Sophie supposed, after twenty-seven years’ acquaintance with the Viscountess Wexham, she should no longer be surprised by the extent to which her mother obsessed over every detail of a party. And surely the occasion of the engagement of not one, but two of her daughters would aggravate this existing tendency to a degree that bordered on absurd. This was why, one week later, Sophie found herself standing in the ballroom of her parents’ Mayfair home, listening to her mother opine at length about how many candles was too many candles. “We want to look well-lit, not vulgar.” “Indeed,” Sophie murmured, catching Alexandra’s eye and suppressing a smile with some difficulty. “Given the other details of the wedding, clearly we don’t wish to be seen as vulgar.” Alexandra narrowed her eyes at her. “Do you have a complaint to voice, Sophie?” “Not at all,” Sophie demurred, turning in a slow circle to admire the afternoon light spilling into the ballroom through the enormous windows. “I am merely looking forward to experiencing the wedding of your dreams.” “If you have some objection to raise, I’d be delighted to hear it,” Alexandra said, lowering her voice slightly so that their mother—now debating, apparently with herself, whether potted plants encouraged licentiousness—would not overhear. “For if there is something about the plan for our wedding that is upsetting you, I’d naturally be more than happy to remedy it. It’s your wedding, too, after all.” She paused with deliberate care. “Isn’t it?” “Of course,” Sophie agreed. She had been avoiding Alexandra this past week. She’d already suspected that her sister guessed some of what was afoot between her and West, and today’s conversation merely served to confirm it. Maintaining a healthy distance seemed the safest option for all in volved. “I had the most interesting conversation with Maria recently,” Sophie said idly. “She reminded me of how much you complained about the fuss of your first wedding.” She paused deliberately. “I’m so overjoyed to see you’ve had such a change of heart in that regard.” She was rather curious to see how Alexandra would respond to that, but before her sister had a chance to do so, they were interrupted—their mother seemed to have belatedly noticed their lack of attention. “Girls!” cried Lady Wexham, for all that the “girls” in question had both been married and widowed. “I need you to focus on what is important: How likely do you think it that someone loses their virtue behind a potted palm?” She paused to consider her own question. “Or do you think the fronds would get in the way of any lewd behavior?” Sophie—and, from the looks of her, Alexandra, too—had not the slightest idea of how to respond to this query, but it did prove successful at driving her simmering quarrel with her sister out of mind. For the moment. It was the next day—the day of the betrothal ball, at last—and Sophie was seated in her library, enjoying a leisurely cup of afternoon tea while attempting to read the book Jane had loaned her, about a haunted house that
did not actually appear to be remotely haunted, when Grimball opened the door and announced solemnly, “Mrs. Brown-Montague.” “Hello,” Sophie said, glancing up in surprise as her sister sailed into the room. “What on earth are you doing here? I assumed you’d be tormenting your lady’s maid by not being able to make up your mind which hairstyle you wanted for tonight.” “Ha,” Alexandra said, sinking down next to Sophie on the settee beneath the window. Her dark hair was coiled at the back of her head, and she was dressed for riding. “I’ve been in the park with Harriet, actually, and thought I would stop by on the way home. I haven’t much time—I’ve a footman waiting for me outside. But I wanted to discuss tonight with you.” Sophie set her book aside, a dark pang of foreboding in her chest at her sister’s tone. “What about tonight?” “It’s very important to Mama, you know,” Alexandra said briskly, and Sophie nearly rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware, thank you. Or have you not noticed the multiple notes per day from her about everything from the number of candles to whether ratafia is still served in the best houses?” Alexandra ignored this. “I would hate for Mama’s memory of tonight to be tarnished in any way.” Sophie narrowed her eyes at her sister. “In what way, precisely?” Alexandra took a de ep breath. “If, for example, it should come to light that you were feigning a betrothal.” A brief silence fell. Sophie was a bit impressed; she had not thought her sister would come out and say it so bluntly, but clearly Alexandra had had enough of the elaborate farce that had been playing out for more than a month—and Sophie, for her part, was entirely in agreement with this sentiment. “I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that you’re entirely mistaken and I’ve not the faintest notion what you’re referring to.” “You could, I suppose, if you wished to be incredibly irritating. But I’d personally prefer it if you didn’t, and if you told me the truth instead.” “The truth,” Sophie r epeated, considering her words carefully. “The truth is, I’m not engaged to West, and I did ask him to feign a betrothal, solely so that you’d agree to marry Blackford.” It felt liberating to speak these words aloud; West had confessed to James, but she’d had no such opportunity, and admitting it made her feel like a weight was being lifted. “I knew it,” Alexandra said. She eyed her sister narrowly. “I didn’t think you’d admit it so readily, though.” Sophie threw her hands up in the air. “What was the point in denying it, if you’d already worked it out? I promise not to spoil Mama’s night, by the way—I can’t believe you think I would.” “You were hardly behaving like yourself, this past month—if you didn’t plan to go through with the wedding, then I presume you’ve some sort of plan for staging an elaborate quarrel with West, and how was I to know that you didn’t plan to do so tonight?”
“Because you might credit me with a bit of common sense,” Sophie said, a bit more acid in her tone than she intended, or than was perhaps fair, given that that had, until recently, been precisely her plan. “Perhaps I shall start doing so when you credit me with being an adult capable of holding an intelligent conversation,” Alexandra said with uncharacteristic sharpness. “You might have just spoken to me and avoided this entire unhinged scheme, you know. I presume you concocted this plan after waltzing with Blackford at the Northdale ball last month?” “Indeed. Directly on the heels of one of the stranger breakfast conversations of my entire life,” Sophie said, crossing her arms. “In which you acted like a criminal when I so much as dared to question you about your feelings. You can understand how I might have thought you wouldn’t be rec eptive to a reasonable conversation.” “But you didn’t even try.” Alexandra’s voice had lost its edge now, and there was a muted quality to it—one that was almost sad. Sophie felt a pang of guilt, which she tried to suppress. Why should she feel guilty for trying to ensure her sister’s happiness? “I was too busy trying to make sure that you didn’t throw away a love match out of some misplaced sense of sisterly obligation.” “A misplaced sense of sisterly obligation—I’m not sure I could have said it better myself.” Alexandra rose. “I’m not a child, Sophie. I’ve wed and been widowed and, I’ll admit, I had a foolish moment there at breakfast that day, but you still could have tried to speak to me—to hash things out like adults. Instead you’ve drawn us all into a farce—let Mama and Papa think that you’re planning a wedding when in fact you have no intention of being married at all. And what if I hadn’t realized what you were about?” she added. “Did you intend to walk to the altar with me and only then inform me that you’d had a change of heart?” Sophie felt something very close to shame burn within her; for all the occasional pangs of guilt that she’d experienced over the course of the past month, she hadn’t properly considered just what impact breaking her supposed engagement would have on her family. “I just wanted you to be happy,” she said quietly, looking at her sister, whose own expression softened in turn. “I know.” Alexandra reached across to squeeze Sophie’s hand. “But that’s not your responsibility to ensure. And for heaven’s sake, you didn’t need to agree to every single idea I suggested about the wedding—if I hadn’t already worked out that you were feigning your betrothal, I would have thought you’d sustained a head injury.” Sophie managed a smile at that; Alexandra reached for her gloves, which she’d discarded upon entering, and drew them on as she turned to d epart. “I’ll see you tonight, I suppose. You might do us all a favor and spare us the swooning over West, though.” She sw ept out of the room; Sophie wished to call after her—to apologize, dispel the slight strain that still lingered between them—but she remained silent. This evening, she promised herself. This evening, it will all be right. It was a peculiarly tense carriage ride across Mayfair that evening, and West did not entirely understand why. Blackford had offered the use of his carriage, so that the two betrothed couples might arrive at the same time, and West and Sophie had acc epted; West had been the last to join the group, and had found Sophie and Alexandra sitting in slightly strained silence upon his entrance. A frown at Blackford had yielded no information other than a shrug, and West had let the matter lie; he had a fair amount on his mind at the moment,
after all. As chance would have it, they arrived right on the heels of Diana, Jeremy, Penvale, and Jane, who had evidently come in one carriage as well. “It took us ages to get here,” Diana said, as soon as West and Sophie approached. “I thought I’d perish in the carriage. I didn’t realize this was to be the event of the Season.” “My mother is an... enthusiastic hostess,” Sophie said diplomatically. “I believe she even sent an invitation to the prince regent.” “Did she really?” Jane looked half-fascinated, half-horrified at this news. “Hope springs eternal, et cetera,” Alexandra said, joining them. She inclined her head. “Shall we?” The Wexhams’ house was blazing with light. Flickering torches lined the walkway up to the house, and the double doors were flung open, liveried footmen standing ready to greet each arrival. Lady Wexham had clearly spared no expense; as they st epped into the entryway, they were greeted with the sight and scent of dozens of exquisite bouquets of fresh flowers on every available surface and hanging from the walls in chained pots. Mingled with the flickering candlelight, the effect was near-magical, though West gave a shake of his head at the whimsical thought. They proceeded into the ballroom in pairs, being announced in turn. The betrothed couples, by unspoken agreement, were left for last. Jane and Penvale directly preceded Alexandra and Blackford; Jane looked rather pale and uneasy, but Penvale glanced down at her with a private, reassuring smile that she met with one of her own. They passed into the ballroom; then West heard: “The Earl of Blackford and Mrs. Brown-Montague,” and Blackford and Alexandra were gone, only a brief glance from Alexandra in Sophie’s direction by way of farewell. West glanced down at Sophie; while she was not overwhelmingly petite, height had always run in the Audley line, and the top of her head could fit neatly under his chin. From his vantage point, he could see the freshwater pearls studded throughout her hair; he also had a pleasing view directly down the front of her bodice—her gown was a radiant pink silk embroidered with white roses— and, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she glanced up at him with a smile of pure, wicked promise. “Shall we give everyone a shock?” she murmured. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.” “I’m ready,” he said, then leaned forward and had a quick word with the Wexhams’ butler, who was about to announce them. The butler blinked, his gaze flicking back and forth from West to Sophie and back again. “But—I don’t—” “We’re going to shake up this betrothal ball a bit, Mournday,” Sophie said lightly, giving the butler a cheerful smile. “I promise you, we’re not in jest.” “All right,” Mournday said, still looking slightly dubious, and then turned back to the room at large—a room that West knew contained her family, and his, all of their friends, everyone who was anyone in the ton—and announced: “The Marquess and Marchioness of Weston.”