Sophia obediently shut her book, noting the page number before placing it on the floor next to her. She stood up, fixed her now wrinkled skirts, and then sat back down, folding her hands primly in her lap.
“Yes, Papa? Why is it you came looking for me?” she asked, feigning innocence.
Her father rolled his eyes with impatience and huffed. He was a portly man of middling height with a bushy mustache above his lip that always quivered when he was particularly vexed. It was practically vibrating right now as he glared at her.
“I’ve just been to the club, and happened to run into Lord Montrose. You remember him. David, The Earl of Montrose. We went to his ball only a few weeks ago, and you danced with him,” her father said, his voice taking on a lighter, almost joyful tone, as though he was jealous that he himself had not had the opportunity to sweep across the ballroom floor with Lord Montrose’s sweaty palm lingering inches away from his face.
“Yes, Papa. I remember him,” Sophia said, not bothering to hide the bored, disgruntled look on her face. She might have to obey her father, but there was nothing that said she had to look happy doing it.
“Excellent, excellent,” her father said, nodding and fashioning what to him was a wide smile on his face. To everyone else, it was barely above a frown, but then, Sophia suspected her father’s facial muscles had never had time to learn the art of smiling. From what little she knew of his life before he met her mother, he had been a grave, serious boy prone to scowling. Grinning was simply not in his nature.
“Yes, it is excellent, indeed,” Sophia said. She was being truly horrid now, making fun of him, but he didn’t notice. She almost wished he would, and that he would yell at her, scream. But just as her father did not understand happiness, he also did not understand anger. He was the human personification of the color grey, middling in everything: height, shoe size, stature.
“I am sure you will therefore be delighted to know that the Earl has taken a particular interest in you. As you know, he has made it known that this is the Season he intends to find a wife, and I have it on good authority from the gentleman himself that you are the lady he has set his sights on.”
Sophia could feel herself sinking into the chair, any residual joy left over from reading gone as her fate descended upon her. This was the fifth gentleman her father had tried to push her towards, but none of them had been so well placed in society. The Earl of Montrose was a powerful peer and well reputed as being one of the wealthiest men of the ton. Sophia knew she would not be able to refuse him.
My father will not allow it.
Her father was now staring at her intently, waiting for her reaction. She knew she needed to show some excitement or joy. Showing anything else would only result in him leaving the room in a huff and her mother coming in after him to lecture Sophia on the importance of marriage. There would then follow a good half hour in which Sophia’s mother would bemoan having a child who was so strange and contrary, and then Sophia would retire to her room and cry, while wishing desperately that she was of different parentage.
That she was, in fact, a different person entirely. Elizabeth Bennett, perhaps, or maybe Marianne Dashwood. Neither of those characters were remotely as fortunate as Sophia, but really, other than a vast array of books to choose from, how had her parents’ fortune ever benefited her?
Indeed, it seemed to prove only as a hindrance to her.
Turning toward her father, she mustered the brightest smile she could and said but two syllables, neither of which she meant at all. “Splendid.”
She was rewarded with another almost-smile from her father, who then leaned over and patted her awkwardly on the head, called her a “good girl,” and left, no doubt to go and tell her mother the good news. Sophia slumped down into her chair the moment her father was gone, wishing that all the books in the shelves bordering her on either side would come tumbling down and rend her unconscious.
However, since a large lump on her head and bruises on her body would not benefit her—not if the Earl was coming to call tomorrow, which she was sure he was—she settled for opening her book up again. She lost herself in the words of Austen, imagining that she was Anne Elliot, waiting patiently for her Wentworth.
If only life was like fiction.
Chapter 2
David, Earl of Montrose, bounded up the steps to Halsey House, the home of the Duke of Wellingson and his family when they were in London. It was a large townhouse, but David was gratified to discover, not nearly so large as his. His residence was the biggest in Mayfair, and he wasted no time in reminding everyone of it.
But why shouldn’t I brag?
What good was fortune, favor, and property if one couldn’t flaunt it a bit? Not enough to elicit censure, but just enough to inform everyone in David’s vicinity that he was, indeed, far better than the lot of them.
Of course, he knew he could show no such hubris today. Not when he was trying to impress the Duke and his daughter, Lady Sophia.
David had spotted her at a few balls thus far in the Season. Indeed, he had even danced with her at the last ball, held at his own residence, and had enjoyed himself far more than he had expected.
Though he knew the Duke did all he could to prevent such an occurrence, Lady Sophia’s reputation as a bluestocking was somewhat widespread amongst the ton. Most young ladies called her a “bore,” claiming she never wanted to discuss gowns and gentlemen, but instead insisted on regaling them all with her latest choice of novel. It was distasteful, to be sure, and usually David would have run in the other direction from a chit like that.
However, Lady Sophia was saved by virtue of her station in life, or rather that of her family. Her father was an extremely wealthy man and held sway in Parliament. He was also a sound businessman, having never made a bad investment, and it was well known that while he was a bore, having him as an acquaintance was to a gentleman’s benefit.
And having him as a father-in-law? Well, that would be one more thing that David could brag about to his audience of admirers.
All he had to do was lay on the charm and, hopefully, he and Lady Sophia could be engaged within the month. That would satisfy his mother’s repeated pleas for him to finally settle down and marry. There would be no more, “Oh, dear David, you’re nearly two-and-thirty. It’s high time you found a wife. A lady for the house. I am quite tired of having to do all the organizing and planning for your galas, I do not mind telling you.”
He could feel his shoulders loosening just thinking about sending his mother off to one of the properties up north, in the wilds of Yorkshire, where the screech of her high voice could not reach him.
However, David was prevented from further musings by the sound of the door opening in front of him. Before him stood the house butler, a sour-looking man in his forties who glared down at David like he had just slaughtered a lamb and left the mess on the doorstep.
“Good afternoon, My Lord. How may I help you?” the butler asked, a bored look in his eyes.
“Good afternoon. I’ve come to call on Lady Sophia. She should be expecting me,” he said, giving the butler an exaggerated, affable smile.
The man did not return the grin. Instead, he gave a succinct nod, then held the door open, inviting David inside.
The hall was cold despite the warm glow of the candles in the chandelier above, and it was eerily quiet as David walked further into the house.
“If you will follow me, Her Ladyship is in the drawing room, My Lord,” the butler said. David followed the man and was lead toward a door down the hall and to the right. The butler opened it for him with a swift swing.
“Thank you,” David said, barely restraining himself from sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes at the butler as the servant bowed his head in deference as David entered the room. For a two-and-thirty-year old, David had rather immature tendencies.
David remembered Lady Sophia as a petite lady with eyes that, the few times she had lifted them to his, were the most peculiar shade of amb
er brown, like fresh honeycomb.
It was those eyes he first noticed upon entering the drawing room, for they alighted on him and looked, if not exactly fearful, then some emotion that bordered on it.
The rest of her face, while pretty, was turned in a frown that matched the look that David could now see was not fear, but rather reservation, in her eyes.
She is shy, David realized. Extremely so, if the quiver of her lips and the look in her eyes was anything to go by. Perhaps that was why she was always so awkward out in public. Maybe she wasn’t a bluestocking at all, but rather one of those ladies who babbled about any old subject when they found themselves in a crowd. His mother was one such lady, and the prospect of including another such female in his life was enough to fill him with dread.
Still, he needed to be gentlemanly, and so he stepped toward her and offered a deep, graceful bow.
“Lady Sophia. It is so good to see you again. You are looking well,” he said as he straightened back up, noticing a young lady in a maid’s outfit who must be Sophia’s chaperone sitting in the corner. The girl was looking at him with plain fascination, a small, shy smile playing at the corner of her lips. He was gratified to see that at least one person in the room was capable of showing him the due deference his presence deserved.
Indeed, David nearly wished it were the maid, rather than Lady Sophia, that he was having tea with. The maid was beautiful, with dark hair and eyes that held a hint of mischief in them. She was buxom, too—David could see that despite the frumpy nature of her servant’s frock.
She had a foreign, exotic look to her that intrigued David. He preferred his whores to be of similar breed—French, or Spanish if he could find it. The exact opposite to the pale English roses he was forced to dance with every season. English roses exactly like Lady Sophia.
Who was, at the moment, giving him the most awkward, stiff curtsy he had ever seen. She looked like she was made out of wood, like her limbs were about to snap in two. Not a hint of grace about her.
His expectations for their meeting lowered still further, and yet he trudged onward, knowing he could not leave for at least half an hour. It would be rude otherwise.
“Shall we have some tea?” he asked, nodding at the cups, saucers, and tier of cakes that had been placed on the table in front of Sophia’s chair.
“Y-yes,” Lady Sophia said, taking her seat. She looked so nervous as David took the sofa across from her, and he was glad that the maid jumped out of her chair a moment later to come pour the tea. It broke up the obvious tension that had immediately settled between him and Lady Sophia as soon as he sat down.
When they were settled with full cups and cake on each plate, Lady Sophia seemed to calm down slightly. She didn’t look quite so pinched, and David began to wonder if he hadn’t been a bit harsh in his assumptions of her. After all, from what he had heard, he was not her first suitor. Perhaps her assignations with the others had been such that she was turned off menfolk entirely, distrusting of his sex as a whole.
I need to put her at ease, he decided, and to do that by asking her questions about herself. Young ladies loved to talk about themselves, didn’t they?
As it turned out, young ladies in general might, but Lady Sophia in particular did not. Indeed, she had a knack for answering all of his questions with one-word answers, or in some cases, merely a murmured, “Hmm.” David bit down the frustration bubbling in him as the conversation dragged forward. It had been half an hour, and still she had not warmed to him. Never in his life had a lady failed to be enchanted by his presence until now. It was a rather distressing occurrence, if David was honest with himself.
The maid, however, continued to pay him attention, sending him wanton looks loaded with meaning that nearly had his breeches stiffening. David was about to give up on Lady Sophia entirely, flout decorum, and begin a conversation with her maid. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, Lady Sophia focused her gaze on him for the first time and asked, “Do you like to read?”
The eye contact she had not paid him this last half hour was suddenly given tenfold. She was staring at him intently, and David realized that this question, as innocuous as it might seem to him, was very important to her. Wanting, no, needing, to make this afternoon a success for his own sense of pride, David leaned forward and did what he did best: he lied, and with aplomb.
“Indeed, yes. I love to read.”
He knew it was the right answer considering his company’s reputation as a bibliophile and bluestocking, and his powers of deductive thinking were rewarded. Lady Sophia gave him the first smile he had ever seen from her, which made her instantly look ten times prettier. In more flattering light, she might even be considered beautiful by those gentlemen who prized blonde hair and rosy cheeks as being the height of female pulchritude.
David knew that it would only work in his favor to declare such an observation of her attractiveness, and so he did, and was further rewarded with a deepening shade of red in the aforementioned rosy cheeks.
“Thank you,” she whispered, looking down demurely. It was clear she was unused to such compliments, and David felt his chest expand knowing that he was among the first of men to pay her such pretty words. Clearly, her other suitors had been absolute dolts. It was no wonder she had not married any of them.
“I say only what is true,” he told her, making her blush to an interesting shade of pink.
It is all going rather splendidly.
Perhaps there was hope for their courtship after all. He wouldn’t be forced back out onto the marriage market to search for some other lady of similar wealth. Lady Sophia would do absolutely fine.
But then she had to go and open her mouth again, as females seemed wont to do. And this question was far harder to answer than the last.
“What are your favorite books?”
She sounded so excited asking this that the words practically tumbled from her mouth as one, followed up quickly by, “Your favorite authors? What was the last thing you read? Have you been to Marcum’s, near Chelsea? It is my favorite bookshop in all of London. What is yours?”
Oh dear.
David had never had much patience for the written word. As a young boy at Eton he had bullied the younger, smaller children into doing the bulk of his work. This tactic meant that by the time he left Eton, he had learned little Latin, no French, and had not even a passing knowledge of The Iliad, The Odyssey, or any other of the classic works.
David did not even read his own correspondence. He had his steward read it aloud to him, usually as they walked toward the tailor’s. David could have told Lady Sophia his favorite tailor; or, in fact, his three favorites. He had one for coats, one for trousers, and another for formal wear. Indeed, he could have discussed the many possibilities available to men of the ton in their sartorial choices for hours, but books?
What an absolute waste of time.
But though he felt strongly about this, David could not voice these opinions to Lady Sophia, not least because she was looking at him with such hope. She gazed at him like he might not be quite the terrifying prospect she had earlier assumed him to be. She looked like she was actually considering him as a marriage prospect.
David could not dash those hopes. Of course she would find out all about him, his true self, once they were married, but now was not the time for honesty. Now was the time for lies and falsehoods that would make him seem suitably compatible to her. Lies and falsehoods that would make her believe they were right for each other, so they could marry and David could have the wife he needed to allow him to move to the next stage of his existence. He had to say something that would please her.
Wracking his brain, David tried to think of the last book his mother had mentioned. His mother was rather a lot like Lady Sophia in that she loved to read above all else, especially now that she was a widow. She preferred gothic novels whose plots David found truly abominable, at least from the way she described them. So much romance, so much love.
It is preposterous,
fantastical.
David didn’t like fantasies. He liked real, tangible things. Money, clothes, property. Things that, unlike love, were actually attainable in this lifetime.
It was odd that Lady Sophia seemed, at least at first sight, to share so many qualities with his mother. It ought to worry him, considering how grating he found his mother’s presence, but strangely it had the opposite effect. In fact, it made David even more certain that Lady Sophia was the lady for him.
He had chosen her because of her father’s connections and the large inheritance she would one day receive, but now that he was getting to know her better, David could see that she had amiable qualities beyond that. Like his mother, she was shy and therefore biddable. A biddable wife allowed the man of the house to do as he liked and pleased, which was the natural order of things, as far as David was concerned. Clearly, she wasn’t an upstart bluestocking at all.
I knew I shouldn’t have listened to those gossips.
Gossip made him think of his mother, who had just that morning mentioned that the newspaper gossip pages were beginning to resemble that of a novel by…oh dear, what was that author’s name? That poor lady who died not too long ago….
“Austen,” David practically shouted suddenly, inwardly congratulating himself for alighting on the name.
It seemed the correct answer even if the question had been one of opinion, for Lady Sophia practically jumped in her seat with excitement, clapping her hands together and looking more animated than he had seen her yet.
“Oh, yes, I simply love her work. I must have read Persuasion at least twenty times at this point. What is your favorite of her works?”
Drat. Why did she have to keep asking more and more detailed questions? Wasn’t liking Austen enough? It was as though she truly wanted to know him.
Thankfully, David happened to look over at the maid at this point. She mouthed something to him, which looked rather a lot like “enema.” Surely that couldn’t be the name of a book for young ladies?
The Art 0f Pleasuring A Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 28