“Higgins, you must be mistaken,” she said, addressing her remarks to the butler. “This cannot be—” She turned to look at their trio and her face immediately turned ashen white. “Y…Your Grace,” she breathed, putting a ring-laden hand to her throat.
Phillip smiled at the woman and tipped his head toward her. He hadn’t seen her in quite some time, but she looked nearly the same as she had the last time he’d been at a London ball. “Lady Cranberry,” he intoned.
A strange noise that sounded like a cross between a hysterical laugh and a deep sob issued from the lady’s mouth before she managed to say, “I’d no idea you’d…” She cleared her throat and shook her head slightly. “Welcome, Your Grace. Welcome. Welcome.” She dipped into a deep curtsy.
The poor, flustered woman turned to the occupants of the ballroom and called out as if confirming that she’d verified with her own eyes, “The Duke of Harlowe, Phillip Grayson, is here. Please, do carry on.”
Everyone spoke at once, and they were all talking about him, staring at him.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Phillip gave Clayton and Thea a solid nod. He knew his friends were worried about him. But Phillip had expected this. He was prepared. He was done hiding. He would avenge his brother’s murder.
Their small group had barely taken more than a few steps into the ballroom when a dark-haired young woman in a sapphire evening gown broke away from a cluster in the middle of the ballroom and came toward them. Phillip watched her come. Her walk was familiar. Her curly dark-brown hair and even darker eyes—also familiar—came into focus as she neared. She moved inexorably toward him until she was standing directly in front of him. This was it. The moment he’d both anticipated and feared for nearly a year.
She searched his face. Tears welled in her eyes, but there was something else. A hint of unmistakable anger flashed there, too. Her lovely features had hardened into a mask of stone. “Phillip?” she breathed. The name sounded like an accusation.
He felt her voice like a stab to the chest. He hadn’t heard it in…three years. All this time, he’d only had her letters. The letters he’d lost during the war. All save the one that had been next to his heart when he’d been shot off Alabaster’s back and left for dead.
She was older now, a bit too thin. Sadness was etched in the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. But it still physically hurt to look at her. She was so beautiful.
He’d dreamed of this moment many times over the last three years, but it had never been like this. And he regretted it had to be this way now. He regretted it very much.
Sophie took a deep, shaky breath. Phillip, the man she’d loved for so long, the man she’d believed to be dead for nearly the past year, was standing in front of her very much alive.
She swallowed hard, struggling to keep the tears that burned the backs of her eyes from falling.
“It’s really you,” she said, close enough to him now to see the small lines in his face, the familiar emerald color of his eyes, the tiny scar just below his lip. And she could smell him, too. The same familiar scent of soap and sandalwood that threatened to send her memory soaring back to an entirely different time and place. A time and place that now seemed like a century ago.
Just then, a thunderous crash sounded behind them. Sophie jumped and whirled to see a footman with a full silver tray of champagne flutes shattered at his feet. The ungodly racket had stopped time for a moment. When she turned back again to Phillip, his eyes were glossy, and he was staring straight ahead as if completely sightless.
“Phillip?” She uttered his name again with all the pain and anger that was colliding in her heart. She wanted to reach for him. She wanted to slap him.
He didn’t even glance at her. Sweat beaded on his brow as he continued to stare at the far end of the ballroom as if in a trance. The pretty young woman beside him—Lady Clayton, was it?—reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Phillip.”
Sophie clenched her jaw. All right? Was Lady Clayton somehow trying to comfort Phillip given Sophie’s presence?
She searched his face again. He still wouldn’t look at her. An icy dread seeped into her middle. So this was how it would be? Phillip was intent upon ignoring her? So be it. He’d left her. He’d allowed her to believe he was dead all these months. And now he was looking right through her, with another woman’s hand on his arm.
Sophie’s own hand itched to slap him across his handsome face. Anything to garner some reaction from him besides his apathy. But no. She would not stoop to theatrics and common violence. She was better than that. She’d already survived losing him once. She could do it again.
Summoning all the strength she had, Sophie sucked in her breath, turned immediately on her heels, lifted her chin, and walked away. If Phillip Grayson intended to ignore her, intended to pretend as if they had meant nothing to each other…by God, she would do the same.
Chapter Two
Sophie marched away. But not back to her stepmother and the others she’d been standing with when the butler had called out the Duke of Harlowe’s name. She had glanced over, expecting to see Hugh, wondering why he would arrive with people named Lord and Lady Clayton.
Sophie strode straight out of the ballroom, down the corridor and into the ladies’ retiring room, which was thankfully empty. Still shaking, she pressed a hand to her middle, quite certain she might cast up her accounts.
Nothing could have prepared her for the pure shock that had hit her like a kick to the middle when she’d looked over to see not Hugh, but Phillip standing there. Phillip with his unmistakable height, his shining blond hair, and his bright green eyes. Phillip, the man she’d been in love with for years and had believed to be dead for the past eleven months. When she’d first seen him tonight, Sophie had been torn between wanting to slap him and wanting to hug him until her arms gave out. Neither of which were proper.
Where in the world had he been all this time? And why, why, hadn’t he sent word that he was alive and well? There had been a part of her—some hopeful, foolish part—that had wanted to believe the moment he saw her, he’d tug her into his arms and declare himself.
Instead, he’d done nearly the opposite. He’d looked past her as if she wasn’t even there. Hadn’t even responded when she’d said his name. Hadn’t said one word to her, in fact. She’d have thought he was an imposter, but for the fact that she knew with every fiber of her soul that he wasn’t. She knew his face so well. There was no doubt. That had definitely been Phillip Grayson standing there. But apparently, he was no longer the man she’d known for three years.
Sophie lifted her gaze and stared at herself in the looking glass. At least she hadn’t cried. She had that small bit of comfort. God knew tears had been wavering in her eyes the entire time. She’d no idea how her legs had had the strength to remain upright. Now she felt as if she might melt to the floor, a puddle on the fine rug. She blew out a deep breath. The same thoughts circled in her head once again. What in the world was Phillip doing here? And where had he been all this time? And why in the name of all that was holy had he let her believe he was dead?
The questions chased each other around and around in Sophie’s mind. Now that she thought on it, she probably should have asked him any of those questions. But it was too late. And given his behavior, she suspected he wouldn’t have answered either. She’d been left to stand in front of him like a fool, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement that never came.
