DisobediencebyDesign

by Regina Kammer

  “I’m sure Lady Sophia would rather go to the exhibition with a proper escort.” Royston scoffed. “Wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  Sophia remained silent and averted her eyes.

  “Oh let the young people have their fun, Your Grace,” Mother said. “Sophia will be beset upon by suitors at every occasion. She’ll need a respite from all the attention. She can play tour guide one afternoon with our American guest.”

  Royston looked as if he would boil over. Clearly this was the first he had heard of Sophia having suitors other than him. He had probably assumed she would be hanging off his arm at every event that Season. For Arthur, that his parents had admitted Sophia could even have other suitors held the promise they were coming to their senses.

  Chapter Ten

  London, 4 May 1860

  “So this is the famous London Season.”

  Joseph could barely maneuver in the crush of bodies at the Royal Academy Exhibition. He had never seen such a gathering of the rich and powerful in one single location. The galleries teemed with what seemed to be every fashionable lady and gentleman in the entire country. Only the stiff crinolines of the women’s skirts kept breathing room between the patrons. And air was at a premium. The pungent odor of drying varnish clashed with French perfume and heady cologne.

  “Rather more infamous, if you ask me,” quipped Henny, clinging to Arthur for dear life.

  Sophia hung on to her brother’s other arm, staring in awe and admiration at the crowd. “It’s magnificent.”

  “And we haven’t even seen the art.” Joseph winked at her and grinned at her blush.

  Newcomers jostled the foursome, pushing Joseph right into Henny’s bosom. He grinned again. Arthur glared.

  “Let’s start backward through the exhibit,” she suggested. “Perhaps it won’t be as stifling at the other end.”

  “Go with Joseph,” Arthur said to his sister as he and Henny made their own path.

  Joseph laughed. Sophia smiled and bit her lower lip then threaded her arm through his. They wended their way through the galleries, dodging voluminous skirts and protruding canes, gesticulating experts and dazzled amateurs. After a good ten minutes they joined Arthur and Henny in the East Room. The throng had indeed thinned considerably.

  Arthur pulled him aside. “See that man over there? In the pale-green waistcoat?”

  The waistcoat was the most unusual feature on the otherwise rather unremarkable, middle-aged man. “Yes.”

  “That’s Prescott,” he murmured. “Leonard Prescott. He’s a good friend of Geoffrey’s and he’s expressed interest in our scheme.”

  Business, always business. Joseph had hoped he could concentrate on the art.

  “And the man shaking his hand, that’s Harland Moseby.”

  Another unremarkable gentleman. Striped waistcoat. “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?”

  “No. Geoffrey will make the introductions later. But remember you saw them here. Ask them about the art.”

  “Flatter them by pretending I value their opinions on such matters?”

  Arthur nodded as a wry smile twisted his lips. “Something like that.”

  Sophia bounded up. “Mr. Phillips, I’ve just seen a picture you might find stimulating.”

  “Of course, Lady Sophia.” Their veneer of formality was tiresome. He envied Arthur and Henny.

  She led him to a spot on the wall near the door where hung a small but stunning canvas. A soldier dressed in a black uniform gazed down on a woman not quite in his arms but who had been perhaps a moment before. A dog—fidelity—sat at attention for his master. On the wall behind the pair hung an etching of Jacques-Louis David’s Napoleon Crossing the Alps, hinting at the soldier’s battle destination. The sheen on the woman’s white satin gown was rendered expertly, challenging one to touch her skirts to prove it was merely a painting.

  “It’s called The Black Brunswicker by J.E. Millais.” A giddiness rippled through Sophia’s voice.

  “It’s exquisite.”

  She sidled up more closely to him. “It’s like us,” she whispered in his ear.

  Joseph smiled. Indeed.

  The coloring of the young man and woman were off, his hair was too dark, her eyes too blue. But the emotion conveyed was eerily accurate. Young lovers being ripped apart by duty, not wanting to give in to their respective fates, she trying to close the door, wanting to be with him one last time, he breathing her in to his memory before he sailed away and out of her life to certain death.

  “I think they’ve just made love,” she murmured daringly.

  “Perhaps.” He almost choked on the word as a pang of despair shot through him. While Sophia saw two beautiful lovers ending a tryst, all he could think about was how they would never be together again.

  Shit. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love.

  “Ooh, that’s a lovely one.” Henny’s voice at his side broke his thoughts.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes it is.” He stared at the painting, blinking back emotions threatening to break.

  Henny sought his gaze. “Arthur wants your opinion on some landscape on the other side of the room.” Her smile conveyed empathy. “I’ll watch Sophie.”

  “Thank you.” He gave Sophia’s hand a furtive squeeze and lost himself in the crowd.

  * * * * *

  Geoffrey sank into the sofa in Arthur’s library and closed his eyes, ignoring the babel of Belgravia outside. The Season had opened with a grueling week of meetings with businessmen and bankers and peers with too much money, a week of stifling smoking rooms and an excess of spirits. A week assuring potential investors that indeed the Panic of ’57 was very much in the past. A week of reiterating the scheme and gauging reactions to Phillips’ designs. A week full of men, where the only female companion was his mother.

  He slipped off his shoes and extended himself, his calves lying against the padded armrest. He was looking forward to the frivolity of the Wrexham ball that Saturday, women displaying their bosoms, enticing him with their finest perfumes, giggling at his insipid jokes. He sighed.

  “Comfortable?”

  He opened one eye. Phillips stood above him, holding two snifters of brandy.

  “Very.” He took a glass and swung his legs back to the floor, securing himself in a corner. Phillips sank into the other corner.

  “We’ve got our twelve men.” Arthur sat on the wingback opposite. “Each one of them very impressed with your elegant designs.” He raised his snifter to Phillips.

  “Is twelve a significant number?” Phillips inquired.

  “No,” Arthur said. “It’s just enough. Not too many, not too few. A safeguard if someone drops out.”

  Geoffrey drained his glass. “I’ll start drawing up the paperwork tomorrow.” He leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling.

  “You really put your heart and soul into this business, Peel. You look as beat out as a stevedore done landing cargo.”

  Geoffrey eyed Phillips with a scowl. “I’m sure that is a flattering description of my person.”

  Phillips laughed.

  The more contact Geoffrey had with the man, the more he grew to like and respect him and the more he understood why Arthur called him by his Christian name. “Phillips” did not suit. He was “Joseph” through and through. It set him above the class distinctions he took pains to eschew.

  “Just be well-rested for my wedding, Geoff. You’re best man, remember?”

  “Ah the toast.” Geoffrey lifted his head and raised his empty glass. “To Arthur, a man who knows how to make men and money work for him.”

  Arthur chuckled. “To the betterment of both, I would add.”

  A commotion in the lobby caused all to turn toward the door. A knock resounded, followed by Wittering’s somber entrance, the open door augmenting the giggles and squeals emanating from the marble foyer.

  “Lady Henrietta Langley and Lady Sophia to see you, sir. Shall I send them in?” the butler drawled.

  A grin spread across Arthur�
��s face. “Yes, Wittering. Please.”

  Henny entered and Arthur was at her side instantly, grabbing shopping boxes before grasping her hands, kissing her cheeks and calling her “darling”.

  That Arthur was so much in love instilled hope in Geoffrey’s beleaguered heart.

  Sophia followed in Henny’s wake, swinging her wide skirts and her own purchases playfully. As she spied Joseph the color rose in her face. She met Geoffrey’s gaze and smiled warmly. She greeted her brother with a peck.

  The air was filled with their chatter and their bustling as they piled up packages, their energy a distinct contrast to the men’s enervation. Sophia sat on the sofa next to Joseph and took off her gloves then grabbed his snifter and took a sip. Joseph’s face softened, the small act somehow laden with meaning.

  “And what have the two of you been up to?” Arthur asked as he led Henny to an armchair.

  “The seamstress’.” Henny sighed. “For the Wrexham affair Saturday.”

  “It seems Henny’s getting fat,” Sophia teased.

  A fleeting look of inquiry passed from Arthur to Henny. She looked away, busying herself with her reticule.

  “I fear I’m not my usual abstemious self, what with the wedding nerves.” She smiled at Arthur. “Are you going to offer us tea, dear?”

  “Absolutely.” Arthur tugged on the bell pull.

  For fifteen long minutes the women gabbed frenetically, stumbling over each other’s words, telling stories of shopping and how their exertions left them as exhausted as the men. Relief came when the door opened.

  And Anna walked in with the tea.

  Geoffrey stood, exhilaration coursing straight up his spine. He went to her, took the heavy, well-laden tray, his fingers brushing hers in the process.

  “Thank you, sir.” She blushed. Her dress, a plaid of chestnut and copper, highlighted her brown eyes and auburn hair.

  “Anna?” Arthur said with surprise. “What happened to Wittering?”

  “Someone at the door, my lord. Mr. Wittering asked if I would bring in the tea.”

  Geoffrey put the tray down on a side table, his fingers still tingling where they had touched hers.

  “Good,” exclaimed Sophia. “Then you can pour and we can all be familiar.” She glanced at Anna. “No sugar for Joseph, please.”

  While Sophia and Henny continued to regale the men with tales of shopping and gossip, Anna dutifully poured and passed out cups of tea. Geoffrey watched, riveted by the simple, domestic task performed with such polished elegance.

  “And how do you take your tea, Mr. Peel?”

  Preferably alone with you. “No sugar, Miss Colney.”

  “There’s cake as well, sir.”

  “Ooh, Anna,” Henny interjected. “If you please, cut me a slice. I’m famished.”

  “Henny! Your waistline!”

  “Pshaw, Sophie. That’s why I had my dress let out. I’m not passing up Mrs. Babcock’s cake.”

  Joseph and Arthur sat in silent amusement. Geoffrey closed the space between him and Anna, shielding her from view of the others.

  “Will you sit with us, Miss Colney, and take tea?” he asked softly.

  She sucked in her lower lip and nibbled briefly. “That is not my place, sir.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Mrs. Babcock will have tea and cake for me downstairs.” Her eyes surveyed his face, slowly moving side to side, up and down, to his hair, his mouth, blushing at the last. “Shall I cut you a slice, sir?”

  “Yes, please, Miss Colney.”

  He stood aside. Neither was it his place to upset the order of things.

  “You’re coming to the Wrexham ball, aren’t you, Joseph?” Sophia asked. “Arthur will take you. I think as his official business partner you’re even allowed a dance with me.”

  “Your mother has most likely already promised all your dances, dear,” Henny said.

  “But it will be Joseph’s first London ball!” Sophia clasped Henny’s hand. “You must convince her to let me!”

  Anna handed Arthur his slice of cake. “If you’re not needing me any longer, my lord, I’ll take my leave.”

  “Yes, thank you, Anna.”

  Geoffrey’s heart sank a little as she exited to take her place downstairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophia shifted uncomfortably in her straight-backed chair and stared at her dance card. She had been through more than half of the dances at Lord and Lady Wrexham’s annual May ball, each with a different partner, each partner with a different claim to the aristocracy. It must have been after one o’clock in the morning and she was exhausted, less from the dancing and more from the forced conversations about the exact same topics using the exact same words.

  The Duke of Royston was partnering her next. She almost felt relieved. At least she didn’t have to have the same mindless chitchat with him. He already knew who her parents were or how many siblings she had or even what she thought of the weather.

  Henny and Arthur approached, flushed and giggling, probably having just availed themselves of a bedroom upstairs. She ruffled at the thought.

  “Sophie! Not dancing?” asked Henny.

  “I stood out this one. Mama said I could. My feet are killing me. And my head.”

  “How are the suitors?” Joseph asked, quietly appearing on her right.

  She turned a smile to him. “Boring. What about you? Did you dance with anyone?”

  “I did.” He chuckled. “A lovely young lady put up with me for a polka. Unattached but no debutante.”

  “Oh yes,” said Henny. “Some of the girls are having their second seasons. Not everyone gets snatched up as quickly as I did.”

  She gazed at Arthur, who beamed lovingly.

  Sophia gazed up at her own object of affection. “Arthur tells me you two had a busy afternoon, Mr. Phillips.”

  “We did, Lady Sophia.” His eyes twinkled. “My accent enthralled them at his club.”

  She giggled and inwardly sighed. All she really wanted was to laugh and dance with him, call him by his Christian name, bill and coo like Henny and Arthur. It was maddening.

  “You look so pretty tonight, Sophie,” Henny said. “Doesn’t she, Arthur?” She squeezed his arm. “Compliment your sister on her new necklace, dear.”

  Sophia smiled. Henny had given her a gold locket with side-by-side miniature portraits of the two of them. She smoothed her thumb over the pendant.

  “The splendid adornment is the perfect accompaniment to your captivating loveliness, Lady Sophia.” Joseph winked at her.

  Arthur rolled his eyes and flashed a smirk in Joseph’s direction. Henny squealed with a clap.

  The duke approached, his affected saunter spiked with urgency. “Lady Sophia, the next waltz is reserved for me.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She tucked her card in her purse.

  He glanced at the company and nodded his greetings all around, receiving mumbled courtesies in return.

  “Mother tells me you escorted her to the Royal Academy Exhibition today, Your Grace,” Henny said sweetly. “I must thank you for the distraction. She’s been thinking of nothing but my wedding of late.”

  Henny was wicked to rub salt into the wound. So deliciously wicked.

  Royston scowled. “Anything for my dear Cousin Edith.”

  “And which was your favorite?”

  More cruelty. Henny knew the duke was not refined enough to have an opinion about art.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, they were all rather finely done.” He turned to Arthur. “You, Petersham?”

  “I liked Goodall’s Wilderness of Shur. I rather fancy the exoticism of the Near East.”

  Henny giggled. Clearly a private joke. Another diversion Sophia was denied with Joseph.

  “And what about Mr. Phillips?” Royston sneered. “You consider yourself something of an artist do you not?”

  “I thought The Black Brunswicker by Millais to be exquisitely done.”

  “Dull and saccharine, if you ask me.” The duke winced. �
��I’d think a man such as you would prefer a landscape or something involving industry.”

  “I feel it precisely depicts the emotion of true love, a sentiment, I would hope, understood by all men. Or perhaps it is a sentiment only understood by those still in the vigor of youth, my lord.”

  Royston turned a shade of red Sophia had not witnessed before. Joseph had, unwittingly or not, used an incorrect form of address and insulted the duke’s manliness. She wanted to laugh but somehow managed to turn such jocularity into an expression of shock. Henny avoided her eyes, as she too seemed about to burst into guffaws.

  The music started up in a waltz.

  “Lady Sophia.” The duke’s tone verged on a growl. “Our dance.” He held out his hand.

  Sophia touched her glove to his and did not look at her companions. She simply could not.

  And within a minute of dancing, she realized mundane conversation with young, awkward men was far more preferable than being whirled around the ballroom by a perturbed duke. He clutched at her more aggressively than a partner should and steered her with more insistence.

  “You should find better company than American commoners, Sophia. Especially if you are to marry a man of status and prestige.” His voice held a snarl.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said blandly.

  “I’m sure there is no way you will ever be rid of the man if he is to persist as your brother’s business partner. At least he’ll be far away and you won’t have intercourse with him too often. Or more likely the business will fail. Then you’ll never have to see him again.”

  Sophia was not looking forward to the day Joseph would be far away. She wanted him as close to her as possible forever. And she certainly could not imagine never seeing him again. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “You’re rather dull tonight, my dear, aren’t you?” he sniped.

  “Please, Your Grace, I am tired. I’ve been dancing for hours. When you encountered me, it was the first I had sat all evening.”

  “Well then,” he said with a keen glint in his eye, “we should find a bench for you to sit upon and catch your breath. Perhaps in the garden.”

  The last thing Sophia wanted to do was to stroll through a dark garden with the duke. If Joseph had asked her, she would have jumped at the chance. She pressed her lips together to stifle a smile.