by Mary Campisi
“I’m sorry. We’ve heard nothing. Perhaps tomorrow,” he would say gently.
She tried to be brave as she struggled with the words, “Yes, perhaps tomorrow.”
Then, one day, Jason had a different answer for her. When Sophie arrived that morning, she found him seated on the sofa, his longish, sandy hair tousled as though he’d run an impatient hand through it several times. When he saw her, the grim look on his face deepened. She rushed to him, grabbing his hands. “What is it Jason? You’ve heard from him, haven’t you? Is he hurt?”
“Sit down, Sophie.”
Something was horribly wrong. She perched on the edge of the sofa. “Tell me.”
“I received a note today from a courier. It was from Holt.”
“And?”
He hesitated, a dull flush spreading over his tanned face. “He wanted to know if you were with child.”
She sat very still as pain and sorrow seeped through her. “There is no child, though I had prayed there would be.” She had wanted to hold onto a piece of Holt, no longer caring about scandal or protecting the family name.
Jason shifted uncomfortably and said, “I’m sorry to have to ask such a question. I’ll send word.”
“Had I been with child, what then?”
He looked away and she thought at first he wouldn’t answer or perhaps would tell her a lie to spare her. “If you had been with child, I was to send word and his solicitor would settle a very large sum of money on you and the babe. Had you desired privacy during or after your confinement, you could have moved anywhere, with Caroline, and he would have purchased the residence of your choice.”
“But there was no offer of marriage.”
“No.”
She carefully withdrew her hands from his and said, “I’ll not be coming here again.” She hesitated a moment before continuing, “I’ll miss you. Please tell Julia I hold no ill will against her. It was not her fault.”
“Sophie, please don’t shut yourself away. It’s not healthy.”
“But don’t you see? Coming here will only remind me of him and it hurts too much. You’ve been a wonderful friend, but you have Holt’s laugh . . . and the same dimple on the right side of your cheek. And did you know when you are lost in thought you both turn your heads just so? Forgive me, Jason, but the pain is too deep.”
***
The smell of death clotted the air. The dark room was still, save for the labored breathing of Arthur Seacrest. His form was frail, eaten away with disease and years of self abuse. His long, bony fingers lay clasped atop a distended abdomen.
Sophie sat by his bedside. She’d maintained vigil for the last three days, since the doctor announced nothing further could be done. The disease had spread throughout his body, yellowing his skin and slowly stealing the very life from him. His chest rattled with the rise and fall of his breathing, a constant reminder that his next breath could be his last. His eyes remained closed in an effort to shut out the pain. The pain of living. The pain of dying.
He had been such a coward, giving in to his hatred and need for vengeance. He had become his own worst enemy, unable and unwilling to deal with the reality of life’s blows as he shut the world out and turned to the bottle for solace. It had become his lifeline and now it would be the death of him.
Oh, but he had not bowed to the Langfords! Seacrest Shipping flourished and plans for expansion were underway. The company was safe and once again profitable. He’d never believed it possible to generate such income. Only one man could destroy it all.
Rendhaven slowly opened his eyes and looked at his daughter. She was such a beautiful, spirited young woman, so like her mother. She deserved to dance at balls and soirees, escorted on the arms of handsome young suitors, not sitting with an old man on his deathbed or pouring over ledgers until all hours of the night. She would never admit to a lacking in her social life. Therefore, it was up to him to see her settled into society as befit her station. He owed Sophie that much and before he took his last breath, he would secure her future. Three days later, he slipped away, his dead wife’s name a silent litany on his lips.
Chapter 17
“You can no longer avoid the inevitable. Your father’s last wishes were to see you wed.”
“But I don’t require a husband. I’m an independently wealthy woman.” Sophie rose from the floral settee and approached her aunt. The morning sun shone brightly through the salon windows, casting red and gold highlights on Sophie’s auburn hair. Her skin had a glow to it which only served to heighten the emerald in her eyes.
Just like her mother. Vivian smiled tightly and said, “I promised your father I would see you settled. Would you have me betray a dying man’s request?” She ignored the tortured look on Sophie’s face. “I thought not. I’ve made several discreet inquiries these past weeks and have found only one gentleman willing to take Caroline into his home.”
“But I have no interest in marriage. Father knew this.”
Vivian sighed. “He felt responsible for your unmarriageable state. Two and twenty is quite on the shelf and after the debacle with Mr. Thurston, he wanted to see you settled. He’s even gifting one third of Seacrest Shipping as your dowry.”
“No! You can’t give part of it to a stranger.”
“It was your father’s last wish.”
Sophie straightened and turned away. “May I at least have time to properly grieve? It’s only been six weeks since his death.”
“Unfortunately, no. Your father wanted you to forgo the normal grieving period and marry posthaste.”
“Why would he do this?”
“Guilt, I suppose. He wanted you to have an opportunity for a settled life. And children.”
“Oh, Father,” Sophie murmured, rubbing her temples, “what were you thinking?”
“You’ll leave for London in two day’s time. We must throw aside your mourning clothes and begin preparations. Your betrothed will escort you about the city for approximately two weeks, during which time you will meet his various relations. Within three week’s time, you’ll be wed.”
“Three weeks?” Sophie croaked.
Vivian experienced a spurt of sympathy but pushed it aside. She must fulfill her brother’s final wish. “Marriages of convenience abound among the ton. You’ll survive.” And your heart will remain your own.
“Who is the man?”
Sympathy trickled through Vivian. “I tried to obtain other interested parties, but Caroline proved quite an issue.”
“His name, please?”
“Marriage to a man you couldn’t possibly love really is the most logical choice.” If she had been willing to forgo Caroline, Sophie would have had any bevy of young suitors.
“Aunt Vivian?”
She would not feel guilty. “Thomas Jameson.”
***
As the curtain fell, signaling the end of the first act, Sophie wished she were anywhere but seated beside Thomas Jameson. The man was a vile curmudgeon with the manners of a toad. She’d fought off his lecherous advances with a poker and a knife on two separate occasions. Since his second aborted attempt to overpower her had almost landed a knife in his gut, Jameson had backed off.
But he never missed an opportunity to remind her that very soon she’d be merely chattel, his chattel, and she’d pay dearly for rejecting him. When she thought of what lay in store for her in his bed her stomach lurched and she shivered.
“Are you chilled my dear?” Plump fingers trailed along her forearm. “I could get your wrap for you, or,” Jameson’s rheumy gaze dropped to the top of her gown, “I would be most delighted to provide an alternate source of heat for you.” His bulging eyes raked her body and slowly crept back to her breasts.
She shook her head. How would she tolerate marriage to this odious creature? “I should like a refreshment before the second act begins.”
“Damned good idea, my girl. I’m feeling a bit parched myself.” He hefted his body out of his seat and hoisted her with him. “Follow me. I’ll
show you how to wind through the crush.” He towed her along behind him as he fought his way through the throng with a single-mindedness that bore no resemblance to courtesy or decorum.
How she longed for the quiet country life she’d recently been forced to leave. London was noisy, impersonal and unforgiving. There was no peace or tranquility to be found here. People roamed the street at all hours, women of the night selling their bodies as easily as a street vendor selling his wares. Even the horseback ride in Hyde Park the other day had been congested and showy. Men and women went there to gather attention and cast lures, not ride horses. One more week and she could return home. She refused to think beyond that.
The crowd thickened as they neared their destination. Sophie was jostled, bumped, pulled and she even thought there was one occasion where someone patted her bottom. It would have been much less wearing on her person had Thomas Jameson traveled with the flow instead of forcing his large body through the crowd, cutting his own path and effectively throwing people about. He received more than one scornful look from bejeweled, ornately-dressed women as well as threatening glares from the men, young and old alike. Sophie attempted to keep her head bent as he propelled her through the crowd, thankful she was among strangers. Her betrothed appeared unaware of the stir he created and therefore, did not slow until he had his port in hand and had gulped a healthy swallow.
Sophie sipped her claret and casually observed the crowd. She’d never seen such a display or jewels; rubies, diamonds, emeralds, even amethysts, twinkling on necks, fingers, wrists and hair, creating a fairytale image. The men looked perfectly tailored in their cutaways of black or gray with snow-white cravats immaculately displayed.
As she perused the gathering her gaze fell upon the broad back of a man standing several feet away. She took in the enormous shoulders, the narrow waist, the longish black hair. Everyone else, including her betrothed, who was gulping down his third drink, faded away. The man reminded her of Holt. His hair was shorter but his height, his build, even the arrogant stance of self-assurance, reminded her of him. Her pulse skipped three beats as the man tossed his head back in laughter. Rich, deep, sensual tones resonated to her, held her, drew her closer. She must see his face.
She had tortured herself in this manner many times before. The glimpse of a tall, broad figure with black hair would drive her to near insanity, until she saw the man’s face. Each time, she prayed it would be Holt, but it never was. After each disappointing discovery, a mixture of sadness and relief flooded her. What would she do if one of these nameless men actually turned out to be Holt Langford? The man laughed again, a soft, velvet ripple breathing through her. And then, as though sensing someone watched him, he turned and met her gaze. Navy eyes pierced her and stared straight through her as though he had not seen her. Without a backward glance, Holt Langford, Earl of Westover, casually strode away, a blonde beauty clinging to his arm.
“I say, my dear,” Thomas Jameson’s words slurred slightly as he grabbed Sophie’s arm and snagged her along, “we best get back to our seats before the second act begins.”
Sophie looked away from the retreating figure. She could not go back to her seat or anywhere she might encounter Holt. “Forgive me, I’ve come down with a horrible headache and fear I must leave at once. Would you be so kind as to see to my wrap?”
“You don’t say?” Thomas Jameson eyed her suspiciously.
“Yes, I am truly sorry.”
“Of course, my sweet.” A speck of a smile washed over his fleshy lips. “In two week’s time, we’ll have the rest of our days,” he winked, “and nights to spend together.”
***
Holt threw down another whiskey, his third. He remained oblivious to the noise at White’s. As a matter of fact, he’d been oblivious to everything for the past two hours. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memory of Sophie’s beauty to disappear. Who was he fooling? She was more beautiful than ever. The burgundy velvet gown she wore tonight had clung to her exquisite body, molding and shaping itself around her as she moved. Her auburn hair had been gathered high atop her head, held in place with ruby combs in such a way as to permit a few tendrils to escape and trail down her neck. The emerald eyes that had held his gaze were more vivid than he remembered, lush and green as a forest. But there had been something different about her, something sad, almost defeated. When she’d looked at him he hadn’t missed the glimmer of hope in those sparkling eyes, a hope he’d squelched the instant he turned his back on her.
She tormented him daily and his attempts to purge himself of her through women and drink had all proved unsuccessful. Even the sea, his greatest source of joy and solace, had left him wanting. He’d begun to seriously consider taking over his responsibility and accepting the earldom and had almost convinced himself he could return to Ellswood without being affected by her proximity. He hadn’t made it five days. He and Jason had been enjoying their rendezvous in London, escorting different ladies about each evening and staying out all hours of the night. Tonight changed everything.
Tonight was why he was slowly and deliberately drinking himself into a good, solid state of drunkenness. Holt leaned back against the heavy oak chair and closed his eyes. He’d just begun to relax when a hand settled heavily on his shoulder, jerking him awake. He jumped up, nearly toppling the table and sending his empty whiskey glass crashing to the floor. He grabbed his assailant by the cravat and pulled hard.
The other man choked and sputtered. “Stop! It’s me.”
“Christ.” Holt released his brother and slunk back into his chair. “I need another drink.”
Jason said nothing until the drinks were served and Holt had taken three healthy swallows. Then he pinned his brother with eyes that saw more than they should. “This little drinking spree you’ve engaged in doesn’t have anything to do with Sophie, does it?”
“I told you she’s not a topic for discussion.”
“And I told you I would not mention her name again, but I also know you saw her tonight and your behavior since has become irrational. Which leads me to believe she’s the reason,” Jason gestured to the half empty glass, “for this.”
“I saw her.” Holt scowled, staring into his glass.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“She’s getting married.”
The words sucked the air from his lungs. He told himself he would not care. She could marry a man with three heads for all it mattered to him. “Who would be the lucky man?” He didn’t even realize he’d asked the question.
Jason shifted in his chair. “Thomas Jameson.”
“That lecherous old bastard?” Holt grabbed the end of the table to stop from punching someone. Thomas Jameson? And then, he released his death grip on the table and sat back. “Perhaps I should not have rescued her at the soiree. Maybe, she wanted to be caught by the likes of that fool.”
“If you believe that, then you’re the fool. Word has it she had no choice. Seems her old man harbored a huge guilt over keeping her off the marriage mart. His death-bed wish was to see her married posthaste and the only candidate willing to take the other sister was Jameson.”
“Christ.”
“You know how much she hated him. She’s doing this because she has no choice.”
“She’s of age to do exactly as she pleases.”
“Not everyone does as he pleases just because he’s able to,” Jason said quietly. “Sophie has other commitments, mainly to her sister. I’m willing to bet she’s doing this to protect Caroline.”
“The bastard will destroy her.”
“Yes.”
Holt said nothing. Damn, the alcohol wasn’t working quickly enough. He didn’t want to feel pain and aching emptiness, yet tonight, drinking only intensified those emotions. No matter how strongly he denied it, he cared about Sophie. Very much.
Chapter 18
The urgent knocking on the bedroom door awakened Sophie from her semi-slumber. She sat up slowly, still fully clothed and stifled
a yawn. “Who is it?”
“It’s Clyde, Lady Sophie. There seems to be a bit of confusion which requires your immediate attention.” The butler cleared his throat. “There’s a gentleman come to see you who won’t give his name and refuses to leave.”
Sophie hurried to the door and opened it. “Thank you, Clyde.” She smiled at the old man, trying to allay his obvious concern. “Please show the gentleman into the salon. I shall be there momentarily.” Once the butler left, she attempted to rearrange the combs in her hair which had fallen out while she slept. It proved a futile effort, one she soon abandoned.
Who would be calling at such an hour? Only one man ignored decorum so blatantly. But Holt Langford had given her the direct cut tonight. It would not be him. Or would it? Equal amounts of dread and anticipation built as she raced down the spiral staircase, slowing her pace just outside the salon. She inched open the heavy oak door and peered inside. A tall, imposing figure faced the fireplace, his strong hands clasped behind him. Holt. He turned, rendering her incapable of word or thought. She stood frozen to her spot as he advanced with panther-like moves, his gaze trained on her.
“Still the beautiful temptress,” he said, his voice low, his eyes caressing as they roamed her body.
It was almost too much. She’d waited so long for his return and now he stood so close she could smell the spicy scent of him, see the blueness of his eyes. Eyes that burned into her with an intensity that frightened her. She stepped back. “Why are you here?”
He moved closer. “Now there’s a question.” His beautiful mouth curved into a ruthless smile as he fingered a lock of hair that had escaped from one of her remaining combs. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “And so deadly.” Frowning, he dropped his hand and stepped away. “I’ve traveled halfway across the world to extend my congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. And of course, to meet the man who succeeded in winning your hand when I obviously could not.”