A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  Sophie only nodded, suspecting that she looked ready to be carted off to Bedlam.

  “My God, I would like to grievously maim that vile bounder,” Julianna said. And though she had made a certain peace with the man who had jilted her, at the moment Sophie’s feelings were the same.

  “You have spoken my mind,” Sophie said.

  “Of course, if he hadn’t abandoned you like that, then you wouldn’t have joined me in London, and we wouldn’t be making newspaper history, so we might say that old Matthew Fletcher has done us a favor.”

  Sophie looked murderously at her friend. As lovely as life in London was—with amazing parties, plays, shops, and company—she’d give it all up in a second for the love of a good, reliable, honest husband.

  “Or we might not,” Julianna continued.

  “What is taking so long?” Sophie asked in a whisper. This is when she became exceptionally nervous—when people were late, and when it seemed like the ceremony might not go smoothly. When someone might, say, be jilted in front of everyone.

  Honestly, this was not to be endured!

  “Probably a torn hem or something insignificant—oh my lord, he is not!” Julianna exclaimed.

  “What is it?” Sophie asked.

  “The groom is leaving the altar,” Julianna explained excitedly. The din of hundreds of guests chattering grew louder. This ought to have been welcome news, for it would make splendid additions to their columns. But Sophie’s heart—or what was left of it—ached too much.

  Sophie forced herself to breathe. “Grievously maimed” would not be sufficient for Fletcher; Sophie was thinking murder now. One year later and she still could not sit through a wedding without suffering the most severe agonies!

  “Where is the bride?” she asked her tall friend, who could see much more than she.

  “No sign of her,” Julianna answered.

  “I cannot stay for this,” Sophie whispered. She stood up and stepped easily into the far aisle, congratulating herself on having had the foresight to take this seat.

  “But your column!” Julianna reminded her, and those seated nearby turned to look at the author of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life,” whispering excitedly about seeing her at the wedding.

  “Take notes for me. Please,” Sophie pleaded, and gave her paper and pencil to her friend.

  Sophie kept her gaze low as she rushed out of the church. On a good day she could barely stand it, and today it was all too much. Her only thought was to get away before she began to cry, for this time last year she had fled from a different church, under different circumstances. Perhaps one day she might leave a church with a groom of her own on her arm.

  The bright sunlight was blinding as she stepped outside, but Sophie forged ahead through a crowd waiting in expectation to catch a glimpse of the bride and the aristocrats in attendance. She rushed away from Hanover Square toward Piccadilly with eyes to the ground and oblivious to everything until a woman’s scream brought her to a halt.

  Chapter 2

  One month before the wedding . . .

  White’s Gentleman’s Club

  St. James’s Street, London

  “An English gentleman is someone who knows exactly when to stop being one,” Lord Roxbury declared. His companions—the usual assortment of peers, second sons, and rakes of all sorts—heartily expressed their agreement.

  Henry William Cameron Hamilton kept his disagreement to himself. As tenth Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, he did not have the luxury of even a momentary lapse in gentlemanly behavior. Thus, he never drank overmuch, nor made foolish wagers, nor made an ass of himself over a woman. Vice and excess were strangers to him. Reckless behavior was just not done.

  “An English gentleman is someone who knows—” Lord Biddulph did not manage to complete the sentence for falling over drunk. His head thudded onto the tabletop, and his limp arm sent a crystal glass falling and shattering on the floor. His comrades erupted in uproarious laughter.

  Brandon, as he was known, noted that it was before noon.

  He folded the newspaper he had been reading and set it aside. His friend, Lord Roxbury, caught his eye from across the room and raised his glass of brandy to him, an invitation for Brandon to join them. Regretfully, he declined. Account books were awaiting his review, and doing sums after the consumption of alcohol was not one of his talents.

  Though they were his peers in age and in social standing, Brandon felt worlds apart and years older. He had once been as rakish and carefree as the next until he had inherited at eighteen. There had been a time when he certainly would have joined them.

  Brandon didn’t particularly miss drinking himself into a stupor before dusk, and carousing with opera singers and actresses. He did miss having the liberty to do so without much care for the consequences.

  He had forgotten what it felt like to make a decision without considering the effect it would have on his mother, three sisters, the household staff, and the hundreds of tenants who relied upon his judgment and good sense. He wondered what it would be like to feel no obligation to the ancient legacy he had a duty to perpetuate.

  To forget he was a duke.

  To just be . . . himself.

  Brandon did not give voice to such thoughts because no one ever wanted to hear the trials and tribulations of a man of his position. Instead, he took his leave of the others and stepped out of the dark, smoky haven of his club and into the sunshine.

  Returning to Hamilton House to balance account books was the last thing any sane person would want to do on a fine summer day like this one. But it had to be done, although a long walk home would be a fine compromise.

  As he passed Burlington Arcade, his attention was caught by a woman’s scream. She was pointing to another woman in a pale blue dress dashing toward certain disaster. At the sound of the shriek, the girl paused, idiotically frozen with fear, as a carriage pulled by a team of six white horses charged directly toward her.

  Brandon bolted forward, knocking over a youth selling newssheets, and sending the gray papers flying high. He lunged forward, grasped her waist with both hands, and yanked her out of the way. She crashed against his chest, knocking the air out of him.

  The horses thundered past and the carriage followed.

  He held her in his arms. He had saved her.

  Brandon held her close for a second longer than was necessary or proper, in part because she made no move to escape and admittedly because she was warm and luscious in his arms. After a moment, he eased her to her feet and let her go. By then a crowd had gathered. He suspected a scene, and he frowned.

  But then Brandon caught a glimpse of her plump pink lips and dark curls underneath her bonnet, and the corners of his mouth reluctantly turned up.

  “Thank you,” she said faintly. She took a deep breath—and his gaze was drawn to the rise and fall of her breasts. He sucked in his own breath. And then she tilted her head back to look up at him with velvety dark brown eyes.

  “You saved my life,” she said. Her voice wavered. Her pink lips formed a slight smile. She was in shock, but so was he.

  For a moment, neither moved.

  The longer he looked at her, the more the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, the shouts of the merchants, the shoves of the pedestrians all faded, and he was only conscious of an irrational wish to kiss her.

  Brandon’s heart was pounding and his breath scarce . . . from his recent exertions, of course. It certainly wasn’t because of her full, luscious mouth.

  He told himself that his inability to breathe had nothing to do with her large brown eyes shadowed by dark lashes, and the way they widened as she looked at him.

  Her cheeks were pink, and he wondered if it was because of the sun, or something else?

  Brandon yearned to sink his fingers into the mass of dark, g
lossy ringlets framing her face, to urge her close enough so that he could kiss her.

  Here. Now. On one of the busiest streets in London.

  That had nothing to do with why his heart was thudding heavily.

  He could not lie—it had everything to do with it. He was . . . unfathomably, suddenly, and overwhelmingly entranced by this daydreaming girl who had nearly been trampled by a team of horses.

  “Where are we going, miss? I shall escort you,” Brandon said. It was clear she was a danger to herself and others, and thus, it was his duty as a gentleman to offer his protection. That, and he did not want to part with her just yet.

  “We are not going anywhere,” she answered, with an uneven smile. She still seemed a bit pale underneath that blush, almost feverish, and certainly still affected by her near-death experience. “Though I thank you for the offer. You’ve helped me so much already, I couldn’t possibly ask any more of you.”

  In his opinion, it was very clear that she desperately needed him.

  “Surely you are not rebuffing my chivalrous offer of assistance.” No one ever refused him anything. He was one of the most respected and powerful dukes in the land.

  But she didn’t know that, did she? No, she most likely did not. His lips curved into a smile. Once, just once, he would indulge and talk to the pretty girl as if he hadn’t a dozen reasons not to. What harm could come from an hour’s walk and conversation with her? It seemed likely that plenty of harm would come to her if he did not.

  “I abhor the thought of you putting yourself out any more on my account,” she said.

  “What if I phrased my offer anew? I’m looking for an excuse to stay outside as long as possible on this fine day.”

  “I am a bit distracted,” she admitted with a mischievous sparkle dawning in her eyes. “And I am feeling quite out of sorts, as you might imagine.”

  Of course. But was she also as stunned by him as he was by her?

  “It would be my pleasure to see you safely to your destination.”

  “Do you have a nefarious purpose in doing so?” She eyed him suspiciously, and it might have been the first time that anyone questioned his integrity. It was oddly thrilling. “Or are you really an honest gentleman intent upon helping a lady?”

  “I have nothing but noble intentions,” he recited. “I am a notoriously upstanding gentleman. However, if you prefer, I will procure a hackney for you. Or I shall leave you to your own devices.”

  Though he did not wish to, Brandon offered to let her go even though he was incredibly and inexplicably keen to remain in her company.

  “I should like to walk,” she said. And then she gave him a long, hard look as if she could determine his moral worth from that alone, and finally she nodded, and her lips formed a pretty little smile. “You may escort me if you wish, but only because you need an excuse to stay outside today and because I owe you a favor.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He understood that it was an incredibly delicate situation for a woman to accept the company of a man she did not know, and publicly. But he had just saved her life, and that had to count for something. He suspected she was thinking the same.

  And then there was something about her that begged for more of his attentions, and for this one hour he was not going to be a Perfect and Proper Gentleman.

  “Lead the way, my lady.”

  They started down Piccadilly, toward Regent Street, walking side by side and weaving their way through the masses of pedestrians crowding the streets.

  “It’s Miss Harlow, actually. Thank you again for saving me. I do believe that makes you my hero,” she said with a smile.

  “My pleasure. Call me Brandon,” he said. “I’m curious to know what has you so distracted.”

  “It has been one of those years, Mr. Brandon.” At that, she issued a heartfelt sigh, and once again, like a cad, his gaze settled upon the rise and fall of her breasts. He was sorry for her distress, but happy for the sigh.

  “You must explain, Miss Harlow,” he urged, more intrigued by her with each passing moment.

  “This time last year I nearly died from mortification, and just today I nearly died from my own stupidity.”

  Brandon laughed at that, and she smiled, too, but there was still something akin to sadness in her eyes.

  “Are you often found to be dashing about London, alone, and distracted—or is today a special occasion?” he asked.

  “Rest assured, it is not a habit of mine.”

  “Glad to hear it. Did you not at least bring a maid with you?”

  “I usually do, but circumstances did not permit it today,” she said, and she looked away. It was clear to him that she wasn’t just an idiotic female not attending to her surroundings. Something had upset her, sending her running.

  Brandon wanted to know what had happened, so he could solve the problem for her. He wanted to protect her, from anything and everything. And yet he didn’t even know her. He was not surprised when she changed the subject before he could offer to help her.

  “I hate to pry, but may I ask what you are avoiding at home?” she asked politely.

  “Women never hate to pry,” he answered truthfully, and she laughed. It was not the prettiest of laughs, but it was undoubtedly genuine and thus, a pleasure to hear.

  “True,” she conceded. “We only say so as to sound polite while we seek to unearth all your secrets. So tell me, Mr. Brandon, what are you avoiding at home?”

  “Balancing an accounts book,” he answered frankly. And drafting bills for Parliament, managing six estates, carrying the weight of the world.

  And a fiancée. One of the very good reasons why he should not be conversing with Miss Harlow. Lady Clarissa Richmond was a lovely person and would make a perfect duchess, but she did not intrigue him or arouse him the way this dark beauty beside him did. Of course, that is exactly why he proposed to Clarissa—she was not distracting or demanding, which was exactly what he wanted in a wife.

  Miss Harlow was merely a pleasant afternoon diversion.

  “Say no more, I beg of you. Shall we take the long way, Mr. Brandon?” She tilted her head to look up at him. The expression on her face was one of innocence, but the spark in her eyes was pure mischief. He grinned. He liked her. For one afternoon, he would be an imperfect gentleman and do exactly as he wished.

  “Let’s take the long way, Miss Harlow.”

  Chapter 3

  Still, after turning onto a quieter street and walking a block or two, Sophie’s heart was still beating at an outrageous pace. She ought to have gone back to the church to find Julianna and to take a hack home, but she could not bear to return to St. George’s.

  She really should not be walking around town with a strange man—and she never would, if it weren’t for a certain feeling about Mr. Brandon. The exact feeling could be summed up as: This one. She wanted to be with this man.

  It was too soon to be seriously entertaining thoughts of that nature, she told herself, so she ignored it as best she could.

  What a tumultuous morning!

  Her heart raced now, spurring on the sensation of butterflies in her stomach, as happens when one has survived such a dramatic encounter: near death! Romantic rescue! She wanted to laugh with glee, when less than an hour ago she had fought back tears of despair.

  Sophie glanced up at Mr. Brandon, and found him stealing a glance at her. He was taller than average, but rather than intimidating her, she felt protected. His hair was dark, and he avoided the fashionable tussled hairstyle in favor of something short. Mr. Brandon’s eyes were bright green, and flattered by his hunter green jacket. When he smiled at her—which he did often—there were slight lines at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t seem very old, but he did seem wise. Beyond all of that, her rescuer was an undeniably handso
me man.

  Sophie glanced up at Mr. Brandon—again, and found him stealing a glance at her—again. It was all so very shy, and exquisitely awkward, unbelievably sweet, and like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She had loved Matthew but he hadn’t made her heart race. Not like this.

  “Miss Harlow, I must warn you of something.” She peered at him curiously, for he was suddenly so serious. “We are approaching an intersection. Try not to rush headlong into it,” he said, and she laughed. She wanted a man who would make her laugh, instead of cry. Her heart beat strongly: This one.

  “Newssheets! Only seven pence!” cried a young man standing at the corner with a stack of newspapers.

  “Get yer copy of The London Weekly!” he hollered, this time to the captive audience of dozens of people waiting to cross the street, including Sophie and Brandon.

  “Do you read such rubbish, Miss Harlow? Or are you particular to The Times?”

  Sophie managed a tight smile while thinking, Oh, hell and damnation.

  Not only did she read The Weekly, but she wrote for it. She could not admit to that, nor could pride allow her to acknowledge The Times, archrival to her own paper, as worthy of her attentions. Nor did she wish to lie and say she did not read a paper at all. It would be horrible for Mr. Brandon to think her uninformed, or a fool. She so wanted to impress him.

  “I believe most of London reads that rubbish,” she said. When the path was clear, he pressed his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowds, and she experienced a shiver of pleasure.

  “That is the truth. The Weekly is the one with those scandalous Writing Girls, writing about yet more scandals?”

  “The very one,” Sophie answered, thinking that Mr. Knightly would love that description. “And what is your opinion of those scribbling women?” Everyone in town had something to say on the matter. She’d never been so keen to know what anyone thought until now.

  “I think it is scandalous, but far preferable to some of the other options available to a woman,” Brandon answered and Sophie smiled broadly. He would understand her chant of “seamstress or servant, governess or mistress.” She was about to tell him that she was one of those scandalous women writing about scandal, but then—