The Temporary Betrothal (10 page)

Were they done? Could she finally leave, and breathe normally
once more? No, Lord Bradbury was speaking again.

“This is yours.” He held out another box, a long rectangular
one.

“Oh, no, sir.” Sophie waved the box away. Why, even the case
looked expensive and fine. Surely his lordship had spent a fortune on this
evening already.

“I must insist,” he replied, snapping the box open. Sophie
gasped as the candlelight refracted off the diamond bracelet inside, casting
prisms of rainbows around the room. “Your wrist, if you please.”

Sophie’s mouth went dry, and she gingerly extended her right
arm. With a businesslike air, he clasped the bracelet around her gloved wrist,
holding it up to the candlelight. “Very pretty,” he murmured. Then he shot a
piercing glance at Sophie from under his brows. “I have excellent taste in all
things, you know.”

Sophie nodded. She could barely swallow, her emotions too
jumbled to allow her to utter a single sound.

“Shall we go?” The viscount tucked the box back into his
evening-coat pocket, and offered Sophie his elbow.

“Y-yes.” Sophie placed her fingers into the crook of his arm
and gathered her skirts. As they left the room and descended the stairs, it was
as though he was leading her into another world—an entirely foreign place where
she didn’t quite understand the language.

She was not at all sure she liked it.

Chapter Ten

A
melia was waiting for them in the drawing
room, her eyes wide and her cheeks drained of all color. Sophie released Lord
Bradbury’s arm and hurried over to her, enveloping her in a warm embrace.
“Darling, don’t worry! Everything will be perfect. You’ll see.”

“I’m just so terribly nervous. Papa, what time is it?” Amelia
fidgeted with her skirts, shaking them out to make them appear fuller.

“We have a few moments until the guests will begin to arrive,”
his lordship replied, flicking a glance over at the ormolu clock on the
mantelpiece. “Compose yourself, my dear. You are your mother’s daughter, and she
instinctively knew how to manage any sort of party.” He gave his daughter a
reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Lord Bradbury’s attention and care to his daughter was really
quite nice to see. Whereas many fathers would simply ignore their daughters’
nervousness, he was good enough to stop and offer the kind of heartening advice
that was so crucial to one’s confidence. Sophie raised her hand to her hair,
carefully smoothing it down, catching a glimpse of the diamond bracelet as it
sparkled boldly on her wrist. And yet, he was so overbearing in other respects.
Truly, it was difficult to read the man at all.

A loud knock sounded on the door, and Amelia hastened to her
place in the entrance of the drawing room. Lord Bradbury confidently strode over
beside her. Where should she stand? As both a servant and Amelia’s right hand
for the evening, surely she should not stand in the receiving line. Both Amelia
and Lord Bradbury seemed to have forgotten her altogether, in fact. They were
both paying rapt attention to the cacophony of voices in the hallway as guests
were divested of cloaks, overcoats and hats.

Sophie took a few steps backward. Perhaps now was the best time
to hurry to the kitchen and make sure everything was running smoothly for
supper. Yes, that was the best thing to do. That way Amelia could receive her
guests and Sophie could make a subdued appearance later in the evening. She
turned and headed toward the door opposite the drawing room.

“Miss Handley? Where are you going?” Lord Bradbury barked.
Honestly, the man must have eyes in the back of his head.

“I was going to check on the supper,” she replied, her voice
shakier than she intended.

“You will stay here with us to receive the guests,” he ordered,
his voice as sharp as a flint.

“Of course, your lordship.” Sophie bobbed a brief curtsy at his
back. He hadn’t even deigned to turn around when issuing his orders.

She crossed the room and stood between his lordship and Amelia,
who linked her arm tightly with Sophie’s. Now there was no escape. And goodness,
how closely Lord Bradbury stood to her! She would not be able to take a decent
breath, not until the evening was over and she had retired to her room.

The guests began milling into the drawing room, one after the
other. Only a dozen in all—Sophie had counted and recounted the guest list in
the days leading up to the event. And because she was included, there was going
to be an odd number at dinner unless Mrs. Cantrill arrived with her son. Then
there would be an even sixteen. Had they remembered to lay sixteen places?
Sophie half turned to go check, but was held in place by Amelia’s tight
grip.

“Lieutenant Cantrill,” Lord Bradbury’s voice boomed in her ear.
She snapped her attention around to her faux beau as he bowed gallantly before
Amelia. How handsome he was tonight, resplendent in sober evening dress. Having
never seen him in anything but the simple garb he wore to visit the veterans or
to attend church, he was quite a sight to behold. She dimpled at him and
curtsied. He gazed directly into her eyes—what magnificent, soulful eyes he had!
Sophie blinked rapidly.

Time to begin the farce. As if she weren’t nervous enough.

“Lord Bradbury, Miss Bradbury, Miss Handley.” He bowed to each
in turn. “Allow me to present my mother, Mrs. Moriah Cantrill.”

Mrs. Cantrill swept in, her head held at a regal angle. Yes,
she was definitely Charlie’s mother. They looked as alike as two peas in a pod.
Except Mrs. Cantrill’s thin cheeks did not possess the same dimples as her
son’s. In fact, though she resembled him physically, she had much less of his
look of intelligence and wit about her, and much more of haughtiness.

As Sophie curtsied, she glanced over Mrs. Cantrill’s gown. It
was of an excellent cut, and beautifully draped, but rather too ornate for a
simple reception in Bath.

As she raised her eyes to Mrs. Cantrill’s gaze, a slight shiver
ran down her spine. Mrs. Cantrill was assessing her, too. Charlie must’ve told
her. Would she see through their farce? Mrs. Cantrill’s keen eyes took in all
that Sophie was wearing, and focused on the diamond bracelet. She held out
Sophie’s wrist, allowing the jewels to catch the firelight.

“Lovely. Wherever did you find such a beautiful adornment?”

Charlie turned back from his conversation with Lord Bradbury,
watching Sophie with something altogether unreadable yet intense in his
expression.

Sophie looked around. How best to carry off the situation? Lord
Bradbury looked faintly amused, while Amelia looked mildly interested.

“Oh, this? Thank you, Mrs. Cantrill. It is rather sweet. It’s—a
present from a friend.” Sophie laughed airily.

“We trotted out all our finery tonight, Mrs. Cantrill.” Lord
Bradbury offered the older woman his arm. “Come, let me show you my latest
acquisition. A fine piece of art—have you ever seen such a lovely ormolu clock?”
With that, he steered her toward the mantelpiece, leaving Sophie alone with
Charlie and Amelia.

Amelia looked expectantly up at Sophie, but she had no more
words to carry off the social niceties. Charlie knew she was penniless, and that
such a bauble would likely have been seized by the duns during her father’s
bankruptcy so many years before. He was a bright lad, and would put two and two
together. Would he think it untoward if Lord Bradbury leant her some jewelry for
the occasion? After all, she was only borrowing it. She darted a glance at him.
There was no telling what he was thinking. His face was clouded over, and his
eyes were dark blanks.

He bowed at the two ladies and retired to the opposite end of
the room, chatting with a group of men who were clustered around the divan.
Well, that was that. She would likely not have a moment to speak to Charlie
alone this evening. There were too many people about, and too much to do. With a
shrug, she turned toward her charge.

“You should begin circulating, making polite conversation with
your guests,” she whispered.

Amelia nodded but stayed rooted to the spot. Sophie patted her
shoulder and turned her toward the side of the room, where a sweet-faced old
dowager reclined in a velvet chair. “Go on, ask Mrs. White about her dogs. I’ve
seen her out walking them through the Crescent and the park. She adores them
like children, and once you set her going, you shan’t have to say a word,”
Sophie encouraged.

With a reluctant sigh, Amelia did as Sophie bid her. And that
gave Sophie the perfect opportunity to slip, unnoticed, from the drawing room.
She hastened to the dining room and made a careful count. Yes, sixteen shining
places were laid on the polished mahogany table. Servants bustled around, making
the few final touches that would make the party entirely comfortable and
luxurious.

Sophie leaned against the wall. She filled her lungs with air
and slowly exhaled. Everything was going to be fine. So far, Amelia was doing
quite well. And Lord Bradbury had distracted Mrs. Cantrill perfectly. There was
no need—just yet, anyway—for Mrs. Cantrill to doubt the veracity of her
courtship with Charlie. Only one problem stood in her way—Charlie’s dark,
unreadable expression.

It wasn’t jealousy, was it? No, of course not. Likely he saw
the bracelet and assumed the worst. Thought of her as frivolous and silly all
over again. And why not? She darted a glance at her wrist. Why, this one
bracelet could keep two veterans’ families in great comfort. Or it could feed
dozens of hungry children. She resisted an urge to unclasp it and fling it
across the room.

She was caught, straddling two worlds she didn’t comprehend,
though she knew both well. Poverty and wealth. Servitude and privilege. As a
servant, she belonged to neither. Too well-borne and well-paid to be poor, and
yet too humble to pretend to be anything but a helper to The Honorable Amelia
Bradbury. In all honesty, she didn’t know which world she really wanted.

Charlie’s dark, forbidding face crossed her mind.

No, she did know.

But that path—given what the man thought of her—was likely
closed to her forever.

* * *

Bradbury was up to something. Charlie toyed with his
empty glass. Since he didn’t drink after dinner, there was very little to do at
these functions but watch as the men enjoyed their port. And Bradbury had the
smug, satisfied air of a cat who’d gotten the cream—or at least, knew the cream
was close at hand.

The ladies had already retreated to the drawing room, led by
Amelia, who had been subtly prompted by Sophie. All through dinner, Charlie had
watched Sophie as she guided her young charge through the complicated rituals of
Society. Nary a gaffe had been made, a rarity for a young girl’s debut.

Mother’s expression throughout the meal had mellowed and
softened, and when they left the room, she had claimed Sophie’s arm. The faux
courtship was now, as far as Mother was concerned, a reality. She liked Sophie,
he could tell. Now, all that remained was to see if Mother would try to coax him
back to Brightgate again.

But there was the matter of that bracelet. The way Sophie had
blushed when Mother mentioned it did not bode well. He flicked a glance over at
Lord Bradbury. Had he given the bracelet to Sophie? And if so, what were his
intentions?

“A pretty young gel, what, Bradbury?” one of the older men at
the end of the table said with an appreciative chuckle. Charlie strained his
ears.

“Whom are you speaking of, Whitlock? My daughter Amelia?”
Bradbury leaned forward, an amused grin crooking the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, I was speaking of the blonde chit—your daughter’s gel.
Susan? Sally? Blast, what was her name?” Whitlock poured more brandy into his
glass with a steady hand.

“Sophie. My daughter’s seamstress.” Bradbury lolled back in his
chair.

“Rather decorative, what? Sir Hugh’s daughter, I presume?”
Whitlock replied.

“She is rather decorative, and a huge help to my daughter.
Practically arranged this evening herself, you know.” Bradbury was holding
something back. You could see it in his elaborately nonchalant expression.

“Well, to the manor born, and all that.” Whitlock smiled. “Now,
I meant nothing against Amelia, you understand. But one can’t pay elaborate
compliments to one’s host’s daughter,” he explained with a laugh.

“No offense taken, I assure you. And I agree—Miss Sophie is
very—ahem—ornamental to have about the house.” Bradbury tipped his glass at
Whitlock with a sly grin, and both men chuckled.

Something gnawed at Charlie’s gut—a primal urge he hadn’t felt
in years. He clenched his fist under the table. So Bradbury thought Sophie
decorative, did he? Had he given Sophie that bracelet as a token of his esteem?
If so, what had prompted her to accept? Surely she understood what accepting
such an expensive gift signified.

His jaw clenched. He’d like to wipe that smug look off his
lordship’s face with one quick jab. The way his lordship spoke, as though Sophie
were an object to be attained—no different from that ridiculous ormolu clock he
had brayed about to Mother. His heart surged with a feeling of protection for
Sophie. She was his best friend’s sister now, for all intents and purposes, and
he needed to watch over her. For Brookes’s sake. Not for any other reason.

As the men joined the women in the drawing room, Charlie sought
out Sophie and remained stuck, like a stubborn burr, to her side. They talked of
everything and nothing. He made more polite chatter in that night than he had in
years. But it didn’t matter. He was staking out his territory, and that was
that. Several times Bradbury looked their way, his brow lifted, and Charlie was
hard-pressed not to raise his brows in return.

As the guests began to depart, Sophie wandered over to the
fireplace, standing before the blaze. He followed, drawing closer to her
magnificent form than he had dared before.

“Charlie, are you angry at me? Honestly, I can’t read your
expression. Your mother—she believes our courtship to be real, does she not?”
Sophie whispered.

“No, I am not angry.” He stared into the fire as though he
could find the key to his jumbled emotions in its flames. “Who gave you the
bracelet?” It slipped out before he could stop it.

“I am borrowing it. It is no gift,” she said. “I don’t own
anything fine enough for an evening like this.”

Something in his heart unclenched. “You look lovely.” And she
did. She looked, well, more than lovely. She looked like the kind of young lady
a fellow would be elated to court.

She blushed so deeply he could see her color rise in the
firelight. “Thank you.”

The drawing room was nearly deserted; it was time for him to
go. Bradbury was glancing his way, sizing him up as he would over a game of
chess—or even a pair of dueling pistols. “Thank you for a pleasant evening, Miss
Handley,” he said, projecting his voice a bit. “Shall I come to call on you
Thursday when you are off work?”

She looked up at him, startled confusion darkening her eyes.
“Um, yes. Of course, Lieutenant.” Then she darted a glance over at his mother,
and held out her hand. “Until then.”

He bowed over her winking diamond bracelet, triumph making the
blood rush to his face. He paid his respects to Amelia Bradbury and smiled
cordially at his lordship before bundling his mother off into the carriage they
had hired for the night.