Bella crashed into Myles as his feet stopped moving. Somehow he fell forward, taking both of them down to the ground. Myles landed right on top of her hard, taking her breath away and proceeded to get tangled up in a heap of her skirts.
“Bella,” Myles groaned as he struggled to rise. “I’m terribly sorry.” Before he could say more, Wentworth came to their rescue.
“Please accept my sincere apologizes for my clumsiness,” Myles said without meeting her or her brother’s stormy eyes. How odd?
Bella rose on wobbly legs, smoothed down her skirts and smiled, trying to pretend nothing happened. Extremely hard to do with loud gasps and whispers travelling throughout the ballroom. Her cheeks scorched while tears glistened in her eyes, threatening to dampen her face. Mortified, she was completely mortified. Thank goodness Emma and Amelia linked arms with hers and led her out of the ballroom into the nearest deserted room. Falling on the dance floor was nothing compared to the breaking of her heart. Would it ever beat properly again?
“What happened?” Emma asked, concern in her eyes.
“I’ll tell you what happened.” Bella sighed as she sat down on the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be a settee. “One minute I was dancing with Myles and the next I was on the floor, on my back, with him on top of me. Now, I have dreamt of being beneath him the past few years, but I never wanted to be humiliated.” Bella paused to gather her thoughts.
“Something else has you upset. Did you have words?” Amelia said
“He had words to say and now that my mind has had time to clear, I recall what they were. And I want to go find him and…and…do something not nice.”
Emma and Amelia sat down on either side of her. No doubt they knew her temper simmered right beneath the surface, threatening to make an appearance. She hated to admit it, but she had a nasty temper when provoked. Thank goodness she was seldom provoked.
“What did Myles say that has you so angry at him?” Emma asked as she rubbed Bella’s back, surely hoping to soothe her.
It didn’t.
“Yes, I want to know what he said, as well,” Amelia added.
“He asked if I’d finally grown up and saw my feelings for him for what they are—the love of friendship.” Sobs escaped from deep inside her chest. “How could he be so cruel? If he never had any intentions of marrying me, why did he not say so earlier? Why did he continue to make me believe he would marry me eventually? I love him. I don’t believe I can ever love another.”
“Bella,” Emma said in her soothing voice, the one she used with her son, Hamilton. “When I first met Myles, I thought him a shameless flirt. As I got to know him, I realized he is a good-natured gentleman with a kind heart. I did notice he has been paying you more attention this Season than Season’s past. I wondered why and hoped he would propose soon. I’m sorry I was wrong.”
“Exactly,” Bella interjected between hiccups. Great, now she was hiccupping. “I want to know why? Perhaps it was all a delusion on my part, and he never did care for me at all?”
Amelia entered the conversation, “Perhaps he needed to find out if he had the same feelings for you as you did him? And no, you are not delusional in your thinking. I saw the way he acted and looked at you. I think he does love you but something is holding him back.”
Bella huffed. “More likely he could not stand by and watch another gentleman woo me. He doesn’t want to marry me, but he doesn’t want anyone else too either.”
“Is Spencer wooing you?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know. I’m so confused right now. All I know is my heart hurts. Hurts because Myles has finally rejected me.”
“Perhaps in time,” Emma continued, “you will feel differently about tonight and what Myles told you. Mayhap it’s for the best. You can open your eyes to all the other possible suitors who stand in the wings hoping for a small sign of interest from you. Do you wish for me to speak to Wentworth and beg on your behalf to let you go home?”
Go home? Bella would like nothing more than to go home and bury beneath her covers and forget tonight’s events. But deep down inside she knew that would be the wrong thing to do. She would be strong and continue on through the evening’s ball as though Myles had not broken her heart. She would go on as if nothing untold had happened. She would try to keep her name out of the gossip rags. “No. I wish to stay and dance and enjoy myself.”
“Good,” Emma and Amelia both said in unison.
“Gentlemen—” Emma said as she rose and sashayed toward the closed door—“can be quite complicated and a pain in the you know what at times.”
Amelia laughed. “She has a good point. But Bella, I truly believe, by this time next year, you’ll be married, happy, and with child.”
“I’m thrilled you think so.” Bella sighed. “I hope you’re right. I do not want another Season. Three is quite enough.” As they were about to exit the room, in came Wentworth dragging a white faced Myles.
Lovely, just what she needed. Hadn’t Myles embarrassed her enough for one night? Everyone in the ballroom heard him gasp, and then cry out the name Sophie. Who was Sophie? Why did she have such a profound effect on Myles? Bella had a feeling she was about to find out. By the increased beat of her heart, she wasn’t confident she wanted to know who this mysterious Sophie was. Perhaps this woman was the reason Myles never declared himself.
“What the bloody hell happened out on the dance floor?” Wentworth bellowed once the door was closed and they were cut off from the outside world. “Now I’ve been privy to rumors and whispers of scandal in the past, but what is being said out in the ballroom rivals all I’ve heard before.”
“Please tell me what is being said.” Bella’s stomach tightened up. Did she really want to know? Because once she knew, there would be no going back. What happened embarrassed her and humiliated her. She did not need to hear the gossip being said to make her feel worse than she already did. Then again, if she concentrated on the gossip perhaps it would take her mind off Myles and what he’d done to her heart.
“What is being whispered around the ballroom, by bloody hell everyone present, is while you danced with Myles, you told him you were with child, then in walks Myles’s lover. Where do these people get these ideas?”
Bella, Emma and Amelia gasped at once. “Surely they are not?” Bella said, her voice loud with outrage, her arms hugging herself as her body trembled.
“They are, but do not fret, I will squash these rumors.” Wentworth looked quite determined. “If Myles would kindly explain what happened?” The daggers her brother sent him almost made her feel sorry for him.
Her eyes, as well as everyone else’s fell on Myles, while he kept his head down and paced the room. Several minutes ticked by before he spoke in a voice Bella almost didn’t recognize. “Sophie LaFleur walked in the ballroom escorted by my cousin, Gerard Fredrickson. My number one nemesis. He prays daily my father and I perish so he can inherit the Earldom. At least it’s what I believe.” He shrugged. “I could be wrong. Not about Sophie, about Gerard wanting us dead.”
“What?” Wentworth did not hide his shock. His anger from earlier replaced with disbelief.
Bella took a deep breath for courage. “Who is this Sophie woman?” She might as well ask the question everyone’s thinking.
Wentworth and Myles, both looking guilty, refused to meet her eyes.
What are they hiding?
“I don’t wish to have this conversation now,” Myles said, running his hands through his disheveled hair.
Wentworth slapped his friend on the back. “Your actions on the dance floor have sparked the gossip mongers interest. The best thing for you to do is leave this room. Approach Sophie and your cousin and act naturally. And, of course, treat my sister the same as usual.”
“That’s all well and good,” interjected an angry Emma. “What happened out there on the dance floor embarrassed her, and now you tell us she is being gossiped about. I think he owes her an explanation. ”
“Emma,” Bella said. “Myles owes me nothing. I don’t believe he should be forced to explain about Sophie to me. There is nothing between us anymore.”
“No,” Myles spoke up. “You deserve to hear the story.” He strolled over to the door and opened it. “Duchess, Lady Amelia, would you please excuse us.”
After the ladies left, Myles’s eyes darted toward the door, wishing he could’ve left with them. However, the gentleman in him knew Bella deserved an explanation. “During my time in America I met Sophie LaFleur. I was travelling by steamboat down the Mississippi River to New Orleans.” As Myles spoke he was drawn back in time to that eventful trip down the muddy Mississippi.
Myles Fredrickson’s lungs needed air. He, however, did not notice. The only thing or person he noticed stood several yards from him. A young lady of means, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, stood at the railing of the Steamboat, Magnolia, staring down into the deep, dark muddy waters of the Mississippi River. From head to toe she was wrapped in a fur-trimmed, deep blue pelisse to keep the wind and chill at bay. The only part of the young lady visible to him was her face poking through her hood. If her side profile had sent his brain and body into shock, what would a glimpse of her face full on do? It was not long before he had his answer.
It was as though she knew he watched her. Abruptly she turned and her eyes narrowed. Her cute button nose scrunched up in the process. Then the most beguiling smile broke out across her lips. Her smile touched every feature on her face, from her cheeks to her bright green eyes. Myles clutched his heart in fear it would burst right out of his chest, leaving him dead at the feet of this vision straight out of a Greek tragedy. And then she approached him with that captivating smile, causing his eyes to widen and his body to quiver.
“There you are? I’ve been looking for you. Tillie doesn’t know I snuck out. My silly maid is in the throes of motion sickness.” Her eyes widened and she gasped. “Oh, you are not…Oh…Ohhh.” Her lovely hand flew to her throat and she blushed. “I do beg your pardon, monsieur.”
Struck mute, Myles’s jaw dropped. He closed his mouth and silently begged the good Lord to help him form coherent words. Her voice sang out with a sensual French accent. Something in it called to him. Before he knew it, he reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her from fleeing. “No. Don’t go.”
Was that desperation he heard in his voice?
She paused, turned back to him, her facial features void of the sparkle he had just witnessed. Panic had replaced the sparkle.
“S’il vous plait, sir…kindly remove your hand from my arm.”
Every nerve inside him tingled and words screamed inside his head. Don’t let her go. If you do you’ll never see her again.
“If I remove my hand, will you stay?”
She blinked her eyes, twice. They widened and he knew she saw him clearly for the first time. If only he was privileged to her inner thoughts. What did he look like to her? Did she think him handsome? Most of the ladies in England did––professed to—at least. Or did she see him as an American.
Today, he dressed like one. He rather liked their more casual attire. Doeskin breeches tucked inside black boots, a white ruffled shirt open at his collar all topped with an unbuttoned, dark brown overcoat. He quite possibly broke American rules of etiquette by not wearing a cravat, but bloody hell, he was on holiday. For once in his life he would do as he pleased. He never realized how easy it was to breathe without the constraints of the knotted cloth. He could never stand tight things around his neck. To his valet’s anguish, he always pulled on his neck cloth loosening it and making him look, according to his valet, sloppy. Well bloody bugger, he was not at some high society London affair where proper dress was required. He was in America. Land of opportunity and freedom to do as one pleased, within the confines of the law of course.
“Please, mon le pere et la mere might see.”
He dropped his hand and scanned the deck for angry parents. Seeing none, he bowed deeply. “Myles Frederickson at your service.” He stood tall and fought the urge to raise her gloved hand to his lips and never let it go. “Please accept my apologies. It was not my intention to startle you.” He lost the battle and gently took her trembling hand, raised it up and brushed her covered knuckles a tad too long, and too intimately, with his warm lips. The woman, whose hand he held, sucked in her breath, lowered her lashes and her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink.
“When I looked over and saw you, a vision of loveliness against the dark, ominous sky and swelling river waters, I had to make your acquaintance.” His eyes never left hers and his insides tightened with sexual awareness. “You are the bright, warm sunshine in this otherwise gloomy day.”
“Please sir, my parents, the Conte and Contessa de la Com Du LaFleur, have legendary tempers known throughout France and New Orleans. No one is allowed near me, never mind dare touch me in such a familiar manner. I must…”
She tugged her hand free of his, but not before Myles saw interest flair in her eyes. She took a step back and he almost reached for her arm again, but alarm replaced the interest and he decided against it. Safety and sanity prevailed.
“You are English, no?” It was not so much a question as a statement of fact.
‘‘Indeed, has my accent given me away, mademoiselle?” He smiled, confident in his ability to charm the opposite sex.
“I must apologize. I left my spectacles in my cabin and mistook you for someone else,” the mystery woman said nervously.
“Ahh, and who, pray tell, is this someone else?” Myles wondered. Obviously a gentleman, one who has won her affections.
“My fiancé, Stefan . You resemble him somewhat.” She paused for a time and Myles wondered what went on inside her pretty head. Then he thought he heard her moan or sigh or something and her eyes sparkled with desire. That couldn’t be right, could it?
“Excusez-moi, did you say something?” Myles asked.
Looking mortified she mumbled, “I must go, s’il vous plait.” She quickly curtsied, swung around and walked fast, but still in a ladylike and graceful way.
“What is your name?” Myles bellowed.
Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder and answered, “Sophie LaFleur.”
Several minutes went by before Myles could breathe easily, his heart, well bugger that, it still beat a tad too fast for comfort. Sophie LaFleur. A beautiful French name for one so lovely. Who was she and where was she travelling to? Could he dare hope she stayed on the boat until reaching New Orleans as he was? If his memory served him correctly, had not a large influx of French settled there? If not, he would leap overboard at the first sign she was gone. He could not let her go. Even possessing a fiancé. “You are losing your wits, Myles. You are in a foreign country, and you know nobody and yet…” He groaned. “Damn it all.” He pivoted around and sought the comfort and warmth of his cabin.
Myles, to his utter dismay, did not glimpse the lovely Sophie LaFleur until they disembarked the steamboat in New Orleans. With a pounding heart and a breakfast not sitting well in his stomach, he tried, without success, to attract her attention. Too many people surrounded her, shielding her from him. There was something about her pulling at him, tugging at his heart and soul. And he would be damned if he would give up his pursuit of her. Because for the first time in his life, a woman moved him. He ignored the knot of guilt forming inside his stomach as the lovely face of Isabella Seabrook flashed in his eyes.
After he checked into the Dauphine Orleans Hotel in the French Quarter, he started making inquiries about the mysterious and lovely, Sophie. Luck appeared to be on his side because he met a French gentleman staying at the hotel who knew the LaFleur’s. They were giving a ball in their daughter’s honor in a sennight. Without appearing desperate, he begged an invitation from Mr. Jean Labrecque. The biggest problem was what did he do for a sennight?