Scandal (7 page)

She was glad to quickly find herself in the hands of Mrs. Llewellyn, Banallt's cousin by marriage, who was Vedaelin's hostess tonight. Now that was an interesting discovery. Were Banallt and Vedaelin so close, then? Mrs. Llewellyn introduced her to several people, including her daughter and Lord Banallt's goddaughter, Miss Fidelia Llewellyn. She was young, not twenty, and breathtaking. Her hair was raven's wing black, her eyes sky blue, and her skin had the same striking paleness as Banallt's. She was perfect. Everything Sophie was not.

Before she quite knew it, Sophie was left to her own devices. John had been absorbed into Banallt's group, and Mrs. Llewellyn had left her with several other women who were organizing aid for sailors wounded in the war. She was not, she discovered, very good at the sort of small talk necessary for a gathering like this. The weather as a subject of conversation went only so far, and not far at that. She felt separate, ill at ease, a foreigner who did not speak the language. Some of the people she'd met had known her late husband, and she didn't think she was wrong that they thought the less of her because of it.

Not once did she lose her sense of where Banallt was. Never. Before long she gave up trying to fit in and sat near the mandolin-playing gentleman. It was quite easy to pretend she was listening to the music. Her brother remained on the far side of the parlor where Banallt stayed with the Vedaelin group. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, precisely like the villain she'd thought of one day sketching in words. One of the other men was speaking animatedly, hands cutting through the air. She'd much rather be listening to their conversation.

She must have stared too hard, because Banallt's focus was on her. The shock of the connection of their gazes reached across the room. He didn't look away but left Sophie to break the contact. He ought not stare like that. He oughtn't. She turned back to the music, but she felt his eyes on her.

At last, though, dinner was called. She'd been paired with Mr. Reginald Tallboys, who was too handsome for his own good with his golden brown hair, short and neatly trimmed, and eyes the color of old honey. He was older than the other young gentlemen here, perhaps thirty, she guessed. Around Banallt's age. Her brother had mentioned him a few times as a man of good sense. He came from an old and respected Cheshire family. He had the good manners to appear delighted to be her dinner partner. John's partner was, of all the miserable luck for him, Miss Fidelia Llewellyn. He could not be very happy about finding himself obliged to converse during the entire meal with Banallt's relative. Banallt himself was partnered with the very lovely Lady Harpenden. Blondes, she recalled, were a preference of his, and Lady Harpenden was a curvaceous blonde. She remembered too well that Banallt never thought a married woman was off-limits. Much the opposite. A perfect match for Banallt, wasn't she?

Mr. Tallboys offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Sophie liked Mr. Tallboys's smile. They walked into dinner and he held her chair for her. When he was seated beside her, she leaned toward him and said, “I've been introduced to so many people tonight, I'll never recall all their names.” John would expect her to remember everyone she'd met. “Will you rescue me, Mr. Tallboys, and whisper names to me?”

“I will, ma'am,” he replied with an engaging grin. He had one of those smiles that made you smile back without even thinking why.

She and Mr. Tallboys were closer to the head of the table than she'd expected to be. Close enough to easily overhear Banallt's conversation. A servant placed a bowl of clear consommé before her, and when she leaned back, she saw Lady Harpenden lean to Banallt, her mouth by his ear. As he listened to the countess, his eyes settled on Sophie with a dark, unreadable gaze. She looked away. Mr. Tallboys sat on her right, but to her left was an academician, a member of the Royal Society whose name and occupation she'd already forgotten. Mr. Jacob Nolan, an astronomer—so Mr. Tallboys whispered to her.

She was horribly aware of Banallt. Not only was he seated closer to her than she would have liked, he was on the opposite side of the table and perfectly within her line of sight. Mr. Tallboys leaned toward her again and she tipped her ear toward his. “You know Lord Banallt, of course,” he said. He'd been going around the table, whispering names and occupations to her. “I saw you being introduced to him tonight.”

“Yes.” She had no desire to eat. None whatever.

He nodded, very slightly, in the direction of her brother, who was sitting next to Miss Llewellyn. He was smiling, putting on an excellent show of being delighted with the girl at his side. Her brother's manners were faultless. “Everyone thought she'd marry last season. Any number of young bucks wooed her.” Tallboys shook his head. “But with her beauty and connections, she might look very high indeed. The woman on Lord Banallt's left is Lady Harpenden.”

All Sophie could think was that Lady Harpenden was a lovely blonde who seemed to have no trouble making conversation with anyone around her. She was gay and light and completely comfortable in company so lofty.

“Her husband, Lord Harpenden, is farther down the table. With the dowager countess there. She'll talk his ear off.”

“The poor man.” She picked up her spoon and pulled it through her soup, though she did not taste it. If she ate anything, she'd be ill.

“The gentleman on the dowager countess's other side is Mr. Underhill. He's a director at the Bank of England. A notorious snooze. If you're introduced, whatever you do don't mention British monetary policy. He'll lecture you until your brains congeal.”

Sophie smiled at Tallboys. “I presume you've heard the lecture.”

His expression turned so serious Sophie had a strong urge to giggle. “Took me a week to recover.” He shuddered. “Nightmares for months after.”

She laughed. “Thank you for the warning.”

Lady Harpenden let out a peal of laughter. Nearly the entire table looked in her direction. “I suspect she's set her cap at him.” Mr. Tallboys chuckled. “Should be amusing to watch.”

Sophie set down her spoon and turned to look at Tallboys. “Amusing? Why is that?” She had no right to be angry at Banallt, but she was. Why should it matter to her if he embarked on a sure-to-result-in-scandal affair? “I should think with his reputation she should have no trouble whatever.”

“Ah,” Mr. Tallboys said. The smile faded from his eyes. “I daresay you're right. But I think all the same she will not succeed.”

“Why not? She's quite a lovely woman. Why, she's even a blonde.”

“True.” He chuckled. “In the event, Mrs. Evans, Lord Banallt has been notoriously hard to catch since he was recalled from Paris.”

Sophie lifted her eyebrows, looking at the earl and Lady Harpenden. Banallt's eyes slid away from her. Had he been watching her?

“From what I've heard,” Tallboys continued, “he's not been interested in any particular woman this last century.” He shrugged. “Although...”

“Although?”

“The rumor is that he'll marry Miss Llewellyn.” She did not have a good view of Miss Llewellyn from her seat.

“Rumor seems to follow him,” she murmured, turning her attention to the gentleman on her left. She passed the remainder of the meal refusing to look in Banallt's direction. Eventually, the ladies left the men in possession of the table and returned to the salon, where Sophie discovered she liked Banallt's cousin, Mrs. Llewellyn, a great deal. She was a sensible woman. And Miss Fidelia Llewellyn was breathtaking. If the talk was true, she wasn't Banallt's usual sort. She was beautiful, no denying that. Sophie had never heard his name connected with any woman who wasn't, but she was plainly a lady.

The arrival of guests who had not been invited to dine increased the noise level in the parlor considerably, despite the fact that the gentlemen had still not yet come in. The news from France was on everyone's tongue. Doubtless the gentlemen were discussing the Corsican yet. She wished she were a fly on the wall in that room.

“My dear Margaret,” a woman said.

Sophie, who had been looking in the direction the men would come from, didn't see the woman approach; she only heard her voice. She looked back and was shocked beyond words to recognize the woman.

“Constance,” said Mrs. Llewellyn. “Good evening to you.”

“We've just come from the Duke of Portland's.” She was still quite beautiful. “I'm glad we're not too late to see you.”

Mrs. Llewellyn put a hand on Sophie's shoulder. “Constance, you really must meet the delightful Mrs. Evans. Have you met?”

Sophie's chest constricted. Smiling was impossible. Her throat threatened to close off.

“No,” Mrs. Peters said. “I've not had that pleasure.” She extended a hand to Sophie. Either Mrs. Peters did not remember her, did not connect her with Tommy, or intended to brazen out their meeting. Any case was intolerable.

A door opened across the room, and the gentlemen came in just as Sophie stood up and headed for the door. It was either leave or tear out the woman's deceitful eyes.

Seven

BANALLT WAS THE LAST OF THE GENTLEMEN TO LEAVE the dining room. Not that he'd lingered over the port or a cigar. In his opinion, Vedaelin served an inferior port, and he'd not indulged in a cigar. His clothes smelled of smoke all the same. But Sophie was out there among the guests, and if he was to be honest with himself, seeing her again had rattled him. He'd not expected that. And so he'd stayed behind longer than he ought to have while he worked out how he would respond to her. He settled on
not at all.
The maintenance of his dignity was required.

He determined that Sophie should have no discernable effect on him. She'd made her feelings perfectly clear to him at the close of last year. The least he could do was oblige her wish, and her brother's, that they have nothing to do with each other. He'd left Henrietta Street the other day painfully aware for the first time in his life that he was not going to have what he wanted. He was not, however, he'd learned, completely resigned to that unpleasant fact.

Guests had begun arriving from other engagements, and the parlor was now noisy in addition to crowded. He deliberately sought out Sophie so as to avoid meeting her. Despite the crush, he found her quickly. Her posture was achingly familiar; the shape of her head, the slope of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin. And what a shock to see her in a gown that bared her shoulders and upper bosom. No other woman drew his notice the way she did, and there were plenty of better-looking females around. She stood near the middle of the room with his cousin Harry's wife Margaret, facing the door he'd come in by. Sophie's dark-lashed eyes were fixed on a woman he'd once have pursued straight to a mattress.

Mrs. Peters stood with her back to him, so he could only imagine the quizzical expression on her face from the way her head was tipped to one side. Margaret watched Mrs. Peters with an expression that suggested whatever she was hearing from the woman was not to her liking. Sophie looked as if she'd just been insulted. He veered away from the woman, and damn it all, the image of Sophie's stricken expression stayed with him. Fidelia was on the opposite side of the room holding court with a crowd of men that included John Mercer. He ought to join Fidelia just to feed the gossip and tweak Mercer, who had pretensions where Banallt's goddaughter was concerned. And, if he were honest, to see how Sophie felt about him courting. Not flirting, but courting.

What if he was courting or flirting? Sophie Mercer Evans was none of his affair. He doubted he'd marry Fidelia, and didn't care what Mrs. Peters had said to put that dead expression on Sophie's face or whether Margaret approved or not. He and Sophie were done. He had been rejected and then warned away by her brother.

He continued deeper into the parlor, pulling his gaze from the women. Best they cut all ties between them. Sophie, blast her, had been a topic of conversation among the gentlemen during their cigars and port. Vedaelin had been charmed by her and had made no secret of it, either. Banallt doubted he was the only man to leave the room wondering if Vedaelin thought he'd found his new duchess in Mercer's sister. As for Mercer, he'd said little, and what little he did say had been, thankfully, to his sister's credit.

The fuss over her wouldn't last, he told himself. Sophie Evans was new blood in a circle of jaded men who spent most of their time with women equally jaded. His heart clenched. Damn, damn, damn. And damn again. He was done with her. Utterly done. If he had any sense at all, he'd wait for Mrs. Peters to finish with Sophie and Margaret and let “La Grande Peters,” as she was called in certain circles, succeed in her pursuit of him. Or perhaps he'd allow Lady Harpenden to make progress with him. Mrs. Peters was more to his taste, but at least he liked the countess. He needed a distraction, and he'd gone far too long without sexual indulgence. Why not a mindless encounter with Mrs. Peters?

He halted when he realized he was going to walk headlong into the wall if he didn't get his mind off Sophie. The idea of taking Mrs. Peters to bed left him cold.

“Banallt,” someone said. “Good to see you out and about.”

“Tallboys,” he said. Tallboys had been Sophie's partner at dinner. That had been a deft pairing of two fine minds. Until recently they'd not moved in the same circles. Tallboys had never been the sort to keep company with men like Tommy Evans. Or the Earl of Banallt, for that matter. What vices Tallboys had tended to keep him in better company than Banallt had once kept. “How are you?” he asked.

He didn't give a damn how Tallboys was, but the man proceeded to tell him, and that meant Banallt didn't have to stand alone, stupidly staring at a woman who did not want him. Tallboys was not married. At his age he ought to be. He ought to find himself a decent woman and retire to the country to live boringly ever after. Sophie, damn her eyes, didn't seem to have moved. He had her profile now, not her face. The arch of her nose was a glaring imperfection.