Married to a Stranger. Louise Allen
the act of creation as a picture took form on the page, when the visions in her mind came to life at the point of her pencil. She had toyed with the idea of approaching some book publishers—the famous John Murray or Mr Ackermann who produced so many prints, perhaps.
But there was no choice, not realistically. The idea of making her own living in that way was a daydream. Ladies did not become commercial artists; it would be one step up from the stage and the scandalous reputation that carried with it.
Nor could a lady jilt a gentleman; it would be a shocking and ungrateful thing to do now she had let things run on for years. No one expected marriages to be love matches, so that was no excuse. Nor did a dutiful daughter throw away an alliance that would secure her family’s fortune—and certainly not if she would be left an old maid of twenty-six in the process. Whatever sort of man Daniel had grown into, saint or sinner, she must marry him and do her duty. But then tragedy had released her in the only way that society would accept, making her emotional turmoil even worse.
Sophia tossed the bills on top of the sketchbook and paced across the room. But there was no escape, for that brought her to the trunk that was full of linens, each sheet and pillow sham and towel embroidered in the corner with C and the cat’s mask that was Daniel’s family crest: a pun on the French chat for Chatterton. There were underclothes and handkerchiefs, nightgowns and sachets, pen wipers and gloves. The trunk represented nine years of collecting and embroidering and carefully ticking off each item on the list in The Ladies’ Compendium and Housewife’s Remembrancer.
That had been almost a fantasy. She had played at being betrothed while she got on with the rest of her life, as independent as any woman with limited means and a reputation to maintain might be. But now this was real and the folly of a young girl’s infatuation was coming home to roost. It was all her fault. She should have broken off the engagement years before, found another match. If she had she would not be an old maid now, her husband would be supporting her mother and she would not be afraid to open the day’s post or look at the accounts book.
Sophia squared her shoulders and went to sit at the desk. Ignoring the mess they were in could only make it worse. To throw herself on Lord Flamborough’s mercy and ask for a loan would be to sacrifice every iota of self-respect and pride. To try to make a living by her art would scandalise all who knew her.
‘Mr Chatterton. Good afternoon.’ Sophia dropped her sketchbook and pencil into the flower trug beside the rustic seat and walked across the front lawn towards him. She had been pretending to gather flowers for the past half-hour rather than have the front door opened to him by the maid of all work, the only servant other than Cook who was left to them.
‘Miss Langley.’ Callum swung down from his horse and threw the reins over a spike in the picket fence before opening the gate into the small front garden. He removed his hat and his face was serious as he took her proffered hand. ‘I hope I find you well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ She smiled brightly as though the brilliance of it might distract him from her limp and much-washed gown. ‘You look … I mean since I last saw you …’
He had lost some of the colour that India and a sea voyage had given him, but the lines of strain and grief had gone from his face, leaving him, she was almost startled to find, a remarkably good-looking man. She should have expected it—she had seen him six months ago, after all—but now, with his full attention on her, the effect was disconcerting. Her pulse fluttered, her tongue was twisting itself into knots and Sophia knew she was blushing. Obviously she did not mix with gentlemen enough.
Callum must think her a complete ninny, but if he did, he did not let it show on his face. ‘It was a difficult time,’ he acknowledged. ‘I think it is behind me now. I find I can look back with gratitude for the memories and even forward to the future.’
She found her hand was still in his and that she had no desire to remove it. ‘I am glad the pain is healing. I can imagine that, dreadful as it must be to lose a brother, the loss of a twin is even harder to bear.’
‘Yes. That is perceptive of you. Not everyone realises.’ He shifted her hand to the crook of his arm. ‘Is the summer house still standing?’
‘The summer house? Why, yes.’ Startled by the change of subject, she turned and let him lead her around the side of the small villa. ‘How strange that you recall it. Daniel and I used to hide in there and talk and talk and imagine that my parents had no idea where we had got to. It is just the same as it used to be, just rather more rickety.’ There had been tiny yellow roses around the wide doors again this summer, roses she had thought to pick for her bridal flowers.
The doors were unlocked and she opened them, went inside and turned as he followed her slowly into the small, rather dusty space. ‘It is not quite the romantic bower we thought it then; you must excuse the spiders and earwigs.’
‘I am still surprised how small insects are in England,’ Callum said, and his mouth curved into the first smile she had seen from him since his return. ‘Might we sit here and talk?’
‘Yes, of course. Shall I ask the maid to bring out some refreshments? Perhaps I ought to call Mama.’
‘Thank you, no refreshments.’ Callum set two chairs near the doorway, dusted off the seats with his handkerchief, put down his hat gloves and whip and waited for her to sit. ‘Do you feel you need a chaperone?’
‘Not at all. Why ever should I? I have known you for years. You were almost my brother.’
Callum raised one eyebrow. ‘I can assure you, Sophia, my feelings for you were never brotherly.’
Flustered, Sophia took the left-hand seat. Now he had put the idea of danger into her head he seemed altogether too male and too close in the tiny structure. ‘Is the earl well?’
‘Yes, thank you. I gather it is a while since he has seen you.’
She had been avoiding Will and his kindness, afraid that she would humiliate herself and ask him for help, knowing that once he realised in what straits the Langleys found themselves he would feel honour-bound to bail them out.
‘He has been very kind,’ she murmured. ‘You have been in London since—’
‘Since the funeral. Yes. I was offered a senior post with the Company, one that is based at East India House in Leadenhall Street. The hard work helped at first. Since then I have found it fascinating.’
‘I am delighted for you,’ Sophia said politely, wondering what this had to do with her, but glad that he was recovering from the tragedy. ‘How gratifying that your talents have been recognised.’ This was not the gangling youth she remembered hitting a cricket ball all round the lawns of the Hall, nor the intense young man setting out to seek his fortune in India.
‘Thank you. I have taken a house in Half Moon Street—a fashionable area by St James’s Park.’
‘Indeed?’
‘And now I have concluded that there is one thing missing from my new life.’ He was looking out over the tangled shrubbery, but she sensed his mind was not on horticulture or even on the unkempt surroundings.
‘Hmm?’ she prompted as encouragingly as she knew how.
‘A wife.’ Callum Chatterton swivelled round and faced her, his air of abstraction quite gone.
‘A wife?’ Sophia found herself caught by his eyes, eyes that seemed now to see nothing but her.
‘A wife. I wondered if you would do me the honour, Sophia?’
Chapter Two
‘Me?’ Sophia’s surprise was almost comical. For a moment she gaped at him and Cal wondered whether he had made a mistake and she was not the intelligent and poised young woman he had thought six months ago. Then she shut her mouth—her wide and generous mouth—thought for a moment and asked, ‘Why should you wish to marry me, Mr Chatterton?’
Ah, yes, the intelligence