The Secret Lover (27 page)

How was it that he could love her so much when she could doubt him so? He leaned down, gripped her wrist, and pulled her up to her feet.

"Listen to me carefully, Sophie. Hear what I say to you. I
love
you. No other! There will never
be
another, do you quite understand me?"

She started, looking up in alarm as he pulled her forward, into his embrace. He did not let her speak, but kissed her fiercely, hoping insanely that he could pass his heart to her, make her feel his love flowing through it, making it beat.

Sophie's body relaxed in his arms; she tilted her head back to better reach him, returning his kiss with tenderness in spite of his attempts to make
her feel
him.

But the ugly image of Trevor standing in the salon invaded his mind's eye, his chest puffed as he looked at Caleb and made his grand announcement. Caleb abruptly lifted his head and turned away from Sophie's beatific face, to the east, where the sky was beginning to lighten.

"What was I to think, Sophie?"

"What?" she asked, sniffing.

He forced himself to look at her. "Was I a fool to believe in the promise of us?"

Her look of bewilderment grated on him; he clenched his jaw. "Trevor, Sophie! What am
I
to think? The hours we have spent in one another's company making love… they have led me to believe you held me in
some
esteem. What is the truth? Did you traipse from one picnic to the other?

Laugh at my attempts to capture your fancy while you dine with him?"

She was shaking her head, denying it. He stepped away, suddenly not wanting to hear any excuses.

"I told you, Caleb, I did not encourage his suit," Sophie said. "I gave him
no
reason whatsoever to believe I would consider marriage!"

The cast of repugnance in her voice rang true. Yet she had not turned him away from her door, and Caleb stubbornly persisted. "If you did nothing to encourage him, then why should he announce an engagement?"

"He announced his intentions, not an engagement! He has not bothered to ask
my
opinion on the subject, and I can assure you, my intentions are quite the opposite! Please believe me, Caleb! I most certainly will
not
accept his offer, not under any circumstance!"

She took a step toward him, but stopped, seeming uncertain what to do.

He did not reach for her. He wanted to believe her. But there was a small nagging part of him that understood Trevor could offer her so much more than he could, a standard of living above his own.
A legitimate name
.

Would he truly shackle her to a bastard? The woman had suffered enough.

"What were you to think?" she all but whispered. "You were to think it is
you
I want, you I think of every waking moment, you I long to hold, to love."

The words reverberated in his heart.
She loved him
. The knowledge emboldened him, made him swell with hope.

"Then accept
my
offer," he said impetuously, grabbing her hands in his, catching her elbow when she stumbled. "Accept my offer, Sophie! Marry me! Come live with me.
Dance
with me, laugh with me,
be
with me—"

"Please don't do this," she pleaded, choking on a sob.

His voice fell into nothing. Sophie's eyes were suddenly shimmering with tears, and he instantly regretted his foolish impetuosity. "What, Sophie? Don't do what?"

"I
cannot
accept your offer, Caleb." She very ungracefully wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. "I cannot!" The sobs erupted again; tears made rivulets down her cheeks.

But he hardly noticed; she
could not
accept his offer… old feelings of inadequacy and despair were clanging in his brain, his heart. Had she been any other woman… but he could not bear to believe that of Sophie.

Oh, but he had thought she was different from the others. He had thought them two pariahs, destined for one another. He stood mutely, staring at her, convincing himself that he had not heard her correctly at all as he tried to make sense of it. "
Why
?" he finally demanded.

"Because, I…" her voice trailed away; she wiped tears from her eyes, avoiding his gaze. "Because…"

"Because you do not care for me as much as this?"

"No!"

"Then
why
? Tell me why, Sophie, make me understand how you might profess to love me, then turn about and refuse me!"

She gulped on her tears, hugged herself tightly, and Caleb suddenly did not want to hear her answer.

"Because I… I simply cannot," she murmured weakly. She lowered her gaze to his neckcloth, stared dumbly at it.

There it was, then. The one person he thought was above society's rules as to whom one should or should not consort with was not above them at all. "Did you think it a game?" he asked hoarsely. "Did you think to keep your secret lover like a pet? Let me out of my cage when you wanted me to pleasure you? Amuse you?"

"
No
!" she cried. "Don't say such horrid things! I love you, I
do
—"

"I am hard pressed to believe that at the moment."

"Oh God," she said, and closed her eyes, put her fists to her temples. "I don't know what I am saying."

"Let me assure you it is quite ugly," he said, and moved backward, away from her, but Sophie abruptly grabbed his hand, clinging to it.

"Caleb—"

"No," he said gruffly, shaking her hand from his. "You've made yourself perfectly clear, Sophie. I find it ironic that you should accuse me of being faithless when you would do this."

"You don't understand!"

"No!" he said again, more sharply, as she tried to take his hand again. "I don't understand, but what does it matter? There is nothing more to say, except that I…" The pain was choking him, making it difficult to speak. "I wish you the best," he said sincerely, and turned away from her, began walking across the veranda, consciously putting one foot in front of the other as he silently prayed she would call him back, tell him that he was wrong, that he had misunderstood her—
anything
.

But she did not utter a word, just let him keep walking, until he had rounded the corner, disappeared from her view.

And her life.

When the sun had reached the top of the sky the next day and cast a bright sliver across Sophie's face, she made the mistake of moving. The instant pain was excruciating, forcing her eyes open. As her vision adjusted to the midday sun, another sharp pain shot across her forehead.

Oh God, she hoped she was dying.

Only death could possibly make her fee! better than this. Her head felt enormous, one hundred pounds or more, and her mouth tasted like dirty figs. Little wonder, given that she had consumed a half-dozen or more in something of a frenzy, washing them down with two glasses of champagne before finally succumbing to mind-numbing sleep.

The sound of the door being shoved open sliced painfully through the fog on her brain; she closed her eyes, hoped death would come sooner rather than later.

"Do ye intend to lie about all day, then?"

The grating sound of Lucie Cowplain's voice only made the pain worse.

"I am dying," she muttered thickly.

"Ye ain't dying, although ye ought after all that champagne. Come on now, be up with ye."

Swallowing back a wave of nausea, Sophie murmured, "I can't. If I move, I shall expire."

"London would not be so fortunate as that. Here now, take a sip of this."

She opened her eyes, winced at the pain in her head as she slowly turned to focus on Lucie Cowplain. The old woman was standing next to her bed, holding a glass of some milky concoction.

"What is it?"

"Raw egg, goat's milk, and a bit of whiskey—sure to mend what ails ye."

Lucie Cowplain was trying to kill her—the nausea was so great that she quickly closed her eyes, swallowing hard.

"Drink it. Ye'll feel yourself again."

But she didn't
want
to feel herself again, not that befuddled, mousy, helpless little spinster!

Slowly, gingerly, Sophie pushed herself up on her elbows, felt her stomach roil in protest, and quickly lowered herself down again.
She had
never drunk so much in all her life
. Bloody hell, she had never
drunk
in her life, save a glass of wine with dinner and the occasional Yuletide nog.

Yes, well, she had never had such a night in her life, what with Trevor practically marrying her in the main salon and Caleb…
Caleb!
… looking as if he hoped he would never be forced to lay eyes on her again. Honestly, she had the two of
them
to blame for her misery—it had been the most perfectly wretched, ghastly evening of her entire life.

Had it really happened?

A firm hand on her shoulder forced Sophie up. At least she managed to sit up without dying.

"Drink," Lucie Cowplain said, and forced the glass to her lips. The substance went down uneasily; Sophie could hardly swallow it. But she managed to choke it down, then sat hunched over, her hair shielding her from the sight of Lucie Cowplain's self-satisfied smirk until she felt her stomach might settle.

Perhaps it was all Honorine's fault. It was a wonder she hadn't come banging in here, full of vigor and new French ideas this morning. Perhaps she was abed herself—perhaps even she was feeling a bit embarrassed that Sophie had been so very,
very
right in her assessment of the ball—a complete disaster, just as she predicted, thank you very much.

Food
. What she wouldn't give for something substantial, something to take the taste of fig from her mouth. At the moment, she rather thought she would never so much as look at a fig again, much less eat one.

"I've drawn a warm bath for ye, lass," Lucie Cowplain said in a voice that was uncharacteristically sympathetic. Sophie nodded, shoved one leg over the side of the bed, and carefully inched the other one over before testing her full weight on her wobbly legs. She stood slowly, moaned at how the room was spinning, and gripped the bedpost until the spinning had stopped. When she at last felt as if she could maneuver about well enough in her body, she limped to her bath.

When she emerged a full hour later—fifteen minutes of which had been spent with her face floating in a basin of cold water—Sophie felt somewhat more herself, physically speaking. But her mood had not improved in the least, and as she stomped heavily down the long corridor, a deep frown furrowed between her eyes.

The guilt was consuming her, eating her from the inside out. Caleb, dear Caleb—she
loved
him! But marriage? It was impossible. Julian, her sisters—they would never allow her to wed a baseborn man, no matter how charming or gracious or very handsome he was. So what exactly, then, had she believed would come of their daily meetings? What had she been doing, tempting fate so openly and brazenly? Had the foolish little Sophie really thought that she could live in her make-believe world with her secret lover and expect him to do the same?

She despised herself. Her actions had been no worse or no better than William Stanwood's, really—he had lured her under false pretense. Had she not done the same to Caleb? It was a nauseating thought, and tears filled her eyes as she imagined what Caleb must think of her now. The whole thing made her wholly miserable—• her heart was literally breaking into pieces.

It wasn't the first time it had broken, but it certainly felt like the worst.

Tears blinding her again, she determined she could not think of it now, not with a headache the size of England. Grabbing the railing, she bounced unevenly down the winding staircase, silently berating herself with each heavy step. But when she landed on the ground floor, she forgot her woes as she looked around her.

The house looked as if a violent ocean wave had crashed through it.

She moved slowly through the foyer, being careful not to step in the spilled champagne, or on the expensive, gold velvet cape that had been carelessly dropped on the marble tile foyer. The corridor was worse—

empty crystal flutes, china plates littering the consoles was to be expected, and even the occasional hair ribbon and neckcloth, she supposed, but the gentleman's shoe in the middle of the floor was an object of some curiosity. She picked her way around the debris until she reached the door of the main salon, where she paused to debate whether or not she dared to look inside.

She dared.

The room didn't seem quite as battle-strewn as the rest of the house, but the furniture was all askew and an abundance of pillows were scattered about. More important, Fabrice and Roland were lying at opposite ends of one long couch, their stocking feet entwined with one another's. She watched them for a moment until Fabrice snorted in his sleep and she was certain they were quite alive.

And exactly where was Honorine?

Food.

Sophie moved on, making her way to the kitchen, where she stood, hands on hips, frowning at the lack of immediate food sources. With a sigh of great irritation, she threw open the cupboard and began to rummage.

Claudia and Ann found Sophie slicing a loaf of bread. Butter and preserves were piled into bowls in front of her, and she had just removed boiled chicken from the kettle hanging over the hearth. Hardly in the mood for callers, Sophie mumbled a greeting as they walked in.

Claudia's nose wrinkled slightly as she looked around; a hand went protectively to her swollen stomach. "We looked all over for you."

"I was hungry."

"Really, don't you have someone who can prepare that for you?" Ann asked. "It's so unseemly for a lady to be rooting about a kitchen."

"I should think it more unseemly for a lady to expire from hunger,"

Sophie muttered irritably.

"Now Ann, don't be so stern," Claudia said as she examined the jam.

"Trevor Hamilton won't have his wife toiling away in a kitchen, will he?"

That remark earned a glare from Sophie; Ann and Claudia chuckled.

"Oh come now, you mustn't be so cross!" exclaimed Ann, still laughing.