Sophie, not wishing to leave anything to chance, appeared in her parents’ breakfast room at nine o’clock the
following morning. “Darling,” her mother said, glancing up in surprise from a letter in her hand, “has someone
died?” Across the table from Lady Wexham, her husband lowered his newspaper. Not waiting for a response,
Lady Wexham continued, “Is one of the children ill? Is Betsy well? Did Harriet challenge someone to a duel?”
“I—what?” Lady Wexham set down her letter. “I don’t know! I simply wished to offer all the most likely
possibilities!” Sophie dropped a kiss atop first her father’s head, then her mother’s. “Everyone is fine. Am I not
permitted to join my parents for breakfast?” “Not at this hour,” her mother said, looking equal parts relieved
and suspicious. “Besides, I thought you were fixated on your cook’s breakfast pastries.” “I can barely manage
to eat one before the twins descend,” Sophie said. “Dining here seems quite restful by comparison.” She
reached forward to pour herself a cup of tea. She did not think West would call so early, but she wanted to beat
him to the punch. During the carriage ride home the evening before, he had not been remotely r epentant for
having surprised her with his plan to seek her father’s blessing, so she had decided to steal a march on him.
Sophie rose and drifted toward the sideboard, considering the options— noticeably lacking in any pastries, as
usual, she noted with a sigh—before piling her plate with eggs, conscious of her parents’ eyes on her all the
while. Back at the table, she set about briskly buttering a few slices of toast, spooning eggs atop one before
taking a bite. She polished off one slice, then another, before taking a
sip of tea, setting down her cup with a gentle clink of china, fixing her mother with a determined look, and
saying, “Mama, I’ve something I wish to tell you.”
“I assumed you did not appear here solely out of a desire to breakfast with your parents,” Lady Wexham
said. She had not resumed her perusal of her letter, but had instead spent the past few minutes regarding her
daughter as one might look on a mystifying creature at the zoo.
“Yes, well,” Sophie said, a bit she epish, “what I wanted to—” She broke off at a faint sound. Was that the
front door opening? She glanced at the clock. Seven past nine. Surely not—
But, yes, she was now fairly certain she heard footst eps approaching.
She turned her attention back to her mildly perplexed parents. “What I wanted to tell you is, I’ve agreed—”
At the sound of a throat clearing, she glanced over her shoulder to see that her parents’ butler had entered
the room.
“Yes, Mournday?” her mother asked.
“The Marquess of Weston is here to see you, my lord,” Mournday said, looking toward her father. “He
apologizes for the impolite hour, but I showed him to your study, as he said it was urgent.”
Sophie huffed out an irritated breath.
“Thank you, Mournday,” her father said with a faint frown; as soon as the butler had retreated, both parents
turned inquiring gazes upon Sophie.
She offered them a faint smile. “Do you feel like planning a wedding, Mama?”
West was mildly embarrassed to realize that he was, of all things, nervous. He stood in Lord Wexham’s
study, his hands resting on his cane without taking much of his weight, gazing at the portrait of the Wexham
daughters that had pride of place above the fir eplace. The sight of this portrait made him feel vaguely fond of a
man who would so proudly display his daughters in a room that was ostensibly for business; he st epped closer,
his eyes drawn magnetically toward the eldest daughter. Sophie looked younger, but not shockingly so; he
guessed this portrait had been done at some point in the past five years, based on
the appearance of the twins, who looked approximately of debuting age. Sophie was smiling softly, her
expression inscrutable; he realized, with a jolt of surprise, that that complicated, opaque expression had become
familiar to him, over the past seven years. She had never been terribly emotional, but she’d been easier to read
when she was younger, her expressions less guarded.
He wondered how much he was to blame for the change in her.
Hearing footst eps, he turned in time to see Lord Wexham walk into the room, pause, and shut the door
behind him. Sophie’s father was, judging by appearances, a few years younger than West’s father; tallish, but
not imposing, with sandy hair that had largely turned to gray, and a face marked by laugh lines. He gave the
impression of a man who was entirely content with the circumstances of his life; West had always liked him a
great deal.
At the moment, Wexham was looking at him with an expression best described as a cross between irritation
and amusement.
“Weston.” Wexham extended his hand, which West shook.
“Lord Wexham. Thank you for seeing me so early.”
“It appears to be a trend this morning,” Wexham said, sounding faintly amused. Seeing West’s inquiring
glance, he added dryly, “My daughter is currently sitting at my breakfast table.”
West did not have to ask which daughter he meant.
“Sit down,” Wexham said, gesturing at one of the chairs opposite his desk, behind which he seated himself.
He braced his elbows on the dark mahogany surface, pressed his fingertips together, and surveyed West evenly.
He did not say anything else, and, after a moment, West took this as an invitation to speak.
“Sophie has agreed to marry me,” he said, because he could hardly say Sophie has asked me to pretend I’ve
asked her to marry me instead.
“Has she?” Wexham drummed his fingertips together once, twice. “Are you asking my permission? A bit
belated, if she’s already said yes, I think?” His tone was mild, but his gaze was sharp.
“Sophie is an adult, sir, and knows her own mind. We do not need your permission to marry... but we
would appreciate your blessing.” West was excruciatingly uncomfortable as he spoke, the words feeling like a
mockery of
the conversation he’d hoped to have with Wexham seven years earlier—one that had never occurred.
Silence met these words, one that lengthened without Wexham displaying any inclination to break it. He
continued to gaze at West, his brown eyes so similar to those of his daughter, his expression thoughtful.
“This is the second time someone has asked to marry Sophie, as you well know,” he said. He leaned back in
his seat, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. His gaze wandered up to the ceiling as he spoke. “And both
times, it’s come as a surprise. Bridewell’s father was a school chum of mine—did you know that?” He glanced
down in time to see West shake his head. “I’d always liked Fitz, but you could have knocked me over with a
feather when he asked to marry my daughter—I wasn’t even aware they were acquainted. But he assured me
they’d come to some sort of understanding—Sophie herself was waiting outside the study door for the entire
conversation. I’ve never been interested in dictating my daughters’ matrimonial choices, as long as they weren’t
attempting to marry complete bounders, so I said yes.” His gaze dropped back to West’s now, razor sharp. “But
he was not the man I’d been expecting—hoping—to have that conversation with.” He paused a moment,
presumably to ensure that West took his meaning.
“I do not know what passed between you and Sophie, seven years ago. I presume it was some idiocy to do
with young love and too many emotions; I wonder now if I should have said no to poor Fitz when he asked for
her hand— forced her to wait a bit, so that you might have mended whatever it was that had gone wrong
between you.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I love my wife a great deal, Weston; I do not think Fitz and Sophie
were unhappy, precisely, but it gave me pain to see her in a marriage that did not seem as happy as mine has
been.”
“You and Lady Wexham have been very fortunate, sir,” West said quietly. One only needed to look at the
many examples of unhappy marriages that surrounded them in the ton to understand just how fortunate. He
wondered idly if Sophie was aware of how clearly her father had seen her marriage—she, who was so fixated
on ensuring that no one in her family had any cause to fret over her.
“We have,” Wexham agreed. “A fact I reflect on nearly every day. My other daughters seem similarly
fortunate.” Another pause. “I would wish that for Sophie, too. And I am more pleased than I can say that you
two have worked things out at last.” He stood, and West did as well, automatically reaching across the desk to
take the hand Wexham was offering him. “I merely wish for her to be happy, West. And I know that you can
make her so.” If only, West thought—as they left the study and returned to the breakfast room, where he was
greeted by a tearful embrace from Lady Wexham, and an exasperated look from his supposed fiancée—he
could convince Sophie of that.