The Temporary Betrothal (9 page)

“Why is that so terrible?” Sophie patted Lucy’s back with a
gentle hand. “I think it’s wonderful.”

Lucy hiccupped several times before she could speak. “The
struggles he has been through are nothing to mine. Even growing up in an
orphanage as I did, my life has not been so difficult. How can I possibly assist
him, when I myself have so little understanding of what it means to suffer?”

“Lucy, my dear,” Sophie murmured in a soothing tone. “Aren’t
you getting a bit ahead of yourself? After all, you’ve only just met the ensign.
Charlie just wanted you to begin by reading to him. Simple human companionship
is all he needs.” She handed Lucy her handkerchief. “I am sure, in time, that
with your help, he may overcome his suffering.”

“Does Charlie’s affliction bother you?” Lucy asked, sitting up
on the bed.

“His affliction?” Funny, she had never thought of it as such.
Yes, his arm had been shot off, but she felt no revulsion about it. When Brookes
returned from the war, his leg gone, she found the changes in him too much to
bear. But Charlie—well, his war wound was as much a part of him as his thin
face, or the way his eyes twinkled when he joked around. “No. I am not bothered
by it at all.”

Lucy blew her nose with a decisive honk. “What a pretty pair we
are, eh, Sophie? Me with my hopeless desire to cure ills, and you with your sham
romance. Surely we two maids have more heartache than anyone in Bath.”

With that, Lucy rose from the bed and retired to her own
chamber. But Sophie was too tired to sleep. Having spent most of the week living
in a blur, she could not calm her mind to the point that blessed rest could
overtake her.

She rolled over onto her side, scrunching her pillow under her
head. Was Lucy right? Was she destined for heartache if she continued with this
charade? Charlie’s shocked expression flitted across her mind. He seemed
sincerely appreciative of her offer, if slightly taken aback by her brazenness
in suggesting it. But what did she feel? Wasn’t she just the tiniest bit excited
by the thought of being engaged to Charlie—even if the engagement was a
sham?

Yes. She tucked her pillow under her head and squeezed her eyes
shut. She was excited—too excited for comfort. A niggling feeling of doubt crept
into her mind. She had better, just to be safe, guard her heart.

After all, the engagement was only a temporary betrothal.

Chapter Nine

A
knock sounded on the front door, and Mrs.
Pierce bustled to answer it. Charlie eyed her through the crack in his
sitting-room doorway. That imperious rapping could belong to only one woman in
the world: Mrs. Moriah Cantrill, widow of the late George Cantrill, mother of
the esteemed Robert Cantrill and the lesser-known Charles Cantrill. Mother. She
was here, and ’twas time to put his plan into action. If only it weren’t so
difficult to talk to his family members. Oh, they all had good intentions, but
he might as well have been dropped on his parents’ doorstep as a baby. He
resembled them—in temperament at least—not at all.

Mrs. Pierce ushered Mother into the room. No, pretending that
gypsies had left him on a doorstep simply was not possible. ’Twas like looking
into a mirror. The same dark hair and eyes, the same thin face. He looked too
much like his mother to deny the connection.

“Charles, my son.” She removed her feathered cap and velvet
pelisse, tossing both to Mrs. Pierce, who nearly missed catching them.

“Mother.” He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her
finely wrinkled cheek.

“You may go,” she replied, half turning toward Mrs. Pierce. “We
should like tea in approximately ten minutes.”

Mrs. Pierce bobbed a curtsy and stalked out of the room,
shaking her head. Charlie couldn’t blame her. He never treated her as his mother
treated her servants. In fact, Mrs. Cantrill had a reputation throughout
Derbyshire for the brevity of most of her servants’ lengths of stay.

“You look thin, Charles. Careworn, in fact.” Mother sank into a
chair, glancing about the room. “It must be this terrible situation you live in.
You must take a more fashionable address, my son. I know Katherine Crossley
lives on Bilbury Lane—perhaps you could take a flat in her building.”

Already Mother was ordering him about. He clenched his teeth
and shook his head. “This flat is perfectly adequate for a bachelor’s needs,
Mother.”

Mother’s patrician lips curled in a slight grimace. “Your flat
is unbearable. I shan’t stay here myself. I am staying with our friends, the
Pooles, at their townhome in the Crescent.”

Twin emotions pulled at Charlie’s gut—elation that Mother would
not be around all day and all night throughout her stay, and anger that she
hadn’t deigned to settle with him in his poky flat. In the end, elation won out
over hurt feelings. That was Mother for you. High-handed and snobby.

Mrs. Pierce rushed in with the tea tray.

“A trifle early,” Mother admonished.

“We’ll take it, anyway, and thank you,” Charlie added.

Mother glanced at him, something like a flicker of amusement in
her gaze. “Still coddling the servants?”

“Merely treating others as I would wish to be treated.”

Mother said nothing more, but busied herself with the tea
things. After an agonizing silence, during which Charlie’s heart beat faster in
his chest, she handed him a cup.

“You know why I am here.” It was a statement, not a
question.

He sighed. “Mother, before we begin, you must know that we are
invited to Anthony, Viscount Bradbury’s tonight. His daughter, the Honorable
Amelia Bradbury, is making her debut as hostess.” If he cut off any discussions
at once—especially with an invitation to dine with nobility—surely Mother would
let the matter drop for the time being.

It worked. She settled back in her chair, a satisfied glow
lighting her features. “Of course, I should love to dine with the viscount,” she
responded in dulcet tones. “How nice of them to include us.”

It was now or never. If he didn’t say it now, the moment would
vanish in a trace. “There’s another reason for our invite.”

“Yes?” Mother took a careful sip of her tea.

“I should like you to meet the young lady I am...courting.”
There. It was out. And it even sounded reasonably natural.

“You are courting someone?” Mother eyed him with suspicion over
the rim of her cup. “Whom are you courting, pray tell? Surely not one of the
veterans’ widows you are so fond of helping.”

Hot anger bubbled to the surface, but Charlie steeled himself.
“Of course not, Mother. The young lady is Sophia Handley, Sir Hugh Handley’s
daughter. She is working as a private seamstress to Miss Amelia, and will be
present at the gathering tonight.”

Mother cocked her head to one side. “Sir Hugh Handley? Isn’t
the family completely destitute?”

“Yes, Mother. But Miss Handley comes of impeccable breeding, I
can assure you.” Surely that would quell any further questions.

“Well, yes. That goes without saying.” Mother waved one hand
listlessly. “It’s just very odd, Charles, that she has chosen to go into
service. Most young women would not choose such a path. She’s not a
bluestocking, is she? Or one of these free love advocates, like Mrs.
Wollenstonecraft?”

Charlie threw back his head and laughed. ’Twas the first really
amusing thing Mother had said. Sophie, a bluestocking? “No, not at all. You’ll
see for yourself when you meet her tonight. She is accomplished and lovely, and
has an amazing talent for needlework. That is why she works for the Bradbury
family. She loves to sew, and can indulge her artistry in this manner.”

“Yes, well, we shall see, Charles.” Mother’s expression
hardened into one of suspicion and doubt. “I shall reserve judgment on the young
lady until I meet her tonight. But tell me truthfully—are you considering
marrying the gel?”

“We’ve only begun courting.” He pronounced the words with a
snap. “I haven’t decided for certain.”

“If she is of good breeding, and as lovely and charming as you
say, then I shall be happy to see you wed. You both could come home to
Brightgate and set up housekeeping there. Robert has a position for you, taking
over the mills. In no time, you could have a beautiful home and family,
Charles.”

A beautiful home and family. Sophie would make some man a
perfect wife. She would make a home anywhere she went, simply by living in it.
But he loved his work. Home and family meant nothing to him. Only helping
others. That’s why he agreed to this farce—to keep living the life he had
chosen.

But telling anyone in his family about any of this was out of
the question. No one would ever understand his feelings on the matter. So he
merely nodded. “You’ll see for yourself, Mother.”

* * *

Sophie wove another ribbon rose into Amelia’s dark,
curly hair. They had settled on a graceful, Grecian style of hair dress, not too
elaborate but still quite elegant. Amelia had shooed her own maid away for the
occasion, trusting only Sophie to make the necessary preparations. Nothing could
possibly go wrong on this night. And since this was her first time wearing her
hair up, as well as the first time to act as hostess in her father’s home,
Sophie was determined to make Amelia look her loveliest.

Sophie glanced at her muse in the mirror, selecting another
hairpin from the box on the dressing table. “I think a few more roses at the
crown of your head, and then we should be done.”

Amelia blinked. “I dare not nod for fear of undoing all your
handiwork. But yes, I agree.”

Sophie smiled. “You may relax, my dear. You’re likely to give
yourself a headache by holding so rigidly still. I assure you, I am using so
many hairpins, a windstorm could blow through here and not muss a single
strand.”

Lucy and Louisa were watching, curled up together on Amelia’s
bed. “Oh, Miss Williams, can’t we watch from the top of the stairs? It would be
such fun.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Lucy smoothed her charge’s hair with a
gentle hand. “But I have asked Cook to send some of the dinner up to us, and you
may stay up an extra hour reading in bed if you like.”

“Well, that’s something,” Louisa grumbled, burying her face on
Lucy’s shoulder. “But I still think it’s awfully mean that I won’t even be able
to see Amelia’s debut.”

“You’ll hear all about it when I come up to bed tonight,”
Amelia murmured through clenched teeth. She was still as a statue, hardly
batting an eyelash. “And you shall have your own debut in a couple of
years.”

“Ah, the wisdom of the elder sister,” Sophie replied with a
laugh. “How often did I hear such advice from Harriet. ‘It will be your turn
soon enough.’ Cheer up, sweet Louisa. You and Lucy will both have a lovely time
tonight. I’ll sneak up an extra bit of cake for your bedtime snack.”

Louisa rolled back on the pillow, a mollified expression
crossing her face. “Thank you, Miss Handley.”

Sophie stuck the last two roses in place, pinning them down
securely with a maze of hairpins that she hid under Amelia’s mass of curls. The
effect was enchanting, as though some fairy had sprinkled rosebuds over Amelia’s
hair and they had stayed put. She stepped back, allowing Amelia the chance to
see herself in the mirror. “You look beautiful, dear Amelia.”

“You do, too!” Amelia turned gingerly from the mirror, gazing
at Sophie with shining eyes. “That dress suits you perfectly.”

“Thank you.” The dress did look rather wonderful. And that was
part of her plan. If Mrs. Cantrill really did arrive tonight, then it would help
Charlie immensely if she looked her best.

“I agree. You are both as pretty as a picture.” A suave
baritone voice sounded from the doorway. Lucy scrambled off the bed, shaking out
her skirts hastily. Louisa continued to lounge on the bed. “Papa,” she called
out in a mock-angry tone, “this room is off-limits to you. Only females are
allowed.”

Lord Bradbury drew back, a hurt expression crossing his face as
he placed his hand over his heart. “What? Even if I come bearing gifts?”

“Do you have anything for me? Or only for Amelia?” Louisa
demanded, getting into the spirit of their game.

“I would be a horrible papa indeed if I only brought gifts for
one daughter,” he responded in a wounded tone. “Of course, if I am not allowed—”
He took an exaggerated step toward the door.

“No! Let me see!” Louisa scrambled off the bed and flung
herself at her father, grasping his elegant evening coat in both hands. “What
did you bring us?”

Lord Bradbury withdrew two leather boxes from his pocket. “For
you,” he replied, handing one to Louisa. With a delighted squeal, she flung it
open.

“A gold locket, how lovely! Thank you, Papa.” She handed the
box to Lucy, who withdrew the treasure and clasped it around Louisa’s neck.

“And for my darling Amelia, already a young woman.” He walked
over to the dressing table and held out a box to his daughter. “This belonged to
your mother. I think you should have it now.”

Amelia opened the box and gasped. Sophie’s mouth dropped open.
It was a string of the most perfect pearls she had ever seen. Lord Bradbury
removed the strand from the case and clasped it around Amelia’s neck.

“You are as lovely as she was,” he said huskily, a slight catch
in his voice. “Take care of them, my girl.”

“I will, Papa,” she replied, embracing her father tightly
despite her ribbon of roses and masses of carefully arranged curls.

Watching them together, Sophie blinked back sudden tears. She
was never particularly close to her papa. Harriet, with her love of books and
natural intelligence, was his decided favorite. Sophie had been taken under
Mama’s wing and groomed from birth for one thing and one thing only—marriage.
Watching the viscount and Amelia together, a sudden pang of longing tore through
her heart. If only she could have enjoyed the closeness of Papa’s company. But
it was as if he and Mama had split the sisters between them in terms of
childrearing and care.

Lucy tapped Louisa on the shoulder, breaking through the heavy
rush of emotions that flooded the room. “Come, Louisa, we should go to the
schoolroom and await our dinner. Lord Bradbury,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.
“Amelia, I know you shall do splendidly tonight.”

Amelia waved a queenly hand at audience. “Thank you. I shall
tell you both about it later tonight.”

Sophie hesitated. Should she leave, too, and give Lord Bradbury
a few moments’ privacy with his daughter? Or should she guide Amelia down to the
drawing room? She set the hairbrush she had been clutching on the dressing table
and gathered her skirts to go.

“Amelia, I would like a moment with Miss Handley.” Lord
Bradbury’s voice held no trace of its former huskiness. “We shall meet you in
the drawing room directly.”

Sophie swallowed nervously. Perhaps she had done such a good
job that her presence was no longer necessary tonight. If that were true, then
’twould be a bit of a relief. She was terribly nervous about the evening
herself. It would be much nicer to be gossiping in the schoolroom with Lucy and
Louisa, though she would still need to meet Mrs. Cantrill eventually.

Amelia nodded at her father and threw a grateful smile at
Sophie. When she left her bedroom, Lord Bradbury closed the door behind her.
Sophie fought a rising tide of panic. Whatever was his lordship about, that they
needed such seclusion?

“Miss Handley, there is no need to look so alarmed, I assure
you.” He smiled casually. “I just wanted to thank you for all you have done for
Amelia this week. She has really come into her own. She is, in fact, a young
lady. And I know this transformation can only be credited to your
handiwork.”

Sophie took a step backward. They needed more distance between
them. Whenever his lordship came into a room, he seemed to fill it up, or lay
claim to all of the air. She schooled herself, forcing silent, deep breaths.
’Twould be beyond silly to faint just now. “You’re most welcome, sir. Though I
must disagree. It is not by my work alone. Lucy Williams has been a good
governess, as well. And we were given quite wonderful raw material to work with,
you know.”

A smile hovered around his firm lips. “Thank you for the
compliment to my daughter. I do think highly of both of my girls.”