LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

you have asked me before you sought assurance from my father and your stepmother?’

      Her nose wrinkled. ‘The letter from Henri arrived while your father was at my stepmother’s. It seemed like too happy of a coincidence not to organise a dinner party. I am sure my stepmother will be happy to host the party if you don’t feel we have room here.’

      Richard ran his hands through his hair. Dinner parties with his father were to be endured, particularly when his father decided he could comment on the food with impunity. He could see the disaster unfolding before his eyes. His father behaving badly, Sophie in tears and these friends of Sophie’s judging him. He shuddered. ‘Sophie, a word of advice—if you want something big, ask a man before you ask his father.’

      ‘I did mention giving a dinner party for Henri and Robert this morning.’

      ‘You did?’ Richard searched his memory. This morning he had been distracted by his mother’s latest note about her finances and her request to see him immediately. ‘The only thing you asked me about was another new dress. You always look well turned out, Sophie, and you are spending your own money.’

      ‘Before that. The dress is for the dinner party.’

      Richard rubbed his eye. The dull ache in his head returned. ‘I don’t recall, but I believe you.’

      ‘Then it is a no.’ Her lips turned down. ‘I’d hoped.’

      He flopped back against the pillows. It was wrong of him. He wanted to keep what passed between Sophie and him private. This was their kingdom. Dinner parties and At Homes belonged to a life after they returned from the wedding trip, when he could be sure of her. But Sophie was right. His father needed a proper send off. He could endure the Montemorcys, knowing that once his father was gone, he would have Sophie to himself for weeks on end and no family to bother him.

      He turned over on top of Sophie and caught her wrists, putting them above her head. ‘You wrong me.’ He nipped her chin. ‘It is a yes. Have your dinner party. Buy your gown.’

      She kissed him back. Enthusiastically. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

      ‘Is everything under control?’ Richard asked on the morning of the dinner party.

      Sophie looked up from measuring the place settings. ‘Everything is fine. I have borrowed my stepmother’s cook and the menu is all agreed. Jane and Myers are dealing with the flowers.’

      ‘Why the ruler?’

      ‘A trick Henri taught me.’ She set the ruler down. Since the afternoon she had started painting Richard, something had changed between them. She had to hope that he understood how important it was that this dinner party went smoothly. She wanted to demonstrate to Robert and her stepmother that she was now an adult. Her dinner party would positively radiate virtue. They would see that despite the hastiness of the marriage, she was happy. And she was happy … most of the time.

      ‘Surely Myers can do that.’

      ‘It is best to do things myself if I want perfection.’

      ‘Perfection isn’t always possible.’

      ‘With planning it can be achieved.’ She nodded towards where two long red candles stood in brass candlesticks. ‘I love how the red and the brass go together. Candlelight is far more pleasant for a party of this nature than gas.’

      ‘I shall leave you to the last-minute preparations, then, as you have things well in hand.’ He picked up his hat and gloves.

      ‘Are you going out? The party is going to start in a few hours. I thought … I thought you might want to go over the choices for port.’

      ‘There are a few things I need to complete before we go on our wedding trip. They shouldn’t take long. Myers can solve any question with the wine. It is one of the reasons I hired him as my valet.’

      Sophie pasted on a fake smile. It was there again, that withdrawing. Her stepmother had warned her—men don’t like to hear about domestic bother. ‘Of course, how foolish of me not to have thought Myers would know.’

      ‘I will be back before the party starts. We will greet your guests together.’

      Sophie sat watching the final splutter of the last red candle. The remains of the disaster were clearly evident.

      Five plates with food—barely touched, and one plate without anything—spotlessly clean.

      Richard, despite his easy assurance, had not returned in time for the start of the dinner party or its conclusion. A boy had delivered a note halfway through from Richard explaining they should start and that he’d been unavoidably delayed. He had no idea when he’d return, but he hoped it would be shortly.

      She had Myers start serving the food, hoping against hope that each noise outside was Richard returning. But he hadn’t, not even when the clock struck ten.

      Everyone offered to stay and wait with her, but she refused them all. The humiliation was far too great.

      Henri, as she was leaving, squeezed Sophie’s hand and told her that she always had a place with them.

      Lord Hallington muttered about horse whips and how his son ought to know better. He offered to take her straight to Hallington the next morning if she wished.

      Sophie kept the tears back until after they had all gone. She had calmly gone through his desk, hoping she’d find a clue as to his whereabouts. She hated herself for doing it, for being the sort of suspicious wife she’d always sworn she’d never be.

      She happened on a letter with her name scrawled halfway down, detailing all her faults. Exhibitionist tendencies, overly refined, no taste. The final page was missing as if for some reason Richard had changed his mind about sending the letter to this Marguerite, his confidante.

      It was one thing to worry and another thing to see it in black and white. She’d always worried what others thought of her and now she knew what her husband thought. If it had not been for his honour, they would have never married. It was ironic. She had spent the past few years keeping away from men like Richard because of their lack of honour.

      She put her head on her arms and cried. Richard had demonstrated what he thought of their marriage and her. She had tried so hard. In spite of the letter, she still cared about him. She wanted to know he was not hurt or in trouble.

      ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I will make it up to you. I promise.’

      She looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. His eyes were red ringed and tired, his normally pristine clothes mussed as if he’d stripped them off and put them on again. There were blotches which looked like dried tears on his shirt front. She wanted to murder him for scaring her like this. She wanted to scream at him that she wasn’t too fine for her manner or suffering from an overdose of gentility or given to making an exhibition of herself. Or the half-a-dozen other phrases that had been listed.

      Sophie stood up and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry does not even begin to cover it.’

      ‘Let me hold you.’ He held out his arms and beckoned to her. ‘The thought of holding you has been the only thing which has kept me going through the last few hours.’

      ‘Really?’ Sophie crossed her arms and moved so that the table was between her and Richard. Her desire for him had been how all this trouble started. If she hadn’t kissed him in the carriage, they would never have married. She’d still have her self-respect and illusions. ‘You have a funny way of showing it. There again, I don’t suppose you truly wanted to be here and see me make a disgrace of myself with an excess of courtesy.’

      Sophie picked out one of the more hurtful phrases from the letter and waited for his reaction.

      His hand dropped to his side. ‘I brought you something, a token of my affection. And I wanted to be here … to make sure …’

      ‘To make sure what? That nothing went wrong? That I didn’t disgrace

Скачать книгу