The air was damp and the sky foreboding as West made his way to his father’s house the next day. Clouds had begun to gather overhead before he left home, and by the time he arrived in Berkeley Square, the first raindrops had started to fall. West leaned a bit more heavily than usual on his cane as he ascended the front st eps—damp weather always seemed to aggravate the pain in his leg—and he nodded at his father’s butler, who informed him that His Grace was in the library. “I’ll show myself in, thank you, Jennings,” West said, making his way up the stairs before the butler could protest. The library was just off the second-floor landing, and West offered a brief tap at the door in warning, but did not wait for a r eply before he entered. “West.” The duke looked up in surprise from where he sat in an armchair, reading a letter. He folded the letter and set it aside on a side table as West approached, though West caught enough of a glimpse of the handwriting to suspect that it came from a woman. He’d never been privy to much of his father’s personal life; once, years earlier, James had asked him idly if he thought their father had a mistress—it had been nearly two decades at that point since their mother’s death, after all—and West had paused, startled, to contemplate. It was difficult to reconcile the stern, unyielding man who had raised him with the idea of a man who might be capable of great tenderness toward a woman. He’d always imagined his father employing a series of short-term mistresses he could set up in tidy little houses k ept safely away from the rest of his life, but it was difficult to imagine any of those women sending him a letter. There was so much about his father that he did not understand—because his father had ensured that this was the case. “What brings you here this afternoon?” his father asked, watching him carefully. They had not spoken since Sophie had informed West of her meeting with the duke at Hookham’s; West had even sent a note of excuse for their usual Sunday night dinners the past two weeks, claiming that he had other engagements. He’d half-expected his father to show up on his doorst ep, demanding an explanation for his absence, and for his supposed betrothal, but his father seemed to be waiting him out. “I was out with Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said casually, “and happened to be passing your house on my way home.” “Ah.” West ignored the multiple open chairs near his father’s, instead taking a slow, circuitous route around the room. The duke did not speak, apparently aware that he was engaged in a high-stakes chess game with his son, waiting to see what move West would make next. “I was thinking, Father, about our discussion a few weeks ago.” West came to a halt before the fir eplace—empty today—and studied the portrait above the mantel: one that had been painted before James’s
birth, of the duke and his duchess and their toddler heir. Judging by the age West appeared to be, his mother would have been expecting James at the time, but the artist had carefully arranged the scene so that her pregnancy was not visible. The duke dandled West on his knee, and his wife had a hand on the duke’s elbow, her expression serene. West had often wondered how James felt whenever he entered this room, seeing a portrait given pride of place that did not even acknowledge his existence... but West had never paused to consider how he felt. His relationship with his father had always been a complex one: There was less of the tension that characterized the duke’s dealings with James, particularly in recent years, but instead the weight of expectation, the knowledge that his father had devoted his life to his title, and that he expected West to do the same. Everything about this seemed en capsulated in that portrait above the mantel: the fact that he was in his father’s arms, rather than his mother’s; the fact, too, that his father did not hold him close, affectionately, but rather stiffly displayed him for the viewer’s eye. I have done my duty, he seemed to be saying. And West knew that—in his father’s eyes—he was failing to do his. Never mind the years of his childhood he’d spent following his father around his various estates, the hours upon hours he’d spent in his father’s study, learning how to perform the role he’d been born to. Never mind that he’d excelled at school—first at Eton, then Oxford. Even his attempts at youthful high spirits and dalliance had been tame compared to those of his friends, the knowledge always lingering at the back of his mind that he was to be a duke someday, that other men would look up to him. And then there had been the matter of choosing a wife. He turned. “Which discussion was this?” his father asked, his tone a master class in studied disinterest. “I have many conversations with many people over the course of a day, you know—I can’t say that every single one lingers in my mind.” This was a lie. His father had an unusually good memory. “I thought this one might have been a bit more memorable,” West said pleasantly. “You seemed to be... threatening me. If I did not marry.” He shook his head, as if amused by his own foolishness. “I am sure I must have misunderstood, however. I cannot think that you would do such a thing to your son and heir.” A pause, and then, his voice harder, he added, “Particularly not one whose happiness you have already destroyed once in the past.” His father’s eyes locked upon him. “Is that what this is about, then?” he asked quietly. “Is this some sort of revenge?” West inhaled slowly; he’d always been ad ept at ke eping his temper where his father was concerned, even when it sorely tried his patience to do so. “Is my planning to marry the woman I’ve loved for the past seven years revenge, Father? No.” He shook his head. “Though it is certainly very illustrative, in terms of your character, that you would think so.” The duke rose to his feet now, evidently deciding that this was not a conversation he wished to conduct at a disadvantage. “You are perfectly well aware that when I speculated as to the future of Rosemere,” he said, “Lady Fitzwilliam was not the bride I had in mind for you.” “And you are perfectly well aware,” West shot back, “that I am an adult with a mind of my own, capable of making my own decisions—and unwilling to allow you to arrange the details of my life to your liking.” “There is nothing stopping me from carrying out that threat,” his father warned. “You have no claim to Rosemere.” Yet. “The property is in my name and unentailed, and I am certain I could find a willing buyer—indeed, it will likely be easier to do so, now that you’ve devoted so much time and care to its upke ep.”
“This is true,” West agreed thoughtfully, and some small part of him rejoiced at the quick raising of his father’s brows, a small tell—one that he ordinarily would have been careful to hide. West must truly have him rattled. “But it’s equally true that there is nothing stopping me from marrying Lady Fitzwilliam —tomorrow, if I wished to.” “Called the banns, have you?” his father asked sk eptically. “Belfry was able to obtain a special license when he married Lady Emily, you know—evidently the Archbishop of Canterbury is an old family friend.” West picked up a vase from the mantel, examined the maker’s mark painted on its underside, and carefully set it down again. “It is useful to have connections, I find.” His father took several slow, measured st eps toward him. “Do not attempt to bluff with me, West,” he said softly. “Not when you’ve so much more to lose than I do.” In that moment, West felt nothing so much as an overwhelming sadness for his father—because he actually thought this was true. He thought that West had everything to lose, but seemed in capable of realizing that West had far, far more to gain. Rosemere was important to him—it had once belonged to his mother, and he had spent years as its caretaker. The work had made him feel close to her, to a woman he barely remembered. And he cared for his tenants, had worked hard to ensure that they were treated fairly and protected. The thought of giving it up caused a sharp pain de ep within him. But when compared to Sophie— “I’ll see about sending you the account books for Rosemere,” he said, reaching out to shake his father’s hand. “So that whoever the new owner is can see that it is well cared for.” “West.” The duke sounded almost... uncertain. West was not sure that he’d ever heard his father sound this way. “She can’t possibly be worth this.” West met his father’s gaze directly. “The fact that you still think that, after all this time, proves to me that we’ve nothing further to discuss.” He paused, then added, “I suppose you have received Lady Wexham’s invitation to our betrothal ball?” His father’s voice was curt. “Indeed.” “I expect to see you there, then,” West said, and turned without waiting for a r eply. He could not prevent himself from slowing his st eps a bit, hoping in vain that his father would call after him—but he did not allow himself to come to a stop, and he walked out the door with his head held high. Sophie was leaving her solicitor’s office after a meeting with him a couple of days later when she found West awaiting her outside, standing beside his phaeton. She raised an eyebrow at him as she approached. “I do not recall that we had an engagement.” West extended a hand, which she took. “It’s a fine day, and I thought I might persuade you to go on a drive with me in the park.” She looked around with exaggerated curiosity, seeking the carriage she’d arrived in. West cleared his throat. “I might have taken the liberty of sending your driver home, after promising that I’d see you there safely.”
“I shall be having a word with him,” Sophie said, allowing him to help her climb up into the phaeton. “If he permits any ruffian off the street to announce himself my escort and relieve him of his duties, I think he needs a scolding.” “Yes,” West agreed gravely, climbing up beside her. “I shall certainly support you in that endeavor, should I ever notice a ruffian attempting such a thing.” Sophie bit back a smile, then cast him a glance out of the corner of her eye. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of days, he having been called out of town on a matter of business overnight; he looked in incredibly good spirits, and she could not suppress the smile that crossed her own face at the sight. He was so often stern and solemn that his good moods always proved infectious to her; no doubt they presented a picture of a blissfully joyous affianced couple to any members of the ton they might have unknowingly driven past. The park was full of other riders and carriages, and their conversation was frequently interrupted over the next three-quarters of an hour by the numerous acquaintances they had to greet. When at last they pulled up before Sophie’s house, however, she turned to face him full-on. “Would you like to come in?” she asked. His gaze flicked to the houses that surrounded hers; he was no doubt envisioning unseen eyes peering through the curtains down at them. “I wouldn’t want to cause any gossip that might damage your r eputation,” he said, a faint crease appearing between his eyebrows. She wanted to reach out with her thumb and smooth away that crease. “I think it is acc eptable for a man to pay a call upon his fiancée for a few minutes,” she said, smiling at him. She leaned forward and added in an undertone, “It just means that we’ll have to be fast.” She wondered, for a moment, if he would take her up on this offer—they had not gone to bed together since the night of his dinner party, and the quarrel that followed. Their discussion after dinner with Alexandra and Blackford a few days earlier had not resolved matters; if anything, it had left Sophie more confused than ever. Some reckless mood seemed to have West in its grip, however, and so in short order Sophie found herself pressed up against the door of her drawing room, being kissed within an inch of her life. Her hat had been tossed aside, her gloves discarded, and a sudden breath of cool air on her thighs made her realize that, while she’d been distracted by his mouth, he’d been inching her skirts up her legs. She hooked a leg around his hips, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness against her stomach. Her hands were in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and she tore her mouth away from his to let out a shuddering gasp when she felt his fingers between her legs. “Perhaps—the settee?” she said in his ear, and he allowed her to pull back enough to drag him by the hand across the room and shove him down before her on the emerald-green brocade settee. There was color in his cheeks, and his dark hair was mussed from her hands. His green eyes were darker than usual, and he was looking at her with naked want. He looked utterly delicious.
“Unbutton your breeches,” she said, barely recognizing the commanding note in her voice, and his hands immediately went to the placket on his breeches. “Now touch yourself,” she added, and he obeyed, stroking with a sure hand. She could wait no longer, however, and lifted her skirts into one hand as she climbed onto his lap, her knees straddling his thighs, took him in hand, and sank down onto him. A groan tore from his throat, a low, broken sound, and she pressed her face to his neck, tugging at his cravat to loosen it enough that she might inhale the scent of his skin. From there, it was a fast race to completion, no words exchanged between them other than breathless gasps and moans. He slid his hand between them, stroking with his thumb, and she shattered around him; moments later, he withdrew and spilled onto her thigh. For a minute or two, there was no sound but their breathing. West’s arms were loose around her waist, her face still pressed to his neck. At some point, he began to stroke up and down the length of her back, his fingers running gently over the knobs of her spine. One hand toyed with a curl that had come loose from her coiffure. “Are you aware,” Sophie asked thoughtfully, when at last she’d recovered the power of speech, “that your butler and your valet are conducting an affair?” She felt his mouth curve into a smile against her hair. “How did you work it out?” “You know?” “Of course I know—I live in the same house with them. How oblivious do you think I am?” Sophie paused diplomatically; West very nearly spluttered. “It’s not you, specifically,” she reassured him as she attempted to extract herself from his lap, rather inelegantly. West pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her, which she quickly made use of. “It’s, well... men don’t tend to be very observant about these things,” she explained as she fluffed her skirts around her and attempted to regain as much dignity as was possible when one had recently had the fingers of the man one was conversing with between one’s legs. “Well, perhaps I am a bit more observant than the average man, then,” he said, a hint of smugness in his voice. “A fact that you may have, on recent occasions, had cause to appreciate.” Annoyingly, he was not wrong. He was the third man she’d gone to bed with, and she had not known it was possible for a man to pay such close attention to her in the act of love. She felt, when she was lying beneath him (or above him, as was more immediately relevant), as though he was paying attention to every movement, every sigh she uttered, making a careful note of what she liked. It was... Well, it was rather nice, she thought primly. “Perhaps,” she allowed, with a slow hint of a saucy smile. He cleared his throat. “In any case, yes, I’m aware—Hawthorne and I were friends in boyhood, you know.” Sophie nodded; he’d spoken of him on more than one occasion, when they’d been courting when they were younger. “We were... well, we were as close as two boys of such vastly differing stations could be, and when it was time for me to go away to university, I took him with me as my valet. Village life had become a bit... untenable for him, by then. It’s not an easy place to be, if you’ve a secret to ke ep.”
“He told you?” “I caught him,” West said. “With the valet of one of the houseguests my father was hosting, when I was sixteen or so. I promised him I’d never tell anyone, and I was happy enough to take him with me—I needed a valet, and he needed an es cape. And it was nice to have someone who knew me as me, rather than as a future duke, which I’d pretty quickly learned was how almost everyone else saw me.” “And Briar...?” “I needed a butler when I came down to London to set up my own residence, and he is Wooton’s n ephew,” West said, naming James’s butler, who had originally been employed by the duke. “So I took him on, even though he was young, because he was damned good, and it wasn’t long before I became aware of a certain number of lingering looks in my household. It’s no bother to me, so long as Hawthorne doesn’t become so lovestruck he stops being able to tie my cravat or shine my shoes.” Sophie recalled noting, on her first visit to West’s London residence, how small a household he maintained for a man in his position, and wondered if this was part of the reason—a certain amount of discretion would be desired. And then, too, the thought struck her that things like this—small, private things about West that most of society was unaware of—had always r epresented, to her, the non-ducal side of him. Proof, in her mind, that they could be happy if only he were not to one day be a duke—did not have the responsibilities that went with his position. Now, however, it occurred to her how wonderful it would be, knowing that such a thoroughly decent man was a duke. How much better the lives of the people who relied upon him would be, once he inherited his title. And that this—his small kindnesses, and his weightier responsibilities, and his inherent decency—was all part and parcel of who he was, and why she... Why she loved him. “Dare I ask what on earth Briar and Hawthorne’s relationship has to do with anything?” West asked, interrupting her thoughts. Sophie did not pause to consider before answering with complete honesty. “I was trying to think of something to say that might distract you before you could ask me to marry you.” She paused. “Also, I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, and haven’t found a good time until now. It seemed... thematically appropriate.” She gestured at their disordered clothing. This surprised a laugh out of him—not a polite chuckle but a real laugh, one that lit up his face and that made her laugh in turn. “I don’t know why you are constantly accusing me of being on the verge of dropping down to one knee, when you are the one who recently asked me to act as your fiancé. Perhaps I should be the one who is skittish.” There was a faint note of teasing in his voice, a lightness that was so rarely evident in his conversation, and it made Sophie’s chest ache to hear. She had thought—had feared—that the weight of the guilt they shared, over all that had happened seven years earlier, would be an insurmountable obstacle to any future they might have had. Now, however, she realized how much lighter she had felt, these recent weeks, having someone to discuss those events with—someone who had experienced the same pain and guilt that she had. It gave her an inkling of what a future between them could be like—one in which they helped each other lay those ghosts to rest—and she liked the thought of it far too well. She did not mind his sternness—she loved it, because it was so integral to who he was—but the small hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth now was so terribly dear.
He was so terribly dear. To her. He always had been—which frightened her as much now as it had seven years ago, as she’d stood at the door of his father’s house, waiting to hear whether he was alive or dead. And, she realized in a rush, had he not accused her of this very thing—of fear —just a few days earlier? She had laughed it off as she made ready for bed that evening, offering Fox one-word answers about the evening as her thoughts had churned in her head. “You’re right,” she said, and she still felt so startled by this realization that she didn’t know what else to say—how to begin to confront the enormity of what she now knew to be true. How to proceed now that she’d acknowledged it. He, however, was not privy to her thoughts—and indeed seemed wrapped up in his own. “You know, I have never wished to be wanted solely for my title, or my fortune,” he said quietly. “But it’s something I resigned myself to, long ago— the possibility that I might marry a woman who only wanted me for those things, who saw me less as a man than as a prize. And who am I to complain about such an arrangement, when it is no worse than what most women of the ton suffer when they make their debuts on the marriage mart? But,” he added, and his gaze on her was piercing, “I found, to my surprise, that there is something I minded even more.” “Oh?” Her voice was hoarse. “Being not wanted, on account of my title. By the only person I’d ever truly wanted—and who I knew wanted me. But just not badly enough.” These last words were spoken even more quietly—so quietly that she had to lean forward in order to hear. She felt them like a knife slipped through her ribs. “And I thought, after all this time, I’d resigned myself to it—to the reality of us. That there never would be an us. But these past few weeks have reminded me of what existed between us—what still exists.” He stood and began to pace the length of the drawing room before her, his st eps slow. “I do not know how to convince you that I do not care if you bear me no sons, or ten. I do not know how to convince you that you matter more to me than my father, or a house, or a piece of land—that I would weather any threat from him, if it meant that I could be with you. I do not know how to convince you that I would do whatever is within my power to protect your family—your sisters—from any damage he might do. All I can do is tell you that I have never lied to you—nor have I ever made a promise I have been unable to ke ep. And I promise you now, I am pr epared to do whatever it takes to marry you.” His back was to her now, he facing the empty fir eplace. Sophie was dimly aware of the sound of birds chirping outside, carriages rattling past in the square. It was as if she’d briefly forgotten the rest of the world existed, and now it was se eping back into the room. He turned. “I paid my father a visit the day before yesterday, and informed him I’d have all of Rosemere’s account books sent to him.” Sophie blinked. “You—what?” “The account books,” he r epeated slowly. Evenly. “So that he might sell the property—or do whatever he damn well pleases with it. I’m not sacrificing you for a bloody house, Sophie—not when you already made that choice once.” She opened her mouth to protest, and he raised a hand to quiet her. “I understand—I do.” He took a st ep toward her, and stopped, swallowing. “I just don’t want to make the same choice again now.” Sophie rose and st epped toward him, weighing her words. She reached out a hand to him. “You were right, the other evening,” she said quietly. “I was—I am —afraid.” She took a de ep breath. “I’m
afraid you’re willing to give up too much for me, and that you’d regret it someday. I’m afraid we’d marry, and you’d find yourself without the estate you’ve cared for all these years, without an heir to carry on the ducal line—with only...” “You?” His voice was low, amused. His grip on her hand tightened. “There is no only when it comes to you, Sophie.” He tugged on her hand, drawing her toward him. He stood, framed by sunlight against the window, so beautiful that it made her throat ache to look at him. “I have the rest of it now—I have Rosemere; if I wanted a young wife who could bear me ten children, I’ve no doubt I could find one this very evening. But I don’t care, because I only want you—and I don’t have you.” He cast a wry glance at Sophie’s hair, still mussed from their interlude on the settee. “Not in the way that matters, at least.” He reached a hand out, slowly, to cup her cheek, his palm warm against her skin. “I love you, and the only future I want is one with you in it. Please tell me what I have to do to make you believe me.” Sophie closed her eyes against the intensity of his gaze, pressing her cheek into his hand. And she realized that she did believe him. He’d just shown her he was willing to give up the very thing she’d been so afraid of him sacrificing for her— and she realized, too, that it was not her decision to make. It was not her right to tell him what he should or shouldn’t give up for her. She was so afraid of him regretting it, being unhappy, because she loved him—she loved him—but— But now she was the one making him unhappy. His father would always be there—would always disapprove. Might or might not try to make his disapproval known in other ways; might or might not try to make their lives more difficult than they needed to be. But in this moment, it was Sophie who was choosing unhappiness for them —and she didn’t wish to do so for a single moment longer. She opened her eyes. “I love you, too,” she said softly, turning her head to press a soft kiss into his palm. She st epped forward, reaching up to rest her hands against his chest. “I love you, and I am tired of allowing your father to dictate how we live our lives, and I just want—I just want—I just want us to decide for ourselves!” She was, she noticed vaguely, growing rather angry. She was standing here, having just told her beloved that she loved him, and yet she was still thinking about his bloody father and it was— Honestly, extremely annoying. West looped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and Sophie tilted her head up for his kiss. “I never knew escorting a lady home from the solicitor could be so momentous an occasion,” he murmured against her mouth, and tilted her head back to allow him access to her jaw, and the long line of her throat. Sophie huffed out a laugh, closing her eyes against the sensation of the warmth of his mouth at her neck— And then his words registered. And her eyes flew open. And a small smile began to tug at her mouth. Because suddenly, she had a very, very good idea.