by Maya Rodale
Sophie looked murderously at her friend. As lovely as life in London was—with amazing parties, plays, shops, and company—she’d give it all up in a second for the love of a good, reliable, honest husband.
“Or we might not,” Julianna continued.
“What is taking so long?” Sophie asked in a whisper. This is when she became exceptionally nervous—when people were late, and when it seemed like the ceremony might not go smoothly. When someone might, say, be jilted in front of everyone.
Honestly, this was not to be endured!
“Probably a torn hem or something insignificant—oh my lord, he is not!” Julianna exclaimed.
“What is it?” Sophie asked.
“The groom is leaving the altar,” Julianna explained excitedly. The din of hundreds of guests chattering grew louder. This ought to have been welcome news, for it would make splendid additions to their columns. But Sophie’s heart—or what was left of it—ached too much.
Sophie forced herself to breathe. “Grievously maimed” would not be sufficient for Fletcher; Sophie was thinking murder now. One year later and she still could not sit through a wedding without suffering the most severe agonies!
“Where is the bride?” she asked her tall friend, who could see much more than she.
“No sign of her,” Julianna answered.
“I cannot stay for this,” Sophie whispered. She stood up and stepped easily into the far aisle, congratulating herself on having had the foresight to take this seat.
“But your column!” Julianna reminded her, and those seated nearby turned to look at the author of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life,” whispering excitedly about seeing her at the wedding.
“Take notes for me. Please,” Sophie pleaded, and gave her paper and pencil to her friend.
Sophie kept her gaze low as she rushed out of the church. On a good day she could barely stand it, and today it was all too much. Her only thought was to get away before she began to cry, for this time last year she had fled from a different church, under different circumstances. Perhaps one day she might leave a church with a groom of her own on her arm.
The bright sunlight was blinding as she stepped outside, but Sophie forged ahead through a crowd waiting in expectation to catch a glimpse of the bride and the aristocrats in attendance. She rushed away from Hanover Square toward Piccadilly with eyes to the ground and oblivious to everything until a woman’s scream brought her to a halt.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
One Month Before the Wedding …
White’s Gentleman’s Club
St. James’s Street, London
“AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN is someone who knows exactly when to stop being one,” Lord Roxbury declared. His companions—the usual assortment of peers, second sons, and rakes of all sorts—heartily expressed their agreement.
Henry William Cameron Hamilton kept his disagreement to himself. As tenth Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, he did not have the luxury of even a momentary lapse in gentlemanly behavior. Thus, he never drank overmuch, nor made foolish wagers, nor made an ass of himself over a woman. Vice and excess were strangers to him. Reckless behavior was just not done.
“An English gentleman is someone who knows—” Lord Biddulph did not manage to complete the sentence for falling over drunk. His head thudded onto the tabletop, and his limp arm sent a crystal glass falling and shattering on the floor. His comrades erupted in uproarious laughter.
Brandon, as he was known, noted that it was before noon.
He folded the newspaper he had been reading and set it aside. His friend, Lord Roxbury, caught his eye from across the room and raised his glass of brandy to him, an invitation for Brandon to join them. Regretfully, he declined. Account books were awaiting his review, and doing sums after the consumption of alcohol was not one of his talents.
Though they were his peers in age and in social standing, Brandon felt worlds apart and years older. He had once been as rakish and carefree as the next until he had inherited at eighteen. There had been a time when he certainly would have joined them.
Brandon didn’t particularly miss drinking himself into a stupor before dusk, and carousing with opera singers and actresses. He did miss having the liberty to do so without much care for the consequences.
He had forgotten what it felt like to make a decision without considering the effect it would have on his mother, three sisters, the household staff, and the hundreds of tenants who relied upon his judgment and good sense. He wondered what it would be like to feel no obligation to the ancient legacy he had a duty to perpetuate.
To forget he was a duke.
To just be … himself.
Brandon did not give voice to such thoughts because no one ever wanted to hear the trials and tribulations of a man of his position. Instead, he took his leave of the others and stepped out of the dark, smoky haven of his club and into the sunshine.
Returning to Hamilton House to balance account books was the last thing any sane person would want to do on a fine summer day like this one. But it had to be done, although a long walk home would be a fine compromise.
As he passed Burlington Arcade, his attention was caught by a woman’s scream. She was pointing to another woman in a pale blue dress dashing toward certain disaster. At the sound of the shriek, the girl paused, idiotically frozen with fear, as a carriage pulled by a team of six white horses charged directly toward her.
Brandon bolted forward, knocking over a youth selling newssheets, and sending the gray papers flying high. He lunged forward, grasped her waist with both hands, and yanked her out of the way. She crashed against his chest, knocking the air out of him.
The horses thundered past and the carriage followed.
He held her in his arms. He had saved her.
Brandon held her close for a second longer than was necessary or proper, in part because she made no move to escape and admittedly because she was warm and luscious in his arms. After a moment, he eased her to her feet and let her go. By then a crowd had gathered. He suspected a scene, and he frowned.
But then Brandon caught a glimpse of her plump pink lips and dark curls underneath her bonnet, and the corners of his mouth reluctantly turned up.
“Thank you,” she said faintly. She took a deep breath—and his gaze was drawn to the rise and fall of her breasts. He sucked in his own breath. And then she tilted her head back to look up at him with velvety dark brown eyes.
“You saved my life,” she said. Her voice wavered. Her pink lips formed a slight smile. She was in shock, but so was he.
For a moment, neither moved.
The longer he looked at her, the more the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, the shouts of the merchants, the shoves of the pedestrians all faded, and he was only conscious of an irrational wish to kiss her.
Brandon’s heart was pounding and his breath scarce … from his recent exertions, of course. It certainly wasn’t because of her full, luscious mouth.
He told himself that his inability to breathe had nothing to do with her large brown eyes shadowed by dark lashes, and the way they widened as she looked at him.
Her cheeks were pink, and he wondered if it was because of the sun, or something else?
Brandon yearned to sink his fingers into the mass of dark, glossy ringlets framing her face, to urge her close enough so that he could kiss her.
Here. Now. On one of the busiest streets in London.
That had nothing to do with why his heart was thudding heavily.
He could not lie—it had everything to do with it. He was unfathomably, suddenly, and overwhelmingly entranced by this daydreaming girl who had nearly been trampled by a team of horses.
“Where are we going, miss? I shall escort you,” Brandon said. It was clear she was a danger to herself and others, and thus, it was his duty as a gentleman to offer his protection. That, and he did not want to part with her just yet.
“We are not going anywhere,” she answered, with an une
ven smile. She still seemed a bit pale underneath that blush, almost feverish, and certainly still affected by her near-death experience. “Though I thank you for the offer. You’ve helped me so much already, I couldn’t possibly ask any more of you.”
In his opinion, it was very clear that she desperately needed him.
“Surely you are not rebuffing my chivalrous offer of assistance.” No one ever refused him anything. He was one of the most respected and powerful dukes in the land.
But she didn’t know that, did she? No, she most likely did not. His lips curved into a smile. Once, just once, he would indulge and talk to the pretty girl as if he hadn’t a dozen reasons not to. What harm could come from an hour’s walk and conversation with her? It seemed likely that plenty of harm would come to her if he did not.
“I abhor the thought of you putting yourself out any more on my account,” she said.
“What if I phrased my offer anew? I’m looking for an excuse to stay outside as long as possible on this fine day.”
“I am a bit distracted,” she admitted with a mischievous sparkle dawning in her eyes. “And I am feeling quite out of sorts, as you might imagine.”
Of course. But was she also as stunned by him as he was by her?
“It would be my pleasure to see you safely to your destination.”
“Do you have a nefarious purpose in doing so?” She eyed him suspiciously, and it might have been the first time that anyone questioned his integrity. It was oddly thrilling. “Or are you really an honest gentleman intent upon helping a lady?”
“I have nothing but noble intentions,” he recited. “I am a notoriously upstanding gentleman. However, if you prefer, I will procure a hackney for you. Or I shall leave you to your own devices.”
Though he did not wish to, Brandon offered to let her go even though he was incredibly and inexplicably keen to remain in her company.
“I should like to walk,” she said. And then she gave him a long, hard look as if she could determine his moral worth from that alone, and finally she nodded, and her lips formed a pretty little smile. “You may escort me if you wish, but only because you need an excuse to stay outside today and because I owe you a favor.”
“Fair enough,” he said, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He understood that it was an incredibly delicate situation for a woman to accept the company of a man she did not know, and publicly. But he had just saved her life, and that had to count for something. He suspected she was thinking the same.
And then there was something about her that begged for more of his attentions, and for this one hour he was not going to be a Perfect and Proper Gentleman.
“Lead the way, my lady.”
They started down Piccadilly, toward Regent Street, walking side by side and weaving their way through the masses of pedestrians crowding the streets.
“It’s Miss Harlow, actually. Thank you again for saving me. I do believe that makes you my hero,” she said with a smile.
“My pleasure. Call me Brandon,” he said. “I’m curious to know what has you so distracted.”
“It has been one of those years, Mr. Brandon.” At that, she issued a heartfelt sigh, and once again, like a cad, his gaze settled upon the rise and fall of her breasts. He was sorry for her distress, but happy for the sigh.
“You must explain, Miss Harlow,” he urged, more intrigued by her with each passing moment.
“This time last year I nearly died from mortification, and just today I nearly died from my own stupidity.”
Brandon laughed at that, and she smiled, too, but there was still something akin to sadness in her eyes.
“Are you often found to be dashing about London, alone, and distracted—or is today a special occasion?” he asked.
“Rest assured, it is not a habit of mine.”
“Glad to hear it. Did you not at least bring a maid with you?”
“I usually do, but circumstances did not permit it today,” she said, and she looked away. It was clear to him that she wasn’t just an idiotic female not attending to her surroundings. Something had upset her, sending her running.
Brandon wanted to know what had happened, so he could solve the problem for her. He wanted to protect her, from anything and everything. And yet he didn’t even know her. He was not surprised when she changed the subject before he could offer to help her.
“I hate to pry, but may I ask what you are avoiding at home?” she asked politely.
“Women never hate to pry,” he answered truthfully, and she laughed. It was not the prettiest of laughs, but it was undoubtedly genuine and thus, a pleasure to hear.
“True,” she conceded. “We only say so as to sound polite while we seek to unearth all your secrets. So tell me, Mr. Brandon, what are you avoiding at home?”
“Balancing an accounts book,” he answered frankly. And drafting bills for Parliament, managing six estates, carrying the weight of the world.
And a fiancée. One of the very good reasons why he should not be conversing with Miss Harlow. Lady Clarissa Richmond was a lovely person and would make a perfect duchess, but she did not intrigue him or arouse him the way this dark beauty beside him did. Of course, that is exactly why he proposed to Clarissa—she was not distracting or demanding, which was exactly what he wanted in a wife.
Miss Harlow was merely a pleasant afternoon diversion.
“Say no more, I beg of you. Shall we take the long way, Mr. Brandon?” She tilted her head to look up at him. The expression on her face was one of innocence, but the spark in her eyes was pure mischief. He grinned. He liked her. For one afternoon, he would be an imperfect gentleman and do exactly as he wished.
“Let’s take the long way, Miss Harlow.”
Intrigued? Discover more about A Groom of One’s Own at http://www.mayarodale.com/.
An Excerpt from
A TALE OF TWO LOVERS
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
London, 1823
THE BACKSTAGE OF the Drury Lane playhouse was no place for ladies, but Julianna, Lady Somerset, had suffered enough of what proper women did and did not do. She adjusted the short veil slightly obscuring her face, clung to the shadows and kept her eyes wide open for scandal.
She had seen the notorious Lord Roxbury exit this way. Without a second thought, she followed him. In her experience, to rely on a man was the height of folly—unless it was to count on Lord Roxbury to get tangled up in a scandalous situation. He was a godsend to gossip columnists everywhere.
It was widely suspected but never confirmed that Julianna was the infamous Lady of Distinction, author of the column “Fashionable Intelligence” for the town’s most popular newspaper, The London Weekly. Since that was, in fact, the truth, she was on a perpetual quest for gossip.
Thus, if Lord Roxbury went skulking off backstage at Drury Lane, she followed.
She sought a tall man who moved with confidence and radiated charm. His hair was black and slightly tousled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Frankly, he probably had. Many a woman had sighed over his eyes—plain brown, in her opinion. And his mouth was another subject of intense adoration by women who either had kissed this infamous, glorious rake or longed to do so.
Julianna Somerset could not be counted among the legions of ladies who fawned over him. Her heart and body belonged to no man—not after she had survived a love match gone wretchedly wrong. Like Roxbury and his ilk, the late Lord Somerset was a charmer, a seducer, a man of many great passions, and ultimately a heartbreaker.
Julianna had tasted true love once; it had a remarkably bitter aftertaste.
But that was all in the past. Julianna no longer had to sit at home wondering where her husband was, whom he was with, and how their love had faded to nothing. Other people’s business was her focus now.
Hence the following of Lord Roxbury, backstage at Drury Lane, late at night. A man like that could only be up to no good.
“Ah, there you are!”
Julianna tu
rned to see Alistair Grey, her companion for the evening. He reviewed plays for the same paper and they often attended the theater together. Tonight they had seen She Would and She Would Not, starring their friend, the renowned actress, “Mrs.” Jocelyn Kemble.
“Have you discovered anyone in compromising positions yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, linking his arm with hers.
“Everyone is on their best behavior this evening,” Julianna lamented softly. “But I swear that I saw Roxbury dash off this way.”
“I don’t know how you see anything with that veil in this light,” Alistair said.
“I see plenty. Certain things are hard to miss,” Julianna replied. She had a gift for eavesdropping and an eye for compromising positions and drunken antics. Dim lighting and a black mesh veil did nothing to diminish her talents.
“This hall is desolate, Julianna. Let’s go back to the dressing rooms where everyone is drinking and in various states of undress. Surely you’ll find more to write about there than in this dark and dusty corridor.”
“Yes, but I saw a couple go off this way, and the man looked just like Roxbury. You know how he is,” she persisted. That, and she didn’t particularly want to be in a crowded dressing room with a half dozen women in their underclothes and two dozen men ogling them.
“I know, but it’s probably just some prop mistress and a third son of an impoverished nobleman,” Alistair said dismissively.
“In other words, nothing remarkable,” Julianna said, heaving a sigh.
The low rumble of a man’s laugh broke the silence. In the dark, Julianna gave Alistair a pointed look that said, “I told you so.” Together they crept closer, always taking care to remain in the shadows.
There was just enough light from a sconce high on the wall to discern a couple embracing. It was not the wisest position—in a corridor, near a light—she thought, when there were certainly darker and more anonymous locations here for a little romp. But one could be overwhelmed by passion anywhere. Her own deceased husband had been overwhelmed with passion while driving his carriage, and that was the last thing he ever did. In fact, he had been overwhelmed with passion quite frequently, though never with her.