by Darcy Burke
“He was the father of my bride-to-be,” interjected Peter. Also on cue. “We shan’t speak ill of him.”
“It will be a very long engagement, though I suppose that can’t be avoided,” said Sophie. “At least you have the thing settled.”
“Well…” Peter hopped from foot to foot. “We felt—both of us, I mean—that we’d already waited long enough.”
Sophie blinked.
“The date’s been set for three weeks hence,” said Jenny, very firmly. “And before you exclaim, think of the practicalities. The new Duke will want High Bend for himself, and the Duchess—theDowager Duchess—plans to leave for London as soon as she can organize a move.”
“Honoria’s an orphan now,” added Peter. “I think it’s cruel that she should be set adrift in the world, forced to leave her home, when I’m right here, and want to make her my wife.”
An orphan. No other word could have won Sophie’s sympathy so quickly or completely. She nodded sharply, holding her cousin’s eyes. A silent promise of support. “I know you’ll comfort her as no one else could.”
As Julian had once comforted Sophie, after her parents died. She’d been sunk in grief for so long that it had been like coming out of a long, dark tunnel into the light.
“The Dowager Duchess is organizing a small celebration at High Bend, to coincide with the wedding. A quiet little gathering, just a few of the local families—people who will understand.”
“People who think that if a Duchess does it, it must be proper—or at least acceptable,” added Bettina, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t be disrespectful to Her Grace,” Malcolm cut in.
Bettina smirked. “Do you see?”
“We all have preparations to make,” said Jenny. “Especially you, Sophie.”
“I won’t be able to go,” said Sophie. She could hardly believe her aunt had even suggested such an extravagance. There was a reason why Sophie wore cotton while her aunt and Bettina dressed in silk. “You know I can’t afford it.”
“Now you can,” chirped Bettina. “Since that nasty duke died.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Malcolm gestured Sophie toward the door. “Sophie, I think it’s time we had a talk.”
Bettina struck up a tune on the piano while Peter held out his hand to lead his mother in a dance. Sophie followed her uncle out of the parlor into the landing, where they could speak privately.
“Is something the matter?” Sophie asked.
Malcolm Roe rested his forearm against the heavy wooden banister that wrapped around the stairwell. “Sophie, you know I always have your best interests at heart.”
Warning prickles raised the hairs at the back of her neck. “Of course you do, Uncle.”
“I think—perhaps as a result of your grief, which you know I feel deeply myself—you haven’t given much thought to Clive’s bequest. You hadn’t planned for it; how could you have? None of us expected to lose him so early. But, Sophie, he left you quite a bit of money.”
“I know that.” Everyone she’d spoken to today had reminded her of it.
“Clive’s death has restored your life. You are gently born. It’s time for you to reclaim your rightful place in society.”
Sophie twitched. A gown fit for High Bend would cost more than Iron & Wine made in an entire month. Clive’s bequest wasn’t real to her yet, but that month of work absolutely was. She hated the thought of trading so much labor for a night of poor entertainment.
But if that was what her uncle wanted, she’d consider it. “If you want me to buy a dress—”
Malcolm interrupted. “I want you to sell Iron & Wine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You must cleanse yourself of the taint of commerce,” Malcolm continued, deadly serious. “No man of wealth or breeding wants to tie himself to a glorified shopgirl—”
“I am not a shopgirl,” Sophie snapped.
“The distinction is irrelevant,” Malcolm said. “Don’t let this opportunity go to waste. Think of your parents—how would your mother and father feel if they knew you worked for a living? What would they want for you, if they were here?”
“They aren’t here.”
“Then let me guide you.” Malcolm laid a hand on her shoulder, light but firm. “Let someone older and wiser, who understands the world as you cannot, give you the help you need.”
Sophie shook loose. “You’ll forgive me if I hesitate to trust your judgment on financial matters.”
Malcolm straightened, his lips turning white. “You won’t forget that, will you?”
No, she never would. Malcolm had been one of the two trustees of her parents’ estate. Her solicitor, then plain Mr. Harold Swann but later the ninth Duke of Clive, had been the other. They’d insisted they’d done all they could, that the terms of her father’s will combined with a wave of bad luck to impoverish her, and she believed they’d done their best for her.
But it hadn’t been good enough, and she would not give him a second chance when the stakes were so high. He would never hold her fate in his hands again.
“How could I?” she replied.
“Very well. If I can’t persuade you, let me put it plainly: If you wish to remain under my roof, as a part of this family, you will sell Iron & Wine.”
If she had been shocked, she might have been hurt. But her uncle had always hated Iron & Wine. He’d tried to stop her the first time he caught her brewing ink in the house, and again when he found out all the shops in town had begun paying for the bottles she once gave away as gifts and small favors.
He’d leveled his first ultimatum when she’d taken the cottage on Halftail Road, warning her that if she went ahead with her plan he’d never again buy her a dress, a ribbon, a pair of winter mittens.
He’d meant it.
Clive had stood by her. He’d urged her on, argued with Malcolm on her behalf. Stopped him from taking more dramatic steps—like forcing her out of Broadstone Cottage entirely. In the early years, she couldn’t have afforded to live on her own. Gall and vinegar, she missed Clive the Ninth.
“This is because of Peter’s wedding, isn’t it?” Sophie guessed.
“The Dowager Duchess of Clive has agreed to host us in London through the Season, and she’s promised to secure sponsors who can chaperone Bettina at events that she won’t be able to attend personally, as a result of her mourning. We’d like you to come with us, Sophie. But you must bend a little.”
“Has the Dowager Duchess asked that I sell my business?”
“I argued on your behalf, Sophie. Believe it or not.”
She didn’t.
“When?” Sophie licked her lips. “When do you need an answer?”
“Before the wedding party.” Malcolm raised his hand, as though he might touch her again, offer comfort for the hurt he’d delivered, but this time, Sophie dodged him.
“Tell me what you decide,” he finished.
She watched her uncle rejoin the rest of his family. He swung Aunt Jenny into his arms and led her on a merry twirl around the sofas while Bettina played and Peter clapped out the time, thumping his foot on the floor at every fourth beat.
Sophie stroked the flat of her hand along her torso and skirt, feeling the sturdy gray cloth. Serviceable, as so much of her life was serviceable.
Living at Broadstone Cottage constantly exposed her to the life that she’d lost. A world of warmth, love, and plenty. The qualities Sophie most cherished in Bettina were her flaws: her perennial expectation that all desires would be satisfied, her faith that things would turn out right in the end, even her occasional petulance. All proof of unconditional love she received, of the care Malcolm and Jenny lavished upon her.
When her parents died, Sophie had discovered the power of fear. It was stronger than her yearning for pretty dresses and evening dances. Stronger than her love of family, stronger than her ambition. Stronger, in fact, than any tangible thing she’d since encountered on this earth.
And so, instead
of rejoining the family, Sophie took herself to bed. As she undressed, she added several items to her mental checklist of things to do the next day. Between her uncle’s threat and Julian’s return, her next step had almost been taken for her.
The time had come to leave Padley.
Chapter 4
Julian had kissed exactly thirty women in his life.
He counted them in his mind while he retraced his steps to The Raddle Pit and reclaimed his horse. The first had been Annie Park, daughter of a visiting baronet. He’d been twelve, she thirteen. “You’re prettier than all the angels in all the churches I’ve ever seen,” she’d said, before kissing him on the cheek and running away.
The thirtieth had been Miranda Tate, a sculptor’s model who had snarled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth to meet her lips before directing his attentions elsewhere. As he’d licked his way over her breasts and belly she’d said, “If I were as beautiful as you are handsome, Julian, every artist in England would be Michelangelo.”
Sophie numbered four on his list, but she was the first girl he had kissed. Before Sophie, girls had come to him. After, too. They’d pressed their lips to his mouth, or his cheek, and he’d simply chosen not to resist. It was a fine thing, he’d thought, to be the sort of boy that girls liked to kiss.
As was so often the case, that opinion had changed with time.
Sophie had planted the seed of distaste in him, every time she turned her face away from his—which had been often, in the days when he’d been trying to court her. He’d loathed it then, he loathed it now. He’d only recognized why later on, when kissing Lucy Gower—number twenty-two. They’d crossed paths at dinners and soirées over a period of months.
Women liked to look at him; that was normal. Lucy had been struck dumb, mesmerized.
It had hardly taken a moment’s persuasion to lure her into a secluded hallway, to back her up against a wall and feed on her lips, some part of him relaxing, calming at feel of a woman’s yielding flesh against his own. Yes, he’d thought—the clarity of this memory continued to prick him—this is what I need, all I need.
Lucy had remained limp, her arms hanging loose, utterly passive. He’d paused, a few pretty phrases ready on his lips, looked into her eyes and seen… nothing. Just dazzled blankness, her mouth a slack, limp ‘O’.
That look had hollowed him out. He’d packed Lucy off, murmuring kind words when she began to cry, and promptly emptied his stomach into a chamber pot. I can’t think when I look at you, Sophie had said, not just once or twice but often, and he hadn’t understood what she’d meant.
When he and Lucy next crossed paths, he’d contrived to spy on her at moments when she wasn’t aware of his presence. He’d been startled to see her bright, happy, vivacious—a charming woman of easy manners. Only in Julian’s presence did she transform into a silent mannequin.
That had been the last time he tried to cure his craving for one woman with another. The last time he had yielded to his own lusts with any kind of anticipation. And the beginning of the drought years.
He’d been twenty.
He’d been the second boy Sophie kissed. Her first? William Allsop. Frog-faced William, dull, whiny, not even very interested. His parents had pushed him toward Sophie.
While Julian had worked for Sophie’s affection, she’d welcomed William’s suit immediately. She’d danced with him, strolled with him.
She showed no fear of William.
He’d been sixteen when he followed Sophie and William into the garden at a summer rout, keeping a careful distance so he wouldn’t be seen, knowing exactly what would happen. He’d watched William fold Sophie’s gloved hands gently between his own and close his eyes before bending close, his lips pursed tight.
And she’d let him.
She’d smiled into William’s eyes when he was done, as though she’d enjoyed herself. They’d chatted, warm and lover-like, before breaking apart and returning to the party. Devastated as Julian had been, he’d known better than to confront her. He’d licked his wounds in solitude. Let his anger and hurt fuel a redoubled effort to charm, to persuade, to enchant.
He wanted to believe Sophie’s explanation. He wanted her to be innocent. But he knew better than to lean too heavily on hope where Sophie was concerned.
For example: he’d once hoped to marry her. He’d proposed. She’d accepted.
And then, on the very night after they’d toasted their engagement at a grand soirée hosted by the eighth Duke of Clive and attended by half of Derbyshire, she’d cut him off. No apology, no explanation. She’d refused his visits, returned his letters. He’d suffered through the death of his hopes, and in the years since he’d wished he could go back and change one thing. Just one.
He’d take back the proposal.
Hope was a fragile creature, until it was fed. Then it grew into a beast with teeth and fearsome jaws. And the wounds it left behind? Christ, he’d rather have saved himself the trouble.
Frustrated, Julian changed out of his traveling clothes and made his way to High Bend’s large study. If he wanted to know what had been going on during the last duke’s final days, the clues he needed would be there.
He passed the Dowager’s temporary rooms on the way. The door opened and a tall, raven-haired man emerged rumpled from the widow’s chamber.
“Kingston?” Julian called. Everyone knew the Earl of Kingston. Nobody liked him, but everyone knew him.
“Clive. How do you do?” Kingston tapped his forehead where the brim of his hat might have been, if he’d been dressed, and began to slink away.
“What brings you to High Bend?” Julian demanded. “Who invited you?”
Kingston’s gaze darted back toward the bedchamber he’d just left. “Grieving widows. You know how they are.”
“No.” Julian rocked back on his heels. “I don’t.”
“Now you do.” Kingston flashed his nasty little smile and turned on his heel. He strode off on long legs, an unmistakably postcoital looseness to his gait.
Christ. That man.
While Julian stood paralyzed in the hallway, marveling at the poor judgment on display, the Dowager Duchess poked her head out the door.
“Were you looking for me?” she asked.
“What’s the Earl of Kingston doing here?”
The Dowager smiled wickedly. “Consoling me.”
With her unmarried stepdaughter under the same roof. Appalling.
“He’ll leave when I do,” the Dowager added, her eyes narrowing.
The sooner the better, then. Julian raked his hand through his hair. “You’re acquainted with Miss Sophia Roe?”
“Well enough. She came round all the time before my husband died.” The Dowager allowed a brief, graphic expression of horror to flit across her patrician features. “Poor, ink-stained ragamuffin with no conversation. Best thing about her is that scar on her cheek.” She winked conspiratorially. “Keeps her quiet.”
The bile rose at the back of Julian’s throat. He fought it down. When he could speak again, he asked, “So she and your husband were intimate?”
“Not in the way you’re imagining.” The Dowager waved dismissively. “A man is allowed an eccentric cause or two. My husband picked Miss Roe.”
“The will doesn’t bother you?”
“Should it?” The Dowager Duchess tilted her head to the side, shrugged her bare shoulders. “There’s plenty to go around.”
“An admirable attitude.” So admirable, in fact, that it could only be a lie. “I should greet Lady Honoria before she accuses me of neglecting her.”
“Check the music room,” the Dowager advised.
A row of arched, deeply chamfered windows pierced the exterior wall of the music room. Sunlight filtered through the colored glass, painting the white sheets draped over the harp and piano in shades of scarlet and persimmon.
Clive the Ninth’s only child, a daughter by his first wife, stood before a trestle table in the center of the room. A dozen piles of fl
owers lay in neat stacks on the table—purple lilac, yellow primrose, pink amaryllis—and hovering over them a lovely young woman. The tip of her pink tongue poked from between her teeth, she was concentrating so fiercely.
Honoria took her flowers very seriously.
Julian cleared his throat. “Lady Honoria? Are you busy?”
“Cousin Julian!” Honoria cried, looking up from her work. Her blue eyes were dim, her nose red, and her cheeks mottled. No need to ask how she’d been; the evidence was clear to see. She nestled her bouquet into a waiting vase and rushed to the doorway. “You’ve been promising us a visit for years, and now… and now…” Tears began to pool along her lower eyelids.
Julian bowed over her extended hand. “I can only regret the cause that brings me here. Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.” She blinked rapidly. Her pale lashes clumped. “It’s so hard. I don’t understand.”
“It should never have happened,” he agreed.
“It’s terrible.” She sniffled, wiped at her eyes.
“A tragedy,” Julian agreed. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“There is,” Honoria said instantly. “A small thing, but it would mean a great deal to me.”
Julian paused. “Is that so?”
Honoria wrung her delicate little hands. “I’m to be married in three weeks.”
Well. That hardly seemed advisable. Unless… “Are you with child?”
“Of course not!” Honoria drew herself up. “What an awful thing to say.”
“Who’s the lucky groom?”
Honoria hesitated. “Mr. Peter Roe.”
Julian snorted. “The same Peter Roe whose suit your father refused a dozen times?”
“Papa was wrong about Peter.” She looked him in the eye, bold as could be. She’d grown brazen since they last met. “And if you mean to change my mind—”
Julian interrupted. “What does the Dowager Duchess say?”
“She is eager to see me happy. And also to establish herself in London, where I do not wish to follow.” Honoria softened her posture, tilted her head demurely. “That’s why I need your help—why we need your help. Peter and I want to marry privately at Wirksworth Church in Padley, with just the family present.”
