She needed to tell Harry. She chewed on her lip. Harry was in London, staying with his uncle, and even if she could send a letter to him, what could he do?
Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to marry this cousin she hardly knew and she was already sure could never love. She loved Harry and this wasn’t the future she had dreamed of. Should she climb down out of the tree and run after them? But she already guessed what their response would be—they knew best and her dreams of a marriage with the heir to Pendleton was impossible, no matter what promises he might have made her. Sir Arbuthnot would never allow it and now Sophy’s father had joined ranks with him.
Her father had said he was to remain at Pendleton as estate manager for now. Sophy must make certain to remain with him. Any mention of Audley Farm or Arnold must be diverted. She could insist that the children at the academy could not do without her. If necessary she would ask for Harry’s support, but she suspected he would be as powerless as she. For the first time in her life Sophy looked into a future she did not want and feared she would be helpless to prevent.
HARRY
Harry was home at last. Just as the Season in London was beginning to ramp up, he was called back to Pendleton Manor by his father. He was sorry to say goodbye to Lord Langley, who had been helping him gain ‘some town polish’, just as Sir Arbuthnot had instructed.
Lord Langley was Harry’s mother’s elder brother. Although not exactly an extroverted person, his uncle had done his best for Harry, though that more often than not entailed quietly seeing the sights rather than attending any social engagements.
It was only when his uncle had taken him to a brothel masquerading as a gentleman’s club, and had been shown into a private room, that he fully understood Sir Arbuthnot’s purpose—to make his eldest son in his own image.
Lord Langley had cleared his throat and fiddled with his neckcloth. “Uhm. Your father decided you needed a little more … experience, Harry. He has arranged for you to learn the niceties of the bedchamber as well as the ballroom.”
“He arranged for me to spend the night with a whore?” Harry had asked bluntly, staring, not sure whether to laugh or turn and walk out.
In the end they had both walked out. The woman was beautiful and charming in her own direct way, but she knew more about his father than he cared to hear, and he was quick to refuse her services. This was his father’s world, and Harry looked toward a very different future.
As they made their way to a boxing match—much more their sort of thing—he had found himself asking Lord Langley about his parents. His uncle’s answer was far blunter than he’d expected. “Your father was never a faithful husband. He has a lustful side he has never tried to rein in. My sister was there primarily to give him a legal heir, and she knew it.”
Harry felt nauseated. He already knew he didn’t want that sort of life for himself. He wasn’t Sir Arbuthnot and Sophy wasn’t his mother—but he vowed at that moment that he would never hurt her by taking a mistress. Instead, he would put all of his efforts into being a better man.
But Lord Langley wasn’t finished with his confidences. “Your father has made it very plain the sort of wife he wants for you. ‘One with breeding and money,’ was how he put it, ‘because that is how one produces the best livestock.’”
Harry snorted. “So I am to be put to stud like one of his bulls?”
His uncle had given him a bland look. “More or less.”
“I’m not going to let him tell me who to marry,” Harry had said heatedly.
His uncle had eyed him with sympathy. Harry wanted to talk about Sophy but stopped himself. Lord Langley did not like Sir Arbuthnot, that was obvious, but it didn’t mean he would not think it his duty to repeat anything Harry told him.
Now he was home again at Pendleton, and the joy in his heart was almost too much to contain. At twenty years of age he was more than ready to take over the running of the estate in whatever manner his father required of him. They would clash, he was sure of it, but in time he would implement his own progressive ideas. He could be patient, he had to be patient.
Adam was home as well. He’d taken up his commission with his regiment and was usually stationed at the barracks in London, although he seemed to have plenty of time to go out on the town and enjoy himself. Harry had missed his brother, and was glad to see him.
Sir Arbuthnot had invited guests to Pendleton, and they
arrived a week after Harry’s return. This wasn’t a coincidence, according to Adam.
“You know what he’s up to,” Adam said, as they made their way to the dining room. “He sees you marrying the girl.”
The widowed Earl of Streatham had a seventeen year old daughter, Lady Felicia, who was also his heir.
“Then he’ll be disappointed,” Harry said calmly. “Just as he was disappointed when I didn’t avail myself of the women at that club he sent me to.”
Adam’s eyebrows rose. “You went to the Masque, and you said no?”
Harry stopped in his tracks. “You’ve been there?”
Adam smirked. “I may be a second son but our father is generous in his desire to educate us both in the pleasures of the flesh.”
“Or justify his own behaviour by moulding us in his image.”
“More than happy to be moulded in his image, brother!”
Harry wasn’t sure why he should be surprised—his brother had always been a rakehell.