When Honorine announced a card game, she fairly vaulted from her seat—Trevor followed more slowly—and dove into the game with gusto and a hope that it would consume what was left of the late afternoon.
Unfortunately, it did not last nearly long enough—as Honorine put the cards away, Trevor quietly asked her for a stroll about the gardens.
Sophie thought frantically for a polite way to decline, but his hand was on her elbow, pulling her away from the others, and unaccustomed to such attention, unaccustomed to making her own assertions, she dumbly followed.
As they stepped out into the gardens, he didn’t say much, but seemed rather lost in the flora surrounding them. His pensive demeanor and her great distraction were making Sophie a wreck, and she realized she was filling the space around them with chatter. It was so unlike her—she was not one to talk without purpose. But talk without purpose she did, as if she could somehow keep him from speaking if she kept her mouth moving, or worse, kissing her. She spoke of Honorine, and of the Continent, Italian olives, and Spanish figs and how one might use them in delicious sauces for fish. She spoke of Christiania—Christiania? As if Trevor Hamilton had any concept of a place as remote and foreign as Christiania!
She was just beginning to relate the minute details of Honorine’s skating party when Trevor turned from his review of a lovely hydrangea bush and impulsively grasped her hand.
It rattled Sophie out of her discourse on the habits of Scandinavians.
“You enchant me,” he murmured as he tried to pull her into his arms.
That announcement roiled in her belly; she did not want to hear that, not from him, and most decidedly, not now! “I … I really—”
“I think of you often, Sophie,” he said, overpowering her. “I find myself desiring to hold you … to kiss you …”
“But—”
He silenced her protest by pressing his lips against hers. His mouth was hard, his tongue a stiff prod, forcing her to open her mouth. Sophie struggled in his embrace; Trevor merely gripped her tighter. Her sudden panic was swift and terrifying; she struggled until he finally let go, then stood before him, gasping for breath.
Trevor had the nerve to laugh. “You are so shy, my dear! There is no need to be shy.” And he reached for her again.
From his perch on the window seat above, his face pressed against the thick pane of glass, Ian frowned and announced petulantly to Honorine and his grandpapa, “Papa is kissing Lady Sophie.”
“Bien! This girl, she needs d’amour,” Honorine said matter-of-factly as she carefully examined Will’s latest attempts to write. “Come from there now, mon petit—it is not nice to see this kiss. Come, come and look at your grandpapa! He writes his name!” she declared triumphantly and grinned at Will as she held up the paper for Ian to see.
Will watched as the boy cocked his head to one side and seriously considered the chicken scratch before shrugging his shoulders and wandering off to peer out the window again. How Honorine managed to see his name in that was beyond Will. Yet he could not deny that two weeks ago he could not so much as grasp the pen, much less make any effort at writing. There was no denying it—with Honorine’s persistence, he was improving. There were still things missing, however; select thoughts, a notion of how to do things. And the vague anxiety he felt about Caleb and Trevor—it stemmed from something, but what? All he knew was a vague dissatisfaction with … what?
As if she could sense his frustration, Honorine turned toward him, her ever-present smile beaming. “Ooh, mon frère, you have many thoughts in your head, non?”
Will chuckled deep in his chest, felt his lips lift in his twisted smile. He forced a word out over his thick tongue. “Few.”
“This is better than too many,” Honorine said in all seriousness.
Yes, but there was something about Caleb and Trevor that he simply had to remember. A sudden, fragmented idea occurred to him; he awkwardly picked up the pen and, willing his hand to remember the letters, he scratched out the name Caleb and showed it to Honorine.
She looked at him, confusion in her blue eyes.
How did he explain? How could he make her understand so that she might help him? But help him what? He didn’t know; it just suddenly seemed imperative that Honorine understand him.
“Caleb?” she asked uncertainly.
Will frowned, gripped the pen harder. Why couldn’t he remember? If there were ever a time he needed Him, it was in these last few days. He moved the pen, showed his effort to Honorine.
She laughed, clapped her hands gleefully as she looked at the paper. “Merveilleux! You see? You write English and French!” she exclaimed, and gave him an exuberant kiss on the forehead. “Mon fils Caleb,” she read, and looked up at Will. “Aha! Caleb is your son, non?”
At last! Will thought, and took the paper from her, eager to tell her more.
Chapter Ten
AS THE SEASON hit its high point, Trevor Hamilton and Sophie Dane were suddenly the talk of the entire ton, the curious centerpiece in the maelstrom created by Honorine, Lord Hamilton, and Mr. Caleb Hamilton, otherwise known as the Imposter.
This, Sophie learned courtesy of one Lucie Cowplain, who, as luck would have it, could claim only one true friend on this earth, who just happened to be the cook in Lady Paddington’s household, of all places.
Lucie Cowplain apparently received reports from Millicent at the early morning market, and promptly served up tidbits of those reports over breakfast to an enraptured Sophie, Honorine, and on occasion, Fabrice and Roland, if they happened to have arisen to greet the day.
It seemed the ton’s sentiments were firmly divided over the veracity of Caleb Hamilton’s claim. Many believed he was indeed Lord Hamilton’s son, having heard the many rumors through the years of a torrid romance on the Continent. Still others labeled him a wretched imposter, come to prey on an infirm man. All agreed only one person could set the record straight and he had lost too much of his memory.
All agreed on one other point—Caleb was a handsome man, even more so than Trevor, and rumor continued about his female acquaintances, of which there were, apparently, many. He was forever reported as having been seen somewhere in the company of one beauty or another, although usually those with a less than an acceptable reputation.
Regardless of the truth, there seemed to be another faction altogether that simply could not resist the sport of trying to put the two alleged sons together in one setting. According to Lucie Cowplain, neither man had taken the bait as of yet.
The Imposter was, by all accounts, quite unaffected by it all. He was, as Lady Paddington said, insufferably cheerful in the face of his detractors, even while being rather adamantly firm in his claim of being the illegitimate son of Lord Hamilton, after nothing more than his father’s welfare.
But, as he told Sophie during their daily meetings in Regent’s Park, seeing after his father’s welfare was not so easily accomplished—Trevor was just as adamant in his belief that he was a thief and a swindler of the highest and most diabolical order. He refused to allow Caleb to step foot in his father’s house. As Caleb did not want to create an ugly scene at his father’s house, he continued in his attempts to see Lord Hamilton in the course of his daily outings to Regent’s Park.
His cheerful tenacity in the face of all that turmoil was another thing Sophie so genuinely admired about him.
The mutual adoration was growing between them, and any lingering doubts Sophie had about him quickly faded beneath the warmth of his laughter and jovial conversation, which they shared over the mouthwatering dishes she would prepare. They stole every moment they could, both of them acutely aware of their desire and ignoring their conflicting standings in society. They struggled to hold the world at bay, playing house in a partially constructed home. In fact, Sophie had not, as yet, inquired as to where Caleb actually lived, and he had not offered, other than to remark it was in or around the area of Cheapside. Knowing something as simple as that allowed reality to seep into their little world
, and she did not want that.
So on the evenings that she could get away, they would dine by candlelight on the floor of what would one day be his dining room. These moments Sophie enjoyed above all other moments in her life—it was as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. He was her secret lover and their world was magic.
So too was his touch—his hand to her cheek, to the small of her back, made her giddy. The feel of his lips against her skin, against her mouth, was enough to drive her quite mad with desire. There was, she had discovered, a voracious beast living within her. Years of longing, of wanting to be held … of wanting to erase all images of William Stanwood from her mind had created the beast. Caleb was her one true pleasure in her life, the tendrils of his affection surrounding her heart, the roots growing deeper each day.
He was, however, an increasingly difficult secret to hide.
Fabrice and Roland knew something was different with her—they were always peering at her curiously when she returned from the park, as if they expected her to do something, like stand on her head. Lucie Cowplain was much less uncertain about her suspicions. “Blimey if ye don’t look as moon-eyed as these silly gels,” she observed one afternoon, motioning to Fabrice and Roland, who were sprawled in overstuffed armchairs.
Fabrice clucked and glared at her, but Roland boldly retorted, “Better the eyes of la lune, than no eyes, Madame Cowplain!”
That drew a derisive cackle from Lucie Cowplain, and fortunately, for Sophie, started a row that enabled her to quietly quit the room before anyone questioned her further.
Honorine suspected, she knew. Caleb had made some headway with her in his many attempts to see his father, and had actually befriended Honorine. When she wasn’t so wrapped up in Lord Hamilton, she noticed Sophie’s frequent absences and very much enjoyed making remarks that had Sophie squirming—“Ah, the bloom of love, it is good for this face!”
Sophie began to avoid her.
If Honorine suspected, it could only be a matter of time before Ann or Julian would begin to question where she went every day. She tried not to think of that—she did not want to imagine how disastrous it would be for her and Caleb if her family discovered her secret love affair. She didn’t want anyone to know, really, lest they wake her from her dream. And sometimes she wished Caleb would not finish his house, lest she lose all the wonderful memories they had created there.
It didn’t help that her family was so very hopeful that Trevor would offer for her. Ann was the most wishful, chattering endlessly about the gossip, citing source after reliable source that Trevor Hamilton was indeed quite smitten with Sophie Dane. In the privacy of Sophie’s suite—where she often came to critique Sophie’s wardrobe—she confided that it was more than the family could have hoped given Sophie’s unfortunate background and lack of … well, finesse. But Ann would brighten and cheerfully remind Sophie that Lady Paddington had said to Alex Christian, who had said to Adrian Spence, who had said to Julian that Trevor Hamilton was willing to let Sophie’s past lie.
But Sophie seemed to be the only one curious to know why.
Ann also took great delight in the fact that some among the ton were beginning to hint that perhaps they had misjudged a youthful Sophie, that perhaps she was deserving of a man as fine as Trevor Hamilton. That was enough to make Sophie ill, but even worse, Ann let her know that Julian was making it known among the men’s clubs that he strongly favored a match between them, so much so that he might enhance what was left of Sophie’s inheritance.
Oh how bloody grand!
Sophie listened to her sister’s chatter but said very little, afraid anything she might say would be construed as being in favor of the match. Of course Ann did not ask her opinion, but why should she? Naturally they all assumed she would leap across the Thames just for the mere chance to be connected to a man of Trevor’s stature and credentials, particularly in light of his willingness to ignore her past. They certainly would, in her shoes. Sophie could hardly fault Ann for her enthusiasm—it was their way, how they had been taught to think. She was merely doing what she thought best for Sophie and the family. And honestly, had Sophie not spent eight years abroad opening her eyes and her mind, she would have jumped at the chance of a match with Trevor Hamilton.
But she had spent those years away, and she had changed. She was not the same Sophie who had left under a cloud, that much she knew. But in moments of private reflection, she wasn’t completely certain she was the new Sophie, either. It seemed she hovered somewhere in between, in a sort of no-man’s-land, second-guessing herself constantly, feeling the chaos churning into a storm.
All she could do was sit quietly when Ann was talking, fretting what she should or could do about her predicament, the irony of it too rich—she had gone from society’s little misfit to a woman with the unusual burden of too many men. She loved Caleb, tolerated Trevor. But to love Caleb meant to disgrace her family, and she wanted to make them proud of her for once in her life. To tolerate Trevor meant she pleased her family and society.
Yet she was so different from the plain and ungainly girl who had made her debut and hoped for Trevor to look her way. How could she make her family see that? As they told her over and over again, their utmost concern was her happiness. They wanted her to have the best life had to offer. They thought the path to reaching that goal lay in Trevor. She could not begin to imagine the recriminations if they ever discovered that she was, in fact, quite in love with the other Hamilton, and in fact, involved in a rather torrid love affair. Naturally, they would instantly believe she was the old Sophie, so desperately naive that she had fallen for the charms of an imposter. God only knew what they might do—they had sent her away before.
Which is why Sophie continued to struggle to hold her little secret, endeavoring to keep her countenance serene through the course of Trevor’s frequent calls.
His visits were unbearable.
If he wasn’t deploring Hamilton the Imposter, he was making some remark about Honorine’s monopoly of his father’s waking hours. Yet in spite of what he deemed his disastrous situation, Trevor remained a gentleman and attentive of Sophie, apparently intent on wooing her with talk of his empty home in the country, his many ideals, too many, really, and his desire to find just the right feminine influence for Ian.
Whether or not he meant this to influence her, Sophie hardly knew—the only thing of which she was certain was that young Ian did not care for her in the least.
That was painfully obvious. The child squirmed uncomfortably in her presence, openly cringed each time she came near him, scarcely looked her in the eye, responded with monosyllabic answers when she inquired after him, and then quickly went about the business of determining just where he might find Honorine.
Worse, Sophie was hardly any better in her behavior. It wasn’t intentional—she loved children, she truly did, and surely her nieces and nephews could attest to that. She even wanted her own, imagined her own, with Caleb. But she was hopelessly inept when it came to Ian—honestly, what did one say to such a sullen child? He seemed to harbor some glaring resentment for her and it amazed her that Trevor did not see how astoundingly poor her rapport was with the child, or how she bungled each interview with Ian. Surely he would eventually see that any hope he might harbor that she could influence the lad at all would be put into its proper place—the rubbish heap.
But more than that, Sophie could not dismiss the vague feeling that something was not quite right with Trevor. Nothing wrong, exactly, but … it was just a feeling, nothing more, based on nothing concrete, for certainly he was a gentleman. Nevertheless, she could not shake her intuition about Trevor and felt it keenly one morning when Lucie Cowplain recited her latest opinion of the news received from Millicent.
“Ye’ll see yourself married by the end of summer, mark me,” she said, wagging her finger authoritatively at Sophie over a plate of steaming eggs. “Mr. Hamilton, he’s been alone with that child for far too long.”
“Yo
u make it sound as if he seeks a nursemaid,” Sophie said as she took the eggs from her.
Lucie Cowplain snorted disdainfully. “Why in God’s name do ye think he’d marry? It ain’t for position or money, obviously.”
“Mon Dieu!” Honorine exclaimed hotly, roused from her concentration on a plate of delectable pastries. “You do not say such things, Lucie Cowplain!”
The woman rolled her eyes and pivoted on her twisted leg. “I ain’t saying there’s anything wrong with Lady Sophie, I ain’t. But she’s got the burden of her past, you cannot deny it,” she said, and lurched through the servant’s door.
Clearly stunned, Honorine tried to smooth it over, but what she said came out in a mishmash of French and English. It hardly would have mattered had she managed to say something in flawless English, because Sophie knew that the old cook was quite right.
Everyone knew it.
Everyone except Honorine, that was, and unfortunately, Honorine could not seem to grasp any of the nuances of the latest gossip surrounding Sophie and Trevor, or worse, herself and Lord Hamilton. On those occasions when Sophie tried to make her understand the furor she was creating, Honorine would cluck her tongue. “These Anglaises, they know nothing of life,” she would say, and refuse to hear any argument Sophie tried to put forth regarding English propriety.
Honorine’s nonchalance and Sophie’s frustration collided with fury one afternoon when Honorine announced her very disastrous notion to have a ball in the orangery.
“Ooh, oui, oui!” clapped Fabrice.
“Why on earth would you want to host a ball?” Sophie demanded.
“Why not?” Honorine asked nonchalantly as she exchanged cards with Roland in the course of a game. “London, she is very good to us. Very nice, non? We should give this ball. Will likes it.”
“Honestly, Honorine! Have you no idea what is being said about us? All of us?”
Honorine looked up from her card game and smiled. “Oui. You they speak about, and Monsieur Trevor Hamilton … but I like this other son,” she said, looking pointedly at Sophie.
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