One year earlier “You are looking quite well tonight, Soph.” Sophie was not certain compliments counted when they came from one’s little sister—but, in this instance, she knew that Harriet was correct. “Thank you.” She took a sip of ratafia, idly gazing around the room. It was a pleasantly cool early May evening outdoors, which was a relief, because the ballroom was—as the hostess would no doubt be crowing about the next day—a dreadful crush. Sophie had never entirely understood why this was a state to be desired; she, personally, reserved a fair bit of resentment for the inevitable trickle of perspiration that would cre ep slowly down her spine during these events, impossible for her to reach and wipe away. Fortunately, her gown tonight was a midnight blue that would disguise any telltale perspiration—and which looked quite fetching on her, she knew. She’d commissioned an entirely new wardrobe from her modiste this year, one that was a bit more daring than she was accustomed to. But it had been three years since she’d been widowed—three years since that one, perhaps ill-advised afternoon with a certain marquess—and she had grown to realize that she was feeling a bit... bored. So she’d put on a new dress with a plunging neckline, and had Fox, her lady’s maid, dress her hair with more than usual care that evening, and as she stood there with Harriet, scanning the room for familiar faces, she told herself that there was absolutely not any one particular gentleman who she was hoping might take note of this fact. Until he walked in the door. West looked handsome this evening, as always; his hair was combed neatly back from his face, and his green eyes glittered in the candlelight. She did wish that he would do her the courtesy of not always looking so enticing every time she saw him, but that alone would require him to think of her as often as she thought of him. The first time she had seen him last Season, at the first event she’d attended since her husband’s death, they’d caught sight of each other across the room at the Royal Academy, where they were both attending an art exhibition. Their eyes had locked for a split second, he’d offered her a polite nod, and then he’d moved on to continue speaking to a group of his Oxford friends and their wives. She’d felt as though she’d been kicked in the stomach, and was furious with herself for feeling that way. She was the one, after all, who had told him that they could never marry—a reality that she could not deny when she spotted the Duke of Dovington a minute or two later, surveying the room like a predator taking note of the location of all of its prey.
Occasionally, she thought she felt West’s eyes on her at these events, after they’d moved past each other—but whenever she turned, he was de ep in conversation with someone else, or sometimes nowhere to be seen at all. Which meant she was imagining it, like some sort of lovesick fool. Tonight, however, she was determined not to be that lovesick fool any longer. She was twenty-six years old, and she was tired of allowing a short-lived love affair at the age of twenty to occupy so much of her thoughts. If he had moved on, then so would she; therefore, she proceeded to dance, chat, and flirt her way around the room over the course of the next couple of hours. Truth be told, she had forgotten how exhausting ton events were; she had never considered herself much of a bluestocking, but the years since she’d been widowed had taught her of the joy that could be found in a quiet evening in her drawing room or library, curled up before the fire with a book on her lap. She found herself thinking of that vision of domestic coziness almost longingly as she finished dancing a rather energetic reel and tried very hard to ignore that dreaded trickle of perspiration on her back. She slipped off the ballroom floor, fanning herself, and was just considering attempting to beat a path through the crowd to the refreshment table when she turned— And nearly ran headfirst into West. “Oh!” Sophie reared back like a spooked horse. “I beg your pardon.” His words came out stilted, almost accusatory. She felt a flash of annoyance. From above his elaborately knotted cravat, he seemed to be looking down his nose at everyone present, which did not improve her temper. “I didn’t see you—I’m sorry.” She sounded stiff, even to her own ears; she didn’t know how to speak to him anymore. The thought was sharp, like a razor sliding against her skin. “It was my fault,” he r eplied, gentlemanly as ever. “I’ll just allow you to—” He st epped back, as if to allow her to pass; she was about to do so when suddenly, so quickly she nearly missed it, his eyes dropped to her neckline. A spark raced down her spine at the sight. His eyes dropped to her décolletage once more. This time, they caught there—not for so long that it felt lecherous, but long enough that she felt a strange surge of awareness of her own power. He might be a marquess—might be the heir to one of the most powerful men in England—but now, in this moment, he was in her thrall. A moment later, his brain seemed to catch up to his eyes, and he wrenched them north again. The polite thing to do would be to pretend she had not noticed. But instead, she looked him directly in the eye. And raised both eyebrows. And then—then! The faintest trace of color appeared in his cheeks.
She had made the Marquess of Weston blush. She felt nearly giddy as their eyes locked, he looking embarrassed and frustrated and a dozen other terribly human emotions that she was not accustomed to seeing him permit himself. Or at least not permit himself to show. He cleared his throat, offered a brief nod, and walked away. Her jaw dropped, though she quickly wrenched it shut—surely, surely things had not progressed to so dire a state that she was to start gaping like a fish in a crowded ballroom. This was the single rudest thing she had ever seen West do— not just to her, but to anyone, with the exc eption of the unfortunate Marquess of Sandworth, whom he’d held by the throat against a hedge that fateful night that they’d discovered him in Maria’s company. West was always exquisitely, excruciatingly polite; even in the six years since their aborted courtship, he still always had a courteous nod or bow for her. But this! A slow smile began to cre ep across her face as she considered the matter. In the past two minutes, she had caused West to gape openly at her décolletage, and then left him so agitated that he’d forgotten his manners completely and turned his back on a lady without a word of farewell. He was flustered. He still wanted her. He wouldn’t do anything about it—this was proven by the way he had all but fled from the sight of her breasts (an intriguing event in and of itself; she had not been aware that her rather modest bosom possessed this sort of power!). But the true question was: What was she going to do about it? “Lady Fitzwilliam, can I possibly be the luckiest man in Christendom, to have discovered you alone and not surrounded by a pack of admirers?” She glanced up, startled; Jeremy, the current Marquess of Willingham, was standing before her. He had the exact same shade of golden hair that his elder brother had had, she thought sadly. Jeremy had a r eputation as something of a rake, a r eputation bolstered in the years since he’d assumed the title after his brother’s death. They had spoken occasionally, danced every now and then, but Sophie tended to avoid him—he was too close to West. Best to ke ep herself far away. But tonight, she was not feeling at all cautious. “Lord Willingham.” She offered him a slow, flirtatious smile. “You’ve caught me whilst I was attempting an es cape from this crush.” A slightly pained expression crossed his face. “Please—Jeremy. My friends call me Jeremy.” The slightly strained note in his voice made her think this was not a simple matter of preference for his given name, but she did not question it, and his expression eased nearly as quickly as it had tightened, that lazy, appreciative gleam reappearing in his eye as he gazed at her.
“And are we to be friends, then?” she asked coyly, and he blinked, then gave her a slow, seductive smile. “I can think of nothing that would make me happier,” he said. “Is your next dance taken?” He projected an air of boyish hope that did not fool Sophie for one moment, though it did amuse her. And it was nice, she thought, to converse with a gentleman and not feel an emotion stronger than amusement. And a bit of attraction, too, she thought, glancing at Jeremy from beneath her lashes as she consulted her dance card. “I appear to have promised this dance to Lord Risedale,” she said. “Risedale is currently making sickening cow eyes at his wife over there”—he jerked his head to the left—“and no doubt will not be too put out if he cannot find you to claim his dance.” This was likely true; Risedale and his new countess were known to be a love match, and while Sophie actually liked the earl quite a bit—he was a perfect gentleman, and also a genuinely interesting conversationalist, a skill that was in short supply among many of his peers—she did not think she needed to feel too guilty at skipping their dance. “Did you have a suggestion as to what I ought to do instead, if I am not to dance this set?” she asked. She considered carefully, and then batted her eyelashes at him. His gaze flicked to her neckline. Men, she thought, were awfully predictable. “I find myself desiring a bit of air, and wondered if you, too, might like a chance to cool off—you look flushed.” His tone was all solicitous inquiry, and his gaze was all wicked knowing. Sophie hesitated for only the briefest second, before taking Jeremy’s proffered arm. She did not allow her eyes to drift to either side as he escorted her onto the terrace—but later, after a quarter of an hour of rather heated kissing and a murmured invitation in Jeremy’s ear, as she returned to the ballroom, hoping her hair wasn’t too badly mussed, she glanced to the left, and locked eyes with West. She counted it as a small victory when he looked away first.