Chapter Fifteen
Beads of sweat prickled on Sophia’s forehead. Kneeling, she grasped the wooden edge of the commode with white-knuckled fingers and squeezed her eyes closed. She stiffened her jaw and fought her stomach’s churning rebellion.
All in vain. A second later, she heaved her breakfast into the porcelain bowl. She drew the back of a hand over her mouth and moved to the sink. A splash of water on her face cooled her heated skin while brushing her teeth obliterated the vile taste that coated her tongue.
She glanced at her pallid reflection in the mirror. Too pale. She was also . . .
Don’t say it. If you do, you shall find yourself a weeping mess, and Thomas will be here shortly. She pinched her eyelids closed, waited until the burning desire to cry subsided. She spun away from the looking glass and stepped into her bedchamber.
“Miss!” Mrs. MacLean tapped on the door and without waiting for a reply flung it open. “Dr. Trimble is here and looking rather fit, if I may be bold enough to say—”
The housekeeper stopped her chattering and blinked.
“Aye, ye poor lass. Been sick again, have ye?” With her apron bunched in her hand, Mrs. MacLean rushed forward and blotted Sophia’s damp brow. The elder woman shook her head. “Ye are normally so hale. Haven’t seen ye with a case of the collywobbles since ye were a young lass. I’ll make a mixture of . . .” Mrs. MacLean’s voice faded, her eyes grew wide, and she clutched her dress at her bosom. “Saints preserve.”
Ignoring the woman’s gaping mouth, Sophia moved to the armoire, removed her pale blue paletot, and slipped it on. “A touch of gastritis. I must have eaten something disagreeable.”
“Oh, lassie dear. ’Tis the second time in less than a week ye retched yer morning meal.” The woman ticked off her fingers and counted. “Seven weeks since you let that blackguard into your bed, and I’m thinking he left more than his calling card.”
Dashing an errant tear off her cheek, Sophia sat on the bed and stared down at her lap.
“Miss—”
The sound of someone clearing his throat halted the housekeeper’s words. Thomas stood in the doorway. “I know it’s in exceedingly poor taste to enter a woman’s bedchamber uninvited but . . .” He looked pointedly at her. “You are usually so punctual. I thought there was a problem. I called up. Neither of you answered.”
Standing, Sophia glanced at him. Had he heard? She toyed with the tasseled fringe edging the bottom of her coat. “Sorry, Thomas, I’m ready.” She forced a small smile. “Did I mention how pleased I am you’ve asked me to accompany you to Mr. Philips’s architectural office? I’m sure the exterior perspectives of the new hospital will be fascinating.”
He stared at her, but said not a word.
She pressed her palms to her cheeks. I must look dreadful.
Thomas stepped fully into the room. “Mrs. MacLean, would you be kind enough to give Sophia and me a few minutes alone?”
The woman appeared hesitant, but exited the bedchamber.
Tears pressed the backs of Sophia’s eyes, and she moved to the window. Several pedestrians walked along the embankment. Her gaze shifted to a shiny black carriage slowly moving past Thomas’s equipage. How many times had she seen that grand equipage rolling by her house and both hoped and dreaded it was Westfield? How foolish.
“Thomas,” she said, not turning around, “shouldn’t we talk on the way? I’m sure you do not wish to be late for your meeting.”
He moved to stand behind her and placed his hands on her upper arms. “I care a great deal for you.”
He watched her reflection in the glass. She ducked her head.
“Sophia.”
A sob caught in her throat. He was going to propose—try to save her from her own folly. She couldn’t marry him. He deserved a woman who would love him unconditionally, and she had given her heart foolishly away, only to have it stomped on.
“I’m with child,” she blurted out.
He turned her so she faced him. “I am aware of your condition.”
Ashamed, she dropped her gaze to one of the brass buttons on his wool overcoat. “You heard Mrs. MacLean?”
“You wound my physician’s pride. Like you, I’m aware of the signs of morning sickness. I take it Westfield is the father?”
She nodded.
“I know several ways I could kill the man and not even leave a mark. An injection into his carotid artery of—”
“Thomas, don’t joke.”
“I’m not joking.” A lethal tone edged his voice.
“He didn’t force me.” She dashed at a tear. “You must think me both shameless and half-witted.”
“No, I think Lady Prescott sent a lamb to the slaughter.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his inside breast pocket and dabbed at her cheeks.
“I . . . we . . . just once.”
“You are an educated woman. You know it only takes once.” His voice sounded free of condescension, but she sensed the anger it contained.
She refrained from telling him that her education had been lacking. No book or person had ever informed her how overpowering desire could be or how rash one became under its spell, especially when stronger emotions gripped one’s heart.
He placed his fingers under her chin and tipped her gaze up to his. “Sophia, will you marry me?”
She swallowed. “I cannot. You deserve better than a soiled, foolish woman.”
“I believe we could build a life together and be happier than most. I will be a good husband. And despite what I feel about Westfield, I’ll love the child as if it were my own. I give you my word on that.”
She placed her forehead against his chest and Thomas wrapped his arms around her.
“You do not have to accompany me to Mr. Philips’s office. You should rest. I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening for the hospital’s fundraiser, and you can give me your answer then.”
Her heart thumped against her ribs. Over the last several days, she’d completely forgotten about Lady Prescott’s ball to benefit the hospital’s building fund. She could not attend. She would not risk seeing Westfield. She shook her head. “I cannot go!” Her voice came out shrill.
“Westfield does not attend such functions.” He kissed her forehead. “Rest. I will see you tomorrow evening.” He had just reached the threshold when he turned around. “Have you told him?”
Nausea rolled in her stomach. Tell Westfield his dalliance had created a child? He would not care. He’d been as reckless as she. He probably had an army of bastards throughout Britain. “He isn’t interested in me or the baby, Thomas. I believe he was bored, and I was nothing more than a game. A distraction to relieve his ennui.”
Disgust twisted Thomas’s handsome visage. “Then he doesn’t deserve either of you, and you will both be better off without him.”
* * *
Edith had been adamant Hayden attend her benefit ball. He, on the other hand, had been adamant he would not. Yet here he stood in his sister’s entry hall, wondering whether he’d come to appease Edith or for another reason.
He’d arrived well past the hour of being fashionably late, hoping the crowd would have thinned. However, the cacophony of laughter and raised voices floating down the circular staircase, along with the carriage-lined street, informed him he should have delayed even longer. He handed his formal cape to one of the footmen and moved across the patterned marble floor.
Strange, he’d not seen Sophia in weeks, yet he sensed her presence as if the air that touched her skin had gained a tangible force. An unwelcome vision of her twirling about in Trimble’s arms to the strains of a Viennese waltz flashed through his mind.
He should leave—haul himself to the Continent to call upon that German physician he’d read about in the newspaper. The one who studied the human brain. What was his name? Wundt. Yes, Wilhelm Wundt. The man would proclaim him a helpless sod. He spun around to snatch his cape back from the footman.
“Ah, Hayden, so good to see you,” a familiar voice called.
He forced himself to turn around. Hiding his agitation, he shook his brother-in-law’s hand.
“Edith had resigned herself to the fact you wouldn’t attend. She’ll be exceedingly pleased.”
“Henry, I was just leaving.” He withdrew a bank draft from the inside pocket of his formal evening coat. “Will you give Edith this along with my felicitations? Her gala appears a success.”
His brother-in-law unfolded the check. “Ah, generous as always.”
He may not care for Dr. Trimble personally, but the hospital the doctor was building in the East End would be a godsend and an economic boon for the residents who lived near.
“Did you say you were leaving? It appears you have just arrived.” Henry clapped a firm hand onto Hayden’s shoulder. “You know Edith will be devastated if you don’t say hello before dashing off.” Henry handed the check back to him. “Why don’t you give this to her yourself?”
* * *
Even though Thomas had assured Sophia that Westfield wouldn’t attend Lady Prescott’s fundraiser, apprehension fluttered in her stomach. A murmur arose from the crowd, and the fine hairs dusting the nape of her neck prickled. She glanced about the ballroom. Her eyes homed in on the tall, dark-haired gentleman slicing through the throng as if it were an inconsequential field of grain and he a sickle-wielding farmhand.
By the time Westfield emerged from the swarm of brightly colored silk and dark formal attire, her heart thundered in her chest. Without a hitch to his step, he moved to the perimeter of the room, no more than ten yards from where she stood conversing with Thomas and the elderly Lord Pendleton, a supporter of the new hospital.
Westfield wore a black tailcoat precisely cut and taut across his broad shoulders. She knew, firsthand, it was not padding that enhanced his physique. There was no denying his raw magnetism. Her palm settled over her abdomen. Certainly, she couldn’t deny that. She wanted to scurry from the room, return to the solitude of her Chelsea residence, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
With a formidable expression on his handsome face, Westfield surveyed the guests. A group of gentlemen moved toward him. He cocked a brow at them, and their progression ceased. It was like watching a white-breasted raptor tossed into a cage of doves.
A moment later, Lady Prescott stood beside him. His stern expression evaporated as he kissed his sister’s hand before surreptitiously pressing a piece of paper into her fingers. Her ladyship unfolded the paper and smiled brightly. To Westfield’s obvious chagrin, she kissed his cheek. A donation? Yes, and sizeable judging by her ladyship’s exuberance.
Westfield and his sister talked alone for several minutes until a few braver members of the assemblage joined them. He appeared unengaged in the conversation as he scanned the crowd as if searching for someone. If she had to endure watching him dallying with some other woman, Sophia might shatter into a million insignificant pieces.
He turned his head in her direction and their gazes met.
Immediately the bright colors and people within the ballroom faded to muted shades of gray and brown as if an artist took sepia to them, forcing them into the background to leave Westfield standing alone in the massive room.
“Do you not agree, Sophia?” Thomas asked.
Startled, she looked back at Thomas and Lord Pendleton. They awaited her response. She wasn’t sure what Thomas had said. However, they rarely disagreed. “Of course,” she replied.
Pendleton nodded in concurrence, and the discussion between the two gentlemen moved along at a rapid clip.
Sophia’s gaze swung back to Westfield.
He was gone.
She scanned the room. He stood a few yards away, moving toward her. Her stomach lurched. Surely, he didn’t intend to engage her in conversation.
A petite woman placed a halting hand on Westfield’s upper arm. The blond-haired woman with her bow-shaped mouth and skin the color of fine bone china carried herself with the air of blue-blooded superiority. Her eyes were an extraordinary green. Their color, along with their shape, reminded Sophia of the archangel cats she’d seen exhibited at the Crystal Palace.
The beauty slid her fingers to Westfield’s chest. The touch spoke of familiarity.
Lovers? Of course. Sophia placed a palm to her abdomen. How inconsequential she’d been.
Westfield whispered something into the woman’s ear.
The woman laughed.
Sophia looked away. She didn’t want to witness their amorous play. She tried to become engaged in Thomas and Lord Pendleton’s conversation, but morbid curiosity drew her gaze back to Westfield.
With taut features, he stared at the blonde, then motioned to his brother-in-law, Lord Prescott, or the man standing next to him. She’d seen the other gentleman before. He was a patient of Thomas’s. He had something to do with the Home Office or Scotland Yard. Yes. Sir Edmund Henderson, the commissioner of Scotland Yard.
Westfield and the woman drew several people’s attention. He flashed them an amiable smile, but when his attention returned to the green-eyed woman, his own eyes were like shards of steel. If the lady was a lover, she had fallen out of favor. He stepped away, but the woman’s fingers clasped possessively onto his forearm. He removed her hand from his sleeve and strode away.
He stared at Sophia—moved toward her. She controlled the desire to grab the skirts of her gown and flee. It would draw too much attention if she ran. She glanced back at Thomas and Lord Pendleton, now engaged in an animated conversation about politics and the general election. Her hands trembled. Wrapping one around the other, she steadied them. She needed to excuse herself—walk calmly from the ballroom and gather her faculties. She waited for a lull in their conversation, tried to resist the urge to interrupt them, but in the end, she did so anyway. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Thomas smiled, and then a shadow cut across his face. His gaze shifted to someone who stood directly behind her.
Westfield. She knew it without turning around—the warmth of his body singed her back, and his clean, masculine scent drifted in the air.
“Well, Westfield.” The elderly Pendleton lifted his pince-nez to his nose. “Fancy seeing you here. I do say you cut a fine dash for a man who’s recently had the lead picked out of him.”
Westfield moved to stand next to her and gave Pendleton a wry smile. He shifted closer, and his arm brushed against her skin, sending a wave of awareness through her body.
“Miss Camden, I hope the evening finds you well,” he said, practically ignoring the two gentlemen.
His deep voice set her further on edge.
Stay calm.
With a slight inclination of her head, she replied, “Quite well, Lord Westfield.” Her voice sounded steady, even though her chest felt as though a ham-fingered physician percussed it.
“Gentlemen,” Thomas said, “I think you’ll have to excuse Miss Camden and me. I believe the musicians are about to start another set, and she has graciously promised me a dance.”
“Of course,” Pendleton responded.
As Thomas took her elbow to usher her toward the dance floor, Westfield stepped into their path. “Miss Camden, may I have the honor of the next set?”
Goodness, no. She didn’t want him to hold her—to experience the desire his proximity always evoked.
Thomas’s jaw visibly clenched. He opened his mouth, then glanced at Pendleton before returning his gaze to Westfield. “My lord, as your physician, I must advise you against dancing. You do not wish to impair your recovery.”
Westfield smiled at Thomas, but the expression lacked any warmth. “Ah, Trimble, as always you are the voice of reason.” He held her gaze. “Miss Camden, I fear I must retract my offer. My physician feels it unwise.” He paused. “Will you honor me with a stroll in the conservatory instead? My sister tells me she has added some remarkable new rose specimens that I am most eager to see.”
What poppycock! He most likely wished for another meaningless assignation. She wanted to refuse his invitation, but Pendleton’s rapt attention centered on them. “I would be honored, my lord,” she replied, and walked away.