The Secret Lover (7 page)

Sophie had not endured seven years of Honorine et al. without learning it was not always prudent to question what they were doing. She proceeded down the long corridor, out onto the lawn, and across to the old and empty orangery, which Honorine had, of late, determined should be converted into a studio. Except that she didn't paint, a thought that occurred to her sometime later.

As she walked across the lawn, Sophie could see Honorine through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows dressed in a red-and-yellow patterned skirt

—
where did one find such combinations of color in one cloth
? She could hear more than one voice; oddly, it sounded as if a child were with Honorine.

Preposterous.

Sophie stepped up on the small porch leading into the orangery, heard Honorine say, "A ballroom. Can you see?" just as a boy darted by the open door. "I remove these furnitures,
non
? And put in their place pretty plants.

Oui
, pretty plants for the corners. It is good, this ballroom,
non
?"

The sound of a deep male voice startled Sophie; as she stepped inside, Honorine instantly broke into a wreath of smiles.

Sophie felt the floor opening beneath her.

Standing next to Honorine, smiling charmingly, was Mr. Trevor Hamilton—the man who, in her last Season, had been the most eligible and sought-after bachelor among the
ton
. Seeing his trim figure now, Sophie was struck with the distinct memory of being ignored by him the summer of her demise. He had not acknowledged her existence in any way, not even after Julian had made the proper introductions. That distasteful memory was eclipsed only by a panic so immediate that her knees began to tremble.
What was he doing here
?

"Ah, Sofia! You see Monsieur Hamilton. He is the son of Monsieur Will."

Will
. The name of the man Honorine had met at Regent's Park.
Will
Hamilton. Lord Hamilton, Viscount. That
was whom Honorine chattered about so incessantly? Frozen by her shocked disbelief, Sophie gaped at Honorine.

Honorine smiled cheerfully. "Monsieur Hamilton, he has a son, too!

Mon petit Ian
." To Mr. Hamilton, she said, "My Sofia! Pretty,
non
?"

Mr. Hamilton bowed. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam."

He straightened; one brow floated upward, and Sophie instantly dipped an awkward curtsey.

"M-Mr. Hamilton."

"Madam… ?" he asked politely.

What
? Sophie blinked. It took a moment for her to understand… she had been so appalled to find him here that it had not occurred to her, not even for a moment, that he might not recognize her. Surely he recognized her! How could he not know who she was?

"Ah,
mon amie
," Honorine offered, "
Madame Sofia Dane
. She belongs to the Kettering!"

Mr. Hamilton's brow fell; he stared at her in such obvious astonishment that Sophie wished to die, right there on the orangery floor. She wasn't sure which was more humiliating—to be remembered for her horrible scandal, or not remembered at all! The urge to flee was overwhelming, but there was nowhere to turn, no place in this empty orangery to hide.

"Lady Sophie?" he asked, incredulous. "Forgive me, but you are… you seem quite… well. Quite well, indeed."

Quite well?
Quite well
?

"You've been abroad, then?"

She could not speak. She was so perplexed that she had absolutely no idea what to say—

"
Oui
, abroad. Sofia, she is my… how do you say…
compagne
," Honorine explained.

Mr. Hamilton looked at Honorine in surprise, then at Sophie. "Indeed, your companion?"

That was followed by a moment of awkward silence in which Sophie still could not find her voice. Honorine's glare wasn't helping any, either…

"Yes," she finally managed to croak, "I've been abroad several years now.

With Madame Fortier. Traveling. And…
ahem
. And, ah… traveling."

"Ah, I see."

She rather imagined he did.

"What a tremendous opportunity for you. Perhaps you might regale me one day with tales of your travel. Perhaps over tea," he said, gesturing for Ian to come to him.

Over tea? Well, all right, then, she simply had to be dreaming because Mr. Hamilton would not invite her to tea—

"
Oui, oui
, we join you and Madame Hamilton—"

"I'm afraid there is no Mrs. Hamilton," he said.

"Oh,
non
?" Honorine clucked, peering down at Ian as he inched by, looking intently at her colorful clothing and loose hair.

"I am a widower."

"Oooh,
je regrette infiniment
," Honorine managed in spite of the delighted twinkle in her eye.

"Thank you kindly. Well, then," he said, flashing a smile at Sophie as he took Ian's hand in his, "I shall leave you ladies to your plans for a ballroom."

"Oh, but you must come soon again!" Honorine said, hurrying after Mr.

Hamilton as he turned toward the door.

"Thank you. Good day to you, Madame Fortier." He looked pointedly at Sophie and added, "I look forward to that tea." With a low bow, he pulled Ian out the door.

"
Au revoir
!" Honorine called after them, and stood, smiling broadly, until the sound of the Hamiltons' steps on the gravel walk faded. Then she whirled around to Sophie and threw up her hands, exclaiming heatedly in French that Sophie was absolutely hopeless.

"This man, he is very
pleased
with you, Sofia!" she spoke at last in greatly exasperated English, "and you there, standing with no tongue! Do you not
see
?"

"Oh, I see all right, and I know
exactly
what he must be thinking now!"

"He thinks you are very pretty."

"Don't be ridiculous!" she retorted sharply. Her head was reeling, spinning—she moved forward, purposely ignoring Honorine as she marched from the orangery.

"It is not I who am ridiculous, Sofia!" Honorine snapped right back, and was quickly on her heels. "This fear you have, it is…
mon Dieu
! How do you say in English?
Injustifié
!"

"And exactly
what
brought Mr. Hamilton to the orangery?" Sophie demanded, stopping and turning so abruptly that Honorine almost collided with her.

"The boy! Never mind of this! Do you see Monsieur Hamilton, how he smiles for you?"

With a snort of exasperation, Sophie whirled about and picked up her pace, unwilling to listen to Honorine as she began, for the thousandth time, the litany of attributes Sophie possessed, concluding that if only she would smile, hold her head up, look a man in the eye… Blast it, but it was enough to drive a woman to drink!

Which is exactly what she did, marching into the grand salon and helping herself to a spot of port to calm her nerves, putting aside, for the time being, that she could hardly swallow the stuff. But then again, it had been a rather extraordinary day for Sophie Dane—two men, two
complete
disasters, and one of them being Trevor Hamilton, of all people.
Trevor
Hamilton
! In the summer of thirty-six there wasn't a single debutante who didn't hope to dance a waltz with him, didn't dream of making a match with him! Of all the people for her to happen upon now, of all the persons in the world, it had to be
him
. What a bloody disaster!

Unfortunately, Honorine would not let her forget it, and was obviously intent on driving her quite mad, as she continued well into the evening, ranting about Mr. Hamilton, Sophie's lack of male companionship in general, and her obvious need to…
ahem
… tend to
all
her needs. By the middle of the next morning, Sophie was imagining all the inventive ways she might strangle her. To make matters worse, Honorine went to Regent's Park on a lark and accosted the little moppet son of Hamilton's, along with his governess, after a walkabout with the boy's grandpapa.

Somehow, Honorine had managed to convince reasonable adults that the boy should call at
Maison de Fortier
. Lord Hamilton was, apparently, quite smitten with Honorine.

And Honorine decided, much to Sophie's annoyance, to teach young Ian to dance. She coerced Roland—who happened to be a passable violinist and, having no other apparent occupation in London, was available—into playing. Young Ian proved to be an eager and capable little dancer, in spite of his governess's attempts to tell him that one did not dance
precisely
that way in England.

Fortunately for his governess, Miss Hipplewhite, Honorine soon grew bored of dancing with a seven-year-old boy, and sprawled on a settee, regaled Ian with outrageously creative stories of her life. Ian lay on his stomach on the Oriental rug, his chin propped on his fists, his eyes wide with awe at some of the more colorful tales presented him.

Miss Hipplewhite sat on the edge of her chair, her mouth agape in horror.

Sophie could hardly keep from rolling her eyes or muttering her disbelief of the more inventive tales, particularly the one that had Honorine rescuing a child from some sort of Norwegian pirate-viking.

Sophie's demeanor, however, did not sit well with her employer. When Honorine suggested, in proper and distinct French, that she might perhaps find another activity more to her liking than drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair and muttering under her breath, Sophie could not agree more.

She set out for her daily walk and found herself in Regent's Park.

Inevitably, she came to the pond she visited every day, in spite of having already made a monumental fool of herself there. She paused at the wrought iron bench where she usually sat and looked across to where the men were normally working, but was surprised to see that there were no activities at the house today—it was silent. That was just as well, really; she was not very keen to see the foreman after the awful display of her conversational skills yesterday.

But still… she was rather disappointed.

She sat on the bench, stared at the water, and wished she had thought to bring a book. A carriage rumbled by in the distance; Sophie adjusted her bonnet, folded her hands primly on her lap.

After a few minutes of that, she stood up, walked to the edge of the pond and around the banks, deeper into the flora than she had gone before, trying to see past the dark surface to gauge the depth of it. But the lily pads were too thick and the water murky. The sound of a frog captured her attention, sitting on a lily pad beneath the overhang of a willow tree, his chest puffed proudly. For some strange reason, he reminded Sophie of all the gentlemen of the
ton
.

She glanced down at her feet, spied several pebbles.

He didn't think she had come today. He had ridden around the park twice now, had given up hope that she would appear. He was on his way out of the park when he saw the flash of pink bonnet around one side of the pond.

She
had
come, this woman whose solitary existence had so intrigued him.

He had watched her watching him, had wondered who she was and why she came every day with her basket and her book. He had even fantasized that he knew why—there was something about her that reminded him of himself. She was a loner, not really fitting into the world around her, preferring her own company to that of society. And when he had seen her yesterday, up close, her chocolate-brown eyes and pristine skin had enchanted him. The woman was pretty in an unconventional way. But anxious. Extremely anxious. And that just made him wonder all the more.

He dismounted, tethered his horse, and strolled to the wrought iron bench where she usually sat. A flash of pink again, and he saw her, squatting down, looking in the grass for something. When she stood, she adjusted her bonnet backward and slightly off to one side, apparently aiming at something. He looked to the pond, saw the frog, and smiled to himself.

Suddenly, she jerked her arm back and threw the stone with such enthusiasm that she very nearly wrenched her arm from her shoulder. The stone sailed wide of the frog and landed with a splash great enough to make the creature inch nervously about on his lily pad.

The second pebble, thrown delicately as a little girl would, was far too short. She muttered under her breath as the frog inched closer to the edge of his pad, shook her arm a bit to loosen it, then assumed a firmer position with her feet planted widely apart.

Lord
. "You've got it all wrong, I'm afraid," he called out to her.

At the sound of his voice, the woman nearly toppled over backward as she whirled around and clasped her hand to her breast, stone and all.

Bloody hell, then—she was even prettier than he had thought. Her brown eyes, wide with surprise, were so dark that they almost looked black; her pursed lips, plump and red, stood in stark contrast to the creamy paleness of her face. He had startled her badly; her chest was heaving up and down in a tantalizing shade of green brocade.

He idly slapped his riding crop against his thigh. "As a veteran of frog-tapping, I can say with some authority that you've got to get your weight behind it. May I demonstrate?"

"I… ah, I don't really… I mean that I'm not usually in the habit of throwing stones," she said, and instantly closed her eyes, pivoting away from him toward the pond in a self-conscious manner he found utterly charming.

He walked down and stood beside her. "I beg your pardon, but that is rather obvious, madam. You've no idea how to go about it."

Her cheeks flushed, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "I… I was getting the feel for it."

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.