Sophie envied him the ability to mask his emotions. She wore her feelings on her sleeve, which was the main reason she had requested his forgiveness in private. Settling for a public declaration of false peace felt too bitter a restorative to swallow, but swallow she must.
Gracie entered the room in a flurry, tossing a pair of shoes down on the floor even as she whisked the gown from Sophie’s hands. “My apologies, my lady. The shoemaker was putting the finishing touches on your slippers when I arrived to pick them up. I had to wait over twenty minutes!” She began shaking out the blue silk.
“Nothing to be done for it,” Sophie said, taking a seat in front of her vanity. With rushed movements that set Sophie's teeth on edge, Gracie began working on her hair. “We have plenty of time, Gracie. Please. . .slow down. My nerves are rattled enough as it is.” She closed her eyes and tried, fruitlessly, for a calming breath. Her lungs filled about halfway, then locked. Stupid lungs.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I know how hard this must be for you.” Gracie took her time finishing Sophie’s coiffure then helped her into her gown.
Before long, she was standing in front of the mirror, transformed. The silk hung from her body like an early morning mist and gave her normally sky-blue eyes an almost ethereal blue-gray hue. The effect, Sophie noted in awe, was nothing short of amazing. Twirling around, she caught her reflection, stunned anew at what she saw. Gone was the seventeen-year old girl who had run away from what she feared. The woman in the mirror was a confident, radiant goddess who refused to be defeated.
Tonight, Andrew would be facing her. Doubtless, he would expect, if not the girl from years ago, then at least the docile woman he encountered in his study. She let out a satisfied humph, thinking how much easier he would be to deal with if she caught him off guard.
A secretive smile crept over her lips. The night would be a triumph, both in putting to rest the scandal which had haunted her for years and in burying the girl who caused it. A nervous chuckle bubbled out of her mouth as she slipped her dainty feet into matching slippers. She reached for her reticule, then headed towards the door.
“Wait, my lady. You’ll not want to forget this,” Gracie said, holding out a necklace with a round, sapphire stone in the middle. Sophie’s mother had offered it to her for luck—and perhaps, also, as a trinket of persuasion. The piece had been, after all, the one her mother had been wearing when her father had made his grand proposal. Whatever the purpose, Sophie would wear it, because no matter her personal decision to take matters into her own hands, a spot of luck couldn't hurt.
Gracie finished clasping the chain around her neck and patted her on the back. “All set, my lady. You look a vision.”
“Thank you, Gracie,” Sophie said, softening her regal nod with a brilliant smile.
She made her way downstairs, reaching the bottom of the staircase just as Simon entered the hall. “Bloody hell, Sophie,” he said with a sly grin. “You plan on wearing that tonight?”
With a small laugh, she slipped on her gloves. “Obviously.”
Simon had not mentioned marriage again since their last meeting. In typical brother-sister fashion, it took only a day for their normal banter to resume. Sophie did not think for a second, however, that her arguments changed his mind. Knowing Simon, he was just biding his time until his next attack.
“That color does wonders for your skin, Sophie,” her mother Louise said as she slipped into place beside her.
“Thank you, mama.”
“Shall we, then?” Simon asked, offering an arm to his mother and leading them out the door to the waiting carriage.
Sophie climbed in behind them, nerves beginning to fray all over again. She just wanted the evening over and done. Breathe, breathe, breathe, she coached herself as Simon climbed into the seat opposite her. Her gaze drifted out the window as the carriage lurched into motion.
“Do not worry, Sophie,” Louise said, cutting through Sophie’s litany.
“Everything will be fine,” Simon said in a reassuring voice.
Sophie’s gaze jerked to his; the encouraging words came as a surprise. After all, Andrew was one of his closest friends. “I am terrified, Simon. Absolutely terrified.” She was as afraid of losing her temper and creating a scene as she was of anything else, but she kept that part to herself.
He chuckled. “As well you should be little sister. A healthy dose of fear may go a long way in tamping down that will of yours.”
“Simon.” He answered Louise’s groan with a laugh.
Sophie kicked him. “That was not a nice thing to say.” She smiled as she said it, though, knowing that he had accomplished what he set out to do. She tried the rest of the ride to hold onto that feeling, but the closer they got to the Alfred’s, the more her confidence flew out the window. Finally, the carriage rolled to a halt. She had to sit inside for another few minutes to summon her flagging courage.
“Come,” said Simon as he offered his hand to help her out. “You have put this off long enough.”
She shot him an aggrieved look but took his hand, grateful for the support. At the announcement of their names, she swore the room grew quiet. Her steps slowed. She was about to stop altogether when Simon gave her arm a subtle pinch and offered a conspiratorial smile. “Breathe.”
She searched the ballroom for any sign of Andrew, but saw none. After Louise’s required fifteen minutes of rather boring conversation with the dowagers, Sophie spotted Alexandra, surrounded by their normal menagerie of friends. She excused herself.
“Sophie!” Alex said, catching Sophie off guard with a hug as she whispered into her ear. “Drew is not coming.”
Sophie gave her a squeeze of acknowledgment. “I'm not sure if that's good to know or bad.”
“What do you mean?” Alex asked, pulling back to stare at her.
“The thought is both disturbing and comforting, like a child’s bedtime story filled with goblins and monsters.”
Alex laughed. “I am sure you have nothing to fear.”
They spent the next hour conversing with an interchangeable flock of friends and suitors. To Sophie's dismay, Lord Jackson approached, his greasy hair slicked back and tied in a queue. “May I request a dance?” he asked, his chest puffing out.
Despite the urge to refuse, Sophie surrendered her dance card, hiding her disgust as he penciled in his name. Curious to know which dance he claimed, she glanced down at the card as soon as he returned it. Naturally, he requested her first waltz. Then something curious caught her eye. When had Simon scribbled his name next to her last dance?
She didn't have time to ask him before Lord Bottley claimed her for the cotillion. Thankfully, the set was short and he escorted her to the refreshment table after. Alexandra was not standing where Sophie had left her and for a moment, she wondered if something had happened. She glanced left, then right, all the while smiling and chatting with her companion. She didn't find her until Lord Jackson led her out for the waltz. By that point Alexandra was on the opposite side of the dance floor, partnered with Simon.
Once the music began, Sophie did her best to keep her focus on her brother and Alex. When they were out of her sight, she turned her gaze over the onlookers; anything to keep from having to smell her pudgy partner’s malodorous breath.
“You dance like a dream,” Lord Jackson said, guiding her through a turn with all the grace of a small child.
Sophie responded with a muttered “thank you” and continued watching Simon and Alex as they glided gracefully across the floor, laughing and bantering as they always were.
“Your brother tells me you have an interest in Greek art,” Lord Jackson said.
Holding her breath, she nodded. She wasn't giving him any reason to keep talking, but still, his ruddy jowls continued wiggling. In an effort to hide her rapid intake of breath, she'd missed his question. Figuring she couldn't go wrong with a nod, she gave him a quick one and looked away. This has to be the longest waltz in the history of waltzes. She started counting the ca
ndles in the chandelier. When the last note sounded, she hurried back to her group.
To her dismay, Lord Jackson followed. “Perhaps I could call on you tomorrow? We can make arrangements to visit the museum.”
Alexandra’s arrival superseded the set down Sophie wanted to give the presumptuous lord. She settled for a quick glare instead. With an unintelligible grumble, he wandered off. “I'm happy to see at least one of us enjoyed that dance,” Sophie said, aiming for teasing but falling decidedly short of the mark.
“You wished to waltz with your brother?” Alex countered, linking her arm through Sophie's.
“I think he only danced with you so he could watch my torment.”
“Which doesn't say much about my dancing skills. Besides, even if that were true, he would never admit it. We spent the time arguing about Miss Austin's book. Again,” she said with a laugh.
“It must at least be comforting to know you can turn to him for stimulating conversation.” Alexandra and Simon had always gotten along famously. She was one of the few women around who could match wits with him and come out winning, a fact Simon admitted he admired. Sophie often envied the closeness of their relationship. She might have had the same thing with Andrew. More, even. She pushed the thought away.
“Oh, fiddlesticks. Aunt Clara's summoning me. Shall we go?”
Lady Winfield, Alexandra's aunt, was harmless when alone, but when surrounded by her bosom beaus, she became the dreaded monster of every up-and-coming spinster's nightmares—a matchmaker. “Not a chance. That's my mother two seats down, chatting with the Dowager Countess of Loth. She is probably plotting my engagement to half of the men in attendance. If I go anywhere close to them, I'll be stuck.”
Alexandra let out a defeated sigh. “Because I adore you, I will sacrifice myself on your behalf. If I am not back in a moment, however, I expect you to create a scene so I can slip away.”
Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and offered a grateful smile. “You're a peach, Lexie.”
“Remember that next time I need a favor,” she said with a grin. “Lord Roxford, would you please escort me to my aunt?”
“With pleasure,” he said, offering his arm with a roguish smile and over-exaggerated flourish.
Sophie watched Alex go, feeling increasingly irritated. For heaven's sake, she could not even enjoy a simple ball without being plagued by thoughts of marriage. Stifling her annoyance, she tried focusing on the discussion of the season's offerings, but couldn’t. Moments later, she excused herself and wandered off to find a glass of champagne. Surely, in a crush like this, they would be plentiful.
After ten minutes of pushing through the throng of guests, though, she gave up and wandered into the card room. Simon was there, leaning against the fireplace mantle, a glass of brandy in hand and a beautiful widow on his arm. With an inward roll of her eyes, Sophie made her way to his side. “What a shock to find you out of the ballroom, Simon,” she said, by way of a greeting. “Good evening, Lady Forrester.”
“Lady Sophia,” the viscountess said, her voice mellifluous amid the masculine din. Lady Forrester was around thirty with shining black hair and intense, catlike green eyes. Widowed young, she enjoyed the freedom the tragedy had afforded her. In truth, she was as close to a hero as Sophie had ever found.
“May I have a word, brother?” Sophie asked, deciding to take the opportunity to ask him about the waltz he'd reserved.
He made no move to grant her the privacy she requested. “What is it?”
Sophie considered his terse response and wondered if she had interrupted a private conversation. She would never have approached if she knew it would get his back up. “I was just wondering if you had seen mother since we arrived?”
“I saw her into the ballroom. After that. . .” he shrugged and lifted a brow, which Sophie understood to mean he neither knew nor cared.
“I'll look for her there, then,” she said, nodding once again to Lady Forrester before withdrawing from the room. She wandered back into the crowded ballroom, keeping to the perimeter as much as possible to avoid being seen, and thus summoned, by the woman in question. She spotted Alex standing with lords Roxford and Thomas. Sophie made her way over with haste and slid in to Alex's left. “I hope mother did not badger you overly much,” she said with a quiet laugh.
Alex looked at her, widened eyes focused just beyond Sophie’s shoulder. She shook her head, pressed her lips together.
“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked, turning.
“My dance, I believe,” a low voice said, reversing her momentum.
Even without benefit of sight, Sophie recognized the voice instantly. The sound shut out all other noise in the room save her suddenly wild heartbeat. A shudder teased her nerves, even as her muscles tensed. With a closed expression, she turned around, coming face to face with Andrew and his outstretched hand. Wits lagging, she did nothing more than glance at it.
“This is our waltz, my lady,” Lord Bottley said, offering his arm to Alexandra. She took it hesitantly, and with an apologetic expression.
Clearly, Alexandra had not lied when she said the duke did not plan to come. Yet there he was, standing before Sophie, asking her to dance. Like everything else about him, his hands were beautiful. Their wicked combination of grace and strength promised a gentle, but firm touch. Pity his manners leave so much to be desired.
“Take my hand,” he said sotto voce, his infamous half-smile playing on his lips. Her body leaped into action as her heart beat in triple time. With nimble fingers, he placed her hand on his coat sleeve.
As they made their way to the dance floor, Sophie’s shock shifted into irritation. After the boorish way he treated her, expecting a dance was inexcusable. No, not expecting. . .demanding. For it wasn't as if she could refuse him. She allowed frustration to spark in her eyes, laying her feelings towards him bare even as she pasted the requisite smile on her face. When she placed her hand on his shoulder, heat spiraled through her and she tensed, bracing herself. The firm yet gentle grip of his hand on her waist was at once thrilling and infuriating.
“Breathe in, Lady Sophia, this will be over soon.” The sound of her name sent a rush of icy belligerence through her already uptight body, even as the tenor of his voice warmed something inside of her.
Staring into his eyes, she donned a mask of politeness—and reminded herself to breathe. Forcing a gracious smile took every ounce of good breeding she had. If she wasn't standing less than three inches away, she might have believed his unaffected mien, but up close, she could see that his smile was brittle around the edges. His gaze held a definite warning. His debonair expression would deceive those watching from a distance, but Sophie knew the truth. He wasn’t just angry, he was furious.
The waltz began and he set them in motion. Thankfully, she did not have to concentrate on the dance itself. Andrew's natural grace complimented hers to a tee. Waltzing was the one thing they had always done well together, her height and slender frame a complement to his tall, powerful one. Still, they spent the first half of the set moving around the floor in silence. She was engrossed in maintaining her composure when he suddenly spoke, his cultured tones sending waves of pleasure rolling through her traitorous body.
“Simon mentioned that your mother has recently returned from Bath,” he said as they made their way down the room.
She did not give him the courtesy of an immediate answer, instead waiting two silent turns to say, “She returned on Saturday, Your Grace.” At her use of his honorific, his jaw tensed. Reverting to his title was petty, yet she could not stop herself from doing so. Staying within the bounds of propriety was her way to a level playing field. If he insisted on an unemotional approach to reconciliation, or whatever this was, she would give it to him. Any other lady of mere acquaintance would address him with the respect demanded by his lofty status.
After his rude rejection, she refused to grovel. Whether or not he accepted, she had offered an apology. The waltz itself was a declaration of forgivenes
s. If he chose to feel different inwardly than his outward actions showed, it was his problem and his alone.
“I trust she enjoyed taking the waters?” he asked as they continued moving down the room.
“Yes, Your Grace, I believe she did,” she said, pleased when he shot her a dark look.
“And what of your aunt?” he asked, gaze focused somewhere beyond her shoulder.
“She is in good health as well, Your Grace,” Sophie answered, her smile genuine. Every change in his expression was a boost to her confidence, every subtle reaction, a victory.
His brow furrowed as his fingers dug into her waist. “Stop that,” he said, drawing her closer.
“Stop what, Your Grace?” she asked, pulling back to negate the distance he had erased.
“Stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ Stop responding to my questions with ridiculous, closed ended answers. And for God’s sake, stop pulling away from me as if I have the plague.”
Pursing her lips, Sophie widened her eyes and offered a practiced grin filled with as much artificial courtesy she could muster. To those watching from the perimeter, she would appear to be teasing, but Andrew would see the truth. “What shall we discuss, then, Your Grace?” she asked, fighting the urge to stop waltzing altogether and laugh in his too-handsome face. Her performance thus far had been convincing, as confirmed by the nods of approval from those watching from the perimeter. “Shall we talk about the weather? Or perhaps my family? Though I'm not sure why we would, since you have already inquired as to the health of my aunt and mother and have clearly spoken with my brother.”
He responded with a growl, but his expression did not falter. He guided her down the room, his arms hard as granite.
“A feral response may work when scaring peasants into compliance, Your Grace, but you will not find me so easily intimidated. Did you really believe this little ambush would work in your favor?” He did not answer, nor was there a need. The guilt on his face told her everything. As the waltz drew to a close, Sophie struggled against another wave of anger. He muttered a nearly inaudible curse as he looked away. “Your answer, Your Grace?” She offered a smile that coated the question in false innocence.
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