“Because, I …” her voice trailed away; she wiped tears from her eyes, avoiding his gaze. “Because …”
“Because you do not care for me as much as this?”
“No!”
“Then why? Tell me why, Sophie, make me understand how you might profess to love me, then turn about and refuse me!”
She gulped on her tears, hugged herself tightly, and Caleb suddenly did not want to hear her answer.
“Because I … I simply cannot,” she murmured weakly. She lowered her gaze to his neckcloth, stared dumbly at it.
There it was, then. The one person he thought was above society’s rules as to whom one should or should not consort with was not above them at all. “Did you think it a game?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you think to keep your secret lover like a pet? Let me out of my cage when you wanted me to pleasure you? Amuse you?”
“No!” she cried. “Don’t say such horrid things! I love you, I do—”
“I am hard pressed to believe that at the moment.”
“Oh God,” she said, and closed her eyes, put her fists to her temples. “I don’t know what I am saying.”
“Let me assure you it is quite ugly,” he said, and moved backward, away from her, but Sophie abruptly grabbed his hand, clinging to it.
“Caleb—”
“No,” he said gruffly, shaking her hand from his. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear, Sophie. I find it ironic that you should accuse me of being faithless when you would do this.”
“You don’t understand!”
“No!” he said again, more sharply, as she tried to take his hand again. “I don’t understand, but what does it matter? There is nothing more to say, except that I …” The pain was choking him, making it difficult to speak. “I wish you the best,” he said sincerely, and turned away from her, began walking across the veranda, consciously putting one foot in front of the other as he silently prayed she would call him back, tell him that he was wrong, that he had misunderstood her—anything.
But she did not utter a word, just let him keep walking, until he had rounded the corner, disappeared from her view.
And her life.
Chapter Sixteen
WHEN THE SUN had reached the top of the sky the next day and cast a bright sliver across Sophie’s face, she made the mistake of moving. The instant pain was excruciating, forcing her eyes open. As her vision adjusted to the midday sun, another sharp pain shot across her forehead.
Oh God, she hoped she was dying.
Only death could possibly make her feel better than this. Her head felt enormous, one hundred pounds or more, and her mouth tasted like dirty figs. Little wonder, given that she had consumed a half-dozen or more in something of a frenzy, washing them down with two glasses of champagne before finally succumbing to mind-numbing sleep.
The sound of the door being shoved open sliced painfully through the fog on her brain; she closed her eyes, hoped death would come sooner rather than later.
“Do ye intend to lie about all day, then?”
The grating sound of Lucie Cowplain’s voice only made the pain worse. “I am dying,” she muttered thickly.
“Ye ain’t dying, although ye ought after all that champagne. Come on now, be up with ye.”
Swallowing back a wave of nausea, Sophie murmured, “I can’t. If I move, I shall expire.”
“London would not be so fortunate as that. Here now, take a sip of this.”
She opened her eyes, winced at the pain in her head as she slowly turned to focus on Lucie Cowplain. The old woman was standing next to her bed, holding a glass of some milky concoction.
“What is it?”
“Raw egg, goat’s milk, and a bit of whiskey—sure to mend what ails ye.”
Lucie Cowplain was trying to kill her—the nausea was so great that she quickly closed her eyes, swallowing hard.
“Drink it. Ye’ll feel yourself again.”
But she didn’t want to feel herself again, not that befuddled, mousy, helpless little spinster!
Slowly, gingerly, Sophie pushed herself up on her elbows, felt her stomach roil in protest, and quickly lowered herself down again. She had never drunk so much in all her life. Bloody hell, she had never drunk in her life, save a glass of wine with dinner and the occasional Yuletide nog. Yes, well, she had never had such a night in her life, what with Trevor practically marrying her in the main salon and Caleb … Caleb! … looking as if he hoped he would never be forced to lay eyes on her again. Honestly, she had the two of them to blame for her misery—it had been the most perfectly wretched, ghastly evening of her entire life.
Had it really happened?
A firm hand on her shoulder forced Sophie up. At least she managed to sit up without dying.
“Drink,” Lucie Cowplain said, and forced the glass to her lips. The substance went down uneasily; Sophie could hardly swallow it. But she managed to choke it down, then sat hunched over, her hair shielding her from the sight of Lucie Cowplain’s self-satisfied smirk until she felt her stomach might settle.
Perhaps it was all Honorine’s fault. It was a wonder she hadn’t come banging in here, full of vigor and new French ideas this morning. Perhaps she was abed herself—perhaps even she was feeling a bit embarrassed that Sophie had been so very, very right in her assessment of the ball—a complete disaster, just as she predicted, thank you very much.
Food. What she wouldn’t give for something substantial, something to take the taste of fig from her mouth. At the moment, she rather thought she would never so much as look at a fig again, much less eat one.
“I’ve drawn a warm bath for ye, lass,” Lucie Cowplain said in a voice that was uncharacteristically sympathetic. Sophie nodded, shoved one leg over the side of the bed, and carefully inched the other one over before testing her full weight on her wobbly legs. She stood slowly, moaned at how the room was spinning, and gripped the bedpost until the spinning had stopped. When she at last felt as if she could maneuver about well enough in her body, she limped to her bath.
When she emerged a full hour later—fifteen minutes of which had been spent with her face floating in a basin of cold water—Sophie felt somewhat more herself, physically speaking. But her mood had not improved in the least, and as she stomped heavily down the long corridor, a deep frown furrowed between her eyes.
The guilt was consuming her, eating her from the inside out. Caleb, dear Caleb—she loved him! But marriage? It was impossible. Julian, her sisters—they would never allow her to wed a baseborn man, no matter how charming or gracious or very handsome he was. So what exactly, then, had she believed would come of their daily meetings? What had she been doing, tempting fate so openly and brazenly? Had the foolish little Sophie really thought that she could live in her make-believe world with her secret lover and expect him to do the same?
She despised herself. Her actions had been no worse or no better than William Stanwood’s, really—he had lured her under false pretense. Had she not done the same to Caleb? It was a nauseating thought, and tears filled her eyes as she imagined what Caleb must think of her now. The whole thing made her wholly miserable—her heart was literally breaking into pieces.
It wasn’t the first time it had broken, but it certainly felt like the worst.
Tears blinding her again, she determined she could not think of it now, not with a headache the size of England. Grabbing the railing, she bounced unevenly down the winding staircase, silently berating herself with each heavy step. But when she landed on the ground floor, she forgot her woes as she looked around her.
The house looked as if a violent ocean wave had crashed through it.
She moved slowly through the foyer, being careful not to step in the spilled champagne, or on the expensive, gold velvet cape that had been carelessly dropped on the marble tile foyer. The corridor was worse—empty crystal flutes, china plates littering the consoles was to be expected, and even the occasional hair ribbon and neckcloth, she supposed, but the gentleman’s shoe in the mi
ddle of the floor was an object of some curiosity. She picked her way around the debris until she reached the door of the main salon, where she paused to debate whether or not she dared to look inside.
She dared.
The room didn’t seem quite as battle-strewn as the rest of the house, but the furniture was all askew and an abundance of pillows were scattered about. More important, Fabrice and Roland were lying at opposite ends of one long couch, their stocking feet entwined with one another’s. She watched them for a moment until Fabrice snorted in his sleep and she was certain they were quite alive.
And exactly where was Honorine?
Food.
Sophie moved on, making her way to the kitchen, where she stood, hands on hips, frowning at the lack of immediate food sources. With a sigh of great irritation, she threw open the cupboard and began to rummage.
Claudia and Ann found Sophie slicing a loaf of bread. Butter and preserves were piled into bowls in front of her, and she had just removed boiled chicken from the kettle hanging over the hearth. Hardly in the mood for callers, Sophie mumbled a greeting as they walked in.
Claudia’s nose wrinkled slightly as she looked around; a hand went protectively to her swollen stomach. “We looked all over for you.”
“I was hungry.”
“Really, don’t you have someone who can prepare that for you?” Ann asked. “It’s so unseemly for a lady to be rooting about a kitchen.”
“I should think it more unseemly for a lady to expire from hunger,” Sophie muttered irritably.
“Now Ann, don’t be so stern,” Claudia said as she examined the jam. “Trevor Hamilton won’t have his wife toiling away in a kitchen, will he?”
That remark earned a glare from Sophie; Ann and Claudia chuckled. “Oh come now, you mustn’t be so cross!” exclaimed Ann, still laughing.
“And you mustn’t think Mr. Hamilton will have a wife,” Sophie returned smartly.
That effectively chased the smile from their lips. Both women looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Sophie shrugged, tore a piece of boiled chicken from the carcass, and stuffed it into her mouth.
“You could not possibly mean what you imply,” Ann said incredulously.
“I could and I do.”
“But why on earth would you refuse his offer?” Claudia asked, confused.
“What offer? He has made none to me. I heard of his desire just like everyone else—in the main salon with dozens looking on,” Sophie flatly informed them, and went about the business of spreading jam on a slice of bread.
Ann and Claudia exchanged a wary look. “Naturally, he should have spoken to you first,” Claudia said carefully. “But what harm is there really? He meant well, I am certain. Perhaps he was carried away with the excitement of the moment.”
“And perhaps he had simply lost his mind!” Sophie exclaimed, waving her bread and jam in the air to emphasize her emphatic belief of that. “But it hardly matters, for it will be his own shame to bear. I had no say in it a’tall.”
“But what if he were to give you a say in it?” Ann asked, pushing the jam bowl away from the edge of the table. “You would most certainly accept his offer, would you not?”
Sophie shook her head, munched on a bite of bread and jam.
Ann made a sound of exasperation and muttered something unintelligible under her breath. Claudia sank onto a stool, propped her chin on her fist, and studied Sophie thoughtfully for a moment before asking, “Why would you not accept? His credentials are impeccable.”
“His credentials?” Sophie exclaimed incredulously, and tossed down the bread and jam. “Is there nothing else than that? A man’s pedigree is all that should recommend him to me?”
“I didn’t say—”
“Why should I not hope for more? Why should I not expect to admire and esteem the man I would marry?” she demanded.
“You do not admire and esteem Trevor Hamilton?” Ann asked, looking very perplexed. “But why on earth not?”
“He is quite tedious and boring!” Sophie all but shouted, and yanked another piece of meat from the chicken carcass. “He speaks of nothing but the weather! And that child of his despises me!”
“But he is only a boy, and Trevor is an upstanding citizen—”
“I don’t care!” she interrupted Claudia.
“And someone who would care for you well, Sophie, you mustn’t overlook that. Your inheritance after all …”
“I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. Honorine compensates my companionship quite nicely, thank you.”
Ann snorted at that; she yanked a piece of chicken from the bird and popped it into her mouth, chewing fiercely as she glared at her younger sister. “That may be, Sophie Elise, but you’d be a fool to refuse an offer because you think him a bore!”
“Why would you ask me to marry someone whom I could not make happy? Why should you want me to marry for anything less than love? You did!”
Ann moaned, shook her head. “Of course I didn’t marry for love! I have come to love Victor over time, but I married him because he was a good man, a good provider—”
“And met the expectations of society,” Sophie said, mimicking her sister.
“Sophie!” Claudia exclaimed disapprovingly. “Ann is right! You must think of your future. You must realize that you likely will not have an opportunity like this again!”
That, in a nutshell, was the sum of it for them—she was nothing if not married to someone of suitable stature. She was a burden, an embarrassment, an old spinster who would need to be looked after all her days. She carefully put aside the knife she was holding and looked Claudia in the eye. “What you must think of me, Claudia. How pathetic I must appear to you—do you think I will perish an old spinster? That I shall have no opportunity to experience love? Am I as hopeless as that?”
The color drained from Claudia’s face. “Of course I don’t believe that! I just know society—”
“I have had opportunity,” Sophie continued, ignoring Claudia’s attempts to explain herself. “Honorine has shown me a world of opportunity, actually, and I need not settle for a tiresome country gentleman.”
“I should have known Madame Fortier was behind all this,” Ann muttered as she picked at the sliced bread.
Sophie suddenly lost her appetite. Honorine, with a heart the size of the moon, was not tolerated because of her unique person, not even by her own family. And that same attitude, that same closed-mindedness, had caused Sophie to send Caleb away last night, out of her life and out of her heart. The clarity was almost blinding—at last, at long last, she understood. Having been part of the society that would, among other things, condemn a man for the uncontrollable circumstance of his birth, having been a prisoner of that society, then cast out of it, only to be miraculously welcomed into their fold once again for the sheer novelty of it …
Sophie finally understood.
And she did not want to be a member of that society, not now, not ever.
Caleb, oh Caleb. Her head was pounding … or was that her heart? She began walking for the door.
“Wait … where are you going?” Claudia called after her.
An excellent question—she felt adrift, no sense of direction, not certain of who she had become overnight. “I couldn’t really say,” she said truthfully, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her family and the ton behind.
Chapter Seventeen
SOPHIE FOUND HERSELF at the house on Upper Moreland Street that afternoon.
It was that or propel herself into complete insanity. As the day had worn on, she had grown more ashamed by what she had done, particularly since her actions were exactly what she despised about the ton. It had been a rote reaction; she had been thinking the way she was supposed to think, behaving the way she was expected to behave.
The hypocrisy between her thoughts and deeds had forced her to take a hard look at herself today, and what she saw made her, impossibly, even more miserable.
She had toyed with the idea of
going to Regent’s Park, if only to catch a glimpse of him. That was the only place she knew to go, for in all her brilliant maneuvering in her affair with Caleb, she had never asked him where he lived, knew only that it was generally in the area of Cheapside. Knowing the exact direction would have been too concrete for her carefully constructed fantasy, wouldn’t it?
But she could not go to Regent’s Park, at least not yet. She simply didn’t have the courage to see the look of disappointment—or disgust—on his handsome face.
She had instead come to Upper Moreland Street, the one place she felt free of scrutiny. And Nancy knew the entire story of the two brothers—she was the one person Sophie had trusted with the truth. Well, at least half of it. When she told Nancy the events of Honorine’s ball, she had left out any mention of cleaving Caleb in two.
She sat in the tiny parlor, slumped in an old and worn overstuffed armchair, watching morosely as Nancy made small repairs to the batch of gowns she would sell the following morning at Covent Garden. In its first day, the little booth Caleb had built met with astounding success—six of the seven gowns Nancy had taken had sold to women for more than she had hoped, and all of the hats and slippers had been snatched up before midday.
Nancy was quite pleased with the success of Sophie’s idea, but made it clear they were no longer in need of her help. “We’ll manage on our own, thank you,” she had said when Sophie had offered to accompany her to the booth the next morning. “We’ve scarcely room for Bette and myself, in truth. And you’ve undoubtedly more important matters than this.”
“Hardly,” snorted Sophie, and idly picked at the bit of stuffing that was peeking out of a hole on the arm of her chair. “Other than, I suppose, determining how one goes about refusing an offer of marriage made to a room full of society’s most favored people.”
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