The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  That thought enraged Sophie. She would rather die than see a man as fine as Caleb Hamilton shackled to that fat cow all his days. Yet it would serve him right, the bloody blackguard! Sophie stomped across a footbridge and onto the main walkway bordering Pall Mall, uncertain exactly who made her more livid—Melinda or Caleb.

  How could she have fallen in love with a known philanderer? Really, as annoyed as she was at the moment, she was hardly certain if it was love or merely infatuation. Perhaps this was why her family never allowed her to do as she wished—perhaps she could not trust herself to know the difference and had succumbed to the first man to show her affection in eight years. Oh, that rotten bounder!

  She could scarcely wait to get to Upper Moreland Street.

  But wait, apparently, she would, as there were no hacks in sight, not a single solitary one. Sophie stood impatiently, her general frustration growing with every passing moment. Suddenly everything in her life was topsy-turvy. From the moment she had set foot on English soil, it seemed as if everything she had come to know was called into question. She had no idea who she was anymore—to some, like Melinda Birdwell, she would never be able to discard the mantle of her scandal. To others, like Trevor Hamilton, she was the unlikely candidate for a second wife, a notion she found repugnant. To her very own family, she was a still a little girl.

  And to Caleb Hamilton, apparently, she was nothing more than an amusement. Bastard!

  Her life had been far too simple the last eight years to bear all of this. Really, she had not realized how simple. During her years of travel with Honorine, she had been free of entanglements such as family and society, free to be herself. And the longer she was forced to stand on Pall Mall and think of it all, the closer she came to exploding into confused little pieces of herself. If a conveyance did not come along soon, they might very well find the pieces of her scattered all over London.

  The tap on her shoulder very nearly did it.

  She jerked around; Caleb quickly threw up his hands in supplication. “I beg your pardon, I did not intend to startle you,” he said, and watching her carefully, slowly lowered his hands.

  Feeling suddenly awkward and ungainly, Sophie fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist. “I beg your pardon, you did not startle me,” she said stiffly, and unconsciously glanced around him to see where Melinda Birdwell had hidden herself.

  Caleb followed her gaze, glancing around, too. After a moment, he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I handed the battle-ax over to her cousin moments after you left.”

  Shocked and embarrassed that he had read her thoughts, Sophie shrugged and looked up the thoroughfare again for a hack.

  He sighed loudly. “I suppose I shall be commended to Hades for saying so, but she’s a rather difficult woman all in all, and frankly—” he paused, looked around to see that no one could overhear—“one can’t be entirely sure that isn’t a galleon hidden beneath those hoops.”

  A thought that had occurred to Sophie, too, even if it was beside the point.

  “Ah, come now, where is that lovely smile of yours? I have determined it is the most winsome smile to ever grace a woman. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Well. Perhaps she didn’t mind too terribly—she was many things, but insane was not one of them. Nonetheless, she was not a fool who would allow compliments to turn her head. “Quite a circle of acquaintances you keep,” she muttered low.

  “I don’t keep acquaintances. I have none really, except you.”

  “Oh really? Then you must enjoy walks in the park more than I understood.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sophie shot him a look of exasperation.

  A frown creased his brow; he looked at her strangely for a moment, until something dawned in his green eyes. “Ah…You are upset about Miss Birdwell. That is why you are treating me so coldly,” he observed matter-of-factly.

  What, did he think it perfectly acceptable to consort with the shallowest woman of the ton? “Not coldly, Mr. Hamilton. Indifferently. You must think me quite stupid, or quite inexperienced—”

  “I do not think so.”

  “—but I am well aware of a man’s proclivities!”

  “I know.”

  He said it so quietly, so gently, that it stopped Sophie cold. Something fluttered in her belly; she brushed the back of her hand across her cheek. She had shown too much, exposed too many of the jagged edges of her life to him.

  “There is your hack.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your hack. You were waiting for a hack, were you not?”

  Her disappointment was swift; she glanced over her shoulder as the old carriage slowed to pull alongside the curb. Naturally, she’d be forced to wait an eternity just so the bloody thing could appear now, of all moments. “Yes. Yes, I was waiting for a hack.” She roughly adjusted her gloves.

  “A rather thrifty mode of transportation,” he said as the hack coasted to a halt alongside the curb.

  Righto. He probably didn’t know that an heiress who had lost a good part of her inheritance had to be thrifty. She dug in her reticule for a crown.

  “But not quite as thrifty as my cabriolet.”

  Sophie glanced up at him. “Oh.” She said it stupidly, but looking at him just then, at his green eyes, she felt a kick in her gut, the deep regret that it was love she felt for him, not infatuation. It could only be love, because the loss of trust hurt her deeply, as did the sense that she had lost the magic. “I, ah…I am really going too far to impose.”

  “I rather doubt that.”

  “Where to then, mu’um?” the hack driver called down to her.

  “Essex,” she called back up to him, and dug deeper into her reticule for a coin.

  “Drive on, sir! We’ve a more economical mode to Essex!”

  Sophie gasped, waved her hand at the driver to gain his attention. “No, no, just a moment, please!”

  “Keep your coin, Sophie,” Caleb said firmly, and grasped her elbow tightly as he waved the driver on. “Drive on!”

  The driver shrugged, cracked his whip at the team of four. As the hack eased away from the curb, Caleb pulled Sophie into his side. “Firstly, my dear Sophie, I am mortally wounded that you would refuse my offer. Secondly, I very much enjoy your company and am loath to surrender it just yet. And thirdly, I did not intend to hurt your tender feelings with Miss Birdwell’s presence, but I should think it painfully obvious how I feel about you,” he said, guiding her away from the curb.

  Well, yes, it should be obvious how he felt—that’s why she was so confused at the moment, and perhaps a little delirious. “I know what you feel—”

  “No, apparently you do not,” he said, his tone betraying his frustration. “Apparently you do not know that I live for the few moments I might steal with you in Regent’s Park. Nor do you seem to understand that you are the one bright spot in my otherwise dreadfully dull days,” he said as he led her toward a neat, one-horse coach tethered on the edge of St. James Park.

  “I am?” she asked, wincing at how breathless she sounded as he helped her up.

  “Please, Sophie. I am just shy of worshiping the very ground upon which you walk. I have shared the most extraordinary lovemaking with you; I feel another piece of myself disappear each time we must part, packed tightly away in your basket. I dream about you, I think of you constantly, I see you in my house and I think, dear God, is this woman really here? With me? And you would believe I have some affection for Miss Birdwell? Frankly, I’m of a mind to be a bit petulant myself,” he grumbled as he tossed the reins up to the bench and gracefully pulled himself up.

  “I am not petulant,” she muttered.

  “Yes you are, my love. If you must know, Miss Birdwell’s cousin foisted her on me, I rid myself of her annoying presence the very moment I could, and frankly, madam, you have your nerve thinking the worst of me when you receive my brother on a regular basis.”

  That caught her off guard. “I harbor no affection for Trev
or Hamilton, you may rest assured!” she exclaimed.

  He looked at her then, his green eyes shining with exasperation. “Precisely, Sophie.”

  Speechless, she blinked.

  “Well then? Might I have your destination?”

  This was ludicrous. She should escape while she could and put an end to this secret affair before it destroyed her. But the small smile playing at the corner of his lips was enough to turn her to butter. And as quickly as that she thought that perhaps she had judged him too harshly.

  “Upper Moreland Street,” she muttered. “But you mustn’t think for a moment I’ve forgiven you.”

  He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. “You must not ever forgive me. You must not ever let me be less vigilant of your happiness than I am at this very moment.”

  All right, how could she not love a man who spoke so beautifully?

  With a lopsided smile, Caleb flicked the reins and sent the horse trotting.

  The drive to Upper Moreland Street was something Caleb would remember all his days, he was quite certain. In spite of the congestion of man and horse, he could see only Sophie, hear only Sophie. In fact, he couldn’t be entirely certain that it wasn’t her heartbeat he heard in that cacophony of street noise.

  The sense of panic he had felt in St. James Park when he realized he had offended her somehow was something he had not felt since he was a boy. But then again, he had not known anyone who had become quite as important to him as Sophie, particularly since Lady Paddington had told him everything about her past. But hearing it from Sophie’s own lips that day in the ballroom had haunted him. To know she had endured such hardship was almost more than he could bear. It was impossible to believe that a woman as uniquely charming as Sophie Dane could have suffered so much at the hands of the bloody bastard Stanwood.

  It was odd, really. The moment he understood what she must have endured, his good opinion of her had escalated right up through the clouds to God and back. It was her quiet dignity he admired the most—she was gentle and unassuming, but one had a sense that if challenged, she refused to be beaten down by anyone or anything.

  Yes, his esteem of Lady Sophie Dane was very high, impossibly high, and the moment in St. James Park he realized he had hurt her had been torturous. He could not relieve himself of that parasite Miss Birdwell quickly enough—he had not sought her companionship, had certainly tried to dissuade it, and had all but thrown her off his arm the moment Sophie went marching away from them.

  He knew exactly how Sophie felt, for he had certainly felt the same and more each time he heard the rumor of the potential match between her and Trevor.

  When he had asked her, Sophie had told him about Trevor’s frequent visits, saying they were quite tedious. He believed her, believed she had a certain distaste for his half-brother. Nonetheless, the idea that Trevor could call on her when he dare not darken her door, for fear of the gossip that would certainly follow, made for a terrible envy. And he would be untruthful with himself if he didn’t admit that he wondered from time to time if he could trust her completely. She was, after all, a woman of the haut ton.

  Her trust in him had faltered when she had seen him with Miss Birdwell. That, somehow, was not surprising—people rarely trusted him. It was as if being born out of wedlock somehow compromised a person’s integrity. The world expected a bastard son to behave a bastard, and God knew there were times he had. But not with women, never with women, and especially not Sophie Dane. He would be a fool to toy with her affections, even if he could.

  There was no pretense about her; she was sincerely warm and wryly witty. When she spoke, it was with a genuine animation that he found lacking in others. And those wide brown eyes—when they talked, he could feel himself sinking into their depths, being pulled into a strong current of pure, unadulterated passion. The afternoon they had spent in the ballroom had been an incredible experience, far richer than any other he had ever experienced. Her reaction to him, the passion flowing through her was as gratifying as a man could possibly hope. They had flowed together like water until it was impossible to tell him from her. He had felt that forbidden emotion too keenly, felt his love for her spilling over them, dousing them. They were two scarred people, two outcasts in an imperfect world.

  But they were perfect for each other.

  There had been a time in his life, before his mother’s death, when he would have entertained prettier, more experienced women. But he had been a different man then—the man he was now preferred the plain beauty of Sophie Dane, the intelligence of her conversation, the easy, lilting laughter that splashed around him like raindrops.

  Thankfully, he heard it as they made their way to Upper Moreland Street as he regaled her with the tale of how exactly Miss Birdwell had been forced upon him. She began to relax a bit, began to smile again.

  Their talk soon shifted to Honorine, whom Caleb had met a handful of times now in the park. “Rather…vivid, isn’t she?” he remarked.

  Sophie laughed. “Vivid, yes. Lustrous, like sunshine. There is nothing that can dampen her spirits, I think.” She credited Honorine with having helped his father to improve. “I’ve seen the improvement in him,” she avowed. “He has even begun to write again.” She smiled softly at that, looked wistfully up the road. “Honorine,” she said on a sigh, “is undoubtedly the most exasperating woman I have ever known. But I adore her.” Caleb instinctively understood the bond between the two women, could sense an abiding and mutual respect.

  As they turned onto Upper Moreland Street, Sophie told him more about the small townhouse with the green shutters. It fascinated him—and the plight of the women there concerned him greatly. He knew what it was like to have no place to turn, knew what it was to be an outcast. Sophie’s compassion for them obviously ran deep. Tentatively, she told him of her idea to sell the donated ball gowns and he instantly recognized the brilliance in her scheme.

  It made him impossibly proud. “That’s very clever of you, Sophie, a splendid idea! When shall you start?”

  “Umm…” she fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist. “There is a slight problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “I’ve no place to sell them. I can’t lease a shop front alone, you know.”

  He immediately offered to help. There was not much he could do for a woman of Sophie’s means, but lending his name to a hiring agreement was definitely something he could and would do. Not only that, he could build the blasted thing if necessary. “I’ve a strong back, and I rather enjoy that sort of work.”

  His offer clearly surprised her. Her cheeks colored; she laughed and thanked him.

  Reluctantly, he helped her down from the cabriolet, his hands lingering on her waist. She smiled up at him, her gaze piercing him down to his boots, and Caleb did not want to let her go, never wanted to let her go. He wanted to drink the smile from her lips, taste her laughter in his mouth. There was a current running between them, the same coarse desire.

  “I can’t thank you enough for driving me. It is rather a long way.”

  His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there. “I would drive you anywhere, Sophie,” he said truthfully. “To anyplace your heart desires.”

  She made a small sound in her throat that ran like white heat all through Caleb. “Anywhere,” he muttered, and descended to those plump lips, devouring them hungrily as she rose up on her tiptoes to meet him. He held her tightly to him, wanting the kiss to last forever, wanting to hold her forever, feeling the desire tighten in his groin.

  When at last she slipped from his arms, his heart was racing. “I can’t wait to see you. When will I see you?”

  “Tomorrow,” she whispered.

  He nodded, squeezed her hand one last time before reluctantly letting go. “I will not disappoint you,” he said earnestly, and fairly leapt onto the bench of the cabriolet. With one last look at her smiling face, he urged his horse on, already counting the moments until the morrow.

  Chapter Twelve

  ANY DOUBTS
SOPHIE had about Caleb evaporated over the next several days until she no longer had any question—she was wild about that man. She felt like a girl again; he was her sun, her night. The moments she spent with him winged by; it seemed he was standing to go almost the moment he sat beside her on the wrought iron bench.

  But what wonderful moments they were! They laughed together, spoke of everything and nothing, recounting their lives and travels. They strolled through Regent’s Park in quiet companionship, sometimes not speaking, simply being with one another. They spent countless hours working on his house, painting the walls, or just wandering through the rooms and imagining what would be where. Imagining they were someone else, two people whose lives had intersected normally and not in secret.

  On some days, Caleb insisted on accompanying her to the house on Upper Moreland Street, where he put himself to work repairing what needed it, chatting amicably with the women as he did so. What Sophie most admired was that there was nothing judgmental in his manner—he treated the women as if they were all equal, as if money and stature and life’s experiences did not separate them all in some way. Naturally, the women adored the handsome devil; some openly swooned when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and went to work. One afternoon, he worked to repair the pantry door, gone crooked after years of use. As he worked, Nancy, Sophie, and two other women who were residing at the house—Catherine and Bette—prepared the evening meal, watching him surreptitiously, admiring his masculine form and cheerful demeanor.

  “Aha,” Caleb said to himself at one point. “I’ll need to insert a peg here.”

  “I’ve got a place you might insert a peg, luv,” said Bette, to a howl of laughter from the other women.