Seven years earlier Sophie would always remember that particular morning at the breakfast table, because she had never seen her parents’ faces so grim. The Wexham household was one of laughter and joy, overall; there were quarrels, as was to be expected in a home full of five daughters, but these were mended readily enough, and did not tend to cause lasting damage. Which was why, when she entered the breakfast room after a second consecutive night of interrupted sle ep, her thoughts occupied by her conversation with the Duke of Dovington at the Haverford ball, the sight of her parents’ solemn, pale faces had stopped her in her tracks. She did not recall precisely what words they had used to inform her of the news; her memories of that conversation would always be fragmented. Curricle accident. Willingham was killed. West was badly injured. All that she would recall afterward was the plunging swoop of her stomach, the sinking feeling within her chest. It felt as though a weight had settled there, one that she could not dislodge. Her father had told her he was sending a note to the Duke of Dovington in the hope of further news, and her mother had pressed her to her chest with a strength that Sophie found smothering, but Sophie herself had said nothing, merely nodded. She did not miss the worried glance her parents exchanged as she made her way out of the room. She drifted along, in the days that followed, like a ghost; she could not settle to any task, and was filled with enough restless energy that even sitting still came to feel like a hardship. Her father had received a brief r eply from the duke, informing him that his son was gripped with a worryingly high fever, but there had been no further word, nor any invitation to visit—not that Sophie had expected one, given the duke’s feelings about her presence in his son’s life. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of West lying in bed, feverish, insensible, with only his cold, stern father to watch over him. She thought, too, of Willingham—the laughing, golden man she’d seen only days earlier—and could not reconcile her memories of him with the knowledge that he was dead. When she thought of what this knowledge would do to West, if—when—he awakened, she felt a howl of misery clawing its way up from her chest and lodging in her throat; she felt as if she were choking on it. By the fourth day, she could not bear it any longer. It was easy enough, as it turned out, to dress quietly, to sneak down the servants’ stairs and make her way to the mews. The family coachman had always been fond of her, and it was relatively simple to convince him to take her out in the carriage, once she threatened to set off on foot alone and hail a hack. Particularly after she told him her destination, and something in his face softened—the servants, after all, were hardly unaware of the concerns that gripped the family upstairs. The Duke of Dovington lived in an imposing mansion in Berkeley Square; Sophie had ridden past it before, but had never had cause to knock at the door. This morning, it was answered by the most regal-looking butler she’d ever seen; for all that it was a thoroughly indecent hour of the morning, he did not have a single hair out of place. “I was hoping for news of
West—of Lord Weston, I mean,” she said, hating how uncertain her voice sounded. She stiffened her spine, took a breath, and added, “I am aware this is a difficult time for the family, but if you would please give my card to the duke”—she extended the engraved calling card she had carefully tucked into her reticule half an hour before—“and inform him that I do not intend to leave until I have spoken to him, I’d very much appreciate it.” After a lengthy pause the butler st epped back, allowing her to stand in the entrance hall while he withdrew, presumably to inform his employer of a shockingly improper young lady refusing to remove herself from the property. There was a long enough delay that Sophie began to wonder if she really was going to have to refuse to leave—and to wish, not for the first time, that West’s brother were in town; Lord James was at a house party in the countryside, and was presumably making his way back to London with great haste, but had not yet arrived—when the steady click of footst eps on the marble stairs drew her attention upward, and she watched as the Duke of Dovington descended toward her. Even now, at this hour, with his eldest son lying horribly ill, he looked entirely ducal, his attire immaculate. There were dark circles under his eyes, however—the only sign that his nights had recently been as sle epless as Sophie’s own. “Miss Wexham,” he said; there was a slightly frayed edge to his voice that betrayed his exhaustion. “This is unexpected.” “I realize that this is a bit unorthodox, but I’ve been desperate for any news of West,” she said; she clasped her hands tightly before her, only in this instant realizing that, so hasty had she been in dressing without her maid, she had neglected to put on gloves. The duke’s eyes dropped to her bare hands, then flicked back up to her face, but whatever disapproval he was experiencing was at least not visible in his expression. He inclined his head to the right. “Let’s st ep into my study.” Sophie felt as though a pit had formed in her stomach at these words, and she trailed the duke through the door he indicated, scarcely taking notice of her surroundings. Had West taken a turn for the worse? Had he... But she could not form the word—could not breathe life into it, even in her thoughts. Something of her anxiety must have shown on her face, much as she was attempting to maintain a cool demeanor before this man she did not like, nor trust, because he said, as soon as the door closed behind him, “The fever broke in the night.” Sophie felt weak with relief; she reached out to grip the arm of a leather chair, suddenly feeling a bit uncertain as to her legs’ ability to support her. “The physician left an hour or so ago,” the duke continued. “West has not yet awoken, but we hope he will do so today. Dr. Worth said to give him as much time to sle ep as he needs, so we are not attempting to wake him.” “May I see him?” Sophie blurted out; she felt oddly as though she might burst into tears, but could not bear the thought of doing so before the duke. Predictably, he shook his head. “I’ll not have him disturbed.”
A flash of irritation cut through her overpowering, giddy relief. “I don’t intend to disturb him—I just want to see him.” An arch of the brow—a gesture eerily reminiscent of his son. “Do you think that I am lying to you, Miss Wexham? That my son is dead, and I am attempting to conceal the fact? Or that I have some other sinister purpose in mind?” “Of course not,” Sophie said impatiently, though come to think of it, she wasn’t entirely certain she’d put any of that past the duke, based on all her interactions with the man thus far. “It’s just that I’m very—very fond of West, and I’ve been so worried—” “Yes. Well.” The duke cleared his throat. “In fact, Miss Wexham, I am glad you called this morning, unexpected as it was. I’d been hoping to follow up on our conversation of a few evenings past.” For a moment, distracted as Sophie was by thoughts of West’s well-being, she didn’t realize what the duke meant; that night at the Haverford ball felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had been less than a week. All at once, however, the memories returned, his threatening words echoing in her mind: You have younger sisters, do you not, Miss Wexham? She went very, very still. Then, feigning coolness, she asked, “What about it, Your Grace?” “Well,” the duke said conversationally, “I thought I had made my position, as it pertains to you and my son, perfectly clear—but your presence here this morning would indicate otherwise. So perhaps I ought to speak a bit more plainly.” “Yes,” she agreed, her heart thudding in her chest. “Perhaps you ought.” “Very well. If you do not wish me to put it about that I personally witnessed Miss Maria Wexham in the company of the Marquess of Sandworth slipping away from a ballroom, not a chaperone in sight, just a few weeks ago, then I’d very much appreciate it if you took yourself far, far away from my son.” Sophie met his eyes, even as a chill cr ept through her. Sandworth was a r eprobate—fifteen years older than Maria, handsome and suave, but lacking in much of a moral compass, from what Sophie had heard. West, who was usually fairly measured in his speech, had made it clear that he was not fond of the man —and that was before he and Sophie had discovered Sandworth and Maria pressed together in a shadowy corner of Vauxhall Gardens a fortnight earlier. Sophie had, at the time, been terrified that someone had noticed Maria and Sandworth sneaking away together, but after a week passed and no whisper of gossip emerged, she had begun to relax, thinking they’d es caped unscathed. Sandworth was a dreadful snob—his family line was nearly as old as West’s, and she knew that he’d never marry Maria, a fact he’d made perfectly clear when he all but laughed in West’s face at the suggestion, that night at Vauxhall. (This had been a particularly bold reaction on Sandworth’s part, considering that West had had him by the throat, pressed against a hedge.) Maria, of course, was young and foolish and overly fixated on titles, and had not been interested in Sophie’s warnings, after she’d seen them dancing together at a ball a week or so before the night in question. Quite
probably the very same ball where the duke had witnessed this, Sophie thought grimly. Maria had evidently held romantic visions of making a spectacular match with Sandworth, but his reaction—and hasty retreat, without so much as a glance in her direction —that evening at Vauxhall had disabused her of these notions. The Wexham parents had been horribly angry, when West had grimly d eposited their shamefaced daughter back into their ke eping; the quarrel that evening, upon arriving home, had been enough to rouse all three younger sisters from their beds to eavesdrop shamelessly on the landing. Maria had spent the next two days locked in her room, pleading a headache and refusing all of Sophie’s attempts to speak to her; eventually, she had resumed her normal activities when Lady Wexham had begun to talk of calling for a doctor, concerned about Maria’s health. Maria had been a bit standoffish toward Sophie ever since; Sophie knew her sister was embarrassed about having so badly misjudged Sandworth, and decided to give her space, merely relieved that they had avoided catastrophe, and that her sister’s r eputation remained intact. Now, though, all of this effort on Sophie’s part could be ruined, if the duke so much as breathed a word of this. He would do it—she did not doubt it for a moment. He was a duke, a man accustomed to getting precisely what he wanted. And what he wanted right now was for his son to marry someone considerably more eligible than the daughter of an upstart viscount. “Do you not think West would object to this, once he found out?” she asked, deciding to brazen it out. “Do you not think he would take issue with you ruining the r eputation of the sister of the woman he wishes to marry?” There: the faintest flicker of uncertainty in the duke’s gaze, though it was quickly masked. He wasn’t certain, she realized—he was fearful of the bond she shared with his son, of whatever power she had over him. Perhaps now he would retreat, would concede that West’s life was his to do with as he wished, would resign himself to her presence. But no—she should have known better than that. He inclined his head. “A fair point, Miss Wexham.” A delicate pause. “Have you considered, then, what West himself would sacrifice, were you to wed?” “I think you’ll find that other members of the ton might view a great love match with a more bene volent eye than you do, Your Grace. And anyone who disapproves of me would not risk incurring the wrath of a future duke by being anything less than polite to me.” “Unless,” the duke said, “they knew they would incur the wrath of a current duke by so much as speaking to you in public.” He offered a thin smile. “And do you think that West will want anything to do with you, if you make my life such a misery?” “No, I don’t suppose he will,” the duke conceded. “Perhaps he might even think to live quietly in the countryside, away from the gossiping ton, hosting his friends who are too loyal to shun him—or you.” There was a brief pause, one that felt decidedly menacing—an impression that was confirmed a moment later when the duke added, “Although, it would be unfortunate that he would no longer have Rosemere to retreat to.”
Sophie frowned. Rosemere, she knew, was the country estate that had been West’s mother’s particular favorite—the one that had been in his charge, these past few years. He’d spoken of taking Sophie to visit. “Rosemere belongs to West.” The duke shook his head. “No, it does not. Rosemere belongs to me—it is part and parcel of the dukedom, and has been so ever since his mother brought it to our marriage as part of her dowry. I have handed it over into West’s ke eping, knowing his fondness for it, the fact that it was his mother’s favorite...” The duke trailed off, as if to allow Sophie to appreciate the value that West placed on Rosemere—not that she needed any reminding. She’d heard him speak of it often enough, heard the genuine affection in his voice as he described his time there, the work he was doing, the relationships he had built with his tenants. She knew how much effort he’d dedicated to it, in the years since he’d left Oxford. He loved that house, and its surrounding land, just as his mother had. “It’s unentailed, you know,” the duke said. “Since it’s not part of the original entailment, and was only recently acquired. It would be easy enough to sell.” “You wouldn’t,” Sophie said softly, but she knew he would—this was a clear indication that he would do anything to prevent West from marrying her. “I would,” the duke confirmed. “My son is young, Miss Wexham. He does not know his own mind. He does not know what—who—he truly wants. And if I have to make him unhappy to teach him this lesson, I will.” He walked toward her steadily. “Walk away now—find some other gentleman in search of a hefty dowry, a bit less concerned about your family’s history. But leave my son alone, or I shall make him—and you—regret it every day henceforth.” “Have you let West know any of this?” she asked. “No.” The duke’s voice was curt. “Because my son is stubborn, and he fancies himself in love, and I know perfectly well that he’d try to call my bluff, to tell me that these are sacrifices he’s willing to make. For love.” The duke’s voice positively dripped with scorn on this last word, and Sophie knew a moment of piercing sympathy for the late duchess. “But if you love my son, Miss Wexham... well, I ask you, how much do you wish him to suffer, for your sake?” He walked past her to the door, opening it and standing back to allow her to pass. He offered her a short bow in the entryway, and then made his way back upstairs without another word, confident in the knowledge that he had already said enough. Later that afternoon, word circulated around London that the young Marquess of Weston was out of immediate danger, though he remained bedridden—an impromptu toast to his good health was offered at a ball in progress that evening. Sophie was not in attendance. In the days that followed, she k ept to herself; a letter to her, from West, written in the hand of his valet, went unopened and unanswered. She needed time—time to think. Time to plan. Time to work out how she was going to extract herself from a near-engagement. How she would convince West that she didn’t love him, that it had all been an enormous mistake, when everything
within her was crying out to the contrary. In the end, the solution presented itself rather neatly. It was on a ride in the park a couple of days after her meeting with the duke that she stumbled across Lord Fitzwilliam Bridewell, looking positively despondent, regarding a lady d eparting on horseback with a look of lovesick anguish that Sophie knew well. They struck up a conversation as they rode on a slow loop around the park that afternoon; she learned of his circumstances (thrown over for his lack of prospects by the earl’s daughter he fancied himself in love with; in rather desperate need of a dowry) and she told him of hers (in rather desperate need of a husband, if only to save West from himself; possessing a very handsome dowry of her own). It was easy enough to come to an accord; he was initially hesitant, given that he was an old friend of West’s, but she was able to persuade him that a marriage between herself and West would lead to nothing but unhappiness for the latter, given the duke’s threats. Fitz, ultimately, was not difficult to convince; he was so heartbroken by the rejection of the lady he’d spent all Season chasing, and so alarmed by his father’s recent threat to cut his allowance, that he could see quite clearly the advantage of a cordial, entirely loveless union with Sophie. The betrothal was announced within the week, to the great puzzlement of everyone exc ept the couple themselves. Banns were called, and they were married within a month; by the time West at last was well enough to be seen in public again, Sophie was another man’s wife. It was only on her wedding night, after her new husband had retreated to his own bedroom and Sophie lay alone in a large bed in the bedchamber adjoining his, staring into the darkness, that she at last allowed herself to we ep.