Meant To Be: Pendleton Manor Book 1 Read online

  And then Grandma caught hold of her hands, stepping back and examining her in minute detail. “Are you ready, Sophy?” she asked, with a secretive smile.

  Nervous bubbles tumbled in her stomach and thankfully the excitement was back, reminding her she was going to see Harry again. He was a grown man of twenty-three and she was a grown woman of twenty-one. This was the moment when any the misunderstandings and painful longings would be set aside and Sophy and Harry would find their happiness again. Together. The perfect ending to their love story.

  Steadfastly, she told herself there could be no other possible outcome.

  Chapter 12

  SOPHY

  1812, Albury House, Mayfair, London

  Sophy could only marvel at her surroundings. Adam had been right and this was the event of the Season. Not that she would know, she was ignorant of such matters, other than what she had heard from others. The ballroom was so crowded with guests she was beginning to wonder if there was enough air for them all. Sir Geoffrey’s sister had informed her that those who considered themselves the most well-bred and most important members of London society were all here. Being seen.

  Widowed and down at heel, Mrs Harding would not have been invited to the ball without Sir Geoffrey’s intervention, and he had only intervened because of Sophy. Even so his sister did not hesitate to show her displeasure in front of him, and it was obvious to Sophy that she was not happy to have a girl who was far from respectable foisted upon her. She had a feeling that Sir Geoffrey had been very persuasive, and the invitation must have been very tempting to a woman in her position with two unmarried daughters.

  Those daughters, Lucy and Charlotte, were sweet and charming and more than ready to make Sophy their friend, even if their mother was not.

  “The Rowes own Albury House. They are dreadfully wealthy,” Charlotte had informed her on the way to the ball. “It is said they are even wealthier than the king!” Charlotte tended to talk in exclamations.

  Lucy had snorted. “You are a silly. Of course they’re not that rich. But they are rich.” She had leaned closer. “There is a son who is very handsome in a brooding sort of way. Mother would like one of us to marry him.”

  “Or both,” Charlotte had sighed, earning another scornful look.

  “We can’t both marry one man, silly.”

  “I didn’t mean that!”

  “Well anyway, there’s a daughter, too. Lady Evelyn Rowe, and she is a renowned beauty. It is said that gentlemen have been queuing outside Albury House to ask for her hand.”

  “Now who’s being the silly?” her sister had sneered.

  “Girls!” Their mother had had quite enough and gave them a glare across the carriage.

  Shortly afterwards they had arrived at Albury House in exclusive Mayfair. Sophy could well believe the Rowe family was as rich as the king. As well as being crowded, the ballroom was a wonderland of flowers and sparkling chandeliers. Glass doors led out onto a terrace and then down to a wilderness of garden, where twinkling lanterns were tucked in among the leaves of the trees.

  It was truly magical, a fairy tale, and right now such a place seemed entirely appropriate to Sophy. Because tonight she and Harry were going to see each other again.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen him yet. It was difficult to pick out anyone in the crowd or hear anything above all the competing voices. There was a supper room, she’d been told by Lucy, and the dancing would commence soon. Although how one could dance with all these people so close together was a mystery to Sophy.

  “The men will go and play cards, silly,” Lucy explained. Sophy smiled—it appeared that she had been lumped in with the sillies of the world. “Some of the men, anyway,” she then clarified. “Others will dance. And many of the women are only here as chaperones, like Mother. They will take their seats. So there will be plenty of room for dancing.”

  “Have you a dance card?” Charlotte asked her.

  Sophy hadn’t even contemplated such a thing. She wasn’t here to dance, after all. Luckily, before she could reply, Mrs Harding beckoned to them, wishing to introduce them to a portly gentleman standing at her side.

  Sophy hesitated, not sure if she was invited or not. When Mrs Harding turned her back it was clear to her she wasn’t. Kind and generous as Sir Geoffrey was, Sophy was discovering his sister was not cut from the same cloth.

  She took a couple of steps away from Mrs Harding and looked about her again. She smoothed a nervous hand over her blue velvet sleeve, pleased to note that she looked as fine as any of the other women here tonight. No one could possibly guess that she was wearing second-hand clothing, remade into the height of fashion by her grandmother, or that she was as poor as a church mouse.

  Anxiously, she scanned her surroundings once more. Where was he? She had lost sight of Mrs Harding now, and she wasn’t tall enough to see over most of the heads in her way.

  A ripple went through the crush. Heads turned and whispers stirred, and suddenly there was a gap between the guests and Sophy could see across the ballroom to the entrance doors and the steps leading down. Her heart stuttered. There was a man standing there, elegant in evening wear, his brown hair a little long perhaps but perfectly framing his handsome face.

  Harry!

  Her heart swooped. Her world, so drab for the past three years, was suddenly lit with the most vivid colours.

  Four minutes later…

  Sophy pushed her way through the crowd, her eyes blinded by tears she refused to let fall, focused on the open glass doors that led down to the terrace. Outside, the darkness was lit with small lights strung from the trees and the music from the ballroom drifted out to her, as if to mock her presumption. No dancing for you, it seemed to say. No handsome fiancé for you, Sophy Harcourt, and definitely no happy ever after.

  She wanted to cry, oh how she wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t. She still had some pride left, though it was battered and bruised. She wouldn’t cry until she was far away from here. Far away from him.

  The garden wasn’t like the one at Pendleton, with its smooth lawns and wide borders. Albury House had narrow walkways and prickly shrubs, and her beautiful gown soon caught on a thorn. She felt it start to tear as she struggled to escape. Grandma would be upset. She had worked so hard to make Sophy look beautiful.

  But it had been all for nothing.

  It couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t stay here, tethered to the garden, until morning. A violent tug, more tearing, and she was free. She turned to run again, when a large hand grasped her arm.

  “Stop! Sophy, where are you going? Will you stop?”

  That voice, his voice. She tried to pull away from his grip, but he swung her around so hard that she stumbled and nearly fell. Now he had his hands on her shoulders, rough enough to bruise. She looked up at him through the wild tangle that had once been her beautifully coiffed hair.

  “What are you doing here?” He was frowning down at her. She could see the whirl of emotion in his eyes, although most of it seemed to be anger. He was angry with her and she didn’t know why.

  I came to see you! But the words could not find a way around the lump in her throat and she stared dumbly back at him.

  He gave a huff, as if he had better things to do. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in the sort of voice one would use with a foolish child. “I never imagined you would be here and I don’t …” His hard jaw firmed as he spat out, “I don’t want you here.”

  A tear finally escaped and trickled down her cheek but he ignored it.

  “Who brought you here?” he demanded, leaning in so close she could see the familiar golden flecks in his brown eyes. “Your husband?”

  Sophy blinked. She needed to explain to him, to cut to the heart of this lie, but she felt curiously flat. “Who told you that? Your father? The one who sent my father to die in prison?”

  “It doesn’t matter who told me.” His voice was as hard as his grip. “How did you get through the door?”

  “I … Sir Ge
offrey Bell arranged the invitation,” she began. “Mrs Harding and her daughters—” But he didn’t let her finish.

  “Sir Geoffrey Bell,” he repeated. “I don’t know why you would come here on this night of all nights.” He took what was meant to be a calming breath but he looked anything but calm.

  She finally found her voice. “I came to see you. I am not married, why do you think—”

  Her words were like a spark to his tinder. His face was dark and angry, so close she could feel his warm breath on her skin. This was a side of Harry she had never seen, and she wasn’t sure what to say to him. So she stayed silent.

  “You’re a liar and you need to go,” he told her, hanging onto his temper by a thread. “I announced my engagement to Lady Evelyn Rowe tonight. She is my future. You are in the past. I’m going to do my best to forget you.”

  Still she stared into his eyes, numb, wondering if this was really Harry Baillieu, the man she had loved all her life, the man she still loved, who was telling her he didn’t want her. He didn’t want her.

  Over his shoulder she noticed a footman hovering—perhaps he had seen Harry leave the room or someone else had sent him to check on the situation. Lady Evelyn Rowe. The woman Harry, her Harry, was marrying.

  “Find my driver and tell him he’s to fetch my coach and take this lady home,” Harry told the man. “She will give him her address. And inform Sir Geoffrey Bell that she has left.”

  “Very good, sir.” The footman hesitated. “Should I take the lady to wait somewhere convenient,” he said, “or will she be returning to the ball?”

  “She won’t be returning to the ball. I don’t want her in the same room as me.” He stopped but he was breathing hard. “Put her in the green parlour until the carriage is ready. She’ll be out of sight there.”

  One more stab to her heart. She met his eyes and he stared her down. “Goodbye, Sophy,” he said, then turned and walked away.

  Beside her the servant shuffled nervously. “This way,” he said, almost as if he was sorry for her. He must think she looked as ill as she felt.

  “It’s not Sir Geoffrey Bell,” she whispered. “Mrs Harding is my chaperone.”

  He nodded, and she followed, docile, broken, and not actually caring where they were going. After a short wait in a dimly lit parlour, where the sounds of the ball reached her in waves of incongruously happy sounds, she was taken to a coach and driven away.

  The shadowy streets of London slid by, but she had stopped noticing anything. Her heart was shattered and she didn’t think she could ever repair it. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

  HARRY

  Harry left the garden to get back to the ball. To Evelyn. He was expected to play the part of besotted fiancé and he had been that person, he really had. And now here he was, chasing after the girl who had betrayed him and should mean nothing to him.

  Then why did he feel sick down to the very bottom of his heart?

  He slid his hand into his pocket and found the ring. His signet ring. He turned it over and over, feeling the worn metal, reminding himself of Sophy’s lies. That she had abandoned him first.

  When he’d looked down into the ballroom and she’d been standing there, it was as if she had appeared out of thin air. Alive and beautiful and just … just Sophy. He’d wondered if he was seeing things.

  He used to think of her all the time after she left him, but he never spoke of her again once he knew the truth. He never mentioned her to anyone apart from his brother, and that wasn’t often. He sometimes dreamed about the night he had taken her virginity and she had shown him how mistaken he had been for putting her on a pedestal. More mistaken than he could ever have imagined.

  And yet knowing that didn’t stop the dreams he had of her. Warm lips and moans and fingers stroking his skin. It didn’t seem to matter what he did. He’d even gone to Oxford after he found out the truth about her and drunk too much brandy and spent the night in the arms of a woman he’d paid for the privilege. Instead of feeling as if he’d banished Sophy, he’d felt disgusted with himself.

  She’d injured him so badly that for a time he had wondered if he’d ever recover. Why had she come here, on this night or all nights?

  And stared up at him with those big blue wounded eyes. As if he was the one at fault. As if he had betrayed her.

  Well, she’d gone now, back to where she’d come from, and he never wanted to see her again. He had his future to consider. He was marrying into the Rowe family. When he’d announced his decision, his father had been over the moon. Evelyn would bring wealth and prestige to Pendleton, and when she bore his children there would be another generation of Baillieus at the manor.

  The Sophy he had loved had never existed. He’d loved a dream. And it was about time he woke up.

  Chapter 13

  SOPHY

  As soon as she saw her grandmother, Sophy burst into tears. She had never cried like this before—not when she was forced to leave Pendleton and Harry behind, not even when her father had died. There had always been a kernel of hope then but this time there was none. It was as if there was a spring inside her that wouldn’t stop flowing, while she was gasping for air, her throat aching and her chest heaving from the violence of her sobs.

  She might have been dying, and for a little while she thought she was.

  Eventually, she was able to explain what had happened. Her grandmother held her fiercely, as Sophy clung on, wishing she had chosen another path. If she hadn’t gone to the ball she would never have known. Would that, she asked herself, have been better? They did not move in the same circles. Could she have lived without the knowledge that the love of her life was marrying another woman?

  She must have spoken the words aloud because her grandmother answered. “It’s always best to face the truth. Even if it hurts so much you think you can’t. My poor dear.”

  Sophy gave a hiccup. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse from emotion. “The-the dress, the invitation … it was all for nothing …” The tears had made a large damp patch on her grandmother’s bodice.

  “And I would do it again, despite the outcome not being what we’d hoped for.” Susan said fiercely. She stroked Sophy’s hair from her face, the pale strands stuck to her skin by her salty tears. “I enjoyed every moment of it.” Her grandmother stared down at her, as if about to say something else, and then shook her head. “Wash your face and go to bed, my love. You are exhausted and so am I. I will send Nelly up to you with a mug of hot chocolate. In the morning we’ll talk again.”

  What was there to talk about? “I wish I could feel angry,” she said. “I wish I could rage and scream and shake my fists. I should be angry, but I just feel empty.”

  “I will be angry for you, my dear,” her voice was as wobbly as Sophy’s. “I will rage for you.”

  Sophy was sure that she wouldn’t sleep a wink, the scene from the ball echoing in her head, all the words spoken and left unspoken.

  She had never betrayed him. She had waited for him and he hadn’t come. When he said she was married and she’d denied it, he’d called her a liar. After that it was as if she had been shocked into silence and every callous word he spoke only made matters worse.

  But even if she had spoken, said all the things she now wished she’d said, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was engaged and no words could have changed that. The life she had believed was hers had been taken from her and given to someone else. Harry had done that. She’d been right to doubt him, and if she didn’t still love him then she might have hated him, but sadly she couldn’t turn on and off her emotions quite as easily as him. She loved him and she may well love him for the rest of her life. That was Sophy’s last thought before she fell asleep.

  When she woke it was morning. A new day, she thought, rising her head from the pillow. She had not seen Harry for three years before last night but she had always believed he was still hers. And now, today, this new day, she knew differently.

  It was truly her first day with
out Harry.

  Sophy came downstairs. Even though she’d have preferred to stay in bed with the covers over her head, her grandmother had insisted she make an appearance. Sophy’s body ached and her throat was raw, while her eyes were red and swollen. She felt like the victim of some terrible illness, and looked it, and apart from brushing her hair and tying it back in a simple chignon, she didn’t care.

  But her grandmother had given her two days and two nights to expel her grief and not a minute more. She was right to do so. Although her heart was broken and she felt as if she was barely there, Sophy knew she must now put one foot in front of the other. She must learn to live again.

  “There you are!” Susan was busy sewing what looked to be a black velvet spencer, something to be worn over one’s gown in the chilly weather. Her eyes turned sharp, examining Sophy minutely, before she nodded. “You still look pale, but better than yesterday, and much better than the day before. I hope you will learn to smile again, my love, because I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” Sophy repeated, without any interest, and sat down on the sofa.

  “Sir Geoffrey is coming for lunch so that we can discuss our next move. He seems quite determined that your story should end happily, while I refuse to allow you to be wasted on someone not worthy of you. A suitable match, that’s what we need.”

  “A suitable match?” Sophy repeated again, as if her grandmother was speaking a foreign language. “But Harry is already engaged! I was there when it was announced.” Her voice broke and she bit her lip, refusing to let herself weep any more.

  “I am fully aware of that, Sophy, and there’s no need for sarcasm.”

  Sophy swallowed, tried to speak, swallowed again. “Forgive me, Grandma.”

  Her grandmother sighed. “I do forgive you. I understand why you are upset, Sophy. I was young once too. Your grandfather was the love of my life …” She looked wistful for a moment. “Although you probably don’t believe it, there can be more than one love in your life, my dear. Some big and some small, and some wildly passionate and some more comfortable.” She must have seen her words weren’t sinking in to Sophy’s head. “Never mind that. All you need to remember is that Harry Baillieu is no longer in your world, and you must accept it. He is to marry Lady Evelyn Rowe, and you can be sure Sir Arbuthnot will never allow that golden pigeon to fly away.”