West had not realized his hearing would begin failing him at the age of one-andthirty. Admittedly, he thought he’d understood every word Lady Fitzwilliam had uttered up until this point perfectly well, but clearly some sort of alarming hearing loss had befallen him. Or, an even more disturbing prospect: Perhaps he had lost his mind. Did people now speak perfectly reasonable sentences to him, only for him to interpret them as bits of utter lunacy? Because surely there had to be some explanation for the fact that Sophie Wexham had just asked him to marry her. God, he’d even relapsed to the point of calling her by her maiden name in his thoughts—things were well and truly dire. Because he never allowed himself to think of her as such—not since he’d awoken after his curricle accident seven years ago, to the news that the young lady to whom he planned to propose had gone and married one of his school friends while he’d been lying in his sickbed with a badly broken leg and out of his mind with fever. She was always—during the years of her marriage, and in the four years since she’d been widowed—Lady Fitzwilliam, both in voice and thought. Anything else felt far too risky. “I beg your pardon?” The words were stiff. “I’d like us to become engaged,” Lady Fitzwilliam—not Sophie—said, her voice quiet, reasonable. “Not in truth, naturally, but merely for the rest of the Season, or perhaps a little longer—however long it takes Alexandra to see that I’m happy, acc ept Blackford’s proposal, and get married.” “And you think that she won’t be made a bit suspicious by this sudden turn of events?” Lady Fitzwilliam avoided his eyes. “Alex has always thought that you and I— that is to say—” She blew out a frustrated breath. “She believed that we might one day be wed, and so I think that she would likely view such an announcement as...” “As us coming to our senses at last?” “Essentially, yes.” West was silent for a long moment, allowing his gaze to wander away from her toward the dancing flames in the fir eplace. He was grateful for the faint hiss and pop of the fire, as it prevented him from listening to the sound of her breathing. He needed to think—and he found this peculiarly difficult to do when he was in her company. “It would all be for show,” Lady Fitzwilliam assured him, rushing to fill the silence. “It’s obvious that, given—well, given events of the past, any marriage between us would be completely impossible....”
She was still speaking, but West had ceased listening. Impossible. She was right—of course she was right. He knew that, understood it logically. There was too much history there, too much hurt. They’d thought to marry once, and where had it left them? With West shattered by grief from the loss of his best friend and the woman he’d been in love with, and with Lady Fitzwilliam married to another man, one he’d thought to call a friend. West and Lady Fitzwilliam, together, clearly left nothing but pain and destruction in their wake; there could be no future for them. And yet, until this moment, and the sharp pain that gripped him at hearing her utter this assurance so calmly, with such quiet certainty, he hadn’t realized how desperately he wanted just that. He wanted to marry her. Still, after all this time, he wanted it so badly that it was like a physical pain within him. He’d suppressed it, these past seven years, not allowed his mind to dwell on her—had gone to considerable lengths to avoid any situation that would put them in the same room. But then she’d had that damned affair with Jeremy, of all people, last summer—and ever since, she’d cr ept slowly but steadily back into his life. And now he’d been forced to acknowledge something that had been lingering at the corners of his mind all along: He. Still. Wanted. To. Marry. Her. He was an idiot. Which meant that the logical, correct thing to do—the course of action that would prevent any further heartache on his part—would be to tell her, in no uncertain terms, that he would not participate in her ruse. Surely she could find another way to ensure her sister’s happiness, one that did not in volve lying to everyone they knew. One that did not in volve him pretending the very thing that he still wished for above all else—that she had previously told him, quite clearly, she was unwilling to offer. He opened his mouth to do just that—and then he paused. And his conversation with his father earlier that morning suddenly came to mind, the threat that was hanging over him like a dark cloud: Marry or lose Rosemere. And West, who was not a naturally devious man, felt a thrill of positively devious delight course through him. Lady Fitzwilliam frowned. “Why do you look... like that?” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and looked directly at her. “Because I think that a betrothal sounds like a perfectly splendid idea.” The Risedale ball had quickly become one of Sophie’s favorite events each Season; the Earl and Countess of Risedale had a large home in St. James’s—just around the corner from West’s—and the countess had, upon her marriage a couple of years earlier, taken it upon herself to oversee an extensive renovation of the ballroom, which now resembled nothing so much as an orangery. There was a wall lined with windows overlooking the extensive terraced gardens, and the ceiling, too, was made of glass; ordinarily, Sophie imagined, one would be able to look up and see the dark sky above, but tonight, with the room filled with candles, a magnificent chandelier suspended from one of the iron supporting bars, the light from within was reflected back at her in the glass, the outside world invisible. An appropriate metaphor for the ton, come to think of it. She and West had agreed that there was little purpose in postponing their ruse, and the Risedale ball was a perfect opportunity to commence it; the Countess of Risedale was Blackford’s sister, meaning he and
Alexandra were certain to attend. Sophie had hesitated briefly, wondering if Alexandra would suspect something if she seemed to fall too readily into West’s arms, but quickly discarded this concern. People, she had found, were quite eager to see what they wished; like it or not, Sophie’s reunion with West was precisely what Alexandra wished to see. She wouldn’t prove difficult to convince. Therefore, a mere three days after her visit to West’s home, she found herself standing in a ballroom, making idle conversation with Violet, and attempting to convince herself that she wasn’t looking for him out of the corner of her eye. “Is something wrong?” Violet asked, after Sophie had started for the third time in as many minutes; she k ept catching glimpses of tall, dark-haired, broadshouldered men and thinking, for a split second, that they were West, until her body almost immediately seemed to realize its mistake, even before her eyes could confirm it. “Nothing,” Sophie said brightly, taking a larger-than-planned gulp of champagne from the flute in her hand; she coughed, then coughed again, trying to catch her breath. Someone appeared next to her, pressing a monogrammed handkerchief into her hand. Glancing up through watering eyes, she found that it was James Audley, West’s brother. “Are you all right?” Audley asked, mildly concerned. “Haven’t caught some deadly illness, have you?” He turned to regard his wife. “Why are you looking at me?” Violet demanded. “Because I believe you are the expert on life-threatening diseases among our set. If you will recall, you had quite a scare last summer.” Audley uttered this solemnly, but there was a telltale twinkle in his eye. “I’m fine,” Sophie said at last, her coughing subsiding. “Champagne is dangerous, apparently.” “So is your sister,” Audley said darkly. “Which one?” “Harriet.” He took a sip of his own champagne. “She cornered me to make all sorts of inquiries about a horse she’s thinking of buying. She seemed to want something fast.” “That does sound like Harriet,” Sophie said, suppressing a smile. “And intimidating,” he added. “I believe her exact words were, ‘I want Hyacinth Montmorency to quiver in her boots when she sees me on horseback.’” Sophie lost the battle with her smile. “She and Miss Montmorency have been friends since they were girls.” Audley blinked. “Friends? She described her like a foe on the battlefield.” “Yes,” Sophie agreed. “They have a bit of a... healthy rivalry. Hyacinth is still unwed and Harriet is a bit jealous.” Audley frowned. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Oh, no,” Sophie assured him. “Harriet considers it a great achievement to be a single woman of means. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself when she fell in love with George and married at the very respectable age of nineteen.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “Also, she’s always been envious that Hyacinth has a much more interesting ‘H’ name than she does.” By this point, Audley looked frankly mystified. Violet patted her husband’s arm in a vaguely condescending way, and said, “It’s too complex for a man to understand, James; don’t fret too much.” Audley’s expression shifted from confused to appalled. “You make me sound like a fussing child.” “I believe I, too, have made that comparison before,” came a familiar voice from behind them, and they turned; Jeremy had materialized in their midst. He clutched a glass of champagne in one hand and was craning his neck around as if in search of someone. “Haven’t seen Diana, have you?” he asked. “That way,” Violet said, nodding to her left. “She was dancing with Lord Henry Cavendish.” “Cavendish,” Jeremy pronounced darkly; Sophie wasn’t entirely certain she blamed him, given Cavendish’s r eputation. (Although, in the interest of fairness, said r eputation wasn’t much worse than Jeremy’s had been before his marriage.) “He was looking quite handsome this evening,” Violet added mischievously, and Jeremy rolled his eyes. “His trousers were very tight-fitting,” Sophie said, all innocence; Jeremy scowled at her, but before he could say anything else, Violet called brightly, “West!” Sophie took a de ep breath, then glanced down at her half-empty glass of champagne, taking a small sip as West joined their loose circle and greeted everyone in turn. There was an infinitesimal pause before he said, “Lady Fitzwilliam,” and she turned to offer him her hand. She wished she didn’t still feel a bit like a flustered schoolgirl in his presence, though she was fairly certain she was able to hide it well. “West,” she said calmly, very aware of Violet, Audley, and Jeremy’s eyes all fixed on this unremarkable exchange of polite greetings. “I enjoyed running into you at Hatchards yesterday,” West r eplied; they had decided that they ought to allude to some sort of precipitating incident that had occurred out of sight of their friends, so that this sudden thawing of relations between two people who had gone to considerable lengths to avoid being alone together would not seem too strange and unlikely. “As did I,” she said, taking another sip of champagne. “Did you find the book you were looking for?” “I did.” He inclined his head. “I inquired at the counter, and they had another copy tucked away in the back room.” “I’m so glad.” Sophie didn’t dare look at their friends as she spoke; doubtless they were watching this exchange with some degree of curiosity as to why West and Sophie were conducting a conversation that sounded as though it had been scripted for two matrons swapping pleasantries in the village shop. She met West’s gaze, and while his expression was all polite inquiry, there was a trace of amusement lurking in his eyes. She was not certain someone who did not know him well would have been able to spot it, even though she had
not counted herself as such a person in a very long time. It was what she had loved about him, once: his serious demeanor, and the sense of humor he hid beneath it. She drained her glass of champagne. “May I fetch you another drink?” he said, taking this as the cue it was. “Oh, I can do it myself,” she assured him. “If you would be so kind as to escort me to the refreshment tables, though...” She gazed at him coyly through her lashes. “I would be honored,” he said, and offered her his arm. She turned to flutter her fingers in a wave at Violet, Audley, and Jeremy, who were all witnessing this little tableau with expressions ranging from incandescent hope and joy (Violet) to utter confusion (Audley) to amusement (Jeremy). As soon as Sophie was certain they were out of earshot, she murmured, “Have you seen Alexandra?” West tilted his head toward the dance floor. “She’s waltzing with Blackford at the moment.” His arm was stiff under Sophie’s hand, his gait slightly uneven, but his back was straight and tall, his jaw closely shaven, his cravat tied in an elaborate knot so precise that she wondered idly if his valet had used a ruler to ensure that it was perfectly even. Nothing but the best would suffice for the Marquess of Weston, of course. “Do you think you should ask me to dance?” She glanced sideways in time to see his hesitation. “I don’t dance often. Ever since my... accident”—she noticed the faint hesitation before he uttered the word—“I’m a bit awkward at it.” And he, naturally, could not bear to be awkward at anything, she thought. Sophie did not care to linger on the memory of what it had once felt like to waltz with him, his hand at her waist, their bodies pressed close. “If it will hurt your leg—” she began, a bit hesitant, but he interrupted immediately. “Plenty of things I do hurt my leg. That is not my concern.” His voice was curt, and she determinedly did not look at him as they continued their slow progress toward the refreshment tables. She tried not to think about the accident that had led to his injury, unable to suppress the thought of the life she might have lived, had West and Willingham not raced that day. It was painful to consider, like staring directly at the sun; she came at the thought from sneaky angles occasionally, when she was feeling particularly morose, then just as quickly retreated when she grew overwhelmed by the mere act of considering some alternate reality in which Willingham lived, in which West had not been injured, in which she and West... “I would not wish to ruin a waltz you might enjoy with some other, more surefooted partner,” he continued, interrupting this thought before she could allow it to take hold. He paused, cast her a considering glance, and then added in a low voice, “No matter how appealing the prospect of waltzing with you might be.” Sophie glanced at him, startled; his tone had not softened, and he was looking away from her, his gaze taking in their surroundings, but that had sounded an awful lot like...
Flirting. She did not know what to do with a West who was flirting with her. It had been seven years since she’d flirted with him; a lifetime ago. He, certainly, seemed like an entirely different man than the one she’d once exchanged sly smiles with across crowded rooms. The West she had known back then had been serious, yes, but still young—still certain that the world would arrange itself to his liking. Still amused by the ton, delighted by the joy of flirting with a pretty girl. The West she knew—or, rather, didn’t know—now was someone else entirely. Sterner— sadder, she sometimes thought. Careful with his words, careful not to reveal too much of his thoughts. For this man to flirt with her was... well, she supposed it was expected, for the sake of their ruse, but she found herself peculiarly flustered by it. “Perhaps at the next ball, then,” she said lightly. “I think we’ve already given our friends plenty to discuss.” She suppressed a wild desire to laugh at the memory of their confused expressions. How odd it felt, to walk like this with him, no one else to act as a buffer between them. It was not the only time they had been alone in the past seven years—there had been a memorable afternoon four Junes ago, one that she did not allow her thoughts to dwell on; there had been, too, a handful of occasions in the past year, as they’d found themselves increasingly drawn into each other’s orbits. A quick walk along a garden path at a country house. A tense, mostly silent escort through the doors of Belfry’s theater. A murmured exchange in a hallway in a manor house overlooking the sea. Each of these instances stood out, bright as a jewel, in her memory. None of them had felt easy, however, and she realized that tonight she felt lighter, somehow, than she had done on any of those occasions. The roles they had to play for their scheme allowed them a bit of liberation, and Sophie was unexpectedly grateful for it. They had reached the refreshment table, and Sophie allowed him to fill a glass with lemonade for her; much as she wanted another glass of champagne, to ease whatever the rest of the evening would bring, she thought it best not to drink too much when she was going to be in close proximity to him. He turned, handing her the lemonade, and their fingers brushed. Her eyes caught his and held. She’d forgotten about the particular darker shade of green his eyes took on in the evenings, in candlelight—a shade mossier and less clear than the vivid hue they were in daylight. A curl from his carefully combed hair threatened to break ranks and tumble onto his forehead, and she was possessed of a nearly irresistible desire to reach up and brush it back into place. But that was dangerous—too dangerous. Because while she was not fool enough to deny the attraction that still crackled between them, she knew that they could not act upon it—not when any sort of future between them was impossible. Did he still want her? She’d never considered herself a vain creature, and yet she felt utterly certain that he did, if for no other reason than her unwillingness to believe that a desire this strong could hover in the air between two people without it being experienced on both ends. She knew there was plenty of unrequited love—and lust—in the world, but that was not what this was. She was certain. She took a sip of lemonade and gave him her best attempt at a pleased smile, but he did not appear to be fooled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then his gaze flicked somewhere over her shoulder and
caught there. “Your sister’s coming.” “Which one?” “Alexandra.” Indeed, Sophie belatedly registered that the waltz had ended, and the orchestra had struck up a quadrille instead. She took a casual sip of her lemonade, not turning to watch Alexandra approach. “Laugh as if I’ve just said something amusing,” she murmured to West. “Do you really think that your sister will be convinced by the sight of me cackling like a lunatic?” Sophie let out an annoyed sigh, though he had a point—he was not, perhaps, the world’s most jovial man. So instead, she let out a high-pitched giggle. West gave her an exceedingly sk eptical look. “If your aim is to convince your sister that we have rekindled a long-lost love, it would perhaps be best if I were not grimacing in acute horror whilst she approaches.” “You were unwilling to laugh, so I had to! The least you could do is appear mildly amused, as if we have shared some secret joke. I understand that anything beyond moderate amusement would be more feeling than the famed Marquess of Weston is capable of expressing, but I thought you might be able to stretch your muscles at least this far.” West shot her a look. “If you think the noise you just uttered is what one emits when one is amused, then I shall make a mental note never to make you laugh again in your life.” “I don’t think there’s much risk of that,” Sophie muttered; that eyebrow went up again, in irritation this time. Before he could r eply, Alexandra’s voice broke into their discussion. “Sophie! And West! How... unexpected!” Sophie turned to see Alexandra, on Blackford’s arm, surveying herself and West with naked interest that she wasn’t even attempting to disguise. “Mrs. Brown-Montague.” West st epped forward to bow over Alexandra’s hand and shake hands with Blackford, any sign of his irritation of only moments before already erased. “How nice to see the two of you together,” Alexandra said, looking eagerly back and forth between them. “We were just reminiscing about...” Sophie faltered. “Cornwall,” West reminded her. “We both recently attended a house party in Cornwall hosted by Lord Penvale.” “Yes,” Alexandra said, with an undue amount of emphasis. “How interesting that you were both in attendance.” “As we are both friends of Penvale’s, I do not actually believe it is so terribly interesting.” Sophie smiled sweetly at her sister. “It seems more in the line of how invitations generally work.”
“And friendships,” West added. “I believe my brother and sister-in-law were there as well,” Blackford said after a momentary pause; he was giving Alexandra a mildly confused look, but seemed to think that someone should attempt to salvage this conversation. “Oh, the newlyweds,” Alexandra said dramatically. “Well,” Blackford said reasonably, “it has actually been the better part of nine months since they wed—” “And now she is expecting a baby! How delightful!” Alexandra said, clasping her hands together more rapturously than the imminent arrival of a single baby perhaps merited. “Babies are, indeed, delightful,” Sophie agreed, amused, before deciding that the best strategy at this juncture would be to extricate herself from this exceedingly bizarre conversation, which had by now more or less served its purpose. “It has been so lovely running into both of you—” “But I fear my friends are awaiting our return,” West added smoothly, inclining his head in the direction of his brother and sister-in-law, who—from what Sophie could tell from a distance—had been joined by some of their other friends, all of whom were doing a dreadful job of pretending not to be watching West and Sophie from across the room. “Of course, of course,” Alexandra said brightly. “And I’m sure you two have much to... discuss... between yourselves?” Sophie suspected she would be the recipient of a breakfast visit the following morning. “Indeed,” Sophie agreed, and she and West turned to continue their progress around the room. “I believe I am sweating,” West observed after a moment. “Does your sister normally have that effect on men?” “You’d have to ask Blackford. I’m not certain I’m cut out for this either—I feel like a horse who’s just raced at Ascot.” This surprised a laugh out of West—a real laugh, one that she had not heard from him in a long, long time. She had forgotten how much his face lit up when he laughed, how much younger he looked. Their eyes caught and held, and she felt it again—that spark between them, evident from the very first night they’d met. It was the reason none of the men she’d flirted with in the years since her widowhood—even Jeremy, with whom she’d had an affair last summer—had come close to matching the West of her memories. She experienced a pang of longing as they made their way back toward their friends, but she fixed a serene smile upon her face and did what she had become quite skilled at doing: She ignored it.