Scandal (16 page)

“He wanted to move up in life. So I made him butler when mine retired. My household has never run more smoothly.”

“And your neckcloths?” She pushed his chin up so she could make the next cross of the material.

“Alas, a decided turn for the worse.”

She smiled to herself. “Perhaps King could give him lessons.”

“He's a gentleman,” Banallt said. She didn't realize right away that he meant Tallboys. “Vedaelin thinks highly of him.”

“Hold still,” she said. Banallt's hair brushed the backs of her fingers.

He did. For a time. “Has Tallboys asked you to marry him?”

She finished the knot and took a step back to survey her work. “You're very handsome,” she said. She didn't want to answer him. She was afraid if she did it would spoil things again.

“Sophie.”

She hesitated. “No. He hasn't.” But she suspected he might.

“I see.” He reached for his neckcloth. “He will.”

“Ah!” she said, tapping his hand. “I've only just tied it. Leave it so I can admire you for five minutes.”

“As you wish, madam.” The laughter had gone from his eyes. He shifted on the chair and touched the pages she'd so carefully copied out. “Tallboys is from good family. Completely acceptable,” he said.

“Just acceptable?”

“No,” he said. “More than acceptable. He does not gamble to excess. I've never seen him drunk. He is discreet when discretion is called for. He's not mad over horses or prone to extravagance that I can see. He's amusing and not tedious in conversation. You've an excellent mind, and Tallboys will not expect you to pretend you haven't.” He reached for her hand, lightly holding her fingers. “He would make you happy. It's a good match, if you want it.”

On this subject, she absolutely knew her mind. “No. I do not.”

“Why not?”

She saw immediately that he'd misinterpreted. “Marriage is not a state in which I wish to exist.” Her stomach clenched.

“I'm sorry to hear you say that.”

“John wants me to marry. He's astonishingly persistent on the subject.” She stared at the toes of her boots. She ought to have worn slippers, but they would never have survived the walk from Henrietta Street to Charlotte Row.

“Not all husbands make their wives unhappy,” he said. He whisked his thumb across her fingers, and she squeezed his hand in silent response. “I daresay most gentlemen are faithful to their wives, Sophie.”

The corners of her mouth turned down. “I can't.” She swallowed. “I simply cannot.”

Banallt leaned back in his chair, and their fingers slowly slid apart. “Hm. I think you mean you will not. You've always been a stubborn thing.”

“I haven't.”

He laughed softly. “There was never any woman more suited to being in love and married than you.”

She looked up. “That's unkind.”

“Why? It's the truth. When you are in love, and do not forget that I knew you when you loved Tommy, you sparkle with life. It's irresistible. One wants to be around you just to see if the sensation will rub off.” His smiled faded once more. She was sorry for it. “A woman, especially you, ought to be married. How else will you be secure?”

“You sound just like John.”

“Well,” he drawled. “And so.”

“But I'm not in love with Mr. Tallboys. How can I marry without love?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and considered her. She recognized his expression. He was framing his reply. Whatever he said, he would be sure to make her face issues she'd rather not. “You don't love Tallboys yet? Or you don't believe you ever will?”

Sophie chewed on her lower lip. “It's not that.”

“Then what?”

“I loved Tommy and that was all I had in me. There's no more.”

“Nonsense.”

“It's so, Banallt.” She reached to adjust his cravat again. “Sometimes I think about it, that giddy feeling in your stomach, feeling as if you'll die if he doesn't smile at you. The part of me that loved Tommy like that leaves me sick.” Her voice fell. “I'm nothing but ashes inside. My heart's burnt up. I've nothing to give to a marriage, Banallt.”

After a bit, he smiled. “I'm sure your brother would find something to send along with you. A pound or two perhaps. And he'd give you a splendid wedding.”

She reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Be serious.”

“I am, darling. More serious than you'll know. You deserve a scandalously extravagant wedding. In St. Paul's. With a lovely gown to wear, and flowers for your hair. And afterward enough food to send half of London groaning to their beds.”

They both looked up at the sound of voices in the hallway. Someone called for Banallt. He stood and started to say something then thought the better of it. “Well,” he said. “I will leave you to your copying, Mrs. Evans. Do try to leave out the kidnapping.”

“Perhaps a small robbery?” She grinned. “A stolen necklace?”

“You—”

Another voice called from the hallway. “Banallt?”

Sophie stood there, remembering the feeling of his hair brushing the backs of her hands and the way her stomach had soared. She wondered if it was possible Banallt was the reason she didn't want to marry Tallboys.

What a disaster that would be.

Fourteen

Upper York Street, London,
MARCH 30, 1815

 

 

 

SOPHIE AND JOHN ARRIVED AT LORD HARPENDEN'S HOME off Upper York Street at ten o‘clock at night. They were escorted to a ballroom filled with people dancing and talking and flirting. An orchestra sat at one end of the room, playing one of the more sedate country dances. Servants threaded their way among the guests carrying trays or messages, discreetly watching for mishaps to whisk away, and seeing that everything was in order. The air was heavy, and every so often someone who ought to have bathed more assiduously passed by.

She and John found and greeted Lord and Lady Harpenden, and then she stayed to speak with some of the ladies she knew from Vedaelin and Mr. Tallboys while John wandered off with acquaintances of his own. Sophie found she was quite enjoying herself. The music, the hum of conversation, the lovely men and women dancing or strolling were thrilling. She saw Frederick Drake, handsome and waiting on Miss George as if he believed she was the only young lady in the world. The poor girl was infatuated.

John came back once to see how she was doing on her own. “I'll walk with you to the punch bowl,” he said.

“Why haven't you danced, John?” Sophie asked. “I've been waiting for you to.”

He waved a hand. “There's no one here I care to dance with, that's all.”

“That's not good of you. There are young ladies here in want of a partner.”

“Vedaelin is not here yet,” he said.

“John.” She tapped his arm. “You must dance.”

“Perhaps later,” he said. He stopped when they met Lord Harpenden. The older man bowed to them and they exchanged greetings. He fell in with them, walking on Sophie's other side.

“I've just been asking John why he's not dancing,” she said to Harpenden. John tensed, and his smile vanished, a reaction Sophie attributed to her remark. A moment later, though, she thought differently. Miss Fidelia Llewellyn had arrived with her mother. The stir among the young men as she came in was perfectly ridiculous. At that precise moment, Sophie had the good fortune—or was it misfortune? —to be standing with an unobstructed view of Miss Llewellyn and her mother. Fidelia scanned the room and did not stop searching until her attention fell on John. It was plain, painfully plain, now that she knew the truth, that she'd sought him out. John nodded. Very slightly, but an acknowledgment nevertheless. The girl's smile in return was breathtaking.

“John,” Sophie murmured. “Go to her. Say good evening. Ask her to dance.”

Her brother gave her a grateful look. “Sophie, Lord Harpenden. Will you excuse me?”

Sophie touched his arm. “I'll be perfectly all right.”

Lord Harpenden held out an arm when John left. “She's a lovely girl,” he said. “Now, it's not just your brother who should be dancing. Will you do me the honor, Mrs. Evans?”

She was flattered that he thought to ask. “Dancing is for young ladies, my lord.”

“You're hardly decrepit,” he said with a laugh.

“Do you know, Lord Harpenden, I should like very much to sit and watch the dancing.”

“The next set then?”

“Now, really, my lord, how can I watch the dancers if I am among them myself?”

“May I engage you for at least one dance?”

He only asked out of politeness, and she saw no reason to inflict that burden on him. “There's a chair just there.” Yes, that was a flicker of relief in his eyes. She changed their course and released his arm. “Thank you very much, my lord.”

“The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Evans. You are even more of a delight than your brother.” Lord Harpenden bowed. “Perhaps later in the evening I might persuade you to dance?”

“Perhaps, my lord.”

When Lord Harpenden left, Sophie sat and found she had a tolerable view of the dancing. She hoped for a sight of John and Miss Llewellyn. However, Miss Llewellyn remained surrounded by men. John was not yet among them. The young woman continually scanned the room. Where on earth had her dratted brother got to? He ought to be at Miss Llewellyn's side by now.

A woman sitting to Sophie's left craned her neck in the direction of the main entrance. Sophie had ended up in a section of the ballroom populated primarily by mothers, aunts, and other chaperones of the young ladies who were dancing. She fit in quite well, she thought. She settled on her chair and tapped her toe in time with the music. Everyone around her was smiling or laughing.

“I can't see,” the woman next to her said. “My, but this is a crush! Tell me, Imogen, is that him?”

“Someone's just walked in front of him,” Imogen answered. The two women spoke as if they were longtime friends. With affection. Sophie tipped her head to one side and listened unabashedly. Imogen's hair was graying, but she remained a handsome woman, dressed smartly in a striped silk moire. Her companion, too, was fashionably dressed, but a deal stouter than Imogen.

The stout woman said in a breathy voice, “Who but the duke would cause such a stir?”

Who, indeed?
Sophie asked herself. She admitted to herself that she was unaccustomedly nervous about seeing the duke, if he should happen to come here tonight. He'd sent her flowers as an apology for their missed luncheon at Charlotte Row. Lovely white roses that came with a note asking if she would drive out with him. He called later that afternoon and drove her out to Rotten Row. Sophie had decided she did not mind the difference in their ages. His calm demeanor settled her. She felt safe with him. He'd already lived his wild youth. His feet were solidly on the ground. He was not the sort of man to expect passion.

John had been ready to plan her wedding when she and Vedaelin returned an hour late for no nefarious reason other than the time it took them to work their way out of the traffic. As if a duke would offer for her! Though if she were ever to marry without love, Vedaelin would be a perfect choice. He wanted a companion, she fancied. During their entire drive, his greatest intimacy was to hold her hand overlong. While she had to agree with John that a drive to Rotten Row was a declaration of interest, she rather thought his criteria for love did not include a giddy stomach or breathless longing. They matched each other very well in that respect. He would do well.

The conversation beside her continued. In rather giddy tones, truth be known. “You don't suppose it could be Lord Banallt, do you, Imogen? I heard he was invited, but I never dreamed he'd dare show up. Not after his affair with that Italian woman.”

“The opera singer.” Yes, I know,” said Imogen. They laughed and put their heads near to whisper between them. Sophie was sure, though not certain, that one of them said the name
Mrs. Peters.

Sophie's heart skipped a beat. But then she clamped down the flood of trepidation. If Banallt was having an affair with Mrs. Peters, that was no concern of hers. He was free to live his life as he saw fit.

“I see him now,” the second woman replied. She shook her head. “Not the duke.”

“Nor Banallt,” said Imogen. “Such a handsome, distinguished man, though. I heard he's looking for a bride.” Her brother emerged from the crowd the two ladies had been examining.

Imogen tracked John. “His maiden speech in the House was a rousing success. I daresay he might do well for Lucinda.”

“Yes. I think so, too.”

Heavens! If John didn't find Miss Llewellyn soon, he might just find himself with the redoubtable Lucinda. But her brother seemed to be in no hurry. The orchestra was playing a lively reel at the moment. John ought to be dancing. The music made her want to dance, too, but of course she couldn't. Gallants like Lord Harpenden notwithstanding, she was too old for such foolishness. And yet, how strange, Sophie thought, to be twenty-six and attending her first dance. She'd eloped with Tommy before her official coming-out, and once she was married, there weren't any parties. Six and twenty, and she'd never danced except with her brother, who'd been horrified to be made to partner his sister during her dance lessons. In those days, she hadn't known what it was to be afraid of having nothing.

John had stopped before Miss George. Sophie repressed an urge to give John a good hard kick in the shins. If he was in love with Miss Llewellyn, why on earth was he avoiding her? He bowed and the two exchanged words while Mr. Drake scowled at him, annoyed to think he had competition. How well she knew that sort of man.