Ten months earlier
He found her in the gallery of a country house in Wiltshire.
It was August—a sunny, sticky afternoon that lent itself to lazy conversations and restful sojourns in the
shade. Sophie knew that at least some of the other members of their party—who had all, like herself, arrived
within the past several hours—were strolling around the garden, or resting in the cool quiet of their rooms. She,
however, had merely assured herself that her trunk had made its way to the guest room she’d be occupying for
the next fortnight, left her bonnet on her bed, and then taken herself off on a walk around the house, her
footst eps muffled by the expensive rugs that covered the floors.
She had considered carefully before acc epting Jeremy’s invitation to his annual shooting party; their liaison
had ended on friendly terms, and over the course of the previous month she had become closer to Violet, who
she knew planned to attend. She thought it would be rather nice to es cape the heat of town for a few weeks in
the countryside, in the company of friends she hoped to de epen her acquaintance with. And had she not said to
Jeremy, when ending things, I do hope that we might still be friends? She had meant it, too; she liked Jeremy,
for all that their short-lived affair had not been particularly earthshattering.
(She very much feared that her expectations regarding lovemaking had been set far too high because of a
single afternoon three years earlier.)
So here she was; but after a long day in a hot carriage, subjected to her lady’s maid’s unending chatter, she
badly wished for five minutes to herself. Time alone was not a commodity she’d been lacking, these past three
years, yet there
were still occasions when she found herself craving the chance to gather her thoughts in peace. Or perhaps,
today, it was merely the knowledge of who would be awaiting her, once she eventually joined the group, that
sent her on a slow, circuitous tour of the house. Whatever her motive, it was ultimately futile: It was as she was
standing in the gallery, thoughtfully regarding a portrait of Jeremy and his elder brother as boys, their arms
slung round each other’s shoulders, that she heard footst eps, and the muffled thunk of a cane on carpet, and she
knew whom she would find even before she turned to face him. He came to an abrupt halt the moment he
spotted her. Sophie knotted her hands together, and inclined her head. “Lord Weston.” “Lady Fitzwilliam.” An
awkward silence fell; West was looking around the room, seeming desperate for something to rest his eyes on
that wasn’t her face, and Sophie studied him. He wore a dark-blue jacket and riding boots; his cravat was a bit
loose, and his hair mussed. He must have been out of doors, she thought; he had not yet transformed back into
the immaculately groomed version of himself that would no doubt appear at the dinner table in a couple of
hours’ time. After another long moment, he looked directly at her; there was a bit of color in his cheeks,
presumably from the heat. It had been a long time since she had been the one to put color there. “I apologize for
disturbing you—I got a bit turned around, looking for my room. I’ll just—” He made as if to turn and leave, and
Sophie was sorely tempted to let him; she did not know what to say to him anymore. Had not known for years
now, in fact. She’d seen him at a Venetian breakfast a week earlier and they’d made polite, tortured
conversation about the quality of the blackberries being served, for heaven’s sake. But—they were to be here
for a fortnight, inhabiting the same house. It was a very large house, but they could not avoid each other
indefinitely. She opened her mouth to say—well, she wasn’t entirely certain what she intended to say. But
before she had to work it out, he stopped mid-turn, blew out a frustrated breath, and took a st ep toward her.
“I want you to know,” he said, his voice low but perfectly audible in the echoing silence of the room, “that I
do not think James should have drawn you into his and Violet’s problems. It was—it was badly done.”
Sophie blinked, startled; this was not what she had been expecting from him. West’s brother had, the month
before, flirted with her a bit to make Violet jealous—but it had been harmless, and he’d apologized afterward.
She still had the very courteous note he’d sent her tucked away in a desk drawer somewhere; only now did she
pause to wonder if the man before her might have encouraged his brother to such an action.
She knew of no way to ask—not without making this conversation more intimate than she wished it to be.
She and West could never be intimate in any way again.
“Your brother apologized, and there was no harm done,” she said, a bit stiffly. “I certainly was eager
enough to help Violet exact revenge.”
He nodded. “Right. Well. I merely thought to... tell you. That it’s not how he normally behaves.”
She regarded him contemplatively for a moment. “He’s an adult, West.” His nickname felt strange on her
tongue. “You don’t need to apologize for him.”
“Yes. Of course.” She thought, for a second, that he wasn’t going to say anything further—that he would
leave the room on this stilted, awkward note. Instead, he tilted his head to the side and added, “Though I would
think that you, of anyone, would understand a firstborn’s perhaps unreasonable concern for a younger sibling.”
She sucked in a breath, but did not avert her eyes from his. “Is this how it is to be, then?” she asked softly.
“We cannot exchange more than a few sentences without delving back into the past?”
He had the grace to look ashamed. “That was unnecessary,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came
over me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re to be here for a fortnight, you know. We might at least attempt
to be less uneasy in each other’s company.”
“Shall I ask you about the weather, and your journey here, and whether it is your first time visiting this
county?” His voice was sk eptical.
“It might be a nice start,” she said shortly; he was not inspiring much desire in her, at the moment, to ease
things between them. “If we can’t discuss anything of import—anything interesting—then we might at least try
small talk.”
He looked at her for another long moment. “You and I have never made small talk, Lady Fitzwilliam.”
It was true, Sophie realized; from the night they had first met, they had skipped the inconsequential, dull
chatter that passed for polite conversation among the ton, and had plunged headfirst into a frankness and
intimacy that had only halted with his accident and her marriage. They didn’t know how to be polite
acquaintances—they’d never been that to each other.
And now, it was all they could be. That, or nothing at all.
“We might as well attempt it,” Sophie said, lifting her chin.
After another brief pause, he nodded. “All right.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Might I escort you
back to your room? Perhaps you can tell me how you are finding Elderwild so far—this is your first visit, is it
not?”
“It is,” Sophie agreed, and walked toward him until they were side by side, s eparated by a careful, safe
couple of feet. In unison, they began to walk; at that moment, in a motion that seemed to be almost compulsive,
against his will and better judgment, he flicked a quick glance over his shoulder, at the portrait Sophie had been
looking at when he’d found her.
The portrait of Jeremy... and David.
He looked away again a moment later, fixing his glance steadily ahead, and Sophie continued to chatter
mindlessly as they left the room, filling the silence between them with a lengthy monologue on her impressions
of Jeremy’s estate thus far. Only once, as they walked, did she dare allow her gaze to rest on his profile for a
moment, and she quickly dropped it—but not before she’d seen the expression of pain written upon it.
She did not alter the casual babble pouring from her mouth almost unbidden, and he seemed content to
listen in silence. But for a brief, sharp moment, she wished with a frightening fierceness that she might be able
to say something—anything—to ease that pained expression on his face.
But while there was a time when she might have done such a thing, years earlier, those days seemed
nothing but a distant memory to her now; the West and Sophie of then, and who they’d been to each other, had
no bearing on the West and Sophie of today, who no longer had anything of import to say to each other.
It was a good reminder, she thought determinedly, whenever she found herself tempted by the green eyes
and broad shoulders and sharp jawline and the hundred other pieces that combined to make the
man—dangerously alluring to her still, after all this time—who now walked beside her.
Their past was not one that bore revisiting—and his pain was no longer her concern.
And if she told herself this often enough, perhaps one day she’d truly believe it.