The Temporary Betrothal Page 6

  “Your family! Oh, Lieutenant, I beg your forgiveness. I promised to come up with a solution to your problem, but I got so engrossed in Amelia’s debut that I forgot.” She darted her glance up to his, and he forced himself to allow his breathing to remain steady. Having her so close and so engaged in conversation was a heady experience. But then, of course, he would feel that way around any pretty gel. It was just that he had set himself apart from women for so long after his broken engagement to Beth Gaskell.

  “Don’t trouble yourself.” He cleared his throat, forcing the words through his lips. Why was it so hard to even speak when she looked at him that way?

  “Nay, I shall trouble myself. If your mother is coming, then the problem is reaching a crisis stage, I daresay.” She steered him back down the sidewalk, and they ambled past the shops, which buzzed with activity. “I’ve given it some thought. I believe that if you at least give the appearance of going along with their wishes, your mother will leave you in peace. In other words, we must strike a compromise. Do you agree?”

  That sounded sensible enough. He nodded. “Yes, but what would the compromise be?”

  She patted him with her gloved fingertips, and he steeled himself so he wouldn’t feel a tingle racing up his biceps, as he always did when she touched him. “Leave that to me, Lieutenant. Tomorrow I promise to have a solution to your problem. Once and for all.”

  They strolled the rest of the way to Lord Bradbury’s in a state of friendly companionship. He meant it all as a joke, of course. Sophie Handley didn’t have to come to his rescue. He didn’t really need her help handling Mother. But there was tremendous gratification in knowing that, for the next several hours, he would be topmost in her mind.

  Why that was so gratifying, he dared not examine. But it most assuredly was.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday—a day of rest.

  Sophie stretched her hands up to the ceiling. Time to find that solution she’d promised Lieutenant Cantrill. She was mortified that she had neglected his problem since her promise to assist Amelia two days before. Her life had been all a-swither, planning gowns and helping to select the menu and the guest list. He hadn’t been far from her thoughts, though. When combing through the guest list, one name had particularly caught her eye: Lieutenant Charles Cantrill. When she mentioned his name to Lord Bradbury, certain there must be a mistake, his lordship laughed. “Don’t let his austere existence fool you, Miss Handley. He’s the second son of one of the wealthiest merchants in England. He’s a member of my club, and a most welcome guest.”

  That added a whole new patina to Charlie Cantrill’s allure. So he came from wealth but adopted a poor lifestyle to help others. He was wounded in service yet refused to rest on his laurels. And he had been most mysteriously jilted by his former fiancée. The lieutenant grew more interesting by the moment. So in helping him find a solution to his familial drama, she would be able to inch that much closer to him. Not that she really liked him all that much. But goodness, it would be lovely to have a gentleman friend of sorts again, one to squire her home and hold the umbrella for her. When he allowed himself to joke, his eyes lit up with a mischievous twinkle, and she caught a glimpse of the Charlie Cantrill John Brookes had talked about before the war.

  No use lolling about in bed. She could be at church and by his side in a matter of minutes if she hurried. Sophie bolted out of bed, landing with more of a thud than she meant to. She had only three quarters of an hour to ready herself and hasten to St. Swithins. There would be no time for breakfast, surely. She flung open her wardrobe and rummaged among her plain, serviceable gowns for something fetching enough to catch the lieutenant’s eye.

  Her lavender gown was still in pieces, ready to be stitched together for the dinner party a week hence. She eyed her wardrobe with mounting frustration. Oh, to have unlimited funds like Amelia Bradbury. In a range of frothy confections, she would certainly catch the lieutenant’s eye.

  Botheration. The dark blue damask with the pleated bodice would have to do—it was the most attractive one she owned, for it darkened her eyes to a sapphire shade.

  She scurried about the room, pulling on her stockings, tossing on her gown and pulling on her black kid slippers. Her hair—oh, dear, her hair. She had no time for a complicated style. A simple ribbon would have to do. There. She looked presentable, if not exactly alluring. She wrenched open the door—and tripped headlong over Lucy, who was strolling down the hall.

  “Wherever are you off to in such haste?” Lucy propped Sophie up by the shoulders, saving her from tumbling onto the floor.

  “St. Swithins. I am attending Sunday services.” Sophie righted herself and checked to make sure her hair hadn’t come loose.

  Lucy’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “You never mentioned going to services before.”

  “Um...” Sophie unsuccessfully fended off a blush. Her cheeks were scorching hot. “I only just remembered it.”

  “Hmm.” Lucy stepped backward, planting her fists on her hips. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Lieutenant Cantrill, would it?”

  Botheration. It was best to go ahead and admit defeat. The blush told all. She nodded, smiling at her friend. “He’s a friend of my family, after all. Would you like to accompany me?”

  Lucy gave her head a decisive nod. “Of course. Let me just get my wrap.”

  Bath was now her adopted hometown, its streets and alleyways becoming more familiar with each passing day. She struck out for St. Swithins with confidence. Sophie and Lucy skirted the Circus, glancing at the enclosed garden that would surely begin budding soon with warmer weather, and continued up Bennett Street, past the gracious, aloof Assembly Rooms. A month or so from now, Amelia would begin attending functions at these rooms with her father, and perhaps with Lucy as her chaperone.

  It was beginning to smell like spring, the scent of moist earth and leaves filling the air. For some reason, it smelled of home—like working in the miniscule garden with Harriet at Tansley Cottage. Sophie blinked back sudden homesick tears. Yes, Bath was becoming more familiar, but Tansley would always be home.

  When they arrived at the church, it was already crowded with a mixture of Bath Society and the lowlier masses, all milling about the narthex, greeting each other with nods and smiles. What a relief Lucy had come, for otherwise, she might feel quite lost in this crush of people. The lieutenant was nowhere in sight. Sophie fought to keep the disappointment from showing on her face as they chose seats in the pews near the rear of the church.

  “Chin up, chicken,” Lucy whispered. “I feel certain we shall see your lieutenant soon.”

  Sophie shook her head. It was no concern of hers whether or not he was here. As the crowd settled, the organ and choir struck up the opening notes of the hymn. Sophie absorbed the atmosphere of the church, the soaring music, the voices united in song. Tall white tapers glowed, casting a gentle light over two lush bouquets of roses that framed the altar.

  The reverend stepped up to the pulpit and began preaching on the Beatitudes, his strong, dynamic voice commanding her full attention. Usually, when she was forced to listen to a long explanation of any kind, her mind would drift. She’d begin thinking of her dress, or a dress she’d like to make, roaming the fields of her imagination. But the reverend’s words were entirely captivating.

  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.” Here was an entirely new view of heaven and spirituality. Sophie sat up straighter, her senses attuned to his every word. Why, all those months when she and Harriet felt abandoned and alone, all those times when want and poverty stared them in the face—they were never completely forsaken. Sophie blinked. They were never entirely alone. How comforting, and how profound, to know that He was there, and cared for them all the time.

  A glow kindled her heart, and she glanced out over the congregation. Was anyone else feeling the same spiritual uplift that she was experiencing at that moment? Some parishioners nodded in agreement, others looked rather un
comfortable, still others simply stared ahead, glassy-eyed. Lucy was drumming her fingers on the hymnal. Why, no one seemed to be as enthralled as she was. How very strange. Why wasn’t anyone else as moved as she was, as captivated by the thought of not being alone as she was?

  Something pulled her eyes from the reverend’s smiling face. She turned slightly to her left, focusing on the pews near the altar. And there he was. Lieutenant Cantrill was looking directly at her, his dark eyes and thin face reflecting an inner spark, as though he, too, were on fire from the healing words of the sermon. But for once in her life, she could not summon a coquettish smile or even a flirtatious dimpling. Something profound passed between her and the lieutenant, and she was powerless to turn away.

  When at last Lieutenant Cantrill flicked his glance away from her, Sophie cast her eyes down to her lap. Her hands trembled and a feeling, not unlike butterflies fluttering in a spring garden, settled in the pit of her stomach. She heard not a word of the rest of the service, and merely mouthed the words to the last hymn.

  Lucy leaned over. “Well, I think I see your lieutenant,” she whispered. “That fellow with the dark hair and eyes has been staring at you for most of the service. Is that him?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “Are you quite all right? You look terribly pale.” Lucy plied her with her fan.

  “I—I’m fine,” Sophie stammered.

  “We shall have to find a way for you to meet up with him as we leave,” Lucy said.

  Sophie shook her head, embarrassed by Lucy’s constant whispered chatter. “Not now. The service is still going.”

  Lucy’s mouth quirked as though she were hiding a grin. “Ah, how pious we are, even while thinking only of...him.”

  “Hush.” That was quite enough out of Lucy.

  The hymn ended with a last, drawn-out “Amen” that echoed well up to the rafters. If the parishioners of St. Swithins were bored with a sermon, Sophie reflected, they certainly seemed to enjoy the singing. Then they jostled and pressed out of the pews, filing out of the three aisles in a noisy, chattering mass.

  “Now, to get over to see your lieutenant,” Lucy murmured, giving the church one all-encompassing sweep with her eyes, “we will need to leave through the side. You see? He is over on the left. We shall have to fight, but we can make it over.”

  “But even if we are able to get over to his side of the church, how will we attract his attention?” Sophie followed Lucy, who was graciously applying both her smile and her elbows to fight through the crowd.

  “Leave that to me,” Lucy called over her shoulder.

  As the crowd surged toward the main exit, Sophie and Lucy were able to press through to the left aisle, where the sea of parishioners was considerably thinner. Cantrill was a few feet ahead of them, walking slowly toward the side door with a young man—surely that was the ensign, judging by the slope of his shoulders and his slightly hunched gait.

  With an expert flip of her wrist, Lucy sent her reticule sailing through the air, and it landed just inches away from the lieutenant. He stooped down and scooped it up with his hand, turning around to find the owner with a puzzled expression on his thin, serious face. Sophie’s heart lurched anew. How handsome he was. The ensign paused beside the lieutenant, his boyish face uncertain and clouded.

  “Oh, sir!” Lucy sang out. “You found my reticule. How very good of you.” She caught Sophie around the waist and dragged her up the aisle. “It was knocked clear of my hand by the bustle of this crowd.” She took the reticule back and smiled at Sophie.

  She took the hint and assumed control of the social graces, introducing each to the other.

  “Lieutenant Cantrill, Ensign Rowland, may I present Miss Williams. She is the governess for the Bradbury girls, and a dear friend of mine.”

  “So this is Ensign Rowland? How do you do, sir?” Lucy shook hands cordially with the ensign, who said nothing, his clear green eyes wide and unreadable. “Ensign, I was wondering if you could assist me with a problem. You see, I must instruct Lord Bradbury’s daughters in the finer points of elocution and pronunciation, and the best way to do so is by reading aloud.” She threaded her arm under his elbow and piloted him toward the door. “But I am so rusty at reading aloud myself. Would you be my audience? I should so like to have your assistance...” Her voice trailed off as they disappeared into the crowd.

  “It seems Miss Williams is amenable to the idea of reading to Rowland,” Lieutenant Cantrill observed, his eyebrow quirked. “Tell me, is she always so...talkative?”

  “I am afraid so,” Sophie said with a rueful laugh. It was nice to be standing here, talking with him comfortably. She liked his banter during those rare moments when he allowed his guard to slip.

  “Well, then, she will be very beneficial to Rowland. No pressure for him to speak, and a great deal of chatter to listen to,” Cantrill replied, and offered her his arm.

  They trailed out the side door of the church together, but Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Sophie peered around the milling pack of parishioners once more, just to be sure. No, she had vanished, leaving Sophie quite alone with Cantrill. She wasn’t sure if she should be embarrassed, furious or grateful—or some combination of all three.

  Charlie directed her toward the stone steps that led down to the sidewalk. “Are you enjoying working for Bradbury?” he inquired in a polite tone.

  “Yes. Amelia and Louisa are sweet girls. And Lucy is a dear friend. She almost makes up for the loss of Harriet.” She let it slip before she thought about it. Why would Cantrill care about her feelings of homesickness? He was, after all, only showing his good manners by asking such a feeble question.

  “You are very close to your family.” It was a statement, rather than a question. She glanced up at his profile, but he was locked away in his own thoughts, his jaw clenched tightly as a fist.

  “Yes. But that brings me to your problem, Lieutenant. How well I know the conflict you feel with your family. I’ve battered my brains about it long enough. I think I may have the perfect solution to your mother’s edicts.”

  * * *

  The pressure of her hand resting in the crook of his elbow sent a wave of fire down his mutilated arm. He sucked in his breath. Sophie was powerful, more so than she was probably aware, even if she enjoyed flirting. But this wasn’t the action of a coquette. Her dark blue eyes—so blue they were nearly black, with a fringe of sooty lashes—held a spark of understanding and empathy. He warmed to that spark, longed to kindle the blaze.

  “Really, Miss Handley, you don’t have to come to my rescue. I was just teasing, you know. As a grown man, I can well handle my own mother.”

  “Oh, I know you can.” She led him down a few stone steps. “But defying one’s family can be quite difficult. I believe in you. I believe that the work you do is good. And I should hate for it to cease just because your mother and brother feel you should be living the life of a Society buck. I wish they could understand, as I do, all that you are doing to help others.”

  He had to turn away. When she looked up like that, tender and beseeching, he was hard-pressed to remember that she was just being nice. As a family friend. And she had the soul of a flirt. It wasn’t as if she really cared for him, as mutilated as he was. Hang it all, she had spurned John when he returned from the war, after he lost his leg. Why would she feel any differently toward him?

  He cleared his throat to steady himself and buy a little time to craft an articulate response. “I can’t judge them, you know. They feel I should be more concerned about Society—that is all. Going to balls, having a proper calling that supplies a reasonable income. Living in a poky flat in Bath, preferring to live simply and to help poor veterans—well, that kind of lifestyle is rather a slap in the face to their mode of living.”

  “I see.” She finally dropped her hand from his elbow, but the imprint of her touch still burned like a furnace. “So they feel you should be doing things more in keeping with what other men in Society do. Drinking, gambling, making piles
of money in a position you don’t love....”

  “Courting the ladies,” he added, then halted. Heat flooded his face—why had he brought that up? It was beyond ridiculous to mention, especially in light of his all too recent humiliation, courtesy of Beth Gaskell.

  Sophie frowned, her dimples deepening. “And that is the reason we must strike a compromise. Tell me—are you ready to hear my plan?”

  “I suppose so.” He sighed. “But I won’t drink or play cards. More’s the pity, they say.”

  “Of course not. But you could court the ladies. More specifically, me.”

  Chapter Eight

  At Cantrill’s shocked expression, Sophie swallowed and rushed on. She glanced up at him, her face aglow with excitement. “We could pretend to be courting, you and I. Only whilst your mother is here. That should give her enough hope that you are done with your austere ways, and perhaps she will leave you in peace a bit longer.”

  That had been the plan all along—in the back of her mind. In her most private dreams, perhaps. She longed to say it—but now, speaking the words aloud gave her pause. It sounded like such a daft promise. Sophie could’ve bitten her tongue out the moment the words slipped from her mouth. ’Twas certain he would think her a runaway from Bedlam. But Charlie looked so downcast, and so hunted by his own family, that she was determined to help him out. They were friends, and friends helped one another through the darkest times.

  “But...what happens after my mother leaves?” The lieutenant had turned a bright shade of scarlet, and she detected a slight stammer in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

  “Well, then we stop pretending. You can tell your mother that I cried off. After all, I already have that reputation, you know. Everyone knows about my engagement to John Brookes.” The tone of her voice was more bitter than she intended. She cleared her throat and attempted to lighten the mood. “We don’t have to be officially engaged, so there will be no damage to anyone’s reputation. You can just pretend to court me, and your mother will see that you are fulfilling your part of the bargain. There will be no need for you to return to Brightgate, and you can continue your life’s work with the poor.”