Julia London 4 Book Bundle (155 page)

The thought suddenly propelled her from her seat, startling Ian and causing Trevor to stammer. “Sophie, my dear? Is something amiss?” he asked, quickly gaining his feet.

“No. No, nothing. I thought I would take some air.”

“Shall we walk in the gardens, then? Come, Ian—”

“Umm, actually,” she said hastily, preferring torture to walking in the gardens, “I’ve a bit of headache. I don’t mean to offend, but—”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” he asked anxiously, attempting to reach for her hand.

Sophie moved abruptly—the thought of him touching her, if only to hold her hand, was repulsive. “Nothing serious,” she readily assured him. “But I think perhaps I should rest a bit.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, and impatiently motioned for Ian to come to him. “You should rest. After all, Madame Fortier’s ball is soon upon us.”

As if she could possibly forget
that
.

Trevor put his arm around Ian’s shoulders. “Well then. I hope with some rest you will find yourself much improved.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced at the door, then to Sophie again. “If you should need anything, anything at all …”

“You are too kind,” Sophie said, and looked meaningfully at the door. Trevor frowned, gently pushed Ian in the direction of the door. The boy was only too happy to oblige his father; he walked as quickly as he could without running, pausing only to push the heavy door open before disappearing into the corridor.

Trevor hesitated, then took several steps toward Sophie, catching her elbow. “I do not like to see you unwell,” he murmured, and dipped his head to kiss her.

Sophie turned her head; he caught the side of her mouth. It surprised him; he lifted his head, blinked down at her for a moment before forcing a smile to his face. Her face flamed; she looked away, toward the window as Trevor ran his hand lightly down her arm. “Rest, then, my dear,” he said simply, and quietly took his leave.

She waited until she heard the door shut behind him, then sank onto the settee.
What was she doing?
Did she think to push away the one man who might offer her marriage? And for what? An affair with his brother? But she
loved
Caleb—they were kindred spirits. Trevor was a gentleman, an upstanding member of Britain’s elite, a good provider … but he did not spark the deep heat in her like Caleb did. He did not make her sigh, did not make her feel anything but restless and cross. Sophie was long past trying to convince herself that she could, somehow, grow to care for him.

She could not.

And she wasn’t convinced that he cared for her. There was more to his interest, of that she was certain—or was she only imagining things, manufacturing what her heart wanted her to think? Nevertheless, no matter how hard she tried, she did not particularly care for Trevor or his thinking. She did not want to be told what to do, by him or her family. She did not want to be shackled to him or his son for all of eternity. How ironic it was that she had spent the last eight years convincing herself she was miserably enslaved to her scandal, when in truth, she had been
free
. She did not want to give that freedom up to anyone, and most of all, Trevor Hamilton.

How she dreaded Honorine’s ball.

The one saving grace, she supposed, was that Caleb would not be there. He had not received an invitation. Thankfully, Honorine was not nearly as deaf to the gossip as Sophie had feared. True to her word, she had not invited Caleb, deferring to the possibility of scandal. “How cruel is this
société
! I wish very much I should have all of Will’s sons to come to my ball,” she lamented one evening.

“
Oui
, the handsome one,” Fabrice said on a sigh.

“
Tsk-tsk
, Fabrice, are you to duel with Sofia for his favor?” Honorine asked, and laughed roundly at herself while Fabrice and Sophie turned several shades of red and Roland pouted.

The next afternoon, Will Hamilton watched his son leave in a gig and wondered if he hadn’t had a grander conveyance at one time—he seemed to remember one. Honorine sat beside him, peering closely at the paper in her lap. He appreciated her efforts, he truly did, and he struggled daily with a way to tell her so. But there was something that didn’t seem quite right, something in the far reaches of his mind that taunted his inability to grasp it.

The only thing he knew for certain was that it had to do with his sons.

What? What could he not remember?

“Aha! You see, Will Hamilton! You write now very well!” Honorine praised him as she held up the paper on which he had scratched his full name and title. “Now. You write what you want,” she said, and pushed the paper back beneath his hand that held the pen.

What did he want? The answer was
there
, just there on the tip of his tongue. He grasped the pen again, tried to force his mind to form the words.

After several minutes of frustration, he scratched his answer out and pushed it to Honorine.

She studied his scratching, her head cocked to one side. After a moment, her face lit up with a beautiful smile. “Ooh, I see this now!” she exclaimed brightly. “This is what you want. To go home!”

“Y-yes, Honor. I want to g-go home.”

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE EARLY EVENING
of Honorine’s ball was a brilliantly sunny one. Naturally, Honorine saw that as an excellent omen and proclaimed the evening a grand success before it had even begun. She flitted from one room to the next to inspect the preparations in a gown made of pink, purple, and grass-green silk brocade. Roland and Fabrice were anxiously on her heels, dressed in identical black tails and matching red waistcoats and neckcloths. The three of them were sure to catch more than one eye.

As for her gown … Sophie surveyed herself in the forest-green brocade Claudia had worn before her pregnancy. It was simple; a flounced hem with no adornment, suitably austere, the cut of the bodice very modest.

“Perfect,” Ann had proclaimed earlier. “Not
too
risqué, I think,” she had added, eyeing the bodice critically. One could not help but wonder exactly what coverage Ann would deem appropriate for a spinster. She had then fussed with Sophie’s hair, displeased with the curls over her temple. “Too tight,” she muttered. When she was satisfied Sophie was appropriately dressed—“Oh my, won’t Hamilton find
you
appealing,”—she had left Sophie to finish dressing on her own.

Sophie stood in front of the full-length mirror, frowning. She looked too austere, too rigid. Someone’s governess. The
ton
’s most famous spinster. She thought of Caleb, felt a strange sense of resentment. She did not
want
to be a spinster, and moreover, she certainly did not want to look like one. Ann meant well, but Sophie was tired of all the decorum given her scandal, tired of the prudish manner in which Ann expected her to conduct herself.

The image of Caleb flashed in her mind’s eye again, and something snapped. She walked to her wardrobe, threw it open, and looked at the pale cream silk she and Nancy had found among the donations at the Upper Moreland Street house. Sophie had added a translucent pink silk organza to overlay the skirts, and Nancy had embroidered the bodice in pale pinks and browns and greens. The result, much to Sophie’s great pleasure, was one of the most beautiful ball gowns she had ever seen. She had kept it hidden in her wardrobe, however, because she was certain Ann and Claudia would not approve, principally because it had come from the Upper Moreland Street house.

Well, it was
her
life, and
her
reputation. If one gown was going to ruin it, then so be it—there were certainly worse things that could happen to a body. In a sudden fit of frustration with her inability to stand up to her family, Sophie squirmed out of the forest-green gown, carelessly tossed it aside, and donned the pale cream silk. She struggled with the buttons, finally managing to fasten them all, then stalked to the mirror.

Whether it was the candlelight or the flush of her exertions, Sophie was actually astonished by her appearance. The gown was beautiful—and she looked like a princess in it. Her only regret was that the previous owner had been a bit smaller than she; the dress fit snugly, and the sleeves dipped so that her shoulders were bare, and … really, she might very well fall out of the thing. But determined to wear a gown of her own choosing, Sophie yanked the bodice up for all the good it did, and finished dressing.

She dreaded the evening. All eyes would be on her, including those of Trevor—a notion which made her skin crawl. Being a veteran of this sort of event, she knew very well that the gossip would be rampant. But for all her fear, there was a rebellious side of her, a side that could scarcely wait for this ball, if for no other reason than to show the
ton
she was not the old Sophie, but the new one … 
this
one. Her only regret was that Caleb would not be there to see her in a gown as fine as this.

As there was no way to avoid the inevitable, Sophie tugged one last time on the gown, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and walked out of her suite, head held high, wearing her hand-me-down princess gown.

Sophie was not alone in her misgivings.

At his temporary home in Cheapside, Caleb dressed carefully, brushing the lint of disuse from the formal black tails he wore. He straightened his neckcloth once more, smoothed an unruly wave of hair above his temple, and wondered for the thousandth time what he was doing.

He had no business, no business at all attending this ball. Lady Paddington’s invitation to escort her was not entirely sincere, he was well aware of that. Everyone wanted to see him in the same room with Trevor, including Lady Paddington, but it was a potentially explosive situation, particularly after Trevor had so coldly informed him, through an intermediary, that he would seek to have him permanently barred from ever seeing Lord Hamilton again. Why Trevor was so determined in this, Caleb could not be sure. He had tried on more than one occasion to explain through the same intermediary that he sought nothing more than his father’s well-being—it wasn’t as if he had made any claim, public or otherwise, to the viscount’s fortune. Whatever Trevor feared, it was baseless.

Nonetheless, misguided notions or not, Caleb’s contempt for the man was growing. Admittedly, part of him relished the thought of being a thorn in his side this evening; but the desire to put Trevor Hamilton in his place was not enough in and of itself for Caleb to subject himself to a public display he was so certain he would endure. Sophie, on the other hand, was. He could not abide the thought of Trevor anywhere near her, or touching her … or
dancing
with her. Even when Sophie had assumed he would not be attending the ball, as Madame Fortier had not sent him an invitation, he had let her think that and had avoided an inevitable argument. He had simply smiled, assured her all would be well, and tried to force the ugly image of her in Trevor Hamilton’s arms from his mind. He could not.

He sighed, thrust his arms into the coat.

Damn it to hell, what had happened to him? What depravity had so invaded him that he would think he might be in love with the woman?
Love.
A foreign word. Did he even know this emotion? Hadn’t he avoided it all his life and quite successfully at that? It hadn’t been hard to do—from the moment Miranda Snipes, the object of his great esteem at the tender age of ten years, had informed him his lineage was not of a suitable caliber, Caleb had instinctively understood what he was to the world. A bastard, nothing but the by-blow of a rich and important viscount and naturally unworthy of society’s esteem. Nothing his mother could say would divest him of that notion—Miranda Snipes had been painfully clear in what society thought of people like him.

Once the boundaries had been set in his young mind, Caleb had adjusted well. There had been plenty of willing women through the years to ease the needs and desires of his male flesh, some of whom he still considered friends. But there had never been a woman who had made his heart pound with the anticipation of seeing her, or empty his mind of all useful thoughts and responsibilities just so he could remember her laugh or the sparkle in her eyes. There had never been a woman he could believe was genuinely interested in him beyond what he could give her, certainly no one who was particularly interested in what he thought or felt, what moved him, what made him laugh. What hurt.

And truly, Caleb had never once believed he had missed any of those things. He never once thought he needed the touch or companionship of a woman. He had scattered himself about the world, making his own way, leaving one wench for the next as it suited him.

Until he met Sophie Dane.

Caleb straightened his cuffs, took one last look at his besotted self in the beveled mirror.

He had not expected to feel anything for Sophie. He simply had been intrigued by the woman who appeared every day across the pond, had found her peculiar, solitary habits amusing. He did not know then that he was desperate for love.
Her
love. Sophie had, somehow, reached the deepest part of him. He needed her, needed to feel the warmth of her smile when his struggle seemed hopeless. He needed her sweet kiss hello, her sultry kiss good-bye to remind him that he was quite alive.

She was pretty, in an unconventional way, free of cosmetic artifice, seeming to prefer the natural state God had given her. He found that terribly appealing. Her carriage was graceful, as if she were quite content to move about in her skin. Her figure was perfectly shaped in all the right places and she seemed fitter than most; her arms and face were slightly tanned, as if she had spent a great deal of time out of doors. She thought nothing of physical labor. The time he had spent with her working on his house or her booth at Covent Garden had been some of the most enjoyable of his life. And the woman looked radiant with a bit of exertion.

But it was more than the physical attraction he felt toward her. He had fallen in love with Sophie because she seemed to accept him for exactly who he was. There was no judgment about his birth that he could detect, nothing but what seemed to him a genuine interest in his person and his life. She made him laugh, shared his view of the world around them. Her interest in his work, his house, in everything he did, made him feel as if she truly cared about him. He very much enjoyed the time he spent with her, enjoyed it so much that he was beginning to imagine what it would be like to spend all of time with her.

It certainly compelled him into agreeing to attend Honorine’s ball with Lady Paddington. As disastrous as his gut told him the evening could or would be, the forces drawing him there—Sophie and his father—were too great to ignore. But his instincts were strong—he was flirting with disaster.

That instinct had his gut in knots by the time he and Lady Paddington arrived at Bedford Square. Carriages lined the streets and as they slowly wended their way to the house; he could see that the guests had already spilled out onto the veranda. Strains of the music from a quartet lifted softly into the evening sunset; the sound of voices and laughter and crystal upon crystal could be heard in the street. All of London seemed to be crammed into that house.

“Ooh, it seems as if
everyone
is here, does it not?” Lady Paddington whispered excitedly, and plumped her gray ringlets one more time.

“It does indeed,” Caleb muttered as he offered her his arm. He looked up at
Maison de Fortier;
the urge to flee while he could was almost overwhelming—but he thought again of Trevor and the rumors of his intentions toward Sophie. He sucked in his breath, smiled down at Lady Paddington. “Shall we?” he said pleasantly, and led her up the walk.

Judging by the stir of people as he entered the foyer—and in particular, Lady Paddington’s titter—he surmised he had arrived before his father. Lady Paddington’s beaming smile created folds of plump flesh as she surveyed those around her, obviously pleased with the reaction they were getting.

Mrs. Clark, another elderly woman who Caleb had surmised was her closest friend, was the first to remark on his presence. “Mr.
Ham
ilton! And they said you would not come!”

“Not come?” he drawled, bowing over her hand. “But I would do my friend Lady Paddington an insult if I were to refuse her kind invitation.”

“Oooh, do you
see
?” she fairly shrieked to Lady Paddington. “He’s such a
charming
young man!”

“Very charming,” Lady Paddington hastily agreed, and thrust her hand in the crook of his arm just as Honorine sailed into their midst.

“Monsieur Hamilton, soyez le bienvenu! Très heureux de vous, mon frère!”

“Thank you. I am delighted to be here,” he lied.

Honorine laughed and grabbed his hand, oblivious to the twin looks of disapproval at her brashness from Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark. She promptly turned and yanked him aside.

“I did not expect you,” she murmured in French. “Are you quite mad?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

“Unfortunately, your father has not yet arrived,” she said as she led him down the corridor to the main salon. “But there are many others here who look forward to making your acquaintance. My friend in particular I think.”

She paused as they stepped across the threshold and looked around, ignoring the many people who were suddenly moving toward them. “Ah, there she is now,” Honorine said, and inclined her head across the main salon before greeting the first guest to reach them with a very cheerful
“Bonsoir!”

Caleb did not immediately see her. It wasn’t until he had greeted several of Honorine’s gawking guests, that he caught sight of her across the room. He didn’t recognize her at first; her hair was done up in a very appealing style, and her gown … bloody hell, that gown hugged every curve. His gaze boldly swept the length of her; a slow, very appreciative smile spread his lips. Sophie seemed to sense him, or perhaps the raw heat in his gaze; she turned suddenly. A glorious smile lit her face, and she laughed gaily, her delight evident. The sight of it made him burn slowly from the inside out.

He nodded pointedly in her direction, tried to relay what he was thinking. Several around him turned immediately to see whom he would acknowledge.

A fan tapped on his arm; Caleb reluctantly dragged his gaze from Sophie to Lady Paddington. “Mr. Hamilton, would you be a dear and fetch a punch for a parched old woman?” She followed that request with a coy smile.

Right. His charge for the evening. “I’d be delighted, Lady Paddington.” He set off in the direction he had just come, but not without overhearing Lady Paddington remark to Mrs. Clark, “He is
so
nicely mannered in spite of everything, is he not?”

Yes, that was right. A nicely mannered bastard, he was.

Caleb found the dining room, which had been set up with all manner of punches, wines, finger sandwiches, and an amazing number of fig tartlets. He fetched the punch like the good little bastard he was, thinking he would deliver it and then make his way through that insufferable crowd to Sophie. God, but she looked radiant tonight. He had not seen her smile quite like she just had or felt the weight of it quite so strongly.

He strode back to the main salon, prepared to take a temporary leave of Lady Paddington, but the moment he stepped over the threshold he was distracted—by almost walking directly into Trevor’s back.