A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  Brandon saw her home safely to Bloomsbury Place. Sophie began to wonder if it would be up to her to stop the wedding—for it was clear that neither Brandon nor Clarissa would—or if she would allow this love to slip away.

  Chapter 26

  Eight days before the wedding . . .

  Things Brandon would prefer to do rather than attend the theater with the Richmonds:

  1. Be with Sophie.

  2. Balance his account books on a perfect summer day.

  3. Be with Sophie.

  4. Swim across the Channel in December.

  5. Be with Sophie.

  And yet, despite his wishes, he found himself in the carriage with the Richmonds en route to Drury Lane for a play—which one, he neither knew nor cared not.

  Clarissa’s father dominated the conversation in the carriage. The Duke of Richmond was horse-mad, however his passion was not for the exciting sport of racing but the more scientific aspect of breeding. That very few people cared to discuss, at length, the mating habits of horseflesh did not concern him.

  “My favorite mare, Magnolia, has been demonstrating all the signals that she is ready to mate,” Richmond said. “Do you know what those signals are, son?”

  The duke called him son, which rankled. First, because he wasn’t Richmond’s progeny; and secondly, because he feared that this aged duke viewed him as the son he never had.

  It was that lack of an heir that was part of the problem. Clarissa was the last of the Richmond line. By special arrangements with the king, the title would be allowed to pass through her to her firstborn son, who would be the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon and Richmond. A triple duke.

  It had seemed like a powerful maneuver at the time. Now Brandon wondered if one title might be sufficient.

  “Really, Reginald, this is not the time,” his wife said.

  “Nonsense! Of course Brandon is interested in breeding. All young men are!” Here the duke chuckled heartily. “Now, do you know the signals?”

  “I confess that I do not.”

  “Magnolia has been raising her tail to reveal her lady parts, if you understand me,” Richmond said with a grin, and another chuckle.

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake,” Lady Richmond sighed with exasperation. Though he couldn’t be sure in the dim light, Brandon suspected that Clarissa was blushing furiously.

  “My stallion, Samson, has been showing interest in her by nipping, nudging, that sort of thing. Now, I had planned to breed her with Lord Carrington’s stallion, but considering Samson’s interest, I might just have to revise my plans! After all, his stamina with her coloring would make for a splendid mount. On the other hand . . .” The Duke of Richmond went on.

  Brandon now understood why the Duchess of Richmond spent so much of her time at public functions without her husband. For the first time, his feelings toward her were not of horror or annoyance, but understanding verging on sympathy. Her husband all but ignored her, leaving her with nothing to attend to but her social calendar and daughter.

  The duke’s monologue, at least, allowed them a respite from idle chatter. Clarissa still had that glow, making him wonder if she had planned an assignation with her dear, dear von Venerable tonight at the theater. Lady Richmond stared out the window of the carriage—out of his carriage, actually. Unable to afford repairs, theirs was not in any condition to be taken out unless life or limb depended upon it, and then one ought to say their prayers.

  But they had a splendid team of matching carriage horses.

  If it wasn’t horses, the Duke of Richmond wasn’t interested. Carriage maintenance, ancestral estates, and personal relationships were not given his notice.

  “Ah, we have arrived,” the Duchess said with unconcealed relief, and fifteen minutes later they were seated in Brandon’s box at the theater and scanning all the other attendees.

  “There is Lady Endicott with Lady Carrington—they told me they were going to be here. I must go say hello at intermission. And Lord and Lady Brookmore, too. Oh that Prince of Bavaria is here, too, with the Marquis and Marchioness of Winchester. They must be back from their honeymoon already!”

  “Miss Harlow is here, too,” Clarissa mentioned. Brandon snapped to attention and began searching for her.

  “Indeed,” Lady Richmond remarked with notable disdain. Brandon eyed her curiously.

  Clarissa, seemingly oblivious, said, “I should like to visit her at intermission.”

  “She’s beneath us, Clarissa,” Lady Richmond said, and that was that apparently.

  It was interesting that the duchess’s favor should have diminished so markedly. It was, after all, her idea to involve Sophie. Brandon suspected he knew precisely why her sentiments had changed.

  He did not hide his interest in someone else as well as he ought. Neither, he noted, did his fiancée. Clarissa was currently beaming in the direction of von Vennigan.

  One could snub a reporter, but not a prince.

  In spite of this recent realization, Brandon continued his search for Sophie.

  He saw that she was not alone.

  In fact, she was with a dandy wearing an embarrassing fuchsia waistcoat and numerous rings that sparkled when he gestured as he spoke. His hair was messy, but Brandon supposed it was deliberately shaggy and tousled, and wondered if he hadn’t better things to do with his time.

  But such thoughts paled when he saw that Sophie was laughing at something the sissy fop had said.

  Brandon was halfway out of his seat before he realized it.

  “Are you going somewhere? The play is just about to start!” Lady Richmond said, lowering her binoculars.

  “I’m just getting comfortable,” he said, settling into his seat. He had been on the verge of storming over there and brawling with that sorry excuse for a man, to rescue Sophie from him, as if she needed it.

  As if he had claim to do so.

  As if he wasn’t sitting next to his betrothed, with her family. As if that wasn’t the behavior of a lunatic, or a man in the throes of passion.

  He was neither. He was a Duke and a Civilized Gentleman.

  Sophie placed her hand on the man’s arm—a gesture of affection. She wore elbow-length white satin gloves. Brandon yearned to strip them off, one by one. That midnight blue dress she wore would look so much better on the floor.

  She said something that made her companion laugh.

  Brandon nearly growled and his hands balled into fists. He was on the verge of conducting himself like an irrationally, besotted, uncontrolled fool. Ridiculous.

  “Oh, and I see Lord and Lady Bickford, too!” Lady Richmond cried out, delighted.

  “Indeed? I’ve been meaning to talk to him about breeding one of my Highland ponies with his,” Richmond said.

  This was intolerable. This—the name-dropping, the horse breeding, the fiancée infatuated with one of the few men in the world that outranked him—this could not possibly be his reality. But it was, and his future, too.

  However, he was not a man who pined, or lamented, or bemoaned unfortunate situations. Something had to be done.

  Sophie peered over the edge of the box at the rabble in the pit below. She counted three scuffles, one bout of fisticuffs, and four women of seemingly negotiable affection plying their trade. English audiences were notorious at the theater for having no manners to speak of. Well, the aristocrats in their boxes were well mannered, perhaps, but not those down below.

  Alistair Grey, theater reviewer for The Weekly, and her host for the evening, focused his attentions on the higher classes. Julianna, who had also joined them this evening, was trolling for gossip in the lobby.

  They were there for a performance of The Rivals, by Sheridan, featuring their friends Jocelyn Kemble and Julian Gage.

  “By the way, darling, your duke is here,” Alistair remarke
d.

  “Where?” she asked excitedly, and quickly scanned the crowds looking for him. She hadn’t known he would be here tonight. He hadn’t mentioned it when they walked together yesterday. In fact, there was much he hadn’t told her, such as whom he might marry.

  “Front and center. Where else do dukes sit at the theater?” he replied.

  “Oh, I see him!” She couldn’t help but smile as she suddenly felt warmer from his heated gaze. Just knowing he was here made the evening more magical.

  “And he sees you,” Alistair said, for the duke was clearly gazing intently in her direction. “I expect you shall make eyes at each other all evening. You won’t attend to a second of the play.”

  “I’ll read the review,” Sophie responded without looking away from Brandon. Even from a distance, across a crowded room, he had a mesmerizing effect on her.

  “Are you suggesting that my columns are so amazing that they can replace the actual experience of seeing the play?” Alistair asked.

  “Yes, precisely,” she agreed. The mention of his column made her think of her own, and how it might not exist for much longer. She was staring at the potential demise of Miss Harlow’s High Life. She did not want to think of it right now.

  “You are ridiculously and outrageously infatuated,” he declared.

  “He’s so handsome,” Sophie said with a sigh. Alistair trained his binoculars upon the duke and after a second replied with a brief, “Yes.”

  The duke of Hamilton and Brandon was, by all accounts, undeniably handsome.

  “I get butterflies around him,” Sophie confessed, turning and touching her palm to Alistair’s arm for emphasis.

  “The hallmark of true love,” Alistair remarked dryly. She laughed, but it didn’t last long.

  “He’s with the Richmonds,” Sophie said forlornly.

  “I see that.”

  “He’s always going to sit with the Richmonds at the theater. Never with me.” She hated to acknowledge that. It was difficult not to, given that it was right before her eyes, for the whole world to see.

  “Men take their mistresses to the theater all the time,” Alistair remarked flippantly.

  “Alistair—I’m not! I wouldn’t! I won’t!” That jolted Sophie away from her mooning over Brandon, and she gave Alistair her full attention.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. I was not minding what I said. I didn’t mean it. I know you, and that you would never enter into such a situation. And as for Lord Brandon—”

  “He would never, which is one of the things that I adore about him,” Sophie said firmly. It was. He was the reliable, honest man she had sought.

  “He is a notoriously upstanding gentleman,” Alistair agreed.

  Perhaps even too upstanding, she thought.

  “Did you know that we had the perfect moment for a kiss and he wouldn’t do it? He wanted to. I wanted him to. But he is an honorable man, so nothing occurred.”

  “Of course. Honestly, Sophie, I don’t think that. But I just saw Wainthrope with his mistress—look they’re over there, on the left, and so it was on my mind and . . .” Alistair looked truly pained to have offended her.

  “I know. It’s just that as the wedding looms, I become more and more nervous. What we have is electric, Alistair. I feel so much for him! I think that he can’t possibly marry Clarissa, yet I don’t see any other outcome. Can you?”

  “Oh, all sorts of things could happen, darling,” Alistair said with a reassuring pat on her hand.

  “Such as?” Sophie asked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

  “Lady Clarissa could be abducted, or run off with a footman. It could be discovered that she had a secret baby. He would be obligated to cry off at that point. You might discover that he is a terrible kisser, which would significantly dampen your affections for him. There could be another great fire causing the destruction of half of London and her population. Anything could happen, Sophie.”

  “You are ridiculous. If she’ll run off with anyone it will be von Vennigan, not a footman,” Sophie retorted.

  “I have consoled you. Excellent. Now shush and let me attend to the drama on stage.”

  Julianna, wearing a stunning bronze silk, returned just then, slipping into her seat on the other side of Alistair at the last possible moment. The curtains parted and the play began. Sophie did not attend to a second of it. How could she when there was a drama unfolding right before her eyes, and of which she was a principal player? The man of her dreams was just over there, and he was looking at her with longing, pent-up passion, and self-restraint on the verge of breaking.

  She responded in kind, and marveled how he could be so close—just there, on the other side of the theater, that was all—and yet so very far away from her.

  The box she sat in was owned by her employer—one who might fire her. Brandon owned his. She attended with her fellow newspaper reporters. Brandon sat with a duke, a duchess, and his fiancée. Sometimes, when she thought of what separated them—his obligations, his fiancée, his honor, and social status—it all seemed hopeless.

  Instead of walking home with Brandon yesterday, she really ought to have gone into the apothecary, purchased Wright’s potion, and consumed it all at once.

  But she didn’t, and so she thought the magical connection and sweet understanding between them was palpable. She confided in him, he in her, and she felt that she knew him and he knew her like no one else. The mere touch of their hands sustained her as she dreamed of kisses and giving herself to him completely.

  Whatever was between them was too good, too rare, too sublime to relinquish. Yet it seemed like there was no alternative, for though he flirted with her, he still spoke of his intentions to marry Clarissa.

  She watched as he stood and exited his box. Her heart began to beat faster in anticipation. Would he come to her?

  Chapter 27

  “Sophie.” Brandon murmured her name from the dark recesses of the box. The sound of his voice sent her heart racing and she savored a small measure of triumph. He had come for her, and he was calling for her.

  “Ah, young love,” Alistair remarked. Julianna scowled.

  She reminded herself to distance herself from him—for the sake of her column, and for her own good. It was easier said than done. At the moment, her career and her survival was the last thing on her mind. Brandon was here, for her.

  Sophie slid into the shadows to meet him without a second thought. It was so dark, but slowly her eyes adjusted enough so that she might discern his outline. It was utter madness to be here with him. Lady Richmond could note their absences and then she might . . .

  “Sophie,” he whispered her name again, and all thoughts vanished save for This One.

  Brandon was so tall, so strong, and, in this confined space, overwhelming with his masculinity. Her imagination took over, offering all sorts of wicked activities they might engage in. It was dark, so he could not see her blush, and she was glad.

  She wanted this—the intimacy, the touch, the triumph of him coming to her. But it was dangerous, and she acknowledged that. Her heart was long gone, but they had been so good so far, and to be alone with him in the dark tempted all sorts of wickedness.

  “Sophie,” he murmured again, sliding his arm around her waist. She raised her palms defensively against his chest, and felt the steady pounding of his heart. Her own heart was beating at a feverish pace.

  “What do you want?” she whispered to him, because it would not do to be overheard.

  “Who is that man you are with?” he asked in a low, commanding voice.

  In the dark, she smiled, as the truth dawned on her.

  “Jealous?” she asked coyly.

  “Yes,” he admitted with a rush of breath across her neck that was unbelievably erotic.

  Though she hadn’t any intention of using
Alistair thusly, she could not deny the delight she felt to know that Brandon was feeling something akin to what she regularly suffered every time she saw him with Clarissa: a soul-consuming, heartbreaking envy.

  He needn’t be jealous, but she did not tell him that. Alistair was V.S.I.C.P.Q.: Very Safe in Carriages, Probably Queer. But that was none of Brandon’s business and, frankly, not something she wished to discuss presently.

  She decided not to allay his fears—let him be jealous!

  “What are you doing here? You belong elsewhere,” she said softly. Brandon’s warm hand splayed across her lower back, and pressed her against him, as if to say no, he belonged here, with her. If the way her nerves vibrated with pleasure at his touch was any indication, her body thought so, too.

  “You belong to someone else,” she whispered fiercely, to remind him as much as herself.

  “I cannot stay away,” he confessed, and she melted against him a little more. She would give herself to him in a heartbeat—if he would do the same, in an honorable way.

  “You have to,” she managed. “Unless . . .”

  She felt him stiffen against her.

  Lady Richmond undoubtedly had her binoculars trained on Sophie’s empty seat. It would not escape her notice that Brandon was gone, too.

  It was one thing to lose her heart and quite another to lose her means of support. She did not want to be a seamstress or servant, governess or mistress—even to Brandon. She had entertained the thought, and dismissed it. When all was said and done, though she loathed weddings, she loved being a Writing Girl.

  She also loved this man, and had from the start.

  Brandon’s hand caressed her lower back, and slid lower and pressed her closer. She could feel his arousal pressing against her skirts between her legs. Her lips parted, but no sound came forth.