel, heartless bully.”
Lady Penelope’s mouth dropped open and her friends gasped.
“Well, I never.” The duke’s daughter was clearly fuming as her face turned the same shade of red as Sophie’s gown.
One of Lady Penelope’s friends stepped forward and jabbed a finger in Sophie’s direction. “The whole ton shall learn that you are nothing but a rude, social-climbing, lying hussy.”
“It takes one to know one. And by the way, what was your name, Miss . . . ?” Sophie arched a brow.
The girl sniffed and tossed her curls over one shoulder. “None of your business.”
Sophie inclined her head. “Good day to you then, Miss None of Your Business.” Her gaze shifted to the duke’s daughter. “Lady Penelope. Yes, I know who you are too. I trust I shan’t be seeing any of you, ever again.”
“Trust me. You won’t.” Lady Penelope turned on her heel and stalked from Gunter’s, Miss None of Your Business and the two other tonnish misses following in her wake.
Sophie turned back to face the astonished attendant behind the counter. “What do you recommend, sir?” she said in a surprisingly calm voice.
“The . . . the ah, the chocolate, walnut, and fig tarts are very nice today, miss. And we have a new type of petit four. It has a lovely center of raspberry cream.”
“Wonderful. I’ll have half a dozen of each, thank you.”
Once the tarts and petit fours were packaged into small boxes, Sophie carefully picked them up and turned back to face the room. At least a dozen pairs of eyes swung back to their cups of tea and plates of decadent treats. Head held high, she marched from the tea shop, an obliging waiter opening the door for her on the way out.
It wasn’t until she’d begun to skirt the park in the center of Berkeley Square that Sophie was hit by the enormity of what she’d just done. Stopping beneath a shady plane tree, she grasped the park’s iron railing and dragged in several deep breaths, waiting for the bout of dizziness and shaking to pass.
Had she really set down a duke’s daughter in front of so many people? What on earth had possessed her? As the glow of victory dissipated, the remnants of mortification and hot indignation swirled around inside her. But beneath it all was regret and smothering apprehension. There was sure to be some mention of the incident in at least one of the newspapers. What would poor Charlie say? None of this was her fault. They’d only just started to receive a few more invitations to more prestigious functions, and now she’d gone and lost her temper. She’d probably just reinforced everyone’s poor opinion of her, that she really was a trollop with the manners of a harridan.
“Miss Brightwell . . . Sophie?”
Sophie closed her eyes again, praying for strength. Could this day get any worse? She knew that male voice. And it was a voice that belonged to someone she dreaded and despised.
Lord Buxton.
Perhaps she could pretend she hadn’t heard him. That the wind had tossed his voice away. She started forward again—Hastings House wasn’t that far off—but Lord Buxton could apparently walk with a swiftness that belied his portly frame.
“I say, Miss Brightwell.” Lord Buxton stepped directly in front of her, forcing her to stop. Due to his exertion, his florid face had turned an even brighter shade of red and his breath sawed in and out, gusting over her face.
Sophie tried not to wrinkle her nose as she smelled sour coffee. Nevertheles
s, she took a step backward. The baron was standing much too close.
“Lord Buxton,” she said, aiming for a polite tone, but missing the mark. She sounded exactly how she felt—impatient and more than a little annoyed. “I’m afraid I’m in a hurry.”
She made to move past him but he put up a hand and stepped closer again. “Please wait. I witnessed what happened in Gunter’s just now and I wanted to say, brava, Miss Brightwell. I was most impressed by your show of pluck.”
“Thank you, my lord, but I really must go—”
He suddenly reached forward and grasped one of her upper arms, preventing her escape. “Miss Brightwell. Sophie,” he said in a low voice. “Why are you determined to avoid me? For the past few days I’ve waited very patiently at Gunter’s to catch a glimpse of you—”
Nausea roiled as shock hit Sophie like a punch to the stomach. Lord Buxton had been stalking her, watching and waiting for the right moment to pounce? “Why on earth would you do such a thing?” she gasped, trying but failing to shake off his hand.
He drew himself up and looked down his large, bulbous nose at her. “Because I wish to pay you court, Miss Brightwell,” he said stiffly. “And that blackguard of a viscount you were with the other day chased me off like I was some sort of mongrel dog. Which I am not, as you very well know.”
Sophie’s stomach pitched again. “Have you made your intentions known to my stepfather and mother?” she demanded in a voice that shook with the force of her emotions. “Have you sought their permission to pay your addresses?”
Lord Buxton’s small blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Your stepfather knows I have a keen interest in you, Sophie—”
“Do not use my first name, my lord. You presume far too much.” She pulled her arm free from his hold and nearly dropped the boxes containing the treats from Gunter’s. “I do not wish to slight you, but please, leave me be. Your attentions are not wel—”
With the speed of a striking viper, the baron gripped both of her arms with bruising force, pulling her closer. “Now listen here, you little upstart—”
“Take your hands off Miss Brightwell this instant or I will remove your hands from your wrists,” rumbled a low voice laced with cold menace.
Lord Malverne. Oh, thank God.
As Nate advanced toward them with long, sure strides, his expression as dark as thunder, his chestnut hair billowing wildly in the wind, he looked like a vengeful warrior on the charge.
In the face of such ire, Lord Buxton let Sophie go. He stepped back several paces, adjusting his cuffs as if checking that his hands were still actually attached. “We were just . . . reminiscing about—”
“One more word and I’ll knock your teeth out,” growled Nate as he stopped by her side. “And if I ever see you in Berkeley Square again, or anywhere near Miss Brightwell for that matter while she is under my care and my father’s, you can expect the repercussions to be ten times worse.”
Lord Buxton gasped like a landed carp. “Well, I never.”
Sophie almost smiled. It was the second time within the space of ten minutes that she’d heard that phrase.
Nate’s lip curled into an aristocratic snarl. “Just stop. Just go.”
Lord Buxton raised his chin and addressed Sophie. He quivered with so much indignant anger, she could almost see his graying side-whiskers bristling. “Your stepfather will be hearing about this. You mark my words.” Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, his coattails whipping between his legs like the tail of a scolded dog.
Nate touched her arm gently. His brown eyes were soft with concern. “Are you all right?”
Sophie nodded. “A little shaken, but other than that, I’m fine.” She glanced down at the slightly crumpled boxes in her hands. “I’m hoping these treats from Gunter’s survived.”
Nate gave a mock frown. “Well, that does it. If that excuse for a baron has ruined anything from Gunter’s, I’m going to have to call him out.” He took the boxes from Sophie, tucked them beneath one arm, and then offered the other to her. “Come, Miss Brightwell, the time is ripe for us to feast.”
“If I’d known you were returning, I would have purchased more.” Oh, how she’d missed him. Sophie tried not to lean too far into him as they continued across the square toward Hastings House.
Nate’s eyebrows rose. “Are you accusing me of gluttony, Miss Brightwell?”
“I’ve seen the way you eat, Lord Malverne,” she countered.
Sophie couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard Nate mumble something like minx beneath his breath as they climbed the stairs to the town house, and she laughed.
Suddenly everything seemed right with the world. Sophie would enjoy this moment, no matter how brief, then tuck it away in her heart along with all her other treasured memories of Nate. Because how could she not?
She couldn’t deny the truth anymore.
She loved him.
CHAPTER 16
What are you reading this Season?
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The Beau Monde Mirror
Sleep eluded Nate like a siren eluded a sailor. It beckoned, he wanted it with a passion, but he couldn’t reach its shores. His attempts kept getting dashed on the rocks of bad dreams and unfulfilled desire. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sophie and the kiss they’d shared. The kiss she’d initiated.
He wanted her so desperately, he’d forced himself to leave Hastings House the morning after the Astleys’ ball, hoping that time and distance would ease his physical ache for her.
Apparently it hadn’t.
Neither had other, more disturbing emotions than lust lessened with his time away. When he’d arrived home and had witnessed that cur of a baron accosting Sophie—handling her roughly—and her subsequent fear and disgust, he wanted to cleave the dog in two. The wave of protectiveness he’d felt shocked him to his core. He’d tried to tell himself he was just behaving as any gentleman would, but for the most part, he wasn’t a gentleman. His violent reaction suggested that he was starting to care for Sophie. And he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He really should put more effort into helping her find a decent husband. If she belonged to someone else, then surely all of these budding emotions, both tender and violent, would wither and die.
With a heavy sigh, Nate rose from his twisted bedsheets and glanced at the Boulle mantel clock. It was almost midnight. He needed a drink and something to take his mind off Sophie. God knows what that could possibly be.
After spending a delightful afternoon with his sister and Sophie in Charlie’s sitting room, he’d ignored his better judgment and elected to stay in for dinner for once; he thought if he spent time with Sophie, conversing and taking part in mundane activities such as playing cards and chess, his unhealthy fascination would fade. But everything she did, everything she said, only seemed to sharpen his appetite all the more. He was like an opium addict. He’d had a taste of something that had taken him to heaven and he couldn’t get enough of it.
After pulling on a shirt, loose trousers, and one of his silk banyans, he slid on a pair of leather slippers and quit his room. There was a particularly good cognac in the library. His smile was somewhere between a self-derisive smirk and a grimace as he descended the stairs. At least that was one craving he could satisfy.
His father frequently worked into the early hours of the morning on parliamentary or personal business matters. However, tonight, when Nate pushed open the library door, he found the room was dark and deserted. Which was a relief indeed. He knew his father cared about him, but every time they interacted, something invariably went awry. And he was too weary to clash with him tonight.
Hopefully it wouldn’t be too long before he could move back to Malverne House. The family home was both a solace and a source
of torment for him. A bed of thorns. And thus it had always been.
Rather than call one of the servants, Nate spent a few minutes restoking the banked fire and lighting a lamp and a few candles. Once the golden light danced over the bookshelves and green velvet curtains, he poured himself a large tumbler of cognac, then claimed one of the brown leather wing chairs before the hearth. The potent brandy seared a warm path down his throat as he took a sizable sip. Almost immediately, the coil of tension inside him began to ease; his muscles loosened and his jaw unclenched. Although the dull ache in his groin continued, because he couldn’t stop picturing Sophie in his arms, moaning into his mouth. Chasing him for kisses. Reaching for his hand and placing it on her breast . . .
He rubbed a hand through his hair. He needed something else to distract him. Not for the first time in his life, he wished he enjoyed reading. But he could never lose himself in the pages of a good book when he constantly stumbled over unfamiliar words and had to reread passages to make sure he’d correctly interpreted the meaning. It was akin to translating ancient Greek at times. He needed to be motivated indeed to persist with the task. It was a chore. Not a pleasure at all.
He sighed and his attention was caught by a slim volume on the dainty occasional table beside him. The russet brown leather cover was embossed with gold motifs. Picking it up, he studied the spine and deciphered the gold lettering: Hebrew Melodies. Byron.
He’d heard of Lord Byron’s lauded book of poetry but he’d never had the inclination to actually try reading it. Flipping open the volume, he glanced at the table of contents and one title in particular jumped out at him: “She Walks in Beauty.”
Lord Byron could have written the poem about Sophie. Even though Nate had never actually read it, he knew some of the lines because they were oft quoted. Struck with an uncharacteristic surge of sharp interest, he located the page where the poem began and started to work out the words, his lips moving as he read:
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 19
