Julia London 4 Book Bundle (147 page)

Sophie was not the only one experiencing such a profound connection. Caleb felt it, too, stronger than he had ever felt anything in his life. He asked one day, as they strolled through the gardens of Regent’s Park, if they might address each other by their given names, to which she readily agreed. He discovered she had a wonderful sense of humor, and together they laughed about everything and nothing. Each time she left him, she took a little bit more of him with her, and left him marveling at what he believed was a heartfelt bond between them.

In truth, he had never had a relationship like this with a woman—or a man, for that matter. His life as the bastard child of a wealthy viscount had left him with few acquaintances that were not repelled by his status; even fewer who were not ashamed to call him friend. As a result, he had spent a lonely youth and a rather solitary existence for a grown man, answering his physical needs at brothels, maintaining nothing more than superficial ties, and always moving about, particularly now, what with his interest in the burgeoning railroad.

But Sophie was very different. She was guileless, artless, and seemed to be genuinely interested in him.

They spent a lot of time at his house, inspecting the construction as it was completed. She asked him several questions and seemed genuinely engrossed in the various methods of construction he was employing, listening carefully as he explained them. She also offered her opinion on the more aesthetic aspects when he asked, and much to his delight, Caleb discovered they had similar tastes in such things as furnishings and wall dressings. It was Sophie who suggested a window in the morning room, remarking that the rising sun always made her feel quite rejuvenated. And, she had added, blushing slightly, a window on the east wall had the added benefit of allowing him to see the pond where they had first met. That was enough to make him seriously consider the improvement.

One afternoon, they wandered idly through the ballroom that was nearing completion. The only thing that remained was the frieze moldings and painting. Caleb watched Sophie as she strolled into the middle of the room, and with hands clasped behind her back, she gazed up at the ceiling where a workman had begun to lay a papier-mâché frieze of grapevines. As she stood in the center of the room, he imagined her in the completed ballroom, wearing a gown fit for a queen, smiling that genuinely sweet smile as guests swirled about her in time to the music of a waltz. The image was so real, he could almost hear the music, and impulsively, he crossed the room and grabbed her hand.

“What?” she asked, laughing.

“Dance?”

“Dance?” She laughed again as he began to hum a waltz. “All right then,” she said with a smile, “make me sway, sir, if you can.”

He twirled her from one end of the room to the other, artfully avoiding ladders and buckets. The fit of her in his arms was perfect, the feel of her divine. And as he looked down, she gazed up at him with eyes that seemed like endless pools, reflecting his own hot passion back to him. It was a raging thing now, a desperation to touch her, to taste her lips. Caleb slowed the waltz, coming to a standstill in the middle of the room, unable to take his eyes from her. There was something about this woman that had slipped under his skin and had lodged there, could not be shaken loose. His hand drifted up her ribcage, to the side of her breast; she drew a small, uneven breath. His gaze dropped to her lips, ripe and full, and before he could stop himself, he bent his head to brush those lips with his own.

Her body seemed to rise up to meet him and melt into his embrace all at once. He felt her hand go round his neck, felt her breast press against his chest and hand. He tightened his hold on her, molded her plump lips with his mouth and teeth, savoring the sweet taste of her with his tongue. Sophie pressed against him and sighed, opening her mouth beneath his, inviting him into her warmth. He boldly swept into her mouth; her breath shot down his body like lightning, inflaming every fiber, burning every place they touched. He felt himself go hard, impulsively dropped his hand to her hips and pressed her against the rigid length of his cock.
God, he wanted her.
Wanted her
there
, on the muslin cloth that protected the floor. Wanted her so badly that his body ached with it, ached like he had not since he was a boy.

Ached so much that he finally forced himself to lift his head. He gazed down at her, amazed that her dark eyes seemed, impossibly, even deeper. Her lips were slightly swollen from the passionate kiss they had just shared, enticing him further. With a sigh, he brought his hands to the sides of her face, kissed her forehead, then caressed the length of her arms with his hands. Oh yes, he wanted her, as badly as he had ever wanted a woman … but he had no
right
to want her. Not like this. He would not charm his way into her petticoats as he was accustomed to doing. She deserved so much more than that.

So much better than he.

She seemed to read his mind. “I should go,” she whispered, and he nodded. She smiled, lifted her hand, and pressed it against his cheek. “Caleb,” she murmured, as if testing his name on her lips. She came up on her toes, softly kissed the corner of his mouth, then glided down again, stepping away from his embrace.

“Good-bye,” she said, moving unsteadily toward the door, turned halfway around so she could see him as she left.

Words escaped him; he said nothing, just watched her disappear through the door, then leaned heavily against a ladder, unnerved by that kiss and the raw sensations it had dredged up in him. Raw
need
. Bloody hell, he had long ago made a pact with himself, had sworn he would never fall in love—what point was there in it? He had no name to offer a woman, especially a woman as pure and gracious as Sophie.
What in bloody hell was he doing, then?

He turned away from the door, stared at the blank wall before him. He had come here with a purpose, and that was
not
to go chasing after some blue blood. He was not of her class—she was too far above him to ever make this real, and he would do himself a world of good if he focused on his reason for being in London at all.

Caleb shook his head, tried to dissipate the fog in which she had left him, but it was no use. He forced himself to make his way to the morning room, where he found a hammer and some tenpenny nails. He picked up a piece of molding and began to hammer the feel of her body from his mind.

The following day was Wednesday, the day of the dreaded Hamilton supper party, from which Sophie had not been able to extract herself.

On Wednesday, Caleb did not come to the pond.

Sophie sat for two hours on the wrought iron bench, watching the men across the pond as they worked on Caleb’s house and checking the small watch pinned to her breast almost constantly. Each minute that passed without sight of Caleb was longer than the last. At first she told herself that he was merely late. Soon, she was reminding herself that he had not said with all certainty he
would
come today.
But he came every day.

Surely he would come today, especially after the kiss they had shared.

When it was apparent that he was not coming, Sophie mentally reviewed a list of reasons why he had not come—he had been unavoidably detained, he was ill. He had fallen from his horse and died. She tried very hard to ignore a little voice that sounded remarkably like Ann, a voice which told her that he could very well be an imposter, a scoundrel, a blackguard with little regard for her feelings. She had fantasized the connection between them, had attributed feelings and meaning to his word and kiss that were not there. It certainly would not be the first time, would it?

Yet even though she could not ignore the voice, she still could not believe it. The Caleb Hamilton she knew did not have it in him to be so callously deceiving. And as she gathered up her things and took one last look at the house across the pond, she very firmly reminded herself that she had no right to expect him to come. She had no right to expect anything of him at all.

No right, perhaps, but she thought of him every waking moment, impatient with the thoughts that cluttered her mind that were
not
about him. He was never gone from her thoughts, even for a moment, and she had absolutely no idea how she would endure the Hamilton supper party tonight, especially now, especially since he had not come.

Chapter Six

A
T PRECISELY TWO
minutes past nine o’clock, Trevor Hamilton leaned against the corridor wall and watched as Lady Sophie Dane entered the foyer of his father’s home and handed her bonnet to the footman. She smoothed her hands down the front of her gown—a rather sedate shade of blue, he thought—and then nervously clasped them together as she quickly took in her surroundings.

Beside her, the Frenchwoman was chattering away as if the footman were her host. She was, in Trevor’s opinion, an insufferable woman. As she had called on his father almost every day this week, he had chance to hear firsthand the foolishness with which she filled Ian’s head—not to mention the viscount. She was the type of woman who should be reined in, who could learn a bit of respect for those on whom she imposed.

She could learn to be more like Lady Sophie.

Ah, Lady Sophie. It was interesting to see her after all these years, he thought, as she calmly took the bonnet the Frenchwoman thrust at her and handed it to the footman. Her subdued, demure demeanor appealed to him. Truthfully, he could scarcely remember the scared little rabbit that had caused such a delicious scandal all those years ago—she had been almost as unnoticeable as the umbrella stand by which she now stood. Amazing that, with a few years, she had become so disimpassioned, the epitome of quiet grace. Yes,
this
Lady Sophie appealed to him a great deal. In fact, she was the first woman to have interested him since Elspeth had died two years ago. Quiet, unassuming. Obedient. Rich.

Trevor sauntered forward.

Sophie glanced up as he approached, noticed the way in which he looked at her and felt her cheeks color instantly. As Hamilton reached them, he paused, said a curt hello to Honorine, then turned fully to Sophie. She very reluctantly offered her hand. He took it too eagerly.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Oh,” she said with a nervous little laugh that she despised, “how kind of you to invite us. Madame Fortier and I … we are very grateful of your hospitality.”

“Very nice!” chirped Honorine. “And your
papa
 … Where is he?”

His smile seemed almost forced as he shifted his gaze to Honorine. “Father is in the green salon.”

Honorine’s face lit in a wreath of smiles. “Ah! I shall wish him
bonsoir
,” she announced, and started off down the corridor as if she owned the house, leaving Sophie quite alone with Hamilton.

She smiled sheepishly as he placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “I look forward to introducing you around. You may recognize a face or two.”

“How lovely,” she muttered.
Bloody marvelous
, she thought. As they moved down the corridor, her stomach turned to knots; she felt conspicuously foolish and out of place. Even her gown seemed all wrong—it was a peculiar shade of blue and rather plain, save the overly colorful embroidery along the hem. She would have preferred something a little less matronly, but as usual, her choices had been made for her. This was an all too familiar sense of discomfort—she felt trussed up like a Christmas goose, as if she were once again on parade before a dozen potential suitors. The only difference between tonight and nights just like it eight years past was the attention Hamilton was paying her. Was she imagining things, or had his lips lingered too long on her hand? Was he truly looking at her in a way that seemed to burn a hole right through her? She had seen men look at Honorine that way—but
never
her.

She stole a glimpse of her escort from the corner of her eye. With his hand protectively covering hers, a little smile on his lips, he actually looked quite pleased to be with her. And as if to prove it, he suddenly paused just outside the door Honorine had swept into, motioned the footman to shut it, and turned to face her fully, stepping so close that she could see the intricate folds of his cravat. “I am very pleased you have come, Lady Sophie,” he said, his breath warm on her lips, “
Very
pleased. You are different now, I think. Grown up, mature. I am sure you must understand how a man may desire a woman like you.”

Sophie instantly recoiled backward, bumping into the wall behind her. Hamilton smiled at her discomposure and straightened, nodding at the footman who manned the door. Her head was spinning; she hardly noticed the footman push the double walnut doors open and step aside. The implication behind Hamilton’s words was inconceivable to her; all of her instincts told her to beware—

But all that was lost the moment she caught sight of the more than two dozen heads swiveling as one in her direction. Her knees betrayed her immediately as he led her across the threshold and into that sea of faces. Some, she recognized, others blurred with faded memories that struggled to revive themselves in her mind. As Hamilton escorted her deeper into the room, some of them leaned into their companions, whispering.

She knew it instantly—her scandal was not forgotten, not for a bloody moment. Her face felt hot; Sophie wondered if she might possibly even faint as Hamilton introduced her to Lord and Lady Pritchet.

As he led her on to the next guest, she surreptitiously tried to find Honorine in the crowd.
Where was Honorine?
Her stomach was churning furiously now as Hamilton pulled her deeper into the pit of vipers—
“You recall Lady Sophie Dane? She’s been abroad.”
—the knowing smiles, the expressions of condescension were suffocating, but there was no escape, only more guests. Sophie was acutely aware that they all whispered their casual slander about her, eyeing her critically, no doubt trying to detect a crack in the facade, perhaps even hoping she might entertain them by crumbling beneath the weight of her shame before their very eyes.

By the time they reached the back of the room, Sophie was numb.

“I’d like to introduce you to my father, if you please,” Hamilton said.

Mute, she nodded. At least she would have the pleasure of meeting the object of Honorine’s unabashed love.

Hamilton turned toward a small alcove. A footman moved away; Sophie caught sight of Honorine’s colorful skirts and felt a sense of relief. But as she moved around Hamilton, her smile faded in her confusion.

Lord Hamilton was seated in a chair with wheels designed for the infirm. One hand was curled unnaturally around a pen in what looked like a death grip; the other was covered with a lap rug, which also concealed his legs, leaving only one foot to protrude at an awkward angle.

And he was smiling up at Honorine.

“Sofia! You will try this champagne,
non
?” Honorine trilled upon seeing Sophie, and snatched two flutes from the tray of a passing footman, as if nothing were amiss, as if she fell in love with frail men every day. They had said Lord Hamilton was
ill
, not incapacitated!

Sophie took the flute as Hamilton leaned down to his father, very nearly drinking the whole thing in an effort to hide her shock. She looked to Honorine for some explanation, but the woman was lost in Lord Hamilton.

“Lady Sophie, you remember my father, do you not?”

Sophie dragged her gaze from Honorine to Lord Hamilton; he had shifted in his mobile chair and was looking up at her. “Of course!” she said brightly, and was suddenly struck with the indecision of what to do with her hand.
Dear God, did she offer her hand?

Lord Hamilton answered that dilemma by extending a wobbling hand to her. She instantly shoved her flute at Honorine and took the man’s hand in hers. “IT IS A PLEASURE TO SEE YOU AGAIN, MY LORD.”

“There is no need for this shouting,” Honorine said matter-of-factly.

“L-Lady S-Sophie,” he stuttered. “A p-pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured self-consciously as he withdrew his hand from hers.

“How f-fortunate you are t-to accompany M-Madame F-Fortier.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Honorine beamed like a Yuletide candle. “Monsieur Hamilton,” she sighed like a girl,
“merveilleux!”

All right, the woman had finally gone round the bend and lost her foolish French mind. Hamilton was undoubtedly thinking the very same thing, for Sophie could feel the tension emanating from his body as he presented his back to Honorine. “My father is actually much improved since suffering the seizure,” he said, almost apologetically as Honorine leaned down to whisper something in the viscount’s ear.

“I had no idea,” Sophie responded, still flustered. “When did it happen?”

“Several weeks past. Actually, it seems rather long ago now.” He smiled thinly, looked at the mantel clock. “Ah, it is almost the supper hour, Lady Sophie. If you will excuse me, I would see to it that everything has been arranged.” He bowed politely and stepped away.

Honorine tugged at the sleeve of her gown. “You see? This supper, it is pleasant,” she said cheerfully.

Pleasant? She thought this was
pleasant
? Sophie dragged her gaze from the crowded room to stare at Honorine in utter disbelief. Flashing a quick smile at Lord Hamilton, she grabbed Honorine’s arm and pulled her aside. “Have you lost your mind?” she whispered hotly. “This is the man to whom, just yesterday, you declared your undying devotion?”

Taken aback, Honorine blinked.
“Oui,”
she said simply, and saints above, the woman actually
blushed
.

“Do you think that you might have at least
mentioned
his infirmity? God, Honorine, what are you thinking?”

That remark only served to get Honorine’s back up. One hand went to her hip; she frowned darkly, and Sophie was suddenly and keenly aware that everyone in the room seemed to be watching them. “You speak as if he is nothing!” she snapped. “This … this
infirmité
, as you call it, it has only his body!”

“And madness has yours,” Sophie muttered under her breath, glancing covertly around them.

Oh, wonderful, here approached more good tidings.

Lady Pritchet was making her way toward them, her daughter Charlotte in tow. Sophie remembered Charlotte as someone who had suffered the fate she most assuredly would have met had she not eloped. As no one of suitable caliber was interested in making Charlotte a wife, she had, finally, in her twenty-sixth year, been taken off the shelf and married to a Scottish baron. When Sophie made her debut, it was well known that Charlotte was the man’s wife in name only; he apparently kept to Scotland and his mistress, and Charlotte to her mother.

As they approached, Sophie quickly discarded the argument over Lord Hamilton and murmured to Honorine a cautionary
“en garde.”

Lady Pritchet came to an abrupt halt in front of them and eyed Honorine openly and critically. One thing was certain—the woman’s bitter countenance had not changed even a whit in all these years.

Shifting her pinched gaze to Sophie, Lady Pritchet practically sneered. “Lady Sophie,” she said, as she took in her gown. “You’ve been abroad.”

“Yes I have, Lady Pritchet, in the company of Madame Fortier.”

“Bonsoir,”
sang Honorine.

“Bonsoir,”
responded Charlotte with a smile.

“Perhaps you had opportunity to take in the sights of Rome? I found the Colosseum to be quite grand,” Lady Pritchet remarked, now eyeing Honorine.

“We were actually longer in Venice,” Sophie clarified.

“Venice?” asked a woman behind them.

Honestly, could this night possibly become any more monstrous? Apparently so—Miss Melinda Birdwell had seen fit to join them.

“Truly?” drawled Melinda, arching one sculpted brow over the other. “I’ve heard Venice is quite decadent.”

“Ooh, oui, oui,”
Honorine readily agreed with a little laugh and a wink for Melinda.
“Beaucoup décadent.”

A tiny mewl of surprise escaped Charlotte; Lady Pritchet’s sneer deepened. But Melinda merely smiled. “We so look forward to hearing tales of your
décadent
adventure over supper.”

All right, then, there it was—this
would
be the longest night of Sophie’s life.

In the end, however, she couldn’t be entirely certain what was the worst part of the whole affair. The awful supper in which everyone around her attempted to ask—under the guise of polite conversation, of course—about her ignoble past?
Have you by chance seen Sir William? Oh, I suppose he is still in Spain?
Or Honorine’s peculiar and unabashed adoration of Lord Hamilton? Or perhaps Hamilton’s seeming fixation with
her
?

In between her attempts to fend off the many intrusive questions put to her, Sophie caught herself exchanging several looks with Trevor Hamilton. His smile, she noticed, was rather infectious, and she began to feel a little self-conscious of it. Impossible though it was, the man was actually flirting with her! How terribly ironic that was—eight years ago, Sophie would have delivered her entire fortune for just one favorable glance from Hamilton.

Now, it made her feel strange—his attentions were too curious, too uncharacteristic for someone who had once been one of the
ton
’s most eligible bachelors. And it didn’t help, naturally, that she could not push the image of Caleb from her mind’s eye.
Why hadn’t he come today?
She could imagine him here, much more comfortable than she, sharing a secret jest with her over some of the things being said, conversing with the others.

But it was Honorine’s peculiar and unabashed esteem of Lord Hamilton that fascinated Sophie the most. Even though she could clearly see now that her initial assessment of his ability had been too harsh, he was still hardly the sort of man to whom Honorine was typically drawn.

Not only was Honorine drawn to him, she was making a scene.

She doted on him over supper, monopolized his attention. It was painfully obvious that no one seated around the table could take his eyes from her. Sophie desperately wanted to stand from her seat, walk the length of the table to where Honorine sat cheerfully babbling with Lord Worthington and Lord Hamilton, lean over her shoulder, and inform her that she was behaving like an imbecile. Unfortunately, she could hardly do such a thing without making the scene worse.