She tried to speak with a degree of indifference. “I don’t know. Perhaps he will be at the Berkley assembly.”
She was glad she had lied, she decided, when the ladies turned back to their scheming and left her to stare out the dark window again. Otherwise, they would question her about when he would arrive, and tomorrow they would make her change her dress a dozen times. They would test her on proper etiquette, and she would most likely get caught up in the excitement herself and become even more tempted by a man she barely knew—a man who appeared to harbor a mysterious darkness in his depths.
And oh, the certain uproar if he did not come. There would be questions about that. Conjecture. Reproach.
No, she would not put herself through that. They would be surprised when he arrived—if he arrived—and she would be surprised as well. Because under no circumstances would she allow herself to get swept away by silly, romantic hopes and dreams.
“Is it common knowledge, here,” Sophia asked her mother over the breakfast table the following morning, “how much I am worth?”
Her mother set down her teacup, and she and Florence exchanged looks of concern. “Why do you ask, darling?”
“Because I’m curious if there is an exact number floating around. Mind you, I’m not naive, I know there must be speculation, but do they know exactly how much Father is willing to pay?”
Mrs. Wilson cleared her throat. “I certainly haven’t told anyone, except Florence, of course.”
The countess kept her eyes on her plate, and Sophia felt a touch of annoyance. “Florence knows, but I don’t?” She glanced up at the footman who stood behind the countess. Like a soldier on duty, he kept his eyes level, giving no indication that he was listening to the conversation, or having any thoughts at all. Sophia knew there were thoughts in his head, of course. The servants tried to act invisible, but they weren’t. Not to her. They were human beings like everyone else.
Her mother reached for a biscuit and buttered it vigorously. “There is no exact amount, Sophia.”
“There must be a range.” She looked up at the footman, and said, “Would you excuse us please? Just for a moment.” He walked out.
Sophia pressed her mother further. “Well? Did Father give you some indication?”
“Oh, Sophia, why must you ask these questions?”
“Because I have a right to know how the world works. And certainly what my chances are of finding a man who will marry me for love, not just for my money.”
“No one will ever marry you just for your money, Sophia,” Florence said. “You’re a beautiful woman. That will play a significant part in this.”
“So, it’s my looks and my money. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but do my heart and mind not count for anything?”
The two women reassured her at once. “Of course they do, darling! That goes without saying!”
Sophia continued to eat her breakfast. “You still haven’t told me how much Father is willing to pay.”
After a conspicuous silence, her mother finally replied, “All right. If you insist upon knowing, I won’t keep it from you because I know you won’t let it go. He seemed to think five hundred thousand pounds was the going rate, but there is room for negotiation, depending on who makes the proposal.”
“It’s quite standard,” Florence added.
The going rate? Sophia’s appetite disappeared, and she wiped at her lips with the napkin. “My word. That is rather shocking, but thank you for telling me.”
She said nothing more, and Florence rang her little bell for the footman to return and bring more tea. When he went to fetch it, Sophia made one quick request.
“Will you please not tell anyone, not even a gentleman who expresses interest? I know that there are, of course, assumptions that I will come with money, but I would prefer that it not be a certainty. That if a man wishes to propose to me, he would at least be willing to take the risk that my dowry might not be what he thinks or hopes it is.”
Both women fell silent, gazing uneasily at each other from across the table.
“If that will make you happy,” her mother said, “then yes, of course. Our lips will be sealed until you find the man you can love.”
The word love uttered from her mother’s lips was a surprise, one that made Sophia relax a little in her chair. She let out a breath. “Thank you, Mother.” Then she rose and kissed her on the cheek.
James stepped from his carriage, looked up at the front of Lansdowne House and wondered uncomfortably if he was doing the right thing. It had been an impulse the night before, to say that he would call, and he rarely surrendered to impulses. He usually knew his reasons for doing things, but today, he was uncertain. Was he here because of the money? Was that the spark that had lit this fire under him? Or was it Miss Wilson’s beauty and charming individualism? He supposed it was a little of both—though he had never found individualism to be a desirable quality in a woman before. Quite the opposite, in fact.
For a second, he considered climbing back into his carriage and driving off. Something in him wanted to, but whatever it was, he rejected it. He decided to let this venture play out and see where it led. With that, he walked to the door and knocked.
A few minutes later, he was shown upstairs to the drawing room. The butler announced him, and James moved through the open door. His gaze was drawn at once to Miss Wilson seated across the room, teacup and saucer in hand. She wore an ivory tulle gown that gave her a look of sweetness—like some whipped cream confection. At the sight of her, he felt a ravenous, predatory rush.
It was the challenge of her, he supposed. She had disliked him on first impression.
There was a brief moment of stunned silence from the other women in the room—the countess and Miss Wilson’s mother—then a sudden frazzled flurry of greetings. James entered but drew to a halt when he spotted another man to his left, seated by the fireplace. It was his friend, Whitby.
“Whitby,” he said, keeping a calm, cool demeanor while he shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other.
The earl rose from his chair. “Duke.”
An awkward silence ensued until Whitby finally gave in to the rules of etiquette and bent to pick up his hat and stick. It was appropriate that he, having already had a chance to pay his call, should politely bid his hostess adieu.
He bowed to the ladies. “I thank you for your society this afternoon, Lady Lansdowne. It was most enjoyable. Mrs. Wilson, Miss Wilson. Enjoy your day.”
He gave his card to the countess, then brushed by James on the way out. “Wentworth,” he said, in a cool, hushed tone.
James swallowed the bitter taste of Whitby now considering him a rival. Bloody hell, it would probably be in the Post tomorrow.
“Won’t you come in, Your Grace?” Lady Lansdowne asked.
James fought to forget about Whitby and focus on Miss Wilson, but that wasn’t so easy either, considering his own past with the countess. He’d never imagined he would ever call on Lady Lansdowne, not after the awkward circumstances that transpired three years earlier when she arrived in London for her first Season and had directed her ambitions toward him. Thank the Lord, the Earl of Lansdowne had proposed and prevented James from openly humiliating her.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said. Perhaps she did not even remember.
Purposefully steering clear of the chair next to the countess, James took a seat beside Mrs. Wilson. A parlor maid poured him a cup of tea.
“It’s a beautiful day, is it not, Your Grace?” Lady Lansdowne said. “I don’t recall the month of May ever being so full of sunshine.”
Ah, the predictable talk of weather.
“It is indeed a pleasant change from the wet spring we had in March,” he replied.
“Is it usually this warm?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
The clock ticked on while they continued to mak
e small talk about nothing of any relevance, and at the end of the obligatory fifteen minutes, James wondered why he had even bothered to come at all. Miss Wilson had not said one word.
While her mother droned on about the Season in New York, James took the opportunity to study the quiet young woman across from him, sipping tea and contributing nothing to the conversation.
Where was her fire from the night before? Had he been mistaken about the attraction? Was it not mutual?
“So you see,” Mrs. Wilson continued, “it’s quite the opposite in America. People tend to leave New York in the summer when it’s warm, and retreat to their summer houses. But here in England, everyone leaves the country to come to the city.”
“It is indeed a fascinating contrast,” Lady Lansdowne agreed.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t prefer to be on your estates in the summer,” Mrs. Wilson continued, “when the city can be so congested and….”
Could it be that Miss Wilson was disappointed that James had arrived and cut Whitby’s visit short?
He glanced down at his walking stick, chiding himself. What did he care if she was disappointed or not? All he needed to care about was the simple fact that she was as outrageously rich this morning as she had been last night. Richer probably.
He gazed into her unfathomable blue eyes. Lord, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered.
He should probably leave.
At that precise moment, Miss Wilson interrupted. “It’s because of Parliament, Mother.”
The fact that it was the first time she had spoken was not lost on James. His desire to leave vanished instantly, and he wondered with interest if that had been Miss Wilson’s intention just now—to keep him in the countess’s drawing room a little longer. He felt his mood lift slightly, felt the hot, glowing embers of the attraction smolder again. He was back in the game.
“Well, of course I know that,” Mrs. Wilson replied, but James suspected that she had not known.
Miss Wilson turned her attention to James. “Does Parliament take up a great deal of your time, Your Grace?”
He was thankful to have the opportunity to speak directly to her at last. Her eyes sparkled as she waited for his reply, and he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to make love to her. Would she be as spirited in the bedroom as she was in public, breaking etiquette rules in London ballrooms?
For the next ten minutes, they talked about lighter Parliamentary matters. Miss Wilson’s inquisitive nature and intelligent questions challenged him, and he managed to avoid thinking any more about taking her to bed. He considered more practical matters—like the obvious fact that she would be a fast learner, and a woman had to be such, in order to become a competent duchess.
A competent duchess. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself.
When the time seemed right, James set down his cup and smiled at the countess. “I thank you, Lady Lansdowne, for the fine discourse this afternoon.” He stood. She stood also and walked him to the drawing room door. He handed her his card. “It was a pleasure, indeed.”
He turned to take one last look at Miss Wilson, who was rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace,” she said.
She watched him with some intensity, and again he wondered why she had been so quiet for most of his visit.
As soon as the duke left the room, Sophia turned to her mother. “I overheard you talking to the earl before I came in. You promised me you would not tell anyone how much Father is willing to pay.”
The color drained from her mother’s face. “I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t going to say anything, but the earl expressed an interest in you, and it was my intention to tell him that to propose now would be a mistake—that you wish to truly know a gentleman before you can even consider a marriage proposal. I was only trying to do what you wished, but he pressed for more information. I couldn’t lie to him. I tried to change the subject, didn’t I, Florence?” She looked helplessly at the countess.
“Oh, yes, dear. She did. She was very discreet for as long as she could be, but the earl pressed.”
Sophia suspected that wasn’t the case. She tried to keep her voice steady. “So now everyone will know how rich we are—not to mention they’ll be shocked by the ‘gauche Americans,’ actually discussing money in drawing rooms.”
“I told him in confidence, and he’s a gentleman after all.”
Sophia shook her head in disbelief and headed for the door.
Her mother called out to her. “But dear, aren’t you happy about the duke?”
Sophia hesitated, then returned to kiss her mother on the cheek, for she knew there was no point in punishing her further. Her mother knew she had behaved badly and would probably lose sleep about it that night. She was a good, kind woman and a loving mother. She simply lacked verbal discipline.
If that was the worst of her mother’s character flaws, Sophia should think of her own mother’s mother—who sold half her children to buy whiskey after her husband left her—and count herself lucky.
As for her being happy about the duke?
She wouldn’t call it “happy.” It was something else entirely. Sophia had best be very careful.
The liveried footman opened the coach door for James, then closed it when he was seated comfortably inside. Before the horses had a chance to move, however, a frantic knock sounded at the door. Whitby’s face loomed in the window, his breath coming in rapid little puffs, fogging up the glass.
“Wait, driver!” James called out, then leaned forward to flick the latch.
“Give me a lift to Green Street?” Whitby asked. James felt an unorthodox desire to hesitate, but swept it aside and invited his school chum inside. Soon they were sitting opposite each other in silence while the carriage wheels rattled down the cobbled street.
“So, you’ve changed your mind then?” Whitby asked.
“About what?” James replied coolly, though he knew exactly what Whitby was speaking of.
“About the heiress. You said you weren’t interested.”
James heard the animosity in Whitby’s voice, saw it in the set of his jaw, but he kept his own voice calm and detached. “I don’t recall having set my mind to anything at all. What are you getting at, Whitby?”
The coach bumped and Whitby shifted in his seat. “I must inform you that I have declared to Mrs. Wilson an interest in her daughter, and she has given me some encouragement.”
James squeezed the ivory handle of his walking stick. “Who has? Mrs. Wilson or her daughter?”
“Mrs. Wilson, of course,” Whitby replied. “Though the young miss has been singularly forward and friendly and full of smiles during every encounter this past week.”
“I believe that is the natural disposition of these American girls,” James added with bite. Good God, he sounded jealous. He quickly recovered his aplomb. “Have you proposed?”
“Well, not exactly. Mrs. Wilson informed me that a proposal at this stage would be a mistake, that Miss Wilson is determined to be courted properly before any disclosures of affection are made.”
“Courted properly?” James raised an eyebrow. “How very American.”
Whitby’s shoulders rose and fell with frustration, and James guessed that his friend was working hard to control his rancor.
“I didn’t think you wanted to get married,” Whitby said.
Now his friend was sounding desperate. James hated this. He should just reassure Whitby that he had no intention of proposing to Miss Wilson, or anyone else for that matter, and let it end at that.
“Did she tell you the amount?” Whitby asked.
The amount? Suddenly it was James’s turn to feel agitated. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“The amount of her dowry. Is that why you changed your mind?”
“I didn’t change my mind ab
out anything.”
“But did Mrs. Wilson tell you?”
James inhaled sharply. “Tell me about her daughter’s dowry? Good Lord!” He laughed. “The call was not quite so engaging as all that. The only thing we talked about was the bloody weather.”
“Oh, well...good then.” Whitby was quiet for a moment, staring out the window and looking quite full of relief.
James on the other hand, was beginning to feel overcome with tension.
“You actually discussed that?” he said, sitting forward. “With Mrs. Wilson? The daughter wasn’t present, was she?”
“Good heavens, no. She came into the room later. But I suppose you never know with these Americans.”
They drove on a little farther, and James’s damned irritating curiosity was taking full control of his mood. He found himself coming up with excuses for why Mrs. Wilson hadn’t told him about the dowry. It couldn’t be that she preferred Whitby. She was peer hunting after all. She must understand how the aristocracy worked and know that James was the higher-ranking peer. The countess would certainly know that.
On the other hand, perhaps it had nothing to do with what the mother wanted. Perhaps she knew that her daughter fancied Whitby over James—no matter that James was a duke—and she was aiming for a love match.
The degree of his annoyance at that prospect—that Miss Wilson fancied Whitby over him—was disconcerting.
“It’s an odd business, really,” Whitby said, gazing off into space, “that the father should have to pay five hundred thousand pounds to marry off such a beautiful daughter. If she’d been born as one of us with a face like that, it probably wouldn’t cost him a bloody farthing. That’s the price of being American, I suppose, and wanting to be part of the Old World. We live in strange times, don’t you think, James?”
Five hundred thousand pounds? James digested the amount and slowly blinked.
The carriage pulled to a stop on Green Street, and Whitby waited for the footman to open the door. In those brief, floating seconds while James tried to conceive of five hundred thousand pounds in one lump sum, Whitby glared at him.
To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1) Page 4