Always the Rebel, page 13
“And the décor of his home, truly spectacular. I have not seen anything like it since visiting the Duke of Devonshire,” said Mrs. Worsley. “Wealth and taste do not always go hand in hand, of course, it is so pleasing to see a gentleman take an interest…”
Sophia allowed them to talk, seeing with relief, they had enough opinions on Philip to entertain themselves—at least, for now.
Besides, what could she contribute? She had no interest in shooting or wallpaper in the slightest.
No, she was more intrigued by his character. The fact he had three daughters would probably not be of interest to her parents—or rather, would not endear him to them.
Why did she want to endear Philip to them? Was that not what she had fought against since they had first made his acquaintance? It would be foolish to the extreme to allow her parents to realize just how much more she knew of the earl. Far more than she should. More than was acceptable for a young lady.
“—for you, though I had not thought any of our circle was aware we were in Bath already. I said, Sophia, this is for you.”
Sophia jumped, startled from her reverie.
“Someone is thinking of their beloved,” said Mrs. Worsley with a knowing look.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “I beg your pardon, Father?”
She had not been paying attention for a good while, for the post had been brought in. Three letters sat on a silver tray in the middle of the breakfast table, and one of them had her name on the front.
Miss Sophia Worsley
“I do not recognize the handwriting, but that is no great matter. I have no eye for such a thing,” mused her father, holding the letter up to his eyes.
Sophia held out her hand. “Thank you, Father.”
As he passed it over, it turned toward her mother, who exclaimed, “Is that—there is a seal on the back, Arthur!”
Thankfully, Mr. Worsley had released the missive into Sophia’s hand. Her mother was correct. There was a seal marked in the wax on the back. It was a large and rather ornate W.
“A double-u,” she said aloud.
Her mother visibly sagged. “Oh. Do we know any families with the name of double-u?”
“There is always Beauvale,” said Mr. Worsley looking a little discomforted. “His middle name is William, though I do not know why he would use his middle name…”
Sophia swallowed. There was certainly no reason why Jacob would be writing to her—he had broken their engagement, he had paid her parents most of the money expended on the preparations, and that had been an end to it.
Or so she thought.
Carefully lifting the seal from the page to keep it intact, Sophia unfolded the letter and read the short note inside.
Sophia,
I would be grateful if you would meet me on the corner of Milsom Street and George Street, where you and I could take a short walk. I will, of course, return you home before dark.
Shall we say eleven o’clock?
I remain your faithful servant,
Philip Egerton, Marnmouth
Sophia almost laughed aloud. Of course. Not a W, but an M. She had been holding the letter upside down.
She glanced up at her parents. Sighing, she knew what she had to do—but it would only exchange concern for false hopes.
“’Tis from the Earl of Marnmouth,” she said heavily.
Immediately, her parents’ expressions altered. Her father’s furrowed brow disappeared, and her mother’s worry was transformed into excitement. “Oh, my dear Sophia, an offer!”
“Not an offer,” said Sophia hastily. The last thing she needed was their imaginations. “An offer to meet for a walk. Today. In an hour, in fact.”
“Well, that is very gracious of him, I am sure, but I believe someone should go with you,” said Mr. Worsley heavily. “A young lady, unchaperoned. ’Tis not to be borne.”
“No—no, I would rather see him alone.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sophia realized her mistake. Her parents exchanged an excited look.
“Mother, Father, I do not know where you have this idea from, but Philip—Marnmouth,” she corrected hastily. Damn! “The earl does not wish to marry me.”
Mr. Worsley winked. “Of course not, my dear. Your secret is safe with me.”
Sophia sighed. No point continuing this conversation. “Please, may I be excused?”
“You may,” said Mrs. Worsley with excitement. “And give our love to Marnmouth, any that you can spare!”
It was with bad grace, therefore, that Sophia strode out of their rooms half an hour later, on her way to Milsom Street. If only Philip had found a way to get the letter to her without her parents knowing. They really were incorrigible.
Although a few minutes early, Philip was already there. He smiled broadly as she approached, bowing low as she curtseyed.
“I did not think you would be here,” Sophia said as a greeting. Well, what was the proper address for a gentleman with whom you had last been naked?
“I sent the letter from here,” admitted Philip. “’Tis amazing what one can do with a little silver.”
He stepped forward to embrace her, but Sophia stepped back into the path of another.
“Not here,” she said quietly, cheeks pink. “Not in public.”
Philip nodded. “Shall we walk then?”
Sophia nodded. What did he want? What could he wish to say, to share that could not be done in the privacy of his rooms?
Her heart may be confused and unsure, but she knew one thing. She would not commit to anybody, not anymore. Seeing Philip in the light of day had brought her that certainty. She had made love to him, and that was it. She could not do that again, not if he wanted to exact promises from her. She could not risk her heart becoming too entangled.
As they walked through Milsom Street, Philip said in a low voice, “I am so happy, you know.”
Sophia nodded. “I…I still cannot believe I—that we…”
Words failed her.
“You really are the rebel now, aren’t you?” Philip teased.
She took a deep breath as they turned a corner. “Yes, but…but not again. I cannot do it again.”
There was a little regret tinging her words, but Sophia knew it was the right thing to do. She would not be his wife, and being his mistress would only lead to him putting her aside one day, and she could not…she would not be able to bear it.
The image of Emma Tilbury forced its way into her mind. She had enjoyed Philip’s attentions and then lost them. Lost him.
Sophia glanced at Philip’s face and saw true disappointment.
“Look, I care for you, Sophia,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low so no one else could hear. “But more than that, I respect you. I will never… I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. You are the one in charge here.”
Sophia smiled. His respect for her was intoxicating, so unlike any of the yobbish gentlemen she had endured over her years in society.
Leaning forward to impetuously kiss him on the cheek, she said, “I am not saying you will never be able to persuade me, but—well, I am not your mistress, Philip, and certainly not your wife. We will continue on my terms or not at all.”
Philip raised his hand to touch his cheek where she had kissed him. “Sophia—”
“And do not read anything else into that kiss!” she said hastily with a grin. “Look, I must go back home, or my parents will think we are engaged!”
With a laugh, Sophia turned away and forced herself not to look back.
Chapter Fourteen
“Ah, there he is! I thought you had got lost, Braedon, but Bath simply isn’t that big!”
Philip grinned as McCall showed in the last of the party to arrive—Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, who looked sodden.
“’Tis a downpour out there!” said Braedon. “I don’t know how you two managed to avoid it!”
The Earl of Chester and the Duke of Larnwick grinned at the bedraggled Braedon, hair slicked to his head, coat dripping onto the floor, and boots making horrible little squelching sounds on the carpet.
“Goodness, yes, you are a little damp,” said Philip with a laugh. “McCall, would you mind taking the viscount upstairs and helping him to dry off? There should be enough things of mine he can borrow for the evening.”
“Of course, your lordship,” bowed the butler. “This way, sir.”
Braedon made a pretty pathetic figure as he trooped out.
Chester laughed with a shake of his head. “Poor old Braedon! He always manages to draw the short straw!”
Philip nodded as Larnwick continued to chuckle. He had ridden back to London for a few days, officially in an attempt to clear his head, and had invited his friends over for some sort of distraction. Larnwick and Chester were always good company, and Braedon…well, he was always certain to bring laughter into the room, whether he intended to or not.
After ten minutes, Braedon made another appearance in his drawing room, this time looking a little less damp and a lot more cheerful.
“Thank you, awfully, Marnmouth,” he said with a smile. “If I am honest, I was surprised at the invitation at all, and I am most grateful for the lending of your clothes.”
“Surprised at my invitation?” Philip inquired, indicating Braedon should be seated by the fire. “Why?”
It was with a sheepish look that Braedon sagged into the armchair. “Well, I always manage to put my foot in it somehow!”
“Yes, you certainly do!” grinned Chester, handing the newcomer a glass and bottle of red wine. “But as ’tis usually a complete accident, we tend to let you off!”
Philip laughed. Yes, this was what he needed. A distraction. A chance to let off steam without any thoughts of Sophia—damn. Any more thoughts of Sophia, certainly.
“I would offer you a drink, Braedon, but as Chester has done such a capital job already, I will say this is a casual evening, and I do not expect many opportunities for you to embarrass yourself,” said Philip. “I have gone to no trouble.”
“No trouble?” Larnwick said with an appreciative smack of his lips as he drained his glass. “A little trouble, but not much, precisely how I like an evening. Good wine, good cards, good company, ’tis all I need.”
“Besides, you have brought a few bottles yourself,” added Philip with an appreciative nod. “And now Braedon is here. I fear we may need them!”
Raucous laughter echoed around the candlelit drawing room as the gentlemen lounged by the fireplace, carelessly taking potshots at each other.
Philip smiled. Yes, this had been a good idea—a chance for him to spend a little more time in male company, rather than female. Sophia may have caused disappointment by her refusal to commit to any more dalliances, but she had been right about one thing.
It was too easy to become… infatuated was a strong word. His gaze drifted to the fur still lying before the fireplace and tried to forget that only a few days ago, he had been making love to Sophia.
“You—you! You finish what you started!”
The damned fire kept drawing his eye, and each time it simply reminded him of Sophia. Her lips, her mouth, the way she had cried out…
“And how go the wedding plans?”
Larnwick sighed heavily and helped himself to another glass of wine. “Miss Madam is still undecided about so many things that the wedding has been put back again—ye would nae credit it, would ye!”
All his companions laughed as he slipped into Scots, brow furrowed in irritation.
“You know, it seems you have been engaged for years,” Philip mused.
Chester crowed, “He has!”
Larnwick shook his head with a wry smile as he passed the bottle to Braedon. “Two and a half years and counting. Who knows how long before I finally bring the woman to bed!”
Braedon snorted. “You haven’t already?”
“You think the Lymingtons would permit me anywhere near her if I had? You think the wedding would not have occurred?” shot back the Scotsman. “Nae, ’tis rare indeed to have an engagement this long, but I am not so concerned. ’Tis hardly a love match, and the longer it goes on, the older and wiser my bride should be.”
Philip stepped to the cabinet where he kept his cigars so he could hide his red cheeks from his friends. He had done far more with Sophia than Larnwick had enjoyed with his own betrothed, but he had not proposed…
“Cigars,” he said, handing them around.
Chester took one before saying, “If you ask me, it sounds like you do not care for her.”
Shrugging, Larnwick accepted a cigar. “Not many of us have your luck, Chester—you like your bride, and you liked her before you wed her!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Braedon, evidently eager to join in the conversation as Philip sat down. “’Tis rare indeed, although I do hope for it.”
His wistful tone was unlike Braedon, and Philip cast him a glance surreptitiously under the guise of handing him his tinderbox.
Was there something deeper about Braedon he had never noticed before? The man was a bumbling bag of awkwardness, a strange one—and what had that strange conversation at the Larnwick Ball been about? He had utterly forgotten about it until this moment.
“Not all of us can have mistresses!” Larnwick was saying, and laughter once again rang out around the room—this time, Philip knew, at his own expense.
“Ah, you can all laugh, but I have not had Miss Tilbury with me, nor any other mistress for some time now.”
Braedon nodded as he blew out billows of smoke. “Yes, two years and four months.”
The drawing room fell silent. He coughed, smoke blossoming everywhere.
“My word,” said Philip dryly. “Have you been counting how long it has been since I bedded Emma Tilbury?”
He had intended it as a jest. It was a ridiculous idea, and no one would do such a thing.
“No, no, I just…well, I have a memory for these things.”
Philip nodded. He was not a cruel man and wouldn’t embarrass Braedon purposefully, but it was a strange thing to say. Braedon had no great memory. What was he hiding?
In an attempt to move the conversation away from Braedon, he said nonchalantly, “In truth, I have seen far more of Miss Sophia Worsley than Miss Emma Tilbury recently.”
Chester and Braedon laughed, exchanging knowing looks, whereas Larnwick just looked blank. “Miss who?”
“Oh, come now, Larnwick, you must have seen her!” Braedon crowed, evidently relieved the focus had shifted. “The lady who turns up to balls and parties in breeches?”
Now it was Philip’s turn to feel uncomfortable. Most unfair of Braedon it was, seated there in Philip’s chair, in Philip’s clothes, only enjoying a laugh because Philip had not teased him.
“Not to everything,” he said awkwardly. “I believe she wore a gown to your ball, Larnwick, which is why you may not have noticed her.”
“And yet she has become notorious for wearing them,” said Chester, leaning back and breathing in the heady cigar smoke.
Larnwick’s eyes were wide. “My God, what a rebel!”
“Ah, and that is where you are wrong,” said Braedon with all the confidence of an expert. “Miss Worsley thinks she is a rebel, true, but she is wrong.”
Philip shifted in his seat. He had not really thought about it, but of course, Sophia was closer to Braedon and Chester’s ages than his own. They undoubtedly knew her, had known her for far longer than he had.
“You see, Miss Worsley has the protection of her parents, a steady income thanks to them, and when they sadly depart this earth, she will be very rich indeed,” said Braedon knowledgeably. “The rebellious gals are those who leave it all behind or never had that security to begin with.”
“I have heard her called a rebel,” Chester mused. “but I admit I cannot think what she is rebelling against.”
Philip’s mouth was dry. He had to speak, but what could he say without betraying her confidence?
“Ah, one of those,” said Larnwick with a nod. “Yes, I know what you mean. Many of the bluestockings I have met are the same—happy to rebel in their way, but only until they go home at night to a warm house and a full stomach.”
Now heat was searing Philip’s chest. It had been thoughtless to bring her up at a gentlemanly evening, and the last thing he wanted was Sophia to be laughed at.
“I would say she is a rebel then,” he said, attempting to broaden the conversation. “A lady, a gentleman’s daughter? I would then say that breeches and so forth are more rebellious. No one would care if she were simply a maid.”
All eyes focused on him, curiosity in every face.
“You…you have known Miss Worsley long?” asked Larnwick.
Chester leaned forward. “I did not know that, Marnmouth. Perhaps we have other acquaintances in common. Do you know—”
“No, no, not long,” said Philip, hating himself for even bringing her up. “Just these last few weeks.”
A long whistle came from the mouth of Braedon as he tapped his cigar ash into the ashtray. “So…since her last broken engagement, then?”
“Last one?” said Larnwick quickly.
Damn. Damn and blast his stupid mouth for mentioning her in the first place. Philip knew it would be difficult to entirely direct them onto a different conversational path, but hopefully, if he was clever…
“These cigars, by the way, are not to be spoken of outside this room,” he said with a false jovial air. “I had to procure them from a very—”
“Come on now, a smattering of gossip will do me good!” Larnwick interrupted.
Chester grinned. “’Tis hardly gossip, everyone in society knows. Besides, from what I have seen, Miss Worsley makes no secret of it.”
Philip was forced to swallow down his ire as Chester started to explain the whole sordid affair to Larnwick, Braedon jumping in now and again to add details.
Christ alive, but he was a fool. That was his trouble. Sophia was always uppermost in his thoughts, so when he had picked a new conversational topic out of the air, she was the first thing he thought of!
Sophia would hate the thought of gentlemen discussing her. Philip had to hide his true feelings for her if they continued to talk of her much longer. He was not her father nor brother to defend her, and he did not want to open himself to some very uncomfortable questions…
