Kasey Michaels (24 page)

Did they see Sophie as just the young girl they recalled from their visits to Wimbledon? Or did they look at the daughter and remember the mother? Did they dread exposure as Constance Winstead’s previous paramours? Did they worry that Constance had whispered secrets to her daughter, tales of incidents, of failings, of foibles, that they feared she might use as a lever against them someday? And, furthermore, did Sir Tyler have to keep staring at Sophie, his expression caught somewhere between avuncular sympathy and an admiring leer?

“Selbourne here giving you a ball, Sophie?” Lord Upchurch asked, the sound of his own name snapping Bramwell back to attention. “You should have one, you know. Or a small party, at the very least. Balls are expensive. All that bunting looped to the rafters, you know, and candles, and musicians, and extra servants. M’wife near but broke me, popping off our daughters, you know.” He looked to his two companions. “Maybe if we all anted up?”

“Dickie, you’ve the brains of a flea,” Lord Buxley snapped, giving the man a swift backhanded slap across the top of the head. “Why not just hire a crier to go around the city, telling all the world and his wife—all the world and
our wives
—we had our turns riding Connie to hounds?”

“Discretion, Willy, remember? Discretion,” Sir Tyler whispered, but loudly enough for Bramwell to hear.

“Oh, my goodness!” Sophie cried out, her hands flying to her quite attractively burning cheeks as she looked to her uncles in turn. “You’re
embarrassed
, aren’t you? Poor uncles! How could I not have seen it? You’ve been so kind, so very kind. But I’m an embarrassment to you, yes? Perhaps you’re even
afraid
of me, of what I might say if I were to meet your wives? Oh, you poor, sweet dears!”

She hopped to her feet, beginning to pace the carpet, her winsome brown eyes bright with sympathy and unshed tears, her tumbling curls and rather childish pink gown—had it been a deliberate choice? Of course it had—making her look so young, so beautiful, so defenseless. So—well, so not very intelligent, or sharp, or in the least bit venal.

Bramwell had been ready to defend her, protect her—toss the uncles out on their collective rumps if they so much as hinted at an insult. But now he sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and contented himself in watching a master work.

“You
are
all frightened of me, yes?” Sophie went on, wringing her hands as she sat down again with a small thump, as if collapsing in despair of being so badly thought of, so misjudged by her beloved uncles. “You think I might mean to harm you, to embarrass you. My own beloved Uncle Dickie, Uncle Willy, Uncle Tye.” A single tear slid down her cheek, caressing its perfection, making even the knowing Bramwell feel an absolute, unmitigated cad, just because he was one of the world’s most lowly creatures, a man.

She spread her hands, giving an eloquently apologetic shrug. “But what can I say? What can I do? How can I convince you that I mean no harm? It’s not possible. I must leave London, yes? I must give up any hope of a Season, of a marriage, of—of children of my own.” She lifted her chin; brave, resolute, the perfect martyr, even as her bottom lip wobbled heartbreakingly. “And so I shall! For you, for my beloved uncles!”

Bramwell fought the urge to applaud. What a daring, masterful game of cards the girl played. She’d called them, called them all, and he was willing to wager they’d all fold. He looked to Lord Upchurch, sure he would be the first to go down to defeat.

Lord Upchurch pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and knelt in front of Sophie, offering it to her even as he glared at Buxley and Sir Tyler, the fire of fatherly protection blazing in his eyes. “Are you happy now, gentlemen, eh? Pleased with yourselves? Just see what you’ve done!”

As Lord Buxley ran a finger around his collar, looking ready to bolt at this display of feminine tears and maidenly sacrifice, Lord Upchurch took up Sophie’s hand, awkwardly patting it. “There, there, sweet little Sophie. Don’t cry. You’re not going anywhere.
Is
she?” he said warningly, shooting his companions another dark look.

Lord Buxley found his tongue, and his feet, standing up quickly as he concurred with Lord Upchurch. “It’s like I said all along. A fox can’t help being a fox. Ain’t the chit’s fault,” he said, glaring at Sir Tyler Shipley.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Sir Tyler purred smoothly, smiling at Bramwell. “The child’s overset, and rightly so. Perhaps she’s right, to a point. We
are
worried that she might say something—in all innocence, of course—that could, um, get us into some trouble at home, as it were. That is what brought us together, brought us here, am I right? But surely, as I now feel, we have nothing to fear from dearest little Sophie. Her mother was always discreet—until Selbourne, of course,” he added, looking at Bramwell, his expression one of pity, so that Bramwell longed to punch him. “Have your Season Sophie. I think we can leave here today secure in the knowledge that we’re safe, that our secrets are safe.”

“Oh, Uncle Tye, thank you!” Sophie exclaimed, jumping up to kiss his cheek, then Buxley’s, before throwing herself into Lord Upchurch’s arms. “I’m so happy now! You are all just as I remember you! And I’ll make you proud of me, you’ll see. I’d never do anything to hurt my dearest uncles, yes?”

Bramwell sighed. It was a dazzling performance. Simply dazzling.

Sophie felt the welcome warmth on her cheeks as the sun at last broke through the clouds of a gray London afternoon. Delighted to have the excuse, she immediately opened her parasol, pressing its gilded stem against her right shoulder as she tilted it coquettishly above her head. Twirling the thing lazily, so that the tassels tied to the spines were set to dancing, she smiled at the duke of Selbourne, awaiting his compliment on her fine choice.

Not that this was her only parasol. Oh, no. She had a dozen of the things—or perhaps two dozen. She couldn’t recall. She only knew that she had bullied Lady Gwendolyn into having a very nice young man come to Portland Square with a selection of the things for the pair of them, then fairly well told him to leave them all, as she and Lady Gwendolyn couldn’t possibly pick and choose among so many pretty contraptions.

“I’m beginning to know how to interpret those smiles of yours, you know, Sophie. And you’d like nothing more at the moment than to beat me into flinders with that thing. Not that you ever become angry, right?” Bramwell asked, indicating the parasol.

So much for compliments. Well, she’d try again. Sophie popped her quizzing glass out of the parasol handle on a hidden hinge, then held it to her eye, looking at him in genteel surprise. “Me? Beat at you? Don’t be ridiculous, Bramwell. I’m quite in charity with you, as a matter of fact. It was above all things considerate of you to invite me for this lovely drive in the Park. Even if you haven’t spoken above two words to me in the past quarter hour.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, shaking his head and smiling as she replaced the quizzing glass. “Beat me, pour hot oil down over my head, plaster me with chicken feathers, and then have me rolled out of town and into the nearest deep pit. In fact, if you were being any more pleasant to me, Sophie, I’d say you might just be planning to murder me. Which is why, even though I definitely wanted to speak with you privately after your visit with the gentlemen yesterday, I decided to do so in this very public place. Being, at heart, a prudent man, I considered it safer.”

Sophie turned to her right, the parasol moving along with her, pretending to look at a passing curricle in order to hide her pain. Because Bramwell was right. She did want to murder him. Murder everyone in London. Everyone who had known what she had not. Everyone who had snickered, and giggled, and made horrible, snide jokes about the circumstances surrounding her mother’s death.

In fact, it had taken everything that was in her yesterday, employing all her lessons learned over the years from Desiree in the art of concealing how she really felt, what she really thought, that had gotten her through that ridiculous interlude with the uncles. Having Bramwell there as well, as if guarding her from those three clearly selfish and frightened old men, had only heaped insult on her emotional injuries.

Because they knew. They all knew. Her uncles, Bramwell, the whole condemning world. Her mother had fallen to her death in the midst of a romantic liaison. Naked. Lying on the ground, her limbs entwined with the equally naked eighth duke of Selbourne. What a sight they must have made! Poor
Maman
, poor Uncle Cesse!

Poor Sophie!

She squeezed her eyes shut. Yes, that was it. Poor Sophie. She didn’t really feel all that sorry for her mother and the late duke. They had lived well, they had died unfortunately—but probably had been greatly happy until their second to last moment. She had already mourned their passing, mourned it deeply. In the three years since their deaths, she slowly had come to grips with those deaths, and begun to think of her mother and the duke with affection, with the fondness of wonderful memories, happy memories.

Now she was stinging with her own pain, her own embarrassment. That was the reason she had spent most of the night crying into Desiree’s plump bosom, at least half of last night pacing her floor, unable to sleep. And she loathed herself for feeling this way, was so deeply ashamed. It was as if she, like the rest of the world, like this man sitting up beside her, was now condemning those two reckless, beautiful people.

“Sophie,” Bramwell said when she didn’t answer him, didn’t look at him. “You have to remember that your mother wanted you to have a Season. You won’t back down now, will you? Run away?”

“Never!” she said with some violence, snapping the parasol shut as she turned to look at Selbourne. And then she smiled, remembered to dazzle. “Did you really think I meant to tuck my tail between my legs like some whipped dog and slink back to Wimbledon? Because of what I said to the uncles? Oh, Bramwell, and I thought you’d listened when I’d warned you about me. I only thought it easier if the uncles thought it was
their
idea that I remain in London. You must admit that they went away happily enough. It is a gift, yes?”

“Yes, I know. A gift. From Desiree, I imagine. Interesting woman, your
maid
.”

Sophie frowned in real confusion. “Desiree? You’ve spoken with her?”

“Enough to see where you learned your lessons,” he admitted, shaking his head. “It’s all of a single piece, isn’t it? Desiree has, through her own experiences, formed certain notions about life, about people. Gentlemen in particular. You’ve been raised by her—trained by her, actually—to think as she does, to make those around you happy as a way of protecting yourself. You sensed what was needed to make the uncles, as you call them, happy, and you set out to make them happy, at the same time protecting yourself. But what makes
you
happy, Sophie? Or do you believe that Desiree knows the secrets to your happiness as well as her own? Will you always be so willing to accept her view of life, of people—and never be tempted to do a little looking of your own? Either at your fellow creatures, or within your own heart?”

She tilted up her chin. “I don’t think I like this conversation,” she said, her brain still foggy from her second nearly sleepless night. The effort to divert the duke’s questions, to dissemble, to gauge her responses in relationship to how best to please him and protect herself, was simply too much for her.

“No, I doubt that you do, Sophie,” Bramwell responded, carefully maneuvering the curricle past a stopped landau. “But, then again, I find that I don’t much like realizing that your maid raised you to believe in nothing more than the perfidy of men. That she taught you that there is no such thing as love, as honest emotion. In fact, I’m rather disappointed in you.”

“Disappointed in me? Oh, really?” Sophie countered, angry once more. Honestly, the man had introduced her to anger in a way she’d never known before, never experienced. And if he thought anger was a wonderful emotion, then he had not lived as she had, grown up as she had, surrounded by pleasantry, by laughter. And her mother’s tears.

But, as Desiree had pointed out, those tears had been
Maman’
s own fault, and completely unnecessary. “You would rather then that I would believe as my mother did, that a woman can find her only happiness in the happiness of some heartless, fickle man? You would have me a willing slave to a man’s perfidy? But I say oh no, Your Grace. Much better to give everyone what they think they want, even what they cannot see they might need, and be left free to go your own way, yes?”

“And if you find someone who loves you?”

Sophie was getting herself back under control. “But I
do
have many people who love me, Bramwell. Desiree, Aunt Gwendolyn. Many people. And I love them. Yes, I try to please them, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t love them, care for them very much. And you know it, too, or you wouldn’t allow me within a continent of your aunt, for one.”

“Yes, Sophie, I know that you would never hurt my aunt, or Isadora, or any of those you’ve charmed since coming to London—including Lorrie and Wally, who see you as a delightful cross between a beloved younger sister and an untouchable goddess. In a way, I envy you your easy ability to draw people to you, to make them feel at their ease. But that’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. What will you do, Sophie, the day that a man loves you, loves you not as a friend, but in the way a man loves a woman?”