Authors: Heather Cullman
As much as she hated to do so, Sophie grudgingly granted Lydia that point. Because Cousin Edgar, her guardian since her uncle’s death five years earlier, had mandated that she accept Lyndhurst’s invitations, she had spent an inordinate amount of time with him. And though she’d never flirted with him or offered him anything beyond the required courtesies, she could see now how her constant acceptance of his company might have given him the wrong impression.
She sighed. Ah, well. She’d just have to set him straight the next time she was forced to endure his company. In truth, it was something she should have done weeks ago, for in that time she had grown to love another and now intended to marry him.
Him. Lord Oxley. Her Julian.
As she always did when she thought of her beloved, Sophie smiled. He was everything she’d ever dreamed of in a husband and — oh! — so much more. Not only was he witty, charming, and titled, he was divinely handsome. Perfection, itself!
If only her aunt and cousin would open their eyes and see how truly exceptional he was.
Slowly her smile faded. Though they allowed him to call — the more titled men to court her, the more desirable she’d be to the ton, her aunt said — they had made it clear that under no circumstances was he to be considered as a potential husband.
“He isn’t at all suited to you,” they had informed her when she’d questioned their edict. And though she’d argued in his favor, they had remained adamant, at last silencing her by threatening to forbid him to call again should she persist in her green-girl infatuation.
Of course she had bitten her tongue and never pressed the matter again. What choice did she have? Aside from the precious moments they managed to steal together at social functions, her beloved’s brief calls were all they had. Besides, she was confident that if her aunt and cousin spent time in his company, they would come to see him as she did and allow her to marry him.
And since she would thus be wedding Julian, she would be doing Lyndhurst a kindness by dashing his hopes, hence saving him the humiliation of having his suit rejected.
“Sophie. Do stop woolgathering.” It was Lydia, and by the annoyance in her voice, it was clear that this wasn’t the first attempt she’d made to gain her attention.
Sophie gave her friend an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I was just considering what you said about Lord Lyndhurst.”
“And?”
“And I can tell you most assuredly that a proposal will never cross his lips. At least not one intended for me.”
“Did you ever see a more frumpish creature than Lady Byrde?” Aunt Heloise twittered, her dark eyes gleaming in the dim lamplight of the Town coach. “Even rusticating in Cumberland as she does, you would think she would know that it is exceedingly demode to powder one’s hair.”
Sophie nodded, only half listening to her aunt’s usual post
-soiree
character assassinations. On most occasions she relished Heloise’s scandalmongering and matched her tittle for tattle until they had shredded the reputations of all those unfortunate enough to have caught their notice that evening. Tonight, however, she had more momentous matters weighing on her mind, namely Lord Lyndhurst.
Nodding again at whatever her aunt had just said, she sank back into her seat, praying that the shadows would mask her agitation. Lord Lyndhurst. That wretch! Not only was he big and ugly and boring, this evening he had proved to be insufferably presumptuous as well.
Shortly after she and Lydia had turned their discussion from him and his rumored proposal to the more agreeable topic of their latest gown purchases, his tedious lordship had arrived at the
soiree.
As was his tiresome habit, he immediately sought her out and spent the entire evening rooted by her side.
Though she usually ignored his smothering presence — well, at least as much as she could within the bounds of civility — tonight she forced herself to note his actions, hoping upon hope to find something to prove the proposal rumors false.
What she saw only validated them. Why, you would think they were one step from the altar the way he hovered over her and tried to monopolize her attention. Worse yet, where she’d thought his hovering a bid to bask in the glory of her success, she now saw that it served to guard her against the addresses of her other, more desirable suitors. With the slightest frown or a few clipped, albeit polite, words the horrid man effectively discouraged all who sought to woo her.
All except her darling Julian, that is, who boldly ignored his glowering presence and spirited her off for a stolen kiss.
A soft sigh of frustration escaped her. It was galling, that’s what Lyndhurst’s possessiveness was. Galling.
And she refused to tolerate it a day longer. When he called on the morrow, as he’d so pompously announced he would do, she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him and his high-handed presumption. By the time she was done, his overblown pride would be so tattered that it would be the last she ever saw of him. And good riddance!
She paused a beat from her gloating vision of a humbled Lord Lyndhurst to consider what her aunt and cousin would say when he ceased to call. For some unfathomable reason they favored the man and would no doubt demand to know why he no longer haunted their drawing room.
Ah, well. She would just have to convince them that he had lost interest in her. Men did lose interest in women she’d heard, though, of course, it had never happened to her. She was the Toast of the Season, and all the gentlemen were in love with her.
It was remembering her success that made her smile with sudden inspiration. Because she was so celebrated, she would tell her aunt and cousin that Lyndhurst had finally come to his senses and acknowledged himself unworthy of her. Anyone with half a wit could see the truth in that.
And if they somehow discovered that she’d dismissed him?
That thought sobered her instantly. As punishment they might forbid Julian to call. Worse yet, they could banish her to her father’s West Riding estate, as they so often threatened to do. Then, what was she to do?
For one miserable moment her confidence wavered. But she remembered Julian’s kiss that evening, and her resolve hardened.
Fine. If they forbade him to call, she would tryst with him in secret. And if they tried to send her away? Well, then they would flee to Gretna Green. Once they were wed, her aunt and cousin would have no choice but to accept him.
Enraptured by the thought of elopement, Sophie closed her eyes and pictured her beloved. Oh, but he was handsome. Handsomer even than Quentin Somerville, though she knew there were those who would debate her bias. As for his brother …
Unbidden, the image of Lord Lyndhurst intruded into her mind. She shuddered. No one, not even Lydia, could dispute the fact that Julian was far and away better-looking than him. Where Lyndhurst’s hair was dun-brown, Julian’s fashionably coiffed mane was a rich, gleaming gold. Julian’s eyes were the clear azure of the August sky, where Lyndhurst’s …
A frown knit her brow. What color were his eyes, anyway? In truth, she’d never been able to see past the hideous scar on his cheek to note their hue. Come to think of it, she’d never really looked at his features, either. Not that they mattered. For even if they matched the perfection of those of his brother, they would be rendered ugly by his marred cheek.
“Sophie, dear?” Her aunt’s voice pulled her from her reflections, delivering her from the frightful vision of Lyndhurst’s disfigured countenance. “Are you suffering from a touch of dyspepsia?”
“Dyspepsia?” She opened her eyes.
Her aunt, who sat on the opposite seat next to her cousin, leaned forward, frowning her concern. “Perhaps it was the oysters,” she said. “They sometimes cause dyspepsia, you know.”
“They do?” Sophie stared at her aunt blankly, then the meaning of her words soaked in and she shook her head. “Oh. No. It wasn’t the oysters … or anything else. I’m fine. Whatever makes you ask?”
“It’s just that you had the oddest expression on your face just now. Didn’t she have an odd expression on her face, Eddie?” Heloise asked, deferring as she often did to her son.
Edgar spared Sophie the briefest of glances, then shrugged and resumed staring out the window. “She looks fine to me.”
“She does now, but her expression was markedly distressed only moments ago.” Heloise pursed her rosebud lips, clearly displeased by his indifference. “As her guardian, you really should note these things and inquire after her health.”
He made an impatient noise. “Fine.” Pinning Sophie with his glittering onyx gaze, he ground out, “Are you well, cousin?”
Where her Uncle John, her guardian from the time of her parents death in a carriage accident when she was eight up until his own demise five years earlier, had been a comfortable sort of man, there was something about her cousin that unsettled her. What that something was, she couldn’t say.
Perhaps it was his habit of watching her, his expression shrewd and calculating, as if he measured her for some secret purpose. Or the way his smile never seemed to reach his eyes. Maybe it was simply the fact that he was thirty-two years old and seemed to have forgotten what it was like to be seventeen. Whatever it was, it disturbed her.
Like it was doing now. Tensing as she always did beneath his regard, she murmured, “I’m quite well. Thank you for asking,” praying that her reply would satisfy him and that he would turn his attention elsewhere.
Apparently someone above was listening, for he nodded once and resumed his observation of the world beyond his window.
“I, for one,” Heloise shot her son’s averted profile an exasperated look, “am glad to hear that. It wouldn’t do at all for you to be indisposed. Especially tomorrow. It’s a day you shall no doubt wish to remember and cherish for the rest of your life.”
“It is?” Sophie frowned. All she had planned for tomorrow was taking tea with Lady Kneller and attending the Seabright’s rout, neither of which promised to be particularly memorable.
Just as she was about to say as much, Heloise poked her son in the ribs with her fan, chirping, “Shall we tell her the marvelous news, Eddie? Or shall we let it be a surprise?”
He flinched at her jabbing assault. “By all means tell her so she can properly primp. We want her in looks tomorrow.”
“Our Sophie is always lovely, which is why she’s had such a splendid offer.” Looking ready to burst with excitement, Heloise took her dumbfounded niece’s hand in hers, gushing, “It’s true, dear. You’ve had a fine offer. Your cousin received a letter this very afternoon phrased in the most flattering of terms. He spoke with the gentleman this evening and gave him permission to call on you tomorrow morning.”
When Sophie merely stared at her, too dismayed to respond, she prompted, “Well? Isn’t that the most marvelous news?”
Marvelous? A giant hand seemed to tighten around her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. The only suitor she wished a proposal from was Julian, and she knew for a fact that this one wasn’t from him. Her aunt would be locking her in her room instead of beaming like she’d just landed a prince if such were the case. No. It could be from only one man.
Lyndhurst.
Her stomach gave a sickening lurch, roiling as if she’d indeed eaten a bad oyster; a sensation that intensified to a gripping nausea as her cousin slowly turned his head and fixed her with his unnerving stare. After subjecting her to what felt like an eternity of scrutiny, he more barked than said, “Well, girl? Aren’t you even interested to learn your future husband’s name?”
“No, no, Eddie!” her aunt chimed in, playfully stabbing him with her fan again. “Let her have the fun of guessing. Not, of course, that it will be an easy game.” She flashed her niece a proud smile. “Not with our Sophie’s legions of suitors. Why, it could be any one of a dozen gentlemen. Even — “
“It’s Lyndhurst,” her cousin interjected flatly. “And you will accept him.”
Accept him, indeed! Of all the high-handed, unreasonable — Sophie opened her mouth to voice her protest, but the words strangled on her outrage and all that came out was a squawk.
“You will also make him wish to be wed as soon as possible,” he continued, pointedly ignoring her unintelligible outburst. “Perhaps if you kiss and tease him a bit, you might even rouse him to whisk you away to Gretna Green.”
For a long moment she merely gaped at him, her mouth working soundlessly as she fought to vent her fury. Then something inside her exploded, and she erupted forth, “How dare you! How dare you demand that I marry that horrid man. You know I detest him!” Edgar released a harsh grate of laughter. “I dare, dear Cuz, because he’s worth over seventy thousand a year and is heir to the Marquess of Hereford.”
“Bicksford,” Heloise corrected him. “I do believe Lady Seabright said that his father is the Marquess of Bicksford. Or was it Hartsford?” She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know where my mind is these days. I simply cannot seem to keep the titles and names of the ton straight. I do, however, remember quite distinctly that his family seat is in Somerset and — “
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Hereford. Bicksford. The name is of no import, only the fortune attached to it.”
“But what of the man himself? What of my feelings toward him?” Sophie demanded, barely able to believe her ears. Why, they were talking of selling her like silver at a debtor’s auction.