“Lord Claremont has asked me if he might pay court. He’s writing to my stepfather to seek his permission, and I understand he’s spoken to your father as well.”
“Yes. I know. He spoke with me too.”
Sophie nodded and dropped her gaze back to her book. Her fingers curled around the leather cover. “I told him that he might.”
“I’m glad.” It was a lie this time, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Well then.” Sophie took her book and tucked it beneath her slender arm. “I shall leave you to . . .” She glanced at his drink. “I shall leave you. Good evening, my lord.”
She bobbed a curtsy as if she were a stranger and turned to go.
She was at the door when something inside him made him call out, “Sophie, wait.”
She stopped and turned, a question in her beautiful blue eyes. It hurt to see there was no hope. Bastard that he was, he’d clearly done a wonderful job at killing that.
“I feel as though . . . At the risk of creating further discord . . .” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. What was it that he wanted to say to her? Why was he prolonging this agonizing interaction? It wouldn’t do either of them any good. He certainly didn’t want to give Sophie false hope. But she needed to forget him and move on. And he should at least explain why. Surely he owed her that much.
Yes, he needed to make her understand why there was no hope for him.
For them.
“Please. Won’t you come back? We need to talk.”
* * *
* * *
Sophie studied Nate—she’d given up trying to think of him as Lord Malverne anymore—and considered his request. She was trying so very hard to distance herself from him just as he’d been doing with her.
But there was something about his manner tonight that gave her pause to reject him outright. He seemed on edge. His waistcoat was rumpled, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and his cravat was loose. His chestnut hair was more than artfully tousled; it was messy as though he’d raked frustrated fingers through it too many times.
And then there were the dark shadows of fatigue beneath his equally dark, somber eyes.
She nodded and closed the door. “Very well.”
She returned to the fireside and selected a bergère with gilt legs that was directly opposite Nate’s wing chair. Only a hearthrug separated them, but to Sophie, it may as well have been a vast, stormy sea.
She placed her book very carefully on the side table by her elbow and nursed her sore wrist in her right hand. And she waited.
Nate reclaimed his wing chair and studied the contents of his tumbler for a long moment. “Can I get you anything, Sophie?” he asked, raising his glass.
She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
He nodded, sipped his drink, and then placed it on the table by his elbow. Then his eyes met hers. “I want to explain to you why I am the way I am. I thought if you understood, then perhaps it might be easier . . . for you.”
Sophie’s grip tightened on her sore wrist. Of course she had a million questions about why he thought he was incapable of feeling love for a woman. It was evident that he loved Charlie and his aunt. She was certain he loved his younger brothers. She even suspected he loved his father, although the relationship oftentimes appeared strained—from what she’d observed at any rate.
There was some kind of impenetrable barrier inside him. A fortification around his heart. And in his mind.
Perhaps he might inadvertently give her a clue that would help her to knock it down. Or at least expose a crack that would allow her to sneak inside.
Stop, Sophie. Don’t you dare hope. You’ve shed too many tears over Lord Malverne already.
But she could at least hear him out.
She raised her chin. “All right. I will listen.”
Nate winced at her cool manner, but she couldn’t help the way she felt.
From now on, she needed to guard her heart too.
He picked up his drink again and took another sip, as though fortifying himself. “You already know about my illiteracy,” he began. “And how my older brother Thomas helped me to overcome it to some extent.”
Sophie nodded. “Yes.”
He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “You see, I firmly believe there is only so much pain a heart can bear. And my heart”—he placed a large hand, fingers splayed, against his chest—“cannot take any more, Sophie. It’s wounded beyond repair.”
He took another swig of the spirit he was drinking and bared his teeth in a grimace. “Has Charlie told you about our older brother Thomas? How he died?”
She nodded. “A little. She said . . . she said he drowned. When you were thirteen.”
Nate’s face twisted for a moment before he raised his glass again. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. With grief. “When Thomas died, I thought I might die. I wished I had died. Because it was my fault he drowned. And everything that occurred after that was my fault too.”
Sophie’s heart cramped at witnessing Nate’s pain. “What happened?” she whispered. “If you can bear to tell me.”
Nate leaned forward, his forearms resting on his muscular thighs, and he turned his glass back and forth, back and forth between his palms, watching the golden brown liquid swill and splash. “Even though Thomas died fourteen years ago, to me it feels as if it happened only yesterday. At the end of that summer, before we were due to go back to Eton, there was a spell of terrible weather. It had been raining for days and days, and the river that ran beside Elmstone Hall, the Severn, was swollen, fit to burst.”
Nate paused, staring into the fire, and Sophie waited. She didn’t want to rush him. Not when the haunted look in his eyes made her heart weep and she hadn’t even heard the worst.
“I’ve mentioned before I’ve always been restless, not one to sit still for long,” he said at last, “and I was much worse as a youth. I hated being confined indoors, so as soon as the rain stopped, I persuaded Thomas to accompany me on a ride. Fool that I was, despite Thomas’s warnings, I got too close to the edge of the bank—it had been weakened by all the rain—and it broke. Disintegrated. My horse and I both went in and . . .” Nate swallowed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My horse got swept away but I managed to grab hold of a tree that had been uprooted and had fallen in the river a little farther downstream. I begged Thomas to go and get help. But he refused to. He told me it would be too late. The current was so swift. Deadly. And I was barely holding on to a branch that was threatening to break.”
Sophie blinked away tears but again didn’t say a word. She didn’t want to interrupt.
Nate shook his head and he drained the rest of his drink. “Thomas dismounted and crawled along the log. Reached out and pulled me to safety. But as I clambered up higher . . .” He shook his head again. “I don’t quite know what happened, whether I bumped him, or he overbalanced, I just don’t know. But Thomas fell in. And when I realized and tried to grab his hand, it was too late. He was gone. He went under. I couldn’t see him. He was dragged away.”
“Oh, Nate. I am so, so sorry.” Sophie wanted to reach out her hand to him, but she feared he would reject her touch. Instead she nursed her sore wrist and tried to swallow back her own tears.
Nate sighed and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. “They found Thomas a day later. He’d been washed three miles downstream. Along with my horse.” He raised his stark gaze to Sophie. “Everyone insisted it was an accident. That it wasn’t my fault. But it was. If I had listened to Thomas . . . He was my brother and I loved him. But it was his love for me that ended him.”
“I can’t even imagine what you’ve lived through, Nate,” Sophie whispered.
He gave her a wry smile. “I’m afraid my sad tale doesn’t end there. Nor for the rest of my family.”
She didn’t want to see Nate suffer any
more, but she sensed he needed to share his burden. “I’ll listen to whatever you wish to tell me.”
He nodded and his chest swelled before he released a shaky sigh. “When our mother found out what had happened—she was pregnant with the twins, Daniel and Benjamin—she went into labor. It was the shock, I expect, of losing Thomas. And . . . the labor did not go well for her. A month after the birth, she died of a terrible fever. The doctor explained it was a relatively common complication. But I can’t help but think . . .” He swallowed and shook his head, unable to go on.
Oh no. Sophie bit her lip to stop a sob from escaping.
Several minutes passed and then Nate spoke in a voice so low, Sophie had to lean forward to catch his words. “My father, he loved my mother, deeply. Although he’s never blamed me for what happened to her, either, I cannot help but feel responsible. She died of a broken heart, because of me. And my father has never been the same since.”
“What do you mean?”
“Since her passing, he works himself to the bone. Whether it’s managing his estates, his business ventures, or parliamentary affairs, it doesn’t matter. As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t keep a mistress. And he’s never courted another woman. He’s a shell of a man. His heart is broken. And witnessing his sorrow, his pain, has made me realize that I could not endure the loss of the woman I loved. The cost is too high. I’ve already lost so much and witnessed the people I care about suffer great loss too.” Nate caught her gaze. “I would understand if you think me a coward, Sophie, but I cannot afford to fall in love. The loss of it would surely destroy me.”
Sophie didn’t know what to say. Words seemed so inadequate to express how she was feeling, and what she was thinking. She wanted to offer Nate comfort. She wanted to persuade him that the tragedies that had befallen his family really weren’t his fault. He clearly held a deeply ingrained belief that denying himself love was the only way he could survive. It was a bizarre form of self-preservation.
But love could also heal, couldn’t it?
She cleared her throat and said the only thing she could think of that wouldn’t result in a vehement denial. “Nate, there’s one thing I know to be true about you. You are not a coward. You are fiercely loyal to those you care about, and I could never judge you for your past, or your choices.” She drew a breath and continued before she lost her nerve. “And I also firmly believe you are a good man, despite what you think about yourself.”
Nate gave her a sad smile. “We both know I’m not good, Sophie. I try to be, but I’m not. I’m a walking disaster. I drink too much to help me sleep at night. I live the life of an abandoned rakehell. And I have taken advantage of you, but you are too good and sweet to admit it.”
“I suppose we must agree to disagree on that score then,” Sophie said gently.
Nate inclined his head. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. At least we can agree on that.”
“Good.” Sophie didn’t know what else to say, so she rose and tucked her book under her arm. “Thank you, Nate, for confiding in me to help me understand. I can see how much such disclosures pain you, and I’m deeply honored that you trust me. I promise not to share your secrets with anyone else.”
“Thank you.” Nate rose too. “I do trust you, Sophie. And I wish you well.”
“And I, you.”
It wasn’t until Sophie closed the drawing room door behind her that she let the tears flow unheeded. Tears for Nate and everything that he’d lost. And tears for her own loss too.
* * *
* * *
As soon as the door closed, Nate poured himself another whisky with shaking hands. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d ever bared his soul like that to anyone. It was terrifying to revisit such devastation. Harrowing.
He felt as if he’d been keelhauled.
But at least Sophie had been able to catch a glimpse of how damaged he was. Hopefully now she would be able to forget him and start anew with Claremont.
It was only when he’d returned to his seat that another thought occurred to him as his gaze snagged on the roses Lord Claremont had sent. Sophie hadn’t asked the staff to place them in her room. And she hadn’t taken the card Claremont had written just for her either . . .
Nate smirked. Yesterday, Sophie had accused him of being an ass, and perhaps he was. Not only that, he was undoubtedly a perverse prick, because the fact that Sophie had left Claremont’s roses and his love note here made him smile.
CHAPTER 19
The perennial question on every debutante’s mind is how does one ensure one is the epitome of grace, style, and propriety at all times during the Season? Whatever the occasion—morning calls, dinner parties, an evening at the theater, balls, or the gayest of soirees—rest assured you will only be noticed for the right reasons if you adhere to our recommendations on fashion, deportment, and manners.
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Essential Style and Etiquette Guide
Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair
May 9, 1818
Oh, Miss Brightwell, aren’t these blooms gorgeous?” declared Lady Chelmsford as she swept into the drawing room. Her eyes glowed with appreciation as she took in the huge bunch of yellow roses gracing one of the mahogany tables. “Your Lord Claremont is quite the charmer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he certainly is,” agreed Charlie, looking up from the game of loo she and Sophie were playing. “Since he’s begun unabashedly courting Sophie, he sends a new arrangement every few days. I’m expecting some exciting news any day now.” She threw Sophie a knowing smile, which, much like the roses, Sophie tried to ignore.
Sophie simply smiled in agreement at Lady Chelmsford’s pronouncement about the flowers and Lord Claremont’s charm; the marchioness had arrived earlier, and while they waited for the tea trolley to arrive, she’d paid a visit to see her brother, Lord Westhampton, who was ensconced in the library, working on a new bill for Parliament. Nate, as usual, was “out” somewhere.
In fact, since the evening he shared his harrowing past with her, she’d barely seen him. Which was all for the best, really. The less she saw him, the easier it would be to forget him. Such a pity it isn’t working.
She sighed as she halfheartedly played her cards. Not for the first time over the last fortnight, guilt pricked at Sophie’s conscience. Lord Claremont—Matthew—was lovely. Wonderful. She should be thinking only of him and giddy with excitement when she did. But she wasn’t giddy, and her thoughts kept straying to another viscount. And therein lay the source of her disquiet and her moral dilemma.
Of course, she couldn’t fault Lord Claremont’s behavior or the manner of his gentle wooing. Since he’d openly declared his intentions to court her, he’d been very attentive. The perfect gentlemanly suitor.
Nearly every day for the past two weeks, she’d seen him. There were numerous chaperoned walks and carriage rides, as well as afternoon teas with Lady Chelmsford at her house, here at Hastings House, and at Gunter’s, and he’d spent a delightful evening with her, Lord Westhampton, and Charlie at the theater. Indeed, today was the first day that they hadn’t made any plans to see each other, and if Sophie was honest with herself, she was more than a little relieved. She very much needed time to herself to reflect upon recent events. A quiet interlude to examine her feelings.
As the days passed, she knew it wouldn’t be long before Lord Claremont tried to kiss her, and then he might even offer for her hand. But the problem was, instead of feeling a thrill of anticipation, she was beset by an attack of jangled nerves.
Closing her eyes, Sophie touched one of her playing cards to her lips as an unbidden memory of Nate’s kisses surfaced. Of the exhilaration that had flooded her. The all-consuming intoxication. Would it feel like that when Lord Claremont pressed his mouth to hers? Dear Lord, she hoped so. She kept telling herself that, in time, love and desire would grow, that when her bruised heart healed, sh
e might begin to feel differently.
But what if she was wrong?
The thought weighed heavily, hanging over her like a dark storm cloud threatening rain on a summer’s day.
The morning tea trolley arrived, and after Lady Chelmsford took charge and dispensed everyone’s tea according to their specifications, talk turned to the latest gossip about town—rumor had it that Lady Astley had taken another lover, but no one knew who it was. Sophie prayed it wasn’t Nate. Not that she could complain. He had the right to see whomever he wanted, precisely as she was doing.
Sophie had just politely declined another piece of cinnamon tea cake—she’d lost her appetite of late—when the butler arrived with the morning’s post and a neat bundle of papers.
“Oh, here’s something from Arabella,” declared Charlie. She cracked the wax seal on the travel-stained parchment and opened the letter. “‘My dearest Charlie, Sophie, and Olivia,’” she read, “‘I trust you are all well and, by now, I’m sure each of you has more than one eligible (perhaps even rakish) gentleman well and truly wound around your finger.’” Charlie threw Sophie a mischievous look over the top of the page. “Well, in your case, my friend, she’s quite correct.”
Because Lady Chelmsford was now busily sorting through the correspondence, Sophie poked her tongue out at Charlie. “What else does she say?”
“It seems she’s having a marvelous time. She writes, ‘I must confess, despite my reluctance to embark on this grand tour, I have been enjoying myself more than I thought I would. Of course, my cousin Lilias and Aunt Flora are their usual exacting selves. But aside from their myriad complaints about the lumpy inn beds and poorly sprung carriages, they certainly haven’t been stingy when it comes to experiencing the cultural delights on offer in Paris. I absolutely adored the Louvre Museum and Aunt Flora even let me visit the much lauded foundling hospital, l’Hôpital des Enfants-Trouvés; wonders will never cease! Although the Place de la Concorde and our tour of the Conciergerie made me shiver with horror . . . ’” Charlie turned the page. “Oh, it seems they’ll be making their way to Switzerland very soon. Once there, they have plans to visit Montreux on Lake Geneva to see Château de Chillon and its famous dungeon too. I am so envious.”
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 23