Three Schemes and a Scandal (15 page)

Out of desperation, Sophie had done the unthinkable and applied for a man’s job—the position of secretary to Mr. Derek Knightly, the publisher of the town’s wildly popular newspaper,
The London Weekly
. It had been an outrageous act, and unlikely prospect, but Sophie decided to take the risk.

Even now, a year later, she couldn’t quite believe she had done so. Like all girls of a certain social standing, Sophie had been raised to marry advantageously. To work … well, it was unthinkable! But so was starving.

Surprisingly, Sophie had left the interview with an offer from Mr. Knightly to write about the one thing she feared most: weddings. Though she had been raised to be a wife, Sophie became a writer.

No man would do it, Mr. Knightly had said. She wouldn’t do it either, if it weren’t for her other less desirable options of
seamstress or servant, governess or mistress.

Thus, she became the Miss Harlow of the regular column “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” Inspired by Sophie, Julianna had also turned to writing and had secured a gossip column: “Fashionable Intelligence” by A Lady of Distinction. They, along with Eliza Fielding and Annabelle Swift, were the Writing Girls—and within weeks of their debut in the pages of
The London Weekly
, had become famous.

Mr. Knightly had a hunch that women writers would be scandalous, and that scandals would translate to sales. He was right.

It was all very glamorous except for the small requirement of attending wedding after wedding after wedding …

Sophie sat at the end of a pew, toward the wall, away from the center aisle where the bride would pass. It was an escapable position.

Julianna was by her side, surreptitiously taking in everything that might be gossiped about: who wore what, who conversed with whom, who was in attendance, and who was not.

Everyone looked happy. Pleasant. It was a lovely morning in June and two people in love were going to unite in holy matrimony and presumably live happily ever after.

Sophie felt sick. She never got used to it. Weddings. The nerves. This was her third ceremony of the day—everyone always got married before noon on Saturdays, with a few exceptions—and this was, thankfully, the last one. Still, she was treated with the usual swell and sequence of horrid feelings.

Her stomach tightened into a knot. Her palms became clammy. She was remembering another wedding in June and the slow breaking of her heart as everyone stared on with curiosity and pity.
Breathe
, she commanded herself.

Inhale.
She fanned herself with the voucher required to gain admittance—a violation of etiquette, but absolutely essential.
Exhale.

Seamstress or servant, governess or mistress …

She chanted this sequence of her alternative professions, which generally soothed her like a lullaby. As soon as the bride joined the groom at the altar, her feelings would subside. Until that moment …

“Still?” Julianna queried. Sophie’s breaths were labored and her lips were moving ever so slightly:
seamstress or servant, governess or mistress …

Sophie only nodded, suspecting that she looked ready to be carted off to Bedlam.

“My God, I would like to grievously maim that vile bounder,” Julianna said. And though she had made a certain peace with the man who had jilted her, at the moment Sophie’s feelings were the same.

“You have spoken my mind,” Sophie said.

“Of course, if he hadn’t abandoned you like that, then you wouldn’t have joined me in London, and we wouldn’t be making newspaper history, so we might say that old Matthew Fletcher has done us a favor.”

Sophie looked murderously at her friend. As lovely as life in London was—with amazing parties, plays, shops, and company—she’d give it all up in a second for the love of a good, reliable, honest husband.

“Or we might not,” Julianna continued.

“What is taking so long?” Sophie asked in a whisper. This is when she became exceptionally nervous—when people were late, and when it seemed like the ceremony might not go smoothly. When someone might, say,
be jilted in front of everyone
.

Honestly, this was not to be endured!

“Probably a torn hem or something insignificant—oh my lord, he is
not
!” Julianna exclaimed.

“What is it?” Sophie asked.

“The groom is leaving the altar,” Julianna explained excitedly. The din of hundreds of guests chattering grew louder. This ought to have been welcome news, for it would make splendid additions to their columns. But Sophie’s heart—or what was left of it—ached too much.

Sophie forced herself to breathe. “Grievously maimed” would not be sufficient for Fletcher; Sophie was thinking murder now. One year later and she still could not sit through a wedding without suffering the most severe agonies!

“Where is the bride?” she asked her tall friend, who could see much more than she.

“No sign of her,” Julianna answered.

“I cannot stay for this,” Sophie whispered. She stood up and stepped easily into the far aisle, congratulating herself on having had the foresight to take this seat.

“But your column!” Julianna reminded her, and those seated nearby turned to look at the author of “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life,” whispering excitedly about seeing her at the wedding.

“Take notes for me. Please,” Sophie pleaded, and gave her paper and pencil to her friend.

Sophie kept her gaze low as she rushed out of the church. On a good day she could barely stand it, and today it was all too much. Her only thought was to get away before she began to cry, for this time last year she had fled from a different church, under different circumstances. Perhaps one day she might leave a church with a groom of her own on her arm.

The bright sunlight was blinding as she stepped outside, but Sophie forged ahead through a crowd waiting in expectation to catch a glimpse of the bride and the aristocrats in attendance. She rushed away from Hanover Square toward Piccadilly with eyes to the ground and oblivious to everything until a woman’s scream brought her to a halt.

White’s Gentleman’s Club

St. James’s Street, London

“A
N ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
is someone who knows exactly when to stop being one,” Lord Roxbury declared. His companions—the usual assortment of peers, second sons, and rakes of all sorts—heartily expressed their agreement.

Henry William Cameron Hamilton kept his disagreement to himself. As tenth Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, he did not have the luxury of even a momentary lapse in gentlemanly behavior. Thus, he never drank overmuch, nor made foolish wagers, nor made an ass of himself over a woman. Vice and excess were strangers to him. Reckless behavior was just not done.

“An English gentleman is someone who knows—” Lord Biddulph did not manage to complete the sentence for falling over drunk. His head thudded onto the tabletop, and his limp arm sent a crystal glass falling and shattering on the floor. His comrades erupted in uproarious laughter.

Brandon, as he was known, noted that it was before noon.

He folded the newspaper he had been reading and set it aside. His friend, Lord Roxbury, caught his eye from across the room and raised his glass of brandy to him, an invitation for Brandon to join them. Regretfully, he declined. Account books were awaiting his review, and doing sums after the consumption of alcohol was not one of his talents.

Though they were his peers in age and in social standing, Brandon felt worlds apart and years older. He had once been as rakish and carefree as the next until he had inherited at eighteen. There had been a time when he certainly would have joined them.

Brandon didn’t particularly miss drinking himself into a stupor before dusk, and carousing with opera singers and actresses. He did miss having the liberty to do so without much care for the consequences.

He had forgotten what it felt like to make a decision without considering the effect it would have on his mother, three sisters, the household staff, and the hundreds of tenants who relied upon his judgment and good sense. He wondered what it would be like to feel no obligation to the ancient legacy he had a duty to perpetuate.

To forget he was a duke.

To just be … himself.

Brandon did not give voice to such thoughts because no one ever wanted to hear the trials and tribulations of a man of his position. Instead, he took his leave of the others and stepped out of the dark, smoky haven of his club and into the sunshine.

Returning to Hamilton House to balance account books was the last thing any sane person would want to do on a fine summer day like this one. But it had to be done, although a long walk home would be a fine compromise.

As he passed Burlington Arcade, his attention was caught by a woman’s scream. She was pointing to another woman in a pale blue dress dashing toward certain disaster. At the sound of the shriek, the girl paused, idiotically frozen with fear, as a carriage pulled by a team of six white horses charged directly toward her.

Brandon bolted forward, knocking over a youth selling newssheets, and sending the gray papers flying high. He lunged forward, grasped her waist with both hands, and yanked her out of the way. She crashed against his chest, knocking the air out of him.

The horses thundered past and the carriage followed.

He held her in his arms. He had saved her.

Brandon held her close for a second longer than was necessary or proper, in part because she made no move to escape and admittedly because she was warm and luscious in his arms. After a moment, he eased her to her feet and let her go. By then a crowd had gathered. He suspected a scene, and he frowned.

But then Brandon caught a glimpse of her plump pink lips and dark curls underneath her bonnet, and the corners of his mouth reluctantly turned up.

“Thank you,” she said faintly. She took a deep breath—and his gaze was drawn to the rise and fall of her breasts. He sucked in his own breath. And then she tilted her head back to look up at him with velvety dark brown eyes.

“You saved my life,” she said. Her voice wavered. Her pink lips formed a slight smile. She was in shock, but so was he.

For a moment, neither moved.

The longer he looked at her, the more the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, the shouts of the merchants, the shoves of the pedestrians all faded, and he was only conscious of an irrational wish to kiss her.

Brandon’s heart was pounding and his breath scarce … from his recent exertions, of course. It certainly wasn’t because of her full, luscious mouth.

He told himself that his inability to breathe had nothing to do with her large brown eyes shadowed by dark lashes, and the way they widened as she looked at him.

Her cheeks were pink, and he wondered if it was because of the sun, or something else?

Brandon yearned to sink his fingers into the mass of dark, glossy ringlets framing her face, to urge her close enough so that he could kiss her.

Here. Now. On one of the busiest streets in London.

That had nothing to do with why his heart was thudding heavily.

He could not lie—it had everything to do with it. He was unfathomably, suddenly, and overwhelmingly entranced by this daydreaming girl who had nearly been trampled by a team of horses.

“Where are we going, miss? I shall escort you,” Brandon said. It was clear she was a danger to herself and others, and thus, it was his duty as a gentleman to offer his protection. That, and he did not want to part with her just yet.

“
We
are not going anywhere,” she answered, with an uneven smile. She still seemed a bit pale underneath that blush, almost feverish, and certainly still affected by her near-death experience. “Though I thank you for the offer. You’ve helped me so much already, I couldn’t possibly ask any more of you.”

In his opinion, it was very clear that she desperately needed him.

“Surely you are not rebuffing my chivalrous offer of assistance.” No one ever refused him anything. He was one of the most respected and powerful dukes in the land.

But she didn’t know that, did she? No, she most likely did not. His lips curved into a smile. Once, just once, he would indulge and talk to the pretty girl as if he hadn’t a dozen reasons not to. What harm could come from an hour’s walk and conversation with her? It seemed likely that plenty of harm would come to her if he did not.

“I abhor the thought of you putting yourself out any more on my account,” she said.

“What if I phrased my offer anew? I’m looking for an excuse to stay outside as long as possible on this fine day.”

“I am a bit distracted,” she admitted with a mischievous sparkle dawning in her eyes. “And I am feeling quite out of sorts, as you might imagine.”

Of course. But was she also as stunned by him as he was by her?

“It would be my pleasure to see you safely to your destination.”

“Do you have a nefarious purpose in doing so?” She eyed him suspiciously, and it might have been the first time that anyone questioned his integrity. It was oddly thrilling. “Or are you really an honest gentleman intent upon helping a lady?”

“I have nothing but noble intentions,” he recited. “I am a notoriously upstanding gentleman. However, if you prefer, I will procure a hackney for you. Or I shall leave you to your own devices.”

Though he did not wish to, Brandon offered to let her go even though he was incredibly and inexplicably keen to remain in her company.

“I should like to walk,” she said. And then she gave him a long, hard look as if she could determine his moral worth from that alone, and finally she nodded, and her lips formed a pretty little smile. “You may escort me if you wish, but only because you need an excuse to stay outside today and because I owe you a favor.”

“Fair enough,” he said, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He understood that it was an incredibly delicate situation for a woman to accept the company of a man she did not know, and publicly. But he had just saved her life, and that had to count for something. He suspected she was thinking the same.