by Julia London
He smiled. “At least give me the pleasure of saying you’ll meet me in the park on the morrow.”
All her feminine wiles—what few of them she possessed, anyway—told her not to respond too eagerly or quickly. She smiled, nodded politely. “If my schedule permits,” she said primly. “Good day.” She began walking across the park before he could say more. Sprinting, really. Fleeing was more like it. Only once did she turn to look behind her, and her heart climbed to her throat. He was still standing there, watching her walk away. Still smiling.
And what was that smile supposed to mean? Blast it, she was so unaccustomed to men and their smiles that she hardly knew which end was up. She had done the right thing, had she not? It would have been horribly unwise to throw her arms around his neck and cling to him as she had most certainly wanted to do. But that was exactly something Honorine might have done, and she never lacked for suitors.
She was not Honorine. She was Sophie. Drab, stupid Sophie who believed anything a handsome rogue might say to her. She waved at Caleb and continued marching forward.
Thankfully, her party was easy to find in the park, given Honorine’s particularly festive tangerine-and-olive-green day dress. From across a wide slope of grassy lawn, Sophie could see her standing next to Lord Hamilton, who, with the use of two hands and a cane, was standing next to his wheeled chair, ignoring the two footmen who hovered just behind him. Just down the slope from there, Mr. Hamilton was frolicking with Ian. Next to the trees, a handful of servants milled about a table laden with serving dishes of all shapes and sizes.
Sophie slowed down, took several breaths, dabbed at the dew of perspiration on her forehead as she forced the image of Caleb from her mind. She harshly reminded herself that she was a complete ninny to be driven to such volatile emotion from one ride in a hack. On top of that, if she had in mind to make a match, it was this Hamilton she should be impressing with her feminine wiles, not the other one. It hardly mattered that she did not particularly care for him. That would come in time—everyone said so.
She was so successful in berating herself for that slip in judgment that when Mr. Hamilton caught sight of her and smiled, she easily returned his smile, even lifted a hand to wave cheerfully, as if she had not a care in the world.
With one last deep breath, she marched onward, into the midst of that dreaded picnic, determined to enjoy every moment of it if it killed her.
When she reached Honorine and Lord Hamilton, her faithful employer smiled brightly and looked up at her bonnet. “What is this you do with the chapeau?” she asked innocently.
Sophie reached up and felt her bonnet. Bloody rotten fabulous. Just how long it had been hanging so askew? It was amazing she was still able to wear it at all, given that it had inched completely over to the left side of her head and was hanging by little more than a wisp of ribbon. She quickly snatched it from her head, and ignoring Honorine, flashed a very bright smile at Lord Hamilton. “HOW DO YOU DO, MY LORD?”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Honorine, covering her ears. “His ears, they hear!”
Lord Hamilton shifted awkwardly, propped himself on his cane, and offered her a trembling hand. “Rather w-well,” he said.
“Lady Sophie, how good of you to join us!”
It was Hamilton, come up the slope with Ian to greet her. Sophie plastered what she hoped was a winsome smile on her face, and not the imbecilic one she was in the habit of showing Caleb. Drat it all, there she was thinking of him again! “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. Your invitation was too kind.”
“Nonsense. We quite enjoy your company,” he said as his gaze slowly traveled the length of her.
What now? Surely nothing was amiss, although her day thus far hardly engendered any faith in that. Self-conscious, she looked to Ian. “Master Ian, how do you do?”
“Very well, mu’um,” he answered, but his eyes were fixed on Lord Hamilton, who had carefully resumed his seat. Honorine was making sure the lap rug was tucked tightly around him.
“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Hamilton asked, drawing her attention once again. “I should very much like to introduce you to the gardens just below. They are quite lush this time of year.”
“Splendide!” Honorine chirped, and fairly ripped Sophie’s bonnet from her grip. She happily ignored Sophie’s glare and grabbed Ian’s hand, yanking him into her side. “Come to your grandpapa,” she cooed.
Hamilton offered Sophie his arm. “You will enjoy the gardens, I am sure of it.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, sir,” she said, and carefully placed her hand on his arm, tossing one last glare at Honorine as he led her away.
As they strolled down the grassy slope to the gardens, he casually made note of the fine weather. When they were out of earshot of the others, he covered her hand with his and squeezed lightly. “I am so very glad you came. I was beginning to fear you would not.”
Sophie merely smiled. This was a dream, she thought, some sort of strange little dream where suddenly she had two men wanting her company. It was so extraordinary, so completely unexpected, that she almost burst into hysterical laughter.
“If I may, you look quite fresh this afternoon. Quite sunny.”
That was a little much—she was hardly sunny. “Thank you.”
“I have remarked on your taste in clothing. I find it refreshingly simple. Frankly, I am relieved you have not acquired Madame Fortier’s dressing habits in your years as her companion,” he said, and chuckled at his own remark.
But he sounded so perfectly snide that Sophie was momentarily taken aback. Hamilton smiled again, and she thought perhaps she had misunderstood his tone. Of course she had—a gentleman would not make an unkind remark. “Indeed, Madame Fortier is quite colorful,” she agreed with a little laugh, and felt the tension beginning to ease as they strolled farther away from the picnic.
They entered the garden path walking slowly, admiring the flowers to either side of them. He carefully pointed out the different flora, for which he had, apparently, memorized every botanical name.
“I must confess, Lady Sophie,” he said after a time, “I am quite pleased to find you safely returned to England.” He stopped in the middle of the path and glanced at his feet. “Sophie—may I call you that?—I should very much like to say—although I may very well regret it in a moment—but I find myself rather drawn to you and I…I hope endlessly that you will decide to stay in London.”
All right, then, she was flabbergasted—absolutely, unequivocally flabbergasted. First and foremost, that he was drawn to her. Secondly, that he would admit such a thing, given her background and standing in the community—or lack of it. And thirdly, Mother of God, that he wanted her to stay in London. How could he possibly have reached this conclusion? It wasn’t as if they had spent more than a moment in one another’s company—
He gripped her hand tighter. “I shouldn’t say this, but I want you to know that I have thought of little else but you from the moment I saw you in the orangery. You have changed, Sophie. You seem…I don’t know how to explain it, truly I don’t, but I find it terribly enchanting. I can only hope that you find me appealing in some small way…enough that you might consider staying on in London past the Season.”
Was this really happening? Had she perhaps walked into one of those magical gardens? Men like Trevor Hamilton did not make such declarations to her! Never! It was too fantastic to be believed, and frankly, she couldn’t.
“Dear God, I’ve gone and made a mess of things. You don’t find me appealing a’tall, do you?” His smile suddenly turned sullen.
“No! I mean, yes, of course I find you appealing, Mr. Hamilton—”
“Trevor, please—”
“But I am at a bit of a loss to understand your interest, I truly am—”
“As am I, Sophie, but I cannot deny what I feel.”
“Perhaps you do not actually feel these things, Mr. Hamilton—”
“Trevor—”
“Perhaps you are merely missing your wife,” she said
, pulling her hand from his.
He startled her by abruptly grabbing her shoulders and kissing her. Her mind went blank; she felt the firm pressure of his lips on hers, the sensation of his tongue against her teeth, and the world suddenly froze.
His arm snaked around her back; he pulled her into his chest as he increased the pressure firmly against her lips until she was forced to open her mouth beneath his. His tongue swept inside, almost gagging her. His kiss was too strong, too demanding. She was so stunned by it that she hardly knew what she was doing—but her hands were suddenly between them, pushing hard against his chest.
And just as suddenly, it was over.
Breathing hard, he lifted his head, stroked the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. “My wife has been gone more than two years now, and she was quite ill for many months before she died. I assure you, I have made my peace with her passing. My esteem for you has nothing to do with her, Sophie. But say nothing, not now. Just promise you will consider what I have said, will you?”
Still reeling from his kiss, Sophie nodded dumbly. “W-we should return now,” she managed to say.
“Of course,” he said quietly, and his hand went possessively to the small of her back.
They returned to the picnic, although Sophie had no memory of how. It wasn’t until they had reached the others that she was able to come out of the disbelieving fog that shrouded her brain. When she finally began to recover, she was seated at the table the servants had set up, picking at a game hen, nodding absently at those moments Honorine pressed her, and stealing glimpses of Trevor as her skepticism grew.
He was handsome in a distinguished sort of way, she thought, several inches taller than she was—but not as tall as Caleb. A more refined build than Caleb’s rugged one, and his eyes were hazel, not the crystalline pale green of Caleb’s. But more important, she supposed, he seemed rather thoughtful, doting on his father and son with equal care. Yet it was impossible to imagine how she might settle into something with Trevor Hamilton, impossible to believe the things he had said to her. It was so unlike the Trevor Hamilton she had known eight years past. But then again, perhaps he had changed. She certainly had.
If it were true, her family would be ecstatic. The world would rejoice in perfect harmony. The kind, thoughtful Mr. Hamilton had taken an interest in poor, damaged Sophie Dane. They would say it was a miracle, shake their heads and marvel at his largesse.
And all she could think of was Caleb.
The entire day had disconcerted her so completely that she scarcely heard the commotion at first. Mildly cross that she had been aroused from her thoughts, she looked up, saw that Lord Hamilton had become quite agitated. Honorine was at his side, gripping his good hand, and Trevor…where was Trevor?
Sophie swiveled in her chair to look behind her.
Ho there—Caleb was standing behind them, speaking with Trevor. Sophie suddenly sat up, gripped the edge of the table as she realized Caleb and Trevor were exchanging heated words.
The gasp of alarm from Honorine caught her attention, and Sophie jerked around, to where Honorine was now standing, her hands on Lord Hamilton’s shoulders. The viscount seemed to be in some sort of distress.
“What is it?” Sophie exclaimed as she hurried to Honorine’s side.
“I do not know! He begins when this man comes!” she cried, gesturing wildly to where Caleb stood with Trevor.
Sophie looked to Lord Hamilton again; he strained to see around her to where Trevor and Caleb were standing. She went down on her haunches next to the viscount. “Lord Hamilton, is there something I can do?”
He looked at her with clear light brown eyes, but the words would not come. He screwed up his face, strained so greatly that he turned red before spitting out the word “son.”
“Trevor,” she said, nodding, but Lord Hamilton reached across his unmoving body and clamped her forearm tightly with his good hand. “N-no, no…son,” he said, his voice stronger, the word clearer.
Confused, Sophie looked up at Honorine, who shrugged helplessly. Lord Hamilton’s grip on her arm tightened painfully and Sophie nodded, tried to pry his fingers from her arm. “Son,” she repeated, nodding.
Lord Hamilton let go.
Sophie exchanged a look with a troubled Honorine. “I shall fetch Hamilton,” she said low, and reluctantly hurried to where Trevor and Caleb were speaking.
Both men turned to her at once, Caleb smiling sympathetically, Trevor frowning.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said hastily, “but your father—he seems to be in distress.”
“I shouldn’t wonder that he is,” Caleb said, and stood calmly as Trevor raked a heated gaze over him.
“I’ll thank you to take your leave now, sir. My father’s health cannot tolerate such wild claims as yours,” he snapped, and without waiting for a response, pivoted sharply on his heel and marched away.
Amazingly, Caleb did not seem at all fazed by Trevor’s admonishment. He smiled again at Sophie; she felt the peculiar warmth of it in spite of the strained circumstances, and unthinkingly put a hand to her nape.
“He’s every right to be distressed,” he said calmly, stepping forward. “But I think Father shall be right glad to see me all the same,” he added, more to himself, and began walking to where Lord Hamilton was now standing, his weight balanced precariously on the cane.
Chapter Eight
LORD WILL HAMILTON, Viscount, had been known all his life as a man of action and deed. He had lived dangerously in his youth, crossing to the Continent on many occasions and finding himself in questionable situations before his duty as a gentleman, husband, and father obliged him to settle down. In the last few years, he had been living peacefully and quietly in the country with his son Trevor.
He never dreamed he would become a prisoner in his own body.
He could still recall the feeling of it as it came on him one blustery January day—something evil, a demon, an illness of the mind, who knew?—first tingling in his arm, then a tightening of his body…
To be bound, for all intents and purposes, to a wheeled chair was the most humiliating thing he had ever endured, and the worst of it was that he could not seem to make his son understand that was so. His stuttering fell on deaf ears—he never received anything more than a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder from Trevor for all his efforts.
He could not speak as clearly as before, could not remember all the words he needed to explain, but by God, he could think, and he was alive in the shell that was once a man’s body.
How very odd that the only person who seemed to recognize that was a pleasingly peculiar Frenchwoman. Honorine Fortier was a pretty one, he would give her that. Luscious black hair and red lips, a gorgeous smile, the most arresting blue eyes he had ever seen. And when she touched him…well, he was rather ecstatic to learn that not all of his body had seized up. Thank God Honorine had burst into his life when she had. The despair had almost killed him, would have killed him, perhaps by his own hand, had she not come when she did. Thanks to her, he realized that life was, potentially, still very much worth living.
Not only was it worth living, but he had noted an improvement in his speech and his ability to move since the day she had approached him in the park. Improving, yes, but he was still suffering occasional setbacks, most often at home, most often when he was agitated, like now. It was these moments his entire mind seemed to freeze.
He looked down at Honorine’s hand, so delicate but strong on his. He could see the worry in her eyes as Trevor strode toward them, could see that she believed he was suffering another seizure. It felt as if some invisible vise gripped his heart so tightly that he could not breathe, and the dead side of him began to quiver of its own accord. But all that had evaporated into a monumental struggle to tell her exactly what he must: That the man who followed behind Trevor now was his Caleb, the bastard son he loved above all else.
Trevor pushed past Honorine without even realizing he had done so, his mind a savage
chaos of thought and emotion. How dare the lying bastard come into their midst! He had already turned him away countless times, sending him from the steps of his father’s home like the scoundrel that he was. He would not allow this man to make his outrageous claims, would not allow him to touch his father’s fortune. Unthinkingly, he grabbed his father’s hand. “Father, listen to me! This bastard would make false claim to you!”
His father glanced at the Frenchwoman; Trevor shook his arm, hard. “Did you hear me, Father! He claims to be your by-blow!”
“Papa,” the man said behind him, and Trevor felt the rage boil within. It was so obvious, so blatantly obvious that this man was out to steal a fortune that by all rights belonged to him. How could anyone stoop so low as to take advantage of the mere vegetable Will Hamilton was now?
“Papa,” the man said again, and went down on one knee beside the viscount. “Dear God…”
“No!” Trevor snarled, and pushed him away. “You do not belong, sir!”
But the imposter ignored him, calmly righted himself, and reached again for the viscount’s hand. “What can I do?” he asked the viscount, and by God if he wasn’t able to muster a tear.
“Unhand him,” Trevor said through clenched teeth. “Unhand my father.”
The imposter glanced up at him, his eyes narrowed. “He is my father too, sir.”
“He is not your father!” Trevor exploded. “You are an imposter!”
He merely shook his head and shifted his gaze to the viscount again. “Ask him if you don’t believe me. Ask him who is his son.”
One look at his father and Trevor faltered; the expression on his twisted face was remarkable. It was as if he had understood the bloody bastard…but when he forced out the word mine, Trevor felt the world shift beneath him.