Julia London 4 Book Bundle (154 page)

But they were perfect for each other.

There had been a time in his life, before his mother’s death, when he would have entertained prettier, more experienced women. But he had been a different man then—the man he was now preferred the plain beauty of Sophie Dane, the intelligence of her conversation, the easy, lilting laughter that splashed around him like raindrops.

Thankfully, he heard it as they made their way to Upper Moreland Street as he regaled her with the tale of how exactly Miss Birdwell had been forced upon him. She began to relax a bit, began to smile again.

Their talk soon shifted to Honorine, whom Caleb had met a handful of times now in the park. “Rather … vivid, isn’t she?” he remarked.

Sophie laughed. “Vivid, yes. Lustrous, like sunshine. There is nothing that can dampen her spirits, I think.” She credited Honorine with having helped his father to improve. “I’ve seen the improvement in him,” she avowed. “He has even begun to write again.” She smiled softly at that, looked wistfully up the road. “Honorine,” she said on a sigh, “is undoubtedly the most exasperating woman I have ever known. But I adore her.” Caleb instinctively understood the bond between the two women, could sense an abiding and mutual respect.

As they turned onto Upper Moreland Street, Sophie told him more about the small townhouse with the green shutters. It fascinated him—and the plight of the women there concerned him greatly. He knew what it was like to have no place to turn, knew what it was to be an outcast. Sophie’s compassion for them obviously ran deep. Tentatively, she told him of her idea to sell the donated ball gowns and he instantly recognized the brilliance in her scheme.

It made him impossibly proud. “That’s very clever of you, Sophie, a splendid idea! When shall you start?”

“Umm …” she fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist. “There is a slight problem.”

“Problem?”

“I’ve no place to sell them. I can’t lease a shop front alone, you know.”

He immediately offered to help. There was not much he could do for a woman of Sophie’s means, but lending his name to a hiring agreement was definitely something he could and would do. Not only that, he could build the blasted thing if necessary. “I’ve a strong back, and I rather enjoy that sort of work.”

His offer clearly surprised her. Her cheeks colored; she laughed and thanked him.

Reluctantly, he helped her down from the cabriolet, his hands lingering on her waist. She smiled up at him, her gaze piercing him down to his boots, and Caleb did not want to let her go, never wanted to let her go. He wanted to drink the smile from her lips, taste her laughter in his mouth. There was a current running between them, the same coarse desire.

“I can’t thank you enough for driving me. It is rather a long way.”

His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there. “I would drive you anywhere, Sophie,” he said truthfully. “To anyplace your heart desires.”

She made a small sound in her throat that ran like white heat all through Caleb. “Anywhere,” he muttered, and descended to those plump lips, devouring them hungrily as she rose up on her tiptoes to meet him. He held her tightly to him, wanting the kiss to last forever, wanting to hold her forever, feeling the desire tighten in his groin.

When at last she slipped from his arms, his heart was racing. “I can’t wait to see you. When will I see you?”

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

He nodded, squeezed her hand one last time before reluctantly letting go. “I will not disappoint you,” he said earnestly, and fairly leapt onto the bench of the cabriolet. With one last look at her smiling face, he urged his horse on, already counting the moments until the morrow.

Chapter Twelve

A
NY DOUBTS
S
OPHIE
had about Caleb evaporated over the next several days until she no longer had any question—she was wild about that man. She felt like a girl again; he was her sun, her night. The moments she spent with him winged by; it seemed he was standing to go almost the moment he sat beside her on the wrought iron bench.

But what wonderful moments they were! They laughed together, spoke of everything and nothing, recounting their lives and travels. They strolled through Regent’s Park in quiet companionship, sometimes not speaking, simply being with one another. They spent countless hours working on his house, painting the walls, or just wandering through the rooms and imagining what would be where. Imagining they were someone else, two people whose lives had intersected normally and not in secret.

On some days, Caleb insisted on accompanying her to the house on Upper Moreland Street, where he put himself to work repairing what needed it, chatting amicably with the women as he did so. What Sophie most admired was that there was nothing judgmental in his manner—he treated the women as if they were all equal, as if money and stature and life’s experiences did not separate them all in some way. Naturally, the women adored the handsome devil; some openly swooned when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and went to work. One afternoon, he worked to repair the pantry door, gone crooked after years of use. As he worked, Nancy, Sophie, and two other women who were residing at the house—Catherine and Bette—prepared the evening meal, watching him surreptitiously, admiring his masculine form and cheerful demeanor.

“Aha,” Caleb said to himself at one point. “I’ll need to insert a peg here.”

“I’ve got a place you might insert a peg, luv,” said Bette, to a howl of laughter from the other women.

Caleb laughed. “I beg your pardon, ladies, but there don’t seem to be enough pegs to go ’round.”

The women dissolved in laughter, but it seemed to Sophie that more than one looked rather wistfully at him.

So did Roland and Fabrice, who became frequent callers at the house on Upper Moreland Street, too. Fascinated by the endless possibilities the many gowns and accoutrements presented for the ladies and themselves—Sophie did not want to know how many possibilities, really—the two Frenchmen could not seem to tear themselves away from the little townhouse. They had, naturally, been quite surprised by Caleb’s presence at first, but they soon grew accustomed to seeing him about, just like the women, and would watch him covertly from beneath the veil of their lashes. Just like the women.

Caleb also insisted on building a suitable booth at Covent Garden. Fabrice and Roland successfully located an ideal spot for the sale of the gowns, and Caleb leased it for them. The very next morning, he arrived with two workmen borrowed from the construction of his house and began building the booth.

Feeling enormously pleased with herself, and rather liberated of the
ton
’s stifling mores about such things, Sophie bounced about the market square, directing the men as they began to erect her booth, handing them tools as if she knew something about the construction of booths. Caleb watched her, grinning, and at one point, surprised her by grabbing her wrist and abruptly yanking her around to face him. Smiling wickedly, he had anchored her to him with one arm around her waist. “I cannot abide it another moment,” he said, and kissed her so fiercely that he literally snatched the breath from her lungs. As always, the moment his lips touched hers, she was melting into him, wallowing in the pool of desire he created in her as he devoured her lips. He kissed her thoroughly and completely in the middle of Covent Garden, in front of his workmen, the crowds, and even Fabrice and Roland, then left her standing in the middle of all that chaos in something of a daze, still feeling the softness of his lips against hers, the taste of his mouth, and the bold touch of his tongue as Fabrice clapped delightedly.

Sophie stopped worrying about the appearance of it and gave way to the exquisite feeling of being in love.

The man knew how to kiss. He knew how to make love. And her body yearned—no,
pleaded
—for more, much more. His mastery drove her higher—he knew when to be gentle, when to be hard, where to touch her, where to kiss her. He knew every inch of her body that could elicit pleasure, and laved each place until she surrendered to her own private madness.

Unfortunately, those moments were rare. Their shared fear of a pregnancy and its consequences was quietly spoken between them, but there were those days they could not deny the intense desire flowing between them, and succumbed to their emotions.

Oh yes, she loved Caleb Hamilton, loved the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he listened when she spoke. She loved the way he treated everyone around him with respect. She loved everything about him, and the man he was.

The one thing she did
not
love about Caleb was the fact that it was his half-brother who was attempting to court her. She had been truthful with Caleb about Trevor—she told him she had no interest in him, despite what the
ton
rumored, and he seemed to believe her. Yet her assurances could not remove the pall Trevor cast over them.

Which made Trevor Hamilton’s calls increasingly intolerable.

Sophie was beginning to realize that Trevor imagined nothing more than a woman seated at his table, a figure that made his little family complete. He did not want a companion, he wanted someone to watch over Ian. Worse, his vision of the world around him, and even his future, was astoundingly narrow—not broad and colorful and with a view of the entire world, like Caleb’s. He seemed to have few outside interests, and on those rare occasions she attempted to engage him in conversation by asking about his day, he would grow cold and noncommunicative, as if he did not want her to know what he did.

Nor did Trevor have much tolerance for Sophie’s attempts to broaden their conversations. He told her very pointedly one day that he did not care to listen to the tales of travel with Honorine as he found that woman’s character to be questionable and preferred not to think of Sophie in her employ.

It had taken her aback; she had no idea how to respond to something so blatantly cold. She replied unsteadily that his preference was all well and good, but she most certainly
was
in Honorine’s employ, and that for all her idiosyncrasies, she was a kind person and a dear friend. “And,” she added curtly, “I should think it obvious how giving she has been with your father. Look at the improvements he has made!”

“My father,” Trevor replied tightly, “is a sick man. She aggravates him.” Trevor did not seem to recognize the improvements Lord Hamilton had made under Honorine’s care. He didn’t seem to recognize anything except his own needs.

But what truly astounded Sophie was that no one seemed to notice
his
character. The only thing anyone seemed to notice at all was that Trevor was the legitimate heir to the Hamilton fortune and therefore, a prized catch. Not a day went by someone didn’t remind Sophie how fortunate she was that a man of his caliber had noticed her.

She was so very
fortunate
, her sister Ann told her time and again, to catch the eye of a man like Trevor Hamilton. How very
fortunate
, said Claudia, that Sophie had chosen this particular time to return to England, for she never would have met the gentleman who everyone speculated would offer for her. What good
fortune
, Julian said, that this man would overlook her unmentionable past.

Her blood boiled when they openly speculated about Caleb’s character and his claim. “Seems rather coincidental, does it not,” Julian opined one day, “that he should make his claim now, when Lord Hamilton cannot legitimately confirm or deny it? Ah well. There is little he can do to further his scheme, not with Trevor handling it so very cleverly.”

“Cleverly?” Sophie asked. “What is so very clever about his handling of it?”

“That’s unkind to Mr. Hamilton, darling,” Ann quickly chastised her. “This is most trying for him, you can be sure. He is handling it as well as anyone could under the circumstance.”

“Yes,” Julian agreed. “He is handling it all quite well—now
there
is a man worthy of your esteem, pumpkin.”

Sophie ignored that. “Why should you be so certain Caleb Hamilton is a swindler?” she demanded.

Her brother and sister looked at her with some astonishment that she would challenge them.

“Has he inquired about a fortune? Made any claim at all?”

“What has come over you, Sophie?” Ann asked. “You are betraying Trevor’s goodwill.”

Beside her, Julian’s dark scowl penetrated her pique. Sophie shrugged. “It just seems unfair to judge him,” she muttered, and avoided any further eye contact with her brother.

Of course she knew
why
they were so desperate for her to embrace Trevor’s overtures. For years they had assumed she was destined for the life of a spinster, surely Julian most of all, who now beamed brightly anytime the Hamilton name was mentioned. And truthfully, Trevor’s interest in her
was
incredible, if not unbelievable. For the first time in her life, she was being courted—an extraordinary turn of events, something no one had expected.

Certainly nothing had prepared her for the outrageous possibility of
two
men courting her.

It baffled her, amazed her—she was Sophie Dane! The plainest of the Dane sisters, the one who had to be sent to a Swiss finishing school if there was to be
any
hope of a suitor. She was the clumsy one, the foolish one—
not
the desirable one. But here she was in London again and in the unimaginable position of being courted by one of the
ton
’s most eligible men.

And on the other hand, by the world’s most handsome man.

That
delighted her beyond compare.

What did not delight her was Honorine’s ball, for which they had now received almost two hundred confirmations.

It was, without a single doubt, a disaster in the making, a looming storm on the horizon. With the strangely united forces of Fabrice, Roland, and Lucie Cowplain to help her, Honorine was in the throes of joyous planning for a ball that was quickly turning into what could only be
the
event of the Season. The four of them argued over every detail, right down to the color of the flowers on the tables and the wine that would be served. (“
Mon Dieu!
What does she know of wine?” Roland complained of Lucie Cowplain.) The food, the music—nothing was left to chance.

“Dear God, Honorine!” Sophie had exclaimed one day as they counted the latest replies. “How shall we ever hold them all?”

Honorine clucked, nonchalantly waved a hand beneath the voluminous sleeve of her cranberry red caftan. “Here and there! You must not fret of these things!”

Here and there indeed. “How can I not fret? It seems as if the entire
ton
is determined to attend this ball!” Little wonder, since Trevor had sought sole guardianship of his father in the high courts.

Sophie only knew this from the gossip mill, for certainly neither Trevor nor Caleb had discussed their growing feud with her, save an occasional remark. It was Ann who told her what Trevor had done, and Ann had it all from Lady Paddington herself. Up until that point, Caleb had not acted on his claim, except to try and see his father. But when rumor reached him that Trevor sought to obtain legal guardianship over his father, the gloves purportedly had come off.

Caleb denied any such goings-on when Sophie told him the latest gossip over luncheon one afternoon. She had heard just that morning from Ann that he had supposedly lost his temper, publicly proclaimed Trevor would obtain that right over his dead body, and then had promptly gone about the hiring of a solicitor. “Now everyone is waiting on tenterhooks for the challenge they feel sure Trevor will issue you,” she finished.

Caleb laughed roundly. “All lies, sweetheart,” he told her, and laughed with great amusement again.

But it was clear that the Hamilton story, complete with speculation of romance between Sophie and Trevor and the bizarre companionship of Honorine and Lord Hamilton, was better than any novel currently being passed about the ladies’ drawing rooms.

And it was only going to get worse, Sophie realized two days before Honorine’s ridiculous notion of a ball, when she received Trevor and Ian in the salon.

As usual, Trevor spoke of Ian as if the child were not physically present. Sophie glanced at the boy—he was frowning at her, of course, seemingly fixated on her hair. Why the child found her so objectionable was beyond her—any attempt she made to gain his trust was quickly rebuffed. And he had become particularly good at avoiding her. But he couldn’t avoid his father’s conversation any more than Sophie could and sat rigidly as his father had instructed him, with only his small foot moving, back and forth, back and forth, as he absently shifted his gaze from the window to frown at Sophie and back again.

She rather doubted Ian heard a word his father said of last year’s harvest, and God only knew how impossibly bored she was with Trevor. His conversation was stifling, and to make matters worse, Sophie had the feeling that he had an unusual drive for perfection. There was something about Trevor that gave her an uncomfortable reminder of William.

Even his kiss was devoid of any feeling—not that she didn’t avoid
that
occurrence like the plague, but from time to time, she could not escape the hard and almost motionless buss of his lips.

All in all his attentions left her feeling very restless; she found his calls excruciatingly hard. Her mind wandered from his speech to how she might end his visit without hurting him or bringing the entire wrath of the Dane family down on her head.

And when Trevor mentioned Honorine’s ball with almost childish glee, Sophie thought she might be ill. She could very well imagine the scene—everyone watching him watching her, her brother beaming with unconquerable pride, her sister crying from sheer relief.