Combining two households—and two household staffs—was proving to be more complicated than West had anticipated. “Briar, for the love of God, I do not care,” West said, after the fifteenth interruption in the past two hours, all to do with the question of whether the footmen who were joining their household from Sophie’s were properly matched in height. “If you think one of them needs to wear stilts, then feel free to see that it is taken care of, so long as the footman in question is amenable.” Briar, aquiver with wounded dignity, drew himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest, and offered a stiff, “Indeed, my lord,” before bowing himself out, narrowly avoiding bumping into Sophie as he did so. He was full of apologies and inquiries as to her needs; it seemed that Briar approved of marriage in general, and Sophie specifically. There had been a few hairy moments before he’d realized that Sophie’s elderly butler was happy to take this opportunity to be pensioned off, but once that was sorted he’d been full of nothing but solicitous concern for the new lady of the house. “Why does he like you more than he likes me?” West asked darkly, rising from his desk as Briar bowed himself out with one last adoring look at Sophie before the door clicked shut behind him. “Perhaps because I told him that I thought the infusion of new staff into your household was an excellent opportunity to rethink the bedrooms for the servants, and in all the upheaval and redecorating, I saw to it that he and Hawthorne were moved into adjoining rooms.” She sauntered toward him clad in a fetching dress of white muslin, her hair simply arranged, a few loose curls es caping; waving him back into his seat, she perched on the edge of his desk in a way that was likely not intended to look seductively inviting, but which had that effect on his body all the same. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Why are you so much more clever than I am?” She leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his mouth. “Because I am a woman, and I’ve had to be. How else would we ever get anything done?” She made to pull back, but he reached out and slid his hand into the loose knot at the nape of her neck, pinning her in place. He leaned forward again, tipping his head up to give her a more thorough kiss. Her lips parted on a sigh and her breath mingled with his own. His free hand made slow, steady progress from her waist up her side, tracing the curve of a breast, cupping its weight in his hand. She made a needy noise in her throat, her hands tugging on his hair just hard enough to send a bolt of pleasurable pain straight to his cock, and he was about to rise from his seat when there was yet another knock at the study door. He tore his mouth from hers. “Briar, I do not wish to answer any more questions about the height of our footmen!” Sophie stifled a laugh in his shoulder. There was a brief pause, and then a rather ostentatious clearing of the throat from the other side of the door. “It is His Grace, the Duke of Dovington, here to see you, my lord.” West did not think he was imagining the faintly smug note to Briar’s voice. Accuse me of fri volous, footman-related interruptions ever again, and see where it leads you! Sophie was out of his arms and off his desk like a shot, smoothing her
hair back into place as she turned to face the door. She glanced back at him, and he took three seconds to think very innocent, cold thoughts before he nodded at her. “You may send him in, Briar,” she called, and the door opened and West’s father walked in. He paused briefly and allowed his gaze to flick back and forth between West and Sophie, fast as a blink, and West had the sense that he knew precisely what they’d been up to approximately thirty seconds earlier. Unfortunately for the duke, West did not give a damn. “Father,” he said, rising. “Your Grace,” Sophie added, dipping a polite—but not terribly de ep— curtsey. “West.” The duke nodded at him, and then at Sophie. “Lady Weston. I apologize for the interruption, but I have something I wish to discuss with you —some new information that has come to light.” West gestured at one of the chairs opposite his desk, and his father took a seat as soon as Sophie had. “Is something amiss?” West asked. “Hmm.” Despite being seated on the wrong side of the desk, the duke still looked like a man holding court: he reclined in his chair, bracing his elbows upon the armrests, and brought his fingers together before his mouth in thoughtful contemplation. “An interesting question. I do not know if ‘amiss’ is the correct word, however.” “Oh, are we to have a lesson on vocabulary?” Sophie inquired innocently. “How delightful. There are a number of invectives I’m positively desperate to learn polite synonyms for.” She paused briefly. “Not that I would need to use them in present company, of course.” “Of course,” the duke agreed dryly; West did not think he imagined the brief, faintest hint of a twitch at the edge of his father’s mouth, almost as if he were amused. He had not known the Duke of Dovington to be capable of such an emotion. “I was intrigued, last week, to receive interest in purchasing Rosemere, as you will recall,” the duke continued. “I have corresponded further with the potential buyer, and their offer is certainly a tempting one.” He paused. “But not too tempting, you see. It is a fair offer, but not overly generous—the buyer clearly has some knowledge of the estate and its potential yields.” “I would hope that anyone looking to purchase an estate would do some research before making an offer,” West said blandly. “Hmm,” the duke said again. “Well, I grew frankly curious about this man making the offer, who was being quite mysterious. The correspondence I had was all from his solicitor, you see; this solicitor proved to be distressingly unforthcoming when I asked for specifics regarding the identity of his client.” Next to the duke, Sophie had gone very still, though the duke gave no indication of having taken note of this. “So, to assuage my curiosity, I had my own solicitor do a bit of digging, and was intrigued to learn that this very solicitor is employed not just by your parents, Lady Weston, but by your mother’s entire extended family, and their various shipping companies.” “What a coincidence,” Sophie said calmly, lacing her hands together on her lap. “My mother’s family does often employ the services of a r eputable solicitor, given all the legal matters that tend to crop up in their line of work—they run quite a profitable set of businesses, you know.” She paused delicately. “I believe it is this very fact that made me so objectionable to you as a potential daughter-inlaw, in fact. Unless my memory fails me—it
is all so very long ago now.” She smiled at the duke. West was tempted to applaud. “Indeed,” the duke said, and his gaze was steady on Sophie; she met his eyes unblinkingly. She should not, in her simple afternoon gown, have looked anything like a future duchess—she was not draped in fine fabrics, elegantly coiffed, dripping in jewels. But there was a certain set to her chin, and a look in her eye, that made it quite obvious that she was not remotely intimidated by the man seated next to her, whose wife had once held the title that would someday be hers. At last, the duke gave a nearly imperc eptible nod. He rose to his feet. “I’ll notify this solicitor that the sale can go through,” he said curtly, and West and Sophie exchanged a single, startled glance. “But—” Sophie said. “Lady Weston,” the duke interrupted her, “I am not a man who takes kindly to having my own will subverted, so I would prefer not to linger on this any longer than necessary. But I can recognize a worthy opponent.” He extended a hand to Sophie then, and she seemed to realize, after a brief, surprised pause, that he wished to shake hands with her. West doubted his father had ever shaken hands with a woman in his entire life—women were to be flattered; they were to be waltzed with, made love to, given idle, meaningless compliments. But West thought now, watching his wife and father shake hands warily, that there was something like respect in the way his father looked at Sophie. Respect was not admiration, or affection, or even acc eptance—but it was something. And in this instance, it was a concession. His father dropped Sophie’s hand, picked up his hat, and cast West a wry glance. “I’ll have that paperwork regarding the estate returned to you, shall I? And in the future, perhaps you’ll refrain from wasting my time with such absurd stunts?” West gave the duke a thin smile. “Only if you’ll refrain from meddling in my marriage, Father.” The duke pressed his lips together into a grim line, but did not offer a rejoinder. Instead, he merely tossed imperiously over his shoulder on his way out the door, “You might see to providing me with an heir, at least.” The door shut behind him. “You know,” Sophie said thoughtfully, as she and West stared at the door through which the duke had d eparted, “I simply cannot wait to disappoint him on that score.” West was inclined to agree; he felt the familiar irritation cre eping through him that so often came on the heels of discussions with his father, even as he knew that the conversation that had just occurred was likely the best they could ever hope to exchange with the duke on the matter of their marriage. He rose to his feet and, ignoring his cane, walked slowly toward Sophie. He reached down a hand, pulling her to her feet, and she tilted her head back slightly to look him directly in the eye. “I love you,” he said simply. He would never tire of saying it—not after so many years of feeling it and yet ke eping it so carefully tucked away.
She dimpled. “I know.” She reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders. She gently pushed against him, until he took a st ep backward. “Now, you are going to sit in that chair, and I’m going to get down on my knees and do something that you’re going to enjoy very much indeed, and then, if you’d like to thank me, you can bend me over your desk and have your way with me.” A commanding note entered her voice as she described this program of events, one that was like an invisible finger stroking down his cock. “Unless,” she added graciously, “you have any complaints about this proposed plan?” West most emphatically did not, and he leaned down to kiss her by way of r eply. “So you did it, then,” Violet said admiringly the following evening, leaning back in her seat and taking a sip of sherry with a happy sigh. “You outsmarted the duke. I’m tempted to applaud, really.” It was the first time Sophie had played hostess as a marchioness; they’d invited their friends to dinner, and then, instead of the ladies withdrawing to leave the gentlemen to their port and conversation, they’d all moved to the library. It was a warm evening, and they’d opened the French doors leading to the terrace, allowing a breeze and the scent of roses to waft in from the back garden. They were scattered around the room in odd configurations: Harriet and Betsy had their heads together, laughing over something in a book they’d pulled from the shelves, while their husbands were de ep in conversation with Blackford and Risedale. The Countess of Risedale and Alexandra were debating something good-naturedly with Maria and Grovecourt. Diana, Jane, and Penvale were cheerfully arguing about—unless Sophie had entirely misheard—the size of seagulls in Cornwall; Emily was attempting to reclaim her overgrown kitten, Cecil, from Belfry and Jeremy, who had it chasing a feather in increasingly tight circles. (Sophie remained unclear as to why, exactly, the kitten was in attendance at all this evening; Belfry had informed her in apologetic tones upon their arrival that he’d learned not to question the emotional needs of a woman in a delicate condition, which Sophie could not argue with.) That left Sophie, West, Violet, and James sitting rather cozily together on a settee and a couple of armchairs set against one wall, near the open doors. West and Sophie had just finished regaling the other two with the tale of the duke’s visit. “I just wish I could have seen the look on his face,” James said, taking a sip of brandy. He was reclining on the settee, his arm resting along its back, his fingers playing lazily with a loose curl of dark hair on Violet’s shoulder. “I will cherish the memory for the rest of my life,” Sophie assured him. She was seated in an armchair at one end of the settee, facing West, who sat in the matching chair opposite her. He lifted his glass of brandy to her in a silent salute, one side of his mouth curving up in a private smile that was just for her. There was something looser, more relaxed to him as he reclined in his own chair, she thought; not as pertained to his appearance, which was as immaculate as ever— cravat neatly tied; dark hair combed back from his face; shoes shined to a dark gloss. But there was an ease to his limbs, to the lines of his face, that she had not been accustomed to seeing in him in recent years. Despite the faint lines in his forehead—a product, no doubt, of r epeated sk eptical lifting of a brow—and the occasional strand of gray hair she’d taken to gleefully informing him of when she spotted them at his temples, he reminded her, very forcefully, of the man she’d met seven years earlier.
“And he just gave you Rosemere?” James asked, his voice laced with faint incredulity; he was, after all, quite familiar with the perils that came from acc epting any gifts of real estate from their father. West rolled his eyes heavenward. “He did not; he sold it to us—to Sophie, really; it’s her dowry that went to the purchase—and had the gall to haggle with her solicitor.” “Mr. Edwards drove a hard bargain, though,” Sophie said cheerfully, taking a sip of her own brandy. It was liberating, she thought, to drink it from a tumbler, as the gentlemen did, rather than surr eptitiously from a teacup, as had been her previous habit. “But it is safely ours now, and the duke can’t touch it, nor threaten to steal it out from under our noses.” She rolled her own eyes in turn. “No doubt he was mollified by the thought that we’ll be raising future generations of little dukes there.” Something about her tone must have tipped her hand, for Violet looked at her curiously. “Won’t you be, then?” Sophie’s gaze flicked to West, who was regarding her steadily, warmth in his green eyes. “I’m not certain,” she said lightly. “I wasn’t fortunate in that regard in my first marriage, you know, and...” She trailed off, the idea of voicing this thought to anyone other than West suddenly very frightening. But this was Violet and James—they were family. And why should she be frightened, or ashamed, when nothing about her own inclinations and wishes felt shameful to her? “And I’ve never felt terribly maternal,” she said, her voice still light. “So if we are not so lucky, I don’t know that I’ll be all that cut up about it.” Violet’s and James’s eyes remained on her, thoughtful, not straying to West, and for this Sophie was grateful; she didn’t know what she’d been expecting, precisely—for them to turn to West and exclaim at his courage in daring to wed a woman who might be barren? Who, even if she were to have children, was not at all certain she’d enjoy it terribly much? Instead, Violet merely nodded consideringly. “Having witnessed Emily’s experiences with being enceinte so far, I think you might have the wiser philosophy, Sophie,” she said. Emily had apparently been quite ill that winter, in the early days of her pregnancy; there was something slightly wistful in Violet’s voice, however, that told Sophie that her sister-in-law would be willing to risk that condition, should she be so fortunate in the future. James dropped his hand from Violet’s shoulder and reached down to squeeze her hand instead, dropping a kiss onto her head. “Not,” Violet added more brightly now, though her hand was still gripping James’s tightly, “that now would be a terribly convenient time for us to have a baby anyway—we’ve pyramids to see!” “There aren’t pyramids in Italy,” James said patiently. He and Violet had travel plans for the end of summer and autumn, once the Season was over; Violet had always been curious to see more of the world, and wildly indignant that ladies were not offered the opportunity for a Grand Tour the way gentlemen of means were, and so James had resolved to take her on an extended journey across the Continent. Violet had spent much of the past fortnight since the plan was announced trying to convince him to take her to increasingly remote locations; in addition to the Egyptian pyramids, Sophie had personally heard her advocating for both Constantinople and, to James’s mild horror, Boston. “Violet,” he’d said in pained tones, “I get seasick.”
“Which means you’ll ke ep yourself quite occupied below deck for the duration of the journey, leaving me free to explore the ship without you underfoot,” she’d said cheerfully. The actual journey—rather than the increasingly elaborate one that Violet was fabricating in her imagination— would take them to France, Switzerland, and Italy, as Sophie understood it. She personally thought the entire undertaking sounded equal parts thrilling and exhausting, and was herself looking forward to a quiet autumn at Rosemere instead. At this juncture, Violet was summoned by Diana, while James wandered over to have a word with Risedale about the racing stables they were planning to open on his estate in Oxfordshire, leaving West and Sophie momentarily alone. West met her eyes, and tilted his head at the open French doors onto the terrace. “Fancy a stroll in the garden?” he asked in a low voice. Sophie rose to her feet as West followed suit. “Are you trying to seduce me in the open air?” she asked, reaching out to flick an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder. He reached up and caught her hand tight in his. The lamplight loved the angles of his face, casting his cheekbones into sharp relief, and turned his green eyes warm as they locked with hers. “Perhaps.” The word was lazy, low. “Are you amenable?” She lifted her face to press a quick kiss to his mouth, not caring who saw— not here, in the safety of the home they shared, surrounded by their friends. “Perhaps.” And then she kissed him again, and allowed him to lead her onto the terrace, into a shadowy corner hidden from view, where he did several shocking things with his hand without so much as dislodging her bodice, and where she in turn demonstrated—to their mutual satisfaction—the delightful effect that a bit of friction in precisely the right location could have. Some time later, as they stood, a bit breathless, leaning against the wall, gazing up at the night sky, his arm ke eping her tucked close to his side, she said, “I wondered, you know—whether it would have been worth it. Worth seven years, and all the pain. Whether I’d built you—us—up into something in my mind that reality could never match.” She shook her head, letting out a halfincredulous laugh at the joy coursing through her. “And yet, it’s even better.” She turned her face up to his. “Can you believe it?” He turned to look down at her in the shadowy darkness, just outside the edge of a pool of torchlight. “Yes,” he said quite simply. “I’ve always believed it.” He didn’t say anything else; he didn’t need to. And Sophie reached up and kissed him again, alight with joy at the simple knowledge that she could. Epilogue One year later S eptember was Sophie’s favorite month at Rosemere. The heat of summer had passed and the days were growing shorter, but the afternoons were still warm and sunny, the hills that surrounded the house still green. It was the perfect month for long walks along the river that the house overlooked, for quiet evenings before the fire in the drawing room, for long nights spent—sle eping or otherwise—in a warm bed, with a window open to admit the increasingly chilly night air.
It was also the perfect month to host a house party—something Sophie had suggested with great anticipation, but which she was now having cause to regret, when faced with the prospect of explaining Pass the Bread to her friends. “Does this not seem like it might be dangerous for the baby?” Belfry demanded, once Sophie had finished explaining; much to everyone’s surprise, fatherhood had turned him downright paranoid about anything that might vaguely be construed as a threat to the health and safety of baby Theodore, including—but not limited to—Emily’s cat Cecil Lucifer Beelzebub, overly warm days, overly cold days, dangerously quick pushing of the pram, and, now, flying baked goods. “It’s bread, Belfry, not a cannonball, don’t be hysterical,” Diana said impatiently. “I do not think fatherhood is good for the brain,” she added severely, though she smiled a gentle smile down at her own daughter—born just a couple of months earlier—currently cooing in the arms of her entirely besotted father. “We shall be certain the twins give all the babies a wide birth,” West assured Belfry, who looked only somewhat mollified, though he was distracted at this juncture by the sight of Emily slipping a scrap of food under the table for Cecil, who most assuredly was not supposed to be in the dining room, and did not protest further. It was the first evening of the house party, and none of Sophie’s sisters had arrived yet—they, and the rest of the guests, were expected the following day. Tonight, however, it was merely James and Violet, Diana and Jeremy, Emily and Belfry, and Penvale and Jane. They had finished dinner and the plates had been cleared, but they were lingering over glasses of wine as the candles burned low. The various small, chubby offspring had been brought in by their nannies for a few minutes with their parents before being tucked away in the nursery; Sophie, at the moment, was holding Penvale and Jane’s daughter, who was frowning up at her wearing an expression eerily reminiscent of her mother. “Isn’t Harriet expecting again?” Jane asked with a frown, making the motherdaughter resemblance even more pronounced. “I cannot imagine wishing to do anything more active than necessary in that state.” “I could not agree more,” Diana said, and she and Jane exchanged glances of dark empathy; both had been horribly ill during their own pregnancies, to the point that Diana had flatly informed Jeremy that, if they did not have a boy on a second attempt, “the title can go to a sentient turnip, for all I care.” Having observed Jeremy in the company of baby Isabella, who already had him wrapped around her (exceedingly tiny) finger, Sophie did not think he cared much about having an heir. “And yet,” Penvale said to his wife, “you did manage to muster sufficient energy to arrange a one-night encore performance of the haunting of Trethwick Abbey, a mere month before Nora was born.” “I could not allow our wedding anniversary to pass without marking the occasion,” Jane said serenely. “Yes,” Penvale said darkly. “What a special treat.” “You have no appreciation for romance,” Jane said, crossing her arms, though her frown slipped a bit when Penvale winked across the table at her.
Sophie glanced down the table at West and caught his eye; he offered her a small, private smile. On the first anniversary of their own wedding, earlier that summer, she had awoken to a single rose in a vase beside her bed, next to a handwritten itinerary for the day, including items such as Eat as many breakfast pastries as you can and Compromise your husband’s virtue out of doors. (This had been a particularly enjoyable one to check off.) Nora, as if sensing that her parents had mentioned her, gave a brief squawk in Sophie’s arms; she glanced down, startled, to see the baby blinking up at her, her face growing more red by the second. “Why does she look like this?” Sophie asked, alarmed, with a glance at Penvale and Jane. Despite the abundance of—entirely beloved—babies in her life, she was not remotely sorry that there had been no sign of one forthcoming for herself and West. “She always looks like that,” Penvale said, even as he rose to come collect his daughter. “She inherited it from her mother.” He skirted Jane’s chair, successfully dodging her attempt to elbow him in the stomach, and scooped Nora from Sophie’s arms. He sniffed, then grimaced. “Or there might be another reason.” “Aren’t you looking forward to the miracle of parenthood?” James asked Violet, as Nora began to squall in earnest. For a moment, the others—so distracted by Nora’s cries, which seemed to be spreading to the two other babies, like some sort of alarming plague—took no notice. After a couple of seconds, however, West blinked, then slowly turned to his brother and sister-in-law, who were seated next to each other at one end of the table. “Do you mean...?” “I hope so,” Violet said, smiling. “Otherwise I’ve been feeling decidedly awful for no reason at all.” She did, now that Sophie looked at her more closely, seem a bit pale, something that, if Sophie had noticed it earlier, she’d thought nothing of; it had been two years since Violet and James had reconciled, with no sign of a baby. Sophie hadn’t liked to pry, but she knew—thanks to one tearful confession, some months earlier—that Violet was growing concerned. “Oh!” Emily squealed, and flung herself out of her seat (“Don’t jostle the baby!” Belfry howled, as she passed Theodore to him hastily on her way) and into Violet’s arms, nearly knocking her from her chair. “I’m so pleased for you.” “Emily, for heaven’s sake, don’t knock her over or she’ll be sick all over you,” Diana said, with a faint shudder and an expression of grim recollection. She, too, however, rose to squeeze Violet’s shoulder. West, meanwhile, had clapped a hand on his brother’s back, and was now murmuring something in James’s ear, even as the rest of the room joined in the chorus of congratulations. West leaned back in his seat after a moment, making space for Jeremy to reach over and ruffle James’s hair affectionately; James, for his part, had a bit of color in his cheeks, and looked absurdly pleased. Sophie felt an overwhelming rush of fondness for her brother-in-law; unbidden, the memory arose of a ride in Hyde Park two years earlier, Jeremy by her side. They’d been in the process of ending their shortlived affair when they’d crossed paths with Violet and James, clearly in the midst of some serious discussion. James had proceeded to behave like an utter lunatic; bizarrely, that encounter had led to everything that had come after, up to and including this moment. There was movement next to her, and she started; she’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed that West had risen from his seat and made his way to her side, sinking down in the empty chair next to
hers. He reached an arm out, resting it on the back of her chair, his hand toying with the spot where the short sleeve on her evening gown met the bare skin of her arm. Gooseflesh rose in the wake of his touch, and she glanced sideways at him, smiling. “Are you regretting hosting yet?” she asked, tilting her head toward him so that she could be heard amid the cacophony of well-wishes and crying babies. The lines around his eyes de epened, and one side of his mouth curved up. “No.” He leaned over, unheeding of whoever might be looking, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to her lips. “I don’t regret a single moment that has passed since the day you agreed to marry me.” Sophie regarded him sk eptically. “Not even acc epting Penvale’s invitation to go swimming in the Serpentine on Christmas Day?” West grimaced at the memory. “It was invigorating.” “I recall some more colorful language being employed at the time.” “It certainly taught me a lesson about the merits of cold-water swimming.” “Oh?” Sophie tilted her head. “Which are?” “The lesson,” West said, straight-faced, “is that there are none.” Sophie let out a peal of laughter at that, and West smiled—a real smile, one that lit his face and made him look years younger. And then she said—because it was true, and the first thing that sprang to mind, even if it did sound slightly mad—“I’m so glad that Violet decided to feign a case of consumption.” West’s smile softened slightly as he gazed at her. “I am, too.” Soon, the babies would be retrieved by their nannies; later, the group would retreat to the library for a game of charades and ill-advised quantities of brandy and sherry; even later than that, West would take her by the hand after bidding the last of their guests good night, leading her up the stairs and along the winding corridors to their bedroom, where he would remove her clothes slowly, and take her to bed while moonlight spilled into the room through an open window. The next morning, she would awaken to sunshine and the knowledge that her sisters would soon be here, and she would wander downstairs to breakfast with a smile on her face that she could not suppress, possessed by the joy that filled every corner of her life. But for now, she sat with West’s arm curled around her shoulders, in a noisy room surrounded by their friends—and this, in and of itself, was enough.