Julia London 4 Book Bundle (148 page)

The minutes stretched into hours.

After supper, when the ladies had at last retired to the drawing room while the men had their port, Sophie attempted to put Honorine off to one side where it would be inconvenient for her to engage in conversation with anyone. She might very well have succeeded had not the very affable Mrs. Churchton begun a discourse on the secrets of the Hamilton family, beginning with what sounded like a very unhappy marriage between Lord and Lady Hamilton, and ending with her conjecture that the rumors of an illegitimate son were true.

Sophie’s heart clutched at the mention of Caleb; Melinda pounced on Mrs. Churchton’s remark with gusto.

“Do tell, Mrs. Churchton!” she exclaimed, smiling conspiratorially at those around her. “I’ve often heard it said there was a bastard son, but I never thought it true!”

“Oh, it is quite true,” Mrs. Churchton sniffed with much authority. “Lord Hamilton spent several years abroad. They say the mother is French.”

Everyone turned to Mrs. Churchton; Sophie, too, inched to the edge of her seat.

“It’s been thirty years or more, but when Lady Hamilton was with child, Lord Hamilton took to the Continent, where he remained until little Trevor was three years or so. Only then did he return, though I daresay they never reconciled, not really. Lady Hamilton died a very lonely woman, I assure you.”

“But has anyone ever
seen
this illegitimate son?” Melinda pressed. “Could he possibly be the same man who has recently appeared in town claiming to be the illegitimate son?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Churchton responded as she casually plumped the ringlets above her ears. “There are those who claim Lord Hamilton traveled to France twice yearly to see his bastard son. And there are others who insist that he was actually at home in the country during those periods. I daresay no one can say for certain who this man is, and it hardly matters any longer, does it? The poor viscount can’t remember much a’tall, and physically, he is hardly more than an empty shell—”

“Do not speak this of him!” snapped Honorine, who had been uncharacteristically quiet up until that point.

Sophie clamped a warning hand down on Honorine’s wrist but she shook it off, startling Sophie with her abruptness and the fire suddenly blazing in her eyes. “This man, he hears your speech, he
sees
how you look to him! He is not dead; he lives and he breathes!”

That heated pronouncement was met with deadly quiet. But the silence hardly quelled Honorine’s temper—if anything, it made her angrier. “Look at you!” she continued hotly. “How you sit in his home, eat his food, drink his wine, and still, you say such hateful things!
Mon Dieu!
”

“I beg your pardon, Madame Fortier,” Mrs. Churchton said hoarsely. “I certainly did not intend to offend your sensibilities so greatly!”

“Of course not,” said Melinda, turning smoothly in her seat to face Honorine with all superiority. “But you do not know Lord Hamilton, Madame Fortier. We have been acquainted with him for many years and we do not deceive ourselves. May the Lord have mercy on him, but he is a mere shadow of the man he once was.”

“You are wrong,” Honorine said low.

Sophie knew that voice, came instantly to her feet, and stepped in front of Honorine before she erupted. “It is indeed a tragedy,” she said quickly, “but surely nothing on which we should dwell at the moment. Lady Sanderhill, I recall with great fondness your skill on the pianoforte. Would you be so kind to reacquaint us all with your talent?”

That woman blushed prettily, fussed a little with her collar as she stood. “I should be delighted,” she said, and moved to the pianoforte, oblivious to the murderous look Melinda cast Honorine.

But both women had resumed their seats by the time the men rejoined them, and to all outward appearances seemed enraptured by the song Lady Sanderhill played. When Lord Sanderhill stood to join his wife in a duet, Sophie slipped to the far side of the room, away from the ever-watchful eyes of Melinda Birdwell.

Hamilton followed her.

He stood behind her, quietly leaning over her shoulder as the singers began, his spicy scent filling her nostrils.

“Lady Sophie, I should very much like to show you my father’s gardens one day,” he whispered. “He spent years building them and they are among the finest in all of London.”

Caleb’s likeness slipped into her mind, and a little shiver ran down Sophie’s spine.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he come?
“Perhaps one day,” she whispered.

“I shall consider that a promise.”

She couldn’t help herself—Sophie glanced at him over her shoulder. His gaze boldly dipped to the low neckline of her gown, and Sophie felt the shiver again, only stronger than before, and shifted away from his pointed gaze. That gaze … she had experienced that gaze before. William Stanwood had looked at her like that, a sort of wolfish look. A thought that perhaps he was more like Stanwood than she knew flitted across her mind—and perhaps, like Stanwood, his interest was really in her bank account, not her breasts.

“Until then,” he said, and she watched him move away, his hands clasped nonchalantly behind his back.

But Sophie quickly forgot her vague suspicion and thought of Caleb, wished Hamilton
were
Caleb, and her heart suddenly felt as if it weighed one hundred stone.

As the Sanderhills droned on with their cheerful little duet, she took a window seat, staring into the dark night that engulfed Bedford Square, her heart and mind full of Caleb.

In the middle of Bedford Square, Caleb flicked a cheroot to the path, ground it out with the heel of his boot as he idly watched Hamilton’s guests through the enormous windows of the salon. From where he stood, he could see most of their activity and smiled to himself, imagining the agony of sitting through the duet that was being sung. There was a time he might have been jealous of the fine living to which Trevor was accustomed, but at the moment, he only wanted to know about his father.

He shifted his gaze once again to the window seat where Sophie sat staring so wistfully out over the square. He had not recognized her when she first appeared and had peered so forlornly out the window. But she had looked familiar, and he had risen from the bench on which he had passed the evening, walked slowly to the edge of the square to have a better look.

The recognition had unnerved him in a strange sort of way. Even though he knew she lived nearby, he had not realized, had not even thought that Sophie might be acquainted with his father, and certainly not his brother. The very idea made him oddly angry. He did not
want
her to know them, did not want her involved with them in any way. She was the treasure he had found in the park, the woman who had intrigued him above all others, and he did not want her anywhere near Trevor Hamilton.

Even more than that, his curiosity about her was now overwhelming.
Who was this woman, Sophie Dane?

He had missed her today, more than he would have thought possible after such a short acquaintance, and certainly more than was reasonable in light of his recent attempts to force her from his mind. But he could still taste her, feel her in his arms. Could still feel the uncommonly strong desire to be touching her. Unfortunately, other issues had arisen that he could not avoid—Trevor’s unexpected trip to the country park, to a racing meet, to be exact.

Caleb didn’t know exactly what he thought he might discover in following Trevor—some clue as to his father’s true condition, he supposed—but he had been overwhelmingly compelled when he had seen him leaving Bedford Square this morning, looking furtively about, as if he were trying to hide. Whatever Caleb had suspected, it had not been horse racing—honestly, he had thought it more sinister than that, given that Trevor had publicly and privately worked so hard to keep him from seeing his father.

But it had been nothing more than a gentleman’s foray into a bit of sport, and Caleb would have sent word to Sophie somehow had he known, but by the time he realized how far they would go, it was too late.

He extracted another cheroot from his coat pocket and lit it. Drawing the smoke into his lungs, he glanced up at the bay window again, wished he could see her smile, that guileless, heartwarming smile. Wished even more fervently that he might kiss those unsmiling lips again.

And soon.

Chapter Seven

S
OPHIE HAD NOT
even finished her toilette the next day before Ann sailed in and plopped herself down on an overstuffed armchair. “Sophie,
Sophie
,” she said with a smile. “I’ve heard already how Hamilton could not take his eyes from you last evening—you must tell me everything!”

The speed of rumor and innuendo among the
ton
had always amazed Sophie, but this was absurd. She snorted disdainfully and resumed the brushing of her long brown hair. “It was
scandalous
! There were not one dozen guests as he had assured me, but
two
dozen.”

“Very amusing. Come on, then, tell me all!”

“All right.” Sophie put down her brush. “If you must know, what transpired was a perfectly awful evening. Everyone looked at me as if I had been convicted of high treason. Melinda Birdwell did her best to unhinge me, and Honorine is absolutely besotted with Lord Hamilton! Need I go on?”

Ann sighed, drummed her fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. “No one looked at you in any such way, Sophie. Your imagination is far too industrious.”

Oh, righto, there it was—she had merely
imagined
everything.

“And Melinda Birdwell is hardly worth your consideration. That woman has the poise of a whale.”

That, she could hardly argue.

“As for Madame Fortier”—Ann sighed heavily—“what can one do? But never mind all that!” she said, brightening again. “What of Hamilton?”

Sophie shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t pretend to understand it, but he
does
seem rather infatuated with me.”

Ann’s instant squeal of glee made Sophie groan; she abruptly stood and moved restlessly to the window, shaking her head. “No, no, Ann, this is
not
good! Honestly, this is Trevor Hamilton! He was the most sought after bachelor in Mayfair the year I made my debut and he scarcely noticed me then. Why now? Why after all that has happened? I cannot help but wonder what he means by it all. Is it my inheritance, do you think? Perhaps he has not heard there is hardly anything left of it after my divorce.”

“Oh Sophie!” Ann exclaimed, instantly joining her at the window. She put her arm around Sophie’s waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. “There is
much
for Mr. Hamilton to admire. You are entirely too critical of yourself. You’re witty, and very clever. You’ve traveled extensively and seen quite a lot of the world. Why should he
not
admire you?”

“I should debate you on the list of my attributes, but I think the most glaring reason is my past, and as much as I would like to believe it were not true, and as much as I would like to hope that I am not ruined in the eyes of the
ton
, I cannot believe Mr. Hamilton would risk his good name or that of his son for an association with me.”

That declaration drew only silence from Ann. Her arm fell away from Sophie’s waist; she moved to the dressing table, idly fingered the bottles there. Sophie was absolutely right, and they both knew it.

The awkward silence between them was interrupted by the commotion of Honorine bursting into her dressing room, waving a paper in her hand. “Sophia! You must see this what I have!” she exclaimed. “
Bonjour
, Madame Annie!”

Ann did not respond; she seemed a bit distracted by Honorine’s yellow-and-black-striped caftan that resembled a very large bumblebee.

Honorine waved the paper at Sophie again. “Do you see? A picnic!
J’adore
the picnic!” she said, clasping the paper to her breast. “I tell you this, Sofia, and you do not believe! Monsieur Hamilton, he favors you very well!”

Sophie was instantly on her feet; she snatched the paper from Honorine’s hand and scanned the invitation with Ann craning to see over her shoulder.

It was a picnic, all right, in Regent’s Park the following afternoon, and both she and Honorine had been invited.

“This is
marvelous
!” Ann cried gleefully.

“Oui, très bien!”
Honorine eagerly agreed.

“Oh dear God,” Sophie muttered, and falling onto the bench at her vanity, pressed her forehead against her palm.

She had no say in the response—“Madame Annie” and Honorine penned it instantly, then sent a grousing Roland to deliver it right away. No matter how much or loudly Sophie insisted she did not want to attend the picnic, Ann and Honorine turned a deaf ear, dismissing her discomfort as maidenly jitters.

Sophie spent a miserable afternoon in her rooms, alternately fretting about the blasted picnic and debating whether or not she should venture to Regent’s Park as she did every day on the slim chance that Caleb might come again.

She understood, of course, that her fierce infatuation with Caleb Hamilton was unaccountable—after all, she hardly knew him, really. But she
did
feel a bond, felt it deeply in her bones. There was something between them that seemed right and natural and perfect—she could not believe it was only the eagerness of a lonely divorcée.

But he had not come yesterday, and that had stung her. Although she understood that any number of things might have detained him, it hurt nonetheless. Whatever the reason, she knew with all certainty that if he did not come to the park today, she would not be able to bear it.

So she did not go.

The next morning, she avoided the issue altogether by calling on Upper Moreland Street, dragging Roland and Fabrice in tow.

Naturally, she had debated appearing with the two Frenchmen, lest she ruin her budding friendship with Nancy. But they were two men she could trust, and the fact of the matter was, they had a wonderful eye when it came to clothing. They were frustrated modistes, she had decided, particularly because Honorine refused their considerable help.

The two had been rather suspicious when she told them of the outing, but curious as to what she was about, and bored with the happenings at
Maison de Fortier
, now that they had settled into some sort of unspoken arrangement with Lucie Cowplain, they donned their best coats and came along.

Nancy did not do a very good job of hiding her shock when Sophie introduced Fabrice and Roland to her, and seemed very apprehensive about showing them to the small attic room where the clothes were kept. But the moment they crossed the threshold, Fabrice let out a shriek and pounced on a china-blue silk gown. He held it up to himself, whirled around to Roland, and cried,
“Magnifique!”

“Aye, I rather thought so myself,” Nancy said.

Both men jerked around to her. In French, Roland said to Fabrice, “but she is perfect.” Fabrice nodded. Together they advanced on Nancy, who, trapped behind the small door, had no means of escape. Yet she was smiling at her image in the mirror a half-hour later, admiring the elegant coif and gown in which Roland and Fabrice had dressed her.

When it became apparent to Sophie that they thought to dress themselves in the gowns next, she sent them on to a cobbler with a box of slippers to be repaired. They left chattering excitedly—something to do with a ball, she noted wearily.

She and Nancy sat in the tiny room on the third floor amid the donated clothing and sorted through a pile of slippers and shoes as Sophie told Nancy about the supper party, and the subsequent invitation to the picnic this afternoon.

She did not mention Caleb. He was her secret.

Nancy laughed heartily at her distress over Hamilton. “Ah, luv, why are you so determined to find ill will in your Mr. Hamilton? Perhaps he is wiser than you know.”

“Meaning?” she demanded.

“Meaning,” Nancy said with a look, “that perhaps he don’t give a whit what the high and mighty society folk think. Perhaps he would judge his acquaintances by their good character.”

Sophie snorted loudly to that, for which she received a withering look from Nancy.

With a sheepish shrug, she tossed another shoe aside. “All right then, what have we left?” she asked, changing the subject, and surveyed the room they had cluttered.

“The bonnets. Ah, but we’ll sort through them in no time at all, we will. Where do you think to sell all these things?”

“I’m not certain,” Sophie said. “We could sell them to a proprietor on High Street, but I rather believe we’d see a better result if we sold them ourselves. The only question is, where?”

“Covent Garden. We should do nicely there, I would think,” Nancy offered.

“Yes, I thought of that, and I have the funds to construct the booth. But I must ask my brother to broker a lease agreement for it—he should not object. I will speak with him soon.”

Satisfied with their plan, Sophie and Nancy finished putting the clothing in some order. It was early afternoon when Sophie bid her friend a good day—promising to return with Fabrice and Roland soon—and walked to the corner of Essex Street to wait for a hack.

She glanced at her watch; the Hamilton picnic would begin soon. She could, if she were of a mind, walk by the pond on her way to this blasted picnic. Perhaps he would be there. Perhaps he would be waiting for
her
.

Ridiculous!
Men did not wait for her. Caleb Hamilton had enjoyed her company for a space of time, but it was over.

A hack appeared in the bend of Essex Street and pulled to the curb alongside her. “To Regent’s Park,” she called to the driver, and climbed in, busied herself with arranging her skirts as she waited for the hack to pull forward. But instead of moving, the door opened and someone came inside, landing heavily on the bench beside her and on her skirts.

Frowning lightly, Sophie glanced at the intruder from the corner of her eye—
Caleb!

The shock of seeing him sitting beside her left her momentarily speechless; she simply could not comprehend how he could be in this hack, at this hour, in this part of London.

He grinned cheerfully.

And Sophie realized his thigh was pressed along the length of hers. The
full
length. She could feel the heat of his flesh through their clothing, spreading quickly, coursing along her spine. Heat inflamed her face; she abruptly looked down to hide it as she attempted to find her tongue.

“Yes, well, I suppose I deserve that.”

“Deserve what?” she asked stiffly, amazed that she was able to say any thing at all.

“Your shoulder instead of your beautiful smile. You are angry with me.”

“Angry?” She rolled her eyes, looked out the window. “Why on earth should I be angry?”

Caleb laughed, grasped her hand tightly in his. “Ah, then you
have
missed me!”

“I did
not
miss you—”

“You did!”

“I did not!”

“I missed you.”

That shut her up. Catching her surprise in her throat, she stole a glance at him. He was holding a small nosegay. A nosegay! Where had
that
come from?

He held it out to her, his smile brightening.

What a handsome man he was
 … and she was keenly conscious of every fiber where they touched, the scent of leather and horse and faint cologne that clung to him. This was awful, completely wretched! Yes, but something had awakened in her, something that had lain dormant for far too long, burning her from the inside out and making her shiver with the heat of it.

The very base truth was that she longed for a man’s touch, longed to be held, to be caressed, to be kissed again as he had kissed her. She looked down, to where his hand covered hers, his fingers tightly encased in leather gloves, long fingers that had undoubtedly pleasured a woman …

She suddenly pressed her palm to her cheek, jostling him in the process.

“Thank God, you are smiling—I was beginning to fear your mouth was permanently affixed in a frown.”

Was she smiling? This was madness! She was aroused, could not ignore the feel of his leg or his arm against her, could not stop imagining his hand on her breast.

“How did you find me?” she asked as she reluctantly took the nosegay he offered and brought it to her nose.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you—a bit of dumb luck, really. And now that you have ended my misery with that smile, I am desperate to know if you intend to walk about Regent’s Park today.”

“Desperate?”

“Yes, indeed, madam,” he said earnestly. “I have been deprived of the pleasure of your company for two and one-half days now, and I am quite certain I shall expire if I am to be deprived of a full third.”

“Deprived!” Sophie snorted at that.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you have been in your usual company, sir.”

“My usual company? What do you mean?”

She squirmed a bit, shoved the nosegay to her face again. “You know very well what I mean … the company that you are rumored to keep. Particularly at night.”

“At night,” he echoed, sounding as if he were sorting out some puzzle. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sophie sighed, glanced heavenward. “The
ladies
,” she insisted.

“Oh?” He sounded surprised. “Is
that
what is said about me?”

Honestly, now he sounded pleased!

Caleb laughed, grasped her hand. “Oh come now, there is only you, Sophie Dane. If there are rumors of others, it is nothing more than that—a rumor.”

She frowned, sniffed the nosegay again. “I am not a schoolgirl.”

“You are hardly that, I would agree. Really, if there were others, do you think I would spend every day with you in my house? Would I not drag scads of admirers through? No, there is only you, and I shall say again, if you deprive me of the pleasure of your company a third day, I will expire, I promise you.”

Sophie couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “You’ll hardly expire, sir.”

“How do you know? You won’t want to chance it, I assure you. Come on then; say you will walk with me.”

The Hamilton picnic.
Her destination rudely interjected itself into her thoughts; her shoulders sagged. “I … I’m sorry, but I have accepted another engagement.”

“Oh.” He looked a bit bewildered by that. “Another engagement. I see.”

Sophie twisted the nosegay in her hand.