She’d felt nothing. Nothing at all. She hadn’t been tempted to part her lips. She hadn’t wanted to taste Lord Claremont back. She didn’t want to grasp his shoulders and sink into him. Or wrap herself around him and never let him go.
Why couldn’t she fall in love? It wasn’t fair. Not for her. And certainly not for Lord Claremont.
He dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry if I pressed you for too much too quickly—”
“No. Not at all.” Sophie forced a smile even as her face burned with shame. “It was . . . lovely.” Lord Claremont had no idea how wicked she really was. There seemed to be only one particular man who aroused such extreme passions in her. And love.
Inconvenient, unrequited, undeniable love.
“Yes.” Lord Claremont touched her hot cheek. “It was perfect. Just like you. I shall miss you while I am away. And I will think of our kiss often.”
Oh, no. She wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Her heart and head awhirl with a storm of conflicting emotions, Sophie simply nodded before stammering, “I . . . I will think of you. And of our kiss too.” Because what else could she say that wouldn’t sound dreadful?
Her response appeared to satisfy Lord Claremont as he smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to her hand before leading her back inside.
Besides, perhaps she would miss Lord Claremont. After all, she liked him. Very much. She might even go so far as to say she was deeply fond of him. And didn’t absence heighten affection?
Stepping inside, Sophie darted a glance toward the fireside to see if anyone had noticed how long she and Lord Claremont had been gone, and her gaze collided with a dark, smoldering stare.
Nate.
Sophie’s heart stopped for an instant before taking off at a wild pace. What on earth is he doing here?
And why did he look so . . . disreputable? He seemed on edge, perhaps even dangerous, as he stood brooding by the fire, a glass of brandy in one hand. His strong jaw was shadowed with stubble, there was a purple bruise on one of his cheekbones, his hair was messy rather than artfully tousled, and his cravat was a disaster.
And his eyes . . . she felt trapped yet she couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to look away.
Resisting the urge to check her hair and her gown, Sophie remained motionless as Nate’s burning gaze raked over her, lingering on her lips. Did he suspect Lord Claremont had kissed her? And if he did, did it matter to him? However, expecting him to open his heart to her was beyond foolish.
She might as well ask for the moon.
* * *
* * *
As soon as Nate spied Lord Claremont escorting Sophie back into his aunt’s drawing room, he scowled. According to Charlie, Sophie had been out on the terrace “taking the air” with Claremont.
With a snort, he threw back the brandy his father had just given him, in one bitter gulp. Not bloody likely.
But as Sophie drew closer and he ran a practiced eye over her, he couldn’t detect any overt signs that she’d been ravished. Even though her cheeks were slightly flushed, her glossy raven curls were perfectly arranged, and her blue silk gown wasn’t disheveled in any way. Her lips weren’t kiss swollen.
God, why had he come? Watching Sophie with Claremont was akin to poking at a barely healed wound. He shouldn’t do it, but he couldn’t resist the urge. For the most part, he’d managed to avoid seeing them together. Indeed, for the last two weeks, he’d been purposely evading Sophie for her own sake as much as his own.
And it wasn’t as though he was short of entertainment options this evening. After the play—a rather mediocre production of As You Like It at the Haymarket Theatre—Max had suggested they visit a new Roman-themed brothel complete with spectacular baths not far from Pall Mall. Apparently one could be plied with grapes and wine while being massaged in exotic oils by a bevy of nubile, semiclad cyprians. As appealing as the prospect was—Nate had spent several hours bare-knuckle boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s during the afternoon, and a massage would have eased his aches and pains—he’d declined. He’d told his friend he felt obligated to put in an appearance at Chelmsford House to pay his respects to his aunt Tabitha. Of course that was a lie; he’d wanted to spy on Sophie.
So now, here he was, a veritable dog in the manger, glowering at the only woman he wanted but that his battered heart wouldn’t let him or anyone else have.
One thing was certain, he damn well wasn’t going to sit here and watch Claremont flirt with Sophie under his very nose. Depositing his brandy glass on the marble mantelpiece, aware that all eyes including Sophie’s were on him, he addressed the lucky bastard. “Good evening, Claremont. Are you up for a game of billiards? My aunt informs me her staff have finished ironing the baize.” His gaze touched Sophie’s. “Of course, only if you don’t mind, Miss Brightwell.”
Sophie’s cheeks grew bright with color. “Why would I mind?” She removed her hand from Claremont’s arm and murmured in a low voice that was far too intimate for Nate’s liking, “My lord, go ahead. I was about to take tea with the ladies.”
Claremont inclined his head. “As you wish, my dear Miss Brightwell.”
Nate ground his teeth as he stalked across the plush oriental carpet, heading for the billiard room. My dear Miss Brightwell. What would Claremont call her next? Sweetheart? My love?
My lady wife?
He yanked two billiard cues out of their oak stand, and as he passed one to Claremont, he congratulated himself for not whacking his opponent over the head with it. “The usual rules?”
Perhaps sensing the tension crackling in the air between them, Claremont simply inclined his head before retreating to the other end of the table. Without a word, Nate set up the ivory balls on the dark green baize. Then both of them leaned forward to take their opening shots to see who would begin the game.
Nate struck his billiard ball with a resounding crack. And then, all at once, his ire rushed out of him . . . only to be replaced by the crushing weight of inevitability.
It wouldn’t be long before Claremont proposed to Sophie, and there was no reason in the world for her to refuse him.
Christ, the bastard had better make her happy. Because if he didn’t, Nate wouldn’t just strike him with a billiard cue, he’d tear him apart.
CHAPTER 20
A certain captivated viscount pursues his Disreputable Debutante in earnest . . .
Speculation is rife. Wagers are even being laid at White’s.
Will there be an announcement of impending nuptials soon?
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
May 13, 1818
Oh, my goodness. Lord Claremont has returned, Sophie,” said Charlie, peeking down to the square below from behind the drawing room’s green velvet curtains. “I wonder where he’s been.”
Sophie smoothed her damp palms down her white muslin skirts. Since Lady Chelmsford’s dinner party, Charlie kept speculating that the viscount might have gone to Suffolk to “meet” with her stepfather, but Sophie kept refusing to believe it, instead suggesting he’d probably gone to check on his Hertfordshire estate and his mother.
Of course, neither of them really knew. But Sophie rather suspected she was about to find out.
“Let me look at you.” Charlie abandoned her position by the window and arranged the curls about Sophie’s face and tweaked the sky blue sash beneath her bust. “There’s no need to pinch your cheeks as they are flushed already.” She stepped back and clasped her hands together beneath her chin. Her topaz eyes glowed. “You look lovely. And I’m so excited for you. Where would you like to meet with him? Here or in the garden?”
“Charlie . . . ,” Sophie warned. “I think it’s a little premature to speculate about the nature of Lord Claremont’s visit. I don’t see why this one would be different from any of the others.”
“Nonsense. I have a feeling this visit is going to be significant indee
d. And I’m rarely wrong.”
“Well, I, for one, would beg to differ,” drawled Nate as he entered the room. His gaze touched Sophie briefly before returning to his sister. His mouth twitched with a sardonic smile. “But indulge me, what is it that you think you are so right about, Charlotte?”
“Lord Claremont is here,” replied Charlie with an arch smile. “And I think he will seek a private audience with Sophie.”
Was it just Sophie’s imagination, or did the lines around Nate’s eyes tighten imperceptibly?
“However, I don’t think he will,” added Sophie.
“He’d be mad if he doesn’t,” replied Nate.
Did he really mean that? The tension in Nate’s shoulders, the flicker of some strong emotion in his eyes—was it jealousy?—seemed to belie his flippant tone. Sophie lifted her chin. “So, on the off chance that Lord Claremont proposes to me today, would I have your blessing, my lord?”
A muscle twitched in Nate’s lean jaw but as he opened his mouth to reply, there was a knock on the door.
It was the butler, announcing that Lord Claremont was here to see her. And that he wished to speak with her privately.
Charlie grinned and clapped her hands. “See, I was right. Where will you meet him? We can leave. Although it’s a lovely afternoon so perhaps outside . . . ?”
Sophie glanced at Nate. He’d gone very still and seemed to be markedly interested in the toes of his top boots. That muscle was working in his jaw again. He hadn’t answered her question, curse him.
She addressed the butler. “Outside in the courtyard garden, I think. Please tell Lord Claremont I shall join him shortly.”
“Very well, Miss Brightwell.”
Charlie kissed her cheek. “I’ll wait here,” she whispered. “I promise I won’t peek.”
Sophie squeezed her friend’s hands. Her own were shaking. “Wish me luck,” she whispered back.
Charlie drew away a little and touched her cheek. “Darling Sophie, you will not need luck. This was clearly destined to be.”
Sophie nodded. Nate still hadn’t said anything, and his silence was killing her. However, as she passed by him on her way out, he said in a soft, low voice, “I wish you nothing but happiness, Miss Brightwell.”
As she closed the door on him, Sophie wished she could be happy too.
She found Lord Claremont by the small fountain at the back of the garden. He rose from the stone bench positioned beneath an ancient beech tree, and even though his face was in shade, Sophie couldn’t fail to see the warm glow in his eyes as she approached.
She forced a smile. She was so nervous, it felt as though a hummingbird had taken up residence in her chest. “Lord Claremont, welcome back to town.”
He cocked a dark eyebrow. “So formal, my dear Sophie?” He bowed over her hand, his eyes holding hers, and feathered a kiss over her knuckles. “Last time I saw you, you called me Matthew. I would be overjoyed if you used my first name again.”
She attempted another smile, hoping it reached her eyes. “Of course. Matthew.”
“Will you join me?” Lord Claremont gestured to the stone bench. “I must confess, I was most pleased to hear you agreed to meet with me in the garden.”
Sophie smoothed her skirts over her lap as she sat. White rose petals drifted across the gravel path at her feet. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Yes.” Lord Claremont’s gaze caressed her face. “And it is my sincere hope that it will soon become even more wonderful.”
Sophie’s breath quickened. Oh no. Lord Claremont was going to propose marriage to her; she was certain of it now.
But she wasn’t ready. She really wasn’t.
Guilt pressed so heavily on her chest, she almost couldn’t breathe. Guilt for pretending an affection she didn’t feel these past few weeks. Guilt for not being able to feel it and the worry she might never learn to love this man. Guilt for hurting Lord Claremont if she refused him.
And then there was the guilt she would feel for disappointing her family in the event she said no.
“Sophie, are you all right, my love?” Lord Claremont picked up her hand, then his brow creased with a frown. “Why, you’re shaking.”
“I . . . I’m a little nervous,” she said in a voice that shook too. Oh, why had he called her my love? Surely he didn’t love her.
Lord Claremont’s wide mouth lifted into a smile. “I will confess, I am a little nervous too. And I suspect you might know why.”
“Lord Clare—I mean, Matthew.”
Lord Claremont’s smile slipped. “I also must confess, I’m now a trifle worried because you keep calling me Lord Claremont. What’s wrong, dear Sophie?”
Sophie swallowed. Her mouth was so dry, and her tongue felt as if it were tied in knots. “I . . . I don’t wish to disappoint you, my lord, but perhaps I should also confess that I had not expected . . . I mean, you are a viscount and I . . . my family . . .” She stopped and bit her lip. Oh, this was so hard. Why hadn’t she put a stop to this madness sooner?
“Hush.” Lord Claremont placed a long finger against her mouth. “While I was away, I visited your stepfather. And he has given his blessing to what I am about to do.”
To her horror, Lord Claremont hopped off the bench and knelt before her on bended knee. “Sophie dearest. You are the sweetest, most delightful young woman I have ever met, and from the moment I saw you in Hyde Park, I knew I wanted to make you mine. You’ve stolen my heart and I pray I’ve stolen yours.” Lord Claremont clasped both of her hands in his. “Sophie Elizabeth Brightwell, will you do me the inestimable honor of consenting to be my wife?”
“Oh, Matthew.” Tears flooded Sophie’s vision. “I don’t know what to say. Believe me, I want to say yes. Truly I do . . .”
The hope in Lord Claremont’s eyes faded and his frown was back. “But . . .”
“But . . . while I esteem you highly and regard you with a great deal of fondness, my heart isn’t . . . our courtship has progressed at such a rapid pace . . . I do not wish to hurt you, but . . .”
Lord Claremont’s smile was sad. “You do not love me.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Perhaps in time?”
Sophie tried to smile but managed no more than a tremble of her lips. “Perhaps. I could not say.”
Lord Claremont reclaimed his seat next to her. He hadn’t relinquished her hands, and he kissed them before he spoke. “I will take heart in the knowledge you have not rejected me outright then, sweet Sophie. Might I ask you to do one thing though? Will you think on my proposal? If you need time, I am more than willing to give it to you.” He touched her cheek. “Because I firmly believe you are worth waiting for.”
Sophie’s vision blurred again. If only she could love him. But that depended on her overcoming her love for Nate. And so far, that had proved an impossible feat. “You are too kind, Matthew.”
“I’m afraid it has nothing to do with kindness.”
He kissed each of her hands again, then rose. “I will wait until I hear from you before I call again.”
She nodded and wiped away a tear that had slipped onto her cheek. “I will let you know my answer soon.”
He gave her an elegant bow. “I look forward to it.”
Sophie sat in the garden for long minutes, watching the play of light and shadow on the path as the beech tree’s branches waved gently in a light breeze. Flowers nodded and a fat bumblebee buzzed about the nearby rose arbor.
When her tears had dried and her head felt clearer, she got to her feet and raised her chin. She was so very sick and tired of feeling like a petal tossed about in the wind.
The time for plain speaking had arrived.
* * *
* * *
My lord, which waistcoat would you like to wear this evening? The black satin with the paisley pattern or the midnig
ht blue silk? My lord?”
Nate dragged his gaze away from the square below and turned to his valet. Claremont had left a little sooner than he’d expected, but of course, it really wasn’t any of his business. “I don’t mind, Davenport. Whatever you think matches.”
As soon as Sophie quit the library, Nate had decided he’d best make himself scarce. He’d pass by Grosvenor Square to see what MacQueen and Max were up to. Hopefully, within the space of an hour, he would be drinking and laughing at White’s and planning how to spend the rest of his night. Gambling and whoring seemed like appealing options right about now. Dwelling on what might have been didn’t.
“The midnight blue silk then it is, my lord.”
“Wonderful.”
“Your bath is ready, too, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Nate began to remove his neck cloth.
“And the decanter of brandy has been refilled as well. I took the liberty of pouring you a glass. It’s on the washstand by the bath.”
“You know me too well, Davenport.” Nate began to work at the buttons on his pinstriped waistcoat.
“I’m here to serve, my lord.”
“I shall ring for you when I’m ready to dress.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The door to his room clicked shut, and Nate shed his shirt. Even though it was only midafternoon, he really did need that brandy; Davenport certainly knew him and his moods too well.
He crossed to the bath and took a swig of his drink. And then another. He decided he could probably drink a whole bottle right now and it still wouldn’t be enough to quell the fire in his soul.
Sophie would belong to another man. He might wish her well, but that didn’t mean he wished the same for Claremont.
Christ, he was a contrary bastard.
The door latch snicked again. “Forget something, Davenport?”
“It’s not Davenport. It’s me.”
Sophie? What the—?
Nate swung around and sure enough, there she was. She leaned against the closed oak door, studying him with solemn blue eyes.
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 25