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CHAPTER15
“Very good, Miss Maudley,” Sophia said. “If you remember to focus on the fingering of your left hand while practicing, I think we can say you’ll be proficient at the piece by the time of your mama’s concert.”
Sophia’s pupil rose from the stool and gave a stiff smile. Her governess, who’d sat quietly in the corner during the lesson, rose and escorted her out of the music room. Shortly after, Sophia heard the front door open and close.
She shut the lid of the pianoforte, and made her way to the morning room, which was empty. Grateful for the solitude, she rang the bell for tea and sank into an armchair.
The Honorable Miss Maudley was a pleasant enough creature, but her talent could only ever be described as mediocre, at best. Still, it would be sufficient for the young woman’s purpose, which was to showcase her accomplishments at her mother’s dinner party as the first step to attracting a suitor.
Seven years ago Sophia had been the same—a young woman eager to find love and enjoy the trappings of London, but it had all come to naught.
After Tilly arrived with the tea and poured Sophia a cup, she dismissed the young maid and crossed the floor to look out of the window.
Would he come again?
Each morning for the past week he had turned up at her doorstep demanding entrance. On Lysetta’s orders—and once, by Lysetta herself—he had been turned away. Sophia’s head told her it was the right thing to do. Loyalty to William—a friend he’d known all his life—would always exceed loyalty to her, a lover he’d known only for a few short months.
And his words still rang in her ears.
Gold-digging harlot. That was what William had called her
Dearest Papa—she hadn’t known that he’d tried to petition William into marrying her. Out of a misguided sense of propriety, Papa must have imagined that a respectable marriage would have enabled her to reenter society. It would have given her son a title, and them both the protection of William’s name.
But it would not have given Henry a father—not a real father who loved him.
On her return to London from Roseborough, she’d expected her pupils to cease coming. Once the news circulated that that Mrs. Black, the respectable widow who taught the pianoforte, was in fact Miss Graham, the fallen woman who’d given her body to a drunkard and borne his bastard—they would have either discreetly ceased coming, or would have publicly disgraced her.
But they continued to come—even the Honorable Miss Maudley, eldest daughter of Viscount Dingle.
Hemust have maintained silence on the matter.
Adrian…
Her blood warmed at the thought of him. For the past few nights he’d entered her dreams, and last night she had dreamed that he’d slipped into her chamber and driven her wild with ecstasy. She’d woken in the middle of the night to find her hand touching that secret place where he’d brought such intense pleasures. With the memory of him inside her she had run her fingers along her folds, chasing the nugget of pleasure until a small ripple of satisfaction threaded through her.
But it was not enough. Craving the dissolution brought forth by his hands and tongue, she’d slipped a finger inside herself, and her body had burst into life as she cried out his name.
That morning, during breakfast, she’d watched the other inmates of Summerton Hall for signs that any of them had heard her. But, apart from Mrs. Huntington who watched her with a shrewd, worldly gaze, their interest was on Maria’s pugs who had escaped the confines of her chamber and invaded the breakfast room, scrounging for tidbits.
She heard a knock on the front door, and her heart fluttered. Was it him? She strained to listen, and heard voices. After a moment, the door to the morning room opened, and her heart beat a little faster. But it was Adelia, brandishing a bunch of flowers.
“I thought you were in here.” Adelia nodded toward the teapot. “Is there enough in there for me?”
“Of course,” Sophia said. “Pour yourself a cup.”
“These are for you.” Adelia held out the flowers—a dozen roses.
Yellow roses.
“Where did they come from?” Sophia asked.
“A boy brought them, just now,” Adelia replied. “He asked for me, then handed me the flowers and said they were for you.”
Sophia took the bouquet. “How strange.” She glanced up at Adelia. “I hope you’re not too disappointed—you can have half if you like.”
Adelia smiled, the action puckering the scar that ran across her cheek. “I think my days of receiving flowers are long gone.”
“Which is why you must share mine.”
