by Sara Bennett
“I saw her in Hyde Park last week. She came up to me. We had a chat. I might have mentioned the ball and that you were in town. That was all, nothing too terrible. How was I to know she’d make an appearance and stare at you across the room as if you were her heart and soul?”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that phase,” Harry said sourly. “Stop it.”
Adam poked at a sliver of sausage. “When I mentioned her father and the rumours she got angry.” He looked up again, and now there was something in his hazel eyes that stilled Harry and made everything else go away. “She said she’d been trying to write to you for years. I got the impression matters are not as we believed them, Harry.”
For a moment he didn’t speak. “And her husband?” he said at last. “This Sir Geoffrey Bell? What of him?” He had hoped, in some secret part of him, when he had asked her last night, that Sophy would say her husband was dead. That she was a widow, and all alone.
Adam shrugged. “No idea. What was she calling herself at the ball last night?”
Harry didn’t know. He hadn’t thought to ask. Because, he reminded himself, he knew the truth. He’d seen it with his own eyes.
“This is all a waste of time,” he announced, rising to his feet. “I am going out for a ride.”
In truth he felt as if he was trapped here in London. He needed the open fields and the sweet air and the sky before him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to cope with living in the city for so many months at a time, and he only hoped that Evelyn would decide Pendleton was somewhere she could reside for most of the year.
Adam began to eat his way through another piled plate. As Harry reached the door he turned, unable to help himself, and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d seen Sophy in Hyde Park, Adam? You could have warned me.”
Adam looked up, and then he smirked. “Did you need warning?” he asked. “I thought it was all over with her and Evelyn was your future?”
“Don’t be a cock.”
Adam sniggered. Then shrugged. “I don’t know why. She looked so …well, you know Sophy. I always liked her. Loved her, maybe. Like a sister,” he quickly added. “I felt sorry for her.”
“So you sent her my way,” Harry said. “Well, don’t do it again, Adam. Next time you happen to run into her tell her she is no longer welcome.”
“Yes, sir,” he feigned a salute, and then dropped his hand and watched his brother warily as he left.
Harry called for a servant, asking for his horse to be brought around. He needed to blow the cobwebs out of his brain, and with them all thoughts of Sophy.
Adam was more sentimental than he pretended if he felt sorry for Sophy. Sophy did not care for Harry, and he sure as hell no longer cared for her. Again he reminded himself that he couldn’t afford to doubt himself or his actions. He couldn’t afford to let in the slightest hint of uncertainty. Because if ever he began to believe that he was wrong … that Sophy was innocent and had never stopped loving him ... that he had been the one to give up on her, and not the other way around …
He suspected his life would slowly and surely collapse around him.
The ride did him good. When he changed and arrived at Evelyn’s house an hour later, he was in much better spirits. Albury House was one of the most beautiful houses in Mayfair, but although he could admire it with the cold eye of a connoisseur he did not love it like he did Pendleton. Pendleton with all its quirks, including the lopsided tower that wasn’t going to fall down but sometimes looked like it might. He would never exchange one for the other, but he wouldn’t tell Evelyn that. She was justifiably proud of her family home.
He was shown into the drawing room, and saw at once that he wasn’t the only one paying a morning visit. Evelyn smiled at him over her teacup, while her mother gave him a ‘How do you do, Harry!’ As if he was already one of the family.
There was a gaggle of young cousins he had met before, who blushed and twittered at his entrance. And then there was Digby.
Although he had seen his old school friend since the incident at Christmas years ago, he hadn’t engaged him in any sort of conversation. In short, they were no longer friends. Now, seeing him sitting in Evelyn’s drawing room brought him to a stop, his hackles rising.
“Do you know the Honourable Digby Abbott?” Evelyn’s mother asked. “His father was a friend of my late husband, and his brother James …” She glanced quickly at Evelyn. “Well, Digby was in town and is joining us for dinner tonight.”
“I do know him,” Harry said. He bowed and so did Digby. His old friend had a smirk on his face, as if his sudden appearance had had the effect he intended. “We went to school together.”
“Best of friends,” Digby agreed. “For a year or two.”
“Oh?” Evelyn glanced between them. “What happened? Did you fall out?”
“Evelyn,” her mother reproved her. Lady Helen seemed to believe her daughter was in need of a great many reproofs. Not that Evelyn cared. That was one of the things Harry liked about her—she had a mind of her own.
“We drifted apart,” Harry said quickly, before Digby could answer. And was relieved when the subject was changed soon after.
He was also glad when Digby left shortly afterwards, although he had to remind himself that his former friend would be at the dinner the family were holding tonight. Still, he would do his best to avoid him beside the usual civilities. He certainly didn’t want to discuss Sophy Harcourt and the night he gave Digby the thrashing he deserved. Another memory that needed to be relegated to the past.
Harry had arranged to take Evelyn for a ride in the park before luncheon, and he stood waiting outside the house until she joined him. He was wearing his new brown coat, square-cut, which he’d been assured was currently the height of fashion.
Evelyn’s outfit was perfect as usual—a white and pink high-waisted muslin dress with long sleeves. Her capote hat had feathers dipping from the crown. She looked up at him, her dark eyes luminous, her cheeks flushed and pink lips smiling.
Harry felt a ripple of satisfaction. He was a lucky man. No more contemplating the past, he told himself one last time. That was over and done.
He reached for her gloved hand and helped her into the vehicle, waving aside the groom who would have assisted. She was even more flushed by the time she was seated. Had she noticed him admiring her curvaceous figure?
They set off, chatting about this and that as the horses trotted over the cobbles toward the park. After his furious ride this morning, Harry was content to dawdle with his fiancé.
“I got the impression you don’t like Digby,” she said, after a short silence.
Surprised, Harry looked over at her. They had just entered the gates and the treed lawn with its many walks and riding tracks lay before them. “What makes you say that?”
She smiled and glanced away. “I know that look you were giving him. Your ‘displeased’ look.”
He laughed. “I didn’t know I had a ‘displeased’ look, Evelyn.”
She waited.
He sighed. “I don’t like him. He was a friend when we were young but he showed his true colours and I dropped him. Perhaps he’s changed? I suppose I shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “We can’t all be perfect, Harry.”
Now he was frowning. “I don’t expect that. How can I, when I am hardly perfect myself?”
“Well, your instincts are correct. I know Digby isn’t a very nice man, and I’m sure he wasn’t a very nice boy. He’s jealous and vengeful. But his father was a friend of my father, and his brother was—”
She stopped herself before she could finish, biting her lip.
Now Harry looked at her more closely. He had never considered Evelyn to be secretive. She always seemed so open and charming. That, he reminded himself, was one of the things he liked about her. He would never have to worry about coming across something unpleasant in her past.
“What about his brother?” he asked. “I take it you m
ean James?”
“Yes. He’s come into his inheritance now, of course, so he’s Lord Abbott, Viscount Westbrook. Not that they have any money to speak of. Their estate is heavily in debt. Their father gambled most of their fortune away and it looks as if Digby is set to be the same sort of chap. James was always paying off his debts, although these days I think he’s stopped.”
She was babbling. Evelyn didn’t normally babble. Harry noted how nervous and upset she was, and he had a feeling it was seeing Digby that had done it.
“He hurt you, didn’t he?” he asked her darkly, thinking of Sophy lying in the white snow with Digby on top of her, tearing at her clothes. Fury surged up inside him, so strong it was as if it had happened yesterday. He had to consciously hold himself back, in case he frightened her.
It was a moment before he realised that Evelyn was looking at him in surprise. “How did you know?” she asked. “No one is supposed to know.”
“Supposed to know what?”
“That he asked me to marry him. And I turned him down.”
They had stopped, the shade of the old trees dappled about them, the feathers bobbing on Evelyn’s hat. “I shouldn’t have told you,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, Harry. Forget I said it.”
“Digby asked you to marry him?” he said, making his voice quiet while his hands clenched on the reins.
She turned to him, wide-eyed, and shook her head. “Not Digby,” she said. “James.”
Harry sat a moment, watching her averted face. James Abbott had asked Evelyn to marry him and she had refused? It must have been before he laid his own proposal at her feet. He tried to understand it, and then to dismiss it, because it didn’t matter, did it? There were always proposals floating about, and a beauty like Evelyn must have received dozens during the two Seasons she had been on the town. And yet something about the expression in her dark eyes, the way she said Abbott’s name, made him curious.
James Abbott was older than Digby and himself by around six years. A debonair, elegant man about town. He may not be wealthy but he was well bred and eligible. Why then had Evelyn refused him?
Harry shook the reins, setting the horses off again at a faster pace. He decided not to ask any more questions. It was none of his business, just as his past was none of hers. Whatever had been before was best forgotten.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” he asked her.
Her lip had been drooping but now she turned and smiled at him from under the brim of her hat. She appeared to be relieved he’d dropped the subject. “Not for at least five minutes,” she said.
“Then I will now.” He leaned closer and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “November can’t come soon enough,” he added.
Pink flushed her cheeks and she squeezed his fingers before letting go. “For me, too, Harry.”
Chapter 15
SOPHY
Sophy was attending a picnic—a small, select gathering—and she was enjoying herself. Or at least as much as a girl with a broken heart could enjoy anything. Every time she felt her mouth droop or eyes water, she remembered how hard her grandmother had worked to get her here and strove to cheer up. Or at least pretend to.
Mrs Harding had once again chaperoned Sophy and her two daughters, and although she looked as if she had a nasty taste in her mouth every time her cold eyes rested on Sophy, she was polite. In contrast, Lucy and Charlotte seemed genuinely delighted to see her and Sophy was touched by their welcoming smiles.
Or perhaps, she thought, after listening to their barrage of whispered questions, she was just more exciting than their other acquaintances right now. Like a rogue Cuckoo that had somehow found its way in amongst the doves and pigeons.
“The nerve!” Charlotte huffed. “For him to make those promises to you and then break them. Why, I would never forgive a man who did that to me.”
Her sister nodded in agreement. They both turned to Sophy to see her reaction.
She hadn’t realised they already knew everything. It was nice that they were so sympathetic, but Sophy decided that, for the sake of her sanity, she would need to pretend her heart wasn’t quite as shattered as it was. She soon changed the subject to the weather, always a good standby.
The picnic was in the countryside on the outskirts of London, and riding there and back made for a long, tiring day. Several gentlemen seemed inclined to seek her company and she wondered if they too knew her story. If they did know then she doubted her grandmother would get the flurry of proposals for her hand that she was hoping for. Or indeed any at all.
Sophy looked up at the sky, which was very blue for April, although the air was still cold. They were lucky the weather had been so agreeable, but if it had not there had been other alternatives to the picnic. The fact that the weather was on her side, and her companions were both friendly and interesting, and her stomach was full of good food, it all helped. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely broken after all.
The thought of her spirits rallying again might at present be a shaky prospect—she felt as wobbly as a newborn foal—but she would get stronger. She was strong. One had only to think of all she had been through.
She’d wasted three years believing that Harry would find her, save her, pick her up in some ridiculously heroic manner, and ride off with her to Pendleton, where they would live happily ever after. And she’d held onto that belief despite Sir Arbuthnot and what he had done. Despite her father dying in such dreadful circumstances. Despite Harry not making the slightest effort to seek her out before he became engaged to another woman.
It was as if she had been in a dream. Now she was taking her first tentative steps away from slumber, and although the real world may be cold and foreign and rather unfriendly, at least it was real.
Perhaps, Sophy thought, this was a good day and tomorrow she would be down in the dumps again. But she would keep trying to pull herself free of her aching heart and Harry’s perfidy. She was strong, and she was proud. Sophy wasn’t about to be trampled on again. Even if things didn’t work out the way Grandma hoped, at least she could show everyone that she was willing to stand up and be a more resilient person.
“We have a soiree in two days,” Mrs Harding informed her in her chilly voice. “We will call for you, Sophy.”
Cold voice and colder eyes. Sophy thanked her all the same. “I am grateful, Mrs Harding.”
“Don’t be.” The woman leaned closer, flicking a glance to the other side of the coach, where Lucy and Charlotte dozed. “Despite the money my brother is throwing at this foolish scheme of his, I cannot ignore my misgivings. My chaperonage of you may well damage the reputations of my daughters, and their chances of making a good match. If it was up to me …” She bit off whatever she was going to say.
“I am aware of that,” Sophy responded dully.
“My brother knows I have debts to pay,” she went on. “He knows I cannot say no. Therefore I will do everything possible to see you are wed by the end of the Season. Before, if possible. It is in both our best interests.”
“What if no one …?”
“Oh there will be someone,” was Mrs Harding’s response. “You are a handsome girl and when you are not sulking your manner is pleasing. Someone will come along. A gentleman with a small fortune, some looks, a mild disposition—I think your grandmother would wish for kindness in your husband rather than desperate passion. We have had quite enough of that.”
Sophy would not argue with her there.
“Whoever falls for you, Sophy, you should welcome them with open arms.”
She may not be saying what Sophy wanted to hear, but at least she was being honest. Sophy told herself she was grateful; she had had enough lies. And yet the truth hurt.
She stepped down from the coach and walked to the doorstep, the breeze whipping around her and sending her skirts fluttering.
Today had shown her that she could still find some pleasure in living her life. Just feeling the sunshine on her hair and breathing in the scent of trees and gra
ss lifted her spirits. She might feel a little like a wishy-washy watercolour as opposed to a vibrant oil painting, but it was a start.
“Sophy!” She glanced across to the neighbour’s house and smiled. The little girl was waving at her from her bedroom window. She had recovered well and for the past year was back attending the parish school. Sophy’s heart swelled. The child’s parents had informed her how much her teaching efforts had helped their daughter, and assured her that the head teacher of the school would be glad of her help with other pupils. As much as she wanted to, she was yet to make inquiries. She’d found that dressing up and attending fashionable frivolities in the hope of catching a husband didn’t leave much time for anything else.
The soiree was well attended. Many of the wealthy blue bloods were yet to descend on the capital from their country estates, but they soon would. Sir Geoffrey said that in the next month she would notice a great difference in the city, more events being held, more people to meet and more opportunities to dazzle prospective suitors.
“My sister tells me you were quite a hit at the picnic,” he said with satisfaction.
Sophy could have told him what else Mrs Harding said but she didn’t. That conversation was between the two of them.
A quick glance at the guests’ faces—something she was becoming adept at—showed no sign of Harry or Lady Evelyn Rowe. She breathed a sigh of relief, and then saw a face that was familiar. Adam.
He was with an attractive young woman with dark hair who didn’t appear to be overly thrilled to be by his side. Although when Adam spied Sophy, and came to join her, the woman’s eyes followed him and narrowed with something that looked like jealousy.
Adam knew it too. “Ignore her,” he muttered, when he reached Sophy’s side. “That’s what I’m doing. I am pretending she doesn’t exist. That the whole situation is a nightmare and I will wake up soon. With any luck, with someone far more amenable.”
“What situation?” Sophy asked.
But Adam shook his head. “Never mind that. Let’s talk about you.”