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“I think we are finished anyway,” Mrs Harding announced. “Come girls.”
Lucy and Charlotte obediently headed for the door and Sophy followed, aware of the eyes still boring into her back, just as Harry stepped in.
Because Sophy was distracted she bumped right into him. He reached to steady her, and the shock of him touching her, even through her clothing, was such that she gasped. Despite the warning bells chiming in her head she lifted her face to his.
He’d been smiling, about to apologise, but stopped. There were shadows beneath his dark eyes, as if he’d spent a restless night. A lock of hair had fallen over his brow, and his strong jaw was clean shaven above his white neckcloth. He looked fashionable and handsome and completely beyond her reach.
And still she wanted him.
Sophy felt raw and exposed. Her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings because she had had no time to prepare. No time to put on her indifferent mask.
No time for anything but to stare back at him with her heart on display.
“Sophy!” Mrs Harding called sharply, and at the same time the Dowager Countess shrilled, “Harry!”
He came to his senses just as Sophy did, and with a brief and less than elegant bow, brushed past her into the shop. Sophy carried on through the door, feeling light-headed. Mrs Harding surged ahead, clearly angry, but Sophy told herself it wasn’t her fault. How could she have known Harry would appear like that? How could she have been ready for it?
“The way he stared at you!” whispered Charlotte, clasping her arm with excitement. “Sophy, you cannot tell me he does not love you still!”
Mrs Harding hissed out a warning, and they reached the coach that Sir Geoffrey had supplied, climbing inside. Sophy was still too shocked to speak. She looked at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. She didn’t want to talk about it. She needed to gather her wits. She needed …
“There will be trouble over this,” Mrs Harding spoke like a prophet of doom.
Sophy said nothing. She was too busy trying not to remember the look on Harry’s face, as if he had been struck by lightning, and Charlotte’s words: You cannot tell me that he does not love you still.
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Chapter 22
HARRY
The Earl of Monkstead was holding one of his famous soirees at his town house in Mockingbird Square. Rumour had it that he liked to throw together the most interesting people from the Season’s current crop for his own amusement. Harry suspected that was why he was here this evening, as well as Evelyn and Oscar, and Adam and Lady Felicia.
He didn’t feel particularly interesting, or amusing. Especially when James and Digby Abbott arrived, followed by Sophy and her steely eyed chaperone, Mrs Harding, and the two daughters. And the fact that Sophy took one glance at his frowning face, and immediately went in the opposite direction … That didn’t amuse him either.
The meal itself was delicious, of course, and there were plenty of other guests to keep the conversation flowing. Monkstead sat at the head of his table, darkly handsome and enigmatic, watching the interactions. Harry had heard there was a wife somewhere in the background but no one really knew the story, although there were plenty eager to speculate.
Sophy wasn’t close enough for him to speak to, but he could see her smiling at those on either side of her. Her blue gown matched the colour of her eyes and the neckline gave him a glimpse of the pale swell of her breasts. A white ribbon was sewn into the high waist, with a bow at the front. His fingers itched to pull it undone.
He watched her smile at her dinner companions and he found himself fascinated by the candlelight shining in her hair, which was starting to escape its pins. The older gentleman to her left seemed smitten by her charming manners while the younger one to her right leered as if he had plans for her that Harry didn’t want to think about. And all that time she didn’t look at him once, which irked him more with every passing moment.
After the meal there was music. A woman sang to the accompaniment of a pianoforte, which also reminded Harry of Sophy, singing with her eyes closed during the Christmas dinner at Pendleton. Everything reminded him of Sophy these days—he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was as if she was locked inside his head and he had lost the key to let her out. Was he turning into his father, fantasising about one woman when he was engaged to another?
While the vocalist performed, he sat toward the back of the room, far enough away from the others to ensure they could not read his expression. After the incident in Covent Garden, he thought it best not to risk it. Lady Helen had chastised him in a furious tone that had made everyone stare.
Had he really looked like a dying duck in a thunderstorm? And who would have imagined Lady Helen to have known such a vulgar expression let alone speak it aloud? All the same he admitted it had been a surprise to see Sophy there, right in front of him. Her big blue eyes gazing up into his and her lips parted as she gave a short gasp. He swore he could still smell the summer scents of the white garden at Pendleton on her skin.
He’d felt a jolt so hard to his heart that he’d wondered if it had shattered. That would have explained his inability to speak or move. Although he’d wanted to. A hot river of need had run through him. He was hard, ready, and close to being out of control, right there in public. If they’d been alone he knew he would have grabbed her to him and kissed her. Kissed her until she did not want to run away ever again.
The music came to an end and there was polite applause, shaking him back to the present. The soloist launched into her next piece. Guiltily, Harry’s gaze sought out his fiancé. Evelyn was seated several seats in front of him, beside an old school friend she had discovered was also present. Harry allowed himself to examine her dispassionately.
The curve of her cheek wasn’t as full as Sophy’s and her nose was more patrician. Her dark hair was caught up in an intricate style, unlike Sophy’s soft curls. As usual she was the most fashionably dressed woman in the room. She was perfect.
But Harry no longer wanted perfection.
He stared straight ahead now as a sense of despair washed over him. His skin felt clammy, as if he was coming down with an illness, and his head ached. Perhaps he was sick. Perhaps this nonsense was all in his mind, like a sort of delirium, and when he was recovered it would all just go away.
He heard soft footsteps behind him and turned just in time to glimpse a woman’s blue skirt as a door closed behind her. Without another thought, Harry stood up and followed.
