The Temporary Betrothal (7 page)

“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

S
unday—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 uncomfortable, 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?