Sophie grit her teeth, resisting the urge to crumple the letter.
Loyal, was she?
A peach, was she?
Anger surged through her.
Her interest had hardly been feigned! Her questions had been born of legitimate interest—and how dare Harlan assume she would wait five, even six more years until he deigned to return to her! And yet it was hardly that particular narrative that incensed her most. Her eyes skimmed the pages until she came to the paragraph in which he began to tempt Jon...
... and the women here are the most lovely... skin so velvet brown and eyes so deep a black a man may sigh to see his own reflection in their depths. And hair... Christ, I have never had the joy of touching hair so rich it flows through one’s hands like the mane of a fine riding horse. (And they love to be ridden, jon... I know this firsthand.)
Sophie was not such a moron that she did not understand his meaning, even if she did not know exactly what that meant. Her cheeks burned with both anger and mortification.
“Forgive me, Sophia, I did not wish to mask even the worst of it,” Jonathon interjected, interpreting correctly the flush on her cheeks. “You had a right to know.”
Sophie nodded, too shaken for words, even after reading the letter for the third time.
She forced herself to continue.
... never have I known women so earthy in nature. If you experience the carnal joy of one woman’s bosom, you must not think her the exception because the next will make you yearn to feel her native soil between your toes forever and run like a savage through the jungles of her birth. You will nearly forget you are a civilized man and never again wish to languish in the misery that is Boston. Not for all the vanderwahl money would I be dragged so soon from this paradise!
Sophie winced at the not so subtle reminder that it was her father’s money, not her, that would most likely bring him back—and not even her father’s money was enough! He was enjoying himself far too well at Vanderwahl expense!
And she couldn’t help but notice that he couldn’t even be bothered to capitalize her surname.
Sorrow was at once replaced with cold fury, and armed with anger, she reread the last passages.
Even here in the wilds I have received word of jack macauley’s reckless venture... his purchase of that deuced old ship... the miss deed, is it? In any case, he must be ready to set sail soon. Entreat upon him, if you will, to give you passage. He would make room for you, I’m certain. His pockets have grown quite shallow. In the meantime, I shall hand choose the most luscious native girl, and let no man sample her but you. Join me, jon, and you will hardly wonder why I must convince sophia’s father to purchase me more time. Between the two of us we could surely convince him of our potential here. He is eager for grandchildren and alone I will not prevail.
Come, my good friend. Your presence is the one thing I find I sorely miss.
Your loyal friend and associate, Harlan Horatio Penn III
Jon’s company was the one thing he sorely missed, was it? Not hers?
How could she not have realized sooner how little interest he held in her? Just the other night Sophie had viciously defended him to her friend Maggie when Maggie dared imply his interest had waned. Why had it taken a letter from him to Jonathon for her to realize what was apparently quite obvious to everybody else?
She slumped over the letter. She tried so hard to be everything everyone wanted her to be—the best daughter, the best girlfriend—she shouldn’t wear her décolletage too high, or too low. She wasn’t supposed to weep, nor was she supposed to laugh too loudly.
She set down her own letter from Harlan, with all its sweet lies, on the desktop, and kept the other in hand, unwilling to relinquish the damning evidence, forgetting just for an instant to keep her shoulders even—a lady never slumped, you see, not even in the most distressing of situations.
“Is everything quite all right, Miss Sophia?”
Sophie straightened and looked reassuringly at their longtime butler, Harold, who stood in the doorway. In her parents’ eternal absence, Sophie was the lady of the manor. She had been groomed well by her mother, and she managed the household meticulously, but it was only in that very instant, as Harold looked in upon her, that she suddenly wondered who exactly was looking after whom.
“Everything is fine, Harold,” she assured. “I’m fine,” she lied.
He cocked his head at her as though he didn’t quite believe her. “Are you quite certain, Miss Sophia?”
Sophie waved him away, choking on a wave of grief. “Quite. It’s nothing I can’t manage.”
The older man smiled affectionately at her. “As always, Miss Sophia.” He cast a suspicious glance at Jonathon and left, assuring her, “I shall be right here in the hall should you require my presence.”
Sophie smiled to herself. Harold was, as ever, her guardian angel. If she knew him well—and, indeed, she did—he would, in fact, remain just outside the door, dusting the same picture frame over and over until Jonathon Preston left the premises. In fact, were it up to Harold, he would have never have allowed Jonathon entrance at all. Harold was far more protective of her than even her own father. But then her father and mother always expected her to do the right thing. They never doubted for an instant that Sophie would always adhere to her good breeding.
“Sophia,” Jonathon prompted.
Sophie looked up at him. He seemed suddenly to take up far too much of her breathing space.
All at once everything seemed far too confining—her father’s house, her predictable manners, even her dress.
She had every right to be angry!
Why couldn’t she ever allow herself a single instant of real emotion? Why must she always be perfect? Always be strong? Always do the right thing? She wanted to shout and cry and break things! She eyed a photo of Harlan on her desk and didn’t dare touch it.
She sucked in a breath and stood calmly, clutching Jonathon’s letter to her breast. Her fingers unconsciously curled about the parchment, crinkling the fine paper. Fury constricted her throat—not sorrow, not fear, but unrelieved fury.
How dare Harlan take advantage of her father!
How dare he use and discard them both so easily!
“Oh, dear! I see how much this has upset you, Sophie. Perhaps I should not have come,” Jonathon proposed. He set a hand gingerly upon her shoulder.
Sophie shrugged out from under his touch and brushed past him, swallowing her temper, trying to regain her composure.
Three years ago, with her mother’s and her father’s avid blessings, she had promised herself to Harlan. Three years and two months she had waited for him to come home and marry her, so that she could go and make them another perfect home. She had gladly rebuffed the advances of all her would-be suitors until every last one of her friends was wed, and only Sophie remained. And still she had waited, content in the knowledge that her darling Harlan would someday return from some faraway exotic land to claim her for his bride—like some knight in shining armor.
Poppycock!
They were supposed to have lived happily ever after... together with three children and a miniature pony for their daughter—all nothing but a young girl’s foolishness!
And, yes, indeed, she had been a young girl when Harlan had left Boston, but she was twenty-three now, and no longer some giddy school-miss with girlish dreams meant to be broken. No longer was she content to make do with straggled letters intended to keep her on a shelf!
Harlan thought he was so smart, did he?
Jonathon’s company was the only company he sorely missed, was it?
Well, Sophie had more pride than to allow him to discard her at will, only to reclaim her when it pleased him! She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction!
“Please believe me… I never intended to join him, Sophia,” Jonathon reassured her, his tone reproachful of Harlan. “I could never join in his unconscionable sophistry against your father!”
Sophie narrowed her eyes at Jon
athon. She was just about tired of hearing about her father! Why was everything always about her father, his money, his connections, his name? She decided in that instant that she would never again allow herself to be party to such an arrangement—even if it meant she would spend every day of the rest of her life completely alone! If a man could not love her for herself, then she just didn’t want him!
In fact, she rather liked the idea of being alone! And why shouldn’t she? She didn’t really need a man in her life!
She only wished Harlan were here so she could rip up his letter and toss it into his face—along with his wretched engagement ring and a few well-chosen words.
She felt almost giddy at the thought, empowered with the decision to forsake the wretch.
“Sophia,” Jonathon pleaded. “Please don’t weep, my dear.”
Startled by his request, Sophie straightened her shoulders. Weep? Oh, but she wasn’t weeping!
Though she could certainly understand why he thought so, with her back to him and her head bowed as it was. Her brows drew together suddenly as a thought occurred to her.
Why, indeed, wasn’t she weeping?
Maybe she was simply in shock?
Yes, that must be it; she would break down later when Jonathon left. And then she would sit down and write a scathing letter to Harlan, breaking off their engagement once and for all—she only wished she could be there to see his face when he read it—the rat! She wasn’t about to wait about like some ninny for her fiancé to deign to return, simply to tell him to go to the devil. She absolutely would not put her life on hold one instant longer!
It was Sophie’s father’s money and connections that had won Harlan his prestigious grants, and Sophie had supported Harlan with all her heart, wishing him to be happy in all his endeavors, and now it just wasn’t good enough to simply see his grants declined.
Resentment sidled through her.
Perhaps he wouldn’t regret losing her, but he would regret losing her father’s support—although she didn’t precisely know what her father would say about all this. She had no idea if he would support her or if he would endeavor to convince her that Harlan meant no harm... that all men strayed... that it bore no reflection on his feelings for her... but for the first time in Sophie’s life, she intended to take a stand. She was quite untreatably weary of being the good daughter!
A devilish thought suddenly occurred to her.
Why, indeed, should she wait for Harlan to return? Furthermore, why should she twiddle her thumbs until her father and mother returned from Paris to convince her everything was fine? Why shouldn’t she see Harlan’s face when she tore up his damning letter? In fact, why should she send the letter at all when she could take it to him?
She turned slowly to face Jonathon, her thoughts stewing, her eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t crying,” she assured him.
“It seems y-you’re angry,” he sputtered.
Sophie lifted a brow. “Quite!”
“Sophia, my dear... I-I’ve never seen you like this,” he managed to say.
Sophia had never felt quite like this.
With Harlan’s betrayal, something snapped inside her, something slightly terrifying and exciting all at once. The simple fact that she wasn’t huddled in a weepy pile at her desk and sobbing should have alarmed her as much as it seemed to shock Jonathon. The poor man was staring at her, mouth agape.
Sophie tried for an even tone as she dismissed him. The sooner he left her, the sooner she could begin making plans. “Thank you so much, Jonathon, for bringing this matter to my attention.” She straightened the parchment against her breast, ironing it neatly, resolved in what she must do.
She wanted to see Harlan beg for her father’s money! She wanted him to fall at her feet and endeavor to convince her to stay with him. And most of all, she wanted to rip his letter into a thousand little pieces, and then walk away forever.
“Sophia,” Jonathon began, taking a step backward as she neared. Sophie couldn’t help but note his confused reaction. He’d obviously expected a far different response from her. “I think perhaps you are in shock,” he said, recovering himself, and planting his feet firmly.
Sophie smiled thinly. No doubt he thought so.
Certainly it was unheard of that a woman should respond to such a case with anything other than pure hysteria, she thought irately.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she assured her fiancé’s best friend, flashing him a smile meant to placate, even if her eyes burned with wrath. “You may go now, and please, please, do not trouble yourself further, Jonathon.”
“Oh, but I must stay!” he protested at once. “How can I come to you bearing such horrid news and simply leave you disconsolate? You need comfort, my dear—comfort and friendship! And I am here to give it to you!”
Sophie folded the letter with cool deliberation. “As you can see ... I am hardly disconsolate.”
“But Sophia, my dear... this is quite unlike you!”
Sophie smiled. “Why, yes, it is!” she agreed, and batted her lashes at him, feeling quite the shrew, though with ample justification. Men! Her father included, all of them were despotic by nature! Well, she was quite through being a door mat!
She went to Jonathon, laying a hand upon his arm. She gripped him firmly and pulled him toward the door. “Thank you, dear Jon, for considering me in this.”
He had no choice but to follow... or make a scene, and Jonathan, like Harlan, had no stomach for embarrassing spectacles.
Her mind at once began to make plans. First she would pay a visit to this Jack MacAuley Harlan had mentioned in his letter. Someone at the university would know how to locate him. Then she would need to pack. And money—she would need money, of course. And she would write a letter to her mother and father so they wouldn’t worry when they returned and found her gone. Come to think of it, they probably wouldn’t even notice, but she should write them anyway. It was the proper thing to do, and, of course, she always did the proper thing.
She wondered about Jack MacAuley. She’d heard his name mentioned before—a controversial fellow her father had called him, and had heartily disavowed his theories—though Sophie didn’t much care if he thought himself descended from blue monkeys; he’d do very well for her purposes. If he could be bribed to take her aboard his vessel, she certainly had the means to do so.
She hurried Jonathon along. “My father will much appreciate your ... integrity,” she told him, seeing him to the door, “and you can be certain I will tell him how sweet you were to consider my—our—interests.”
“Of course,” Jonathon replied, nodding, confusion furrowing his brow. And then he looked down his nose at her with that familiar mocking arrogance that always managed to clench her jaw. “My dear... would you like me to return and bear witness while you tell your father?” His tone was quite hopeful, but she knew his offer had nothing to do with any concern for her. He wanted her father to know what he had done—that he had betrayed Harlan for his daughter’s honor—for Vanderwahl honor.
“Oh, no, no!” Sophie replied, patting his arm reassuringly. “It will go much better if you are nowhere near when he reads Harlan’s letter, Jonathon. Trust me, he will be quite apoplectic, I assure you! I would sorely regret it if you were the one to endure the brunt of his wrath in Harlan’s stead. After all, you were only looking out for my best interests ... isn’t that true?” She gave him a canny glance. Sophie hoped the question filled him with guilt, although she knew a moment’s discomfort was the most she could hope for. She was coming to understand that women meant little to men like Jonathon and Harlan. Women were mere pawns—expendable for the greater good.
She smiled to see that he nodded jerkily. “Yes ... yes, indeed ... that wouldn’t be good at all.” And he withdrew a kerchief from his pocket, dabbing his brow.
Sophie nodded portentously. “As you know, Father is quite protective.” And he was, indeed, fiercely protective of their name.
“Of course,” Jonathon replied as Sophie ope
ned the door. “As it should be... as it should be.” His brows drew together, and he hesitated, clearly uncertain over the fruit of his labors. She knew it had not gone quite as he’d hoped. She ought to let him be there when her father read Harlan’s letter. It would serve him well to witness Maxwell Vanderwahl’s wrath... except that Sophie wasn’t about to show her father the letter... not yet.
She lifted Jonathon’s hat from the rack by the door and set it atop his head, smiling up at him. She patted it firmly. “Goodbye, dear Jon!” she declared.
Her mother would have been quite proud to see how well she kept her calm.
She opened the door wider, barely restraining herself from shoving him out into the street and rushing up the stairs. She was suddenly eager to begin preparations.
Her parents would be in Paris until the end of the month. By the time they returned, it would be too late to stop her. She was no longer a child and she certainly had every right to deal with her fiancé any way she felt appropriate—even if it wasn’t quite appropriate.
Jonathon took a step out the door, then stepped back over the threshold, barring her from closing the door. “B-But if your father isn’t here, Sophia, then perhaps I should stay! To be certain you don’t become too disheartened.”
Sophie pushed him gently out the door. “No, but thank you!”
Harold, God bless him, made himself known in that instant, standing like a sentinel at the end of the hall. He said nothing but cleared his throat discreetly, and Jonathon remembered himself at once.
“Goodbye!” she said firmly when he opened his mouth to protest.
“Yes... very well, then... goodbye,” he stammered, and left at last.
Sophie slammed the door behind him. She turned to lean against it and in an instant of weakness, tears pricked at her eyes as she clutched the letter. She felt ill-used and trampled, but she refused to feel this way for long.
Happily Ever After Page 2