by Maya Rodale
Brandon opened his eyes and looked at his mother. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and she was utterly serious.
He had always hated to disappoint. To hear his father say “I’m very disappointed with you, son” was a worse punishment than a week locked in the attic with naught but stale bread and water. Or so he’d imagined, for he had never suffered such because 1) he was good, and 2) his parents had not been horrid and cruel. They’d been lovely and loving, in fact.
But about true love, and letting it escape . . . it was a Noble Sacrifice.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Brandon said.
“Don’t play the dunce with me,” she retorted. “You need not answer me now, but you will listen. Your father and I were madly in love from the day we met until the day he died. Yes, it destroyed me to lose him, as you saw. When he was alive, it wasn’t sunshine and roses all the time. But I wouldn’t trade a second of the heartache so long as I got to spend all those years with him, and raise such a lovely family with him.”
Brandon nodded. There was a knot in his stomach and an ache in his chest. Things had been so damned glorious—a house full of laughter, the shouts of children, and a duke who read bedtime stories and a duchess who took tea with her daughters and their dolls. And kissing. He remembered now, they were always kissing.
They had been happy, truly happy.
“I want you to consider that as you are deciding whom you shall marry tomorrow,” she told him.
“Mother, it’s already been decided . . .” He had signed the contract. He had given his word. He had learned too much about Clarissa to cast her out into a cruel and unmerciful world, and von Vennigan could not be taken seriously or trusted.
But Sophie . . . A fresh wave of pain washed over him. If she knew him so well, why could she not understand why he had to keep his word?
If he left Clarissa, he wouldn’t be the man she loved. If he didn’t leave Clarissa, he’d be the man she loved that broke her heart. He could not win.
Had he more strength and less of an aching head, he’d howl at the unfairness of it all. No, actually, he would not. That was an uncivilized thing to do. As a gentleman, he would stifle the desire.
“No, Brandon, it is not too late,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return Miss Harlow’s notebook to her.”
“You have her notebook?” Brandon asked. She was constantly scribbling notes in it. He had suffered pangs of curiosity over what she had written.
“Yes. She left it here the other day.”
“She’s always forgetting things accidentally,” he said with a bittersweet smile.
“Is she? What else?”
“She always says just the thing to make me laugh when I am being too serious.”
“You need her,” his mother said.
“I’ll take the notebook to her,” he offered.
“We’ll see,” she said, pursing her lips.
Richmond House
Exterior
To the surprise of no one, the Richmonds were not “at home” when von Vennigan called upon them. The errand was not entirely a failure, however, because he was able to glimpse into the grand foyer and glean a faint idea of the layout, as he waited to learn if he would be allowed a visit. It was information that might prove useful should one, say, be sneaking through the house in the dark with a fair-haired angel in tow.
It was very clear to him: Lord Brandon was not going to make things easy by breaking the engagement. It was necessary, then, for von Vennigan to resort to extreme measures to secure his future happiness. She had, after all, asked him to rescue her.
He strolled around the house, and wondered which window opened to Clarissa’s bedroom, and if she saw him strolling around the garden in search of a way into the house and, most importantly, a way out.
After a quarter of an hour, von Vennigan had seen enough. He returned to his hotel and ordered his staff to pack the things. He would leave tomorrow, as originally planned. If God, Fate, Fortune, etc., etc., smiled upon him, his ship would sail away from England with him and Clarissa hand in hand and looking toward the horizon, and their future together.
Richmond House
Interior
It was a strange thing to have breakfast with one’s parents who were not, actually, one’s parents. Clarissa had never suspected a thing . . . in fact, she even wondered if this was just a convenient lie told to coerce her into marriage with Brandon. When you marry Lord Brandon, I’ll give you their love letters and your mother’s diary, she had said.
She wished, desperately, to know about her real mother. And her father.
Her mother—or should she call her Aunt?—was adamant that she should marry the duke, and reject the prince. Clarissa’s writing things had been confiscated. Though she hadn’t been locked in her room, she hadn’t been encouraged to leave it, save for breakfast with the people who had raised her, the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. Oh, and she’d go out for the final dress fitting later today. Escorted by half a dozen maids and footmen, no doubt.
It went without saying that none of Frederick’s letters had reached her. He rang the bell this morning, but Lady Richmond did not permit him in. Her heart had soared, and then crashed.
The question remained: The prince or the duke?
She loved the one; she did not love the other. She could marry von Vennigan and leave behind her family, her country, everything she’s ever known. She could marry Lord Brandon and learn about her real mother and her real father. She could also live in a loveless marriage in which he pined for Sophie, or perhaps would even make her his mistress.
The choice was very clear. She must marry Frederick.
And yet, she was not sure that she possessed the requisite gumption required for the dramatic, scandalous, incredible act of ditching the duke at the last minute in order to run off with a prince.
Merely considering it now induced a wave of nausea. Her skin felt tingly, though not in an altogether unpleasant way.
Her father—or uncle?—was speaking about his usual subject. Clarissa tuned him out and wondered how to refer to her parents in her head, and decided to maintain the charade that had defined all of their lives.
“Lord Burbroke and I were debating—quite a lively debate, I should say—over which parent had more of an effect on the foal: the sire or the dam,” Lord Richmond informed his wife and Clarissa. The ladies wore feigned expressions of polite interest; their thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Clarissa, however, was making an effort to listen.
“And I had to point out,” he continued, “that the offspring almost always inherits the status in the herd that its mother had, as they are usually of the same temperament, you see.”
That sounds like mothers and daughters in the ton, she thought. Would she take after her real mother, or the duchess? Would she elope with the man she loved, as her real mother had? Or would she, like the mother she had known, marry for the grand opinion of England’s beau monde?
“Perhaps we needn’t discuss this over breakfast,” Lady Richmond said in a tense and bored tone, but to no effect. It was so sad, Clarissa thought, how no one ever wished to talk to her father about his favorite subject. It was almost tragic that he should be so obsessed with breeding, and have not even sired his own child, who would, provided she marry Lord Brandon, pass on the title to a child not even of the Richmond blood.
He had been a good father to her. She vowed that he should not discover the secret.
The duke ignored the duchess. They were not fond of each other; that was no secret. She did not want to live like that. If she married Frederick . . .
She did not believe that a love like theirs could fade. She would not allow it. Now, if only she could steady her nerves and find the recourse to commit her one act of disobedience.
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“In fact, if you think about it, which I have done at considerable length, I assure you, the foal spends more time with its mother—in utero, being the prime example. And I cannot help but offer my experience with my favorite mare, Magnolia. No matter the sire, her foals always took after her,” Lord Richmond said. “Calm and obedient, but quite spirited when the situation called for it. Excellent qualities in any female.”
Clarissa snapped to attention at that.
True love was certainly one of those occasions that called for spirited behavior—if her real mother had done it, then perhaps Clarissa could, too.
24 Bloomsbury Place
This time tomorrow Brandon would be saying his vows. The thought intensified the horrendous pressure in Sophie’s chest. Honestly, she feared her heart would burst from a potent combination of love, passion, anxiety, uncertainty, anger, and desire.
The copious amounts of tea she had consumed earlier—in an effort to settle her nerves—had made her jittery. She tried to lie down. She could not stay still. And so, she paced.
It was the previous evening’s conversation in the carriage that she replayed in her mind. Brandon had too many things to consider and it was paralyzing his decision-making abilities. In trying to please everyone, no one was happy.
But it was her own words to him that her thoughts kept returning to: I have defied expectations . . .
She was, as Brandon had helped her to see, a brave woman. She blossomed when others might have wilted. After all, when Matthew left her, she hadn’t stayed in Chesham to fade away, but had done the unthinkable and moved to London. And then, she had dared to apply for a man’s job, and look how that turned out!
Rather well, she thought.
But it was something that Lavinia, of all the people in the world, had said that confirmed her course of action: He is the man for me, she had said, implying that there was little one should not do for the man she loved.
It was clear: Sophie would have to do something.
With that decided, she only needed to figure out what exactly to do to ensure that she and Brandon married, and that Clarissa and Frederick were able to marry, and that no one was left stranded at the altar.
“Hell and damnation,” Sophie swore.
Sophie’s pacing was interrupted by Bessy informing her that there was a caller waiting in the drawing room.
“And you’d better get dressed up all fancylike for this one,” the maid added.
“Is it Brandon?”
“No. Methinks it’s his mother,” Bessy said. The fact that a duchess was calling at their little house did nothing to jolt the maid out of her typically sullen demeanor.
“Help me into the green dress and then prepare a tea tray.”
Bessy nodded. Within record time, Sophie was dressed to receive the duchess. One did not dawdle upon such occasions, if only because one could not stand the curiosity.
“Your Grace.” The duchess had availed herself of a seat upon the settee. Sophie sat opposite her on the brown étoile chair.
“Miss Harlow,” the duchess said. “I found your notebook and I have come to return it.”
“Oh, thank you so very much, Your Grace! I’m always forgetting my things; it’s a terrible habit of mine,” Sophie said. And then she wondered why the duchess was personally returning it when it would be more convenient and appropriate to send a servant to deliver it.
And then Sophie suddenly understood: “You read my notebook.”
“Against all my best intentions. But your notes from our first interview caught my eye, particularly your comment about Lady Richmond being a shameless name-dropper.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s spot on,” the duchess continued. “And then I couldn’t resist the rest. So I have come not only to return it to you, but apologize for reading your personal material.”
“Thank you. I completely understand,” Sophie said. She probably would have done exactly the same thing.
“I have also come to inquire on your plans to win my son for yourself and prevent his marriage to Clarissa.”
It was such an unexpected question from the duchess that even though Sophie had been scheming all morning, she could say nothing. The duchess’s matter-of-fact tone struck her speechless.
“Your Grace! I couldn’t possibly . . .” Sophie demurred. It seemed like the polite thing to do.
“Miss Harlow, I have read your book and know your feelings for my son, and that you are a smart and resourceful girl. I wish to speak to that girl and not a doormat.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Now, what are you going to do about his well-intended but idiotic idea of honor and marrying the wrong woman?” Lady Hamilton asked.
“Any plan would have to ensure that Clarissa and von Vennigan can be together,” Sophie said quickly.
“Of course.”
“And no one can be left alone at the altar. It’s a personal horror of mine, and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.”
“Right. We’ll need special licenses, too. I shall take care of that,” Lady Hamilton declared, and Sophie sighed with relief. That was one part that kept tripping up her plan. There was one other thing, too, that she’d had trouble accommodating.
“And one problem—”
“Yes?”
“He doesn’t want to marry me!” Sophie confessed.
“He does, Miss Harlow. He’ll figure it out any minute now,” Lady Hamilton answered breezily.
“We haven’t many minutes before it’s too late! This time tomorrow . . .” Sophie persisted. This was the other part that gave her pause—that Brandon might not wish to marry her and she might find herself alone at the altar, again.
She shuddered. Actually shuddered.
“Which is why we must plan,” the duchess said calmly, and Sophie understood where Brandon had inherited quite a few of his more notable character traits.
“Yes. Planning,” Sophie said, hoping that Hamilton and Brandon family composure would rub off on her.
Bessy brought the tea tray in just then. The two ladies paused to pour, add sugar, milk, etc., and then, finally, they each took a fortifying sip.
“The easiest thing would be if Clarissa and I could somehow switch places,” Sophie said.
A rush of planning ensued. They kept their voices low, even though there was no one to overhear. Occasionally, they whispered. They considered the movements of the bride, the habits of the bride’s mother, the volume of skirts on the bride’s dress. They rejected this idea in favor of that idea. They factored in the massive crowds expected to gather outside of St. George’s. Sophie paced. Lady Hamilton sipped her tea and smoothed her skirts. When a brilliant idea occurred to one of them, they smiled grandly at their own genius and mischief.
Approximately one hour and one pot of tea later, the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon and her future successor had developed a plan to ensure that Clarissa married Frederick and that Sophie married Brandon. Tomorrow.
Nothing was required of the men, other than that they stay in the proper places—
Brandon at the altar and von Vennigan at the docks, where he would be boarding his ship.
The real daring and disruptive actions were left to the two brides. They were the ones with the wits, courage, and sense to be trusted with a mission of this magnitude—disrupting the wedding of the year and turning it into the wedding of a lifetime.
“Now all we must do is ensure Clarissa’s participation,” Sophie said. That was one of the few weak points of their plan: it required a grand act of disobedience from the most dutiful and obliging creature in the world.
“She and her mother will be at Madame Auteuil’s for a final fitting. I am supposed to meet them,” Lady Hamilton said.
“Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to j
oin, but I doubt that I am welcome after yesterday’s scene.”
“Likely not, but you shall come anyway. I will engage Lady Richmond’s attention while you have a moment with Clarissa and explain everything.”
“Perfect.”
Sophie, the Duchess, and Bessy gathered their things, donned their bonnets and gloves, went out, and climbed into the duchess’s carriage. Twice now she had been in this carriage, which reminded Sophie of a saying: What happens once shall never happen again. What happens twice shall happen thrice.
She took it as a good omen, one she very much needed.
Their plan was good. But she hadn’t forgotten that, as of the previous evening, Brandon had not wanted to marry her. And that if he did not come around, then she would be jilted at the altar again.
Such was their plan. Sophie tried to change that part of it, but they could find no other way. It was a risk that she would have to take. Already her stomach was working its way into knots.
“Why are you doing this, Lady Hamilton?”
“Because this will make more people happier than otherwise. Because if we leave it up to men, it will be some slapdash last-minute scheme riddled with flaws. Because he’s my son and I want what is best for him. Because a mother knows best. And because it is so very exciting, and because it’s true love and one cannot sit still and idly watch it pass by.”
“All excellent reasons,” Sophie replied.
“I should confess that I do not fancy the Richmonds as my in-laws.”
“You have not met my family,” Sophie pointed out. It occurred to her that, should everything happen as it ought to, they would miss her wedding. She would also have to do without the Harlow veil (which had been repaired, her mother informed her, in one of the numerous letters they shared). Considering how that had gone for her before, Sophie did not miss it.