Julia London 4 Book Bundle (145 page)

He chuckled, squatted down, and picked up a few stones. “It appeared as if you were getting the feel for launching the stone all the way to Scotland. If I were so intent on unseating that frog, I would take a stance to improve my aim. Put one foot back thus,” he said, planting one foot back and the other forward.

Now she leveled a completely baffled gaze at him, as if he were speaking a foreign language.

“Won’t you try it?”

For a moment, he thought she would tell him to leave her be, but she slowly put one foot behind her, the other forward, without once taking her eyes from him.

He couldn’t help himself; he chuckled again at her charming discomfiture. “Ah, there you are. All right then, when you throw, shift your weight forward onto your forefoot.” He threw his stone, which landed just shy of the lily pad to force the frog away from the edge. “You see? Now you have a go.”

She regarded him skeptically, then just as skeptically regarded the frog, and mimicking his movement, threw her stone. It landed almost exactly where his had, but the splash sent the frog leaping off the pad and into the water.

They both stared at the empty lily pad for a moment.

“There you go—can’t have them all, you know,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Perhaps you should consider croquet.”

A quiet smile spread across her lips. “Ah yes,
croquet
,” she said softly. “I am particularly skilled at
that
sport.”

“Then perhaps you might teach me,” he said as he reclaimed his riding crop. “I’ve only played the game once and found it rather tedious.”

She smiled fully then, but said nothing.

He tapped his crop against his leg, cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold … having now shared this moment of rock throwing, might I inquire after your name?”

The request instantly doused her smile. Coloring slightly, she looked off to the left. “Ah … well …”

Embarrassed regret swept through him and he cringed inwardly; he certainly should have known better. He glanced up the embankment to where his horse was tethered, suddenly anxious to be on his way—women of the aristocracy did not consort with men like him—

“Sophie. Sophie Dane,” she said softly.

Sophie.
The name sounded sweet on her breath. “Miss Dane, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Mr. Caleb Hamilton, at your service.”

The quick but unmistakable look of bewilderment on her pretty face unnerved him. He was accustomed to the reaction to his name, naturally, particularly in this part of London. But to think that she knew the lies said about him was very bothersome, more so than it had ever been before.

“A pleasure, sir,” she said politely, and nervously adjusted the cuffs of her walking gown.

“Well then. I suppose I’ve done all the good I can do here for today,” he said with a smile, and took a tentative step backward. “I shall leave you to your walkabout then, Miss Dane. I thank you for sharing a bit of it with me.”

She nodded, watched him as he took another step backward. But he hesitated, alarmingly uncertain what to do with himself. This was highly unusual for him, this awkwardness and indecision—he was hardly inexperienced with pretty women, but this was oddly, disturbingly, different. There was obviously nothing left to say—he could hardly confess to having watched her surreptitiously from across the pond these last few days. So he did what any gentleman would do and lifted his hand to tip his hat. With a final look at her pretty brown eyes, he turned away.

“Mr. Hamilton?”

His heart leapt; he looked over his shoulder. “Yes, Miss Dane?”

“W-what are you building, if I may ask?”

Irrationally pleased she had asked, he could not help the smile he knew was impossibly broad. “A house. My house.”

“Oh.”

She said nothing more, and Caleb told himself he should continue on. But his feet would not move—they apparently were not willing to say good-bye just yet. She was too intriguing, this Sophie Dane, seemingly so unlike the women he typically consorted with. Her countenance, her demeanor, was so unlike that of society women. That, and she simply had too many enticing curves for a man to just walk away.

She was still looking at him with a sweet expression of curiosity.

“If you come for your walk tomorrow, I would very much enjoy the privilege of showing my house to you.”

With a beguiling smile, she glanced down at her hem. “Perhaps,” she murmured.

Now
that
was the best thing Caleb had heard in several days, and in fact, her tentative response thrilled him like a child. As absurd as it was, he
wanted
to show this woman his house. He wanted her to see what he was capable of building, the house he would one day call a home, would one day fill, God willing, with children and happiness and love.

Shyly, she peeked at him through her lashes; Caleb grinned, gave her a jaunty wave with his riding crop. “I shall come round here on the morrow to see if you are so inclined. Good day, Miss Dane.”

“Good day, Mr. Hamilton.”

He turned, walked up the hill without looking back, feeling more buoyant by the moment. He sensed something wholly unique about Sophie Dane. There was something about her that made him feel hopeful in a strange sort of way.

And he needed to hope.

He was, of course, far more handsome than she had thought, impossibly rugged and strong and … the bulge between his legs … Sophie practically floated back to
Maison de Fortier
and through the rest of the afternoon, closeting herself in the small library off the west corridor.

Seated in an overstuffed chair, she brought the book she was supposedly reading up to bury her face in it for the thousandth time since her encounter with Mr. Caleb Hamilton. She felt hot, red hot, burning from the inside out with her racy and hopeful thoughts, exactly the way she had felt when she had first seen him standing above her on the embankment of the pond. Her own behavior had astounded her—she had never been so bold as she was today, calling him back as she did. The very thought of it made her blush furiously, and she could think of little else but him, his image seemingly affixed permanently to her mind’s eye.

So enrapt in the memory of him was she that she scarcely heard Fabrice when he wandered into the study.

He cleared his throat impatiently; Sophie slowly lowered her book.

“Monsieur Trevor Hamilton,” he said, and Sophie all but sent the book flying across the carpet as Trevor Hamilton strolled in behind Fabrice.

“He said I should follow,” he said apologetically, to which Fabrice shrugged and paused to adjust his neckcloth just so, then promptly strolled out of the room, his duty complete.

“I … I … Won’t you come in?” Sophie stammered nervously as she tried to artfully kick her book beneath the ottoman.

“Thank you.” He moved to the hearth, watching her, pausing there with his hands clasped behind his back, a smile playing on his lips.

What was he doing here again?
Several things fluttered through her mind—none of which she found terribly appealing. All right, there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, and if she would take a breath and stop acting so addlepated, he might very well tell her! Sophie clumsily gained her feet, preparing herself … 
Because of your reputation, I’d prefer my son not be seen in your house—

“Lady Sophie, won’t you sit? You look a bit flushed.”

Oh, she was flushed, all right. Her heart was battering so wildly against her chest she was surprised it didn’t leap from her bodice and land squarely on the carpet between them.

“I … Yes. Yes, thank you.”
She should be the one asking him to sit!
She moved abruptly to a chair at the hearth, hardly able to think what to do. She sat—fell, really—and weakly motioned to the leather wingback chair directly across from her. “Please, Mr. Hamilton.”
Tea.
Yes, she should ring for tea!

“Thank you,” he said, and took his seat at the precise moment she stood to ring for tea. He quickly came to his feet again, but not before Sophie had flung herself into the chair again. He crouched, halfway between standing and sitting, eyeing her warily. “Are you quite certain?”

“I thought to ring for tea,” she said, feeling the rush of blood to her cheeks.
She could not do this.
No one was more incompetent at this sort of thing than she; she always had been. “Please, sit,” she urged him.

He cautiously took his seat. “Thank you for receiving me without notice, Lady Sophie. I won’t keep you.”

“Oh, think nothing of it.” She clasped her hands in her lap, noticed her knuckles were white with the exertion of it.
Get on with it, then. Say it, say it, say—

“I’m not usually so impulsive, but I confess, I have thought a lot about that tea we agreed to, and I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps something a bit more enduring is in order. After all, Madame Fortier has said that you traveled extensively and to locales that are not often on the grand tour, so to speak.”

This was certainly
not
what she expected to hear—
what
tea? She had never agreed to any tea! Just what did Honorine think she was doing!?

“I was hoping that you would agree to be my guest at supper, Wednesday next,” he continued. When she did not immediately answer, he cocked his head to one side and patiently awaited her answer.

“Supper?” Was it her imagination, or had she shouted the word?

“If it pleases you.”

“I … well, I—”

“My father would like it very much.”

His
father
? All right, no man of his stature in the
ton
would want to associate with a woman who had eloped and then divorced her husband! This was some sort of trickery—

“Unless, of course, you are previously engaged, in which case I would be happy to offer the supper at a time when it might be more convenient for you to attend.”

Sophie swallowed, unable to move.

“Are you previously engaged, then?”

“No. No, I am not previously engaged …” What was she
saying
? She could not sup at the home of Mr. Hamilton!

“Splendid! Then shall we say eight o’clock?”

“Mr. Hamilton, I—”

“Naturally, the invitation extends to Madame Fortier.”

“That is very kind, but I hope you—”

“I am very pleased you will come. Well then, I shan’t keep you from your book a moment longer. Thank you, Lady Sophie. I look forward to our evening with great anticipation.” He stood, shoved his hands into his pocket, and was already walking to the door before her mind could comprehend that she had, somehow, accepted his invitation. Her mind was spinning now, thinking furiously how to call him back when he paused at the door and turned toward her, smiling.

“I had in mind a rather intimate gathering. Not more than a dozen, I assure you.” Sophie gripped the arms of the chair to keep from slipping out of it in sheer mortification. The suggestion of meeting a room full of the
haut ton
was enough to make her ill—astounded, petrified, and completely discomfited, she frantically sought to put an end to this ridiculous situation. “Mr. Hamilton, I truly appreciate your offer, but I—”

“It is my pleasure. Thank you again, Lady Sophie. Until Wednesday next,” he said cheerfully, and walked out of the room.

Chapter Five

H
ONORINE WAS NO
help at all.

The woman was ecstatic when Sophie told her about Trevor Hamilton’s call, observing first that Sophie would need to quickly replace all her undergarments, which Honorine considered too plain—“the frilly little things, the men, they enjoy them”—then secondly that her little peanut of a heart might at last fill up with
amour
.

And she topped it all off by proclaiming that the supper party was a grand opportunity for Will Hamilton to continue to court
her
.

When Sophie offered her own, less enthusiastic opinion about the supper, Honorine waxed romantically about her Will, then promptly quit the room, humming an old French love ballad to drown out any protest from Sophie.

It was enough to make a person positively deranged.

Frankly, Sophie had never seen Honorine quite so enamored of a man before. She could only attribute it to being several weeks in London now without dozens of fawning males. That, and the viscount Hamilton was undoubtedly paying her quite a number of grand compliments. Honorine adored compliments.

Claudia and Ann were no help, either—blast it if both of them didn’t readily agree with Honorine over luncheon the next day that Hamilton’s invitation was
exactly
the thing for Sophie.

“It seems perfect. At least it will be a very
small
affair,” Claudia reasoned. “You’ll not be exposed to the
ton
, not really.”

Oh no, they mustn’t show their tarnished spinster-sister to the upper echelons of society.

“Hamilton has just come from the country. He’s been there all this time with his father since Elspeth died. It’s so tragic, is it not?” sighed Ann.

“Frankly, I can’t imagine why he’d come to London now. I suppose for the sake of the boy he must think of reentering society, at least in some small way,” Claudia added, and she and Ann nodded in perfect unison.

“How very unpleasant that man has presented himself as Lord Hamilton’s son,” Claudia added, frowning.

“Pardon?”
asked Honorine, perking up.

“It’s shocking, really,” Ann said, inching forward, eager to tell. “There have been rumors floating about for years now that the viscount had illegitimate issue. A Frenchwoman, they say,” she said, nodding authoritatively. “Of course no one had ever
seen
this child, but suddenly a man has appeared, claiming to be the son of Lord Hamilton!”

Sophie felt a faint lurch of her belly.

“It’s despicable,” Claudia muttered. “How can people be so vile?”

“Victor says he is one of those who claims to be involved in the railroad,” Ann sniffed disdainfully, and she and Claudia both shook their heads, as if there were something inherently evil about that.

“What is wrong with the railroad?” Sophie asked innocently, and received twin looks of exasperation.

“
Because
, darling,” said Claudia, “they build this railroad through the countryside and divide up lands that have been owned by some families for centuries. It mars the landscape and makes a horrible noise. It will never succeed; you may trust me on that. I suspect this chap has lost every last farthing on the railroad and has come up with this despicable scheme to extort money from Lord Hamilton.”

“This man, what is the name of this man?” Honorine asked, ignoring the talk of railroads.

Sophie caught a breath in her throat as she waited for Ann’s answer.

“His name? Hamilton, of course. Caleb Hamilton,” Ann said as she speared a strawberry on her fork.

Caleb?
Her
Caleb? She looked at Ann, hoping that perhaps she had not heard correctly. There could be hundreds of Hamiltons, couldn’t there be?
“Who?”
she asked.

“Caleb Hamilton,” Ann responded, looking at her curiously.

As the blood drained from her face, Sophie quickly looked down at her plate.
Oh God, not the foreman, her beautiful secret foreman!

“He’s quite the man about town, if you catch my meaning,” Ann added, and plopped the strawberry into her mouth.

“Oh my yes,” Claudia agreed with a roll of her eyes. “I have heard that he does indeed appreciate the company of a woman or two.”

“Or three or four,” Ann added. “Victor has it on good authority that he is a frequent caller to Madame Farantino’s,” she said, exchanging a look of disdain with Claudia. “I do feel rather sorry for Mr. Trevor Hamilton. His troubles have been so great, and now this.”

Sophie sat, frozen with disappointment. She should have known it was too good to be true. She should have understood that a man with the fine looks of Caleb Hamilton could only be toying with her. “Why doesn’t Lord Hamilton simply say whether or not he is his son?” she asked petulantly.

“Lord Hamilton has been ill,” Claudia informed her. “Trevor has been seeing to his care. First Elspeth, now his father.”

“He is very pleased with Sofia,” Honorine offered nonchalantly from her daybed on the far end of the room. “This, it is very plain. He wants this supper for Sofia.”

Both Claudia’s and Ann’s forks froze midway to their mouths and their heads swiveled in perfect unison toward Honorine at that pronouncement.
“Really?”
Ann gushed, and flashed a beaming smile to Sophie. “Trevor Hamilton, Sophie!” she whispered excitedly. “Do you think that perhaps—”

“No!” Sophie exclaimed, feeling suddenly unwell. “Honestly, Ann! You mustn’t think for a moment that—”

“
Le monsieur
, he finds Sofia pretty to him,” Honorine blithely continued.

“Well of course she is!” Claudia said, perhaps a little too emphatically, and put her fork down to better stare at her sister-in-law. “Dear me, I had not really thought of it, but he comes here to make his personal request of you … oh
Sophie
! This could be just the—”

“Ooh, this is
marvelous
!” Ann eagerly interjected, coming quickly to the same conclusion as Claudia. “How I’ve worried for you! Oh my, we must find you something suitable to wear!”

“By my word, you cannot give credence to anything Honorine says, I—”

“My modiste showed me four gowns not two days ago, all canceled orders. Sophie is so trim, I should think any alterations would be minimal!” Claudia exclaimed.

“What of her hair?” Ann demanded in response. “We must do something with her hair! It is too fine for ringlets—I know, we shall put it up with velvet ribbons!”

“Here now, one moment, if you please,” Sophie tried desperately, holding both hands up. “I’ve no need of gowns and ribbons and—”

“Your gowns,
chérie
, they are too
ordinaires
,” Honorine opined with a yawn.

Sophie shot her a fierce look of exasperation. “How very kind of you to say so, Honorine. Nonetheless—”

“She is right, darling. You really should add a touch of color to your wardrobe,” said Ann.

Oh, wasn’t
this
just bloody grand! Now she was receiving a critique of her wardrobe, too—well, God help them all if they listened to Honorine’s advice on
that
front. And what did it matter, anyway? She was not going to that supper party.
Not.
There was nothing they could say to convince her she should subject herself to the scrutiny of the
ton
.

“As I have no intention of attending this supper party, I cannot imagine what difference the color of my clothing could possibly make.”

That declaration was met with small, simultaneous gasps from Claudia and Ann.

“Not
going
?” With a snort of incredulity, Claudia exchanged a look with Ann. “Of
course
you are going! You cannot decline Mr. Hamilton’s invitation!”

“Yes I can. I’ll think of something! An ague, perhaps—”

“An
ague
! What a ruckus you will cause if you turn down his invitation! How unseemly it would be to reject his gracious hospitality after … Everyone will talk!” said Ann, her voice rising. “
Trevor Hamilton
, Sophie!” she said, jabbing the tip of her finger against the tabletop as if Sophie had not realized
who
had invited her. “Have you lost your foolish mind?”

“I have not lost my mind! I am not going.”

“Yes,”
countered Ann and Claudia at almost exactly the same moment and in almost exactly the same cross tone of voice.

And across the room, a very self-satisfied Honorine merely chuckled as she sampled one of Lucie Cowplain’s delectable crème puffs.

Ann and Claudia meant what they said, apparently, judging by the modistes and milliners that arrived, en masse, that afternoon. Sophie escaped that, as well as the argument that had begun between them over a particular pair of slippers, by asking Ann’s driver to deliver her to Upper Moreland Street.

As the carriage rolled past Regent’s Park, a well of disappointment bubbled up in her. She had found Caleb Hamilton so very appealing, more appealing than any man she had met in the last dozen years. He had seemed kind, far too kind, to be the man she had heard about yesterday. Part of her refused to believe the rumor.

Nancy was delighted to have her return and proudly showed her about the house, sharing what she knew about the current residents and reluctantly relating the troubles she was having with the bookkeeping. “Never had a mind for numbers,” she admitted dolefully. Sophie offered to look them over, and with only a cursory review, could see that Nancy was struggling with the upkeep for the house.

“I don’t understand,” she remarked as she looked through the ledger. “I had understood Lady Kettering sought donations for the upkeep.”

“Aye, that she does,” Nancy readily agreed. “But the Whitney-Dane school takes a good amount of her time, and nowadays, most of the donations come in the form of hard goods, not coin.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Honestly, we’ve more gowns than would clothe an entire village!”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of them are used. But most are much too fine for the gels here. They’ve no need of a ball gown, not with their lot in life.”

“Ball gown?” Sophie asked, confused.

Nancy nodded. “Come on then, have a look.”

She took Sophie to a small room on the third floor that was almost bursting at the seams with gowns, hats, slippers, and reticules, all made of the finest fabrics. Some of the garments were finer than anything Sophie had seen in any corner of the world. She wondered aloud why ladies of the
ton
would part with such fine clothing, to which Nancy chuckled.

“I rather imagine they can’t fasten a single button any longer.” She laughed, picked up a pink silk gown. “Some of them come to us actually torn at the seams.”

Enthralled by the sheer number of gowns, Sophie picked up a pale yellow walking dress and held it up to her. It looked an almost perfect fit and was much more becoming than the gray one she was wearing.
Gray.
Why on earth had she commissioned such a drab gown?

She glanced at Nancy from the corner of her eye; Nancy smiled knowingly. “Well then, go on with you. Try it if you’d like—so have we all.”

As Sophie discarded her clothing and donned the yellow gown—oh, it was lovely, truly lovely—an idea came to her. The women of Upper Moreland Street might not have practical use for these gowns, but she would wager there was a class of women in London who would. While only members of the Quality could afford garments as fine as these, there was a whole class of moderately wealthy families in London who aspired to the ranks of the Quality. She had seen a dress shop or two on High Street and absently wondered if perhaps she and Nancy might sell the gowns to those proprietors, who in turn could sell them, secondhand, to their clientele. Or perhaps hire a bit of space at Covent Garden for the purpose. Whatever the gowns might earn could be put in the coffers for the upkeep of the house.

When Sophie finally bid Nancy a good afternoon—wearing the yellow walking dress—the idea had firmly taken root.

She walked to the corner of Essex Street, intent on finding a hack to return her to Bedford Square, but the image of Caleb Hamilton danced in her mind’s eye, just as it had all day. She tried to shake it off; it was ridiculous to pursue this little fantasy. Of course she had no intention of taking him up on his offer to see the house he was building, not now, not after what she had heard. It was impossible to think to meet him again, even if she did imagine him pacing impatiently at the pond, waiting for her … But had she not heard from her sister’s own mouth the man’s reputation with ladies, not to mention the possibility that he was a bona fide scoundrel? Had she not demeaned her family name once before consorting in a similar manner?

It was a preposterous, disastrous notion.

She shifted her weight to one hip, tapped her foot impatiently.

After all, Caleb Hamilton was most certainly an imposter of some sort—everyone said so.

The hack appeared around the bend in the road, and Sophie raised her arm to catch the driver’s attention.

And he could very well be a diabolic fiend.

The hack coasted to a stop alongside her. “Where to, mu’um?” the driver asked.