As Luck Would Have It (16 page)

Mirabelle grimaced and mumbled something about “Lady Thurston” and “certain banishment” before clearing her throat and forging ahead.

“You see, Kate, some men—and, to my understanding, some women—prefer the company of their own sex.”

“I prefer the company of my own sex,” Kate argued reasonably. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“Yes, but not nearly so much as Sir Frederick,” Mirabelle said pointedly.

“And not in an illegal sort of way,” Sophie added, thinking that they would be here all day the way Mirabelle kept dancing around the issue, and then finding herself unable to come to the crux of the matter herself.

“Illegal,” Kate repeated.

“
Intimately
illegal,” Mirabelle hinted.

It took a moment, but eventually the light of realization dawned on Kate’s pretty face.

“Ooh.” This time her eyebrows went up. “Really?”

Sophie and Kate both nodded.

“And Mr. Weaver?”

“Is Sir Frederick’s…good friend,” Mirabelle answered.

“Well, that’s…well, I don’t know what that is. Interesting I suppose, but what has it to do with Sophie’s list?”

“It’s simple,” Mirabelle replied. “Men like Sir Frederick and Mr. Weaver need to marry to protect their reputations, but like Sophie they need a partner willing to have a marriage in name only.”

“That does seem perfect,” Kate murmured.

“Doubly so, because they can be blackmailed if they prove unaccommodating,” Mirabelle offered with a grin just wicked enough to betray her jest.

“Well, that gives us five names,” Sophie remarked looking down at the list. “I don’t suppose Evie happened to have mentioned anyone else?”

“No, sorry. But we can ask her at the Cole house party in a few weeks,” Mirabelle said. “You’ll receive an invitation in the next day or two, I imagine, and this is not such a poor beginning, five names.”

“I suppose not,” Sophie conceded.

“Now for the rest,” Kate stated resolutely.

“The rest of what?” Sophie asked, sincerely confused.

“The rest of the preparations, of course. You’ll need to change some of your gowns—”

“I just purchased some new gowns,” Sophie replied a little defensively.

“And they’re lovely. They really are. Even my mother remarked on them, and she’s fanatical about that sort of thing.”

Well, that was a little mollifying, Sophie supposed.

“It’s true,” Mirabelle remarked. “She refers to my wardrobe as the bane of her existence.”

“But if you want to bring a man up to scratch in under two months, you’re going to need to be a bit more forward,” Kate announced.

“I’m not sure—”

“Not scandalously forward,” Kate clarified. “You’re looking for a husband, not a protector. Just a little more…tempting. A few alterations will do.”

Sophie turned to Mirabelle for reassurance.

It wasn’t forthcoming. “Don’t look to me,” Mirabelle
replied, sweeping her hand down her decidedly drab gown. “This is Kate’s forte.”

With all the fittings, the next four days were a bizarre repetition of Sophie’s first days in London. With the notable exception of Mrs. Summers’ absence. After considerable internal debate, Sophie had decided not to inform her companion of the full extent of Loudor’s treachery. Since arriving in London, Mrs. Summers had smiled more, laughed more than Sophie had seen in some time. If Mrs. Summers’ gaunt form and rigid posture had been capable of it, there might have been a bounce in her step. Sophie hadn’t the heart to dim the light in the woman’s eyes any more than was strictly necessary. Added to the desire to see her friend happy was the fear that Mrs. Summers might take it into her head that she was a burden on the family and seek employment elsewhere.

With that terrifying thought in mind, Sophie glossed over the worst of their predicament. She explained that Lord Loudor had been stealing from the estate—not significantly enough to cause immediate worry, but Sophie was now willing to consider the wisdom of making an advantageous match to shore up the family estate. Her companion had taken the news with surprisingly good cheer. Particularly after hearing of her charge’s sudden interest in finding a husband. She had even gone so far as to allow Sophie to progress with the matter of altering gowns and what ever else was needed, as she saw fit.

Provided, of course, that Sophie promised to take along her maid and at least two footmen, and remain in the company of Miss Browning and Lady Kate (whose mother was, naturally, an old friend of Mrs. Summers), at all times.

Between shopping excursions, social calls, and brief but intense lessons from Kate in the art of flirting, Sophie barely had time to sleep, let alone dwell on the odd behavior of her chaperone.

Nothing, however, seemed capable of distracting her from thoughts of Alex. Everything seemed to remind her of him,
and of the fact that he had neither called on her nor sent word in the five days since they had kissed in the carriage.

After her visit with Mirabelle and Kate, she had wanted to run straight to Alex. Wanted to tell him everything, so he could…what? What would he do? Offer her the role of mistress, and the protection that came with it? Admittedly, the idea held some appeal, but it wouldn’t guarantee the safety of Whitefield. Moreover, it would break the hearts of the people she loved.

Perhaps he’d offer to help her secure a husband—which would, no matter how irrational she knew it to be, break her own heart.

Perhaps he’d tell all and sundry there was a rift in the family. Really, how well could you know a person after so short a time?

Perhaps he’d mention to Loudor how desperate she’d become. Or perhaps….

Perhaps she needed to keep her mouth closed and forget him entirely.

A round-nosed man in a gray coat and a tall, thin woman in a blue dress sat on a bench in Hyde Park.

They watched as the birds flitted from tree to tree and the occasional squirrel chattered its annoyance at the intrusion. To any passerby, they were an unremarkable couple enjoying the rare appearance of the English sun.

“How are things progressing?” he inquired, lifting his face into the wind, enjoying the way it brushed lightly across his skin.

“I’m not certain,” she replied. “They haven’t met for several days, as far as I know.”

“Hmm.”

“Could you be mistaken about him?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

She nodded thoughtfully and turned her attention to her toes. They were covered in the not-quite-yet-soft leather of
new boots and peeking out from under the hem of her dress. It had been a long time since she had bought new shoes.

“And you?” he asked, watching her watch her toes.

She looked up. “I don’t even know him.”

“I meant her,” he replied with a small smile.

“Oh.” She resumed the inspection of her footwear. “No, she is perfectly suited. I suppose things shall come about. We need only be patient.”

“I am not a patient man.”

“No, you are not,” she chuckled. “If it’s any conciliation, there is the most intriguing rumor being circulated.”

“And that rumor would be?”

She raised her head to meet his eyes. “It’s being said that she is looking for a husband.”

By the night of the Forents’ ball, Alex was very nearly climbing the walls of his London home. His self-imposed exile had proved a spectacular failure. He’d spent the last few days alternately anxious, bored, and intolerably frustrated. His usual pursuits had done nothing to relieve his mind, and subsequently his body, from thoughts of Sophie.

He had worked on estate business, taken a quick trip to Rockeforte for some fishing, read two books on the history of China (for self-improvement and his own edification, of course), gotten drunk once with Whit and Lord Loudor, once with just Whit, and once entirely by himself.

The first bout of drinking had been all business, with Alex steering the conversation toward the unpopular Prince Regent, the war with Napoleon, and what Loudor made of the whole messy affair. But then Loudor’s change of residence had come up. Sophie’s cousin had given the excuse of needing more privacy. Alex thought it a weak explanation at best, and so he invited Whit over for a few drinks the next night to discuss the matter. That bout of drinking had resulted in nothing more productive than an endless demonstration of Whit’s clever—and vastly amusing to Whit—insights on
Alex’s interest in Sophie. This had prompted the final, solitary bout of drinking which, sad to say, had coincided with his perusal of the second book, leaving Alex with the muddled idea that China had somehow once belonged to the French.

He was tired, hung over, and annoyed by the certain knowledge that he would have to reread that book before attempting any sort of conversation on the topic with Sophie.

And he had every intention of speaking with her to night. And the night after that. And every night thereafter until he was finally sick of her.

He had to have her. There was nothing else for it. He wasn’t sure in what capacity he wanted, no
had
, definitely
had
to have her, although in his bed was a certainty. And if it became necessary—and with this thought he gave a long-suffering sigh that some small part of his brain recognized as an affectation—he would marry her.

The idea had some merit, really. He needed to marry sometime, didn’t he? He needed to produce an heir. She seemed as likely a candidate for a bride as any. He might even go so far as to say better than most since he truly liked Sophie.

Liked? Hell, he was obsessed with her. Every part of her. Her broad smile, her quick mind, her adorable struggle to reconcile the proper British lady with the world traveler, her complete indifference to his wealth and rank. Of all Sophie’s fine qualities, this last was one of his favorites. She made no effort to butter up the Duke of Rockeforte, preferring to match wits with the man rather than the title.

She’d make an excellent duchess, he decided. She was strong, intelligent, and fortunately—because she was going to be
his
duchess—highly desirable.

No simpering, flirting miss, his Sophie.

Thirteen

S
he was simpering and flirting.

From across Lord Forent’s ballroom, Alex watched in absolute shock. Sophie was smiling demurely, fluttering her fan seductively, and—dear God, this was the most disturbing part—batting her eyelashes like a well-trained debutante fresh out of the schoolroom.

Worse, she was good at it. There wasn’t a man under the age of seventy not taken by her charms.

Not that he could blame them. A good deal of her charms were on display at the moment. Sophie was wearing a concoction of ivory silk designed to attract a man’s attention. It turned her thick hair the color of the most de cadent of dark chocolates, her eyes the clearest of sapphires, and her skin the richest of creams.

Like her previous gowns, it was relatively unadorned, with only a simple gold ribbon trimming the puff sleeves and hem. Unlike her other gowns, however, it hadn’t been cut with an eye for modesty. Oh, it was still well within the bounds of propriety—she hadn’t dampened her skirt to make it cling to her legs, or raised the hemline. But the material hugged every curve of her body, and there was an unmistakable extra inch or two of bosom showing. Alex could make out the swell of her breasts and a tantalizing line of cleavage.

He scowled. What he could see, everyone could see. And by the looks of the veritable swarm of eager young men attending upon Sophie, they all liked what they saw.

“You’re looking very fierce.”

Alex barely turned his head to acknowledge the arrival of a chuckling Whit. How hard could it be to scatter the fops? Surely not that difficult. He could easily manage at least two and probably that would prove sufficient incentive for the rest to flee. His mood lightened considerably.

Of course, there was the slight chance they’d have the sense to join forces. He doubted it, but one never knew for certain, and then what would he do? Alex smiled and turned to Whit.
That
, he figured, was why one had friends.

“Absolutely not,” Whit said.

“Do you even know what you’re refusing?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion. I know only that you were glaring at them,” he indicated the offending group of men, “and then grinning at me.” He shook his head. “And it was enough to surmise that no good would come of it. Particularly not for me.”

“And that’s all that really matters?”

“Yes,” Whit responded with good humor.

Alex turned back toward Sophie just as some libertine escorted her to the dance floor.

“Again. Fierce,” Whit said.

“Hmph.”

“I spoke with her earlier this evening.”

“Did you?” Alex snapped his head back toward his friend.

“Easy, good lord, I only wanted to take her mea sure.”

“And?”

“And she reminds me of my sister.”

Alex was surprised to hear Whit’s assessment in such an ominous tone of voice. “You like Kate,” he pointed out.

“I adore the chit. I’d walk over hot coals for her, stand still on them if she asked me to, but she’s a hellion and well you know it. She’ll be nineteen this winter,” Whit continued. “Mother’s decided to postpone her debut so Kate can have a year of intensive deportment lessons.”

“Does she really think that will help?”

“She must, or she wouldn’t be doing it. Mother’s just itching to get the lot of us married off. She was bad enough when I came of age, but I’m a son. Poor Kate, Mother’s preparing for her first season like they’re going into battle. It’s quite disturbing, actually.”

“Yes, well for Kate’s sake, I hope your mother’s efforts are met with success.”

“I intend to see that they are,” Whit said with unusual fervor. “I won’t have Kate trampled by the nastier members of society. I won’t have her stepped on by anyone, come to that, and I expect your assistance.”

“You should expect it. For all that we are not blood relations, you know I still consider Kate a sister.”

“And accept the responsibilities that come with such a connection?”

“Of course.”

“Good, then we shall be miserable together.”