God save him from musicales. “Stop grimacing,” Sophie said under her breath from the seat next to him. West cast her a mildly exasperated look. “I’m hardly grimacing.” He thought he’d perfected the look of polite interest he was currently directing toward the front of Lady Worthington’s music room, where several of the countess’s nieces —Violet’s cousins—were sawing away at the violin. Sawing was probably a bit unfair; it was just that, having r epeatedly experienced the trauma of Lady Holyoak’s musicales—he felt honor-bound to put in a brief appearance every couple of years or so, once the memory of the last one he’d attended had faded enough to make him think this was a remotely good idea—he rather thought that something within his ears had gone slightly wrong, because he was no longer capable of enjoying the sound of a string instrument. Even when he heard one played by a skilled practitioner, he was on edge, as though the screeching were about to commence at any moment. Sophie rested a hand on his arm, then immediately removed it. “Why is your arm so tense?” she hissed. “You’re behaving as though you’re about to face the guillotine.” “A tempting prospect,” he murmured; at that moment, the young ladies finished playing, and he joined in the enthusiastic applause. He suspected, gauging from the looks of genuine appreciation on the faces of people around him, that the ladies had actually been quite good, but he was unable to confirm this with any degree of certainty from his own experience. The room filled with chatter as everyone rose from their seats; he spotted Violet and James near the front of the room. They were speaking with the youngest of her cousins, who appeared to be barely out of the schoolroom and seemed a bit overawed by the experience. He reached for his walking stick, then glanced down at Sophie and offered her his arm. “Care to get some air?” They skirted the edges of the chattering crowd as they made their way toward the French doors set against one wall, leading out to the terrace. It was a warm evening, and the scent of roses wafting up from Lady Worthington’s extensive gardens engulfed them as soon as they st epped through the doors. The music room was ablaze with light, which spilled out onto the deserted terrace; Sophie dropped his arm, and drifted slowly from the doors, past the first set of windows, until she found a pocket of shadows. She was wearing a pink gown that barely hugged her shoulders, her hair piled high atop her head. As West followed her, his gaze lingered on the creamy skin of her shoulders, on the single golden curl resting tantalizingly against the side of her neck. She leaned carefully against the wall
and tilted her head up to gaze consideringly at the sky; West, however, could not tear his eyes from her face. “Do you miss the stars, when you are in town?” He blinked. It was a romantic, fanciful sort of question from a woman not given to those tendencies. “I suppose so,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “But more than that, I think I miss the way the darkness feels less ominous in the countryside.” She turned her head sideways to look at him. “What do you mean?” “There’s less light, so you become accustomed to the darkness, if you need to go anywhere after sunset. The shadows seem darker in London, since they’re right at the edges of all that light.” “That was dangerously close to metaphor for a man who I believe once told me he didn’t believe in such a device.” There was a hint of a smile playing at her lips, and everything about this conversation was making West feel acutely conscious of the darkness, of her proximity, of the warmth of her skin that he could feel under his palm, if he simply extended his hand. “I believe in it,” he objected mildly. “I just think it should be applied sparingly.” Her mouth curved into a proper smile, and he looked away, swallowing. The sight of her smile was like a physical blow. She reached out a gloved hand, to take his hand again. “You know,” she said, “if we’re worried about our ruse not being convincing enough, all we need do is spend another ten minutes out here.” “Perhaps we can muss your hair a bit, before we go back indoors,” West suggested. “To lend the proceedings a bit of...” He considered. “Licentious credibility?” Sophie suggested. “Something like that.” “Or...” The word was long, slow, drawn-out. It contained an improbable number of syllables for its two letters. “Or?” “Or,” Sophie r epeated, and she tilted her head back slightly, so that her gaze on him was heavy-lidded and lazy, “we could do something compromising... in truth.” Something about her manner suggested that she was throwing down a gauntlet—one she did not expect West to pick up. She was offering him nothing more than what she’d offered four years earlier. And, he realized, she thought she knew him well enough to predict how he’d respond—that he’d st ep back, demur. What would she do, he wondered, if he did the opposite? If he reminded her of just how good they were together? He reached out and very deliberately leaned his cane against the wall.
Sophie’s eyes tracked this movement, then flicked back to his. He took a st ep toward her, and then another one, until there were only a few scant inches of space between them. He reached out, and rested one arm on the wall above her head. She tipped her head back farther to meet his eyes, and he saw her swallow. He allowed himself one single, satisfied second to revel in the sight, and then he ducked his head and pressed his lips to hers. It should have felt strange, and new, and unfamiliar, kissing her again after all this time, and yet, in that first instant, the overpowering sensation that hit him was one of homecoming. His body seemed to recognize hers, and a thousand memories crashed into him as he reached out to cup her jaw, tilting her head to a better angle so that he could kiss her properly. There was the softness of her skin under his hand, and the electric feeling of her hand sliding across his shoulders, into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He pulled back after a moment, resting his forehead against hers, and she opened her eyes, blinking up at him. “What is it?” she asked, the slightest breathless edge to her voice. “It’s still us,” he said, his tone dangerously near marveling, and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he registered how foolish and inane they must have sounded to her, but something complicated was playing across her face, and nothing about her expression indicated that she found him foolish. Instead, she merely said, “It’s still us,” and tugged his head down to hers. Where there had been the slightest bit of tentativeness, of hesitation to their last kiss, none was now present: This was all hot, fast certainty. Her nails were digging into his shoulders sharp enough to cause a bolt of pleasure to arrow directly south, and his tongue teased open her lips, slipping into her mouth and tangling with hers. He st epped closer, so close that her breasts were brushing his chest, and he dropped his arm from the wall above her head to wrap around her waist instead, tugging her more firmly against him. She pushed back after a moment, and he made as if to st ep back, break the kiss, but she seized his jacket without removing her mouth from his, turning them so that it was now his back at the wall, thudding against it with surprising force, and she was leaning against him, all of her soft curves pressing against him, her leg reaching out to twine around one of his as one of his hands drifted toward her breasts— “I knew you needed a chaperone!” Sophie drew back with a start, and West loosened his grip on her enough to put some space between them, but k ept a hand at her waist as they turned to peer down the length of the terrace, where Alexandra, Violet, and—heaven help them—Harriet were standing. All three wore expressions of varying degrees of amusement, though there was something a bit inscrutable about Alexandra’s; it was Harriet, however, who had spoken, and there was a note of barely concealed glee in her voice now. “Betsy is going to be so distraught to have missed this—she went to the retiring room a few minutes ago—you know how ladies in a certain condition are,” she added, her tone heavy with meaning. “But Alex said
that you’d come out here a few minutes ago, and I, naturally, was horrified that an unmarried couple was allowed to es cape onto a darkened terrace, without someone to protect their virtue.” “How considerate of you,” Sophie said. “Particularly given that I once found you and George behind a set of drapes in my very own library, before you were wed.” “A youthful indiscretion,” Harriet said, waving an airy hand. “I am a mother now, Sophie. I have maternal instincts.” “Doesn’t Cecily have colic?” Sophie asked sk eptically. “Indeed,” Harriet said brightly. “Which is why George is at home with her this evening! It is so useful when gentlemen know their place is in the home,” she added fondly. “In any case,” Alexandra said, casting her younger sister a look of halfaffection, half-exasperation, “Harriet was quite insistent that we follow you out here, convinced we would find you doing something compromising. And she was correct.” There was a note of faint surprise in her voice, which seemed strange to West—should not they expect to find an affianced couple doing something mildly scandalous? He was distracted from this thought by the sight of Violet, who looked as though she was trying very hard to fight back a smile. Violet, who—he remembered in a flash—was now aware that his and Sophie’s betrothal was feigned, thanks to James. He met her gaze, and the look in her eyes informed him in no uncertain terms that his brother would be hearing about this incident in approximately three minutes. He glanced down at Sophie. “Shall we go back indoors, dearest?” he asked her, very dryly. “Indeed,” she said lightly, allowing him to take her hand. She reached for his cane and, as she handed it to him, added in a murmur quiet enough that only he could hear, “I believe that will have made our ruse considerably more convincing, don’t you think?” Ruse. If she thought that was a ruse—that that kiss had been nothing more than a ploy to make their act convincing, to pull the wool over her sisters’ eyes— then West was tempted to ask her if she’d experienced the same past five minutes that he had. Nothing—nothing—about that kiss had felt like a ruse, or like acting, to him. But then he heard it: the slightest, shakiest exhale as his fingers brushed hers, taking possession of his cane. And he knew, in that instant, that she was no less affected than he had been. And if she thought she could kiss him like that, and then still insist that they had no future together, that this feeling that burned between them was something to be ignored... Well, he would simply have to prove to her otherwise. “It is very charming for a man to take it into his head to host a dinner party, do you not think?” Violet asked brightly from within the cozy confines of her carriage.
James cast her a vaguely inquiring look, resembling, Sophie thought, nothing so much as a man who was half-afraid to hear whatever was about to come out of his wife’s mouth, but who had learned from long experience that it was always best to make at least a show of interest. This was evidently all the encouragement Violet needed. “I mean to say— West has no wife!” She smiled dazzlingly at Sophie. “No one to serve as hostess! And yet he is hosting a dinner! It is rather as if a horse had taken it into its head to walk on two legs instead of four.” This was apparently too great a slight to his sex for James to let pass. “How marvelous that a creature of such inferior intellect should manage such a feat.” Violet turned innocent eyes upon her husband. “Oh, are you offended, darling? Is it terribly exhausting, having someone behave as though the smallest achievement on the part of a member of your sex is so astonishing as to be barely credible? How dreadfully tiresome that must be! I cannot imagine what that must be like, of course.” “Thank you, Violet, I believe you’ve made your point,” James said. “Though why I should be the one to receive this little monologue, when—last I checked— I have not done anything lately to incur your wrath, is beyond me.” “I have not had anyone to monologue at in a self-righteous fashion on the inequities women face for at least a week,” Violet explained cheerfully. “I like to ensure that I don’t fall out of practice.” “You’re in top form,” Sophie assured her. “Ah, look, we’ve arrived!” James said, sounding as relieved as a man es caping the gallows, though Sophie did not miss the quick kiss he pressed to the top of Violet’s head before hopping out of the carriage and waiting to hand them down. In short order, they had joined the throng in West’s drawing room, where everyone had assembled before dinner. It was a decent-sized crowd, thanks to the web of complicated family and friendship ties at work, and their party rounded out to an even twenty for dinner—an ambitious enough task for a seasoned hostess, much less for a bachelor. But West seemed entirely at ease as Sophie made her way to his side, where he lifted her hand to his mouth for a brief kiss. This dinner party was intended to be a celebration of their betrothal for only their closest friends and relations, s eparate from the more elaborate ball her mother was planning in her and Alexandra’s honor. “Darling,” West said, offering her his arm, “I was just telling your sister here about Alexandra’s plans for the wedding. With the horses,” he added, dry as toast. The sister in question was Maria; her husband was de ep in conversation with Harriet’s and Betsy’s husbands, but Maria was focused entirely on West, wearing an expression of mild horror. “Sophie,” she said, “you cannot possibly plan to leave your wedding ceremony on horseback.” Sophie smiled serenely. “It was Alex’s idea—if you’ve a complaint, I suggest you inform her.” Maria snorted, which itself was indicative of her distress—her fussy sister would ordinarily never allow such a noise to pass her lips, lest someone think her common. Maria had a great abhorrence of all things common—this might be why she seemed fond of West, come to think of it. No one in possession of their senses could ever mistake him for a man with even a nodding acquaintance with common. “Since when have you been willing to acquiesce to a harebrained scheme, just because Alexandra suggested it?” Maria asked suspiciously.
Sophie bit back a sigh; the less than two years that s eparated herself and Maria had felt like a large gulf when they were girls, and Sophie had felt protective toward her anxious younger sister, but as they’d grown, and Maria had learned to hide her anxiety behind a mask of propriety and occasional judgment, it had grown more difficult for Sophie to muster up those same feelings of protective affection that had once come so naturally to her. The fact that Maria herself had played a role in Sophie’s hasty marriage to Bridewell was something, too, that Sophie had failed to entirely put out of her mind. This was not exactly fair, considering Maria herself remained entirely unaware of the threats the duke had made about her r eputation; Sophie had been careful not to breathe a word of it, knowing that her sister would feel partly responsible. At the time, considering their parents’ fury surrounding the entire flirtation with Sandworth, Sophie rather thought Maria had been punished enough, without adding an extra layer of guilt to her woes. The fact remained, however, that Sophie had limited patience for being lectured about bad ideas by someone whose own lapse in judgment had proved to have such devastating, unintended consequences. “It’s her wedding, too, Maria,” Sophie said shortly. “If she wants to leave on horseback, she’s perfectly within her rights to do so.” “But why do you need to?” Maria pressed—a question that Sophie had not paused to consider previously. “Why are you having a double wedding at all? If you want different things for your weddings, doesn’t it make more sense to have s eparate ceremonies?” “What a sensible idea,” West said, taking a healthy sip of his brandy. Sophie tried—and failed—not to look at the casual grip of his fingers on the glass, which summoned a memory of those same fingers brushing the underside of her breast a few nights earlier, just before Harriet had seen fit to interrupt them. “I don’t understand why Alexandra wants a big wedding at all,” Maria said. “She already had one with her first husband.” “She wants to celebrate finding love again,” Sophie said, feeling defensive. “I suppose that’s understandable.” “But don’t you recall how she complained about it the first time?” Maria asked. “She hated all the pomp and fuss—said if she could do it over again, she’d elope to Gretna Green.” “She was only joking—she doesn’t wish to kill Mama,” Sophie said, though now that Maria mentioned it, Sophie did recall some of Alexandra’s complaints, which she’d previously forgotten. Her rather shy sister had found all the attention overwhelming—entirely at odds with the woman who now had visions of a dramatic d eparture on horseback. It did seem a bit odd, but... “Besides, people are allowed to change their minds, Maria.” Maria frowned suspiciously at this, clearly of the opinion that anyone so flighty as to change their mind should be regarded as untrustworthy at best, dangerous at worst. Further conversation on the topic was forestalled by the ringing of the dinner bell, and the usual bit of scampering as everyone attempted to work out precedence for entering the dining room, though it seemed a bit silly, dining as they were solely among close friends. Eventually they were all settled around the table and the
conversation was occupied for a while with discussions of plans for the end of the Season, when Jeremy would be hosting his annual hunting party at his estate in Wiltshire, an event that had taken on a less ribald, considerably more domestic flavor now that he’d married. All too soon, however, conversation turned once more to Sophie’s alleged wedding. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear?” Betsy asked, spearing a bite of roast duck with considerable gusto. “If you need a waistcoat, West, Jeremy could loan you the one he wore for our wedding,” Diana offered slyly. “A tempting offer,” West said, straight-faced—Jeremy had lost a bet to Diana and had been forced to wear what Sophie thought was quite possibly the most horrifying waistcoat known to mankind to his wedding, though it must be admitted that he had done so quite cheerfully. “Oh!” Alexandra clasped her hands eagerly. “Sophie, we should buy new gowns! Perhaps we ought to go to the modiste together!” “I have plenty of gowns,” Sophie said hastily. “I don’t think it’s necessary—” “But not one you ordered specifically for your wedding!” Alexandra said severely. “I did not wear a new gown for my wedding,” Emily said, with a soft smile in her husband’s direction, “and I did not find the day lacking—oh!” She broke off, glancing down under the table. “Violet, did you just kick me?” Her voice was full of wounded betrayal. “Why on earth would I do that?” Violet asked innocently, sipping from her wineglass. “But, Sophie, Alexandra is right—you should have a new gown!” “If I am to be d eparting the ceremony on horseback,” Sophie said sweetly, “then would a new gown not be unwise? Much better to wear something older that I wouldn’t mind getting dirty if the horse kicks up a bit of mud, I should think.” “It is not so difficult to remove mud from a gown!” Alexandra said airily, before faltering slightly. “Er, is it?” A brief, uncertain silence fell. “In any case,” Alexandra continued, seeing that no one had an answer for her, “I insist! New gowns for us both! I shall collect you tomorrow and we shall be off to a new modiste I’ve been meaning to visit.” “Mmmm,” Sophie said, with as much enthusiasm as she was capable of mustering. She was acutely aware of Violet watching her like a hawk, and she plastered a more eager smile on her face. “I shall be anticipating it as I would anticipate... er...” “Our wedding?” West suggested, very dryly. “Precisely,” Sophie agreed feebly.
“Sophie, are you quite all right?” Betsy asked. “You look a bit unwell.” “No doubt it is merely a touch of lovesickness,” Alexandra said breezily. “I’m sure it will subside.” “Audley,” Blackford said, clearing his throat, “I heard you’re planning a visit to Oxfordshire to take a look at Risedale’s stables.” Sophie shot Blackford a grateful look as talk turned to James and the Earl of Risedale’s scheme for building out his stables into some sort of profitable enterprise, and she relaxed slightly as the attention of the room shifted away from her. She took a healthy sip of wine, and glanced up to see West’s gaze on her. He frowned in silent inquiry. Is anything wrong? She shook her head with a small smile, and turned to Penvale, who was seated next to her, and who had been silently taking in the events of the past five minutes with a mildly nonplussed expression. “I see it’s your turn to attempt to carry on a romance whilst ignoring the interference of our friends,” he said. “A solemn rite of passage for us all, you know.” “Indeed.” Sophie took another healthy sip of wine, wishing briefly that it was something stronger. “Cheer up,” Penvale said bracingly. “Once you’ve married and made a show of suitable matrimonial bliss, their attention moves on and you are allowed to become the smug married friend dispensing unwanted advice instead. It’s much more fun, I promise.” Sophie laughed, lifting her glass to his in a toast, but couldn’t help thinking that it might not prove so simple in her case—because matrimonial bliss was not going to be the outcome.