Phillip owed Bell his life. The marquess had been the one responsible for getting an injured Phillip off the ship from the Continent and moved to Clayton’s country estate before anyone became the wiser that he was alive, to give him the best chance of recovering in peace. Bell had arrived at Clayton’s estate last year for a series of visits with a handful of theories, not the least of which had been that Sophie herself might well be involved in the murder. Apparently, Sophie had often been seen in Cousin Hugh’s company soon after the man had arrived in London and claimed the title.
Phillip had waved off the notion of Sophie’s involvement as ludicrous. The lovely, unconventional girl he’d met at a Society dinner wasn’t capable of hurting a gadfly, let alone taking part in the murder of a grown man. Phillip knew it. But he also knew that Sophie was impulsive and could very well unintentionally tell the wrong person he was alive and ruin everything. Or she would attempt to visit him, and his secret would be out. No. It had been best to keep her in the dark until Malcolm’s murderer was firmly behind bars. He’d made that decision knowing full well that one day he would have to account for it with Sophie.
Phillip moved away from the window to the small desk in his bedchamber. He pulled open a drawer and pulled out a dirty, blood-stained letter. Sophie’s last letter, the one he’d had near his heart the moment he’d nearly died. It had got him through some very dark days.
He’d written her too once he’d been well enough. He’d written to tell her he was alive. Only he’d never posted the letter. Instead, he’d kept it under lock and key in a box at Clayton’s estate, tortured by the fact that one day he’d return and be forced to see the look on her face when she realized he’d deceived her.
Phillip put the letter back in the drawer and moved back over to the window. He braced his forearm against the wall and rested his forehead upon the cool glass. He let out a deep groan. The moment of reckoning had been last night. Sophie had never looked more beautiful. Or angrier. And he’d never seen her angry before. When he saw her in the salon, he could hardly tear his gaze from her. He’d been disappointed that she’d insisted on keeping Thea in the room, but he had no right to argue. Not only was there propriety to consider, but Sophie clearly hadn’t wanted to be left alone with him, a decision she was entitled to make.
After Bell had informed him not two days ago that Sophie’s betrothal to Hugh was to be announced in the paper this morning, Phillip had felt physically ill. Hugh was high on the list of people whom Bell suspected could have been involved in Malcolm’s murder, which made Sophie seem even more suspicious to the marquess. But Phillip had no doubts. Not Sophie. Never Sophie. There had to be a good explanation for her engagement to Hugh. Phillip had intended to ask her last night. Only there hadn’t been time, because Sophie had asked a question of her own, “Are you offering for me now?”
She’d been mocking him because she was angry. He could see the hurt in her eyes as she’d asked the question. His answer had been quiet and vicious, filled with all the hurt and anger in his own heart. He hadn’t been able to stop the words from leaving his mouth. “It appears I am too late.”
Her face had fallen, and he’d seen her swallow a lump in her throat. Tears still quivering in her eyes, she’d turned away and rushed from the room. Thea had followed her, while Phillip had cursed under his breath. It had been a deuced awful thing to say, and he knew it. He had no excuse. And now he had no answers.
Damn it. Why had she become engaged to Hugh? Why Hugh? Phillip could understand that she’d moved on—after all, she thought he was dead—but why Hugh? Phillip refused to believe Bell was right, that Sophie was somehow connected to his brother’s death. But that didn’t stop Bell from trying to convince him. They’d had the same conversation at least a half dozen times.
“Miss Payton obviously saw a chance to become a duchess and took it,” Bell would say.
“That makes no sense,” Phillip always countered. “When I promised for her, I wasn’t a duke. Malcolm had been quite alive and well.”
“Unless…” Bell replied, allowing the sentence to drift off, knowing they both understood what he refused to voice. That Sophie may have been planning to murder Malcolm all along.
Beyond ludicrous, as far as Phillip was concerned. He usually stormed off, refusing to talk to the marquess about the subject again. Though it was only a matter of time before it came up once more.
“Sophie,” Phillip whispered under his breath. “What’s happened to us?” A memory floated through his brain. The memory of the night he’d met Sophie at the Remingtons’ dinner party. She’d been out on the verandah where he’d gone for a bit of peace, only to find a beautiful young woman wearing a simple white gown and matching slippers with daisies entwined in her unruly dark hair, who eagerly spoke, asking him a host of inappropriate questions, all while seeming to be the happiest, brightest soul he’d ever encountered. And being the realist, stoic soul that he was, he’d been immediately drawn to her light, her verve, her uncomplicated way of looking at the world. He wished he could be that carefree.
After introducing herself with the most delightfully awkward curtsy Phillip had ever witnessed, he’d been doing his damnedest to hide his smile when she cocked her head to the side and demanded, “Why are you out here? Don’t you care for parties?”
“I detest them,” he’d replied somberly.
She’d blinked at him, truly curious. “Why?”
He’d shrugged. “Too many people. Too much noise.”
“Well,” she’d replied with an adorable little shrug of her own, “I completely agree with you about the noise. It’s an infernal racket in there. But I do adore balls. Where else can you find so much ridiculousness in one spot? I mean, Lady Cranberry is wearing a headful of feathers. Feathers! Multiple! She looks like a daft bird. And everyone in there takes themself soooo very seriously,” she continued, lowering her voice and drawing out her words. “I just escaped Lord Holt telling everyone about a rock he brought back from Greece. A rock! Can you imagine?” she’d continued with a bright smile.
Phillip had turned to her, eyes narrowed. “What sort of rock?”
“Oh, no!” She’d placed the back of her hand to her forehead in a mock display of distress. “Please don’t tell me you’re a rock aficionado. I’m afraid we cannot be friends if you like to speak at length about rocks.”
He’d laughed out loud at that, and she’d grinned unrepentantly back at him.
“So ridiculousness…that’s the reason to attend a ball, eh?” he’d ventured.
Sophie had shrugged. “That and the ever-present possibility of a scandal. Though, honestly, I prefer the ridiculous.”
Phillip had laughed yet again, completely enchanted by the young woman who had such a unique way of looking at their world, a world which he merely found exceedingly boring most of the time.
Later that night, on the way back home from the ball, he’d realized how rarely he laughed—couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, in fact—and how he’d never considered just how truly ridiculous balls were. Miss Sophia Payton was right. And she was delightful.
Before she’d disappeared back into the brightly lit ballroom, she’d announced that they should be fast friends, provided he promised to never discuss rocks with her. He’d quickly agreed.
Over the next several months, he’d found himself looking for her in every crowd. They spent more and more time together at each event they attended. They continued their unconventional friendship throughout the Season, and it wasn’t until just before he was about to leave for the Continent—for the war—that Phillip realized he’d become hopelessly in love with her without even trying.
He’d wanted to drop to one knee that night on the Miltons’ balcony and declare himself. Only he knew that would be selfish of him. Sophie was a young, beautiful woman. He did not know if he’d survive. He couldn’t ask her to wait for him. He couldn’t ask her to possibly grieve for him at such a young age. But he had promised her that if she did wait, he would offer for her the moment he returned. That had been three years ago.
And now Sophie was engaged to Hugh. Not that he could blame her for being engaged. She’d thought he was dead. Phillip scrubbed a hand through his hair and then over his face. How had their love affair, so promising and innocent once, turned into the awkward meeting they’d had in the Cranberrys’ salon tonight and Sophie running from the room in tears? Was she in love with Hugh? Phillip’s heart refused to believe that. Hugh was lazy, rude, crass, and arrogant. There was no way Sophie would have chosen him for herself. But everything was still so unclear. He knew one thing, however. He had to learn the truth about his brother’s death as quickly as possible.
