“I shall not find it comfortable! I shall find it a demmed nuisance!”
“Darling,” came a throaty whisper from the shadows of his library. No candles had been lit. By the light of the fire, he was able to see his former mistress sitting in front of it, holding a glass of claret. “I had to see you. I was hungry for you.”
“Lila, all is over between us,” he said, trying to be gentle.
He sat in the chair opposite her. Her face was naked with passion in the firelight. Still holding her glass, she seated herself in his lap, caressing his face with her free hand. Her touch was clumsy, her words slurred.
Grabbing her shoulders, he held her at a distance. “Lila, you must get hold of yourself and get up. You are acting the fool. You will regret this.”
“Are you not bored with the simpering Edwards gel yet? She cannot dance. She cannot ride. What is the attraction? Perhaps she has replaced me in your bed?”
“Certainly not. And I will not discuss Miss Edwards with you.”
She brought her mouth down on his. Instantly rearing backward in his chair, he stood, causing her to slide to the floor, sloshing the claret on his breeches and the Oriental rug.
“Lovely, lovely Frank. You can’t throw me over. You see, I love you. Always have done.”
“You need to sleep it off, Lila. Get up. I’m putting you on the couch. You’re ready to pass out.”
Scooping up the untidy bundle of woman, he carried her to the couch and arranged her limbs.
In a moment, she was snoring. Leaving her there, he exited the library, where he had hoped to spend the evening. Instead, he went upstairs to his dressing room, where his valet awaited him. He removed his cravat, collar, and waistcoat and donned a dressing gown over his wine-splattered breeches. Ordering a carafe of whiskey, he retired to the next-door sitting room that he hoped would one day belong to his Sophie. There he sat, staring into the fire, as thoughts of his love recaptured him, erasing the unwelcome scene downstairs. Would Sophie rather live in London, where she could perform? Or would she be more comfortable in the country? Perhaps a compromise. They could live at Hanford House in Oxfordshire, come down to London for the season so that he could sit in Parliament, and then away to Bath for the summer, where there would be plenty of opportunities for her to perform.
Why had she never been to a decent modiste before? And had a Harley Street doctor ever had a look at that knee?
Oh, he was full of plans. Perhaps they would journey to Vienna for their honeymoon and meet Herr van Beethoven in person. No one could help loving Sophie.
Though he customarily did not make it to bed until just before dawn, he found that he was as tired as though he had run a race. But he must check on Lila. Ringing for his valet, he instructed the man to check the library to see if Lady Manwaring was still there.
Benning returned to tell him that Lady Manwaring was still on the sofa. Sighing mightily, he rose to his feet, rang for Dinwoody, and asked him to fetch a hackney. He entered his library to arouse the drunken Lila. As he walked her out to the street, she clung to him so much that he had to physically climb into the hackney in order to get her inside. Paying the driver and giving him the address, he finally went back inside and prepared for bed.
{ 11 }
SOPHIE SPENT THE EVENING distracted by her first taste of passion, reliving over and over the moments she had spent in Frank’s arms. If she could believe it, in four days, he had developed honest and honorable feelings for her. She was not as certain about her own feelings. As Fanny had predicted, trusting him—trusting herself—was going to take more time.
As she braced herself with her elbows on the windowsill in her bedroom, she looked out at the star-filled sky. Goose bumps rose over her whole body and an ache rose in her abdomen as she remembered Frank’s kisses. She had never known she was capable of such feeling. However, it was just feeling, not knowing.
But how safe she had felt with his arms around her! He had felt familiar, as though their embrace was something she remembered. As if, like he said, it had been predestined in some earlier existence. Was Frank her lover, not only now, but always? Before and after this moment in time?
Always somewhat intrigued by metaphysics, she had been an eager reader of Wordsworth’s philosophies. Especially his poem, “Ode to Intimations of Immortality.” She recalled a relevant passage: Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting/The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,/ Hath had elsewhere its setting,/And cometh from afar:/ Not in entire forgetfulness,/ And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home.
Sophie went to bed that night determined to seek Elise’s advice on her neophyte trust, but almost convinced that she had a blissful life ahead of her.