Chapter Twenty #2
Shocked, he stood frozen. She couldn’t leave him. He ran after her, sure he could convince her that what they shared between them could overcome even her birth, but when he reached the corridor, she’d disappeared.
“Bloody hell!” He slammed his fist into the wall next to him, cracking the plaster.
He didn’t care. He didn’t care if it was a duke’s home or that Society deemed a bastard female child from an unfaithful wife worthless.
All he cared about now was the pain in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him.
And he definitely didn’t care if going to Sophie’s room in the night would force her to marry him.
As the realization formed, he rolled his shoulders. That was what he would do.
“Lord Tamworth?”
Jolted by the voice, he turned to find Mrs. Boyd staring at him, tears in her eyes. Obviously, she’d been eavesdropping. “What?”
“Whatever you’re about to do, don’t.”
He frowned, thoroughly confused. The woman was a cook, not a fortune teller.
“You want to talk to her and convince her, but you won’t find her.
Not now. Miss Sophie knows the secret passageways of this house better than the servants.
If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be.
I suggest you rest and think about this with a fresh mind in the morning, and not with your heart tonight. ”
It wasn’t the woman’s advice that froze him.
It was the way she addressed Sophie as Miss not Lady.
Even with a friend, Sophie was now Mrs. Boyd’s equal.
His chest tightened so hard, he was barely able to breathe.
He fisted his hands, feeling both insensible rage and complete helplessness.
His whole life had been figuring out how to do what he wished despite being told he couldn’t.
Now, when he needed his mind the most, it felt as frozen as the ice he’d skated on.
Mrs. Boyd shook her head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I know you loved her.”
The woman’s sympathy melted enough of his thoughts for him to realize the precipice Sophie teetered on. He turned toward the cook and took her by the shoulders. “You must not tell a soul what you heard tonight. Swear to me, you won’t say a word of this to anyone.”
Mrs. Boyd’s eyes were wide, and she quickly nodded.
“No, you must say it. Swear it.”
“My lord, I swear I won’t tell anyone, not even me husband, about what I heard about Miss Sophie. I swear on my father’s grave, I do. I couldn’t do that to her.”
Somewhat relieved by the cook’s honesty, he let her go.
“Will you tell the duchess?”
Mrs. Boyd’s question surprised him. He had no reason to tell anyone. He still planned to marry Sophie. He had no choice. She had his heart. All his plans could go to hell if they had to, as long as she became his wife. Nothing else mattered now.
But it did to Sophie. Could she really dismiss their feelings for each other simply because of her birth and Society’s dictates? As the thought wormed its way from his mind to his heart, a sharp pain filled his gut.
“My lord?”
“No, I have no plans to tell anyone.”
Mrs. Boyd nodded. “No, I don’t imagine so. It’s best if no one knows you knew, should it go beyond the Dowlings.”
He stared at Mrs. Boyd as if she belonged in Bedlam. Did all women fear societal gossip over everything, even love? Even as he asked himself the question, the answer came hard, roiling his stomach. His hurt now mixed with his rage, and he felt bile in his mouth. “If you will excuse me.”
Without waiting for the woman’s response, he strode down the corridor. He barely made it to the servants’ exit before his stomach heaved.
*
Sophie woke to the sound of knocking at her door.
It was the third time in the last two hours.
She rubbed at her eyes, trying to get them open.
Finally, she managed to look at the door, though why that mattered, she didn’t know.
Nothing mattered now that she could no longer feel.
The pain in her chest had given in to numbness.
Now that she’d released Tam, he would heal and fall in love again, maybe in a couple of years, like he’d planned.
Someone worthier of him, who behaved with decorum and wit, not with abandon and forwardness as she had.
Someone whose father would approve of him.
As memories of their night in the library filled her head, tears clouded her vision. It must be in her blood. She was a wanton. Yet even as she castigated herself for her actions, she couldn’t regret them. It was all she’d have of Tam.
The knock sounded again and a soft voice came through the door. “Please, Lady Sophie, let me in. I brought you tea and brioche.”
Thankful it was neither Rose nor Georgie, she swung her legs out of bed and stood, only to find she’d slept in her dress of the day before. “Is anyone out there with you?” Her voice sounded gravelly even to her own ears.
“Just me, my lady.”
Sophie moved to the door. After unlocking it, she opened it. As soon as Miss Clark was inside, she closed and locked it again.
Her lady’s maid set down the tray on the desk and turned. “Oh, my lady, your face.”
Since Sophie stood near her dressing table, she moved in front of it to look at herself.
What she saw surprised her. She expected the red, puffy eyes, since she’d spent most of the night crying, but she hadn’t expected her black-and-blue jaw or the red bump on her forehead.
She touched it gingerly. Both must have happened when she’d fallen down the servants’ stairs.
She’d been in such a rush to flee from Tam that she’d forgotten to take a lantern with her in the corridors, and had lost her balance halfway down.
“You climb back in bed, and I’ll bring this over to you.”
“No, I’ll eat it there. I just fell last night. I’m well otherwise.” But that wasn’t actually true. Her body was well but her heart was broken. She’d turned away the man she loved, and who had loved her. And it hurt, sometimes so much that she couldn’t breathe.
“May I have a maid bring in a bath, then?”
She walked to her desk and sat, feeling other bruises she must have sustained. Still, they were nothing compared to the ache in her chest. “A bath sounds lovely. Thank you. Just keep the door locked otherwise.”
Miss Clark rang for a maid and gave instructions.
Sophie focused on adding extra cream to her tea. It did make her feel a bit better, though chewing was difficult with her sore jaw.
In little time, she was soaking in the hot water, alone again, feeling confused and lost. Her instinct was to talk about it with Tam, but she couldn’t do that.
He would leave Silver Meadows when the duke and duchess returned, and then she needn’t worry about seeing him again.
She hoped that was soon. It had been so hard to tell him no, especially in the face of his willingness to still marry her.
He may hate her now, but one day he’d be grateful that he hadn’t raced off to Gretna Green with her.
At the thought of his steadfastness, tears came to her eyes again. She had to stop crying. Was that possible? Would she ever stop thinking about him every moment?
She ducked her head under the water, trying to focus on her bath.
She sat up again and began to wash her hair.
Why had her father—no, Lord Dowling—turned down Tam’s suit?
If Lord Dowling knew her to be a bastard, wouldn’t he be happy to be rid of her?
Perhaps he expected to marry her to Lord Wilford, but she couldn’t marry any lord. Surely, Lord Dowling knew that.