A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  “We shall have roses, of course. Perhaps gardenias as well,” Lady Richmond carried on as she paged through the books.

  Honestly, Sophie thought, they really oughtn’t take this so seriously. It’s merely one hour of one day.

  But then she chided herself because it was a special hour on a special day. If one was lucky enough to find someone to promise oneself to, the event should be honored and celebrated. She may have moments of pessimism, but she was a romantic at heart.

  Lady Richmond and Lady Hamilton chattered on about flowers while Clarissa agreed with everything—and Sophie thought that she really ought to pay attention because her work was surely going to suffer due to her romantic daydreaming.

  But then the conversation was put on hold, for the drawing room door opened, and Brandon entered in all his ducal glory.

  Sophie suddenly became very attentive. The room became warmer, the scent of the bouquet of flowers seemed stronger, her head felt slightly dizzy, and her heartbeat found an excited, uneven rhythm. She was so very glad that she had worn her best day dress for this moment, just in case, because one must always be prepared.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with a slight bow. When he caught her eye, there was something in his gaze that made her heart beat faster. “I hope I am not interrupting anything. I heard you were in attendance and I thought I’d say hello.”

  “We are considering flowers for the wedding,” Lady Richmond informed him, setting the book down on the table.

  “It is now fashionable to have arrangements that are both beautiful and meaningful, so we are consulting The Language of Flowers,” Sophie explained.

  “Flowers have a language?” Brandon asked, quite naturally perplexed. He sat down on the settee opposite his fiancée and smiled at her. Sophie picked up the book Lady Richmond had set down. It took all of her self-control to keep her hands from shaking due to a potent mixture of exhilaration and desire that must be kept secret.

  “Yes, it’s quite fascinating,” Sophie said, even though she didn’t really think so. It was all an excuse to converse with him on what was surely the only acceptable subject, given their company. “For example, were you aware that the spider flowers means ‘Elope with me’?”

  It was the closest she would ever come to suggesting an elopement to him, though the thought had certainly crossed her mind a time or twelve. It was the one way for her to be with him, without having to suffer through a wedding first. But that was all getting ahead of herself.

  He had only admitted to thinking of her, that was all.

  “I wasn’t even aware of the existence of a spider flower,” he answered, and all the ladies laughed.

  She saw another one that would amuse him, so she read it aloud: “ ‘The flower Bachelor’s Button means celibacy.’ ”

  Brandon laughed, and Lady Hamilton and Lady Richmond looked like they wanted to share his mirth. Clarissa blushed and twisted her betrothal ring around and around.

  “I think you are making this up,” Brandon declared.

  “Here, have a look at the book for yourself,” Sophie offered, leaning over and handing him the book. She thought she detected his eyes straying toward her bosom but did not think he would dare a glance in this company.

  As she straightened up, Sophie caught Lady Richmond’s narrowed eyes focused upon her. One brow arched up, questioningly. The duchesses pressed her lips into a frown of obvious disapproval.

  His glance had been noted. Any pleasure she might have experienced from it was severely diminished.

  “Ah, here we go: hyacinths, rhododendrons, and oak leaves,” Brandon said. Sophie glanced questioningly at Clarissa, who shrugged, indicating she didn’t know.

  “Translation?” Sophie asked.

  “If I’m doing this correctly, I believe that, taken together, it should mean ‘Beware, I am dangerous and brave at games and sports,’ ” Brandon said. All the ladies laughed uproariously at that. Sophie even needed her handkerchief to dab at her tears.

  “Wonderful for one of your fencing matches, Brandon, but perhaps not for the wedding,” Lady Hamilton suggested, but she was smiling at her son.

  “I concede your point. Let’s do another,” Brandon said, and then he flipped through the book again before offering another bouquet: “A gardenia, red camellia, and Heart’s Ease.”

  “I have no idea,” Lady Hamilton said.

  “Clarissa, do look it up,” her mother said. Brandon handed his fiancée the book and they exchanged bland but polite smiles—or so it seemed to Sophie.

  “ ‘You’re lovely, you’re the flame in my heart, and you occupy my thoughts,’ ” Clarissa read aloud. With her gaze on the page, Clarissa did not see “the look.”

  This was no fleeting glance. Brandon’s gaze found Sophie’s and settled there. Without words, with only the look in his eyes, she knew that she was lovely, the flame in his heart, and that she occupied his thoughts.

  “The color combinations would not work with the rest of the ceremony,” Lady Richmond said dismissively.

  But this had nothing to do with his wedding. It had everything to do with Sophie, and she knew it. Forcing herself to break the gaze, she looked around at the others and it was all too clear by their expressions that they suspected something untoward.

  Lady Richmond’s cool fury was disconcerting. But it was Lady Hamilton’s thoughtful expression, and Clarissa’s impassive face, that bothered Sophie most. In fact, she felt a wave of shame, for her feelings rebelled against her best intentions.

  The conversation returned to the matter of flowers. Blossoms were required for the bride’s bonnet, for her bouquet, for arrangements at the altar, and for the table at the wedding breakfast.

  Clarissa was not the slightest bit interested.

  Her attention was riveted by the rare and unusual presence of her fiancé. Previously, he had not volunteered to attend to the slightest detail relating to their wedding. Which was perfectly fine, because that was what one expected of a man with regard to weddings.

  It was now plain to Clarissa that her fiancé was not at all interested in flowers, weddings, or her—but that he only had eyes for Miss Sophie Harlow.

  It should bother me more than it did, Clarissa thought. She ought to be mad. She merely felt lonely.

  Clarissa watched the way Sophie easily made witty remarks, or cast warm sidelong glances toward Brandon. With Sophie, he was less of a duke, and more of a man. So much so, that her heart ached a little—because, Clarissa thought, If I could only be a bit like Sophie, her own fiancé might care for her more.

  But it did rankle that she could not bring that out in him. But she did not know how! He was so reserved, and she so shy, and her mother was constantly hovering. Clarissa hadn’t a prayer of flirting with her own fiancé. She wished for someone that would draw her out, because she didn’t know how to do it.

  It was silly to dwell upon all of this because she was going to marry him no matter what. It must be all that talk of love going to her brain, just like her mother had warned. People fell in love after marriages, and so it was perfectly fine if she did not love him now. It did not matter that she was so quiet and withdrawn around him, for eventually they would grow close. Or so she hoped.

  Clarissa could not simply declare that she thought those two would suit admirably, and she didn’t want to stand in the way of true love, and would they please marry each other and leave her free to . . . to what?

  Very few would wish to marry her after being jilted, and Clarissa suspected that her family was in desperate need of a fortune they had no way to procure other than by her marriage to a wealthy man.

  Everyone burst into laughter, and Clarissa rushed to join in, lest they notice that she had been woolgathering. She’d been doing that frequently of late. Ever since Lord Brandon asked her about love the other night, Clariss
a had dared to consider it.

  Could love happen to her? Could love end happily, unlike the tragic fate of dear, departed Aunt Eleanor? Or was it too late for her?

  “What do you think, Clarissa?” Lady Hamilton asked, and she was mortified to discover she had no clue what they were talking about.

  “Roses, orange blossoms, and tulips?” Sophie said, sensing her distress, and reminding Clarissa why she liked her.

  “I would like that,” Clarissa answered.

  “I was hoping you’d pick the other option,” her mother sniffed.

  “That would be nice as well,” Clarissa agreed, because that’s what she always did.

  As they were gathering their things to go, Clarissa noticed heated glances between Lord Brandon and Sophie. Clarissa knew that Lady Hamilton saw because of the sweet smile and the gentle squeeze of her hand. Her mother noticed, too, judging by her pursed lips and narrowed eyes—both a very bad sign.

  Chapter 16

  White’s Gentlemen’s Club

  Later that afternoon

  “A drink in the afternoon? Are you unwell?” Simon, Lord Roxbury, questioned his longtime friend upon finding him in one of the front rooms at the club, facing St. James Street.

  Lord Borwick, Lord Biddulph, and his unfortunately named friend Mitchell Twitchell were attempting to play whist—a four-person game—but otherwise the room was empty.

  “I have just spent the morning debating floral arrangements for my wedding,” Brandon answered as his friend slid into the leather seat opposite his. It might have been the first time he said my wedding, and the words were bitter.

  “My God, man! What in the blazes for? Leave that rot to the womenfolk.” Roxbury took a sip of his brandy and slouched deeply in his chair.

  Why? Because he knew Sophie would be there and could not resist the opportunity to see her. Plus, he thought that a visit with his fiancée would not be out of place. It was his hope that Clarissa would remind him of what he wanted—a cool, collected woman like her.

  But then he was drawn into an amusing conversation with Sophie, which he greatly enjoyed against his better judgment. She distracted him.

  He did want to marry Clarissa. He did not want to be perpetually distracted. And yet . . .

  “I have involuntarily developed an inconvenient, undeniable, and intense attraction to Miss Harlow,” Brandon explained.

  “Who is Miss Harlow?”

  “She reports on weddings for The London Weekly,” Brandon said. He did not expect Roxbury to own a familiarity with the wedding section of the newspaper. It’s likely that his butler clipped out that section before leaving the rest of the issue next to his breakfast plate.

  “So you are besotted with one of the Weekly wenches. Splendid,” Roxbury said with a smirk.

  “She is not a wench.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. You are simply panicking at the looming doom and gloom of matrimony. The thought of for better or for worse till death do you part is giving you a fright—which it ought to do if you are the slightest bit sane, or male.”

  “But why her? Why now?” Brandon wondered, sipping his brandy. He’d made it so long without any inappropriate or inconvenient passionate attachments.

  “Because you don’t pursue women, they have to come to you. And then this one just happens to turn up right when you are in a moment of panic about fidelity and matrimony and all those other dirty words,” Roxbury explained.

  “So you are saying that any woman would inspire such . . .” Brandon hesitated to use the word feelings. “Such interest, were she to appear in my life at this time?”

  “Precisely. I’m sure Miss Harlow is delightful and delectable,” Roxbury said, then paused.

  Oh, Roxbury had no idea of the numerous charms of his Writing Girl and, God willing, would remain ignorant.

  Roxbury continued: “But it’s all a matter of timing. Had you been unengaged, I wager you wouldn’t have looked twice at her.”

  Brandon thought of his list, Desirable Qualities in a Wife, and suspected that he never would have taken much notice of Miss Harlow. She was not what he wanted, and yet the attraction was present in an almost palpable way. Funny, that.

  “You know, your bachelor days are dwindling,” Roxbury pointed out. “Don’t squander the last, precious few.”

  “Are you suggesting that I embark on an affair with her?” Brandon took a large swallow of his brandy.

  Roxbury lifted his brow.

  “Point taken,” Brandon agreed, and took another sip.

  His friend knew less than nothing about matrimony, other than what he gleaned from the married women with whom he frequently wooed and bedded. But Roxbury did know a thing or two (or ten or twenty) about being a rake, having affairs, and all the highs and lows of living bachelor life to the fullest.

  And so, if Roxbury said that Brandon was merely panicking at the prospect of matrimony—even though he never panicked—he was slightly inclined to believe him.

  If Roxbury said that there was nothing especially attractive about Miss Harlow, other than her showing up at this particular moment—even though Brandon could list more than a few of the traits that made her very well suited to him—then he was inclined to believe him.

  Roxbury looked left, then right. When he had ascertained that Borwick, Biddulph, and Twitchell were immersed in their card game and not at all interested in their conversation, he leaned over the table and spoke quietly.

  “So have you . . . ?”

  “I am a faithful man, Roxbury.”

  “I suppose that I have committed enough indiscretions for us both,” he said, settling back in his seat.

  “I shall decline to comment,” Brandon said, adding a grin.

  “But in all honesty, Brandon, you have three options. Here’s a list for you, I know you like them: first, you can tup her, second you can abstain, third you can jilt your fiancée and see what happens with you and the Writing Girl.”

  “It is that simple, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. You’re spending too much time with women if you think there are thirty-nine different ways of examining a situation and twice as many courses of action,” Roxbury stated.

  Brandon laughed at this. He had sisters and he had endured many such conversations.

  “Now, I have need of your advice,” Roxbury said. “Lady Derby is under the impression that I am to attend your wedding with her.”

  “And the problem?”

  “Lady Belmont assumes that I shall attend your wedding with her,” Roxbury said, looking slightly sheepish to be caught bedding not one widow, but two.

  “And you need help to decide which one?” Brandon asked.

  “Or you could tell me how I could get out of attending with either of them. Attending such an event with a lady implies a level of commitment I couldn’t possibly follow through with.”

  “Yes, and I suppose it would ruin their friendship if you were to publicly attend with one of them and not the other,” Brandon said.

  “Actually, they are already mortal enemies. It’s perfect for my plans. I know they won’t talk to each other and discover that I am visiting each of their beds on alternating evenings,” Roxbury said with a giant grin.

  “I am appalled,” Brandon stated. “On second thought, knowing you, I’m not shocked in the slightest. In fact, it shows a streak of intelligence.”

  “Someone must compensate for your excessively perfect behavior,” Roxbury said. “So how do I get out of it?”

  “I couldn’t say. But I might ask you to be my best man only so that you cannot plead illness and skip the ceremony.”

  “Devious bastard,” Roxbury said, but he was smiling.

  Brandon walked home from the club. It was a beautiful, warm day not unlike the one in which he had met Sophie. P
erhaps, if he could just retrace his steps, he could find the moment when the path turned from the perfectly straight and narrow one he had been traveling on to this increasingly winding, tangled road of conflicting thoughts and—damn it—feelings.

  Clarissa was everything he wanted in a wife. With her, he would enjoy a quiet, calm, unperturbed existence. He would care for her, but he would never love her, and thus he would be safe from devastation should he lose her.

  Adventure was for novels, not for every day.

  But Sophie called to him. She managed, with a witty retort or a flash of her eyes, to make him laugh. She was like a spark of light, revealing the darkness he usually existed in—and bringing Brandon Before back again. And then, of course, there was the undeniable fact that he wished to seduce her and to possess her in the most exquisite, earthly way.

  He did not own such feelings for anyone else.

  Brandon suspected that Roxbury might be wrong—it wasn’t just any woman at this deuced inconvenient time, it was Sophie. Either way, an affair was out of the question. As was jilting Clarissa. He was a man of honor and a man of his word. The contracts had been signed and the betrothal publicly celebrated. There was no backing out now.

  Chapter 17

  Fourteen days before the wedding . . .

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  The wedding of the Marquis of Winchester and Lady Victoria, daughter of Lord Selby, rivaled Brandon and Clarissa’s for the title of Wedding of the Year. The groom was a well-respected marquis; the bride was the daughter of an earl. It was also a love match.

  As was her custom, Sophie sat at the end of a pew, toward the wall, not the center aisle where the bride would pass by, so that she could easily flee if necessary.

  Julianna accompanied her, as she often did, partially to gather material for her own column, and partially to comfort Sophie.

  “No need to get upset just yet,” Julianna told her. But Sophie was already nervous. Seamstress or servant, governess or mistress . . .