Page 1 of A Secret Infatuation
Prologue
June, 1802
Leatherwood, Surrey
At fifteen years of age, Lady Sophia Rowlandson, second daughter to the fourth Earl of Poole, was the least interesting person in her family. She’d been told she had inherited her mother’s beauty, but as far as she was concerned, neither beauty nor rank were worthy compliments. Such things were left to the chance of birth, and what honor could there be in that? She was not particularly bright and not at all ambitious. One had only to look at her elder sister Dorothea to see how Sophia lacked. While Dorry was already planning her come-out, when she might marry respectably and take her place in Society, Sophia dreaded her own come-out and wished to put it off as long as possible.
She was not funny like Camilla, or a talented equestrian like Joanna. Matilda—whom everyone called Tilly—might still be a girl, but she knew her own mind. Sophia could not say the same of herself, for whenever someone stronger came along, she would bend herself to that person’s will.
And, of course, there was Everard, a year older than Tilly and the only son and heir to the earldom. Evo was full of pluck—or grig, as he might say—and would easily fulfill his role when the time came. Every Rowlandson had varying degrees of courage except Sophia. Oh, people called her sweet, but it never felt like a compliment. Rather, it seemed like a bandage they threw over a personality that was found wanting. It was this quiet belief about herself that caused her to seek refuge—to hide—in her neighbor’s drawing room in the midst of a party.
The view from Chawleigh’s drawing room was famous for its pleasing prospect. A large expanse of grass stretched out in either direction with imposing trees to give shade at regular intervals. At a distance, the land dipped slightly. Not enough to miss the shiny ripples of a pond that was at present dotted with small boats maneuvering their way back to the boathouse. Merry shrieks could be heard through the multipaned glass where Sophia stood. She would have liked to have gone boating with a gallant gentleman, if only she’d had the courage to risk the necessity of conversation.
She reached out to touch the sheer linen of the curtains framing the window, running her fingers over the seam and laced edge. Sophia was a bit like the decorative lace. Pretty and serviceable, but designed to blend into the woodwork. Her mother was not in sight and was likely engaged in harmless gossip with some of the neighbors under the shady trellis in the flower garden. Her father, though, sat within view with Lord Chawleigh and other gentlemen on chairs set out on the terrace. He reached for a drink from the tray of a passing servant, letting loose a bout of hearty laughter at the baron’s cryptic jest.
Sophia brooded over what she’d heard that morning when she had neared the breakfast room at Chesmere Park. Her approach was silent enough that her parents had spoken freely, unaware they’d had an audience, the clink of cups on saucers punctuating their conversation. They’d not meant for her to overhear, but she had, and the words caused a painful twist in her heart, then and now.
“Dorry does not want for sense,” her father had said, “but I am not of a mind for her to have her come-out next year. It is inconvenient for me to arrange it so soon. She had best wait until she is eighteen.” After a muffled reply from her mother, the earl went on. “Sophy’s head is empty, but that does not matter now, does it? She has a pretty face, which will serve her well enough. You had best teach her some conversation, however, or the ton will take her for a lackwit. I’m not entirely sure she is not one myself, for the girl is struck dumb whenever she is in my presence.”
Sophia’s feet had stilled before she’d reached the door, and her breath left her lungs entirely. Her father had always intimidated her, but she had thought he at least possessed some fondness for her. Apparently, he did not, or he would not speak of her in that way. He truly thought her head empty? She had many thoughts. Many. She just found it difficult to express them. Not even her dearest friend, Marie Mowbray, knew everything. She could tell Dorothea certain things, but she sometimes suspected her sister regarded her along the same lines as their father. Dorry loved her, she knew, but her elder sister was so capable she must certainly find her a trial at times.
Gentlemen’s voices brought her back to her surroundings when they rang in the corridor outside the drawing room where she stood. They bantered like friends, jesting and teasing each other, and Sophia froze as her predicament dawned on her. She was not supposed to be in here. She could say she had come in search of the retiring room, but she knew Chawleigh Manor well enough to know it was not to be found through the drawing room. No one would believe she was merely lost. Heart pounding, she swung her head wildly, wondering if she could dive behind the sofa. But no—one glance underneath it and they would catch a glimpse of her crouched down. Oh, pray, let them continue on their path and not discover her hiding here.
The door to the drawing room opened, and the voices flooded in to where she was. Sounds of a scuffle echoed in the corridor, and it seemed as though they had stopped to engage in a friendly fight. Someone entered, and Sophia turned, bracing herself. Robert Cunningworth, Lord Chawleigh’s son, stopped short when he saw her.
“Lady Sophia, what a surprise to find you here.” He wore a peculiar smile, insincere. His smiles always seemed forced, meant to achieve a purpose rather than express delight.
As Chawleigh Manor stood within five miles of Chesmere Park, their families were close. They had known each other since childhood, but Sophia endeavored to escape his notice whenever she could. She clasped her hands in front of her and stared at a spot on the floor somewhere in the middle of the room. Nearly soundless footsteps brought him into the periphery of her vision.
He laughed, a harsh sound. “Now, Sophia, you aren’t going to pretend you don’t know me, are you? Not when we’ve grown up as neighbors.” When she said nothing, he continued his approach until he stood before her. Still she said nothing, hoping her trembling would not show.
“I might court you in a few years if you talked more. That would save you from having to speak to someone you don’t know. We are well-suited, you and I, aren’t we?” After a short silence, he went on. “We come from the same sphere, and our fathers would approve the match.”
Sophia remained mute. The thought of marrying Robert, who had teased her cruelly throughout childhood until he began to harass her with his attention, was too dreadful to contemplate.
“But then, I suppose I don’t need a wife who talks. Might be more comfortable to have one who doesn’t.” Another ill-fitting laugh. Behind him, the door banged against the wall, and noises spilled into the room.
“Who’s this?”
Sophia had no idea how many gentlemen followed Robert into the room, and she didn’t dare to look.
“This is one of Lord Poole’s daughters,” Robert said. She felt his eyes on her. Though she didn’t dare meet his gaze, his tone told her what she would find there—cold and unrelenting speculation. “Allow me to present Lady Sophia. I would have you make your bows, but I daresay she won’t lift her eyes to see them.” This sally prompted humiliating laughter.
“Come, Robert. Leave the lady to her solitude. Let’s get the jack we came for.”
Sophia did not glance up to see who had spoken, but his authoritative tone provided a sense of protection, like a tall fence around her. If only they would heed the suggestion, she might remain here alone until she had regained her composure. Then she could slip outdoors to join her mother. Or, if she could find one of her sisters, that would serve.
“Lady Sophia should greet us properly,” Robert shot back. “I will not have my friends think I have any connection with a lady who has only hair for brains.”
The cruelty of these words brought her head up in shock. How it pierced to hear words so similar to her father’s on her tormentor’s tongue. She could feel the color rise in her cheeks as she glanced up at the four strangers standing next to Robert, each wearing looks of amusement or resignation. Their forms shimmered in her rising tears. His insult had produced a few more chuckles, although these were more half-hearted. Perhaps they’d begun to lose interest in teasing her.
“Leave her be. You’ve made her uncomfortable.” This had come from the same gentleman who’d mentioned the jack, and his voice was now tinged with steel. She risked a glance in his direction but could not see his features through her blurred vision. He stood beside Robert, his hand lifted slightly. Robert pushed his arm away.
“No, I’ve had enough of this. I shall be greeted properly in my own home by Lady Sophia. Trust me. Our fathers are longtime friends, so I am within my rights to demand it.” He folded his arms, waiting.
“Ah, Cunningworth, what shall we do with you?” The man clapped a hand on his shoulder. His voice had turned cheerful, cutting the tension. “Lady Sophia is beseeching us with her eyes to be spared the courtesy of your attention. She does not lack brains; she lacks patience for forced conversation with Philistines.” This was accompanied by a few snickers. Just when Sophia thought surely Robert must take offense, the man continued. “As do I, for you have been promising to beat me soundly at bowls, so let us have the jack you were searching for and be off.”
“True enough! We are wasting precious time,” another gentleman said. She recognized Tom Perkins, the squire’s son and a friend of Robert’s who was content to follow his lead.
