Julia London 4 Book Bundle (152 page)

Desire and longing spiraled tighter and tighter, building to a dangerous, mind-numbing release that crashed over them in one tremendously violent wave.

She heard Caleb cry out, felt him convulse inside her.

Then she felt his ragged breath on her neck, the staccato beat of his heart against her own. He lay with his forehead against her shoulder as he sought to drag air into his lungs, his fingers blindly searching for her, his hand caressing her arm.

They lay silently that way for several moments before Caleb spoke. “You have stolen my heart, Sophie.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, brushed the loose hair from her face, kissed first one eye, then the other. “I am yours. Irretrievably yours.”

Too spent to speak, she cupped his square jaw in her palm and smiled into his pale green eyes, and hoped to God he spoke true, for he certainly had her heart.

They lay entwined in one another’s arms, caressing each other, speaking low. Neither of them wanted to leave, but Caleb at last insisted, fearful that someone might turn a search party out for her. They dressed quickly and solemnly; Caleb made every attempt to fix her hair, but in the end, he stuffed Honorine’s bonnet down over her head with a soft admonishment to comb it before anyone saw her.

They paused at the door of the ballroom, shared one last, long kiss, then walked hand in hand out of his house, down the path and to the edge of the park, oblivious to the world around them. At the park entrance, Caleb kissed the back of her hand, made her promise once more that she would meet him again on the morrow, and slowly, reluctantly, let her fingers trail through his before dropping her hand completely.

She was smiling, her hand tapping absently against the side of her skirts as she wandered back to
Maison de Fortier
. Their lovemaking tingled throughout her body with each step; she recalled every place his fingers had touched her, every breath he had drawn, every moment he had looked at her with those pale green eyes.
Every thrust, every drop of his seed in her belly.
It had been a highly volatile experience—after eight years, her body had been primed, had quivered at the mere touch and had come quite undone with the feel of his body in hers.

The world as she knew it ceased to exist the moment he had put his hands on her body. He had lifted her to some higher plane, and on that plane, she could truly believe he had a mad passion for her, could even believe she was beautiful. It was not a state of existence she ever wanted to leave again, and strolling lazily along as she was, she amused herself by imagining more lovemaking.

As she walked into the foyer, she smiled at Roland and scarcely noticed that he held an umbrella in each hand. He looked at her curiously and demanded, “What is this look of yours?”

Sophie chuckled quietly to herself and shook her head.

Roland shrugged. “Madame Fortier, she awaits in the salon for you,” he said, and with another intent look at her, walked away in the opposite direction with his pair of umbrellas.

Carelessly tossing her bonnet onto a console, Sophie made a halfhearted attempt to repair her hair, then shrugged, and glided on her cloud to the salon.

But she came crashing back to earth the moment she opened the door.

It wasn’t that every conceivable surface was covered with her fig tartlets, biscuits, and some sort of ill-shaped little meat pies—it looked as if Honorine intended to feed an entire army in her festive attire of a purple turban and peach caftan. No, what shook Sophie from her dreamy state as Honorine came hurrying forward was that Trevor Hamilton was a step behind her.

And behind them, Lord Hamilton and the boy, Ian, who looked up at Sophie with a sullen frown.

Trevor was the last person Sophie wanted to see at the moment. The mere sight of him marred the tremendous sense of happiness she felt and gave reality entry to creep back into her world.

“Bonjour, bonjour!”
Honorine said happily, and grabbing Sophie by the shoulders, kissed her roughly on both cheeks. When she reared back, she looked at Sophie strangely, her blue eyes peering deep.

“Lady Sophie,” Trevor said warmly. “How do you do?”

How did she do? Ooh, quite
wonderfully
, thank you, very well indeed … “Ah … very well, thank you,” she responded, reluctantly extending her hand. Trevor instantly brought it to his lips, glancing up at her hair as he pressed his dry lips to her knuckles.

When he let go, Sophie resisted the urge to rub the feel of his lips from her hand. “I … I did not expect—Have you tea? Might I offer you tea?” she asked, ignoring another curious look from Honorine as she turned back to Lord Hamilton.

“That would be lovely. I believe some has already been brought round.”

Aha, so it had. Sophie motioned dumbly to a settee, unconsciously smoothing her hair as she preceded him and sat herself gingerly.

“How fetching you look in rose,” he remarked as he sat next to her. “A sprig of violet for your hair would complement it well.”

It was an innocent comment, meant nothing … but it sounded so very much like William Stanwood that it made her feel suddenly unsteady. Sophie faltered; ancient feelings of inadequacy bubbled up from the murky depths to which she had buried them. William had never approved of anything she wore. It was never bright enough, pretty enough, fashionable enough—

She caught herself and turned away from Trevor, pouring a cup of tea, amazingly, without very much clattering.

“I have looked forward with great anticipation to being in your presence again,” he said as he accepted the cup from her. “I very much enjoyed our walk in Regent’s Park.” He smiled strangely and purposely brushed her hand with his.

Sophie’s face flamed. “Ah,” she mumbled, and hastily poured a cup of tea for herself, anything to avoid his gaze, and most certainly his touch.

“I don’t suppose Madame Fortier keeps up her gardens, hmm?” he asked, sipping his tea.

In a moment of panic, Sophie looked at him. He was gazing at the bodice of her gown. “
Ahem
. She does.”

“She does what?”

“Keeps a garden,” Sophie said, raising her cup so as to obscure his view of her chest. “The Fortier vintner, Roland, is here with Madame Fortier, but of course there is no wine, so he has undertaken the occupation of gardener.”

Trevor glanced up at that; when he saw she was serious, he snorted. “Rather ridiculous, isn’t it? A vintner in London?”

“In truth, they are friends,” Sophie clarified. “Fabrice and Roland have been with Madame Fortier for many years.”

Trevor placed his teacup firmly on the table and leaned back on the settee, casting one arm casually across the back as he shot Honorine a glance across the room. “A rather peculiar arrangement. I cannot imagine befriending someone in my employ to such an extent, but then again, I am not a Frenchman.”

His tone seemed harsh, too harsh. But Trevor suddenly laughed. “My father always said the French were a colorful lot. He spent quite a lot of time there as a young man—I am sure that is why he so enjoys her company.”

The way in which he said
French
sounded slightly hostile, too. Please, what was the matter with her? Why was she finding fault with everything he said? He might not be Caleb, more was the pity, but he was hardly the Devil. Sophie forced a bright smile, held up a plate of tartlets. “Honorine Fortier is nothing if not colorful.”

“I suppose,” he said, shifting his gaze to the windows. “The weather is awfully dry for this time of year, wouldn’t you agree?”

Dry? The only thing Sophie had noticed was how glorious it was—bright sunshine, deep blue skies, crystal clear air.

“We’ve better weather in the country, all in all,” he added.

Sophie sipped her tea, tried not to smile at the unexpected image of Caleb at her breast.

“In spite of the early spring rains, which of course we need for the growing season, it seems to me better suited for the body.”

“Ah.” In a valiant attempt to not focus on the realization that her petticoat was hopelessly twisted, she attempted to concentrate on watching his lips move as he spoke.

“It can be rather dry in summer, although we did have quite a lot of rain in eighteen and forty, as I recall …”

Her mind inadvertently drifted back to the image of Caleb holding himself above her, the curve of muscle in his shoulders and arms. Her struggle to maintain her composure was hopeless. As Trevor droned on, she nodded intermittently, but she heard nothing he said—she was too occupied with hiding a half-dozen little smiles behind her teacup as she relived every moment of her extraordinary, beautiful afternoon.

When Honorine announced a card game, she fairly vaulted from her seat—Trevor followed more slowly—and dove into the game with gusto and a hope that it would consume what was left of the late afternoon.

Unfortunately, it did not last nearly long enough—as Honorine put the cards away, Trevor quietly asked her for a stroll about the gardens.

Sophie thought frantically for a polite way to decline, but his hand was on her elbow, pulling her away from the others, and unaccustomed to such attention, unaccustomed to making her own assertions, she dumbly followed.

As they stepped out into the gardens, he didn’t say much, but seemed rather lost in the flora surrounding them. His pensive demeanor and her great distraction were making Sophie a wreck, and she realized she was filling the space around them with chatter. It was so unlike her—she was not one to talk without purpose. But talk without purpose she did, as if she could somehow keep him from speaking if she kept her mouth moving, or worse,
kissing
her. She spoke of Honorine, and of the Continent, Italian olives, and Spanish figs and how one might use them in delicious sauces for fish. She spoke of Christiania—
Christiania
? As if Trevor Hamilton had any concept of a place as remote and foreign as Christiania!

She was just beginning to relate the minute details of Honorine’s skating party when Trevor turned from his review of a lovely hydrangea bush and impulsively grasped her hand.

It rattled Sophie out of her discourse on the habits of Scandinavians.

“You enchant me,” he murmured as he tried to pull her into his arms.

That announcement roiled in her belly; she did not want to hear
that
, not from him, and most decidedly, not now! “I … I really—”

“I think of you often, Sophie,” he said, overpowering her. “I find myself desiring to hold you … to kiss you …”

“But—”

He silenced her protest by pressing his lips against hers. His mouth was hard, his tongue a stiff prod, forcing her to open her mouth. Sophie struggled in his embrace; Trevor merely gripped her tighter. Her sudden panic was swift and terrifying; she struggled until he finally let go, then stood before him, gasping for breath.

Trevor had the nerve to laugh. “You are so shy, my dear! There is no need to be shy.” And he reached for her again.

From his perch on the window seat above, his face pressed against the thick pane of glass, Ian frowned and announced petulantly to Honorine and his grandpapa, “Papa is kissing Lady Sophie.”

“
Bien!
This girl, she needs
d’amour
,” Honorine said matter-of-factly as she carefully examined Will’s latest attempts to write. “Come from there now,
mon petit
—it is not nice to see this kiss. Come, come and look at your grandpapa! He writes his name!” she declared triumphantly and grinned at Will as she held up the paper for Ian to see.

Will watched as the boy cocked his head to one side and seriously considered the chicken scratch before shrugging his shoulders and wandering off to peer out the window again. How Honorine managed to see his name in that was beyond Will. Yet he could not deny that two weeks ago he could not so much as grasp the pen, much less make any effort at writing. There was no denying it—with Honorine’s persistence, he
was
improving. There were still things missing, however; select thoughts, a notion of how to do things. And the vague anxiety he felt about Caleb and Trevor—it stemmed from something, but what? All he knew was a vague dissatisfaction with … 
what
?

As if she could sense his frustration, Honorine turned toward him, her ever-present smile beaming. “Ooh,
mon frère
, you have many thoughts in your head,
non
?”

Will chuckled deep in his chest, felt his lips lift in his twisted smile. He forced a word out over his thick tongue. “Few.”

“This is better than too many,” Honorine said in all seriousness.

Yes, but there was something about Caleb and Trevor that he simply had to remember. A sudden, fragmented idea occurred to him; he awkwardly picked up the pen and, willing his hand to remember the letters, he scratched out the name Caleb and showed it to Honorine.

She looked at him, confusion in her blue eyes.

How did he explain? How could he make her understand so that she might help him?
But help him what?
He didn’t know; it just suddenly seemed imperative that Honorine understand him.

“Caleb?” she asked uncertainly.

Will frowned, gripped the pen harder. Why couldn’t he remember? If there were ever a time he needed Him, it was in these last few days. He moved the pen, showed his effort to Honorine.

She laughed, clapped her hands gleefully as she looked at the paper. “
Merveilleux!
You see? You write English
and
French!” she exclaimed, and gave him an exuberant kiss on the forehead.
“Mon fils Caleb,”
she read, and looked up at Will. “Aha! Caleb is your son,
non
?”

At last!
Will thought, and took the paper from her, eager to tell her more.

Chapter Ten

A
S THE
S
EASON
hit its high point, Trevor Hamilton and Sophie Dane were suddenly the talk of the entire
ton
, the curious centerpiece in the maelstrom created by Honorine, Lord Hamilton, and Mr. Caleb Hamilton, otherwise known as the Imposter.

This, Sophie learned courtesy of one Lucie Cowplain, who, as luck would have it, could claim only one true friend on this earth, who just happened to be the cook in Lady Paddington’s household, of all places.

Lucie Cowplain apparently received reports from Millicent at the early morning market, and promptly served up tidbits of those reports over breakfast to an enraptured Sophie, Honorine, and on occasion, Fabrice and Roland, if they happened to have arisen to greet the day.

It seemed the
ton
’s sentiments were firmly divided over the veracity of Caleb Hamilton’s claim. Many believed he was indeed Lord Hamilton’s son, having heard the many rumors through the years of a torrid romance on the Continent. Still others labeled him a wretched imposter, come to prey on an infirm man. All agreed only one person could set the record straight and he had lost too much of his memory.

All agreed on one other point—Caleb was a handsome man, even more so than Trevor, and rumor continued about his female acquaintances, of which there were, apparently, many. He was forever reported as having been seen somewhere in the company of one beauty or another, although usually those with a less than an acceptable reputation.

Regardless of the truth, there seemed to be another faction altogether that simply could not resist the sport of trying to put the two alleged sons together in one setting. According to Lucie Cowplain, neither man had taken the bait as of yet.

The Imposter was, by all accounts, quite unaffected by it all. He was, as Lady Paddington said, insufferably cheerful in the face of his detractors, even while being rather adamantly firm in his claim of being the illegitimate son of Lord Hamilton, after nothing more than his father’s welfare.

But, as he told Sophie during their daily meetings in Regent’s Park, seeing after his father’s welfare was not so easily accomplished—Trevor was just as adamant in his belief that he was a thief and a swindler of the highest and most diabolical order. He refused to allow Caleb to step foot in his father’s house. As Caleb did not want to create an ugly scene at his father’s house, he continued in his attempts to see Lord Hamilton in the course of his daily outings to Regent’s Park.

His cheerful tenacity in the face of all that turmoil was another thing Sophie so genuinely admired about him.

The mutual adoration was growing between them, and any lingering doubts Sophie had about him quickly faded beneath the warmth of his laughter and jovial conversation, which they shared over the mouthwatering dishes she would prepare. They stole every moment they could, both of them acutely aware of their desire and ignoring their conflicting standings in society. They struggled to hold the world at bay, playing house in a partially constructed home. In fact, Sophie had not, as yet, inquired as to where Caleb actually lived, and he had not offered, other than to remark it was in or around the area of Cheapside. Knowing something as simple as that allowed reality to seep into their little world, and she did not want that.

So on the evenings that she could get away, they would dine by candlelight on the floor of what would one day be his dining room. These moments Sophie enjoyed above all other moments in her life—it was as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. He was her secret lover and their world was magic.

So too was his touch—his hand to her cheek, to the small of her back, made her giddy. The feel of his lips against her skin, against her mouth, was enough to drive her quite mad with desire. There was, she had discovered, a voracious beast living within her. Years of longing, of wanting to be held … of wanting to erase all images of William Stanwood from her mind had created the beast. Caleb was her one true pleasure in her life, the tendrils of his affection surrounding her heart, the roots growing deeper each day.

He was, however, an increasingly difficult secret to hide.

Fabrice and Roland knew something was different with her—they were always peering at her curiously when she returned from the park, as if they expected her to do something, like stand on her head. Lucie Cowplain was much less uncertain about her suspicions. “Blimey if ye don’t look as moon-eyed as these silly gels,” she observed one afternoon, motioning to Fabrice and Roland, who were sprawled in overstuffed armchairs.

Fabrice clucked and glared at her, but Roland boldly retorted, “Better the eyes of
la lune
, than no eyes,
Madame Cowplain!
”

That drew a derisive cackle from Lucie Cowplain, and fortunately, for Sophie, started a row that enabled her to quietly quit the room before anyone questioned her further.

Honorine suspected, she knew. Caleb had made some headway with her in his many attempts to see his father, and had actually befriended Honorine. When she wasn’t so wrapped up in Lord Hamilton, she noticed Sophie’s frequent absences and very much enjoyed making remarks that had Sophie squirming—
“Ah, the bloom of love, it is good for this face!”

Sophie began to avoid her.

If Honorine suspected, it could only be a matter of time before Ann or Julian would begin to question where she went every day. She tried not to think of that—she did not want to imagine how disastrous it would be for her and Caleb if her family discovered her secret love affair. She didn’t want anyone to know, really, lest they wake her from her dream. And sometimes she wished Caleb would not finish his house, lest she lose all the wonderful memories they had created there.

It didn’t help that her family was so very hopeful that Trevor would offer for her. Ann was the most wishful, chattering endlessly about the gossip, citing source after reliable source that Trevor Hamilton was indeed quite smitten with Sophie Dane. In the privacy of Sophie’s suite—where she often came to critique Sophie’s wardrobe—she confided that it was more than the family could have hoped given Sophie’s unfortunate background and lack of … well, finesse. But Ann would brighten and cheerfully remind Sophie that Lady Paddington had said to Alex Christian, who had said to Adrian Spence, who had said to Julian that Trevor Hamilton was willing to let Sophie’s past lie.

But Sophie seemed to be the only one curious to know
why
.

Ann also took great delight in the fact that some among the
ton
were beginning to hint that perhaps they had misjudged a youthful Sophie, that perhaps she was deserving of a man as fine as Trevor Hamilton. That was enough to make Sophie ill, but even worse, Ann let her know that Julian was making it known among the men’s clubs that he strongly favored a match between them, so much so that he might enhance what was left of Sophie’s inheritance.

Oh how bloody grand!

Sophie listened to her sister’s chatter but said very little, afraid anything she might say would be construed as being in favor of the match. Of course Ann did not ask
her
opinion, but why should she? Naturally they all assumed she would leap across the Thames just for the mere chance to be connected to a man of Trevor’s stature and credentials, particularly in light of his willingness to ignore her past. They certainly would, in her shoes. Sophie could hardly fault Ann for her enthusiasm—it was their way, how they had been taught to think. She was merely doing what she thought best for Sophie and the family. And honestly, had Sophie not spent eight years abroad opening her eyes and her mind, she
would
have jumped at the chance of a match with Trevor Hamilton.

But she
had
spent those years away, and she had changed. She was not the same Sophie who had left under a cloud, that much she knew. But in moments of private reflection, she wasn’t completely certain she was the new Sophie, either. It seemed she hovered somewhere in between, in a sort of no-man’s-land, second-guessing herself constantly, feeling the chaos churning into a storm.

All she could do was sit quietly when Ann was talking, fretting what she should or could do about her predicament, the irony of it too rich—she had gone from society’s little misfit to a woman with the unusual burden of too many men. She loved Caleb, tolerated Trevor. But to love Caleb meant to disgrace her family, and she wanted to make them proud of her for once in her life. To tolerate Trevor meant she pleased her family and society.

Yet she was so different from the plain and ungainly girl who had made her debut and hoped for Trevor to look her way. How could she make her family see that? As they told her over and over again, their utmost concern was her happiness. They wanted her to have the best life had to offer. They thought the path to reaching that goal lay in Trevor. She could not begin to imagine the recriminations if they ever discovered that she was, in fact, quite in love with the other Hamilton, and in fact, involved in a rather torrid love affair. Naturally, they would instantly believe she was the old Sophie, so desperately naive that she had fallen for the charms of an imposter. God only knew what they might do—they had sent her away before.

Which is why Sophie continued to struggle to hold her little secret, endeavoring to keep her countenance serene through the course of Trevor’s frequent calls.

His visits were unbearable.

If he wasn’t deploring Hamilton the Imposter, he was making some remark about Honorine’s monopoly of his father’s waking hours. Yet in spite of what he deemed his disastrous situation, Trevor remained a gentleman and attentive of Sophie, apparently intent on wooing her with talk of his empty home in the country, his many ideals,
too
many, really, and his desire to find just the right feminine influence for Ian.

Whether or not he meant this to influence her, Sophie hardly knew—the only thing of which she was certain was that young Ian did not care for her in the least.

That
was painfully obvious. The child squirmed uncomfortably in her presence, openly cringed each time she came near him, scarcely looked her in the eye, responded with monosyllabic answers when she inquired after him, and then quickly went about the business of determining just where he might find Honorine.

Worse, Sophie was hardly any better in her behavior. It wasn’t intentional—she loved children, she truly did, and surely her nieces and nephews could attest to that. She even wanted her own,
imagined
her own, with Caleb. But she was hopelessly inept when it came to Ian—honestly, what did one say to such a sullen child? He seemed to harbor some glaring resentment for her and it amazed her that Trevor did not see how astoundingly poor her rapport was with the child, or how she bungled each interview with Ian. Surely he would eventually see that any hope he might harbor that she could influence the lad at all would be put into its proper place—the rubbish heap.

But more than that, Sophie could not dismiss the vague feeling that something was not quite right with Trevor. Nothing wrong, exactly, but … it was just a feeling, nothing more, based on nothing concrete, for certainly he was a gentleman. Nevertheless, she could not shake her intuition about Trevor and felt it keenly one morning when Lucie Cowplain recited her latest opinion of the news received from Millicent.

“Ye’ll see yourself married by the end of summer, mark me,” she said, wagging her finger authoritatively at Sophie over a plate of steaming eggs. “Mr. Hamilton, he’s been alone with that child for far too long.”

“You make it sound as if he seeks a nursemaid,” Sophie said as she took the eggs from her.

Lucie Cowplain snorted disdainfully. “Why in God’s name do ye
think
he’d marry? It ain’t for position or money, obviously.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Honorine exclaimed hotly, roused from her concentration on a plate of delectable pastries. “You do not say such things, Lucie Cowplain!”

The woman rolled her eyes and pivoted on her twisted leg. “I ain’t saying there’s anything wrong with Lady Sophie, I ain’t. But she’s got the burden of her past, you cannot deny it,” she said, and lurched through the servant’s door.

Clearly stunned, Honorine tried to smooth it over, but what she said came out in a mishmash of French and English. It hardly would have mattered had she managed to say something in flawless English, because Sophie knew that the old cook was quite right.

Everyone
knew it.

Everyone except Honorine, that was, and unfortunately, Honorine could not seem to grasp any of the nuances of the latest gossip surrounding Sophie and Trevor, or worse, herself and Lord Hamilton. On those occasions when Sophie tried to make her understand the furor she was creating, Honorine would cluck her tongue. “These
Anglaises
, they know nothing of life,” she would say, and refuse to hear any argument Sophie tried to put forth regarding English propriety.

Honorine’s nonchalance and Sophie’s frustration collided with fury one afternoon when Honorine announced her very disastrous notion to have a ball in the orangery.

“Ooh, oui, oui!”
clapped Fabrice.

“Why on earth would you want to host a ball?” Sophie demanded.

“Why not?” Honorine asked nonchalantly as she exchanged cards with Roland in the course of a game. “London, she is very good to us. Very nice,
non
? We should give this ball. Will likes it.”

“Honestly, Honorine! Have you no idea what is being said about us?
All
of us?”

Honorine looked up from her card game and smiled. “
Oui. You
they speak about, and
Monsieur
Trevor Hamilton … but I like this other son,” she said, looking pointedly at Sophie.

“Ooh,
oui
, this other son, he is
very
nice,” Fabrice said dreamily, earning an impatient glare from Roland.

“Oh no, you can’t invite them both!” Sophie cried with alarm.

“
Non
, I do not do this!” Honorine said indignantly, as if she were suddenly the queen of society protocol. “You think only
you
are concerned for these things? For Caleb,” she said matter-of-factly, “I will be concerned, too!” Fabrice and Roland paused at that and looked at Sophie.