What in heaven’s name would she have said if he had caught her?
“Mama?” Sophia’s voice came from the bedchamber.
“In here,” the countess called, hurrying through from the dressing room. Her daughter was peering around the door from the sitting room. “I thought you had decided to stay in the village until nightfall.”
“Mrs. Biddeford remembered all sorts of things she wanted once we were there,” Sophia said. “And Rachel decided that she did not like the bonnet after all. But once we had left the shop and made all the other purchases and were back in the carriage, she changed her mind once more and nothing would do but we must descend again and go back for it. All the way home she entertained us with assurances that she should have waited until she returned to town.” She laughed.
“Sophia,” her mother said, “we have to talk.”
“Oh, dear,” the girl said. “I always know you are serious when you smile at me in just that way, Mama.”
“Sit down,” the countess said, ushering her daughter back into the sitting room.
“It is about Francis, is it not?” Sophia said, looking at her mother anxiously and standing in the middle of the room. “You do not like him, Mama? You are remembering him as he was as a young boy, are you, when he was forever playing nasty tricks on me because I was always following him about? But that was just boyhood, Mama. All boys are like that, horrid creatures. Or you have heard bad things of him recently. He has been sowing his wild oats, Mama. It is what young men do. But that is all behind him now. And it is said, you know, that reformed rakes make the best of husbands.”
“Oh, Sophia.” The countess laughed despite herself. “Do you have any more platitudes to mouth? Come and sit down, do, and tell me how this all began. You have not seen Lord Francis for several years, have you? I cannot remember your having a single good word to say about him before now.”
Sophia sighed and sank down onto a sofa. “But all our aversion to each other has been converted into love,” she said. “He is so very wonderful, Mama. I did not imagine it possible to feel this way. Is this how you felt about Papa?”
“I daresay,” the countess said. “Sophia, I find this very difficult. Until the last year or so, it has been easy to deal with you. If we disagreed on any issue of importance, I would merely decide for you whether you liked it or not. Now it is not so easy to force you to do what I wish, even if my greater experience of life helps me to see reality more clearly than you.”
Sophia got to her feet again and crossed the room to one of the long windows. “You are not going to forbid me to marry Francis, then?” she asked. “But Papa is preparing to do so, is he not? And you wish to do so, do you not? But why, when he is the son of a duke, Papa’s close friend, and when he and I are so deeply in love?”
“Sophia,” her mother said earnestly, “you are so very young. So very sure that nothing will ever change, that there is such a thing as happily ever after. How am I to explain to you that life is just not so, that your future should be planned with your head and not your heart? I know that such an idea will be quite beyond your comprehension and utterly abhorrent to you. It would have been so to me at your age.”
Sophia turned to look at her. “Must I fall out of love with Francis merely because you fell out of love with Papa?” she asked. “Must history always repeat itself?”
“Sophia.” The countess looked distressed. “I did not … that is not what happened between Papa and me. It is not because of that that I am advising you to think more carefully.”
“Yes, it is,” Sophia said. “Every girl I know has made or is planning to make her come-out at the age of seventeen or eighteen. And all their mamas and papas are eager for them to make suitable marriages. It is the thing to do. Else, why is London during the spring known as the Marriage Mart? And who could be more eligible than Francis? It is true that he is a younger son, but he is the younger son of a duke and has a large portion, even without the inheritance he expects from his great-aunt. It is true that he has something of a reputation for wildness, but what gentleman does not? Most girls I know, and their mamas, too, would kill for an offer from Francis. Cynthia still blushes when she so much as looks at him. Why is it you and Papa alone who say I am too young? Is it because you were too young, Mama?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, sadly. “I do not want you to make the same mistake as I made, Sophia.”
“But other marriages work,” the girl said. “The duke and duchess are still together and Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell and Lord and Lady Wheatley and—oh, everyone but you and Papa. You are the only married couple I know who live apart. Why did you stop loving Papa?”
The countess felt horribly as if she had lost control of the encounter. It was not proceeding at all according to plan.
“That is not what happened,” she said, looking down at her hands.
“What, then?”
She looked up. “Oh, Sophia, he is my husband and your father. I did not stop loving him.”
“And yet you have not seen him since I was four years old until yesterday,” Sophia said. “Was it his fault, then? Did he stop loving you?”
“No,” the countess said, “I don’t know. I don’t know, Sophia. Something happened. It was nothing to do with you. I did not stop loving him.”
“You love him still, then?” There was a gleam of triumph in Sophia’s eyes. “You have not spent any time with him today, have you? But you are bound to feel strange together at first. You will be more at ease as time goes on.”
“Sophia,” the countess said.
“You are ten times lovelier than she is, anyway,” the girl said.
“She?” Olivia raised her eyebrows.
“Lady Mornington,” Sophia blurted. “You know about her, don’t you? She is Papa’s mistress. But not nearly so lovely as you and he must see it, too, now that you have come home.”
Olivia swallowed. Still Lady Mornington, then? After six years? His liaison had lasted longer than his marriage? He must love the woman, then. A more lasting love than his first had been.
“Sophia,” she said gently, “I am not here to stay. I am here only so that Papa and I can discuss your future with you and each other without the awkwardness of exchanging letters. As soon as everything is settled one way or the other, I shall be going home again. Rushton is my home. This is Papa’s home. But we have strayed a long way from the subject I wished to discuss with you.”
Sophia smiled radiantly at her. “No, we have not,” she said. “When Francis and I are betrothed, you and Papa and I can discuss the wedding. It will be much easier than trying to do it by letter. And since we wish to have the banns read as soon as the betrothal is announced, you might as well stay for the wedding. It is too far to travel back here from Lincolnshire less than a month after you leave.”
“Sophia,” the countess said, “have you been hurt dreadfully by the fact that Papa and I have lived apart for most of your life? It has not been in any way your fault, you know. Papa and I both love you more than we love anyone else in the world. And I cannot call my marriage a mistake, you see, for without it there would not have been you. And I am as sure as I can be that Papa feels the same way. But what are we to do about you and Lord Francis? Do come and sit down again and let us talk about it sensibly.”
“We want to get married in the village church,” Sophia said eagerly, coming to sit beside her mother, “even though it will mean having only family and close friends as guests. I want to get married where you and Papa were married, and Francis says that he wants to get married wherever I happen to be the bride walking down the aisle.” She laughed. “He says the most absurd things. Tell me about getting married there, Mama. Did Papa kiss you at the altar? Did you cry? I was born less than a year later, was I not? I think you must have been very much in love.”
Olivia sighed. “Oh, Sophia,” she said. “Yes, we were. You were a child born of love. You must never doubt that.”
4
LORD FRANCIS SUTTON, STAN
DING BESIDE THE bowling green, having completed his own game, drew Sophia’s arm through his. He smiled warmly at her, and strolled a little farther along with her, quite out of hearing of either the bowlers or the small cluster of spectators.
“It must be age that is coming upon me unexpectedly early,” he said, “or some strange malady that has struck me within the past couple of months and is proceeding apace. It must be the country air, perhaps, or the country foods. A strange deafness. What did you say?”
“She can be won over,” Sophia said eagerly, her cheeks flushed becomingly. Her look could easily be mistaken for one of complete adoration. “She is uneasy about the match, Francis, but it is merely anxiety for my happiness. She said—or she implied very strongly—that she will not forbid our marrying even if she does advise strongly against it.”
“That part I understood very well,” he said. “You must have been speaking more loudly and distinctly when you said that. It was the next part I misunderstood—or I think I surely must have, anyway.”
“The part about the wedding?” she said. “I told her we were eager to marry in the village church, or that I was eager, anyway, and that you wished only to do what pleased me. I told her that as soon as our betrothal was announced, she could stay and help plan the wedding.”
“You are getting close,” he said. “I believe it was the next sentence.”
“We want the banns read immediately after the betrothal announcement,” she said.
“That was the one,” he said. “And I might have saved you the trouble of repeating yourself, Soph. I heard correctly the first time. May I ask you something? Are you trying to trap me into marriage? Are you playing a more clever game than all the other females who fancy me? It is a good thing you don’t wear stays, Soph—you don’t, do you? You would be popping them all over the place at this moment.”
“Well!” The word finally found its way past Sophia’s lips. “The conceit. The unmitigated conceit. All the other females. All? How many dozen, Francis? How many hundred? Or should I go higher? I would marry a toad sooner than marry you. I would marry a snake sooner than marry …”
“I follow your meaning,” he said, smiling even more warmly and lifting her hand briefly to his lips. “It is just that you are chuckleheaded then, Soph? Smile, darling.”
She smiled. “Don’t you ‘darling’ me,” she said from between her teeth.
“When on the stage,” he said, “you have to throw yourself heart and soul into the part. Once the banns are read, my darling, we are going to be dead ducks, you and I. It will be bad enough to have to face down a broken engagement, Soph. But that? It is out of the question.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “But she will go back home,” she said. “As soon as this is settled one way or the other, she said she will return to Rushton. Whether we become betrothed or not, she will go. And what is the point of being engaged, Francis, if she does not stay?”
“What indeed?” he said.
“She will stay if there is a wedding to prepare for,” she said.
Lord Francis scratched his head and apparently watched the bowlers for a few moments. “Maybe so, Soph,” he said. “But will she go home anyway after we are married? That is the question. And what am I talking about, saying after we are married? Insanity is infectious. It must be.”
“She still loves Papa,” Sophia said. “She as much as admitted so to me. And he must love her, Francis. She is so much lovelier than his mistress.”
“Good Lord, Soph,” he said. “You are not supposed to know anything about mistresses, and even if you do, the word should never be allowed to pass your lips.”
“His ladybird then,” she said, exasperated. “His bit of muslin. His …”
“Yes,” he said, tossing a look up to a fluffy white cloud that was floating by. “Lady Clifton is certainly a better looker than Lady Mornington. But it does not follow that he therefore wants her more, Soph. If you want my opinion, trying to bring them back together again after fourteen years is rather like trying to flog the proverbial dead horse. Oh, Lord, waterworks?”
“No,” she said crossly, turning with hurried steps back toward the house. “Just a little insect in my eye, that is all. And the sun is too bright. I forgot to bring my parasol with me.”
He caught up to her, drew her hand through his arm, and patted it. “Perhaps I am wrong,” he said. “Perhaps I am, Soph.”
“No, you are not,” she said, fumbling about her person for a handkerchief, then taking the one he offered her. “She has been here for a whole day and they have scarce said a word to each other except last night out on the terrace when we forced them together. It is quite hopeless. She will go back home, whether it be tomorrow or next week or next month.”
He curled his fingers beneath hers on his arm. “Perhaps all they need is time,” he said. “It must be awkward meeting again after so long and with so many other people around to provide an interested audience. Perhaps in time they will sort out their differences.”
“Oh, do you think so?” she asked, looking up at him hopefully.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “No, you keep the handkerchief, Soph. It looks rather soggy. You certainly are not one of those females who can keep their eyes from turning red after a few tears, are you?”
“Oh,” she said. “The word ‘compliment’ is not in your vocabulary, is it, Francis? I am sorry in my heart that you have to escort me about in all my ugliness. Perhaps you should resurrect one of your old tricks. You always used to be able to get rid of me, usually by stranding me somewhere.”
“The island I always thought was the best one,” he said. “How many hours were you there, Soph? And you would have been there longer if I had not eventually whispered your whereabouts to Claude.”
“It was most cruel of you to row back to shore before I could get down from the tree,” she said, “knowing that I could not swim and that the water was just too deep to be waded.”
“I never confided another secret to Claude after that,” he said. “He almost broke a leg in his haste to take the glad tidings to our father. I believe I was too sore to sit down for the rest of that day.”
“There was not a great deal of it left,” she said tartly.
He grinned.
“Do you really think there is still hope?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Your father has taken himself off from the bowling green already,” he said. “Perhaps they are talking even now.”
“Do you think so?” she asked. She looked back to the bowling green to verify the fact that her father had indeed disappeared. “You will do it then, Francis?”
“Do what?” he asked suspiciously.
“Allow the banns to be read if they will consent to our betrothal,” she said. “Will you?”
“And allow the ceremony to take place, too?” he asked. “And the wedding trip in the hope that she will remain here to greet our homecoming? And our first child to begin his nine-month wait for birth in the belief that she will stay for the happy event and for the christening to follow? Perhaps we can have ten children in a row, Soph. Or an even dozen. Perhaps at the end of that time your mother will think it not worth returning to Rushton. Our eldest will be coming up to marriageable age.”
“You are making a joke of my feelings,” she said, “as usual. It will not get as far as that, Francis. Of course it will not. I shall break off the betrothal before the wedding, whatever happens. You have my word on it.”
“Good Lord, Soph,” he said. “Do you have any idea of the scandal there will be?”
“I do not care about scandal,” she said.
“You will,” he said. “No one will want to touch you with a thirty-foot pole after you have jilted a duke’s son almost at the altar.”
“That will suit me,” she said. “I have already told you that I have no intention of marrying anyone. I don’t want to be touched with a pole or anything else.”
“I am not talking only of suitors,” he said. “No one will want
to invite you anywhere, Soph. You will be an outcast, a pariah.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “never say that I did not warn you. But go ahead and do it if you must. As long as I have your word on it that you will do the jilting, that is. I will certainly not be able to do it.”
“Oh, Francis,” she said, looking up at him with bright eyes, “how kind you are. I did not think I would be able to persuade you to agree. You are wonderful.”
“Soph,” he said, frowning, “a little less enthusiastic with the kinds and the wonderfuls, if you please. They make me distinctly nervous coming from you. I think we had better hope that your papa says no and sends me on my way. We had better hope quite fervently, in fact.”
“A wedding in the village church,” she said, her eyes dreamy. “With the bells ringing and the choir singing and the rector decked out in his grandest vestments. And the organ playing. Oh, Francis, it cannot fail to remind them and affect them, can it? Can it?”
“Ah, Bedlam, Bedlam,” he said. “Your doors are wide open to me and beckoning, it seems.”
THE EARL OF Clifton was almost finished with a game of bowls when he saw his daughter walking up from the house. Olivia must have had her talk with her, then. Mrs. Biddeford had come out almost an hour before.
He relaxed somewhat. Olivia would have talked sense into Sophia. She seemed to have a gift for doing so. It had been a great relief to read her letter announcing that she was coming. A great relief—but something else, too. He had not been at all sure that he really wanted to see her again, even though her portrait followed him about wherever he went. It always stood beside his bed, where it was the last thing he saw at night before blowing out the candles and the first thing he saw in the morning before getting out of bed.
But there was something quite different between a portrait and reality.
He excused himself at the end of the game and laughed when Lord Wheatley remarked that it would be a pleasure to let such an expert at the game go.
Mary Balogh Page 5