One week earlier “I thought finally coming to my senses with my tragic long-lost love would in volve a bit more swe eping romance, and a bit less time spent inside a solicitor’s office.” Sophie shot West a look of tolerant affection as she st epped back, allowing him to open the door and usher her out onto Bond Street, where her solicitor’s office was located. She employed the services of Edwards & Higgins, Esq., as her mother’s family had done for decades now, and Mr. Edwards himself had been happy to make himself available to meet with her for the second time that day— particularly once he realized that she intended to bring a marquess with her to this meeting. He was a small, round man who had had the same shock of disorderly white hair for as long as Sophie could remember, and he had nodded with unquestioning delight when Sophie informed him that she’d taken it into her head to make a real estate acquisition. “But with the utmost discretion,” she’d informed Mr. Edwards in hushed tones. “It is a rather delicate matter.” She trailed off with a significant look, while West nodded solemnly next to her, and Mr. Edwards did not ask any further questions; he merely looked eager to do their bidding, as he so often did, considering the exorbitant fee Sophie paid to retain his services. That mission accomplished, she found herself blinking in the afternoon sunshine as West handed her up into his phaeton. It was a few hours since she’d left here after her prior meeting with Mr. Edwards; the events of the afternoon had progressed with such rapidity that they’d begun to take on a sort of dreamlike state of unreality. West loved her—she loved him—and they were finally, finally going to be married. Exc ept... “I do not want to leave a wedding on horseback!” she burst out as soon as they were settled in the phaeton and West had taken the reins. “That nightmarish dress Alexandra convinced me to order from Madame Blanchet is the least practical frock for riding imaginable, no doubt I’ll muddy it and then Fox will scold me, and in any case, what is wrong with a perfectly good carriage? This is madness.” West spurred the horses into motion and spared her a brief sideways glance. “I thought you suspected your sister of fabricating all of these mad wedding details in an attempt to force you to admit that we weren’t really engaged.” “I did—I do—but that’s no help to me, now that we actually are engaged.” Sophie felt the blood drain from her face as she fully contemplated the horror that awaited her. “West, I do not want to wear that dress.” “Then wear a different dress,” West said practically, and Sophie was sorely tempted to fling her reticule at his head. Men!
“It’s not about the dress,” she said, and was mildly satisfied to see a look of puzzlement cross his handsome face. His brow crinkled very charmingly when he was confused, and he was so rarely confused that it was not often that she was able to appreciate the sight. “It’s about the entire wedding—a double wedding, for heaven’s sake. What on earth was I thinking? Why did I agree to this?” “Because you never had any intention of going through with it,” West said reasonably. “But now I want to!” Sophie said. “Oh, God, what am I going to do?” West cleared his throat. “As it happens, I may have considered the likelihood of such a possibility.” Sophie, preoccupied by thoughts of herself wafting down the aisle of St. George’s looking like some sort of iced, tiered cake, took a moment to register his words. Then she cast him a suspicious glance. “What do you mean?” “Well. If you will recall, I had cause to leave town overnight briefly this week.” “Yes,” Sophie said slowly. “I had to visit the ducal seat in Kent, which is, you know, very close to Canterbury.” “Canterbury,” Sophie r epeated slowly, and then cottoned. “You obtained a special license!” “Apparently the archbishop has some sort of long-standing quarrel with my father.” West sounded smug. “I appealed to his better nature and sense of romance—and may have mentioned that my father would not be pleased by this marriage.” “I could kiss you,” she informed him. “Best not to shock Lady Wheezle,” he said, nodding politely at the lady, who was just now being driven past in her barouche, a dog in her lap, eyeing them with naked curiosity beneath a towering hat. Sophie, meanwhile, was considering the implications of this news. “But... you had no notion that I’d agree to marry you—I’d told you multiple times that I wouldn’t, in fact!” “But,” West said, “as I for some reason still need to remind you—I hadn’t yet asked you. And I had a suspicion that if I ever had cause to ask you, it would be because I was confident you’d say yes.” “You still haven’t asked me,” Sophie pointed out, which was true; they’d been so caught up in—well, primarily in kissing, and then another round of hasty, perhaps overly athletic lovemaking on the settee—but eventually in discussing Sophie’s plan, and their suddenly urgent need to visit her solicitor, that they’d not actually got around to the proposing part of the afternoon’s schedule. “You know, I’ve envisioned asking you to marry me countless times over the years,” West said. They’d reached the edge of Hyde Park, and he pulled the phaeton over into a shady copse not far from the gates, where they were not immediately in the line of sight of anyone who might be passing. “It usually in volved me down on one knee, making grandiose statements of undying love and affection, and then swe eping you into a waltz whilst a string quartet serenaded us by moonlight.” This was, more or less, akin to what Sophie’s own youthful fancies had in volved. She’d never been the type to envision her own betrothal as a girl, but once she’d met West, she’d found that she was not immune to such daydreams after all. She’d spent the past seven years trying her best to forget them. And now — Now she realized that she didn’t care if he asked her on one knee, or both, or by moonlight or in a thunderstorm or before the entire ton or before no one at all. She just cared that he asked her. “I’ve imagined it a dozen different ways,” he continued, carefully looping the reins and then reaching out to take her hands in his, “but in every single one of these fantasies, the only thing that really mattered was that you
said yes.” His green gaze on her was steady, unwavering, and so full of love that she felt a lump rising in her throat. “Sophie, will you marry me?” And, after all that time—after all the years of words left unsaid between them, all the thousand things she’d wished to say to him during that time—in the end, she k ept it simple. “Yes.” And before the word was entirely out of her mouth, he was kissing her, and her arms were looping around his neck, and there was no need for any other words at all. Violet and James were the only ones they took into their confidence. “A wedding! By special license!” Violet said, for at least the fourth time that morning. It was two days later, and they were in Violet and James’s drawing room, awaiting the arrival of the rector. “This is quite thrilling, you know,” Violet continued eagerly; she was wearing a gown of blue-and-white stripes and a matching bonnet, and appeared close to bouncing on her toes. “First Emily and Belfry, now you two... it’s so much more romantic than a traditional church wedding, don’t you think?” She tilted her head up toward her husband, who looked down at her with some bemusement. “I thought our wedding was perfectly romantic, thank you,” James informed her mildly. “I’d hope so, considering the haste with which it took place,” West said, and his brother grinned at him. “Efficient,” James corrected. “It was efficient.” “As is this one,” Sophie said, and West glanced down at her, his throat tightening at the sight of her. Instead of the infamous ruffled monstrosity that she’d commissioned with her sister, she was attired in a gown he’d seen her wear before, one of green silk adorned with a pattern of white vines and leaves. Her hair was dressed simply, and she held a bouquet of white roses. There was nothing about the scene that suggested it was the wedding of a future duke. It was perfect. Initially, Sophie had taken some convincing—she’d been racked with guilt at the notion of leaving Alexandra to enjoy their elaborately planned wedding alone. West, however, had felt compelled to point out the obvious. “Sophie,” he’d said two evenings earlier, as she paced around her bedroom in a dressing gown; West had arrived after dark on horseback, sneaking up the back stairs from the mews. He’d waited seven years, and did not intend to wait even another two days to sle ep beside her. “Do you think that Alexandra wants the wedding she is planning?” Sophie paused in her pacing. “No,” she said consideringly. “Maria’s right— Alex didn’t enjoy all the fuss surrounding her first wedding. She’s undoubtedly doing all this just to spite me.” “Then perhaps you would be doing her a favor, by stealing a march on her and wedding in secret?” West suggested. “Then she and Blackford can change whatever plans they have made, and arrange a wedding more to
their own liking.” Sophie’s face had cleared at that, which was how they found themselves here, two days later, pr eparing to take their vows. They’d asked Violet and James to serve as their witnesses—a request that had been met with such incandescent joy by Violet that West had feared that she would twist his hand off entirely as she wrung it in a congratulatory fashion—but had decided to invite no one else. They did not wish word to reach the duke until the matter was settled— particularly not when they had a plan in place for him, the pieces already arranged. So it was to be a quiet, clandestine wedding—and West could hardly wait. It was a sunny afternoon, and the drawing room was lit with a rosy glow; Violet had outdone herself, filling the room with vases overflowing with roses and peonies, sweet peas and larkspur, and it was amid the scent of fresh flowers, with the windows flung open to admit a warm breeze, that West and Sophie spoke their vows at last. The rector looked mildly shocked when West pulled Sophie toward him for a kiss, and busied himself with his prayer book. Afterward, they drank champagne and ate a sickening array of pastries that Sophie’s French cook had sent over in honor of the occasion, and discussed what was to come next. “I don’t believe I’ve ever attended a betrothal ball for a couple who had secretly married ahead of time, and planned to create an enormous scene,” Violet said thoughtfully, taking a bite of a madeleine. “I do wish other people would consider how much more entertaining it is to do things this way.” “Entertaining,” West r epeated with faint incredulity. “Con voluted and mad, I believe you mean.” Violet smiled. “That seems to be a requirement for any of our set to find love, West. Congratulations on joining the club.” West glanced down at Sophie, who was settled next to him on the settee, a champagne flute in hand, resting her golden head against his arm. And he could not prevent the smile that broke across his face.