The Secret Lover (37 page)

But the coach kept rolling, and when it was apparent that they had, by some wondrous measure, managed to slip away, he buried his face in his hands and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, mortified that he was, for the second time this week, fighting tears.

The strain was unbearable
—he had almost crumbled into madness when he returned to Bedford Square from the gaming club and realized the French whore had stolen his father away. He had already signed too many banknotes without his father's assistance; their London banker had looked at him rather suspiciously the last time he had been in, had made some remark about the drain on his father's accounts.

God
, he needed the viscount, needed him to lend his hand to the notes!

But that was, he knew, a door that was slowly swinging shut. He could not continue much longer before another banker took notice.

Which was why, in part, the prospect of a match with Sophie Dane had looked so desirable.

Certainly he had been, quite simply, amazed by the transformation in Sophie since her scandal. She was no longer the mousy little thing who had hovered in corners of ballrooms. She had matured; even her features seemed less plain than they did then—she was actually quite attractive in an unassuming way. In his estimation, she was a well-mannered, docile woman who was perfect for Ian and him.

And it certainly did not hurt, in his present dilemma, that she was an heiress in her own right.

His offer for her hand was a stroke of brilliance, he thought. He had solved her problem of being so undesirable—with her reputation and scarred past, it was inconceivable that another gentleman of the
ton
would offer for her. No man in his right mind would want her scandal tainting his children or his business dealings. He had also solved
his
problem—he was not in a position to be overly selective. He needed a wife. A wealthy wife. And Sophie Dane fit that description. Quite frankly, she fit that description so well that he was rather looking forward to their conjugal relations. Looking
very
much forward to that.

Damn her all to hell, then.

Her refusal of him had brought his fury crashing down on him, muddling his mind. The foolish chit had come chasing after him and the French whore and his father. And she was drinking ale like some doxy, a sight that displeased him enormously. A woman of the
ton
did not sip ale like a commoner. She apparently had no regard for her reputation, a flaw he would have quickly corrected once they were wed.

But more than those astounding facts, when he had stepped out of the game room for some air and had seen her sitting there, as if it were perfectly acceptable to go chasing across all of England, the chit had not been contrite in the least. Lord no—she had summoned up the audacity to refuse him, to throw his offer in his face. And all because of some female pique that he had not spoken with her privately about the offer. No doubt she envisioned some terribly romantic moment with him on one knee, her on some gilded swing.

He would have, in due time, corrected her overly romantic notions and wild ways. He would have delighted in teaching her how a Hamilton would behave, in more ways than one. But Sophie had ruined it all, had effectively made herself so untouchable that even
he
could not come near her. She had thrown it all away for one romp in the sack with the bastard imposter.

The very thought of her standing in the courtyard… next to
him
… made Trevor choke with anger. A tear inadvertently slipped from the corner of his eye, trailed down the stubble of his unshaven face.

He slammed his fist into the side of the coach.

She had ruined it, ruined everything.

Ruined him.

Another miserable day, and Trevor and his driver arrived at Hamilton House, exhausted and ravenous, well after midnight He sent the driver around to the stables, and limped to the door of his father's house, his legs gone numb with disuse. He did not bother to knock, but retrieved an old door key they kept under the rain gutter and let himself in.

He paused in the foyer, listening for any sound; the house was silent.

Cautiously, Trevor moved down the corridor to the servant's old stairwell. Sheets still draped the furniture in the main salon and parlor; the library door was closed. Frankly, at this particular moment, he hardly cared if anyone had taken up residence in his father's home—he was too exhausted to think.

He took the stairs two at a time, to the second floor, and his suite of rooms. His bedroom was just as he had left it; the furniture was covered in white muslin sheets, the bed bare. He yanked his neckcloth free of his collar, then proceeded to strip down to nothing. Taking a sheet from one of two winged-back chairs at his hearth, he fell on the bare bed, nude save for the sheet that covered him, and closed his eyes.

But sleep would not come easily; it did not come at all, much to his great exasperation. As exhausted as he was, his mind could not let go the pressures of his indebtedness. Tossing and turning on that bare bed, Trevor tried to sleep, tried to put the vague fear out of his mind, if only for a few hours.

When the clock struck three, he sat up, pressed two fingers to his eyes.

After a moment, he rose, stumbled sluggishly to his dressing room, and donned a dressing gown. In his bare feet, he left his rooms, took the main stairwell down to the first floor, and silently made his way to the study.

Carefully, he opened that door. The furniture here had not been covered—

he supposed that the longtime family butler, Darby, used this room for his bookkeeping. Trevor padded across the carpet to a portrait of his grandfather and lifted the painting from the wall, placing it aside. With a sigh, he stood, staring at the wall safe.

He wasn't certain he wanted to look… but he had to. He crossed to the desk, searching three drawers before finding the blasted key.

Fortunately, the safe opened easily. He peered inside, past a stack of currency his father kept for emergencies, past his mother's jewels—what he hadn't sold, that was. What Trevor was looking for was in the very back of the safe. He reached in, took the thick packet of paper, and crossed immediately to the large floor-to-ceiling windows where a bit of moonlight spilled in, and untied the ribbon that kept the papers together. Quickly scanning the documents, he scowled.

Nothing had changed—it was all still there, still boldly penned in black ink.
Bloody hell
!

He stood for several long minutes staring blankly at the packet he held in his hand, his jaw clenched tightly shut. At last he tied the papers together again and walked slowly to the safe, lost in his own tormented thoughts. He carefully replaced the papers, closed the safe, and returned the portrait and key to their appropriate places. Then he made his way back to his rooms, his thoughts torturing him with each step.

In his bedroom once again, he let the dressing gown drop to the floor as he reached his bed, and then fell, face forward, onto the bare mattress.

He closed his eyes, prayed to God for sleep.

Sophie and Caleb spent that night under the boughs of an old elm tree, their mattress a horse blanket, their coverlet Caleb's riding coat.

In the course of their journey that day, their hopeful mood had dimmed, as both understood that the moment they reached Hamilton House, everything would change.

It had been a conscious decision to sleep in the open as opposed to another inn—they wanted to be alone, to hold the world at bay for a few hours more. Neither of them mentioned aloud what they both knew—the spurious realm in which they had lived these last few weeks, and in particular, these last two days, was coming to an end. Once again, they would be exposed fully to the harsh reality of their lives.

Caleb caught some fish in a nearby stream; they cooked the meat over a small fire, ate the flesh with their fingers, and wished for wine. When Caleb had seen to it the horses had plenty of room to graze, they had made sweet love beside that fire and underneath the old elm, clinging to one another as they reached fulfillment, not wanting to ever let go, no longer caring if his seed planted within her.

It hardly seemed to matter—Sophie's reputation had been irreparably harmed and not even time could mend it now. Caleb wanted nothing more than a child who would seal their love for the rest of their natural lives and beyond. Her family could not refuse her the legitimacy of the child's name, could not refuse her marriage to the man she loved.

At least he hoped that was so.

They lay quietly afterward, Sophie curled into his chest, his arm draped protectively around her middle, holding her close. Caleb whispered his love for her once more before drifting to sleep.

But Sophie couldn't sleep—she lay in his embrace, gazing up at the dozens of stars in that summer night sky, twinkling between the leaves of the elm tree. She counted them, wished upon them. Marveled at how far she had come to be sleeping beneath them as she was… tried to think of anything but the vague fear in her.

It was only a matter of time before Julian caught up with her and she wondered what he might do this time. She was hardly a young girl without any knowledge of the world—she was a woman who knew very well what she was doing, who had made her choices and was prepared to live with them. At long last, she had determined her course in life, knew exactly who she was.

Julian would perhaps seek to disown her. She pondered that; certainly he would find a justice who would, given her unfortunate history, sympathize with her brother's plight and good name and grant him the dissolution of their blood relationship.

But that seemed too harsh. For all of her brother's faults, he had never been cruel. He had strong opinions of what was right and wrong, but he had always loved her. At least up until now, she thought, absently tracking a path over Caleb's knuckles. God only knew how angry he must be at this very moment.

She sighed, shifted her gaze to the moon. Whatever Julian might succeed in doing, this little glimpse of heaven had been well worth the consequence. She had spent years being numb, years pushing down any desire for romance and companionship. Those years had been a harsh exercise in learning to bury a burning need for acceptance and love.

Honestly, she had actually convinced herself that she
didn't
need those things, that she was different from everyone else, given her past.

It had been a lie, of course.

She had secretly watched Honorine through the years, had so often wished she had just an ounce of her courage. But if any man showed her even the slightest interest, she ignored it; she was too terrified of them all, too distrusting of their motives.

But Caleb… well, she had known from the start that he was different, that the intensity with which he had worked was unlike the idle men of the aristocracy. He had been so sincerely driven in his desire to build a fine house, so intent on doing it right, and so terribly proud of what he was achieving. There was no artifice in him—he was exactly who he presented himself to be, and when he said he loved her, it was with all his heart, and when he told her he wished for a future, it was his fervent dream.

Would that she were more like him. Would that she were as simple and sincere in her desires, as intent and as proud in what she did.

As long as she lived, she would strive to love him as unselfishly as he had loved her.

How would they survive?

Did she care? As long as she was with him, would it matter if they slept in an open field or a house? Sophie snuggled closer to him; in his sleep, Caleb moaned softly and tightened his grip around her. Nearby, one of the horses snorted, shook his mane. Sophie smiled, looked one last time at the stars above, and made a final wish: whatever happened to them when they reached Hamilton House on the morrow—and every day after that—she would never regret this time she had spent with him. Never. And on her deathbed, she would remember this night with as much heartfelt happiness as she bore at this very moment.

The distant sound of laughter slowly filtered into Trevor's heavy sleep, so faint and sporadic that he first thought it was part of a dream.

But he heard it again, and in his attempt to reach for it, to understand it, he could feel himself swimming leadenly to the surface of his consciousness.

He forced his eyes open, blinked back the blur of not enough sleep, trying to remember exactly where he was. His bedroom.
Hamilton House
.

With great effort, he pushed himself up onto one elbow and looked around.

Sprawled across the bed sideways, the sheet draped across a portion of his right leg, he lay naked on the bare mattress. With a groan, he pushed himself up to sitting, rubbed his eyes.

Laughter
. There it was again, coming from somewhere in the house.

Trevor stood, stumbled to the windows of his room without bothering to clothe himself, and opened the shutters. The sun blinded him—it was high in the sky, well past noon.
How long had he slept
? The faint laughter drifted up to him again in more than one voice. A man. A woman, too, perhaps?

God, he could not seem to
think
. His head felt heavy; he turned away from the window and gathered his trousers from the crumbled heap of clothing on the floor and struggled into them. He then picked up his shirt, his nose wrinkling at the pungent odor—he had not changed his clothing in three days now. He shoved one arm into a sleeve, then the other, buttoning it as he walked out of the room in his bare feet, hardly conscious of what he was doing.

He strode purposefully down the main stairwell and into the corridor, looking left and right, into any open room, finding no evidence of any one within.
Where was his father, then
? Had he perhaps imagined the laughter? Was he hearing ghosts?

He swung the door of the study open, half expecting to find stiff ol'

Darby, laughing at something.