The Secret Lover (32 page)

"I couldn't
possibly
care less about my reputation! And
you
mustn't worry about any offer, either, for as I have tried to tell you, I have no intention of marrying Trevor, not now, not ever!"

"Sophie!" Ann had cried with alarm. "You cannot mean that!"

"I can and I
do
!" she responded sharply, slapping the portmanteau closed. "I do not
care
for Trevor Hamilton; I think him a pompous, boring ass!" she continued, ignoring Ann's gasp. "If you want to know the truth, I am in love with his brother, Caleb. Completely! Thoroughly besotted with him! I have been such a bloody fool about it all—he is a far better man than Trevor, and were it not for the circumstance of his birth, you would think so, too!"

Her admission had shocked Ann into momentary silence. She stood slowly, her gaze unwavering. "No," she said low. "You cannot possibly mean what you say."

"I bloody well do."

"You foolish chit! Have you lost your mind? Do you think these affections are returned, or has the Imposter duped you into believing he loves you so that
he
might have a chance at your fortune?"

The implications of her question stung so deeply that Sophie felt it all the way to her toes. She stared down at the portmanteau, her heart and mind reeling with the hurtful and overwhelming sense of inadequacy and failure in her family's eyes. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to her sister, saw the genuine concern there, and felt betrayed by it.

"He is not a blackguard."

"You didn't think so of William Stanwood, either."

Sophie struggled not to dissolve into tears, swallowing hard. "I am not a child, Ann. I am a grown woman. Granted, I have made mistakes—but you could at least do me the small courtesy of believing that I have perhaps learned from them instead of treating me like a simpleton. Caleb Hamilton is an honorable man and I love him. And I am so very tired of everyone believing they know what is best for me, because they don't!
You
don't! You haven't the faintest idea who I am, Ann! But I am through pretending, I am quite through trying to be part of the
ton
with all its disingenuous hyperbole and hypocrisy! I cannot remain true to myself, not like this, not in London, and most certainly
not
with Trevor Hamilton!"

"Oh Sophie, how can you do this to us again? To Julian?"

That was the moment Sophie had picked up her portmanteau and walked purposefully to the door. "I did not
do
it to
you
the first time, Ann.

I did it to
me
. This is not Julian's life, it is not your life, it is
mine
. When will you accept that?"

Ann opened her mouth to speak, but Sophie quickly threw up her hand.

"Please save your breath. And please don't worry overmuch—I refused Caleb's offer for the sake of propriety, just as you would want me to do.

Surely that should please you, and by God, I hope it pleases you for years to come, as I have no intention of returning to London or marrying again!"

The declaration had spurred her onward, made her more determined than ever. Ann had, of course, tried to stop her, but Sophie had pushed her sister's hand from her arm and marched down the stairs. With Ann fast on her heels, she marched past a fretting Fabrice and Roland in the foyer, past a smirking Lucie Cowplain who held the door open for her, and onto Bedford Square, leaving behind Ann's frantic threats to find Julian before she left.

The public coach came along before Ann could have possibly reached Julian. Sophie was bound for Nottinghamshire and Lord Hamilton's country estate long before Julian could have learned that she had left everything behind. She regretted that she did not have the opportunity to take her leave of Julian, but she had to go. She could not live the lie that had become her life even one more day.

It was over the course of several hours and an excruciating drive from London that she realized exactly what she had become. She regretted the argument with Ann—not what she had said, exactly, but perhaps the way she had said it. Her family
had
always wanted what was best for her and she could hardly fault them for that. It was just that somewhere along the way, she had allowed herself to lose her voice, to let them bang out the rhythm of her life, out of step with her own wants and desires. All her life she had tried to please her brother and sisters, and anyone else who happened to enter her world. She had to please herself now, and she hoped desperately that they would understand, but could not ignore the rather desperate feeling that they never would.

When the coach stopped for the night, she took a room at a public inn.

Unable to eat, she retired immediately, tossing and turning on the very thin mattress. The next morning, she filed out into the courtyard with the other passengers at dawn. The elderly couple did not board, leaving Sophie, the mother and two children, and a rather large fellow with hands that looked like beefsteaks to sit beside her. He took up as much room as the elderly couple had, and Sophie sat squished between him and the small window.

That day of travel was doubly miserable. Sophie had reconciled herself to her argument with Ann, knowing in her heart that she was justified in what she had said.

Which left her with the image of Caleb to haunt her.

The more miles between her and London she traveled, the more imperative it became that she accept the fact she would never see him again. The despair that welled in her was enough to drown her; it filled the emptiness, the dull ache that would not go away, would not let her sleep.

How she had managed to let propriety and protocol and all the little rules of the
ton
guide her heart was now unfathomable to her. It seemed so shallow… but it had been so easy to do.

She could have learned from Caleb instead of hurting him—he had accepted who she was, and had shown more regard for the person she was than her family ever had. Her gift in return was an outright rejection of his love because of who
he
was. She missed him. Missed him so much that she felt she was dissolving under the weight of it.

By the time the coach pulled into the tiny courtyard of the Ravenfield Inn in the hamlet of St. Neots that evening, Sophie thought she was on the verge of being ill. The throbbing pain in her head was enough to drive her to her knees. The children were pouting and restless, and the man sitting next to her had fallen asleep, his arm a dead weight on her leg.

"All out for the night. We resume the drive to Petersborough at precisely seven o'clock on the morrow," the driver called up as he opened the door.

That announcement caused one of the children to whine. Their mother

—who looked as exhausted as Sophie felt—pushed first one, then the other, through the door, wiggling out behind them. The man went next, slowly and carefully, causing the coach to tilt dangerously to one side. When Sophie finally disembarked, it felt as if she were standing on hundreds of needles, her legs and feet were so numb.

She wandered about the courtyard for a few minutes, trying to circulate her blood. The sound of laughter and cheerful voices filtered out into the courtyard through an open window—the inn was obviously very crowded.

Curious, Sophie walked to the window and peered inside. The place was filled to almost overflowing; the entire village of St. Neots had come for a tankard of ale.

When she stepped through the entrance, her senses were immediately overwhelmed by the smell of ale and fish and human flesh. Several heads turned in her direction, then quickly away again when the patrons realized she was no one they knew. Sophie walked farther into the room; a small little man hurried over to her, stood hopping from one foot to the next as he wiped his hands on a rag.

"From the public coach, are you? We've an attic room for the night, if it suits you, milady. A little close, but the bed is clean, it is."

That was, remarkably, a rather strong selling point after last night.

"Thank you, that will be fine," she muttered, finding several coins in her reticule for him.

He pocketed the coins. "I'll fetch you a key. In the meantime, you need not put up with this rabble. We've a private room in the back if you'd like

—or a table in the corner just there." Like a bird, he motioned with his head in the general direction of the table.

The last thing Sophie wanted was a private room where her misery could swallow her whole. "Thank you, but the common room will be fine,"

she said, and pushed through the crush of tables and people toward the small table he had indicated. Shoved up against the wall as it was, she could see the entire room. As she removed her gloves, a young girl no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age stepped to her side.

"What will ye 'ave, mu'um?" she asked.

Taking a page from Honorine's book, she said, "A tankard of ale, if you please, and a large one at that."

The girl nodded and hurried away, pausing to slap one man's beefy hand from her skirts when she passed by.

As she waited for her ale, Sophie noticed another set of rooms just beyond the common room; several men wandered in and out. A gaming room, she guessed. Such arrangements were popular on the Continent.

After the girl brought the tankard, Sophie quietly sipped the dark ale, lost in her own despondent thoughts, idly watching the crowd swell and bustle around her.

After a half tankard, however, she grew weary of her despondency, and looked up, searching for something to look at, to think of, until she could climb the stairs to the attic room above and attempt another night of sleep. As she wearily surveyed the crowd, her eye caught sight of something dully familiar. She lowered the tankard, shifted her gaze…

Trevor.

He was standing on the threshold of the other rooms, boring a hole right through her with his narrowed gaze.

Sophie's pulse quickened as Trevor shoved his way through the crowd toward her wearing an expression far too reminiscent of William Stanwood's. It sent a familiar chill up her spine; she pushed the tankard aside, clutched the edge of the little table as he reached her, halting there, towering above her. His jaw clenched tightly shut, he eyed her from head to toe, folding his arms tightly across his chest as an impatient father might.

"What in bloody hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I might ask the same of you."

His jaw clenched tighter still. "Who brought you here… the Frenchmen?"

Sophie shook her head. "A public coach."

"A
public
coach?" He spat the word like it was rancid. "What exactly are you about, Sophie?"

The very suggestion that she somehow owed him an explanation washed over Sophie in a wave of indignation. There was a time she would have been cowed by it, but sitting there, watching the bulge in his cheek—

as if he had a
right
to be angry—snapped her fear like a twig. Whatever she might become, she had had enough of being held to arcane standards that were not her own. Who was this man who thought he might announce to a crowded parlor that he would offer for her without so much as mentioning it to her? Who was
he
to question her presence in St Neots?

What, did he think he owned the bloody hamlet?

She was standing before she realized it, bracing herself against the scarred tabletop, leaning forward so that he would not miss a single word.

"I stopped in this quaint little inn for an ale. That is
exactly
what this is about"

Her curt response obviously surprised him. He blinked, seemed to suddenly wake from his pique, and glanced nervously about them. "All right, all right," he hissed beneath his breath, and reached around her to hold her chair. "At least sit, will you? I prefer not to attract a crowd."

"I beg your pardon, but it would seem too late for that"

He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder at the several patrons who had turned toward them. "Come on then, be a good girl and sit so that we might discuss this like adults, will you?"

"I am not the one who is being childish," she said. Then she sat Hard.

Trevor sat, too, much more carefully than she, and gingerly ran his palm across the tabletop as he considered her.

Defiant, Sophie sipped her ale.

"You seem to be a bit agitated, my dear," he said, taking a smoother tack. "Perhaps if you told me whatever you think to do here, I can help you."

Patronizing buffoon
. "That's quite all right, Trevor. I don't need your help," she said, and lifted the tankard to her lips again.

He lifted a brow. "What is your destination? Kettering? I'm afraid you're a bit east of it I confess, I am a bit perplexed—you did not tell me of any travel plans."

The tankard came down on the table harder than she intended. "I did not
have
travel plans until two days ago. But let me be perfectly frank—

had I planned this little sojourn as much as two weeks ago, I had no obligation to tell you. You have no right to me, sir!"

The blood drained from Trevor's face. He moved suddenly, grabbing her wrist and pressing it against the table in a painful vise. "Watch what you say, my dear, because I cannot vouch for my patience!" The harsh tone of his voice belied his composed expression, donned for the benefit of the crowd. "I have no
right
to you as yet, but I daresay you will not speak to me thus when we are wed!"

Sophie jerked her arm up and away from him, yanking back hard until he let go. With a quick, surreptitious glance around them, he casually straightened his neckcloth. But as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze was one of fury.

So was Sophie's. She angrily rubbed her wrist where he had gripped her. "As to that, there is one small matter you have overlooked."

"
Is
there?" he snarled. "Then by all means, please astonish me with a sane explanation for your foolish behavior."

"Haven't you forgotten something? Haven't you forgotten to
ask
me to be your wife?"

An incredulous bark of laughter escaped him. "Do I understand your meaning, madam? Are you implying that you have chased halfway across the countryside so that I might perform the formality of
asking
you to be my wife?" Again, he laughed with the disbelief of it.