by Nichole Van
She had gone searching for similarity and like-mindedness and biology, thinking that love would be inherent in it, but she could not have been more wrong.
Love did not need similarity of thought or interest. Love required only attention and care, thoughtfulness and generosity of soul.
Things that Lord Mainfeld exhibited in abundance.
Tears pricked her eyes again.
She was a thousand ways a fool. She did not deserve such devotion. She did not deserve his love.
And yet, she knew she had it anyway.
Love, she realized, was not the sort of thing to neatly fit into parameters and boundaries.
No . . .
Love took many forms and needed to be accepted as it came. To do otherwise was to risk a life of eternal disappointment.
John picked up the kitten with fumbling hands, scratching its head as it nuzzled for affection.
Sophie watched, letting her heart grieve what might have been. John would have been an excellent father, as well.
But she did not regret his decision. Her life had been infinitely more secure growing up the acknowledged daughter of an earl, surrounded by brothers and sisters, looked after by their mother.
But she still mourned that she would never know John. She was not foolish enough to think that his lucidity this afternoon would ever be repeated.
It had been a miraculous gift.
Though her chin was yet wobbly, she managed a smile and sat beside John for another hour, petting the kitten with him.
He lifted his head. “Ah, there ye are, Catharine.”
“Yes.” Sophie smiled wide, even though the gesture nearly broke her heart. “Here I am.”
“I’m glad yer here.”
She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “I’m glad to be here, too.”
“I never did like it, Catharine. I didnae like what ye did,” he muttered.
Sophie angled her head. “What did I do?”
“Eh?” He lifted his head, meeting her haze.
“What did I do?” she repeated.
“How can ye ask that!” His voice so outraged. “I told ye not to, Catharine. That marrying that man would only bring us all heartache. He’s no’ a fit husband for any lass, much less my sister.”
John’s words jolted her. Marriage? Husband?!
“Pardon? My husband?” Sophie paused.
Catharine had never married. She had introduced herself as Miss Ross. Had she married after all? And if so, why the secrecy?
“Och, dinnae play that game with me, Cat.” John snorted. “We both know ye married him, even though ye like tae pretend ye didnae. I was there, remember? Ye practically forced the man tae the altar, ye did.”
“I did?” Unbidden, Sophie felt her heart speed up. “And what man is that?”
John frowned at her. “Why the Duke of Kendall, of course.”
30
Rafe stood to the side of the crowded ballroom. It was the night of Mrs. Bartlett’s annual winter ball, the inaugural event heralding the opening of the winter session of Parliament two days hence.
It had been nearly three weeks to the day since his arrival in London. Rafe had managed a brief meeting with Andrew—who had come into town to attend Parliament—to discuss how to find Cuthie and deal with this twist of fate.
But otherwise, Kendall had commandeered Rafe’s waking hours. Rafe had attended Lord Sykes’ house party. He had danced attendance on Kendall, playing the dutiful son at every turn. And in exchange, his mother had been returned to the family townhouse in London. Rafe would do what he must to ensure her continued health.
Tonight marked his last night of freedom.
Kendall had made it clear that Rafe would call on Miss Sykes tomorrow morning and propose marriage to her.
“The evening is well-attended,” Miss Sykes said beside him, fanning herself slowly. “Mrs. Bartlett will be so pleased.”
Rafe smiled his reply, tight. He had already danced the requisite two dances with Miss Sykes this evening. After returning from the house party in the country, he had also escorted Miss Sykes and Lady Sykes to the opera and to view the Elgin Marbles on display at the British Museum. He had sent Miss Sykes flowers courtesy of his father’s hothouses and, despite the chilly November weather, had taken her driving twice in Hyde Park.
Basically, everything a gentleman should do to court a young lady.
Across the room, Kendall was conversing with Lord Sykes, their heads leaning toward one another. As if hearing his son’s thoughts, his father raised his eyes, fixing Rafe with a dark warning.
You will do as you are told, boy, that look said.
Rafe broke away first, swallowing the acrid taste in his mouth.
Though hatred no longer scoured him, Rafe felt scrubbed raw from the iron chain of his father’s heavy-handed demands.
He was quite sure that aristocrats headed for the guillotine had perhaps appeared cheerier than he. At least death would send him to a theoretically better place.
This . . . this was a living hell.
His Sophie would soon be lost to him for good.
She had returned from Scotland. He knew this because he had seen Lady Sophie riding Rotten Row the previous morning. His eyes had lingered on her—less polite and more like a dying man staring down a desert mirage—knowing that the pain of losing her would simply have to become a part of him.
Miss Sykes stirred at his side. “I fear I am a bit thirsty, my lord. Would you be so kind as to fetch me some ratafia?”
“Of course, Miss Sykes.” He bowed and strode out of the ballroom proper. He could feel his father’s eyes following him into the dining room and the buffet table there.
The man didn’t want to let Rafe out of his sight. Did he think Rafe would bolt? Or did he simply enjoy watching Rafe thrash and squirm, forever that fish pinned to the earth and struggling for freedom?
Pain constricted his breathing.
How was he to do this? How could he go through with this marriage?
Rafe pushed through guests in their silks and tailcoats to the refreshment table. He accepted a glass of ratafia from an attending footman, downing the drink in one swallow, wishing desperately that the sickly-sweet wine were something infinitely stronger. He reached for a glass for Miss Sykes—
“Lord Rafe!” A familiar voice sounded near his elbow.
Rafe turned to see Lady Lilith’s fine eyes smiling up at him.
“Lady Lilith.” He nodded his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his father enter the dining room, clearly trying to locate Rafe in the crowd.
Heaven forfend the man let Rafe out of his sight.
The emotions in his chest coalesced, tightening until Rafe feared he would explode with the agony of it.
His hands shook and a sort of panic seemed to overtake him.
His chest tightened, a vise around his lungs.
The noise in the room rose to an almost deafening clatter, guests laughing and crystal clanking.
His heart beat a frantic tattoo, hot and anguished.
He gasped for breath. Once. Twice.
Why could he no longer breathe?
He set down the glass meant for Miss Sykes—the wine sloshing from his trembling hand.
Kendall was pushing through the guests, drawing nearer.
Rafe whirled around, desperate for fresh air. In the process, he nearly ran over Lady Lilith, who was still at his elbow. She grasped his arm in a surprisingly firm grip, holding him steady.
He met her gaze and was startled by the compassion he saw there. Lady Lilith, despite her flirtatious behavior, could be quite perceptive.
“That bad, eh?” she murmured, taking a sip of her own drink.
He barely managed to shake his head. Why was it so blasted hot in here? Why were his lungs not functioning?
“Mmmm.” Lady Lilith set down her own glass. “You need cooler air. Come.”
The pain in Rafe’s chest would not abate. His skin practical
ly crawled with the heat of his father’s gaze.
He had to get away. He couldn’t stay another moment here, another moment in this life.
Later, he would blame his panic for distracting him, for allowing Lady Lilith to lead him through a side door and along a narrow hallway. The cooler air felt so good, loosening his lungs, that he made no protest as she continued up a short flight of stairs and into a darkened study.
He noted the dim room, a fire smoldering in the grate, a single candelabra burning on a table. A desk sat to the left of the door, the fireplace and some chairs to the right. Ahead, velvet curtains enclosed a pair of windows.
He came to his senses with the snick of the door closing and the clack of the lock being thrown. He whirled to look at Lady Lilith.
Despite everything, Miss Sykes did not deserve a betrothed who carried on with another woman the night before becoming officially affianced.
If only the panic in his chest would subside.
“Lady Lilith—” he began, lungs heaving, taking a step to the side, intent on leaving the room.
A knock sounded on the door.
Rafe froze.
Lady Lilith stilled.
The door handle jiggled.
“Rafe?” His father’s voice sounded through the wood. “If you are in there, boy, you will open this door immediately.”
No!
Not now.
Not this.
Caught, alone, in a room with Lady Lilith.
Could his situation become any worse?
He stared at the door, as if he could will his sire away, as if he could do something, anything to stop the current course of his life, to turn it into aught but a runaway carriage hurtling down a hill.
That same panicky feeling seized his chest. Where had all the air gone?
The handle jiggled again.
He darted a glance back to Lady Lilith.
He wasn’t sure what he expected her expression to be, but amusement was not it.
She rolled her eyes and pressed a finger to her lips. Tugging on his arm, she dragged him across the room.
“Trust me,” she whispered.
She shoved him behind one of the velvet curtains, pulling it around him.
Her footsteps retreated, and he heard the lock snick open, the sound muffled through the heavy curtains.
“Lady Lilith.” His father’s voice carried through the room. “I assume Lord Rafe is with you.” The anger in his tone was nearly palpable.
“Heavens, Your Grace. What sort of lady do you take me for? Lord Rafe most certainly is not with me. I left him at the bottom of the stairs as I needed to tend to my hair, and the withdrawing room is an absolute crush at the moment. Fortunately, I remembered that this small study had a mirror over the fireplace. Lord Rafe must have returned to the ballroom.”
A pause.
“Would you be so kind as to accompany me downstairs?” she asked, her tone syrupy-sweet.
His father grunted, a noise Rafe knew meant a grumbling yes.
A swish of skirts. The door closed. Rafe heard nothing more.
He let out a slow, painful breath.
Bless Lady Lilith for seeing, for understanding that he needed a moment to pull himself together, to somehow stem his involuntary panic.
How long before this pain would become easier to bear? Would Sophie’s loss never cease to bring him to his knees?
As if hearing his thoughts, the curtain to his right stirred.
Rafe looked to the side and nearly yelped in a surprise.
Sophie’s glorious eyes met his.
What—?!
Sophie.
His Sophie.
Was he dreaming? Hallucinating, even? Had his blind panic come to this?
He blinked and shook his head.
But . . . she was still there, beside him.
His beautiful, brave bird.
He reached out and traced a finger down her cheek. Solid. Real.
No . . . she was not a mirage.
Sensations assaulted him, jumbling his senses.
The hitch of her breathing at his touch.
The silvery sheen of her moss-green evening gown, the low-cut bodice exposing a glorious amount of alabaster skin.
The soft folds of Jamie’s tartan wrapped as a sash across her chest.
The wafting scent of rose and Sophie.
The rough rasp of air in and out of his lungs.
Ah.
So this was what it was like to breathe again.
She peeked out of the curtains, surveying the room.
“They’re gone.” She left the heavy velvet ajar, light from the candelabra illuminating the space between them.
Rafe’s brain struggled to piece together what had just happened.
Lady Lilith had . . .
And then . . .
Sophie was here.
His Sophie.
How had this—
“I bribed her,” Sophie whispered, looking tellingly back at the closed door. “Well, my sister did. Lady Lilith owed her a favor, and so she lured you up here.”
“Ah.”
Sophie touched the curtains, her fingers drawing down the velvet. “Meeting behind curtains seems to be a theme with us.”
An almost agonizing ache started behind his lower right rib, spreading slowly across his chest.
Seeing her lovely face, hearing her voice . . .
It was the most exquisite torture.
“Why?” he whispered, the word so anguished.
Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me?
“You needed saving.” She met his gaze, eyes fearless. “And so I’m saving you.”
He closed his eyes at that, horrified to feel them pricking, of all things.
Damn and blast.
This woman.
“Sophie—” His voice cracked. The room was rapidly blurring.
Whatever she proposed, whatever she thought . . .
He sucked in a fortifying breath.
“Sophie,” he began again, tone hoarse, “mo leannan, you know this cannot be.” He motioned between them. “As long as my mother lives, she will be under my father’s thumb. Such is English law, and I cannot leave her to Kendall’s cruelty. I simply cannot.”
The sheer anguish in his voice astonished him.
“I know,” she nodded, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “I know, Rafe.” A tear tumbled down her cheek, nearly unmanning him. “You are a good son. The best of sons.”
She smiled, lips tremulous.
Heaven above how he longed to kiss her. To hold her close and lose himself in the sheer rightness of her.
He closed his eyes, holding his hands at his side with an almost fervent desperation, trying somehow to hold himself back.
This moment.
This moment had to be enough to carry him through a lifetime without her. Tomorrow, he would betroth himself to another . . .
She shifted, sending a waft of rose his way. Her hand cupped his cheek, a deliberate caress.
Unable to stop himself, he turned his head toward that hand, his lips planting a kiss in the center of her palm.
But tonight . . . he was not betrothed yet.
He reached for her before the thought even cleared his brain. She came with shocking willingness, no hesitation.
A law of nature had asserted itself, it appeared. A newly discovered law that insisted Lady Sophronia exist only in the arms of Lord Rafe. They were symbiotic pairs, better only by being together.
His mouth found hers, and he was a lost man.
Her lips were every bit as pillowy as he remembered. The feel of her curves in his arms.
His thoughts spooled out.
How had she—
Why was she—
What was he—
He was a stuttering mess.
He tasted salty tears, no longer caring if they were hers or his.
Her hands were in his hair, tilting his head, holding him exactly as she pleased.
“
Rafe.” Her lips breathed against his. “Leannan.” Her thumbs skimmed his cheeks, palms pressed to either side of his head.
She kissed away his tears, scooping them up with each press of her lips.
“Sophie—”
“Shhhhh.” She stopped him with a kiss. “Let me tell you.”
She waited until he met her gaze.
He blinked.
There was no pain in her eyes. No fear. No agonized worry.
Only joy.
Absolute, soul-rending joy. As if her heart would burst for . . . happiness.
His own heart stuttered.
How—
How did she have such . . . hope?
She continued, “I pray what I have to tell you will be good news. But regardless, you must know that nothing will be done with this information unless you will it.”
A pause as he absorbed her words and then, “Tell me.”
She smiled. “Several days after you left Drathes Castle, Dr. Ross had a spell of lucidity. He remembered everything.” Her eyes went glassy again, wonder in her tone. “My mother. My birth. Me!”
“Ah, my darling. That is wonderful news, sweetling.”
“I shall have to tell you all of it. But he also spelled out how to treat your mother for her melancholy.”
Hope roared to life in his chest, a dragon bursting free from its chains.
“Truly?”
“Yes,”—she placed a staying hand on his chest—“but that isn’t the most important bit.”
“It’s not?! It’s glorious!”
“It is, but I’ve something even better. Well, at least I hope you think it will be better.”
Rafe stared at her, his mind trying to think of anything that would be better than this.
“Unless you are to tell me that my father is not my father, I cannot think what would be better, Sophie,” he laughed.
Sophie, notably, did not laugh with him.
Her silence spoke volumes.
He froze, mouth open.
“The thing is, Rafe,” she said slowly, “Dr. Ross let slip an enormous secret, one that has far-reaching implications for you. For your mother. For your entire family.”
He stared into her eyes.
“W-what is it?” His voice the barest thread of sound.