The suggestion was so unexpected, so absurdly inconceivable that Sophie swallowed down a burst of hysterical laughter.
“And frankly,” he blithely continued, leaning into her so that he might whisper in her ear, “I can rather imagine you in another, less pure, circumstance.”
Sophie instantly jerked backward, away from him, but Trevor held her tightly to him. She squirmed, tried to be free of his grip. “The waltz, sir, it has ended!”
Trevor looked up, smiled sheepishly. “So it has,” he said, and abruptly let her go in the middle of the dance floor.
Feeling the dozens of eyes on them, Sophie clapped politely, too flabbergasted to know what to say or do next. The next dance would undoubtedly be a quadrille—she could not abide the thought of any further discussion of this topic, at least not now, not here.
“I think I should like a champagne,” she said, and began to move off the dance floor, hardly caring if he followed her or not.
“I’ll fetch it for you,” he said, and in a move that was becoming all too familiar and all too resented, he grasped her elbow, leading her to the edge of the dance floor. “Wait here for me,” he said, as if he already owned her, and walked away.
Incredulous and somewhat panicked, Sophie stared at his back, still unable to believe what he had said, how he had said it. And she was still standing there when Trevor returned, paralyzed by her repugnance and the growing realization that she would be pushed headlong into a match if he should ever utter those words to anyone else. But as he handed her a cup of punch—she had asked for champagne—Sophie heard the voice that made her heart pound.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like to stand up with Lady Sophie, if she will do me that great honor.”
Trevor spasmed oddly at the sound of Caleb’s voice behind her; in her haste, Sophie almost spilled the punch on her gown as she whirled about. Oh my … He was heavenly, terribly handsome in his black coat and immaculate white shirt. His forest-green waistcoat perfectly matched his neckcloth, making his green eyes more vivid than usual. She had never seen him in such finery; she had not expected to have her breath taken away by his magnetism. She smiled warmly, hungrily, at him, wanting to feel his arms around her, his breath on her lips. For a blind instant, she was deaf to the growing murmurs of the crowd as they strained to hear the exchange between the two would-be brothers, deaf to Trevor’s heavy breathing.
“What in the hell do you think you are doing?”
The low tenor of Trevor’s voice dragged Sophie back to a cold reality.
“Asking Lady Sophie for the honor of a dance,” Caleb said calmly. “You’ve had your turn about, old boy. Why not step aside and let someone else have a go of it?”
“What bloody nerve,” Trevor snapped through clenched teeth. “You don’t belong here! Run along now and return yourself to whatever rock from under which you crawled!”
Caleb chuckled, belying a gaze as hard and cold as ice. “I beg your pardon, sir, I did not understand that you were hosting this affair.”
Trevor’s breathing turned horribly ragged; Sophie instinctively moved, positioning herself between the two men. “Please,” she whispered. “Do not think to disgrace your father!”
That earned a growl of pure disdain from Trevor, and part of her withered instantly, reacting to an ancient, buried fear. “Make no mistake, madam,” he said coldly, “this man has no father here!”
The contempt dripping from his voice sent a chill down Sophie’s spine, but Caleb chuckled lightly as he took Sophie’s hand and removed the punch. “Oh, now, really, sir,” he said cheerfully to Trevor as he placed the cup aside and put her hand on his arm. “You cannot be entirely certain of that, can you?” He did not bother to receive Trevor’s response, but simply smiled down at her as if everything were perfectly normal. “As for that dance, Lady Sophie, might I have the honor?”
A hush had fallen over the room—everyone seemed to stand in rapt attention, feasting on the scene between the two brothers. Sophie could feel Trevor’s fury, could feel everyone watching her, holding their collective breath. For the first time since she had donned her princess gown, she felt her old awkward self, the center of unwanted attention, uncertain what to say, how to act. But when she looked up at Caleb, the warmth of his smile seeped into her skin, the distractions around them began to fade to distant noise. With his hand locked firmly around hers, she could almost believe there was nothing but the two of them, no one standing in their way.
She drew her courage from the gentle squeeze of his hand. Unthinkingly, she nodded. She did not hear the hiss of breath Trevor drew, or the gasps behind her as Caleb led her to the middle of the dance floor and took his place across from her. She did not even sense the awkward moment when everyone looked frantically about, wondering who would join them on the dance floor. Caleb held her gaze as one couple joined them, then another and another, the smile in his eyes mesmerizing her.
As the music started up, Caleb stepped forward to begin the dance. “Smile, then,” he said, as he moved around her in the steps to the dance. “Or else they will think I forced you to abide me.”
Sophie laughed then, let the rhythm of the quadrille carry her forward, into his arms, and out again. Let them all see that she wanted to stand up with Caleb Hamilton, that she did not care who he was, other than the one man on this earth who could make her smile, make her feel beautiful, and so very glad to be alive.
At the edge of the dance floor, still holding a cup of punch, Trevor watched them, felt the rage in him begin to boil like a cauldron. He could scarcely believe it—how dare that bastard think to insinuate himself with Sophie, of all people? Who in God’s name did he think he was? He would ruin everything. Everything!
His anger escalated as the Imposter casually clasped his hands behind his back and smiled down at Sophie when the music began.
But it soared when he saw Sophie smiling so warmly in return.
Chapter Fourteen
SHE WAS EXQUISITE; he could not take his eyes from her. Sophie laughed as they stepped about in the familiar pattern of the quadrille, her chocolate brown eyes dancing with merriment. The gown she wore made her look resplendent, her shape that of a man’s desire, and Caleb could feel the tug at his heartstrings as he touched her hand, the small of her back, and released her again.
He ceased to see the dancing around him, or hear the voices of the crowd and the music of Haydn playing in the background. His focus was only Sophie; her breath, her voice, the only thing he could hear. It was odd, he thought, as they went round again, that she had captured his imagination so completely, made him so moon-eyed. He was so enthralled with her that he would—and did—make the unpardonable mistake of asking her for a second dance, feeling enormously pleased with himself when she, too, ignored all ballroom etiquette and eagerly accepted his invitation.
And as he led her into a waltz, she smiled, whispered, “Hold me close, Caleb. Make me sway.” The memory of their private ballroom dance rushed over him; he was holding her close before he realized it, wondering what it might possibly matter. After all, both of them were already marked—Sophie by scandal, he by illegitimate birth. What was one more dance or holding her too close in the greater scheme of things? Besides, he could not let her out of his sight, could not let go of the feel of her in his arms, or the memory of what it was to hold himself above her, thrust deep inside her. No, he could not see that one more dance could matter.
But it apparently did matter to one Lady Ann Boxworth, who Sophie quickly and furtively identified as her sister as the dance ended. The moment Caleb escorted Sophie to the edge of the dance floor, she was accosted, her sister’s fingers digging into Sophie’s arm as she politely but firmly begged their leave of him.
Sophie scarcely had time to react; she muttered a quick pardon to Caleb and gave him a look she hoped he would understand as Ann marched her toward the ladies’ retiring room like a child being removed from play for some terrible misdeed.
Sophie rese
nted it greatly.
When the door shut behind them, Sophie jerked her arm from her sister’s grip. “I am not a child!”
“You certainly act like one,” her sister retorted, folding her arms tightly across her middle. “Have you any idea how this looks? Have you forgotten everything you have ever learned about social propriety?”
“For heaven’s sake, Ann! I merely danced with him!”
“Twice. One, two in a row, paying him particular attention while Mr. Trevor Hamilton stands by and watches you dance with a man who may very well be a swindler!”
“He is not a swindler,” Sophie muttered, and turned away from Ann, pretending to fuss with her hair in the mirror.
But Ann’s face was instantly looming behind hers in the mirror’s reflection, her dark eyes narrowed with ire. “I don’t know what you are about, Sophie, but you will not humiliate Mr. Hamilton! He has shown you nothing but his goodwill since you arrived, and this is how you would show him your gratitude?”
Gratitude. She hated that word! As if she were some beggar woman desperate for Trevor Hamilton’s favorable attention. It was degrading and it angered her. “I am a grown woman and I may dance with whomever I please!” she snapped. “I do not need or want Mr. Hamilton’s permission!”
Ann gasped; she stared at Sophie as if she could not fully comprehend what she had said. “You would do well to endeavor to be less querulous and think beyond your desire to make a show of yourself this evening, Sophie. Mr. Hamilton has very graciously ignored your past! We all expect him to offer for you, and you cannot hope for better than that, can you? Do you want to remain a spinster all your life? If you do, then carry on your present course. But if you wish for a home and a family, then you had best behave!”
Sophie groaned, closed her eyes as she pressed her fists to her temples. “I am not nearly so intent on marrying as my family is on marrying me away.”
“Then I suppose you think to cavort about the world with Madame Fortier all your life?”
Sophie opened her eyes, glanced at her sister’s reflection. “Honestly? I rather don’t know what to think about the rest of my life.”
“That has been your misfortune for many years now, Sophie. You do not think. I’m of a mind to go at once to Julian, if you must know.”
“Oh marvelous, Ann!” she said with a derisive laugh. “Run to Julian and tell him how I have disgraced the family once again by dancing two dances with one man. Oh my, what a tragedy for Kettering!”
Ann said nothing; she pressed her lips tightly together and lowered her gaze. When she looked up again, her eyes were shimmering with tears of frustration. “I surrender. I have tried my best to help you, but you will not allow it. What can I do?”
“Ann, please,” Sophie begged her, feeling immediately contrite. “At least try to understand me.”
But Ann wasn’t listening; she threw up a hand in a gesture of surrender as she turned and walked to the door. “Do as you will, Sophie,” she said wearily. “But please do not deceive yourself. You cannot carry on with a man of questionable birth and not expect there to be consequences. Never mind the sound advice of your family—you will only have yourself to blame for what may come.” With that, she walked out the door.
Sophie sank onto one of four velvet-covered stools and buried her face in her hands. How could she hope to make anyone understand? She did not want to be Mrs. Trevor Hamilton, even if that meant she would at last have a respectability she had lost eight years ago. She wanted to be with Caleb, but that was just as impossible, albeit for completely different reasons.
The door opened behind her; two debutantes whose names she did not know bustled in, giggling. When they saw Sophie sitting there, they stopped cold and stared at her for an awkward moment. Sophie sighed, gained her feet. She walked past the two girls, nodding curtly as she did, then into the orangery, where the ball was once again in full force. There was no sight of Ann, or Trevor. Honorine was absent, too.
So was Caleb.
Sophie quit the orangery and moved quickly across the back lawn to the veranda, where the silhouettes of several couples dotted the railing. She glanced around as she climbed the veranda steps, stopping midway when her gaze inadvertently landed on Melinda Birdwell.
She was standing off to one side with the same woman Sophie had seen with her at Lady Worthington’s garden tea so many weeks ago. Melinda calmly regarded Sophie with the familiar, lopsided smirk of her thin lips. “My, my, Lady Sophie, how elegant you look this evening.”
Sophie barely managed a polite smile. “Thank you, Melinda.” She took another step, fully intending to continue on.
“Mr. Hamilton must be right proud.”
The remark caught her off guard; Sophie shot her a look, curious as to which Mr. Hamilton Melinda meant to deride her with.
Melinda’s smirk turned into a snort of derisive laughter; she exchanged a look of superiority with her friend. “Don’t know what to think? Well. I confess I am as mystified as you. In fact, I rather imagine the entire guest list is mystified by your apparent preference.”
Her laugh was cold and brittle; Sophie could hear the entire ton in that laugh. Her pulse pounding, she did not spare Melinda another glance, but ran up the steps, ignoring her mocking laughter as she passed her and stepped into the main salon.
She was instantly greeted by a dozen or more heads swiveling in her direction. As her gaze met those around her, Sophie felt her skin crawl. She looked wildly about, saw the top of Honorine’s head on the opposite end, in the place she had set up for Lord Hamilton. Head down, she pushed forward, anxious to be near someone she knew, someone she trusted.
As she made her way through the crowd, she could see Honorine’s colorful gown swirling about. But when she reached the far end of the room, her heart plummeted. Honorine was sitting on Lord Hamilton’s lap, laughing with him like a dockside wench. It wasn’t done in the salons of Mayfair, it simply wasn’t done. Nearby, Trevor watched, his jaw clenched tightly shut. Several people stood gaping at the spectacle.
Only Lord Hamilton seemed to enjoy her company.
It was plainly evident that the novelty of the Frenchwoman was wearing thin; Sophie could not help but see the censure on so many faces. The woman meant no harm; she merely loved life and all that accompanied it. Sophie pushed forward, mindless of Trevor or anyone else around her, and caught Honorine’s arm.
Honorine turned a broad smile to Sophie. “Sofia! I tell you this is good, non? See my Will, how much he enjoys this.”
Sophie glanced down at the viscount, who flashed her a grin. “Lovely evening. V-very lovely.”
“You see?” Honorine said proudly to Sophie, then smiled at Lord Hamilton and slid off his lap. “Come now, my Will, you have feet, oui?”
“No,” Sophie whispered harshly, glancing covertly around them. “Can you not see how everyone looks at you?”
Honorine shrugged as she helped the viscount to his feet. “What care do I have that they look?”
The viscount wobbled a bit as he moved his cane around to steady himself, but grasped it firmly with two hands and looked at Sophie. “Your friend,” he said, nodding at Honorine, “she has h-helped m-me very m-much.”
“Lord Hamilton, you mustn’t overtax yourself,” Sophie pleaded with him, but he didn’t seem to hear her, and instead held out an arm to Honorine.
Delighted, Honorine instantly attached herself to him. “La Orangerie, monsieur. We dance in la orangerie.”
“I … want to … t-try,” he said, and striking the cane firmly in front of him, took a strong step forward, Honorine encouraging him.
Perhaps she was dreaming. Perhaps she had fallen into some horrible nightmare from which she could not awake, Sophie thought, as she watched the pair move through the stunned crowd.
“That woman is making a laughingstock of my father.”
Apparently, she was not dreaming. Sophie glanced over her shoulder at Trevor. His jaw was set stiffly, his eyes like two nuggets of coal as he
watched his father pause to attempt to speak with an acquaintance. He slid that hard gaze to Sophie. “And you are making a laughingstock of me.”
His words sliced the warm, moist air between them. “I am?” she asked, despising herself for sounding so tentative.
“You danced with a man who would steal my rightful fortune from me,” he said with not a little disdain. “Did you think I would not mind it?”
The sheer arrogance of that remark infuriated her. “Pardon, sir, but I was not aware I required your permission.”
Trevor’s frown deepened; his gaze roamed her face, lingered on her hair for a moment. “Perhaps you have been so long in her company that you have forgotten proper etiquette. I cannot hold it against you, Sophie. I regret that you did not think before you acted. But I suppose I might take comfort in the knowledge that we likely won’t have any more frivolous behavior as the Imposter has gone and cannot harm you further.”
His announcement stunned her. How could he be gone? Without a word? No, no, she didn’t believe him; she went up on her toes, her eyes frantically scanning the room for Caleb. But Trevor’s low chuckle made her stomach roil.
“You may trust me, he has quit his charade for the evening. My father was not of a mind to speak with him at all, I am grateful to say, and since he could not press his claim further, the Imposter departed. I think he came merely to make a scene and discredit my father’s good name even further. Now why do you look so disbelieving, my dear? Did you expect differently? Or is he perhaps as charming as they say?”
She would not dignify that stab with an answer. Her head ached with confusion—where would he have gone? How could he leave without so much as a word of good night? How could he leave her here, with Trevor, with all eyes upon her?
“I rather imagine he is,” Trevor said.
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