Chapter Seventeen
Hightower House, Gray Street, London,
April 2, 1815
Banallt was far too aware of Sophie. He had years of practice in not staring at a woman who interested him if his doing so might arouse suspicion. The skill he’d honed to an art form eluded him now. His present circumstances were fundamentally different than in those days. Before Sophie, his interaction with women had been, in essence, about him. His choices. His reactions. His anticipation. Back then, he didn’t gaze endlessly at a woman who struck his fancy, because if he did, his seduction of her would have been thwarted by gossip or someone’s interference. With Sophie, the compulsion to stare came from someplace deep inside him, and he could no more stop himself from looking at her than he could stop breathing.
The kiss they’d shared at Harpenden’s ball haunted his dreams. He was afraid he’d ruined everything by kissing her like that. God, it had not been a chaste kiss at all. Oh no. He’d kissed her greedily, holding back nothing. And God save him, she had responded to him, answering once and for all the question of whether she could feel passion in his arms. In the three days since then he’d had no opportunity to learn her thoughts on ending up in his arms, then or again. A coincidence? He thought not. The moment had gotten out of hand, and he counted himself lucky she was still speaking to him. Now she was here, by happenstance, at Gray Street. While she’d not greeted him warmly, she hadn’t by any means been cold to him.
Mercer noticed him staring and was not pleased. Of course Mercer wanted to discourage him from Sophie. An earl was nothing when you thought your sister might actually be married off to a duke.
At the moment, Sophie was curled up on a sofa with her dainty pink slippers off and her feet under her legs. A book lay open on her lap, but she’d stopped reading some time ago. They were at Hightower House because Vedaelin had taken John and Sophie to luncheon at the Pulteney Hotel and from there they had come to Gray Street, where Banallt’s attendance at tea had been firmly required by Mrs. Llewellyn. His was a command appearance. One supported one’s family, after all, and his presence at her tea brought a certain cachet to the event. Mercer’s appearance at Gray Street was for different reasons, but Banallt didn’t doubt that Fidelia’s presence had everything to do with it.
Now, however, tea was hours over. Many of the gentlemen had stayed past tea and made the move to this smaller, more intimate, parlor he preferred when he was not formally entertaining. His cousin and Fidelia had left some time ago to make calls. Those who stayed, which were most of the older gentlemen, dined in, King having brought in and set a table with a quite excellent dinner. Castlereagh, with his packet of dispatches from Wellington, had departed the previous hour. The vice chancellor, Mr. Thomas Plumer, had only just left for another engagement. That left Vedaelin, Mercer, and Sophie. A very cozy gathering now. Conversation continued along the same subjects, though: politics and Bonaparte, which they had discussed with Sophie soaking up everything.
Confidence in the Bourbons surviving the French crisis was low. Banallt, having been recently in Paris, had no confidence whatever that Louis XVIII would manage to keep his throne. Wellington had been ordered to leave Vienna and make his way to France. The news now was that Soult had been dismissed as minister of war on suspicion of loyalty to Napoleon. Banallt personally saw no hope of avoiding a war, and even less that Louis XVIII might actually field an army capable of standing against Bonaparte. Soult was probably on his way to the Corsican now.
“The question,” said Mercer to Vedaelin, “is whether Wellington will have specie to pay the troops before morale suffers unbearably.” Mercer had loosened his cravat, as had the duke, and Mercer’s hair was touseled from his habit of scrubbing his fingers through his curls. “The Continental Army will be asking for money as well, mark my word on it.” They were sitting at a table that had been used earlier in the afternoon to sketch out Paris and its environs. The surface was covered with sheets of paper and pencil leads. Vedaelin had drawn out various routes to Paris on one of the sheets.
“They will be paid,” Vedaelin said, waving a hand. “Castlereagh has it well in hand, I assure you.”
“An army fights on its stomach, but it needs cash in its pockets, too,” Banallt said dryly.
“Hear! Hear!” Mercer said, lifting his wine in Banallt’s direction. The second bottle was nearly empty. Banallt ordered another. Neither Mercer nor Vedaelin was aware of Sophie any longer, Banallt realized. Fools, the both of them. She’d dropped from the conversation an hour or so ago and set herself to reading on the little sofa by the fire. Vedaelin had since slumped in his chair, a fresh glass of wine in one hand. Mercer’s empty one was on the table holding down a crude map of Paris and its main points of entry. Banallt had accepted a second glass of wine, but the unfinished drink was on the mantel, where it would remain, but for the time or two he might pick it up and pace with it in hand. His reputation as a hard drinker was, ironically, born of the fact that he rarely drank while his former associates drank so much they didn’t recall how little he’d actually consumed. They only knew he seemed to keep a clearer head than they.
From where Sophie sat, she had a view of all three of them. He had no idea if she was watching him or Vedaelin or even her blasted brother. The book she’d fetched from his library lay open on her lap, though to his knowledge she’d not turned a page in the last hour. The sofa was at an angle from the fire, and though she could see the table where her brother and the duke sat, she had to turn to one side to deliberately watch them. Which she had done. Vedaelin was a blockhead, bringing her here and then ignoring her for hours. Mercer, too, for pity’s sake. Fortunately, Sophie was nothing if not adaptable. He forced himself not to look at her.
Banallt left his chair to pace in front of the mantel and back, at a diagonal from where Sophie was, hands behind his back. Every so often he stood just so, where he could be said to have his attention on Mercer and the duke and yet have his view of Sophie remain unimpeded. The light from the fire put her face partially in shadows. She took his breath.
She was not beautiful, not by any objective standard, and yet somehow her features fit together in a way such that he could not help staring, enraptured. The years since their horrible parting at Rider Hall had sobered her. And him as well, or so he liked to think. Tonight her clothes were more splendid than usual, though. Mercer seemed to have realized at last that he needed to force the issue of a new wardrobe on his sister. Her frock was a new one, a deep blue, slightly green so as to recall her eyes, with a scalloped neckline that more than hinted at her bosom. Her taste was impeccable. Banallt, unfortunately, had dressed for a social tea. Gray breeches, top boots, blue coat, and cream waistcoat. An entirely middling bit of linen for a cravat. If he’d known he was to see Sophie, he would have found something better to wear.
As this thought entered his head, he turned during his pacing, and with his thoughts so thoroughly on her, naturally his gaze swept over her. Their eyes connected, though not in a fashion that required either of them to admit it had happened. She had been staring at him, he was sure of it. The devil! She lowered her gaze. She went back to her book, and Banallt knew he was ruined for the rest of the evening. His concentration was gone.
“Mrs. Evans,” he said. “I’ve asked that rooms be made up for you and your brother. I’m sure they’re ready now, if you’d like to retire.”
“Go on, Sophie.” Mercer waved a hand. Yes, now he remembered his sister. Damn the fellow. Mercer had had an afternoon in which to make eyes at Fidelia. “No need to wait up for us. We’ll probably talk the night away.”
She rose, tucking her book under her arm, and made her good-byes. Vedaelin bestirred himself to take her hand and wish her a good night. If the duke wanted to win Sophie’s heart, he would have to do better than this. As for Banallt, he nodded; she did the same—all very proper and cold under her brother’s watchful eye—and then she was gone with the servant who came to show her the way. You’d never think he’d kissed her like he had three days ago. Jesus.
None of them lasted long after Sophie left. When Vedaelin rose, yawning, Mercer stood, too. Banallt walked upstairs with the two men, stopping first at Vedaelin’s room. At the door to Mercer’s room, Mercer ran his fingers through his hair. “I ought to take her home, you know.”
“You may of course,” he said. “Any of my carriages is at your service. But why wake her from what must now be a sound sleep?”
Mercer rested his back against the wall and sighed loudly. “All I want is that she be happy.” Mercer turned his green eyes on him. “I don’t doubt you would keep her safe, but how, my lord, can you ever make her happy?”
“We want the same thing for her.” He smiled, but it wasn’t one of his good-natured smiles.
“I won’t see her in another marriage like she had with Tommy Evans. I just can’t. Not for anything.”
Banallt held back the obvious vaguely threatening remarks about Mercer’s hopes for Fidelia. “Do you think I could persuade her against her inclination?”
“If you put your mind to it, yes.”
“Then you are mistaken.” He bowed. “Good night, Mercer.”
Mercer frowned at him. “Good night, my lord.”
Banallt didn’t go immediately to his room. Instead he headed for the library to get something to read. One of Sophie’s books, he decided. The last book she’d published before he’d gone and spoiled everything. First, though, he returned to the parlor to fetch his wine from the mantel. As he walked through the silent house he wondered how long it would be before he proposed to Fidelia, just to be done with things. What a jackanapes of an idea. He’d wait until Tallboys or Vedaelin convinced Sophie to remarry. Until then, he had hope.
He went into the library and found he didn’t need to light a candle, because there was already one burning. Sophie was fast asleep on a leather chair. Her book, a different one than she’d had in the parlor, had fallen off her lap. He pulled up a chair and sat, wineglass in hand, contemplating her and his future. They didn’t have one. Not the one he wanted, anyway. Perhaps it was time for him to court Fidelia after all. A courtship would take his mind off what he couldn’t have.
Banallt finished his wine without deciding whether he ought to wake her. Better, he thought, if he called a maid to look after her. He didn’t get up, though. He set his empty glass on the floor beside his chair. Her lashes were thick, a sweep of sable against her cheeks. Asleep as she was, her face lacked the lively quickness that had originally attracted him. The familiar shape of her nose made him smile. Before long, his eyes drooped, and five minutes later, he was asleep and dreaming of Sophie. His was not a polite dream.
“Wake up, my lord,” said the Sophie of his dream.
He certainly wasn’t ready to wake up. He’d only just got around to undressing her. Sophie shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes after the second time she called his name. For a disconcerting moment, he couldn’t separate his dream from reality. But that really was Sophie leaning over him.
“You were fast asleep,” she said.
Jesus. His breeches were firmly buttoned, thank God, and he was not in a fully aroused state. The muscles on one side of his back ached. He pushed himself upright. Had he been calling Sophie’s name out loud? Nothing about her suggested that he had been. She wasn’t laughing or, for that matter, angry. “What time is it?”
“Nearly two.” She watched him the way she had at Harpenden’s before he’d completely lost his head and kissed her. With something new in her eyes. His stomach fluttered with familiar anticipation. He knew women well enough to recognize where Sophie’s thoughts were wandering. Well, he wasn’t going to cross the lines he’d obliterated when she knew him at Rider Hall. Never. Which meant that no matter how explicit his dreams of her, he could do nothing.
“Where have John and Vedaelin gone?” she asked.
“To bed,” he said shortly. “Some time ago. Come.” He pried himself off his chair. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
Banallt wondered if he was dreaming after all. He must be, to be here alone with her, in a house so silent and empty. But then a yawn cracked his jaw, and he lost that just-awakened feeling. This was indeed Sophie standing next to him, her eyes alight, mouth curved in a smile. Why, he wondered, wasn’t she asking him what he was doing asleep in the library?
He tucked her hand around his arm and took the candle-stick in the other. He extinguished the lights before they left, leaving them walking in the light of his candle. He hoped to God he’d not been calling her name in his sleep. “You’ll fall asleep directly as soon as you’re in your room, Sophie.”
She leaned against him. “I’m sure I shall.”
He was trying very hard to be good, to behave himself, but with her leaning against him like this, well. Even a saint would be tried.
They walked up the stairs arm in arm. Had he not bungled his proposal, he might be escorting his countess upstairs. If only he had given her time to understand he had changed because of her. If only he had told her he had spent the days after that final meeting at Rider Hall coming to terms with the man he was and the man he needed to become. He stopped and let go of her arm in order to open the door to her room. She waited at the door while he went inside and used his candle to light another across the room. Sophie leaned against the door frame, arms tucked behind her.
“Thank you, Banallt,” she said when he stood by her.
“You’re welcome.”
She tilted her head to one side. “You were calling my name,” she whispered. “Why?”
His stomach dropped. She was so very beautiful, and he was so very close to forgetting himself. “Even a rogue like me needs his secrets.”
“Vedaelin says you’ve changed.” She looked him straight in the face. He didn’t see anything there to tell him he needed to step away. So he didn’t. “Have you?”
“Perhaps not as much as I ought to have,” he said after a bit.
She took a step nearer to him, into the room now. He didn’t dare do any of the things that occurred to him. If something were to happen, Sophie had to take the initiative. If she did, he didn’t know if he was strong enough to resist her. She reached out and touched his cravat, smoothing the top fold. “You’re very handsome,” she whispered. “Even with that untidy cravat.”
Could any man resist the temptation in that low, silken whisper? She couldn’t think he would. Sophie didn’t think that highly of him. He took a step nearer. She tipped her head to look into his face, and he remembered, sharp and clear, how her mouth had felt when he kissed her.
She tugged on the end of his cravat. “Let me fix this, Banallt.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Banallt reached past her and closed the door.