The Secret Lover Read online

  Even more than that, his curiosity about her was now overwhelming. Who was this woman, Sophie Dane?

  He had missed her today, more than he would have thought possible after such a short acquaintance, and certainly more than was reasonable in light of his recent attempts to force her from his mind. But he could still taste her, feel her in his arms. Could still feel the uncommonly strong desire to be touching her. Unfortunately, other issues had arisen that he could not avoid—Trevor’s unexpected trip to the country park, to a racing meet, to be exact.

  Caleb didn’t know exactly what he thought he might discover in following Trevor—some clue as to his father’s true condition, he supposed—but he had been overwhelmingly compelled when he had seen him leaving Bedford Square this morning, looking furtively about, as if he were trying to hide. Whatever Caleb had suspected, it had not been horse racing—honestly, he had thought it more sinister than that, given that Trevor had publicly and privately worked so hard to keep him from seeing his father.

  But it had been nothing more than a gentleman’s foray into a bit of sport, and Caleb would have sent word to Sophie somehow had he known, but by the time he realized how far they would go, it was too late.

  He extracted another cheroot from his coat pocket and lit it. Drawing the smoke into his lungs, he glanced up at the bay window again, wished he could see her smile, that guileless, heartwarming smile. Wished even more fervently that he might kiss those unsmiling lips again.

  And soon.

  Chapter Seven

  SOPHIE HAD NOT even finished her toilette the next day before Ann sailed in and plopped herself down on an overstuffed armchair. “Sophie, Sophie,” she said with a smile. “I’ve heard already how Hamilton could not take his eyes from you last evening—you must tell me everything!”

  The speed of rumor and innuendo among the ton had always amazed Sophie, but this was absurd. She snorted disdainfully and resumed the brushing of her long brown hair. “It was scandalous! There were not one dozen guests as he had assured me, but two dozen.”

  “Very amusing. Come on, then, tell me all!”

  “All right.” Sophie put down her brush. “If you must know, what transpired was a perfectly awful evening. Everyone looked at me as if I had been convicted of high treason. Melinda Birdwell did her best to unhinge me, and Honorine is absolutely besotted with Lord Hamilton! Need I go on?”

  Ann sighed, drummed her fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. “No one looked at you in any such way, Sophie. Your imagination is far too industrious.”

  Oh, righto, there it was—she had merely imagined everything.

  “And Melinda Birdwell is hardly worth your consideration. That woman has the poise of a whale.”

  That, she could hardly argue.

  “As for Madame Fortier”—Ann sighed heavily—“what can one do? But never mind all that!” she said, brightening again. “What of Hamilton?”

  Sophie shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t pretend to understand it, but he does seem rather infatuated with me.”

  Ann’s instant squeal of glee made Sophie groan; she abruptly stood and moved restlessly to the window, shaking her head. “No, no, Ann, this is not good! Honestly, this is Trevor Hamilton! He was the most sought after bachelor in Mayfair the year I made my debut and he scarcely noticed me then. Why now? Why after all that has happened? I cannot help but wonder what he means by it all. Is it my inheritance, do you think? Perhaps he has not heard there is hardly anything left of it after my divorce.”

  “Oh Sophie!” Ann exclaimed, instantly joining her at the window. She put her arm around Sophie’s waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. “There is much for Mr. Hamilton to admire. You are entirely too critical of yourself. You’re witty, and very clever. You’ve traveled extensively and seen quite a lot of the world. Why should he not admire you?”

  “I should debate you on the list of my attributes, but I think the most glaring reason is my past, and as much as I would like to believe it were not true, and as much as I would like to hope that I am not ruined in the eyes of the ton, I cannot believe Mr. Hamilton would risk his good name or that of his son for an association with me.”

  That declaration drew only silence from Ann. Her arm fell away from Sophie’s waist; she moved to the dressing table, idly fingered the bottles there. Sophie was absolutely right, and they both knew it.

  The awkward silence between them was interrupted by the commotion of Honorine bursting into her dressing room, waving a paper in her hand. “Sophia! You must see this what I have!” she exclaimed. “Bonjour, Madame Annie!”

  Ann did not respond; she seemed a bit distracted by Honorine’s yellow-and-black-striped caftan that resembled a very large bumblebee.

  Honorine waved the paper at Sophie again. “Do you see? A picnic! J’adore the picnic!” she said, clasping the paper to her breast. “I tell you this, Sofia, and you do not believe! Monsieur Hamilton, he favors you very well!”

  Sophie was instantly on her feet; she snatched the paper from Honorine’s hand and scanned the invitation with Ann craning to see over her shoulder.

  It was a picnic, all right, in Regent’s Park the following afternoon, and both she and Honorine had been invited.

  “This is marvelous!” Ann cried gleefully.

  “Oui, très bien!” Honorine eagerly agreed.

  “Oh dear God,” Sophie muttered, and falling onto the bench at her vanity, pressed her forehead against her palm.

  She had no say in the response—“Madame Annie” and Honorine penned it instantly, then sent a grousing Roland to deliver it right away. No matter how much or loudly Sophie insisted she did not want to attend the picnic, Ann and Honorine turned a deaf ear, dismissing her discomfort as maidenly jitters.

  Sophie spent a miserable afternoon in her rooms, alternately fretting about the blasted picnic and debating whether or not she should venture to Regent’s Park as she did every day on the slim chance that Caleb might come again.

  She understood, of course, that her fierce infatuation with Caleb Hamilton was unaccountable—after all, she hardly knew him, really. But she did feel a bond, felt it deeply in her bones. There was something between them that seemed right and natural and perfect—she could not believe it was only the eagerness of a lonely divorcée.

  But he had not come yesterday, and that had stung her. Although she understood that any number of things might have detained him, it hurt nonetheless. Whatever the reason, she knew with all certainty that if he did not come to the park today, she would not be able to bear it.

  So she did not go.

  The next morning, she avoided the issue altogether by calling on Upper Moreland Street, dragging Roland and Fabrice in tow.

  Naturally, she had debated appearing with the two Frenchmen, lest she ruin her budding friendship with Nancy. But they were two men she could trust, and the fact of the matter was, they had a wonderful eye when it came to clothing. They were frustrated modistes, she had decided, particularly because Honorine refused their considerable help.

  The two had been rather suspicious when she told them of the outing, but curious as to what she was about, and bored with the happenings at Maison de Fortier, now that they had settled into some sort of unspoken arrangement with Lucie Cowplain, they donned their best coats and came along.

  Nancy did not do a very good job of hiding her shock when Sophie introduced Fabrice and Roland to her, and seemed very apprehensive about showing them to the small attic room where the clothes were kept. But the moment they crossed the threshold, Fabrice let out a shriek and pounced on a china-blue silk gown. He held it up to himself, whirled around to Roland, and cried, “Magnifique!”

  “Aye, I rather thought so myself,” Nancy said.

  Both men jerked around to her. In French, Roland said to Fabrice, “but she is perfect.” Fabrice nodded. Together they advanced on Nancy, who, trapped behind the small door, had no means of escape. Yet she was smiling at her image in the mirror a half-hour later,
admiring the elegant coif and gown in which Roland and Fabrice had dressed her.

  When it became apparent to Sophie that they thought to dress themselves in the gowns next, she sent them on to a cobbler with a box of slippers to be repaired. They left chattering excitedly—something to do with a ball, she noted wearily.

  She and Nancy sat in the tiny room on the third floor amid the donated clothing and sorted through a pile of slippers and shoes as Sophie told Nancy about the supper party, and the subsequent invitation to the picnic this afternoon.

  She did not mention Caleb. He was her secret.

  Nancy laughed heartily at her distress over Hamilton. “Ah, luv, why are you so determined to find ill will in your Mr. Hamilton? Perhaps he is wiser than you know.”

  “Meaning?” she demanded.

  “Meaning,” Nancy said with a look, “that perhaps he don’t give a whit what the high and mighty society folk think. Perhaps he would judge his acquaintances by their good character.”

  Sophie snorted loudly to that, for which she received a withering look from Nancy.

  With a sheepish shrug, she tossed another shoe aside. “All right then, what have we left?” she asked, changing the subject, and surveyed the room they had cluttered.

  “The bonnets. Ah, but we’ll sort through them in no time at all, we will. Where do you think to sell all these things?”

  “I’m not certain,” Sophie said. “We could sell them to a proprietor on High Street, but I rather believe we’d see a better result if we sold them ourselves. The only question is, where?”

  “Covent Garden. We should do nicely there, I would think,” Nancy offered.

  “Yes, I thought of that, and I have the funds to construct the booth. But I must ask my brother to broker a lease agreement for it—he should not object. I will speak with him soon.”

  Satisfied with their plan, Sophie and Nancy finished putting the clothing in some order. It was early afternoon when Sophie bid her friend a good day—promising to return with Fabrice and Roland soon—and walked to the corner of Essex Street to wait for a hack.

  She glanced at her watch; the Hamilton picnic would begin soon. She could, if she were of a mind, walk by the pond on her way to this blasted picnic. Perhaps he would be there. Perhaps he would be waiting for her.

  Ridiculous! Men did not wait for her. Caleb Hamilton had enjoyed her company for a space of time, but it was over.

  A hack appeared in the bend of Essex Street and pulled to the curb alongside her. “To Regent’s Park,” she called to the driver, and climbed in, busied herself with arranging her skirts as she waited for the hack to pull forward. But instead of moving, the door opened and someone came inside, landing heavily on the bench beside her and on her skirts.

  Frowning lightly, Sophie glanced at the intruder from the corner of her eye—Caleb!

  The shock of seeing him sitting beside her left her momentarily speechless; she simply could not comprehend how he could be in this hack, at this hour, in this part of London.

  He grinned cheerfully.

  And Sophie realized his thigh was pressed along the length of hers. The full length. She could feel the heat of his flesh through their clothing, spreading quickly, coursing along her spine. Heat inflamed her face; she abruptly looked down to hide it as she attempted to find her tongue.

  “Yes, well, I suppose I deserve that.”

  “Deserve what?” she asked stiffly, amazed that she was able to say any thing at all.

  “Your shoulder instead of your beautiful smile. You are angry with me.”

  “Angry?” She rolled her eyes, looked out the window. “Why on earth should I be angry?”

  Caleb laughed, grasped her hand tightly in his. “Ah, then you have missed me!”

  “I did not miss you—”

  “You did!”

  “I did not!”

  “I missed you.”

  That shut her up. Catching her surprise in her throat, she stole a glance at him. He was holding a small nosegay. A nosegay! Where had that come from?

  He held it out to her, his smile brightening.

  What a handsome man he was…and she was keenly conscious of every fiber where they touched, the scent of leather and horse and faint cologne that clung to him. This was awful, completely wretched! Yes, but something had awakened in her, something that had lain dormant for far too long, burning her from the inside out and making her shiver with the heat of it.

  The very base truth was that she longed for a man’s touch, longed to be held, to be caressed, to be kissed again as he had kissed her. She looked down, to where his hand covered hers, his fingers tightly encased in leather gloves, long fingers that had undoubtedly pleasured a woman…

  She suddenly pressed her palm to her cheek, jostling him in the process.

  “Thank God, you are smiling—I was beginning to fear your mouth was permanently affixed in a frown.”

  Was she smiling? This was madness! She was aroused, could not ignore the feel of his leg or his arm against her, could not stop imagining his hand on her breast.

  “How did you find me?” she asked as she reluctantly took the nosegay he offered and brought it to her nose.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you—a bit of dumb luck, really. And now that you have ended my misery with that smile, I am desperate to know if you intend to walk about Regent’s Park today.”

  “Desperate?”

  “Yes, indeed, madam,” he said earnestly. “I have been deprived of the pleasure of your company for two and one-half days now, and I am quite certain I shall expire if I am to be deprived of a full third.”

  “Deprived!” Sophie snorted at that.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you have been in your usual company, sir.”

  “My usual company? What do you mean?”

  She squirmed a bit, shoved the nosegay to her face again. “You know very well what I mean…the company that you are rumored to keep. Particularly at night.”

  “At night,” he echoed, sounding as if he were sorting out some puzzle. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Sophie sighed, glanced heavenward. “The ladies,” she insisted.

  “Oh?” He sounded surprised. “Is that what is said about me?”

  Honestly, now he sounded pleased!

  Caleb laughed, grasped her hand. “Oh come now, there is only you, Sophie Dane. If there are rumors of others, it is nothing more than that—a rumor.”

  She frowned, sniffed the nosegay again. “I am not a schoolgirl.”

  “You are hardly that, I would agree. Really, if there were others, do you think I would spend every day with you in my house? Would I not drag scads of admirers through? No, there is only you, and I shall say again, if you deprive me of the pleasure of your company a third day, I will expire, I promise you.”

  Sophie couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “You’ll hardly expire, sir.”

  “How do you know? You won’t want to chance it, I assure you. Come on then; say you will walk with me.”

  The Hamilton picnic. Her destination rudely interjected itself into her thoughts; her shoulders sagged. “I…I’m sorry, but I have accepted another engagement.”

  “Oh.” He looked a bit bewildered by that. “Another engagement. I see.”

  Sophie twisted the nosegay in her hand.

  “And you thought I was the gadabout?” He flashed her a weak smile, then shrugged and looked out the window as the hack pulled alongside the entrance to Regent’s Park. “And what is this engagement? Perhaps I can suggest to the old boy that I found you first—”

  “No! I mean…perhaps we might walk another day.”

  Caleb frowned. “Another day? I can’t imagine that I might wait so long as ‘another day.’ I should really find this chap and have a bit of conversation—”

  The thought of Caleb suggesting anything to Trevor Hamilton sprouted a whole new panic in Sophie, and as the coachman opened the door, she jerked forward in her
haste to disembark, but in her squirming, she had managed to get the hoops of her underskirt latched onto the iron bed of the bench. Just when she might have sailed gracefully out the door, she bounced back onto the bench.

  “See there? You don’t want to meet this bloke.”

  “He’s not a bloke. Oh dear, I have managed to catch myself—”

  “Yes, I see the problem,” he said, and turned to the coachman, who held the door open for Sophie. “If you would be so kind, sir, as to give us a moment. It would seem the lady has caught her heel.” He winked at Sophie, leaned over, and lifted her skirt. “Ah yes, you’ve done it up right, haven’t you? If I may be so bold, I believe I can dislodge you if I am allowed to acquaint myself with your foot.”

  “That won’t be necessary—”

  “I’m afraid it will,” he easily countered, and his hand wrapped around her ankle.

  Sophie all but came out of her skin. His touch fired the heat in her belly to a boiling pitch. As he stretched her leg out, her heart tumbled and began beating against her breast with the force of ten men.

  “There you go. Free as a bird,” he said, but instead of letting go, he caressed her ankle with the heel of his hand.

  The sensation was like lightning. Liquid lightning across her skin. Carefully, slowly, he turned her foot, stroked it with his fingers. “What a lovely ankle you have,” he murmured. His fingers trailed up her calf, toward her knee, tracing little figures on her skin, his touch feather light—and highly erotic.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir!” the driver called up through the open door.

  Her foot fell to the floorboards with a thud. Caleb adjusted his neckcloth and cleared his throat. “So he’s not a bloke, eh?” he asked again, his warm green eyes fixed steadily on her.

  She had to get out of that hack, now, before she melted. “Um, no, not really. Thank you, Caleb,” she croaked, and pushed away from the bench, stumbling awkwardly into the coachman as she shoved through the small opening, and nearly twisting her ankle as she landed hard on the street. Marvelous. Once again, she had made a complete goose of herself. She looked back as Caleb very gracefully exited the hack.