“Do you not agree, Sophia?” Thomas asked.
Startled, she looked back at Thomas and Lord Pendleton. They awaited her response. She wasn’t sure what Thomas had said. However, they rarely disagreed. “Of course,” she replied.
Pendleton nodded in concurrence, and the discussion between the two gentlemen moved along at a rapid clip.
Sophia’s gaze swung back to Westfield.
He was gone.
She scanned the room. He stood a few yards away, moving toward her. Her stomach lurched. Surely, he didn’t intend to engage her in conversation.
A petite woman placed a halting hand on Westfield’s upper arm. The blond-haired woman with her bow-shaped mouth and skin the color of fine bone china carried herself with the air of blue-blooded superiority. Her eyes were an extraordinary green. Their color, along with their shape, reminded Sophia of the archangel cats she’d seen exhibited at the Crystal Palace.
The beauty slid her fingers to Westfield’s chest. The touch spoke of familiarity.
Lovers? Of course. Sophia placed a palm to her abdomen. How inconsequential she’d been.
Westfield whispered something into the woman’s ear.
The woman laughed.
Sophia looked away. She didn’t want to witness their amorous play. She tried to become engaged in Thomas and Lord Pendleton’s conversation, but morbid curiosity drew her gaze back to Westfield.
With taut features, he stared at the blonde, then motioned to his brother-in-law, Lord Prescott, or the man standing next to him. She’d seen the other gentleman before. He was a patient of Thomas’s. He had something to do with the Home Office or Scotland Yard. Yes. Sir Edmund Henderson, the commissioner of Scotland Yard.
Westfield and the woman drew several people’s attention. He flashed them an amiable smile, but when his attention returned to the green-eyed woman, his own eyes were like shards of steel. If the lady was a lover, she had fallen out of favor. He stepped away, but the woman’s fingers clasped possessively onto his forearm. He removed her hand from his sleeve and strode away.
He stared at Sophia—moved toward her. She controlled the desire to grab the skirts of her gown and flee. It would draw too much attention if she ran. She glanced back at Thomas and Lord Pendleton, now engaged in an animated conversation about politics and the general election. Her hands trembled. Wrapping one around the other, she steadied them. She needed to excuse herself—walk calmly from the ballroom and gather her faculties. She waited for a lull in their conversation, tried to resist the urge to interrupt them, but in the end, she did so anyway. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Thomas smiled, and then a shadow cut across his face. His gaze shifted to someone who stood directly behind her.
Westfield. She knew it without turning around—the warmth of his body singed her back, and his clean, masculine scent drifted in the air.
“Well, Westfield.” The elderly Pendleton lifted his pince-nez to his nose. “Fancy seeing you here. I do say you cut a fine dash for a man who’s recently had the lead picked out of him.”
Westfield moved to stand next to her and gave Pendleton a wry smile. He shifted closer, and his arm brushed against her skin, sending a wave of awareness through her body.
“Miss Camden, I hope the evening finds you well,” he said, practically ignoring the two gentlemen.
His deep voice set her further on edge.
Stay calm.
With a slight inclination of her head, she replied, “Quite well, Lord Westfield.” Her voice sounded steady, even though her chest felt as though a ham-fingered physician percussed it.
“Gentlemen,” Thomas said, “I think you’ll have to excuse Miss Camden and me. I believe the musicians are about to start another set, and she has graciously promised me a dance.”
“Of course,” Pendleton responded.
As Thomas took her elbow to usher her toward the dance floor, Westfield stepped into their path. “Miss Camden, may I have the honor of the next set?”
Goodness, no. She didn’t want him to hold her—to experience the desire his proximity always evoked.
Thomas’s jaw visibly clenched. He opened his mouth, then glanced at Pendleton before returning his gaze to Westfield. “My lord, as your physician, I must advise you against dancing. You do not wish to impair your recovery.”
Westfield smiled at Thomas, but the expression lacked any warmth. “Ah, Trimble, as always you are the voice of reason.” He held her gaze. “Miss Camden, I fear I must retract my offer. My physician feels it unwise.” He paused. “Will you honor me with a stroll in the conservatory instead? My sister tells me she has added some remarkable new rose specimens that I am most eager to see.”
What poppycock! He most likely wished for another meaningless assignation. She wanted to refuse his invitation, but Pendleton’s rapt attention centered on them. “I would be honored, my lord,” she replied, and walked away.
Chapter Sixteen
Hayden knew Sophia’s words proclaiming she’d be honored to take a stroll with him were a bold-faced lie. She’d forced a smile, looking like a woman condemned to the gallows.
His gaze followed her and Trimble moving across the dance floor. He unclenched his hand and glanced around the ballroom. Where the hell was Adele? Her appearance had startled him. When had she returned from the Continent? Damn her brother to hell. Lord Kent had promised his sister would never return to England.
The madwoman had acted as if nothing were wrong between them. As though she’d never shot him. He’d wanted to drag her from the ballroom by the scruff of her neck, but he’d not wished to embarrass Edith in front of her guests.
Instead, he’d pointed out Commissioner Henderson. Told Adele the fellow was a nice enough chap if one stayed on the right side of the law. Then threatened if she didn’t leave Great Britain, he’d have her carted off to a tidy little cell.
He scanned the perimeter of the ballroom. It appeared she’d left. Tomorrow, he’d send a note to Lord Kent, demanding he send his lunatic sister away again or commit her to an asylum, or he’d reveal the truth about who’d shot him.
“Did you say Edith has several new species of roses, Westfield?” Pendleton asked, breaking into Hayden’s thoughts.
He turned to the man.
Pendleton twisted his moustache. “My wife fancies herself an expert on the subject. Only last week, she went to Surrey to visit a conservatory the Royal Horticultural Society is working on.” He gave a shrug. “I don’t see what all the bloody fuss is about. But I shall tell Henrietta, so she can accompany you and Miss Camden.”
He tried not to scowl at the man. He didn’t wish Pendleton’s harpy wife tagging along, especially since he had no intention of going to the conservatory. No, he wished to show Sophia something else.
“I wouldn’t suggest you tell her, Pendleton, for you shall have to accompany her since these are no ordinary roses, but Rosa carniverosa.”
“Rosa carniverosa?” Pendleton echoed.
“Carnivorous.”
Pendleton’s brows twisted in consternation before he let loose a thunderous laugh. “Why, you sly devil, Westfield.” He waggled a crooked finger at him. “I may not know a dashed thing about roses, but I damn well know there’s no such thing as carnivorous ones, or I’d have bought them for Henrietta years ago.”
The man reached up and slapped him conspiratorially on the shoulder. “You just want to be alone when you take Miss Camden for a stroll. Don’t fret. I won’t tell Henrietta a thing about your sister’s new roses, if indeed they exist. I may be old, but I’ve not yet forgotten what it was like to be in love.”
Pendleton spoke plainly, a trait Hayden usually admired in him, but not today. “Pendleton, I advise you to stop imbibing that Russian vodka you’re so fond of. That liquor is addling your brain.”
“I don’t think so. I saw the way you looked at her. Can’t blame you, though. She’s lovely.”
Hayden tried to ignore the man, but he prattled on endlessly. He shot Pendleton
one of his bollocks-withering scowls, but since the man had known him since Hayden wore short trousers, it seemed to have no effect.
The music stopped, and Sophia and Trimble moved off the dance floor.
“Excuse me, Pendleton.” Hayden strode up to Sophia. Trimble looked ready to throw a right hook at him. He savored the thought of going toe-to-toe with the man, but Edith would never forgive him. He leaned forward. “We’re garnering an excessive amount of attention, Trimble. Wouldn’t look good if she cut me. The gossips would wonder why.”
Trimble flashed a clearly forced smile and relinquished her arm.
Sophia set her hand on his sleeve, and they strode to the perimeter of the room where the crowd thinned.
“I do not wish to accompany you to the conservatory,” Sophia whispered. “If you have something you wish to say to me, please do so here.”
He gazed into angry, dark eyes. Sophia regretted their night together, but he remembered her soft sighs and how responsive she’d been. “Is it me you fear, Sophia, or yourself?” He found it difficult to soften the sharp edge of his tone.
She harrumphed, but her cheeks reddened. “The only reason I do not wish to leave the ballroom is because our departure will cause gossip.”
A footman passed with a tray of champagne flutes. Sophia stopped and took a glass. Slowly she drew the cut crystal to her lips and sipped. “Do you always draw so much attention?” With her drink, she motioned to a gaggle of young women.
He glanced at them and they tittered.
“Why don’t you ask one of those debutantes, or all of them, to accompany you to the conservatory? They appear willing enough.”
He smiled, his heart lightened by her jealous tone. He let his gaze travel over the length of her body. She wore an elaborate gown of yellow silk and chiffon, ornamented with delicate embroidery at the waist and above the tasseled hem of her overskirt.
She blushed.
“You look lovely, Sophia.”
She glowered at him.
“Smile, my sweet, or the presumption will be made we are having a tiff.”
The edges of her mouth lifted slightly upward.
He took the crystal flute from her hand and placed it on one of the large circular tables set around the perimeter of the room. “You’ve stalled long enough.” He grasped her elbow and moved them toward one of the large, ornately plastered archways that exited the ballroom.
“Don’t you dare drag me out of here,” she hissed.
“Do you really wish to dare me again, Sophia? You know I can’t resist them.”
She sucked in an audible breath. “How do you sleep at night?”
Feeling less generous to her indifference, he responded, “You tell me, Sophia. How do I sleep at night? Or were we too preoccupied that night in your bedchamber to ever sleep?”
She tried to pull her elbow away.
He tightened his hold. “You’ll draw attention to us if you storm away. So think well and good before you do so.”
She relaxed her stance.
“Now, there is something I wish you to see.” They moved through one of the arches, and he maneuvered her behind a pair of velvet draperies into a small windowless alcove lit by a gas sconce. The light cast a soft glow over a life-size statue of a naked woman with a hand lying provocatively upon her breast and a snake slithering up her leg.
Sophia turned a puzzled expression toward him.
“Edith fears some of her guests might be offended, so it is draped off when she entertains. It is one of my brother-in-law’s acquisitions. Prescott purchased it before he and Edith married.”
“Quite lovely, but if you think it will ignite my baser desires, you are mistaken. I will not—”
He pressed a finger to her warm lips. “I thought you would wish to see the statue because it is one of the few your grandfather did.” Varga’s dossier had revealed a great deal, not only who her grandfather was but her great-uncle as well.
Her eyes widened. “Nonno’s?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me Gianni was your grandfather?”
“What purpose would it have served?” She ran a hand over the perfectly honed marble. “Grandfather told me he had done two statues when a young man, but I had not expected anything so large. So exquisite. Do you think Lord Prescott would consider selling it?”
He smiled. “Are you considering displaying it in your entry hall or next to your chintz chairs?”
“No, I’d like to see it displayed in a museum. I have loaned most of my grandfather’s paintings to various museums.”
Her palm stilled over the thigh of the statue, and he placed his fingers atop hers.
She pulled her hand away. “I thank you for showing the statue to me, but we should return to the ballroom. I’m sure our absence has been noted.”
“You give us too much importance.”
“Not us, my lord, you.”
He stepped closer, drew in her familiar lavender and lemon essence. “Sophia . . .” He stilled. Someone approached. With a tilt of his head, he motioned to the heavy drapery and placed his index finger to his lips.
The footfalls on the hard marble floor grew louder—nearer. A woman giggled and a gentleman laughed.
He maneuvered Sophia against the wall, shielded her body with his, obscuring her identity. The heat from her skin enticed him. He shifted closer.
Scowling, she forced her hands between them and pressed against his chest.
“Have I mentioned how fond I am of you touching me?” he whispered.
She narrowed her eyes.
The sound of the footsteps halted outside the alcove, and the drapery parted.
“Forgive me, my dear,” he murmured, extinguishing the light and covering her mouth with his.
The moment the silky texture of her lips touched his, he was lost to the hunger that had clawed at him like some insistent beast over the last several weeks. With a groan, he deepened the kiss and tasted the champagne that lingered on her tongue.
For several heated seconds, Sophia didn’t respond, but then she made a small, almost helpless sound, and her tongue moved against his. She might not want him, but her body did.
“Deuced inconvenient,” the man outside the curtain grumbled. “Someone’s already in there, Gladys.”
The curtain fell back into place and brushed against his legs. The couple retreated. Their footsteps faded. He should pull away, relinquish his hold, but instead he nibbled the soft skin of her neck and took satisfaction in her little gasps.
“No. Please,” she said, her breaths coming fast. “You told me once if I said no you would stop. I’m saying no. I wish you to stop.”
She sounded close to tears. He pulled away.
“Thomas has asked me to marry him. And I cannot do this to him.”
He stepped back. The curtain brushed against his legs, letting in a small beam of light. Her face was downcast. “Do you love him?”
She glanced up. “Yes.”
She didn’t hesitate, only affirmed her attachment. He resisted the urge to shake her. Ask how she could give him her virginity when she cared for Trimble, but he’d no right to make moral judgments. “Then I wish you the best.” He lifted his fingers wanting to touch her face. He let his hand fall to his side, then pivoted on his heel, and strode away.
What else was there to say? If he needed confirmation, he had it. She wanted to marry Trimble. His gut tensed.
She most likely knew what the denizens of London whispered—that he’d abandoned his wife only months after Celia’s birth. That he was a scoundrel and a rogue. He couldn’t reveal the truth about Celia’s real father, erase the reputation he’d earned, nor change his past, but he would be a better man moving forward. A better, less scandalous father to Celia. Someone she’d be proud to call Papa.
* * *
Hayden disappeared through the velvet curtains. The material swayed back and forth, and Sophia stared at the cloth, forcing herself not to run after him. She slumped against the wall and cu
pped her face with her hands.
She’d wanted to tell him about the child growing within her. But Westfield didn’t want a wife, only someone to warm his bed. He seduced women, used them, and then discarded them. She’d seen his disgust for the highborn woman in the ballroom. I will not end up like her, begging for his favors.
Yet, for a moment, he’d looked vulnerable.
How foolish! She couldn’t trust such a seasoned rogue. She slammed her open palm against the wall and absorbed the pain on her skin. She glanced at the statue and placed her stinging hand on the cool marble.
Nonno, what have I done?
Thomas expected an answer from her today, but she’d have to put him off, answer him another day. She couldn’t accept his marriage proposal. She loved Thomas, but not the way a wife should. She loved him as one loved a brother. And Thomas deserved so much more.
Perhaps she’d go to Italy. She had family there.
She sat on the statue’s platform and wished the ground would open up and absorb her.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophia glanced at the watch dangling from the bodice of her navy dress. Four o’clock and she still had several patients to examine. Normally by this time, she and Thomas would have finished attending the women and children at the Whitechapel Mission’s infirmary, but an emergency had called Thomas to the hospital’s operating theater.
Her thoughts shifted to Thomas’s coachman. Upon their arrival, she’d asked Angus if he wished to come inside, but he’d declined, refusing to leave the equipage unattended in the side alley. The poor man—doubtful he’d anticipated such a long wait in the cold.
Tucking a stray lock into her chignon, she slipped from the examining room and into the anteroom. The mission’s stony-faced matron, who sat at a desk speaking to an elderly woman, glanced at Sophia over the rims of her wire-framed spectacles.
“I shall return shortly, Mrs. Hamblin.”
The matron acknowledged her with a curt nod before returning her scrutiny to the gray-haired woman.
As Sophia moved through the narrow room, she surveyed the other weary faces that crowded the small space. Her gaze settled on a young mother who cradled a toddler. The poor woman’s left eye was contused and her bottom lip swollen. The bruises weren’t new. The skin was already mottled and yellowed, giving her a jaundiced appearance. Sophia’s ire rose. Never would she become immune to seeing such depravity.
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