Kasey Michaels (22 page)

“You’d find a way to see some good in the Devil himself, wouldn’t you, Sophie?” Bramwell asked, shaking his head, “Or a way to dazzle him into forgetting he enjoyed being evil. But, even if I believed you to be correct, and that the talk will stop now, I can’t take that chance. For your sake.”

“I—I see.” Sophie lifted her head and looked across the room, seeing nothing. Nothing but a world devoid of one Bramwell Seaton, Ninth Duke of Selbourne. Damn him for having become so important to her, when she had sworn she would never let someone else dictate her happiness. And so quickly! How had he come to be so important so quickly? How great a fool was she? “You—you’re sending me back to Wimbledon?”

“If you had asked me that a few days ago, Sophie, I would have had your coach packed and waiting at the door in a heartbeat,” he admitted with endearing honesty. “But no, not now. Now, you’d just be seen as running away. You don’t deserve that and, frankly, I don’t think your mother or my father deserve it either, as they both wanted you to have this Season.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I stared them all down, Sophie, that first year. You may go about the thing differently, choosing to dazzle rascals rather than glare at them. But I still think you can pull it off. Make them forget. Make them see
you
, Sophie, and not an old scandal. But only if you know it all, and aren’t, as you obviously were the other evening, forced to sail into battle without being fully armed with the knowledge you need.”

She was looking at him closely now, curiously. Seeing compassion in his eyes. Not anger. Not defeat. Not desire. Compassion. He felt sorry for her. She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her, didn’t want anyone ever to feel sorry for her.

But she also was aware of a wave of sweet relief rolling over her, one unfortunately mixed with disappointment. Relief that he wasn’t sending her away. Disappointment that she’d been wrong; he wasn’t so overcome with desire for her, lust for her, that he’d decided to get her out of his house, out of his sight, out of his life.

Wait just a moment! He
didn’t
want her? And she was disappointed? No! This was much more than disappointment. Irrational anger gripped her for a moment, then dissipated as quickly as it had come. Was she mad, insane? Had she come to London only to lose her senses? Why should she be angry? After all, she didn’t
want
him to desire her, did she? She most certainly didn’t want to desire
him
.

So many conflicting emotions! She’d have to go off by herself, soon, and think them all through. But, first, she’d have to concentrate on what Bramwell was saying. There was something she didn’t know? Something he wanted to tell her? What could that be?

“I know
Maman
and Uncle Cesse were lovers for nearly four years, Bram, that they delighted in scandalizing Society with their very open association, their silly, romantic exploits. I know that they even died together. I came to London prepared to deal with all of that, with the whispers, the giggles, the arch looks. What else is there to know?”

It seemed to be Bramwell’s turn to stare off across the room, and she bit her lip as she waited for him to collect his own thoughts, waited for him to look at her again, speak to her. Tell her what he obviously felt she needed to know.

“Three of your
uncles
are coming to see you tomorrow,” he said at last, turning back to her, but still not looking into her eyes, still holding tight to her hands. “Sir Tyler, Lords Buxley and Upchurch. They asked my permission this afternoon. It seems they want to see how their little Sophie grew up, and help to launch you if they can.”

Another time, Sophie would have been overjoyed with such news. Another time. But she wasn’t a stupid young woman, and she knew the duke wouldn’t have been this distressed if a visit from her uncles was the only thing he had to tell her. “I’ll be so happy to see them again.”

Bramwell cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I thought that might please you. But about Uncle Willy—Lord Buxley, that is? The man’s known for his plain speech, you understand. And he might say something, think you know something you don’t fully—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bramwell—tell me!” Sophie exploded, at last succeeding in freeing her hands. “If you have something terrible to say, just say it. I don’t think I can stand this suspense anymore, truly I don’t.”

He looked at her then. Looked at her searchingly, deeply, as if gauging her strength, visually measuring the density of her backbone. “First tell me something, all right, Sophie? Tell me how you think your mother and my father died. I want to have it clear in my head.”

“Tell you—” she broke off, shaking her head. This conversation was more than maddening. “Why? You must know as well as I, as well as anyone. They were traveling together, which I know was what delighted the gossips no end. In fact, if I remember correctly, they were on their way to a country house party, which could also be considered scandalous. There was something about a curricle race, two young idiots feathering around a corner in the road, riding neck and neck, unable to see Uncle Cesse’s carriage approaching from the other direction until it was too late.”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “The coachman tried to avoid a collision, but one wheel of the coach slid over the edge of the road, into a ditch, and the carriage overturned. The doors came open somehow, and both Uncle Cesse and
Maman
were thrown into the ditch, the coach tumbling down straight on top of them.”

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with tears as she remembered her grief, the devastating sense of loss she’d felt, recalled the long, horrible months after the funeral. “Desiree swore to me that the person bringing the news told her they’d died instantly. They didn’t suffer. It—it was my one consolation.”

“I see. I’d thought it might be something like that. A heartbroken child, a comforting web of lies,” Bramwell said bluntly, quickly. “Sophie, listen to me. Difficult as this is going to be, listen to me. Your mother and my father didn’t die in a carriage accident, although I can understand why your woman, this Desiree, never told you the truth.”

“I—I don’t understand,” Sophie said, stubbornly refusing to believe him, refusing to consider the sincerity in his expression, his tone. “They—they died in a carriage accident, Bram. Desiree told me so. And now you’re saying Desiree lied to me, that what she told me wasn’t true?”

“No, Sophie, it wasn’t true, although I wish to God it were.”

“But why? Why would Desiree lie to me? What possible reason—” Sophie bit her bottom lip, willing herself to silence, willing herself to listen, to understand.

“Let’s get this over quickly, all right? Our parents died together, Sophie. That much is true. They were cavorting, stark naked, on a balcony outside one of Lord Buxley’s guest chambers during a house party. Probably on the railing of the balcony. Your mother and my father. Your mother hadn’t been invited to Buxley’s, of course, but somehow found her way to my father’s chamber—I don’t know how, but the how of it doesn’t matter. It was one of their larks, their mad starts. Reese, all unknowing, opened the doors to the balcony on them. Off-balance, our parents tumbled two stories to the ground, landing on the flagstones outside the music room where the rest of the guests had been gathered.”

He took another breath, then added, “Those guests dined out on the story for nearly a year.”

Sophie sat frozen for some moments, trying to collect her shattered thoughts, to dismiss the horrendous mental image Bramwell’s words had formed in her mind, behind her tightly shut eyes. Her mother, her lovely
maman
. Sprawled naked on Lord Buxley’s flagstones, her body the object of all those curious, undoubtedly scandalized but delighted eyes. Her dearest
maman
, an object of ridicule, a thing; a scandal and not a woman, not her mother, her dearest, dearest
maman
anymore.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, no!

“I see,” Sophie said at last as she stood up, her chin high, her hands now at her sides. She ignored Bramwell’s outstretched hand as he also rose to his feet, to tower over her protectively. “That, I would suppose, explains Reese’s reluctance to open doors, yes? How—how very droll, Your Grace.”

“Sophie—”

She took a deep breath. Smiled even as a part of her died. “Well, thank you, Bramwell. You were right. I did need to know this, yes? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I heard the second dinner gong. You will understand if I choose to dine in my room, and beg permission to be excused from accompanying you and Miss Waverley to the theater?”

“Oh, Christ, Sophie, don’t.
Cry
, Sophie. Scream. Throw something. Here—take this glass and smash it against the fireplace. For the love of God, Sophie, do
something
! Don’t be so damned brave,” Bramwell said, putting down the glass he’d offered her and taking hold of her shoulders, pulling her stiff, resisting body against his chest. “And don’t hate them, Sophie. Don’t hate our parents for being who they were, for leaving us to clean up after them, to live with the results of their folly. God knows I’ve wasted enough years hating them for you. It serves no purpose.”

She stood very still, allowing him to hold her, to press kisses against the top of her head, her temple, her nearly numb cheek, the curve of her throat. But she was not so lost within her pain not to notice when his caresses turned from being comforting to being more of an exploration of uncharted territory, his hands sliding along her back, spanning her waist, pulling her closer, closer. Her heart burned, melted, turning traitor at this most inopportune time, and she once again knew herself to be very much her mother’s child. For her sins.

But she was also Desiree’s pupil, and she had learned her lessons well. She’d only forgotten them for a little while, that’s all, forgot that she was to be the dazzler, and not allow herself to be dazzled.

“Don’t carry on so, Bramwell,” she scolded, pushing herself back from his embrace and smiling up at him. Oh, could he know how that smile cost her, pained her? She reached up to touch his face, deliberately tracing her fingertips along his cheek, across his taut jawline. “I imagine that, although their deaths came prematurely,
Maman
and Uncle Cesse were rather pleased with how it all turned out. They always could see the humor in shocking the world, couldn’t they? And Heaven knows, they’ll always be remembered, won’t they? Actually, when I think about it, the whole thing is rather delicious, yes?”

And then she frowned, thrusting out her bottom lip, turning cold as ice, cold as a three-year-old grave. “What is not delicious is having you paw me, Bramwell, as if bent upon repeating our parents’ history.”

Her words obviously stung, as she had meant them to, and he immediately released her, presenting her with his back as he stared toward the windows. “I was only trying to comfort you, Sophie. I’m an engaged man, a sober one, without the least interest in becoming a laughingstock, the latest fodder for the gossips. The last, the very last thing I’d ever do would be to take you for my mistress.”

“
Maman
was never
taken
, Bramwell,” Sophie said quietly, made strong by her new insight, insight gained with much pain. “She
gave
. There is a difference. And, at last, thanks to you, I think I’m truly beginning to understand her life. And why she cried. Good night to you, Your Grace. And thank you. This has been a most edifying interlude, informative in many ways. Oh, and one thing more. You’re right. I would never leave London now, now that I know the whole of what I’m facing, the full reason behind the jokes, the stares. I wouldn’t give the world that satisfaction. I’ll best them, you’ll see. I’ll best them all. Even you.”

She was just closing the drawing room doors behind her, too defeated, too exhausted to slam them, when she heard the sound of very good crystal shattering against the marble fireplace.

Never Say “Never”?

It would be superfluous in me to point out

to your lordship that this is war.

– Charles Francis Adams

“I’m very brave generally,”

he went on in a low voice:

“only today I happen to have a headache.”

– Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

Chapter Nine