DisobediencebyDesign (13 page)

London, 4 May 1860

“So this is the famous London Season.”

Joseph could barely maneuver in the crush of bodies at the
Royal Academy Exhibition. He had never seen such a gathering of the rich and
powerful in one single location. The galleries teemed with what seemed to be
every fashionable lady and gentleman in the entire country. Only the stiff
crinolines of the women’s skirts kept breathing room between the patrons. And
air was at a premium. The pungent odor of drying varnish clashed with French
perfume and heady cologne.

“Rather more infamous, if you ask me,” quipped Henny,
clinging to Arthur for dear life.

Sophia hung on to her brother’s other arm, staring in awe
and admiration at the crowd. “It’s magnificent.”

“And we haven’t even seen the art.” Joseph winked at her and
grinned at her blush.

Newcomers jostled the foursome, pushing Joseph right into
Henny’s bosom. He grinned again. Arthur glared.

“Let’s start backward through the exhibit,” she suggested. “Perhaps
it won’t be as stifling at the other end.”

“Go with Joseph,” Arthur said to his sister as he and Henny
made their own path.

Joseph laughed. Sophia smiled and bit her lower lip then
threaded her arm through his. They wended their way through the galleries,
dodging voluminous skirts and protruding canes, gesticulating experts and
dazzled amateurs. After a good ten minutes they joined Arthur and Henny in the
East Room. The throng had indeed thinned considerably.

Arthur pulled him aside. “See that man over there? In the
pale-green waistcoat?”

The waistcoat was the most unusual feature on the otherwise
rather unremarkable, middle-aged man. “Yes.”

“That’s Prescott,” he murmured. “Leonard Prescott. He’s a
good friend of Geoffrey’s and he’s expressed interest in our scheme.”

Business, always business. Joseph had hoped he could
concentrate on the art.

“And the man shaking his hand, that’s Harland Moseby.”

Another unremarkable gentleman. Striped waistcoat. “Shouldn’t
we introduce ourselves?”

“No. Geoffrey will make the introductions later. But
remember you saw them here. Ask them about the art.”

“Flatter them by pretending I value their opinions on such
matters?”

Arthur nodded as a wry smile twisted his lips. “Something
like that.”

Sophia bounded up. “Mr. Phillips, I’ve just seen a picture
you might find stimulating.”

“Of course, Lady Sophia.” Their veneer of formality was
tiresome. He envied Arthur and Henny.

She led him to a spot on the wall near the door where hung a
small but stunning canvas. A soldier dressed in a black uniform gazed down on a
woman not quite in his arms but who had been perhaps a moment before. A
dog—fidelity—sat at attention for his master. On the wall behind the pair hung
an etching of Jacques-Louis David’s
Napoleon Crossing the Alps
, hinting
at the soldier’s battle destination. The sheen on the woman’s white satin gown
was rendered expertly, challenging one to touch her skirts to prove it was
merely a painting.

“It’s called
The Black Brunswicker
by J.E. Millais.”
A giddiness rippled through Sophia’s voice.

“It’s exquisite.”

She sidled up more closely to him. “It’s like us,” she
whispered in his ear.

Joseph smiled.
Indeed
.

The coloring of the young man and woman were off, his hair
was too dark, her eyes too blue. But the emotion conveyed was eerily accurate.
Young lovers being ripped apart by duty, not wanting to give in to their
respective fates, she trying to close the door, wanting to be with him one last
time, he breathing her in to his memory before he sailed away and out of her
life to certain death.

“I think they’ve just made love,” she murmured daringly.

“Perhaps.” He almost choked on the word as a pang of despair
shot through him. While Sophia saw two beautiful lovers ending a tryst, all he
could think about was how they would never be together again.

Shit
. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love.

“Ooh, that’s a lovely one.” Henny’s voice at his side broke
his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “Yes it is.” He stared at the
painting, blinking back emotions threatening to break.

Henny sought his gaze. “Arthur wants your opinion on some
landscape on the other side of the room.” Her smile conveyed empathy. “I’ll
watch Sophie.”

“Thank you.” He gave Sophia’s hand a furtive squeeze and
lost himself in the crowd.

* * * * *

Geoffrey sank into the sofa in Arthur’s library and closed
his eyes, ignoring the babel of Belgravia outside. The Season had opened with a
grueling week of meetings with businessmen and bankers and peers with too much
money, a week of stifling smoking rooms and an excess of spirits. A week
assuring potential investors that indeed the Panic of ’57 was very much in the
past. A week of reiterating the scheme and gauging reactions to Phillips’
designs. A week full of men, where the only female companion was his mother.

He slipped off his shoes and extended himself, his calves
lying against the padded armrest. He was looking forward to the frivolity of
the Wrexham ball that Saturday, women displaying their bosoms, enticing him
with their finest perfumes, giggling at his insipid jokes. He sighed.

“Comfortable?”

He opened one eye. Phillips stood above him, holding two
snifters of brandy.

“Very.” He took a glass and swung his legs back to the
floor, securing himself in a corner. Phillips sank into the other corner.

“We’ve got our twelve men.” Arthur sat on the wingback
opposite. “Each one of them very impressed with your elegant designs.” He
raised his snifter to Phillips.

“Is twelve a significant number?” Phillips inquired.

“No,” Arthur said. “It’s just enough. Not too many, not too
few. A safeguard if someone drops out.”

Geoffrey drained his glass. “I’ll start drawing up the
paperwork tomorrow.” He leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“You really put your heart and soul into this business,
Peel. You look as beat out as a stevedore done landing cargo.”

Geoffrey eyed Phillips with a scowl. “I’m sure that is a
flattering description of my person.”

Phillips laughed.

The more contact Geoffrey had with the man, the more he grew
to like and respect him and the more he understood why Arthur called him by his
Christian name. “Phillips” did not suit. He was “Joseph” through and through.
It set him above the class distinctions he took pains to eschew.

“Just be well-rested for my wedding, Geoff. You’re best man,
remember?”

“Ah the toast.” Geoffrey lifted his head and raised his
empty glass. “To Arthur, a man who knows how to make men and money work for
him.”

Arthur chuckled. “To the betterment of both, I would add.”

A commotion in the lobby caused all to turn toward the door.
A knock resounded, followed by Wittering’s somber entrance, the open door
augmenting the giggles and squeals emanating from the marble foyer.

“Lady Henrietta Langley and Lady Sophia to see you, sir.
Shall I send them in?” the butler drawled.

A grin spread across Arthur’s face. “Yes, Wittering. Please.”

Henny entered and Arthur was at her side instantly, grabbing
shopping boxes before grasping her hands, kissing her cheeks and calling her “darling”.

That Arthur was so much in love instilled hope in Geoffrey’s
beleaguered heart.

Sophia followed in Henny’s wake, swinging her wide skirts
and her own purchases playfully. As she spied Joseph the color rose in her
face. She met Geoffrey’s gaze and smiled warmly. She greeted her brother with a
peck.

The air was filled with their chatter and their bustling as
they piled up packages, their energy a distinct contrast to the men’s
enervation. Sophia sat on the sofa next to Joseph and took off her gloves then
grabbed his snifter and took a sip. Joseph’s face softened, the small act
somehow laden with meaning.

“And what have the two of you been up to?” Arthur asked as
he led Henny to an armchair.

“The seamstress’.” Henny sighed. “For the Wrexham affair
Saturday.”

“It seems Henny’s getting fat,” Sophia teased.

A fleeting look of inquiry passed from Arthur to Henny. She
looked away, busying herself with her reticule.

“I fear I’m not my usual abstemious self, what with the
wedding nerves.” She smiled at Arthur. “Are you going to offer us tea, dear?”

“Absolutely.” Arthur tugged on the bell pull.

For fifteen long minutes the women gabbed frenetically,
stumbling over each other’s words, telling stories of shopping and how their
exertions left them as exhausted as the men. Relief came when the door opened.

And Anna walked in with the tea.

Geoffrey stood, exhilaration coursing straight up his spine.
He went to her, took the heavy, well-laden tray, his fingers brushing hers in
the process.

“Thank you, sir.” She blushed. Her dress, a plaid of
chestnut and copper, highlighted her brown eyes and auburn hair.

“Anna?” Arthur said with surprise. “What happened to
Wittering?”

“Someone at the door, my lord. Mr. Wittering asked if I
would bring in the tea.”

Geoffrey put the tray down on a side table, his fingers
still tingling where they had touched hers.

“Good,” exclaimed Sophia. “Then you can pour and we can all
be familiar.” She glanced at Anna. “No sugar for Joseph, please.”

While Sophia and Henny continued to regale the men with
tales of shopping and gossip, Anna dutifully poured and passed out cups of tea.
Geoffrey watched, riveted by the simple, domestic task performed with such
polished elegance.

“And how do you take your tea, Mr. Peel?”

Preferably alone with you
. “No sugar, Miss Colney.”

“There’s cake as well, sir.”

“Ooh, Anna,” Henny interjected. “If you please, cut me a
slice. I’m famished.”

“Henny! Your waistline!”

“Pshaw, Sophie. That’s why I had my dress let out. I’m not
passing up Mrs. Babcock’s cake.”

Joseph and Arthur sat in silent amusement. Geoffrey closed
the space between him and Anna, shielding her from view of the others.

“Will you sit with us, Miss Colney, and take tea?” he asked
softly.

She sucked in her lower lip and nibbled briefly. “That is
not my place, sir.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Mrs. Babcock will have
tea and cake for me downstairs.” Her eyes surveyed his face, slowly moving side
to side, up and down, to his hair, his mouth, blushing at the last. “Shall I
cut you a slice, sir?”

“Yes, please, Miss Colney.”

He stood aside. Neither was it his place to upset the order
of things.

“You’re coming to the Wrexham ball, aren’t you, Joseph?”
Sophia asked. “Arthur will take you. I think as his official business partner
you’re even allowed a dance with me.”

“Your mother has most likely already promised all your
dances, dear,” Henny said.

“But it will be Joseph’s first London ball!” Sophia clasped
Henny’s hand. “You must convince her to let me!”

Anna handed Arthur his slice of cake. “If you’re not needing
me any longer, my lord, I’ll take my leave.”

“Yes, thank you, Anna.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank a little as she exited to take her
place downstairs.

Sophia shifted uncomfortably in her straight-backed chair
and stared at her dance card. She had been through more than half of the dances
at Lord and Lady Wrexham’s annual May ball, each with a different partner, each
partner with a different claim to the aristocracy. It must have been after one
o’clock in the morning and she was exhausted, less from the dancing and more
from the forced conversations about the exact same topics using the exact same
words.

The Duke of Royston was partnering her next. She almost felt
relieved. At least she didn’t have to have the same mindless chitchat with him.
He already knew who her parents were or how many siblings she had or even what
she thought of the weather.

Henny and Arthur approached, flushed and giggling, probably
having just availed themselves of a bedroom upstairs. She ruffled at the
thought.

“Sophie! Not dancing?” asked Henny.

“I stood out this one. Mama said I could. My feet are
killing me. And my head.”

“How are the suitors?” Joseph asked, quietly appearing on
her right.

She turned a smile to him. “Boring. What about you? Did you
dance with anyone?”

“I did.” He chuckled. “A lovely young lady put up with me
for a polka. Unattached but no debutante.”

“Oh yes,” said Henny. “Some of the girls are having their
second seasons. Not everyone gets snatched up as quickly as I did.”

She gazed at Arthur, who beamed lovingly.

Sophia gazed up at her own object of affection. “Arthur
tells me you two had a busy afternoon, Mr. Phillips.”

“We did, Lady Sophia.” His eyes twinkled. “My accent
enthralled them at his club.”

She giggled and inwardly sighed. All she really wanted was
to laugh and dance with him, call him by his Christian name, bill and coo like
Henny and Arthur. It was maddening.

“You look so pretty tonight, Sophie,” Henny said. “Doesn’t
she, Arthur?” She squeezed his arm. “Compliment your sister on her new
necklace, dear.”

Sophia smiled. Henny had given her a gold locket with
side-by-side miniature portraits of the two of them. She smoothed her thumb
over the pendant.

“The splendid adornment is the perfect accompaniment to your
captivating loveliness, Lady Sophia.” Joseph winked at her.

Arthur rolled his eyes and flashed a smirk in Joseph’s
direction. Henny squealed with a clap.

The duke approached, his affected saunter spiked with
urgency. “Lady Sophia, the next waltz is reserved for me.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She tucked her card in her purse.

He glanced at the company and nodded his greetings all
around, receiving mumbled courtesies in return.

“Mother tells me you escorted her to the Royal Academy Exhibition
today, Your Grace,” Henny said sweetly. “I must thank you for the distraction.
She’s been thinking of nothing but my wedding of late.”

Henny was wicked to rub salt into the wound. So deliciously
wicked.

Royston scowled. “Anything for my dear Cousin Edith.”

“And which was your favorite?”

More cruelty. Henny knew the duke was not refined enough to
have an opinion about art.

“I’m sure I don’t know, they were all rather finely done.”
He turned to Arthur. “You, Petersham?”

“I liked Goodall’s
Wilderness of Shur
. I rather fancy
the exoticism of the Near East.”

Henny giggled. Clearly a private joke. Another diversion
Sophia was denied with Joseph.

“And what about Mr. Phillips?” Royston sneered. “You
consider yourself something of an artist do you not?”

“I thought
The Black Brunswicker
by Millais to be
exquisitely done.”

“Dull and saccharine, if you ask me.” The duke winced. “I’d
think a man such as you would prefer a landscape or something involving
industry.”

“I feel it precisely depicts the emotion of true love, a
sentiment, I would hope, understood by all men. Or perhaps it is a sentiment
only understood by those still in the vigor of youth, my lord.”

Royston turned a shade of red Sophia had not witnessed
before. Joseph had, unwittingly or not, used an incorrect form of address and
insulted the duke’s manliness. She wanted to laugh but somehow managed to turn
such jocularity into an expression of shock. Henny avoided her eyes, as she too
seemed about to burst into guffaws.

The music started up in a waltz.

“Lady Sophia.” The duke’s tone verged on a growl. “Our
dance.” He held out his hand.

Sophia touched her glove to his and did not look at her
companions. She simply could not.

And within a minute of dancing, she realized mundane
conversation with young, awkward men was far more preferable than being whirled
around the ballroom by a perturbed duke. He clutched at her more aggressively
than a partner should and steered her with more insistence.

“You should find better company than American commoners,
Sophia. Especially if you are to marry a man of status and prestige.” His voice
held a snarl.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said blandly.

“I’m sure there is no way you will ever be rid of the man if
he is to persist as your brother’s business partner. At least he’ll be far away
and you won’t have intercourse with him too often. Or more likely the business
will fail. Then you’ll never have to see him again.”

Sophia was not looking forward to the day Joseph would be
far away. She wanted him as close to her as possible forever. And she certainly
could not imagine never seeing him again. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You’re rather dull tonight, my dear, aren’t you?” he
sniped.

“Please, Your Grace, I am tired. I’ve been dancing for
hours. When you encountered me, it was the first I had sat all evening.”

“Well then,” he said with a keen glint in his eye, “we
should find a bench for you to sit upon and catch your breath. Perhaps in the
garden.”

The last thing Sophia wanted to do was to stroll through a
dark garden with the duke. If Joseph had asked her, she would have jumped at
the chance. She pressed her lips together to stifle a smile.

“Ah, I see the idea intrigues you.” He slowed as the music’s
ritardando
signaled the
crescendo
of the finale. “I know a
restful place. I’ll take you there.”

Sophia scanned the ballroom for someone familiar. She did
not know her next dance partner—the son of a friend of her father’s—and Henny,
Arthur and Mama were nowhere to be seen. Joseph neither, although even if she
did spy him in the bustling crowd, she hardly knew how she could convince the
duke to take her to him. Royston pulled her toward the French doors leading onto
the terrace, conducting her rather emphatically through them and out into the
frigid night air.

Instantly she chilled and not from the change in
temperature. She tried to focus on how one might extricate oneself from such a
situation. A need for a wrap? He would simply give her his jacket. A call of
nature? He would wait nearby. She had no time to think of any other ruse, for
he was being very insistent, guiding her forcefully, down the stone stairs,
over the lawn, into the depths of the dark amongst the trees and arbors and
gazebos that created shadows and enclosed spaces.

He had stopped chatting with her, instead was determined,
adamant about getting somewhere in particular, gripping her arm tightly,
unconcerned if she was scratched by a rosebush or tripped on a rut or snagged
her voluminous skirt on a hedge. The light from lamps soon disappeared and
party guests along with the lamps. They were utterly, completely alone in the
moonless night.

And the duke was not in a good mood.

Soon they were at the back of the garden, a stone wall
looming before them. Royston muttered an oath then yanked her to the right. He
dragged her through a side door, cursing once again at the clank of the iron
latch, and into the neighboring garden where a stand of trees, gnarled and
ominous, clustered at the back. He pulled her inside amongst the twisted
branches and slammed her up against a thick trunk and stripped off his gloves.

He held her against the coarse bark as he pressed his lips
against hers, cold and clammy, his passion borne from anger. She struggled
against him but he held her down firmly, resolutely, pulling her hands up over
her head.

“You will learn that a fine lady does not keep company with
such dogs. Once you are mine I will make sure of it.” His hand tightened
cruelly around her wrists.

“Please, Your Grace, you are hurting me,” she said
purposefully loudly.

He released her and slapped her face with such strength she
doubled over. She cupped her stinging cheek, unsure if the wetness was blood or
tears.

“I see you did not inherit your mother’s fondness for pain.
That is regrettable.” He grabbed her by the hair, pulling back, forcing her to
look at him. “You will keep your mouth shut while your better teaches you a
lesson.” He hauled her by the hair under a low branch, knocking her head
against it as he yanked her to standing.

He placed his hands on the neckline of her dress and pulled
outward, tearing the bodice in half. Sophia gasped a cry, clutching the ruined
fabric to her bosom, her thumb reflexively reaching for her locket, finding
nothing. Gone. Henny’s precious gift was gone. She whimpered.

He slapped her hard across her face, his signet ring
striking her cheekbone. “I told you to be silent.”

He rent her dress viciously, shredding the skirt down the
middle, grabbed her right hand and tore off her glove then crushed her forearm
against the branch. He wrapped the length of fine kidskin around her wrist
tightly, binding her to the tree.

Tears cascaded down her neck to her chest as he cruelly
squeezed a breast, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. He untied the
tapes of her cage crinoline and petticoats then stomped them flat on the
ground.

“No man will want damaged goods.”

Sophia froze.

He tore open her drawers.

Her head spun, her stomach churned. Did she forget to
breathe? Did she forget how to breathe? Her free hand lifted to touch her
temple…

His fingers tightened on her wrist as he hastily unbuttoned
his trousers and drawers. He kicked her legs apart.

She teetered and fell back against the trunk, her brain in a
fog, not certain if what she was seeing in the dark was really happening…

* * * * *

Joseph berated himself for upsetting the duke just before
the man partnered with Sophia. She had looked pained as Royston inelegantly
moved her across the floor, dodging rather than floating among the other
twirling bodies, their arbitrary path making it difficult to track them. Joseph
had stepped forward to get a better view and practically crashed into a
giggling, spinning couple, losing sight of Sophia for only a second. The music
ended and he searched for her in the crowd.

Alarm stabbed up his spine. She was not there.

He searched the ballroom frantically, trying hard not to draw
attention to himself. In the corner of his eye he saw a young man approach
Henny and Arthur, showing them his dance card, questioning them, the pair
shaking their heads and looking around as well, the young man shrugging and
moving along.

Shit
. Sophia had missed the next dance.

He espied the French doors leading out onto the terrace—the
easiest way out of the ballroom—and moved as quickly as he could, still
searching, glancing at every couple, noting sizes and shapes, the dresses of
the women as he wound his way outside down the steps to the lawn spilling out
into the garden. Couples milled about, most remaining close to the house, a few
venturing off along lamp-lit paths to flirt and fondle in a romantic gazebo or
arbor.

But if a man’s motive was not romance, such a man would take
his prey to the darkest corner of the garden.

Joseph drew in a breath and dived into the dark, allowing
his eyes to adjust to the moonless night. He moved as swiftly and silently as
possible, his senses on high alert, his ears competing with the worry and
reprobation screaming in his head.

The screech of metal on metal and a throaty snarl stopped
him cold.

He turned and sped toward the sounds, pushing through a side
door in the garden wall, his way barely lit by the dim light glowing from the
Wrexham’s upper floors, his ears pounding at the sound of fabric tearing.

His eyes focused on the scene of his worst fear realized.
Sophia captive and half-dressed, crying and exposed, sagging against a tree.

And the Duke of Royston with his prick in his hand.

He inhaled deeply to contain the fury balling within. He
would not save Sophia by murdering the man, even though that was precisely what
he wanted to do.

“Step away from Lady Sophia, Royston. If you know what’s
good for you.”

The duke spun around, tucking and buttoning frenziedly. “This
is not your concern, Phillips.”

“The safety of Lord Petersham’s sister is every bit my
concern. Leave. Now.”

Royston looked as if he were about to respond, thought
better of it and ran off, away from the ball and the crowds.

Joseph flew to Sophia, gathering her in his arms, untying
her wrist. She slumped down into a mass of undergarments and torn silk, her
chemise wet with blood and tears.

She said nothing in her dazed state as he put her clothes
back together as best he could, wrapping his jacket around her to hide her
disarray. He carried her through the garden gate to the edge of the lawn then
held her up as they walked along a narrow gardener’s path to the front of the
house.

He waved for a footman, who came instantly.

He gave the man a sovereign and his coat-room ticket. “The
lady fell and injured herself. I need you to retrieve the Earl of Petersham and
our hats.”

Joseph held on to Sophia with all his might as they waited
tucked behind a marble column, containing the anger, frustration and regret
shaking him to his core.