Meant To Be (Pendleton Manor 1)

“No. That wasn’t what happened.”

Harry wanted to pretend she was lying, that it was all a game. That he had been right all along. He wanted to believe that because otherwise he had made the worst of mistakes. He said, “George sent it in a letter he wrote to my father from his cell. After my father handed me the ring I made him show me the letter. It mentioned Lambeth, and that you were ‘happily settled’ there.”

Her blue eyes lit up. “I remember my father saying he wrote a letter,” she acceded. “He said he had written to Sir Arbuthnot, but although the letter was addressed to him it was actually to you. He said if you were the man I thought you were then his letter would help you to find me.”

“I did find you.”

“You found me?” her voice wavered.

“I saw you with a man. I thought he must be your husband. There was a baby. You looked so happy that I … I walked away.”

She stared at him, and he could see her processing what he had said. When she spoke at last her voice was flat, as if he had gravely disappointed her. “I’m not married. I was never married. It was probably one of Grandma’s neighbours you saw. I was teaching his daughter while she was at home and unwell.”

Harry let the truth sink in, because it was the truth. He believed her. Without his turbulent emotions causing him to doubt her he could see what he should have seen all along. Sophy was not the one at fault here. His father had sent him off to Essex and once he was out of the way, he had dealt with Sophy’s family in a manner he hoped would preclude Harry wanting anything more to do with them. It hadn’t worked. He’d searched for Sophy, and only gave up when he thought he saw with his own eyes what his father had been drumming into his head as the truth for over a year.

“Sophy.”

“I don’t think we have any more to discuss.”

“Don’t say that.”

He was full of regret. Her big blue eyes looked wounded and he felt his heart ache. He felt tender and hungry, both at the same time. The hunger won, and he ducked his head and pressed his lips to hers.

She tasted like heaven. He shifted to get better access, his tongue sliding over her skin before gently closing his teeth on her. Her breath caught. “Sophy,” he murmured, “I missed you so much. I’ve had a hole in my heart. All this time … all this time …”

Just for a moment she melted in his arms and he felt her respond, her mouth opening to his, her hands clutching at his jacket to hold him close. His head swam, his heart pounded, his body filled with urgent need.

And then she pulled back, and said in a shaky but determined voice, “No, Harry. You are engaged.”

She gave him a hard shove and he took a step back. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wild, but there was resolution in her expression. “It’s too late for us,” she reminded him, her voice husky. “You are going to marry Lady Evelyn.”

He shook his head. “I want you,” he said, and knew he sounded like a child denied a favourite toy.

Her back straightened. “I’m sorry.”

“Sophy.” He reached for her again. “I ache for you. Every night I dream of you. Can’t we …?” He licked his lips. Just for a moment he fought against his need for her, reminding himself he didn’t want to be like his father. He had never wanted that.

She watched him and he had the feeling she knew what he was struggling not to say. That she saw right through to the heart of him, where the man he wanted to be fought with the man he feared he would become. “Will you be … will you be with me?”

“Will I be your mistress?” This time her shove was harder. She ducked beneath his arm, slipping away, and then rushing across the room. He caught up with her at the door.

“Sophy!” he lowered his voice with difficulty. “Can’t we talk, at least? There must be some way …”

Her hand was on the door handle, her shoulders hunched, but she looked at him over her shoulder. He saw the desolation in her eyes.

“No, there isn’t,” she told him in a hard little voice. “The Harry I loved would never have said such a thing to me. The Harry I loved was a much better man than that. You want something you cannot have, Harry. We have nothing more to say.”

And she was gone.

SOPHY

Sophy returned to her seat and sat down. She must have looked more or less normal because James did not make any comment, only sending her a vague smile before turning back to the music. The soloist had been replaced by a harpist.

She pretended to listen to the gentle sounds, tried to let them heal her, but all the time she felt sick to her stomach. Harry had kissed her and held her, and for a moment he had been Harry. For a moment she had thought everything could be the same as it was. And then he had shown his true colours and spoilt even those brief moments of hope.

After her husband died Susan had become Sir Geoffrey’s mistress. Sophy could not deny that in those desperate circumstances things had worked out well for her grandmother. Her father may not have liked the scandal attached to the family, but Sophy could see both sides.

But for Harry to ask such a thing of her, when all their lives he had promised to make her his wife?