The Secret Lover Read online

  “But then again, I suppose it must be quite an efficient form of travel.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said eagerly. “The speed with which people and goods can be moved could mean a whole new era for the nation’s commerce. And travel. As one who travels, surely you can appreciate the convenience.”

  She pondered that, nodding slowly.

  “Do you travel often?” he asked, motioning them to proceed ahead.

  “I do, actually. I am the companion of a Frenchwoman, and it is her pleasure to travel quite frequently.”

  “Ah, splendid! What places have you seen, then?”

  “Italy. And Portugal, then Spain. Italy again, then on to Vienna, Stockholm—”

  “Good Lord, Miss Dane,” he exclaimed with a laugh. “I thought that perhaps you had been all the way to Paris, but Stockholm? Vienna? Fascinating! What is the most interesting of them, do you think?”

  How he did it, she couldn’t fathom, but Sophie fell into an easy discussion of her time abroad, and as it happened, he had been to many of the same locations. It amazed her how easily the conversation flowed between them. He seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying, at least as much as she was interested in him. He never took his eyes from her, smiled genuinely, and by the time they reached the site of his house, they were laughing with one another about the peculiarities of the Spaniards, as if they had been friends for weeks instead of minutes.

  Mr. Hamilton was eager to show her the house he was building. He walked her around through the rough wood frames, painting the different rooms of his house with his hands, pointing out where he intended to put different amenities. His enthusiasm was contagious—Sophie could actually see his house as he talked, could envision the splendor of it. It would obviously be a grand home, and it was just as obvious that Mr. Hamilton was very proud of the house as well as the fact that he was building it with his own hands.

  When they had at last finished the tour, they took a leisurely stroll around the other side of the pond to the wrought iron bench where they had first met. After Sophie assured him she was quite capable of reaching home on her own—he was adamant in his desire to see her there—he finally relented, took her hand in his, and smiled as he leaned over it and kissed the back of her hand. A fire instantly scorched her arm.

  “Thank you, Miss Dane, for a perfectly lovely afternoon. I have not enjoyed myself so completely in some time.”

  Lovely hardly began to describe how Sophie felt at the moment, and she cast him what she knew was a perfectly silly smile.

  “I suppose it rather bold of me, but would I be so fortunate as to have the pleasure of your company again?” he asked, letting go her hand. “On the morrow, perhaps?”

  She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t—one afternoon with a scoundrel was quite enough, wasn’t it? She could not be thinking to continue this, no matter how much she had enjoyed herself—it was disastrous. Not to mention pointless. And imbecilic, if not downright dangerous. “I would like that very much, sir,” she said, smiling like an idiot.

  “Marvelous! I look forward to our meeting then, Miss Dane. Very much so.” He stood for a moment, looking at her, seeming to take in the features of her face before he lifted his hand to the brim of his hat. “Good day then,” he said, and stepped away.

  “Good day, Mr. Hamilton.”

  She waited until he had disappeared around the bend in the path, watching the powerful stride of his muscular legs as he walked. When she could no longer see him, Sophie practically skipped in the opposite direction.

  It had been a splendid day, an absolutely glorious one, and while a small voice inside her head told her it was foolishness to pursue this any further, she could hardly wait for night to fall and morning to come so she could return to the park.

  Which is precisely what she did the next afternoon, having heard enough of Honorine ramble on about Will and Ian, and having received a note from Ann that her modiste would have the gown delivered by Tuesday afternoon, in the unlikely event last minute alterations were needed. Which gown Ann had selected was unknown to her, and she might have protested loudly—but as it stood, she could only think about the handsome Mr. Caleb Hamilton and their scheduled meeting.

  She arrived at the usual time, wearing a plain brown gown that was so dull she had sought one of Honorine’s many scarves to brighten it up. In her basket, she had packed a delicious pâtè de foie gras she had learned to make in Paris, a wheat brot she had learned in Stockholm, and a selection of Italian olives Honorine had carried for the last four years and would never realize were missing. She fairly flew to the park, not allowing herself even a moment to think of her folly. His company made her feel giddy and light; it was as if she were walking about in a happy dream. She was not Sophie Dane, she was a woman with desires and hopes who knew what she wanted—and that most decidedly was not Sophie.

  Much to her great delight…and truthfully, her great relief…Mr. Hamilton arrived at his usual time, proclaimed her radiant, and took an immediate interest in her basket. Sophie explained she had made the contents; he looked quite surprised by that, but was eager to sample everything. They selected a spot under a weeping willow tree, where Mr. Hamilton spread his coat for her to sit. Mr. Hamilton ate every last bite of everything she offered him, then proclaimed her the cleverest of all women for having learned such culinary talents.

  After they finished the meal, he propped himself against the weeping willow and spoke easily of how he had come to invest in the rail system with what he had inherited from his mother’s estate. He said he was in London to visit his father, whom he had not seen in more than one year. He did not offer anything further, for which Sophie was very glad. She did not want to let on that she knew anything about him, not yet, and least of all, that he was purportedly an imposter. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  In turn, he asked her about herself, and she spoke more than she had in ages, telling him more about her travels, artfully skipping many details before her life with Honorine. And while Caleb recognized her family name, he did not appear to know of her scandal, for which Sophie was ecstatically thankful.

  They parted company more wistfully than before, with a promise to meet again. And meet they did, every day that week. Sophie told no one of her meetings in the park, and the irony was not lost on her that she was, once again, sneaking behind her family’s back to meet a man. Yet she did not dare breathe a word, lest they attempt to stop her from coming to the park. She needed this, needed the secret sweetness of it, the sunlight he was forcing into her life. Honestly, she did not care where this growing infatuation took her—she was, quite simply, living for the beauty of the moment.

  She so enjoyed Caleb’s companionship. For the first time in years—her lifetime, really—she felt truly at ease. They laughed easily with one another, and sometimes it seemed there was so much that they had in common, she felt as if she had known him all her life. They liked the same literature, the same music composers. They both preferred country living to life in London, both professed a profound dislike of singing at supper parties. She believed he was someone to whom she might say anything without fear of retribution, a man who valued friendship as much as she, but privacy, too. He possessed many attributes she wished she had, and all the characteristics of a man she thought she would never know.

  Moreover, with each day that passed, Sophie felt herself becoming more and more physically attracted to him. He made her blood rush hot when he smiled, made her skin turn to fire when he casually touched her. She could not remember being so physically affected in all her life, but this man, he seemed to seep through her skin and consume her imagination. She dreamed of lovemaking, would watch his big hands and imagine them on her body, watch him laugh and imagine his mouth on her…all of her. She stole glimpses of his hips, his legs, would wonder whimsically how lovely it might be to feel him deep inside her, moving in time to the rhythm of life.

  Sophie was not the only one experiencing such a profound co
nnection. Caleb felt it, too, stronger than he had ever felt anything in his life. He asked one day, as they strolled through the gardens of Regent’s Park, if they might address each other by their given names, to which she readily agreed. He discovered she had a wonderful sense of humor, and together they laughed about everything and nothing. Each time she left him, she took a little bit more of him with her, and left him marveling at what he believed was a heartfelt bond between them.

  In truth, he had never had a relationship like this with a woman—or a man, for that matter. His life as the bastard child of a wealthy viscount had left him with few acquaintances that were not repelled by his status; even fewer who were not ashamed to call him friend. As a result, he had spent a lonely youth and a rather solitary existence for a grown man, answering his physical needs at brothels, maintaining nothing more than superficial ties, and always moving about, particularly now, what with his interest in the burgeoning railroad.

  But Sophie was very different. She was guileless, artless, and seemed to be genuinely interested in him.

  They spent a lot of time at his house, inspecting the construction as it was completed. She asked him several questions and seemed genuinely engrossed in the various methods of construction he was employing, listening carefully as he explained them. She also offered her opinion on the more aesthetic aspects when he asked, and much to his delight, Caleb discovered they had similar tastes in such things as furnishings and wall dressings. It was Sophie who suggested a window in the morning room, remarking that the rising sun always made her feel quite rejuvenated. And, she had added, blushing slightly, a window on the east wall had the added benefit of allowing him to see the pond where they had first met. That was enough to make him seriously consider the improvement.

  One afternoon, they wandered idly through the ballroom that was nearing completion. The only thing that remained was the frieze moldings and painting. Caleb watched Sophie as she strolled into the middle of the room, and with hands clasped behind her back, she gazed up at the ceiling where a workman had begun to lay a papier-mâché frieze of grapevines. As she stood in the center of the room, he imagined her in the completed ballroom, wearing a gown fit for a queen, smiling that genuinely sweet smile as guests swirled about her in time to the music of a waltz. The image was so real, he could almost hear the music, and impulsively, he crossed the room and grabbed her hand.

  “What?” she asked, laughing.

  “Dance?”

  “Dance?” She laughed again as he began to hum a waltz. “All right then,” she said with a smile, “make me sway, sir, if you can.”

  He twirled her from one end of the room to the other, artfully avoiding ladders and buckets. The fit of her in his arms was perfect, the feel of her divine. And as he looked down, she gazed up at him with eyes that seemed like endless pools, reflecting his own hot passion back to him. It was a raging thing now, a desperation to touch her, to taste her lips. Caleb slowed the waltz, coming to a standstill in the middle of the room, unable to take his eyes from her. There was something about this woman that had slipped under his skin and had lodged there, could not be shaken loose. His hand drifted up her ribcage, to the side of her breast; she drew a small, uneven breath. His gaze dropped to her lips, ripe and full, and before he could stop himself, he bent his head to brush those lips with his own.

  Her body seemed to rise up to meet him and melt into his embrace all at once. He felt her hand go round his neck, felt her breast press against his chest and hand. He tightened his hold on her, molded her plump lips with his mouth and teeth, savoring the sweet taste of her with his tongue. Sophie pressed against him and sighed, opening her mouth beneath his, inviting him into her warmth. He boldly swept into her mouth; her breath shot down his body like lightning, inflaming every fiber, burning every place they touched. He felt himself go hard, impulsively dropped his hand to her hips and pressed her against the rigid length of his cock. God, he wanted her. Wanted her there, on the muslin cloth that protected the floor. Wanted her so badly that his body ached with it, ached like he had not since he was a boy.

  Ached so much that he finally forced himself to lift his head. He gazed down at her, amazed that her dark eyes seemed, impossibly, even deeper. Her lips were slightly swollen from the passionate kiss they had just shared, enticing him further. With a sigh, he brought his hands to the sides of her face, kissed her forehead, then caressed the length of her arms with his hands. Oh yes, he wanted her, as badly as he had ever wanted a woman…but he had no right to want her. Not like this. He would not charm his way into her petticoats as he was accustomed to doing. She deserved so much more than that.

  So much better than he.

  She seemed to read his mind. “I should go,” she whispered, and he nodded. She smiled, lifted her hand, and pressed it against his cheek. “Caleb,” she murmured, as if testing his name on her lips. She came up on her toes, softly kissed the corner of his mouth, then glided down again, stepping away from his embrace.

  “Good-bye,” she said, moving unsteadily toward the door, turned halfway around so she could see him as she left.

  Words escaped him; he said nothing, just watched her disappear through the door, then leaned heavily against a ladder, unnerved by that kiss and the raw sensations it had dredged up in him. Raw need. Bloody hell, he had long ago made a pact with himself, had sworn he would never fall in love—what point was there in it? He had no name to offer a woman, especially a woman as pure and gracious as Sophie. What in bloody hell was he doing, then?

  He turned away from the door, stared at the blank wall before him. He had come here with a purpose, and that was not to go chasing after some blue blood. He was not of her class—she was too far above him to ever make this real, and he would do himself a world of good if he focused on his reason for being in London at all.

  Caleb shook his head, tried to dissipate the fog in which she had left him, but it was no use. He forced himself to make his way to the morning room, where he found a hammer and some tenpenny nails. He picked up a piece of molding and began to hammer the feel of her body from his mind.

  The following day was Wednesday, the day of the dreaded Hamilton supper party, from which Sophie had not been able to extract herself.

  On Wednesday, Caleb did not come to the pond.

  Sophie sat for two hours on the wrought iron bench, watching the men across the pond as they worked on Caleb’s house and checking the small watch pinned to her breast almost constantly. Each minute that passed without sight of Caleb was longer than the last. At first she told herself that he was merely late. Soon, she was reminding herself that he had not said with all certainty he would come today. But he came every day.

  Surely he would come today, especially after the kiss they had shared.

  When it was apparent that he was not coming, Sophie mentally reviewed a list of reasons why he had not come—he had been unavoidably detained, he was ill. He had fallen from his horse and died. She tried very hard to ignore a little voice that sounded remarkably like Ann, a voice which told her that he could very well be an imposter, a scoundrel, a blackguard with little regard for her feelings. She had fantasized the connection between them, had attributed feelings and meaning to his word and kiss that were not there. It certainly would not be the first time, would it?

  Yet even though she could not ignore the voice, she still could not believe it. The Caleb Hamilton she knew did not have it in him to be so callously deceiving. And as she gathered up her things and took one last look at the house across the pond, she very firmly reminded herself that she had no right to expect him to come. She had no right to expect anything of him at all.

  No right, perhaps, but she thought of him every waking moment, impatient with the thoughts that cluttered her mind that were not about him. He was never gone from her thoughts, even for a moment, and she had absolutely no idea how she would endure the Hamilton supper party tonight, especially now, especially since he had not come.

  Chapter Six

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nbsp; AT PRECISELY TWO minutes past nine o’clock, Trevor Hamilton leaned against the corridor wall and watched as Lady Sophie Dane entered the foyer of his father’s home and handed her bonnet to the footman. She smoothed her hands down the front of her gown—a rather sedate shade of blue, he thought—and then nervously clasped them together as she quickly took in her surroundings.

  Beside her, the Frenchwoman was chattering away as if the footman were her host. She was, in Trevor’s opinion, an insufferable woman. As she had called on his father almost every day this week, he had chance to hear firsthand the foolishness with which she filled Ian’s head—not to mention the viscount. She was the type of woman who should be reined in, who could learn a bit of respect for those on whom she imposed.

  She could learn to be more like Lady Sophie.

  Ah, Lady Sophie. It was interesting to see her after all these years, he thought, as she calmly took the bonnet the Frenchwoman thrust at her and handed it to the footman. Her subdued, demure demeanor appealed to him. Truthfully, he could scarcely remember the scared little rabbit that had caused such a delicious scandal all those years ago—she had been almost as unnoticeable as the umbrella stand by which she now stood. Amazing that, with a few years, she had become so disimpassioned, the epitome of quiet grace. Yes, this Lady Sophie appealed to him a great deal. In fact, she was the first woman to have interested him since Elspeth had died two years ago. Quiet, unassuming. Obedient. Rich.

  Trevor sauntered forward.

  Sophie glanced up as he approached, noticed the way in which he looked at her and felt her cheeks color instantly. As Hamilton reached them, he paused, said a curt hello to Honorine, then turned fully to Sophie. She very reluctantly offered her hand. He took it too eagerly.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Oh,” she said with a nervous little laugh that she despised, “how kind of you to invite us. Madame Fortier and I…we are very grateful of your hospitality.”