A Rake by Any Other Name (25 page)

“Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant; but…” Why must there always be a
but
? That small word spoils ever so many promising things.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Somehow Sophie had beaten him there and waited for him in the dark parlor. Silvered by moonlight, she was silhouetted before the window. She was an outline, a dream, a being of such ethereal beauty she ought to have been winged.

And best of all, she was his. A knot formed in his throat so big that Richard couldn't speak for happiness. He crossed the dark room, and she moved to meet him.

Her perfume assaulted his nostrils. He'd have to tell her he preferred that lighter fragrance she usually wore. Funny, he hadn't noticed this stronger scent in the ballroom, but there had been such a press of smells in that place—mingled bergamot and floral, warm silk, warm bodies, and musky undernotes all jumbled into a miasmic soup and liberally stirred by the dance music.

She slipped into his arms, and he found her mouth, but she stiffened under his kiss.

Something was wrong. She didn't taste like his Sophie.

“What the devil?” He staggered a step back from her in confusion. The sharp sound of ripping fabric pierced his ear, but before he could say or do anything else, he heard his sister Petra's voice in the hallway.

“How the family came by the Vermeer is a bit of a mystery,” she was saying. “And I'm first to admit we probably don't deserve to have it, but the family legend is that some Barrett in the cavalry was fighting on the Continent. During the course of the battle, he happened to offer mercy to a certain Flemish count. Overwhelmed with gratitude, the gentleman surrendered not only his sword, but also the Vermeer hanging in his chateau. Of course, that tale may be apocryphal. It's just as likely that my many times great-grandfather simply ripped the painting off the wall.”

The door swung open, and the light from Petra's candle shot through the parlor, casting stark planes of amber and shadow.

“Oh, I say!” Lady Wappington's nasal whine followed the retreating dark. “Someone's there.”

Richard tried to shelter Sophie from the outraged expression on the old gossip's face by standing in front of her.

Confound
it!
Lord Pruett followed Lady Wappington in.

Being caught in an indiscreet situation might be embarrassing, but it wouldn't hurt him in the long run, especially since he fully intended to marry Sophie. But Lady Wappington could destroy her in the collective mind of the
ton
with a single raised brow. He cursed himself for insisting she meet him here. There was little hope he could keep Sophie's identity a secret, and even less when she pushed around him to face the others.

Except it wasn't Sophie. In the candlelight, the girl's hair was golden and disheveled and the lacy netting around her bodice had been ripped so that it trailed down one side of her gown like a flag at half mast. Richard's heart dropped to his toes.

“Oh, Papa!” Antonia burst into tears as she hurried into Lord Pruett's waiting arms. “Look what he did to my gown.”

“Now see here, Hartley.” Lord Pruett handed her a clean handkerchief and patted Antonia's back consolingly. “You cannot treat my daughter like some light-heeled chambermaid. I demand you do the right thing.”

“I agree, Lord Pruett.” Lady Wappington cleared her throat, an unpleasant sound that reminded Richard of a bullfrog in an amorous frame of mind. “It is the only thing that will answer. The two of you must marry.”

“Marry? I can't marry Antonia,” Richard said.

Antonia broke into a thin wail.

“You can and you will, young man,” Lord Pruett said with a ferocious scowl, “or I'll see you handed over to the magistrate for forcing yourself on my dear girl.”

“Forcing myself?” A rake he may have been, but never in his life would Richard dream of such a thing.

“No, that won't do,” Lady Wappington said. “A public trial would taint Lady Antonia badly. Better for public censure to fall upon Lord Hartley. If you don't step up and marry the girl, I'll see that neither you nor any of your family”—Lady Wappington eyed Petra meaningfully—“is ever received in any respectable home in the realm. When I'm finished with you, people will cross the street rather than lay eyes on any of the Barretts. The name of Somerset will be anathema.”

Again the full weight of the Somerset marquessate descended on Richard's shoulders. It wasn't enough that he'd figured out a way to rescue the family from financial ruin. He had to protect them from social disaster too. In many ways, this was an even bigger threat. One could be threadbare and still be considered acceptable by the
beau
monde
. But if the
ton
decided to shun him and his family, no amount of money, no exalted title would protect them from the spiteful cruelty of those who considered it their duty to be the arbiters of correct behavior.

He didn't give two figs for the
ton
's opinion of himself. But he had three unmarried sisters to consider. And unlike the financial disaster brought about by his father's mismanagement, this debacle was his own doing.

He had no choice.

***

It was nearly midnight. Strains of the last quadrille died as liveried footmen circuited the room with trays laden with champagne flutes. The toast prior to the midnight supper was almost upon them. Sophie accepted a glass of the sparkling liquid and willed her belly to stop fizzing.

Soon.

She wished she'd been able to join Richard in the parlor and not only because she wanted a few moments alone with the man. They hadn't planned this very well, and she wasn't sure what she ought to do.

Richard would step up on the dais that now held the string quartet. He'd thank his guests for sharing the evening with the Barretts. Then he'd announce their engagement to the world.

Did he expect her to join him ahead of time or wait until he made their betrothal known?

To be on the safe side, she worked her way through the crowd till she was nearer the dais. Only a few people were between her and the three steps leading up onto it. This would be her first public outing as the future marchioness. She didn't want to ruin things by tripping over her own feet on her way to Richard's side. If she could catch his eye, she'd know what he expected her to do.

She smiled to herself at how much she'd changed in a few weeks. When she first came to Somerfield Park, she didn't care what anyone thought of her. Now, because she'd be connected to a large, influential family, she had to care. Because she was a commoner, the
ton
would assume she didn't know how to behave among the aristocracy. She was determined not to embarrass the Barretts. She didn't want to fail Richard.

The ruby ring seemed to glow warmly in its secret spot over her breastbone. Soon she'd be able to wear it publicly. She'd be able to thank Richard's grandmother for handing it down to them, a treasured token of love from another time. She wished she'd thought to remove it in the retiring room, so she could slip it to Richard. It would be lovely for him to slide it onto her finger before the entire assembly.

She glanced around the room, looking for her parents. This would be such a moment of triumph for her father. Henry Goodnight's hard work would finally make his daughter a real lady, and his future grandchildren would inherit titles just as he wished.

But instead of finding her father, Sophie found Lord Pruett pushing his way through the throng on the opposite side of the room. She caught a glimpse of Richard in his wake.

When Lord Pruett climbed the steps to the dais and raised his hands to quiet the gathering, Sophie's belly tingled as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. She gave herself a shake. This was no time to be fanciful, not when her life was about to change forever.

“My friends,” Lord Pruett said once the crowd quieted, “as most of you know, my dear daughter Antonia is the driving force behind this delightful gathering. Her exquisite taste and gracious skills are responsible for the pleasure we've all enjoyed this evening.”

He lifted a hand of invitation, and Antonia joined him on the low platform. Her gown was missing its row of ruffles at the bodice. It was an improvement on the pink silk's lines. Sophie had thought the lace netting overly fussy, but now the gown was cut much more daringly than Sophie remembered. At the opposite edge of the dais, Lady Wappington started a tepid round of applause, but others joined in as if their social lives depended upon it. The lady was an unpleasant person to begin with, but she looked even more alarming when her lips parted in a horse-toothed smile.

“Evidently, Antonia's gifts are not lost on Lord Somerset's heir either,” Lord Pruett went on. “I'm pleased to announce that Lord Hartley has asked for my daughter's hand, and she has accepted his suit.”

The crowds parted to allow Richard to join Antonia and her father.

Sophie's vision tunneled. This couldn't be happening. She was dreaming. She must have fallen asleep on the settee in the retiring room while Lady Pruett droned on and on. She'd wake in a moment.

But she didn't. Everyone was talking at once. Snippets of exclamations forced their way into Sophie's brain.

“Lovely couple.”

“So right for each other.”

“Not a bit surprised, are you?”

Her mother was suddenly at her side. “Come away, dear,” she said softly. Millicent Goodnight put an arm around her shoulders and drew her aside.

It wasn't a dream, but it didn't seem real either. Sophie allowed herself to be led away. She wasn't conscious of putting one foot before the other, but somehow she made it across the long ballroom. Once she cleared the doorway, she sagged against the wall in the corridor, unable to move forward.

She wished she were the sort who could swoon. Being able to slip into mindless oblivion held vast appeal. She expected to feel rage, deep shock, and sorrow. Instead, her insides were numb.

Her father strode into the hall, his steps forceful instead of his usual tentative gait. His coloring, normally tinged an unhealthy yellow, was now a florid red.

“I'll bury him,” he promised. “Hartley will rue the day he threw you over. By God, I'll destroy him.”

She'd never heard her father say anything so aggressive before. Henry Goodnight was wonderful, but he was a man of ledgers and tallies. No one would have ever mistaken him for a man of action, much less one who could take on a fellow half his age in fighting trim. Sweat popped in glistening beads on her father's forehead.

“Father, calm yourself. You'll do no such thing.” She took his arm and patted it consolingly. This kind of excitement couldn't be good for him, but she was almost grateful for it, because it meant she didn't have to examine why should couldn't seem to feel anything. “You've never been one to resort to physical violence.”

“Who said anything about violence? I simply mean to ruin him, which will hurt a man like Hartley much more than being bloodied. Who do you think his man of business got to invest in that forestry scheme of his? I did it, anonymously, of course, in deference to his sensibilities, but that's over now.” Henry Goodnight ground a fist into his other palm. “He's completely in my power whether he realizes it or not. I'll call the note and bring this house down around his head.”

“I urge you not to do anything hasty, Henry,” Sophie's mother said, then turned back to her. “Come, dear. Let's put you to bed, and we'll discuss matters in the morning.”

“I can't stay here.” She could barely breathe. If she had to remain under the same roof as Richard, she'd run to madness. “We must go. Leave. At once. And let's not stop till we reach the town house in London.”

She'd have preferred taking a ship back to Bombay, but London would have to do.

“I understand how you feel, but that would be impractical. I abhor taking a coach at night. It's simply not safe.” Her mother linked arms with both Sophie and her father, and drew them toward the stairs that led to the guest wing and their bedchambers. “Besides, if we left now, it would be cause for comment. You would become an object of pity.”

Sophie didn't want that. She didn't want that quite a lot.

“If we stay and hold our heads high, we show the world that the Goodnights can weather anything.”

Millicent Goodnight continued to speak soothingly as they mounted the stairs with a slow, even tread. Sophie let her mother's voice roll over her, taking comfort from the sound, but not soaking up the words.

Nothing she said could change anything. Richard was gone. Sophie had lost him as irretrievably as if he'd tumbled off Somerset's roof and not landed on the lilacs.

When her parents left her in her bedchamber with instructions to ring for Eliza, the numbness she'd felt in the ballroom began to wear off.

Her legs gave beneath her. She sank to the thick carpet, wondering how she managed to live when her heart had been ripped out. The gaping hole in her chest left her gasping.

Richard had betrayed her. When she let herself love him, she'd given him the power to hurt her, and he used it to crush her. This was worse than what happened with Julian. Richard knew her. He knew how badly she'd been damaged because she had trusted a man.

He had to know what this would do to her, and he did it anyway.

She curled into as small a ball as she could, hugging her knees to her chest. She was aware of making small keening noises, but she couldn't form a coherent thought.

Some pain was too deep for words.

One of the great tragedies in life is realizing that the illusion of free will is just that. Illusion. If one is responsible for the lives of others, one does not have complete control over one's own destiny.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

By three in the morning, the last of the revelers in Somerfield Park gave up and found their chambers. The great house was finally quiet.

Still, Richard waited.

He'd caused Sophie enough pain for one night. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in her room and embroil her in a fresh scandal.

Then too, he wasn't sure what he could say to her. Or if she'd even allow him in. He buried his face in his hands. All he'd wanted was a few stolen moments with the woman he loved. Now a stolen moment was all he'd ever have with Sophie.

How
could
things
have
gone
so
monumentally
wrong?

His parents were pleased by the turn of events, even if his betrothal to Antonia came under threat of scandal. Now that he'd sold his first timber contract and Somerset's finances were headed in the right direction, the pedigree of his future bride mattered more to them than her dowry.

Ella was thrilled over the engagement even though the surprise announcement did steal a bit of the attention due her as the reigning debutante. She and Antonia had become like sisters while they planned for that blasted ball. Petra was more subdued about the news, since she'd been present at the horrible moment when Richard realized he had not been caught with Sophie in the parlor. Ariel had been toddled off to bed by her governess well before midnight, too young to know what was happening.

He envied her ignorance.

Seymour wasn't fooled for a moment about Richard's sudden engagement. His sardonic congratulations included a whispered offer to find a ladder, so Richard could escape out a window. The pair of them could run off to chase opera dancers in Paris or take a slow boat to Shanghai.

Richard was tempted.

Two things held him in place. First, there was Somerset. It was his, and more importantly, he belonged to it. As the future marquess, the estate and title's welfare was his duty. It was as dear as his life's blood. He loved the land and its people, and was honor bound to defend them from all dangers.

Even if that danger was the wagging tongue of a vicious old biddy.

The other, even more compelling reason he couldn't flee with Seymour was Sophie. He somehow had to make her understand what had happened and why. He owed her that.

So after he heard the long case clock chime half past three, he crept into the dark hallway and moved quietly toward the guest wing. There were a few squeaking floor boards to avoid, but he knew where they were. Concentrating on stealth helped him avoid thinking.

Nothing could keep him from feeling.

His chest ached, a leaden throb. When he imagined what Sophie must be feeling, he could scarcely breathe.

When his fist closed over her doorknob, he stopped. He'd never thought himself a coward before, but facing her was the most daunting thing he'd ever done. He couldn't bear to wound her any more.

Perhaps it would be kinder to turn around.

Before he could decide what to do, the door opened before him. Sophie was still in her ball gown, backlit by the moonlight shafting through her window. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders. She looked up at him, her eyes enormous in the dimness.

There was no hint of welcome in her gaze. There was barely recognition.

She turned without a word and wandered back to the chaise longue. She plopped onto the end of it and knotted her fingers together on her lap. Even from across the room, Richard could see that they trembled.

Richard closed the door behind him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She blinked up at him questioningly.

“For allowing me in.”

“It's your house,” she said. “But you're wrong if you think you're in.”

Then she glared at him. It was the same dismissive look she'd given him when he first came upon her as she was brutalizing his grandmother's roses. Her eyes narrowed. There was the wall he was expecting.

He crossed the room and knelt before her. “Do you want to know what happened?”

“Would it change anything?”

He shook his head. “But it might help you to understand.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “So you think understanding why you broke my heart will make it better? For whom?”

“You're right.” He covered both her hands with his, and her fidgeting fingers stilled. “I'm trying to assuage my own guilt. This is all my fault. I never should have asked you to meet me in the parlor. Since you didn't arrive, I assume someone waylaid you.”

She nodded. “Are you trying to tell me you were entrapped by Antonia once you got there?”

“Like a stag drawn to a salt lick.” He ventured a half smile. “Remember how you likened me to one in the gallery after that first dinner party?”

Her lips twitched. “Thoroughly cornered and beset upon by the hounds, I believe I said.”

“And you're the wily vixen who escapes in the confusion, glad her hunt will come another day,” he finished.

“But I didn't escape, Richard.” A tear trembled on her lashes and then coursed down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “I didn't escape at all.”

“Neither did I. Oh, Sophie.”

Words failed him, and he drew her into his arms. She resisted at first, making small noises, a potent mix of anger and sorrow, that tore at his heart. She pounded his chest with her fist. Then she gave up and melted into him. He tipped her chin up and kissed her, tasting the saltiness of grief on her lips. He'd give anything to take away that taste.

God be praised, she kissed him back. Desperate, heart-wrenching kisses. He could go on making love to this woman's mouth forever, but she finally stopped him by pulling back and putting a hand to his chest.

“You still mean to marry Antonia?”

“I must.” Now that they were officially betrothed, the scandal of a broken engagement would be worse than if he'd refused to do the right thing in the first place. His only hope was that Antonia would cry off, though she'd gone to such lengths to entrap him, he didn't think it likely.

“Why?”

There were so many reasons—his sisters' futures, the welfare of Somerset and all the lives attached to it, his own code of right and wrong… But ultimately there was only one reason his destiny was fixed by his past actions. “Honor.”

“How can that be? I know you love me, Richard. Is it honorable to wed Antonia when your heart is with me?”

He rose wearily to his feet, walked to the window, and leaned his forehead against its cool surface. Somerset's meadow stretched before him, each gray blade of grass doubled by its own sharp shadow in the moonlight. In the distance, the forest rose up, blocking the view of the sea. He imagined he could hear its breakers pounding relentlessly on the shore, pounding on his soul, forming him as surely as it formed the rocky coast. Whatever else he was, this land, this title had the prior claim far above his own will. In the end, his honor was all he had. He couldn't turn his back on his duty without denying the core of his being.

“I am not my own. I belong to this place. I will be Somerset. I cannot live to please myself. If I did, I'd take you and flee right now. We'd never look back. But I can't.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, her whisper spiked with irritation. His heart warmed at that show of grit. That was his Sophie. “Do you know how melodramatic that sounds?”

“Yes, but it doesn't change things. I am who I am, Sophie. I was born to protect this place, these people, this family. This time, I'm protecting it from my own folly.”

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then she drew her legs up under her gown and hugged them to her chest.

“I understand,” she whispered. “When measured in the balance against Somerset, I weigh very little.”

“God, no.” Couldn't she see she was everything to him—his hopes, his dreams? He hated himself for hurting her. It was as if her pain were his. He couldn't bear it. If he weren't his father's heir, there would be no question what to do. But Somerset, his past, present, and future albatross, dragged him down on all sides. He rushed to her and gathered her in his arms again, pressing feverish kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her temples.

And suddenly Sophie was enough. More than enough. In a hundred years, it wouldn't matter if Somerset collapsed in scandal, but if he didn't have this woman beside him, he didn't want to keep breathing.

“Damn Somerset,” he whispered fiercely. “I can't lose you. Say the word and we'll elope. Now. Tonight. Gretna Green is only a few days away by coach. We'll marry over a Scottish anvil. Once it's done, it can't be undone and devil take the hindermost.”

She rocked and hugged him, smoothing down his hair while she whispered his name. His heart surged. She was agreeing.

Then she said in a wisp of a voice, “If we do that, you'll be giving up everything you believe in, everything you are.”

“For you. It's a trade I'll make all day.” He claimed her mouth, pouring his heart into the kiss. When he finally released her lips, she palmed his cheeks.

“Oh, Richard. I thought I could be that selfish, but I can't.” Her face crumpled. “If we do as you suggest, it would be terrible. It might not happen tomorrow. It might not happen the next day, but eventually, you'd hate me because I'd have stolen who you are.”

“It's no theft if I give myself willingly.”

“You said it yourself. Honor is why you must wed Antonia. I won't take your honor from you.” She gently pulled herself from his arms and stepped back a pace. Then she reached into her bodice and drew out the ruby ring. She held it out to him on the flat of her hand. “Give me a chance to have a bit of honor too. I won't let you sacrifice everything you value just for me.”

Richard never realized a man could bleed without suffering an outward wound. He forced himself to take the ring from her. “Sophie, you're tearing my guts out.”

“Mine too.” She forced a tremulous smile. “Especially since it's not in my nature to be noble.”

He'd half fallen in love with her smile the first time he saw it. Now it broke his heart. The full weight of all he'd lost crushed him. The long march of years ahead without this vibrant woman by his side loomed before him, empty and joyless.

“Sophie Goodnight,” he said softly, “you are the most noble soul I'll ever know.”

Then before he succumbed to the temptation to grovel at her feet, begging her to change her mind, he slipped out of her room and made his way back to his.

There was no chance of sleeping. He couldn't rest. His misery was his own fault, and he could see no way to fix it. Until the sun stood on the tops of the distant forest, Richard stared out his window toward the east.

How many more sunrises would he be forced to endure without Sophie?