Chapter 4
Sophia came to some rather quick conclusions about Lady Pilkington.
She was like many English women in that she held a definite sense of British superiority and she believed her worth lay in furthering her husband’s career and hosting the most impressive parties.
She had been born to privilege and, despite marrying slightly below her station, still found herself in a position to be envied by many.
Her husband was a Resident, sent to act as a liaison to one of India’s many regional princes.
The mansion was grand—larger than most of the other families’ bungalows, she was quick to point out—the servants plentiful, and the environment lush and exotic.
She was now Miss Sophia Elliot’s sponsor, and she couldn’t have been more proud of the fact, as she mentioned numerous times before reaching Sophia’s room. She’d always wished for a daughter, she said, and was honored to temporarily stand in for Sophia’s dear mother for a time.
For her part, Sophia felt a sense of cautious fondness for the woman, who seemed, above all things, sincere.
The women’s guest rooms were situated adjacent each other on the far north end of the mansion’s second floor.
Thatched screens—tatties—on window shutters that in the summer were continually wet to catch crosswinds and cool the rooms, were absent now, which provided an unobstructed view of the grounds.
Shade trees and flowers were abundant, and the world outside the windows was a splendid wash of vibrant color.
Sophia cast an appreciative eye about her own room, which was soothing.
Relaxing. The walls were white, the floors a deep cherry color; decorative accents on the walls and pillows on a window seat overlooking the back of the property provided beautiful flashes of color.
Mosquito netting hung around the bed, and the white cotton bedding was offset by the same bright pillows that graced the window seat.
The whole of it looked very comfortable and, though she was tired, she was determined to avoid sleeping until nightfall.
Loath as she was to admit it, she didn’t want to miss a potential moment spent in Anthony’s company.
Perhaps if she were with him, she might divine some clue as to his reason for his abrupt departure.
She desperately didn’t want to believe he had left London to escape her company.
Since his desertion, the fear at the back of her thoughts was that London wasn’t smothering him, she was.
She made her way to a small vanity that also doubled as a writing desk and sat down.
Had she known for a certainty ahead of time that Anthony was going to be here, would she have still wanted to come?
As much as she desired answers, she feared them.
She also felt a flash of anger that her own get-away-from-England plan was now for naught; she had wanted to leave to distract herself from memories of Anthony, which were everywhere, only to encounter the man himself a world away.
And oh—
Sophia looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head.
“You are hopeless,” she muttered to her reflection.
He was so handsome it took her breath away.
When she had climbed from the carriage and saw him standing there, she thought her heart might burst. The familiar sound of his voice had washed over her like warm rain, and it had taken true restraint to keep from launching herself at him.
Whether her intention would have been to envelope him in an embrace or to pummel him, she wasn’t certain.
He had been affected by her appearance; she knew it without any sense of guile or conceit.
There had been a flash of something in his eyes that he had quickly masked.
She was forced to admit he was good at it.
Apparently he had been masking the truth for a long time. Perhaps from the very beginning.
She put her chin in her hand and tried to decide whether or not to let herself sulk.
Had he ever been honest? About anything?
She thought back to the first time they’d met.
Jack had taken a nasty fall from a horse, and Anthony had been standing at Jack’s bedside, elbow deep in blood-soaked towels and grim as anyone she’d ever seen.
His fear for her brother’s life had been genuine.
That much had been true. She didn’t doubt Anthony’s authentic affection for Jack, and truthfully, he had said he held her in affection as well.
Why should she punish him for her own misunderstanding?
He’d never claimed to be anything more than her friend, had never even kissed her.
He may have occasionally pushed the bounds of propriety but had certainly never crossed them.
She tried to believe his attention had been nothing more significant than that which he paid to other women, but he had spent nearly all of his free time with either her or with the Elliots together as a family.
She closed her eyes against a sudden sting as memories flooded and threatened to swamp her: humorous observations regarding certain ridiculous members of their social set, the deep timbre of his voice spreading warmth through her limbs and igniting a slow burn in her abdomen as he murmured in her ear; the way he took her elbow as they walked, placed her hand on his arm, brushed against her at the dinner table; the light touch of his hand on her back as they left the theater or made their way through the crowds on Bond Street; the touch of his hip against hers as they rode in his phaeton through Hyde Park; the lingering manner in which he bowed over her gloved hand with the slight pressure of his fingers against hers . . .
Was it all done in the name of platonic friendship? They were small things, but between men and women in the courting stage of life, they meant much. At least, she thought they had.
Sophia shook her head and straightened in the chair, focusing on the tranquility of her bedchamber through blurred eyes.
Enough, already. She had cried her tears over the Earl of Wilshire.
Her pride demanded she pull herself together and lift her chin.
She would not beg for a man’s affections.
Perhaps she might fall in love with another man someday, but she had her family, her niece, her girls’ school with Ivy, and now a holiday to an exotic location—she had much for which to be grateful.
“Sophia?” Rachael stood in the doorway, her brow creased with concern. She crossed the room. “What is it?”
Sophia shrugged and turned back to the mirror on the vanity. She tried for a smile that was wobbly, at best. “Men are rather awful, are they not?”
Rachael smiled. She looked at Sophia in the mirror. “You love him still.”
Sophia nodded miserably, not bothering to prevaricate or pretend she didn’t understand what Rachael meant.
She’d confided in her new friend during their ocean voyage and felt a sense of relief that she had someone to talk to now that she was thousands of miles away from Ivy.
“He bid me good-bye as a friend. In the letter he gave me before he left.”
Rachael winced.
“He so firmly placed me in that category that he couldn’t have been more clear had he said straight to my face, ‘I will never have a romantic interest in you.’”
Rachael let out a breath, and gave Sophia’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You and I both know that is a lie. We are women, and we are not stupid. I took note of the way he behaved outside. Nary a glance for anyone but you.”
Sophia’s brows came together, and she didn’t even care that it would leave a crease. “Then why did he leave me?”
Rachael’s eyes narrowed, and she drummed her fingers absently on Sophia’s shoulders. “There is something afoot, Sophia. I shall ferret it out of my cousin. I have methods.”
Sophia’s lips twitched, and she met Rachael’s gaze in the mirror. “Blackmail, perchance? Secrets from childhood?”
Rachael grinned and winked. “Dylan may not be privy to all the details of Anthony’s life, but whatever he does know, we shall also know before long. Sad, really, that he fancies himself so invincible.”
“My lady?”
Sophia and Rachael turned at the sound of Sophia’s lady’s maid. “Yes, Briggs?”
“Lady Pilkington asks that you and Miss Scarsdale join her in the drawing room to meet some of the other ladies who have just returned from the bazaar.”
“Please tell her we shall be there straightaway.”
Rachael met Sophia’s gaze squarely. “Now, then. We shall solve this mystery of the mercurial earl and discern every last one of his secrets.”
Sophia laughed—how could she not? She grasped Rachael’s fingers and gave them a quick squeeze. “Thank you, Rachael. How lucky I am to have found such a friend.”
Rachael put her arm around Sophia as they walked to the door. “Besides, what we cannot discover by coercion, we can certainly gain by force.”
Sophia choked back a laugh as they made their way to the drawing room. “You frighten me, Rachael Scarsdale. What will you do? Make use of medieval torture devices?”
“Oh, Sophia, what nonsense.” They reached the drawing room and Rachael smiled. “I don’t have access to any of those.”