Seven years earlier Sophie was not overly contrary by nature, but she was not certain how much more of her mother’s giddy delight she could handle. After two and a half Seasons of increasing despair that her daughter would ever make a happy match, she now seemed to be relishing every moment of Sophie’s courtship. Sophie herself had no complaints about said courtship, but she was occasionally possessed of the wild, absurd thought that it would be rather satisfying if West were a disr eputable, fortune-hunting rake instead of a marquess of impeccable r eputation, just to see her mother’s reaction. Then, as if on cue: “Is West calling today, darling?” Lady Wexham trilled down the breakfast table, interrupting Sophie’s thoughts. Sophie suppressed a sigh by taking a healthy sip of tea. Next to her, Harriet’s spine straightened, her head turning eagerly; the twins were fourteen, and—in their minds—heartbreakingly far from their own debuts, and so they were living vicariously through Sophie’s spring of romantic intrigue. “Of course he is,” Maria said with an eye roll. “He calls every day.” Her words were softened by the teasing grin she directed at her sister; Maria seemed rather fond of West. “I think it’s sweet,” Alexandra said with a soft smile; her debut was still a couple of years away and, unlike the twins, she was not overly eager to make her curtsey. She was in the habit of cheerfully waving Sophie and Maria off to whatever their evening’s entertainment was with a sketchpad or novel in hand, clearly relishing the prospect of a quiet night at home. (Or, rather, as quiet as it was possible for an evening at the Wexham home to be, given that it was inhabited by Harriet and Betsy.) “We are going to an exhibition at the Royal Academy,” Sophie reminded her mother patiently, ignoring all of her sisters. “You agreed to chaperone us for this outing, don’t you recall?” “Oh, of course,” her mother said vaguely, not sounding remotely concerned about her solemn duty to protect the virtue of her eldest child; West had charmed her so thoroughly that she clearly did not think she need worry about any ungentlemanly behavior from that quarter. So far, this assumption had proved correct—which Sophie was beginning to find a bit disappointing. She didn’t wish to be ruined, of course, and she knew that West was far too honorable to take too many liberties, but surely a kiss or two was not too much to hope for? She knew that she ought not to hope for any such thing until a betrothal, but, well... She’d been so frightfully well-behaved her entire life, and particularly these past few years. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to be a little bit naughty, just once? These thoughts had not left her mind by the time West called for her and her mother that afternoon; he presented himself at their door in a green jacket and waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes, swe eping his top hat off for a polite bow over Lady Wexham’s hand, and then Sophie’s. “You both look lovely today,” he said, but his eyes were on Sophie as he spoke, and she smiled at him, resisting the urge to blush. This moment was interrupted unceremoniously by Harriet and Betsy colliding into Sophie’s back, nearly sending her toppling to the floor; West reached out and seized her elbow to steady her. “Girls!” Lady Wexham suddenly sounded precisely as exhausted as one might expect of a woman with five daughters, all still living at home. “I believe I sent you upstairs for your music lesson a quarter of an hour ago, and I know from the sounds emanating from the music
room that you have not improved sufficiently to cut your lesson short.” “We told Mr. Cumberland that we needed to visit the retiring room,” Harriet informed her mother cheerfully. “He looked positively mortified and didn’t ask any further questions.” “I’m certain he didn’t,” Lady Wexham muttered; the twins’ music master was a young, exceedingly polite gentleman who, while apparently a virtuoso on the pianoforte, was quite plainly mildly terrified of his pupils. Sophie could not entirely blame him. “I felt rather bad, embarrassing him,” Betsy said a touch wistfully. “He does have such soulful eyes, you know; I should hate to cause him undue agony.” Betsy was the more romantic of the twins, as proved by the disgusted snort Harriet offered in response. Sophie cast a quick glance at West, still standing politely in the entryway, watching this frankly deranged scene unfold. He caught her eye and winked at her, then st epped forward and said gravely, “Miss Harriet. Miss Elisabeth. What an unexpected pleasure.” He bowed over their hands, just as elegantly as he would any lady of the ton; Betsy blushed a bright red, while Harriet smiled coyly at West in a way that made Sophie think grimly that they were going to have to ke ep quite a careful eye on her in a few years. Not, she supposed, that that was anything out of the ordinary; since the twins were six years her junior, she’d been ke eping an eye on them from the time they were old enough to walk, never quite trusting that their nannies and governesses were up to the task of ke eping them in check. (This had proved, on more than one occasion, to be a well-founded concern on Sophie’s part.) “West, Maria says she does not think Mama will be a terribly effective chaperone,” Harriet said briskly, and Sophie contemplated suffocating herself— or her sister; she wasn’t picky at the moment—with her bonnet. “Harriet!” Maria’s horrified voice wafted down the stairs from whichever landing she was lurking on to eavesdrop. “It’s true!” Harriet called, tilting her head back so that her voice would carry up the stairs. “You said that Mama would be perfectly happy to allow West to compromise Sophie behind a piece of statuary if it would hasten a wedding!” “Harriet Catherine Wexham.” Lady Wexham actually reached out and clapped her hand over her daughter’s mouth. Betsy leaned forward confidingly; Sophie felt a sense of great doom. “Mama would never allow you to compromise Sophie behind a piece of statuary,” she said to West, wide-eyed and earnest. A muffled protestation on Harriet’s part was, mercifully, unintelligible. “They’re not private enough. If I were you, I would try to sneak her out to a garden somewhere instead.” She paused, thoughtful. “Gardens are much more secluded, and very romantic, too.” She gave a happy little sigh, then beamed at West as though she’d just shared a treasured family secret. “Thank you, Miss Elisabeth,” West said, straight-faced. “I shall take that under advisement—I am, as it happens, very fond of gardens myself.” He gave her a brief, cheeky grin, then turned to Sophie and offered his arm. “Shall we? I believe there is art to view and virtue to be compromised.” And, choking on her own laughter, Sophie allowed him to escort her out the door. While the Wexham daughters undoubtedly had a bit of a talent for exaggeration, their impression of their mother’s attentiveness as a chaperone was not entirely inaccurate. And West, for one, was quite grateful for this. It had been three weeks since the night he’d met Sophie at that horrifying musicale, and he felt... feverish. He called on her every afternoon, bringing flowers to her mother and charming her sisters, until he was at last permitted to take Sophie on a walk around the square, or perhaps a drive in the park. They danced twice at every ball; they talked for hours, about everything and nothing. He’d never met anyone whom he found so endlessly fascinating, and he wasn’t even certain as to why—she was a well-bred English lady, with the limited experiences that that implied. And yet, he loved her mind—she was sharply observant, often piping up with a
sly comment or clever joke that caught him off guard, surprising a laugh out of him. He’d never laughed so much in his life, he didn’t think, as he had the past three weeks. “Do you think the artist was having an affair with the subject of this painting?” West blinked, drawn from his thoughts by the matter-of-fact question from the golden-haired, bonneted, allegedly innocent young lady at his side. He paused to consider the painting, and instantly understood why she’d asked the question: There was a certain air of intimacy to the portrait that was absent from most portraits of members of their class. More to the point, however: “What do you know of affairs?” He slid a sideways glance toward her; of course she wasn’t blushing. She rarely did. He found himself occasionally making comments, innuendos, specifically for the purpose of seeing if he could make her cheeks turn pink, because she looked lovely when she blushed, and he liked the knowledge that he was the cause. He liked everything about her, full stop. He’d never felt this way about anyone in his entire life; David had teased him about it (“So much for sowing your wild oats—are you truly intending to marry at the age of twenty-four?”), and James had seemed perplexed but delighted (“She’s very pretty, and I like her a great deal, but I didn’t think you interested in marriage”). Even Hawthorne, his valet—when he wasn’t preoccupied with his increasingly heated rivalry with the butler—had begun to twit him for his increased attentiveness to the state of his attire (“Do you think to woo this lady with impressive cravat knots?”). It felt as though his entire life had been turned on its ear on that evening three weeks ago. And he, who liked things to be orderly, for everything to go according to a carefully laid plan, found that this complete unsettlement of his existence was... Well, it was bloody wonderful. What on earth? “Nothing from my own household, I assure you,” Sophie said, in answer to his question. “Mama and Papa are almost nauseatingly happy, as I’ve told you. But one does hear rumors.” “Does one? I must make more of an effort to converse with the latest crop of debutantes.” Sophie swatted him on the arm. “Not from debutantes, of course. But the young widows are... quite merry. And not always mindful of who else might be in the retiring room when they are gossiping among themselves.” West had only the vaguest notion of the mysteries that occurred within the confines of the ladies’ retiring room, and was too afraid to inquire further. Sophie turned to face him fully. “Have you ever had an affair with a married lady?” Her tone was thoughtful, inquisitive, and her gaze on him was steady; West, absurdly, felt awkward, as if he were the virgin in this conversation. He cleared his throat, and glanced around them; the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy was, predictably, quite crowded, but there was no one in their immediate vicinity who might overhear this conversation and spread the word that the Marquess of Weston had taken to corrupting young ladies. He’d made a halfhearted attempt to cultivate a r eputation as a rake, upon arriving in town a few years earlier after leaving Oxford, but had never had the stomach for it, to David’s disgust. How irritating if he should inadvertently become known for corrupting innocents, all because he’d taken it into his head to court a supposedly well-behaved viscount’s daughter.
“I have not,” he said in an undertone, taking her by the elbow to draw her closer, leaning his head down so that he wouldn’t be overheard. “I don’t—well —” He felt awkward at what he was about to admit, though he wasn’t certain why he should feel embarrassed. “I’ve enjoyed... friendships... with widows before. But never a lady whose husband was still living. It seems unsporting.” Something in Sophie’s face softened as she gazed up at him. “Unsporting,” she r epeated, the appearance of a dimple signaling the smile she was attempting to hide. “That makes it sound like I’m discussing cricket, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “I don’t have much recollection of my parents’ marriage—my mother died when I was quite young—but I’ve always thought that if a lady was willing to entrust me with her body and fortune and, well, her life, then the least I could do would be honor our wedding vows, and ensure that she was as happy as I was capable of making her.” Something that he was not entirely certain had been the case with his own parents’ marriage; he had vague memories of a melancholy mother, one who adored her sons but who never seemed terribly... joyful. Not that he knew for certain, of course; his memories were the fuzzy ones of a young boy, and this was certainly not a topic he’d ever raised with his father. Sophie regarded him steadily, then reached out with a gloved hand to take his, squeezing it. “I think you would make a lady very happy,” she said softly, her gaze never leaving his, her hand feeling small and precious within his grasp. “Do you?” he asked, offering her a half-smile. She smiled back at him. “Do you think we could find a piece of statuary or a garden?” His smile widened. “None appear to be immediately at hand,” he said slowly. “But if you’d permit me to escort you to the retiring room, I feel certain we can find an empty hallway that would serve.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and, as he escorted Sophie from the room, gave thanks that Maria was right, and Lady Wexham was really not a very good chaperone at all.