“I still don’t see why this is necessary,” Sophie said as she was helped out of Violet’s carriage by a footman and ushered into Madame Blanchet’s shop. “Sophie, you are getting married,” Alexandra said rapturously, swe eping past her through the doorway and into the modiste’s small, elegant establishment. “Were you planning on showing up to St. George’s wearing a pillowcase?” “A valid concern,” Sophie agreed solemnly, “if my entire house were to burn down. Otherwise, I thought I’d wear one of the dozens of suitable gowns I already own.” “If I’d known she was going to complain so bitterly, I would have left her at home,” Alexandra said to Violet in a stage whisper. Violet appeared to be enjoying herself thoroughly, though after a moment she did take pity on Sophie and reach over to offer her a consoling pat on the arm. “If it’s any comfort,” she said, “I had to pick out my trousseau in the company of my mother, and was then subjected immediately afterward to an attempt to explain the marital act that frankly was the stuff of nightmares, so I really think you’re getting off rather easy.” Violet’s mother, the Countess of Worthington, was the sort of woman that Sophie would diplomatically describe as “difficult” (and more honestly describe as “nearly insufferable”), so this did indeed make Sophie’s own trials seem rather mild by comparison. She gazed around the shop; Madame Blanchet was fairly new to London, having arrived only a couple of Seasons earlier, but her gowns had already been spotted on several countesses, a couple of marchionesses, and, once, a mistress of one of the royal dukes, which had put her services in considerable demand. The gowns in question—or at least the ones that Sophie had seen herself—tended to be a bit more elaborate (and ruffled) than Sophie’s taste inclined toward, but she’d thought it wise not to put up too much of a fuss; it wasn’t as if she’d be wearing the resulting gown, after all. Alexandra was the one actually getting married, and Sophie was happy for her to have whatever gown she wanted, designed by whomever she wished. The shop was stuffed to the rafters with bolts of fabric and half-sewn gowns, and the woman in question was bearing down upon them at this very moment, attired in a simple but immaculately tailored gown of pink silk with a lace overlay. “Bonjour, mesdames!” she trilled, the feather stuck somewhat haphazardly into her coiffure vibrating slightly as she spoke. “Et bienvenue dans ma boutique!” “Bonjour, madame,” Alexandra said. “I am Mrs. Brown-Montague—I believe you received my note?” “Oui, oui!” Madame Blanchet clapped her hands together eagerly. “And I am so eager to help you create the perfect gown for your delightful nuptials—to an earl, n’est-ce pas?” A mercenary gleam came into the
woman’s eye as Alexandra nodded, but Sophie was more amused by the wild fluctuations of the modiste’s French accent. This was not unexpected—the majority of so-called French modistes and maids in London had never come closer to France than perhaps casting a longing glance across the Channel from the safety of the Sussex shore— but Sophie was feeling a hint of the devil at her shoulder today, given her mood. “Bonjour, madame,” she said solemnly. “C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer et j’ai hâte de bénéficier de votre experience.” Madame Blanchet’s smile faltered only for a split second before she hitched it back into place. “Oui... madame,” she said weakly, and then immediately commenced asking Alexandra a very complicated series of questions about which precise shade of blue would best flatter her when riding away from the church atop a white horse. Violet shot a sly sideways smile at Sophie, who smiled serenely back. “... but we should really be focusing on Sophie,” Alexandra said a minute later, and Sophie felt a brief pang of alarm as she drifted over to her sister’s side. “I was thinking that perhaps we could wear matching dresses!” She said this so brightly that it was clear that she hadn’t the faintest notion that Sophie would disagree. Sophie frowned at her sister. “I don’t think that’s nec—” “If we’re to stand up there together, saying our vows, don’t you think it would look lovely if we were color-coordinated?” Alexandra asked. “I was thinking we could wear identical bonnets!” This was suggested in the tones one might use when promising a child a great treat, and Sophie attempted to look appropriately gratified, while privately wondering if perhaps her sister’s brain had been addled by the sun. She and Blackford had been going on an awful lot of rides together, on fine afternoons; was a sudden fixation on matching wedding bonnets a sign of sunstroke? “Mmmmm,” Sophie said noncommittally. “And then perhaps if I’m to wear blue, you could wear...” Alexandra trailed off, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her index finger as she regarded Sophie consideringly. “Pink?” Madame Blanchet suggested. “It would look lovely with her complexion”—she seemed to have adopted an even heavier accent, perhaps hoping that Sophie would assume she spoke some quaint regional dialect Sophie could not hope to understand—“and then the two of you would appear like— what are the flowers, the ones that bloom in the summer?” “How helpfully specific,” Violet murmured. “Hydrangeas?” Alexandra supplied eagerly. Madame Blanchet snapped her fingers. “Exactement! Perhaps you could both carry bouquets of the hydrangeas”—this word was pronounced with great care and an exaggerated attempt at a neutral English accent—“in the color of each other’s dresses!” “I’m not certain—”
“And then,” Madame Blanchet forged ahead, ignoring Sophie’s rather feeble attempt at interrupting, “we must discuss the ruffles.” She said this rather as the Duke of Wellington must have called meetings about battlefield strategy to order. “I do not think ruffles favor me very much, madame,” Sophie said firmly. “I was hoping for something simpler—” “But, Sophie.” Alexandra turned a pleading gaze upon her. “It’s our wedding. Surely you don’t want to wear a gown that looks precisely like anything else you might wear!” This was, in fact, precisely what Sophie would like to wear, had she been left to her own devices. (And had she actually been planning to be married.) “Unless there’s some reason that you don’t want this wedding to feel like a special occasion?” Alexandra added, all wide-eyed hurt and confusion. “I know —I know—” Her lip began to quiver, always an alarming sign; Alexandra was not terribly we epy by nature, but when a certain mood took her, she could turn into a watering pot with terrifying alacrity. “I know it’s not a first marriage for either of us—that we are no longer in the first bloom of youth—” “You’re three-and-twenty,” Sophie said dryly; given that she was four years her sister’s senior, she was beginning to feel downright haggard. (Though this sentiment might be directly attributable to this conversation.) “—and I know that a second marriage ceremony is perhaps not as exciting as the sight of a virginal young bride tripping her way down the aisle at the end of a long, chaste courtship full of longing glances, but I was still hoping that we would find a way to make it feel special.” Alexandra’s eyes had turned downright misty at this point, and even Violet was giving Sophie a mildly r eproachful look. “And I wanted to share it with you,” Alexandra concluded, then fished in her sleeve for a handkerchief, which she pressed to her mouth as if overcome with emotion. Sophie, feeling as though she’d just weathered a long military campaign, reached out and patted Alexandra on the arm. “You’re right—I’m sorry.” She turned a pained smile upon Madame Blanchet, who was regarding this exchange with a somber, funereal air, but who perked up immediately upon seeing Sophie’s look of resigned acc eptance. “Madame Blanchet, I defer to your expertise.” “Très bien!” the modiste said brightly. “Shall I show you the feathered bonnet I had in mind?” “And perhaps a new gown for your betrothal ball would be in order, too, Sophie,” Violet put in helpfully, and Sophie cast her a look of wounded betrayal. Alexandra clasped her hands together in delight, and Sophie sighed. There was a particular kind of torture that came in the form of being trapped in a closed carriage with a woman one had recently bedded, then quarreled with, and West was currently suffering as its victim.
Sophie had sent him a note the previous afternoon, notifying him that her sister had requested their presence at dinner at her house, which was how he found himself here, sitting opposite his supposed fiancée, an uncomfortable silence hovering between them. More than a week had passed since they’d quarreled; he’d seen her at a dinner party and a ball since then, but by unspoken agreement, they’d avoided spending much time alone together, until now, in his silent carriage. He was not a stranger to these silences—in the past year, as his orbit and Sophie’s had been drawn slowly closer by the tangled web of mutual friends and family that they shared, he’d found himself in her presence more often than he’d wished. But no—that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He was growing tired of lying to himself about what, precisely, he wished where Sophie was concerned. But it had certainly been more often than was wise, and he’d grown used to the awkwardness and weight of the silence that had often descended on these occasions—a stroll through a garden on an estate in Wiltshire; a silent walk through the corridors of Belfry’s theater, where they’d happened to arrive at precisely the same moment. Sophie was better at these moments than he was; for all that he’d been raised the son of a duke, trained to be nothing but gallant at all times, his instincts seemed to abandon him in these encounters, and he often found himself biting his tongue, uncertain what to say to her. She, however, always had a polite word about the weather, or a piece of news to share— anything to lighten the mood even a little. Which was why it was so telling that she was not making the slightest effort to do so this evening. Instead, she was staring fixedly out the window as they rattled through Mayfair, her face looking strained in the light of the carriage’s lamps. At last, moments before they drew to a halt outside her sister’s house, she glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “We’ll still need to put on a good show for Alexandra.” He swallowed a wave of bitterness—he had agreed to this, after all. And any man of sense might have known that his heart would emerge a bit bruised—he could hardly lay the blame for that at her feet, not when this outcome had seemed all but predestined. “Of course,” he said shortly, and reached for his cane as the door opened. “West! Sophie!” Alexandra called gaily, as soon as they were ushered into the drawing room by a footman. “Won’t you join us for a tipple before dinner?” She took a sip from a small glass of sherry, and Blackford, who was shaking West’s hand, held a glass of brandy. “We’re a bit informal tonight, as it’s only the four of us,” Blackford said, bowing over Sophie’s hand and inclining his head toward the sideboard along one wall. “Can I tempt you?” West exchanged a quick glance with Sophie, who shrugged and nodded, and in short order she was sipping a sherry of her own, while West was enjoying a glass of quite excellent brandy. “We’ll be dining on the terrace,” Alexandra explained, gesturing at the French doors that were flung open to admit a warm breeze, “since we’re so few in numbers, and it’s such a pleasant evening.” West thought that he and Sophie managed a fairly convincing show as they sat with their drinks; Alexandra carried much of the conversation with a lengthy anecdote about Lady Wexham’s increasingly elaborate ideas for the betrothal ball she’d be hosting the following week, and soon enough they were seated at a small table on
the terrace, illuminated by candles and the clear light of a low-hanging moon. Once the soup course had been brought out and the wineglasses filled, Alexandra lifted hers. “A toast, perhaps? To second chances.” Her gaze was on her sister as she spoke, wide-eyed and innocent. West carefully did not look at Sophie as he clinked glasses with the others; for her part, Sophie was quick to find another topic of conversation. “This soup is delicious,” she said quickly—a compliment that might have been more convincing, had she waited to actually taste said soup before offering it. “I did not think you so fond of soup, Soph,” Alexandra said, sounding amused. “Well,” Sophie said a bit weakly, “it’s so... liquid.” West looked at her sk eptically, which provoked a glare from her in response. “It has been a long day,” he said smoothly to Alexandra and Blackford. “We went riding on Rotten Row this afternoon”—a lie—“and it was terribly hot. We might have got a bit too much sun.” He could feel Sophie’s glare, and reflected that she likely did not appreciate his implying that she was suffering from sunstroke, but he ignored her; until she stopped waxing rhapsodic about soup, he was perfectly happy to let the others think she was experiencing a temporary bout of sun-induced insanity. They were English, after all; they could not be expected to function under these conditions. “Have you gone back to Madame Blanchet for another fitting, Sophie?” Alexandra asked a minute later, her gaze on her sister still mildly concerned. “She did say she’d write when she had something for you to try on.” “Not yet,” Sophie said cautiously, taking a dainty spoonful of soup. “She wrote yesterday to invite me in for another visit, but I’ve yet to r eply.” She paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “But wait. Haven’t you received a note? I can’t think why I should have received one and not you.” Alexandra looked momentarily flustered, but recovered quickly. “Indeed!” she said, perhaps a bit too brightly. “She—er—rushed mine, at my request. I went in a few days ago for another fitting.” Sophie frowned. “Why should she rush yours and not mine? We’re to be married on the same day.” “Er,” Alexandra said, “she thought that I might be more challenging to fit. Due to a... feminine complaint.” The entire table went silent, contemplating the implications of this. Alexandra blushed rosily, apparently belatedly realizing it, too. “Not that sort of feminine complaint,” she said hastily. “More of an issue of... er... unusual hip-to-waist ratio.” “Indeed?” Sophie sounded exceedingly sk eptical. “I’ve never heard you complain of any such thing before.” “Well,” Alexandra said, seeming to fully commit to this mildly unhinged explanation, “I didn’t wish to mention it to you, but my last modiste noted— apparently dresses have been fitting me incorrectly for years and
no one had thought to mention it.” She offered a trembling lip by way of conveying her wounded dignity. “You cannot imagine how traumatizing it was to receive this information.” “About your... hips.” Sophie sounded unconvinced. “About my hips,” Alexandra confirmed. “I do not believe this is a portion of your anatomy I am supposed to believe even exists,” Blackford observed, to no one in particular. Sophie and Alexandra appeared to take no notice of him, their eyes still fixed upon each other, some sort of silent conversation occurring. “West has promised to take me on a wedding trip!” Sophie announced, without preamble. West, who had a glass of claret halfway to his mouth, froze for a moment, then set said wineglass down carefully on the table. “I have?” he inquired mildly. Sophie looked at him sternly. “I have,” he amended, offering Alexandra a bland smile. Sensing that a bit more was expected of him, he added, “The thought of seeing my beloved in the bright sunshine of—” He looked inquiringly at Sophie. “Italy,” Sophie reminded him. “Italy,” he agreed smoothly, “was too tempting a prospect to ignore.” He was gripped by a sudden image of Sophie, sun-kissed and tousle-haired, sitting on a balcony in some warm Continental city, glancing invitingly over her shoulder at him, and he was pierced by a pang of longing. “What a charming idea,” Alexandra said brightly, her stare still unblinking upon Sophie. “So terribly romantic. You must tell me the itinerary you’ve planned, so that Blackford and I might take inspiration for our wedding trip.” Blackford blinked. “Are we going on a wedding trip?” “We are now,” Alexandra informed him. She looked back at her sister. “I don’t suppose you recall the precise sites you plan to visit, on this entirely wellplanned wedding trip?” “I should have to consult my notes at home,” Sophie said through gritted teeth. “Naturally, naturally.” Alexandra waved her hand. “I shall call on you tomorrow, then?” “I did not think you such an avid traveler, Alexandra,” Sophie said, watching her sister with a narrow-eyed expression. “Funny,” Alexandra said sharply. “I was just thinking the same thing of you.” Blackford was looking at West in silent inquiry, which West ignored. Mercifully, the next course arrived, disrupting whatever alarming, unspoken battle of wills Sophie and her sister were presently engaged in, and together Blackford and West were able to steer the conversation into less openly combative territory. He wasted no time, however, on the carriage ride home. “Would you care to explain to me precisely what you and your sister were doing at dinner?” he asked conversationally, the moment the carriage door had shut behind them. Sophie turned to him indignantly. “She suspects something! Can’t you tell?” “Even if she does, I fail to see how concocting an elaborate Continental holiday was the best diversionary tactic.” “That is because you don’t have sisters,” Sophie said with a dismissive wave. “She was trying to goad me into admitting something! As if I would be so easily cowed! Younger sisters might think that they have certain tricks up their sleeves, but they should know better than to attempt to outwit an elder sister of superior wisdom and experience.” She flicked an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve, looking quite pleased with herself. “This is absurd.” West crossed his arms over his chest, watching her narrowly. “Have you given any thought to how we are going to extract ourselves from this supposed betrothal, now that we’ve tangled ourselves up so de eply?” “As a matter of fact, I thought we might stage an argument at the betrothal ball.” “The ball that your mother is going to considerable effort to host, and that your sister is evidently looking forward to with great anticipation, designed to celebrate what is supposed to be one of the happiest events of her life?” Sophie leaned forward, frowning. “I’m not suggesting we quarrel on the ballroom floor in front of all the guests, but if we can arrange for Alexandra to stumble upon us mid-argument, later in the evening, then she won’t be entirely surprised when we announce the end of our betrothal shortly after—but by that point, she will be too publicly committed to Blackford for her to call off their wedding.”
“I see.” He leaned back in his seat, still watching her carefully. “Have you—as part of your careful plan—considered what our supposed quarrel is to be about?” She looked away now, her fingers worrying at the beading on her reticule. “I don’t see why we couldn’t use the truth of the issues between us, to some extent —the fact that your position, your family, make it impossible for us to marry.” “Ah.” He paused briefly. “You wish to lie, then.” Her gaze shot back to his, startled. “It’s not a lie!” “No.” His tone was firm. “It’s the story you’ve concocted for yourself, in your head, because you’ve decided that I’m too much trouble to take on—but it’s not true.” He pressed his lips together. “I will suffer much for you, but I do have to draw the line at allowing you to believe a fiction—though you were perfectly content to allow me to do so, for the better part of seven years.” “I have explained to you why I could not marry you!” “And I understand your reasons better now—but if you will not marry me now, I would like us to at least be clear on the reasons.” “You haven’t—we haven’t—” Sophie lifted her hands in frustration, and West relished the sight; he could not bear to discuss these matters with her if she appeared cool and unmoved. He was grateful for any sign that she was as moved as he was—even by anger, at the moment. “If I thought there was the slightest chance that you would have me, I would be on my knees before you in an instant,” he said quietly. She blew out an exasperated breath. “This is ridiculous—you can’t even pretend to be in love with me without us quarreling.” He lifted a brow. “I’m finding it’s the pretending not to be in love with you that is the problem, actually.” That, at least, momentarily shocked her into silence. West, for his part, was darkly amused—had she really not known? Or had she merely not thought he would dare to say it? At last, after a long moment, she sighed, her expression sad. “Love is not enough of a basis for a marriage, West—not if it comes at the cost of everything else one holds dear. I would not ask that of you—I would not wait to see if you came to regret it.” Her voice was quiet, calm, but West knew her well enough still—always—to detect the note of sadness, of longing that ran beneath her words. And suddenly, he understood. He understood it all. “You’re frightened,” he said, and she blinked, a faint crease forming between her eyebrows. “I don’t—” “You’re frightened that I wouldn’t choose you, above everything else. Or that if I did, I would regret it.”
A hint of color appeared in her cheeks—a telling sign in a woman who was not prone to blushes. West noted this, but did not linger on the thought; he was gripped with the giddy certainty of the truth of his words, his thoughts dwelling on the entire history of his courtship with Sophie, of all the heartbreak in their past— And he felt nearly close to laughter. Because it all made sense, at last. “Tell me what I have to do to prove to you that I mean it.” He reached out and gripped her hand, the contact electric even through his glove and hers. “Tell me what I must do to prove to you that I wouldn’t regret it—that you are everything to me.” “You can’t!” she burst out. “This isn’t Romeo and Juliet—I’m not going to drink poison just because the only man I’ve ever loved can’t marry me! I like my life—and I think you like yours—and I don’t want you to destroy everything you’ve worked for, that you care about, simply because you think we’re the characters in some sort of romantic tragedy!” The carriage drew to a halt, startling them both; they’d been so preoccupied by their argument that they hadn’t realized they’d reached Sophie’s house already. She gathered her reticule, waiting to alight, but just as the door creaked open and she pr epared to rise, West reached out and gripped her elbow, drawing her startled gaze back to his. “I do not think our story is a tragedy, Sophie,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers. “I think it is a love story—a romance, like one of those novels by Miss Austen that Violet is always banging on about.” He released her elbow, and leaned back in his seat as the carriage door opened fully, allowing Sophie to d epart. “And I am going to prove it to you.”