A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  Very well, she was not talking about a dress. Lady Hamilton hadn’t been talking about the dress, either. The fact remained that one could not ask for another woman’s dress, or fiancé.

  “What are you going to do?” Sophie asked.

  Please say you’ll jilt him. Please say you’ll jilt him . . .

  “What can I do?” Clarissa asked with a shrug, eyeing her mother who was on the far side of the shop examining different fabrics.

  “I couldn’t say,” Sophie responded, even though she thought of a dozen things. For starters, Clarissa might cry off, or she might simply elope, or she might refuse to marry a man she did not love. She could not voice any of those options. Sophie was acutely aware of her place, and the limited liberties attending it.

  “The contracts have been signed, and even if I were daring enough to speak to Lord Brandon, my parents would . . . make things very difficult for me.”

  “I see,” Sophie said. It was as plain as day: Sophie ought to steel her nerves and harden her heart, for in nine days’ time, Clarissa was going to marry Lord Brandon, even though she loved another.

  How she could do that boggled Sophie’s mind. But she remembered a conversation between the Duke and Duchess of Richmond that she had overheard. They needed funds. Brandon had plenty. Their daughter was all they had to trade.

  Still . . . there was a glimmer of hope! If Brandon was the one to end things—if the most honorable, trustworthy, notoriously upstanding gentleman would just break off a very public engagement . . .

  It was an unlikely prospect, Sophie grudgingly admitted.

  “And if he were to break things off with me, I’m certain my parents would sue for breach of contract,” Clarissa said, continuing to hammer nails into the coffin bearing Sophie’s hopes and dreams for a loving marriage with Lord Brandon.

  “Scandalous,” Sophie managed. A broken engagement, and a subsequent lawsuit would mean that the Wedding of the Year had become the Scandal of the Decade. Reputations did not recover from incidents of that magnitude.

  Sophie could not expect the most obedient girl in the world to suddenly disobey when the stakes were that high, nor would a Perfect Gentleman like Brandon risk the blow to his finances and reputation.

  Her situation was hopeless, and she wanted to cry.

  “Very scandalous,” Clarissa echoed. After ascertaining that her mother had gone into a dressing room and was thus out of earshot, she abruptly changed the subject: “Did you know that Frederick speaks six languages? Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “Yes,” Sophie said, because it was the thing to say to a girl in the first blush of romance.

  Clarissa selected some pastries for herself, and when she removed her gloves, Sophie noticed her very ink-stained fingers.

  “Letters to Frederick. My mother thinks I am corresponding with my cousin in Bath,” Clarissa explained. The she proceeded to speak of all the things she was learning about him that she adored, only concluding when her mother emerged, intent on departure.

  As Lady Richmond’s gloves were buttoned up by two of Madame Auteuil’s girls, she issued instructions: the carriage was to be brought round, and Clarissa was to don her bonnet.

  Then the duchess turned to Sophie.

  “Oh, and Miss Harlow, we will be meeting to discuss the menu for the wedding breakfast. I will have a copy sent to you for your column. You need not attend.”

  The shop door slammed shut behind her.

  That was not good.

  Obviously, she and Brandon had not been discreet enough during their interactions: laughing together during the meeting about flowers, flirting openly at the musicale, shamelessly making eyes at each other as they danced, and then nearly kissing in an alcove at a ball.

  This was not good at all.

  In fact, it was very troubling and Sophie anxiously mulled it over as she began the walk home.

  White’s Gentlemen’s Club

  Brandon’s intentions were to proceed directly from Parliament to the archbishop, but he took a detour by way of White’s. He found a seat in the front room, near the famous bow window. And then, instead of coffee, he had brandy. Rather than silence, he accepted Roxbury’s company.

  Thus, he drank in the afternoon, kept company with persons of dubious morals, and lusted after unsuitable women—all to prove to himself that he could be a bit rakish, a bit dangerous, and not at all dull.

  “How fares the grand plans for the wedding of the year?” Roxbury asked.

  “I am happy to say that I know not,” Brandon said, taking a sip.

  “The lengths a man will go to for a woman! I thought duels might be the worst of it, but to endure a discussion on flowers . . .” said Roxbury with a grin.

  “That is behind us now, thank God.”

  “And what of your infatuation with the Writing Girl? Actually, I see that you are drinking brandy in the afternoon, so I know exactly how things stand.”

  “I’m eager to hear it.”

  “Your attraction to her is becoming so strong that you are beginning to crack under the strain of suppressing it,” Roxbury stated.

  “For someone who has never indulged in a deeper emotion or thought in your life, that was remarkably perceptive and astute,” Brandon conceded.

  “Because I live my life to avoid the pressures of restraint, I’ve learned to identify the symptoms in others to ensure I never suffer the same,” Roxbury declared.

  “Congratulations,” Brandon said. “And how is your dilemma? Any closer to resolution?”

  “No. I have thus far managed to avoid a definitive answer whenever Lady Belmont or Lady Derby asks me about escorting them to your wedding. But either way I’m doomed. I suppose I shall have to break it off with both of them, but just before the ceremony . . .”

  “Oh, the troubles you have.”

  “Identical to yours. Deciding between two females,” Roxbury mused. “It could be worse.”

  “My decision has already been made,” Brandon declared. “The contracts have been signed.”

  With that fact already burning in his gut, he downed the rest of his drink. “And now, I have account books to manage.”

  “Duty calls. At the very least, you are drunk for it. You’ll be as debauched as the rest of us in no time at all,” Roxbury called after him as he walked out of the club and headed toward Hamilton House.

  Chapter 25

  Had it only been three weeks ago that Sophie was walking this same route with Brandon? Already so much had changed. The weather was significantly warmer, for one thing. Then there were her feelings for Brandon, growing hotter and more intense by the day.

  They were also more obvious about their affection for each other—dangerously so. Lady Richmond clearly noticed. Naturally, she did not approve and definitely was not going to sit idly by and hope that things proceeded accordingly to plan.

  Sophie suffered a tremor of fear. If she lost this story, she could lose her column.

  If she lost her column, she would lose her livelihood.

  She could sum up her declining fortunes thusly: from jilted girl, to Writing Girl, to servant girl.

  Her stomach ached at the prospect. When she came upon an apothecary, Sophie paused. Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections was on display in the window and she wondered if solving all her problems was as simple as taking a sip of the strange blue potion.

  “Miss Harlow!”

  She looked around to see who might have called her name. Then she saw Brandon, standing taller than everyone else and striding purposely in her direction. Her heart gave a little lurch of excitement, mingled with panic.

  What if Lady Richmond saw them? She could still be in the vicinity.

  No, she’d be gone by now. At any rate, Sophie could not ignore him, a
nd could not pass by what might be one of her last chances to be with him.

  “Hello. Fancy meeting you here. Again,” she said, holding her gloved hand up to her eyes to block the sun. She could see only his face with the bright sun shining behind him, as if he were an angel with a halo. It was only slightly misleading.

  Then she noticed something was amiss with him.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine, why do you ask?” he asked, looking perplexed.

  “Your cravat is not stunningly perfect,” she pointed out. In fact it was barely tied, and hung limply around his neck. Still, he managed to appear ducal. He grinned and his green eyes were bright in the sunlight.

  “Call the Bow Street runners,” Brandon deadpanned. “I lacked the time, energy, and motivation to be perfect this morning,”

  “How I wish I had been there to witness that. A first.”

  “Jennings was horrified. I hope he’s sufficiently recovered,” Brandon said, and then he added: “Enough of this standing about. I shall walk you home.”

  “Oh, really?” she asked pertly.

  “Really,” Brandon said firmly.

  “It led to a bit of trouble last time you did,” she reminded him, thinking that “a bit of trouble” was a tremendously inadequate phrasing.

  “What’s a little more?” he asked, lifting one brow.

  If only you knew, Sophie thought.

  “Account books again?” Sophie guessed. She started walking and Brandon fell in step beside her. As they walked toward Bloomsbury, Sophie relaxed in the safety the swarms of pedestrian traffic offered.

  “Yes, after a long day in Parliament,” he answered, and she was pleased to know him so well, though that made their looming separation harder to fathom.

  “What great matters of state were debated today?” she asked. She didn’t want to discuss their situation now, not on a pleasant walk on a lovely summer day.

  “The Marriage Act,” he said with a grimace.

  “There is no escaping it, is there? Weddings and marriages everywhere,” Sophie said. And to herself, she sang a little tune: Weddings, weddings everywhere and not a groom for me.

  “Bloody hell,” Brandon swore, and stopped short. A pedestrian grumbled and he dodged him. She turned around to look back at him, perplexed.

  “Oh? And now you are swearing before a lady!” Sophie chided him. “I am shocked. Why were you swearing just now anyway?”

  “I intended to apply to the archbishop about the special license today,” answered Brandon.

  Her heart flip-flopped. He meant to go, which meant that he still intended to marry Clarissa. And yet, he was not at the archbishop’s office but walking with her.

  How in the world was a girl to make sense of his intentions? She opened her mouth to demand that he declare his intentions but then he spoke:

  “Instead, I had a drink at the club,” he confessed.

  “How debauched of you,” Sophie teased. A serious conversation loomed and she wasn’t ready for the resulting heartache.

  “It’s a whole new me,” Brandon stated.

  “I like the new you. I liked the old you, too,” Sophie said as they paused at an intersection to allow carriages to pass.

  Brandon lightly grasped her arm to hold her back and keep her safe. She was reminded of their first encounter, and wondered if she could count on him to save her a second time, should she lose her column because of what was happening between them.

  When the road was clear, Brandon gave his arm to an elderly woman and assisted her across the street. Clearly, he had not been completely corrupted. He was still a Good Man.

  “What brought you to this part of town?” Brandon asked after the elderly woman thanked him profusely before entering a shop.

  “Wedding dress fittings,” she said plainly, watching him closely for his reaction, as if that might reveal anything about his intentions.

  “Fascinating,” Brandon said dryly. She understood that he did not wish to talk about it. She didn’t, either—if only she could stop thinking about it, too!

  “Not particularly,” Sophie remarked. “Although, I do like looking at all the gorgeous gowns at Madame Auteuil’s, and do wish Knightly would allow me to write about fashions instead of weddings.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “Not yet. My columns have proven to be too popular to discontinue, but my patience with other people’s weddings is coming to an end.” And it was his that was pushing her over the edge, and might just be the end of her—the column and her writing career.

  Sophie bit her lip nervously. She didn’t love attending weddings, but she did love everything else about her position at the paper. She loved the sense of purpose and satisfaction that came from her job. She loved the Writing Girls and she respected Mr. Knightly. She loved being a part of something bigger than herself. She even enjoyed the writing—except for when she had to write about certain weddings.

  “And what of a wedding of your own, Sophie?” Brandon asked, turning to look at her. Sophie smiled faintly and resisted the urge to say, “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  “My catastrophic failure of a wedding? Or a future one?”

  “How bad was it?” he asked with a faint grimace.

  “My former fiancé’s face was unrecognizable, thanks to my brother’s fist. My mother was more upset about the torn Harlow veil, which my intended used to stop his fall by grabbing a handful of the lace. Mrs. Beaverbrooke’s hat was ruined because the cat jumped onto her head when Matthew stepped on her paw as he stumbled, then fell. A baby was crying, too, I think. All for a widow named Lavinia that Matthew met at the pub.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Brandon said. But he sounded oddish. Sophie peered at him curiously. His mouth was pressed into a firm line and he was staring straight ahead.

  “Are you laughing?” she asked, aghast.

  “I’m trying not to,” he choked out.

  “Guests were standing on the pews to gain a better view of the brawl,” Sophie said deliberately to taunt him.

  Brandon burst out laughing. He paused, bent over with his hands on his knees, and laughed even harder. Again, pedestrians speeding on their way grumbled and cursed at his sudden stop and his blocking of their path.

  “I fail to see the humor in this. I would so love an explanation when you have recovered yourself,” Sophie declared.

  “It’s just that . . .”

  “Take your time. Really there is no rush at all,” she said as people jostled around her.

  “Very well. Sophie, what you have described to me is so utterly horrific.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “It’s so horrific, horrible, and the stuff of farce and tragedy. It’s so bloody awful, and you survived it, and now the only thing to do is laugh at it. Laugh, because you have emerged strong, brave, beautiful, lovely, wonderful, and spectacular from an experience that would have destroyed a lesser person.”

  For a stunned moment, she just stood there, further blocking pedestrian traffic while she enjoyed a revelation.

  “I have, haven’t I?” Sophie said with awe. Truly, that interpretation of the situation had never occurred to her. All this time she had pitied herself for what had happened, how she had suffered, and what she now had to endure as a wedding columnist.

  In truth, she was blessed not only for narrowly dodging a man who would not have been faithful to her, but also because she had an amazing life now. She had been brave to start anew in London rather than hide in Chesham, brave to take on a scandalous profession, and, she thought with a deep glance at Brandon—brave to love again.

  But could she rebuild her life again, if she lost him, and her position at the paper? Where did a girl go after making history and stealing the heart of a duke?

>   “Look at you—a beautiful woman taking London by storm,” he continued. “You write for the most popular newspaper in town. A girl from a small town is now a society darling. You’re making history. Seducing dukes . . .”

  “Yes, the Duke of Radley did succumb to my charms,” she retorted.

  The Duke of Radley was rumored to prefer his own sex.

  Brandon laughed. She always made him laugh. It was her favorite sound in the world. And besides, it was necessary to make a joke because if he kept going on about how wonderful she was, Sophie feared she might start bawling, and perhaps even propose to him herself.

  How could he say such things and still intend to marry Clarissa?

  Honestly, it confounded the mind and tormented the heart.

  “So are we going see more debauched, rakish, and scandalous behavior from you?” Sophie asked, changing the subject. Now was not the time to ask him whom he intended to marry. There probably isn’t any point in asking, she thought, in light of the conversation with Clarissa.

  “I did do one other thing today that was not in keeping with the typical behavior of a perfect duke, such as myself,” Brandon confessed.

  “And modest,” she added.

  “Yes, I am the most modest, perfect duke in England,” he said. “Except that I didn’t quite pay attention in Parliament today.”

  Sophie burst out laughing. Of all the debauched and nefarious activities one could do—seduce virgins; wager and lose fortunes; commit robbery, murder, or arson; excessive drunkenness—his sinful behavior was a lack of attentiveness.

  “What distracted you?” she asked. Her heart began to pound.

  “I was thinking about you,” Brandon confided.

  Her pleasure at this news was tempered by the fact that it might be her downfall.

  “Thank goodness they were only discussing the Marriage Act and not something truly important, like labor laws or feeding the poor,” Sophie remarked lightly.

  “That would be taking this too far,” he conceded. And then he grinned and she couldn’t help but smile in return.

  The moment was bittersweet. She wanted nothing more than to laugh and chatter with him, and yet she knew a Serious Discussion was in order. But the words that would ask him to declare his intentions stuck in her throat so she could only smile, laugh, and try to forget that the wedding was little more than a week away.