A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

  She also wondered how long it would take for Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections to work; thus far, it seemed to be completely ineffective for she could think of nothing but Brandon, her love for him, and her desperate wish that he might love her enough to leave Clarissa.

  If he loved her, he might make the sacrifices necessary to be with her.

  Time was slowly laboring on until she was to meet him at the grove at eight o’clock. But from there, it would be easy to slip away unnoticed from the massive crowds attending the debut of a new opera. They would leave the public areas in favor of the more private garden walkways.

  Arm and arm, Lord Brandon and Sophie strolled through the dimly lit, dangerous, and seductive paths of Vauxhall. They spoke of love, but it was not exactly romantic.

  “I have reviewed the contract,” Brandon began, and she did not need to ask which one. Her heartbeat and her breath were suspended, awaiting his next words.

  “And?” she queried. It was all she could manage to say. She peered up at him, but Brandon faced straight ahead, not meeting her glance—and she knew, just knew . . .

  Her stomach twisted into a knot. Damn useless potion.

  “It’s complicated, Sophie,” Brandon said.

  “I see,” she said, waiting and hoping for him to say, “However, there is a way . . .”

  Instead, Brandon rambled on about how so much depended on the value of his word, and his reputation as a man of honor. He pointed out that many people depended upon his sound, sober judgment.

  “No wild bouts of passion for you, then?” She had to tease him; the alternative was to weep and her eyes were already hot with tears. He would not be with her!

  “No,” he answered, sounding surprisingly forlorn.

  “No staying up late, drinking copious amounts of brandy, and writing fevered poetry?” she went on. Must not cry, she cautioned herself.

  “You know how I feel about poetry,” he said dryly. She laughed, a little, because she did know that and Clarissa probably didn’t, and for some idiotic reason he wasn’t going to marry the woman who knew him, who belonged with him.

  They continued to walk, passing by other couples or small groups, and Sophie carried on with her list of Things He Would Never Do: “No waltzing through a public square, or brawling in the streets, or shouting your love from the rooftops?”

  “It would be utterly unseemly,” Brandon stated.

  “But wonderful all the same,” she replied, sighing. “Except, perhaps, for the brawling.”

  “And except for being in love. From what I have witnessed, I have no desire to succumb to such a state,” Brandon said. “You know that.”

  Oh, she did. He was explicitly clear about what he had wanted in a wife, and that he had no inclination for love. She was the fool for persisting in following her heart, for it had led her here: in love with a man who wouldn’t love her, yet they strolled down a secluded, moonlit path in the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall.

  If only the tonic might take effect!

  “You do not want to love because it leads one to shout from rooftops or waltz through town and write poetry?” Sophie reiterated.

  “I’m mortified to even be discussing it.” The gravel crunched under their feet and they could hear voices from the other side of the hedge reminding them that they were not alone.

  “But not everyone in love does those things. That cannot be your only reason,” Sophie persisted. It was rude to pry, but she felt an explanation, at least, was owed to her.

  “I fear this conversation might verge into deeply personal territory,” Brandon said evasively.

  “I do hope so. For I would like to know, Brandon, why you will not be with me when we have this something between us . . . something like love.”

  He was silent for a moment, and she waited while they walked on, down the gravel path bordered by tall hedges. They could be discovered together at any minute. Her heart beat hard in her chest.

  “My parents’ marriage was a love match. After my father died, my mother was never quite the same.”

  “It’s like you lost both parents,” she said softly, reading between the lines and understanding the pain within. Her heart ached for him. “I trust you haven’t been the same, either.”

  “No.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “That’s a terrible time to have lost him,” Sophie mused.

  “I should think any time would have been terrible,” he responded.

  “Yes, but that is the age when you are finally about to experience freedom! You were just old enough to throw yourself into idiotic, youthful pursuits of drinking, women, and such. And you could not. You went directly from childhood to all the responsibilities of adulthood.”

  “It’s not important,” Brandon said, but she knew it was.

  “And now you are about to be married . . .” she continued, for it was all coming together for her now. He did not want to love her, in case he lost her. He clung to his honor and responsibility as a defense. He did not know anything other than duty to his estates. She tempted him to throw away his closely held beliefs. She tempted him . . .

  . . . Oh, how she tempted him! Every second brought Brandon closer to throwing it all away for a kiss or even a caress.

  “If I cry off, I’ll be no better than that demented bounder that left you,” Brandon said, explaining to Sophie yet another reason why he couldn’t leave Clarissa. “I don’t understand how he could have done that to you.”

  “You don’t understand how he could leave his bride at the altar, or leave me at the altar?” she asked, turning to look at him.

  God, she is so pretty. He so easily remembered his first glimpse of her—plum mouth, bright eyes, and those dark curls and milky skin—and how his heart raced and he could hardly breathe, all for wanting to kiss her.

  Nothing had changed.

  He hated that he had to hurt such a pretty thing.

  “First, there is the matter of honor,” he said, answering her question.

  “Are you suggesting that he should have married me because of the plans we had made, even though he did not wish to?” Sophie asked. She sounded aghast, and he did not understand why. It made perfect sense to him.

  “He gave you his word,” Brandon said plainly. A group of drunken young bucks swaggered by, hollering and stumbling, and he tightened his grasp upon her.

  “While I was utterly and absolutely devastated that he broke his promise to me, I am glad to have suffered the short-term heartache over the long-term agony,” Sophie explained.

  “Really?” Now it was his turn to be taken aback. He understood that honor did not come in only black or white, but shades of gray, too.

  A dangerous thought occurred to him: Could it be honorable to break his engagement to Clarissa?

  A woman’s laugh, sounding vaguely familiar, from somewhere in the gardens, intruded on his thought before he could wrestle down that shocking thought and make sense of it.

  “Do you wish to spend your life with someone who does not love you?” she asked, and he knew she was driving at something about him, Clarissa, and von Vennigan, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it.

  “I told you my thoughts about love,” he replied.

  “But what about someone loving you?” she persisted.

  He had never given much thought to that, actually; he only took care that he should never fall in love with someone else. Did he wish to spend his life with someone who did not love him? Maybe even someone who resented or despised him?

  He did not care to ponder that at the moment, so he turned his attention away from this new, shocking thought and back to Sophie.

  “I would not wish to be the wife of a man who does not love me,” she stated.

&nbs
p; “I don’t see how he could have left you,” Brandon said.

  And then Sophie fell silent for a few moments. He glanced at her, and saw her deep in thought, with a slight frown and a furrowed brow.

  “I am a different person than I was then.”

  “Were you less beautiful, intelligent, kind, and funny?” he asked.

  “I was a young woman from a good family in a small village. I had a very narrow view of the world and my place in it. I may have possessed all of those qualities, but they were certainly sharpened and refined by London,” she answered.

  And then he understood her: like him, there was Sophie Before and Sophie After.

  He was so very sorry for the heartache she had suffered, but that intense pressure had turned her into a diamond. The process may not have been easy, but the end result was exquisite.

  He wanted to possess her, but would he? He wanted to belong to her, but could he?

  On a different dimly lit path in the gardens of Vauxhall

  Frederick Maximilian Wilhelm von Vennigan, Prince of Bavaria, had fallen in love. He and the object of his desire walked arm and arm through the paths of Vauxhall in a companionable silence. Simply to be near Clarissa was a pleasure, because he was deeply and truly in love.

  He had first noticed the symptoms at the wedding of his friend Winchester. He was shockingly unable to turn his head in any other direction from that which enabled him to look at her.

  When he first set eyes upon Clarissa, he noticed her beauty—but he was more intrigued and entranced by the air of sadness that hung around her. From the curve of her shoulders, and how she ducked her head, he could see that she wished to be overlooked. He could do no such thing.

  Frederick pulled Clarissa closer as they strolled along the path, and she smiled up at him. He did not know how he could let her go . . .

  Letters followed. Dozens upon dozens of pages, full of her lovely ladylike script confiding in him. He sent just as many letters in which he revealed his true self to her: not Frederick the prince, but Frederick the man.

  She was beautiful, but that had nothing to do with it.

  It did add nicely to the fairy-tale-like quality of their situation, though: He, the dashing prince on a white charger (he ought to acquire a white charger). She, the gloriously beautiful damsel in distress, held captive by a wicked (step) mother and a grim fiancé with his blasted ironclad contracts.

  Frederick’s heart thudded in his chest whenever he caught a glimpse of her. He was reminded of a shooting star making a rare, sudden, and all too brief appearance. He held her now, but could he hold her forever?

  Frederick’s breath caught, his stomach knotted, and his heart thudded faster. He could not fathom how he could manage to sail away without her small hand enclosed in his. Leaving her did not seem in the realm of humanly possible, yet he saw no alternative.

  Well, other than abduction, but that really wasn’t done anymore. But who knows? Perhaps he might bring it back in fashion.

  Lord Hamilton and Brandon had made himself clear: he would not relinquish Clarissa, even though he was obviously deeply in love with another woman. It defied logic, good sense, human decency, and grossly offended Frederick’s romantic sensibilities.

  A good man protected what he loved. Brandon was a good man. But he obviously did not love Clarissa. It did not add up, no matter how often Frederick thought it through. There must be a reason, he concluded. What it was, or how he would discover it, or what he would do when he knew . . . these things were irrelevant at the moment.

  “This is all so romantic,” Clarissa said with a pleasant sigh. It was—the moonlight, a beautiful garden, her prince.

  “Romance is what princes do,” he said.

  “What else do princes do?”

  “We fight battles, rule over the court, and lead the country. We waltz with the belle of the ball, rescue fair maidens, and provide fantasy material for legions of women.”

  Clarissa laughed. Frederick loved the sound.

  “We travel to foreign lands and find treasure untold. And we write volumes of love letters to fair maidens we fancy.”

  Clarissa smiled at that, but there was sadness in her eyes. “Will you write to me once you’ve gone?” she asked, and her words hit him like a punch to his gut. She did not mean to go with him.

  But then again, he had not asked her to.

  Frederick paused, and stepped off the path, pulling her with him into a secluded alcove formed by the tall hedges. It was a space purposely designed for intimate moments between lovers.

  “Perhaps,” he answered, taking her hand in his and drawing circles on her palm with his thumb.

  “Perhaps? You might not?” she asked, aghast. He pulled her close against him.

  “I might not need to write to you if you come with me,” Frederick said, lowering his gaze to hers. Clarissa’s big, blue-sky eyes were dark now, and wide with surprise.

  “I . . . but . . . I . . . you do know that . . . I couldn’t poss—”

  “I will write you love letters if you come with me,” Frederick whispered to her. He was leaning in very close now, scandalously so, but he could not stop and could not withdraw from this heavenly nearness. “Little notes by your place at the breakfast table. I shall have footmen send you messages throughout the day, just to tell you that I am thinking of you as I rule over the court, the government, the battlefield . . .”

  “And rescue fair maidens,” she added.

  Frederick cupped her cheeks in his palms.

  “You are the one fair maiden for this prince, Clarissa.” He spoke softly, whispering the words into her ear. From there, it was so easy, natural, destined that he should grace her lips with his.

  They shared lots and lots of little kisses with their lips caressing each other’s. Gently, slowly, he urged her to part her lips. He hadn’t known it could be like this: so sweet, yet setting him afire; slow and gentle, yet full with indescribable passion.

  It was clear to him that this was her first kiss, and he felt a surge of pride, and gratitude that it should be with him. No matter what else happened, he had claimed her first.

  He prayed that he would be the only one, and the last one.

  Chapter 33

  Sophie saw him right away, and she stopped suddenly, halting Brandon as well. She offered a little prayer of thanks that he was with her for this unfathomable and unexpected encounter.

  For even after all this time, there was no mistaking the man she’d almost married. If she had any doubts and needed confirmation, there was the way the ground seemed to tilt, her palms felt clammy, and breathing was well-nigh impossible.

  It was Matthew Fletcher, after all this time.

  I’m so sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry, Sophie, but I cannot marry you after all.

  That moment was perfectly frozen in her memory. His words, his voice, and the way he played with the buttons on his waistcoat—and how he seemed sorry but she couldn’t accept it.

  “Sophie?” Brandon asked her, but she only barely registered it. She had been frozen in place upon seeing Matthew. With another woman.

  Matthew saw her just then. Sophie watched the play of emotions upon his face: disbelief, confusion, shock.

  “My God. Sophie!” Matthew exclaimed. He stepped toward her and clasped her around the upper arms, looking at her, and, it seemed, debating if he should embrace her. He looked past her, at Brandon, presumably, and then promptly let go of her and took a step back, with a nod to the gentleman behind her.

  “This is unexpected,” Matthew said. He seemed glad to see her, but a touch nervous as well, and she could understand that. She felt paralyzed by a rush of emotions: shock, of course, a wish to flee, a wish to harm him, a burning desire to ask why, and a dozen other questions, and the urge to give him the cut direct.

  And th
en there was the matter of the woman beside him—she could only presume it was Lavinia. They eyed each other appraisingly.

  “But a pleasure nonetheless,” Matthew added. He smiled.

  The nerve! Their last interaction had been when he jilted her at their wedding and now he smiled at her!

  “Lord Hamilton and Brandon,” the duke said smoothly, introducing himself, because Sophie had apparently lost the ability to speak. “And you are?”

  “Matthew Fletcher. Sophie and I . . .” His demeanor changed when he registered that Sophie was in the presence of a gentleman, a lord, perhaps even one to whom she had not informed of her past.

  “Matthew is the man that jilted me,” she said, recovering her voice. Matthew flinched at that introduction, and she took a small amount of pleasure at that.

  “Ah, I see.” Brandon lifted his arms, only to cross them across his chest and stare down at her former fiancé. Matthew took another step back, probably recalling her brother’s repeated blows on That Day. With Brandon standing intimidatingly behind her, Sophie felt her confidence increase.

  Maybe, just maybe, this needn’t be an encounter that would make her feel completely wretched.

  “Are you going to introduce us?” Sophie asked. The woman beside him was pretty, with petite features and light brown hair. Sophie had her suspicions, and they were promptly confirmed.

  “Sophie, this is Lavinia. My wife.”

  Wife. So it wasn’t that he didn’t wish to marry, but that he did not wish to marry her.

  She felt Brandon’s palm on the small of her back. She lifted her head high.

  Sophie managed a tight smile. What on earth was she supposed to say to that? What exactly was the etiquette for this situation? To say “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance” would ring false. She had to say something, though, rather than stand there like an addlebrained ninny.

  “Congratulations,” she managed.