by Mary Balogh
“I believe,” Eden said in Sophia’s ear at a moment when Lavinia’s attention had been taken by a passing acquaintance, “our Nat is captivated, Sophie.”
“And you are looking decidedly smug,” she said. “I suppose you set it up, Eden?”
“But of course.” He grinned wickedly at her. “I am a matchmaker extraordinaire, Sophie. At your service, ma‘am. Whom may I find for you?”
“You, Eden,” she said, tapping him sharply on the arm, “may mind your manners and your own business too.”
“Now, Sophie,” he said, looking comically aggrieved, “the happiness of my friends is my business. Are you not my friend?”
Fortunately Lavinia turned her attention back to them at that moment.
She was horribly jealous, Sophia thought, and despised herself. What did she have with which to compete against the likes of Lady Gullis? Not one single solitary thing, that was what. And how silly it was even to think of competing. She had no claims on Nathaniel, and the sooner she put any illusions to the contrary from her mind, the better.
But even as she was thinking such sensible thoughts, she glanced to the doorway between the drawing room and the music room and froze.
How very wrong to have assumed that just because he had not been in the drawing room he was therefore not in the house. He was standing there, looking directly at her, his amused, mocking smile on his lips. And then he looked about at the people close to her. Eden was right beside her, of course. But by some unhappy coincidence both Kenneth and Rex were close by too. And so was Nathaniel.
He would not fail to notice that and be inflamed by it. He might even think it was deliberate, that she had gathered them about her as guards. Would he truly believe she could have done anything so insane?
And then her stomach lurched with alarm as Nathaniel, just at the worst possible moment, joined her group and proceeded to present Lady Gullis to both Lavinia and herself.
Go away, Sophia wanted to screech at both Eden and Nathaniel. Move back, she wanted to cry out to Rex and Kenneth. I cannot bear to have him antagonized. She had counted so much on having a few weeks of freedom.
She was aware, even as she smiled at Lady Gullis and uttered some courtesy she would not have been able to recall one minute later even if she had tried, that Boris Pinter was approaching at leisurely pace. She was aware too that both Eden and Nathaniel had stepped closer to her on either side—bringing with them the illusion of safety.
Oh, it had been planned. Damn Nathaniel! Damn him all to hell and back.
Nathaniel kept talking. Lady Gullis, with charming condescension, complimented Lavinia on her appearance and asked her if she had yet received vouchers for Almack’s.
Nathaniel hoped Sophie would not realize they were deliberately protecting her. Rex and Ken were showing every sign of joining their group. But that would look just too obvious. It should be unnecessary anyway. Pinter would surely take the hint and refrain from upsetting her as he had two evenings before.
But Pinter did not take the hint. And when all was said and done, there was very little Sophie’s friends could do about it short of drawing unwelcome attention her way by creating a scene.
“Sophie.” Pinter bowed to her, favoring her with his very white smile. “I am hurt that you have sought out your other friends before me.” He reached out and took her left hand in his. He glanced down at her ring finger and then placed his lips to the very spot where her wedding ring usually rested.
Yes, Nathaniel saw, the finger was definitely bare.
“Mr. Pinter,” she said—in her usual steady, cheerful voice.
“Pinter.” Eden was using his most haughty, languid voice. His quizzing glass was in his hand and halfway to his eye. “Just the chap who will know where I might find the card room. Do come and show me.”
But Boris Pinter was not to be distracted. “Sophie,” he said, lowering her hand but not releasing it, “you are with some of your dearest friends. Some of them are our mutual acquaintances. But there is one young lady I do not know. Will you present me?” He turned his head and smiled at Lavinia.
For one moment Nathaniel’s eyes met Sophie’s. She was—smiling. Her usual placid, comfortable smile. She was surrounded by friends, any one of whom would be willing to shed blood in her defense. She must realize at this moment that they had all stayed deliberately close to her to protect her from just such unwelcome attentions. She might quite easily have snubbed Pinter without in any way drawing general attention her way. Instead she was smiling and beginning to extend a hand in Lavinia’s direction. In another moment—less—she would be making the requested introductions and that bounder would be able to claim an acquaintance with Lavinia.
Not if he could help it!
“Excuse us,” he said abruptly, grasping Lavinia’s arm. “Lady Gullis? Sophie?” His half bow took in both ladies. “We must be joining my sister and brother-in-law.” He whisked Lavinia past Rex and Kenneth, who must surely have heard what had passed.
What he had done, Nathaniel thought, was humiliate Sophie. And he was not sure his snub had gone unnoticed. All the members of Rex and Ken’s group seemed to have turned to watch him go. But he was still too furious to care greatly.
Lavinia hauled back on his arm as they approached the doorway. “Nat?” she said angrily. “Unhand me this instant. What was that all about? Who is he that you must be so abominably rude? And do not tell me as you did yesterday that I would not wish to know. Who is he?”
He drew a deep breath. “Boris Pinter is the name,” he said. “A son of the Earl of Hardcastle. And Sophie Armitage’s friend. You are to have nothing to do with him, Lavinia. Do you understand? And nothing more to do with Mrs. Armitage either. And that is a command.”
“Nat.” She finally succeeded in pulling her arm free when they were inside the music room. “Do try not to be quite, quite ridiculous. And if you are considering translating that murderous look into any act of violence against me, I give you fair warning. I shall not take it meekly.”
The sense of her words penetrated the fury that seemed to have taken over his mind. He licked his lips and clasped his hands at his back. He forced a whole lungful of air inside himself before he trusted himself to speak again.
“I have never yet used violence against a woman, Lavinia,” he said. “I do not plan to start with you. Forgive the look. It was not really directed against you.”
“Against whom, then?” she asked him. “Against Mr. Pinter? Or against Sophie?”
He closed his eyes and tried to get his whirling thoughts under control. Why exactly was he so furious? Pinter was a thoroughly unsavory character and doubtless had not changed in three or four years. But Sophie was a free and independent woman. She was free to befriend whom she wished. But why Pinter? And why had she not wanted him to know of Pinter’s visit yesterday and then made light of it? Tonight she had smiled at him and had been prepared to introduce his niece to the man without his permission.
Tonight there had been no sign of fear—they had probably all imagined that at the Shelby ball too. Tonight she had been her usual cheerful self.
Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling sorry that he had started an affair with a woman of such poor taste that she could befriend a man like Pinter, a man whom her own husband had abhorred.
“Perhaps against myself, Lavinia,” he said, answering her question at last. “Let us find Margaret.”
“I want,” Lavinia said, looking closely at him, “to know more about Mr. Pinter. But you are not going to tell me more, are you? I am just a delicate female. He is an earl’s son and he seems charming enough. And yet you were abominably rude to both him and Sophie merely because he wished to be presented to me. Are you jealous of him, Nat?”
“Jealous?” He looked at her, stunned. “Jealous? Of Pinter? And why, pray, would I be jealous of him?”
“No, I suppose not,” she said, frowning. “You are as handsome as they come, Nat, I will give you that. You can attract any woman you want.
You do not imagine, I suppose, that I have not seen how the wind blows with Lady Gullis this evening? Sophie is not the sort of woman who could make you jealous, is she, more is the pity. But she is my friend, and her friends are mine.”
“My arm,” he said curtly, offering it to her. “I see that Margaret is over there beyond the pianoforte.”
She took his arm without another word, but her jaw, he saw at a glance, was set in a familiar stubborn line.
He was beginning to wish that after all he had stayed at Bowood.
Or that he had not gone riding in the park that first morning.
He wished he had not met Sophie again. Or at least that he had not become her lover. What on earth had possessed him to do such a thing? With Sophie!
Now, damn it all, he felt responsible for her. Did he not have enough females for whom to feel responsible?
THIRTEEN
SOPHIA COULD NOT HAVE felt more shocked or more humiliated if her face had been slapped. Or more guilty. She had been about to present Boris Pinter to Nathaniel’s niece when Nathaniel himself had been standing there to be applied to to perform such a service. But she had been about to comply merely because he had asked it of her—just as she had presented him to Beatrice at the Shelby ball.
Nathaniel had taken Lavinia’s arm, bowed frostily, and spoken with great clarity. His words and his actions had caught the attention not only of their group, but of the group next to it too—the one that included Rex and Kenneth and their wives. A sizable number of people had wit nessed her humiliation. He had cut her quite ruthlessly.
How she hated Nathaniel in that moment.
And how she hated herself.
Was this what she had come to? Was she now a puppet on a string? Was she to be one for the rest of her life? How far would she allow herself to be pushed? A limitless distance?
But there was no time to stand and think. She smiled and held out an arm for Boris Pinter’s.
“Sir,” she said, “will you be so good as to escort me to the refreshment room?” She inclined her head to Lady Gullis and to Eden, who was looking intently at her, though he made no attempt at further interference on her behalf.
Pinter gave her his arm.
“Sophie,” he said when they had stepped outside the drawing room and were on the wide landing that extended the length of the three rooms in use for the soiree, “I do believe our mutual acquaintances do not like me.”
“Enough of this,” she said briskly. “If you enjoy playing the part of cat, sir, I certainly do not enjoy the role of mouse. I will not play it any longer.”
“You would prefer another role, Sophie?” he said, chuckling. “Pariah of a nation, perhaps?”
It was not even a great exaggeration, she feared. But she might risk even that if she were the only one who would be affected. But she thought of Sarah and Lewis and of Edwin and Beatrice. And even Thomas, her own brother, would not be immune. His business success depended a great deal on the preservation of a good name. And he had three young children and a fourth on the way.
“I have allowed myself to become your victim,” she said. “I have paid for four letters, and of course there are several more which I will be asked to buy at your convenience. That is one thing, sir. This is another—this stalking. What is the purpose of it, pray?”
“When I joined the cavalry, Sophie,” he said, “I dreamed as every young officer does of doing my duty, of distinguishing myself, of earning rapid promotion. I am unfortunate enough to have a father who dislikes me, who was willing to purchase my commission in order to be rid of me, but who was unwilling to purchase any further promotion for me. An unnatural father, would you not agree? All proceeded according to plan until, as a lieutenant, I sought a captaincy. Your husband blocked that promotion simply to indulge a personal grudge. I was still a lieutenant when I sold out.”
“That was between you and Walter,” Sophia said. “Or between you and the army. It had nothing to do with me.”
“And now you, Sophie,” he said, “a mere coal merchant’s daughter, have become a favorite of the ton. And a favorite of those favored beings, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Perhaps you have your sights set very high indeed. Pelham is a single man, as is Gascoigne—a baron and a baronet. Either one would be a step up from the mere brother of a viscount.”
Oh, Nathaniel. “How ridiculous!” she said scornfully. But she was getting the point. He wanted a little revenge as well as a great deal of money. Her social life was to be ruined, as were her friendships, to console him for the spoiling of his military career.
And was her wonderful springtime to be ruined too? She could not forget the coldness in Nathaniel’s eyes as he had looked into hers and read her intention of presenting Boris Pinter to his niece. And yet only a few minutes before that their eyes had met and a smile, hardly perceptible on their faces, had passed between them. A sign of awareness, even of affection.
Now it was to be all spoiled. No, it was not a future thing. It had been spoiled.
“I see,” she said. “I am to stay away from my friends, stay away from ton events. Is that what you wish? And what will you do, sir, if I ignore your warnings? Shout your knowledge from the rooftops? Send a letter or two to the papers? You will have created a glorious scandal, but all your power over me will be gone. I wonder which you would prefer?”
“Either one, Sophie,” he said, “would give me great satisfaction.”
Yes, she believed him. And she understood too, though perhaps he did not intend her to know it, that he would eventually have both—all the money she could scrape together from her own resources and from her relatives and Walter‘s, and their eventual disgrace and ruin too. The beau monde would not take kindly to having been so shockingly duped.
“I am going to leave you now, sir,” she said, “in order to find my sister-in-law. If I were you, I would not be too hasty. You might ruin your own fun far too soon. All scandals die eventually, you know. Then you would have to find something new—or someone—with which to amuse yourself.”
“Sophie.” He took her hand in his and bent over it, though he did not set his lips to it this time. “You are almost a worthy adversary, my dear. Walter did not deserve you. Though I suppose that when you have soot beneath your fingernails, you cannot be too fussy, can you?”
“Good evening to you, sir.”
She smiled at him for the benefit of the other people strolling out on the landing and turned back to the drawing room. She hated to walk in there again, to imagine—and not be sure that it was imagination—curious glances directed her way. Kenneth and Moira were still there. She ignored them and went in search of Beatrice. She had fully intended to plead a headache and ask if the carriage might take her home. But she changed her mind. She would not play the coward.
She saw Nathaniel a little later. He was having a tête-à-tête with Lady Gullis again, bending toward her the better to hear her over the loud hum of voices. He was smiling his wonderful smile. And even as Sophia watched, the two of them left the room, not for one of the other rooms, but for the landing and the stairs. They did not return.
Well, she thought, she had known it was to be a very temporary thing, her affair with him. She had hoped for longer, for a few months perhaps. But she was not sorry it was over so soon. She had known from the start that she was playing with fire, that there was only heartbreak ahead. She would never have succeeded in convincing herself that her infatuation with him would have played itself out after a vigorous affair of a few months’ duration. The opposite would have been true.
She had spent two nights with him. At least she had those to remember for the rest of her life. But the affair had not gone on long enough to leave her truly bereft. It was better this way.
She wondered five minutes after his departure how it would feel to be truly bereft. Could it possibly feel worse than what she was feeling now?
Nathaniel did not go out for the usual ride with his friends the following morning. He was lying in bed, tho
ugh he was not sleeping. He had lain down only an hour before he usually got up, convincing himself that he would sleep, that he needed sleep.
He had spent most of the night walking the streets. He might, he supposed, have gone to Sophie’s since that was where he had wanted to go earlier. Or he might have spent the hours in Lady Gullis’s bed—he had escorted her home but had made the excuse for not going into the house with her that he did not wish to compromise her reputation with her servants. She had been flatteringly disappointed, but it had been an argument with which she could hardly argue. Or he might have sought out Eden or some other of his male acquaintances, many of whom made a practice of remaining up all night and returning home only with the dawn.
He might even have come home and gone to bed.
But he had walked the streets and had even had the intensely satisfying experience of beating off a would-be thief with his cane.
He was feeling disgruntled, he found, because this business with Sophie was not developing in any way as he had expected. He had wanted peace and comfort—and good sex—after the past few years, when he had shouldered the responsibility of settling a whole family of females. He exaggerated, of course. But it had seemed that way. He had looked forward this spring to seeing to his own contentment as well as to finding husbands for Georgina and Lavinia.
Sophie had seemed the perfect choice after his initial surprise at finding that he was attracted to her in that way—and that apparently she reciprocated his interest.
But Sophie had changed. Despite the outward sameness of both appearance and demeanor, she had developed a mind and a life of her own. It was not surprising, he supposed, when he had not seen her for three years. And it was not undesirable in a woman who lived independently. She also had some sort of secret—he did not doubt that—that she chose not to share.