Seven years earlier Sophie fell in love with a man with perfect shoulders and too many names. “John Percival George Horatius Arthur Audley,” she r epeated, a questioning note in her voice. “Have I got them all?” West tilted his head. “You’ve missed a St. John in there somewhere,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “After Horatius.” “But your Christian name is John,” she protested, barely suppressing her laughter. “What do you need a St. John for as well?” “It’s a family name,” he said, all wounded ducal—or, more accurately, future ducal—dignity, but he was betrayed by a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. Sophie loved that twitch. She’d seen it first on the night they met, at a musicale that could be charitably called “interpretive.” It was early in the Season—Sophie’s third—and her mother had deemed the evening’s entertainment unmissable, so eager was she for her eldest daughter to see and be seen by all the prospective matches sure to be present. (Sophie, for her part, could not possibly understand why a gentleman would choose to subject himself to a musicale if he had the option to spend his evening getting foxed at his club instead; she raised this point with her mother, who pinched her nose and said, “Sophia” in pained tones, which she tended to resort to only if Sophie alluded to intoxicating spirits, chamber pots, or any portion of the anatomy north of the shin.) Sophie was not enormously fond of musicales in general—she found that she had only so much patience for sitting in an uncomfortable gown listening to music at an hour that produced the effect of a lullaby—but they were usually tolerable. That evening’s event, however, had been hosted by Viscountess Holyoak, who seemed convinced that her two unwed daughters were violin prodigies, and who only later that year—too late to be of use to any of the unfortunate attendees that evening—would come to be known as increasingly hard of hearing. Sophie’s mother had abandoned her almost immediately upon arrival, spotting a friend in the far corner whom she wished to greet. Sophie had found a seat in the third-to-last row—not so close to the back of the room that it would seem like a deliberate attempt to es cape on her part, but far enough back that if she allowed her eyes to drift shut briefly with her head firmly upright, no one was likely to notice. It was a relief to be here without Maria; her younger sister was in her first Season, and Sophie felt a vague sense of obligation whenever they attended an event together. It was up to her to set a good example—to help Maria navigate the treacherous
waters of the ton. If Maria were here, Sophie would not have allowed her eyes to flicker shut for even a moment. And she certainly would never have contemplated es cape. But Maria was not with her, and barely five minutes into the evening’s entertainment, Sophie determined that—for the sake of her own sanity—she could not remain in this room for the next hour. She had never before attended a performance at which the musicians’ definition of “Mozart” and Mozart’s own definition of “Mozart” differed so wildly; she spared a longing glance for the candles burning in sconces along the wall, wondering if she could fashion their wax into earplugs, but abandoned this in favor of the simplest option: Flight. She slipped out of her seat, making a whispered inquiry of a liveried footman as to the location of the ladies’ retiring room, and es caped gratefully into the silence of the hall. Exc ept it was not silent, not truly—Lady Holyoak’s music room must have the thinnest walls known to man, Sophie thought ruefully; she had thought merely to flee into the hall for a minute (or ten), but now she set off in the direction the footman had indicated. After all, a lady could take positively ages in the retiring room, and no one would ask her a single question about it. She rounded the series of corners the footman had described and found the room she sought, but then paused—at the end of the hallway was a set of French doors leading to some sort of terrace, and they had been left ever-so-slightly ajar. A telltale wisp of smoke curled past the glass, indicating that whoever had opened them was still there. Sophie supposed it was some servant or other, taking a minute to es cape from their duties, and thought she should likely leave them in peace; her curiosity got the better of her, however, and she took several hesitant st eps in that direction— Just in time to nearly run headfirst into the man who opened the doors at that moment, dropping a cheroot and grinding it beneath his heel before he lifted his foot to st ep inside. Both stopped in their tracks, startled. Sophie recognized him instantly—there could hardly be a single eligible young lady of the ton whose mama had not made her excruciatingly aware of the existence of the Marquess of Weston. He was tall and broad-shouldered—good God, those shoulders—and athletic in build, which was displayed to excellent effect by the fact that he was tailored within an inch of his life. Everything he wore, from the snowy-white cravat at his throat to his gleaming black shoes, screamed of money and good taste. He was handsome, too, and not merely in the way of those aristocrats who relied on tailoring and a devoted valet to lend the impression of good looks to a man of average appearance. No, Lord Weston had thick, nearly black hair that was combed back from his face, the slightest hint of a curl smoothed into submission, and eyes of a vivid, arresting green. Everything about his face seemed to have been designed with the utmost care, from the sharp blades of his cheekbones to the dark slash of his eyebrows, lending him a rather stern expression. One of those eyebrows was now lifted in arrogant inquiry. “I beg your pardon,” he said a bit stiffly; he and Sophie had never been introduced, though they’d certainly attended the same events a number of times, and she’d seen him from a distance. She wondered if he even knew her name.
She should, she knew, make some excuse and beat a hasty retreat—the daughter of an upstart viscount who’d married into a family who made their fortune in trade, of all things, could not possibly have anything to say to the heir to one of the oldest ducal titles in England. And yet, something about the lift of that single, arrogant eyebrow made her stop thinking entirely, and so the first words out of her mouth to one of the most eligible bachelors in England were: “You do not seem like the sort of man to smoke a cheroot.” The brow inched higher. “That’s a rather bold assumption to make, considering we’ve never spoken.” He made a show of peering around, as if in search of a chaperone, then glanced back at her with a shrug. “As I do not see your mother anywhere nearby, perhaps we might forgo the formality of introductions? I find myself quite desperate to know what sort of man you do think I am, if not a cheroot-smoker.” Sophie pressed her lips together to suppress a smile; she had not expected him to be amusing. “I am Sophie Wexham,” she said, the words sounding strange on her lips—she’d never introduced herself, she realized, as there was always someone there to do it for her. Polite society was rather predicated on this rule. “I know.” It was her turn to lift a brow. “You do?” “Almost everyone seems to know who I am, so I make a point of trying to learn who others are, too.” She gave him a sk eptical look, not entirely convinced by this rather pretty proclamation of his concern for his fellow man. He sighed, then admitted, “I saw you at the Mottram ball last week, and I asked my friend Willingham who you were.” A thrill should not have coursed through Sophie at this, but it did nonetheless. She had no business having thrills over men like the Marquess of Weston. “I am Weston, by the way,” he added as an afterthought. Sophie waved a dismissive hand. “As you so charmingly mentioned, everyone knows who you are.” Then, for the first time, she witnessed the telltale twitch at the corners of his mouth—the sign that he was amused, but wouldn’t let himself show it. “I believe I said almost everyone.” He dusted an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. “I wouldn’t want to presume that every pretty young lady I meet is already aware of my existence.” “Are you trying to charm me?” Sophie asked suspiciously. Another twitch. “Perhaps. Is it working?” She suppressed a smile of her own. “Perhaps.” Belatedly, he seemed to realize that they were still standing in the doorway, the door slightly ajar behind him. He st epped fully inside and clicked the door shut, then gave her an assessing look. “Shouldn’t you be
enjoying the sweet tones of the Misses Durand serenading you with...” He floundered. “Mozart,” Sophie supplied helpfully. “Left before they even started playing, did you?” “Lady Holyoak was a friend of my mother, and I like to pay her the respect of acc epting her invitations, but...” He trailed off, and Sophie could tell his gentlemanly instincts were at war with his truthful ones. “Well, I heard the young ladies play last year,” he finished diplomatically. “I cannot imagine they have improved.” Sophie paused, struck by a troubling possibility. “Unless they have, in which case I truly pity anyone in attendance at last year’s musicale.” “It was indeed harrowing,” he admitted. “So I thought it might be better if someone found me smoking, rather than just cowering on a terrace with my hands over my ears.” He grimaced. “I always forget quite how much I dislike cheroots.” “So I was right, then,” Sophie said smugly. “You’re not the sort of man who smokes cheroots.” “Guilty as charged.” He was watching her with an odd gleam in his eyes— one that was close to a smile, somehow, even if his mouth was not cooperating. “Shall I escort you back so that we might suffer together?” Sophie sighed. “I suppose—my mother will no doubt notice my absence eventually. Although, if listening to those violins is the price I must pay to find an eligible husband, I think I’m perfectly happy to remain unwed, even if all of my younger sisters do marry before me, as has been Mama’s latest dire prediction.” Lord Weston offered her his arm, and she took it; it was reassuringly firm under her hand, and she caught the faintest scent of sandalwood, no doubt from his soap. She determinedly tried to ignore it—who cared about nicely scented marquesses with strong arms? Not she. Obviously! “How many Seasons have you had?” he asked curiously, glancing down at her. Sophie was of average height, and he had at least seven or eight inches on her. She felt a bit exasperated with herself at the discovery that she, like most other women on earth, appeared to have a bit of a weakness for a tall, dark, and handsome man. How frightfully clichéd. “This will be my third,” she said, suppressing a sigh. “I’ve four younger sisters, and the next one just made her debut, so my mother feels strongly that I ought to... set a good example, if you will.” “By settling down with some dull fellow with a crumbling pile in Sussex, I suppose?” They were walking at an inordinately slow pace, so as to delay for as long as possible the aural horrors that awaited them. “No,” Sophie said slowly, thinking it might be simpler if her mother were as strictly mercenary as that—it would certainly be easier to resent her, if Sophie did not know that she truly only wanted her daughter’s happiness. (But a crumbling pile—or a fully intact one—would not go amiss.) “My parents... well...” She trailed off, then cast a furtive glance up and down the hallway, confirming they were still alone. “They’re in love.” “Ah,” West said, nodding. “Your father’s one of the footmen, then? Bold of him and your mother to continue the affair, even after a child was produced, but rather touching, in its own way.”
Sophie glanced up at him, saw the insistent tugging at the corners of his mouth, and burst out laughing. Later, she would think helplessly that that was probably the moment she fell in love with him. “My birth was entirely legitimate, thank you very much,” Sophie said, still chortling. “But my parents’ marriage was a matter of practicality—my father’s family had a newly granted title, but no fortune to speak of, whilst my mother’s family had plenty of the latter to share—and then they had the absolute gall to fall sickeningly in love, went on to have five children, and have spent the past two decades staring rapturously across the breakfast table at each other. So they want me to marry, but they also want me to marry someone I like, which just makes it that much more difficult.” “Because you dislike everyone you’ve ever met.” His tone was serious, but she glanced up and caught that gleam in his eye. The Marquess of Weston had a sense of humor! This, on top of his cheekbones and his scent and his height, was frankly beginning to strike Sophie as a bit unjust. “Because it’s an awful lot of pressure!” She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “It will break their hearts if they think I’ve married because they want me to, and then I end up miserable and they have to watch me drift about sadly in an unhappy marriage for the rest of my days.” “So let me be certain I understand this,” he said slowly. “You’re worried you’ll disappoint your parents by not marrying—and you’re also worried you’ll disappoint them by not marrying happily enough?” “And,” she added, “I’m worried that I need to make a decent enough match to make my family seem at least somewhat palatable to the ton, so that my sisters can make good matches, too.” “Why are they unpalatable?” he asked, frowning, and Sophie experienced a brief, powerful desire that she, too, could be a wealthy, titled man, one who did not spend his days with a mother filling his ears with talk of matrimony, who did not feel acutely conscious of the need to marry upward, to secure his spot among the rest of the aristocracy. One who didn’t file away every piece of information ever heard about any other member of their class. “My father’s title is quite new,” she said, instead of vocalizing any of those thoughts. “It only dates back to his father, so his family is already not considered terribly high in the inst ep, and then my father made the unforgivable error of marrying a Landsdowne.” West frowned. “As in, the shipping company?” “The very one. We reek of trade.” The words were a test, she realized—one she hadn’t entirely intended to set for him, and yet which proved irresistible once the opportunity arose. How would this man, with a lineage far more ancient than that of the king, respond to this revelation of her own roots? He made a great show of sniffing the air around him. “Odd. I don’t smell anything.” And then he smiled at her. And her heart went thump, thump. And in the days—and weeks—and years to come, with all that would pass between them, with a Season of courtship, his accident and her marriage, the surr eptitious glances across
ballrooms, the fleeting pressure of his hand on hers in polite greeting at this event or another— She would never quite manage to forget the way her heart felt, that first night they met, when she was basking in the bright, unexpected glow of his smile. Despite the pain this memory would cause her, she could never bring herself to wish it away.