“Perhaps the stimulating company at Lord Thomas’s masquerade?”
“Now I know you’re teasing, sweet Athena.”
She drummed the tip of her finger along her lip. “Then what do you propose, dear Odysseus?”
“Your interests. What does a woman of your great intelligence find pleasure in?”
Merriment danced in her eyes. “You do know society frowns upon intelligent woman and yet in the span of, oh a quarter of an hour, you’ve decided I’m an intelligent woman?”
“I meant no insult.”
A little snort escaped her. “It would take a good deal more than that to insult me. I rather prefer being thought of as intelligent.”
“Hence the Athena costume?”
“Hence the Athena costume,” she agreed. There was a slight pause. “And you’ll tell me of your interests?”
He raised a hand to his breast. “I would bare my soul to you this evening.”
“Then I should be sure to ask very clever questions.”
Christopher caught her hand and helped her to her feet. She swayed against him; the uncharacteristic indulgence in spirits clearly responsible and not his touch, but still, he angled her body closer to his.
Her lids fluttered a moment, as though she were as captivated as he was, as though she’d been lured by the heady threat of discovery they both risked. “Your favorite book?” she whispered.
His Athena’s words sent him crashing down on a wave of reality. Nausea flooded Christopher. Her words transported him back to the merciless teasing he’d received as a young boy.
“Odysseus?”
Christopher forced a grin. “Only if you’ll tell me first.”
Athena spun out of his arms and danced away from him, on a husky laugh. “Where is the fun in that?” She threw open her arms. “We are in a library!”
Christopher arched a brow and studied her movements. “So?”
“So?”
She tugged a book from the shelf. “I shall find my favorite book and you will do the same. Then, we’ll exchange our volumes.”
Christopher couldn’t remember when the last time he’d had such a frivolous, yet whimsical meeting. It made him forget, even if for just a moment, his loathing for every last single volume in Lord Thomas’s library. “Very well.”
Her laughter blended with his as they separated and began to scour the shelves.
“Ahh,” she said.
Christopher glanced back in time to see her pull free a book and hug it tight to her chest, which effectively concealed the title.
“Have you found yours, Odysseus?”
“Insolent thing,” he muttered and returned to his search. He walked down aisle after aisle of Lord Thomas’s floor-length shelving and, finally paused, his gaze trained so long on the books in front of him that a dull throbbing ache developed behind his eyes.
“Odysseus?”
He jerked out a green leather volume. His eyes fixed on the title, willing it into focus but the words danced before his eyes, before ultimately falling off of the cover. He wanted to hurl the bloody book across the room. “I have it.”
His Athena crossed over to him, hugging her treasure close to her chest in a way that he envied that damn book. He’d give up his right to the marquisate to be that volume.
“On the count of three, we shall trade books.”
All his age old insecurities rushed to the forefront and he nearly choked on an all too familiar panic.
“One. Two. Three.”
Christopher studied the volume she’d handed him, and looked back at her. Perhaps she saw a spark of something in his eyes for she said, “Delphine.”
“Yes. I see that,” he lied.
Athena nodded to the copy she’d handed him. “Have you read it?” She didn’t wait for his response but instead prattled on about the book. “Do you know it was written by a woman? It was so controversial,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “that Napoleon exiled her for her views on women’s freedom in an aristocratic society. And…”
His silence seemed to register. She promptly closed her mouth.
How fascinating that his Athena should prefer this work. He thought back to what she’d said about her impending betrothal and wondered how much of her selection had to do with frustration over her limited freedom in choosing a husband.
She finally looked up at him. Intrigue and Love. “I’d hardly have taken you for a romantic.”
Christopher frowned. Bloody hell. He’d grabbed the closest book at hand and forced a grin. “Do you presume to know my interests so well after so little time, sweet Athena?” He thought of Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh; of how miserably he’d failed to woo her and granted that Athena might be right on that score. “Nor for that matter can Intrigue and Love be considered a romantic work.”
“It isn’t?” Athena frowned and glanced back down at it. “I suppose I should not make assumptions based off a title alone.” She held the copy back out to him.
Christopher accepted it and returned her volume over to her. He cleared his throat. “I’d imagine someone will be missing the both of us.” As loathe as he was to give up this blithe moment with his Athena, it would be disastrous to both of them if they were discovered here alone.
Athena nodded. She placed her copy back in its respective spot. “I feel as though it is wrong that we should say good-bye and never again see each other.” She made to take off her mask but Christopher set aside his book and took her fingers in his.
Propriety be damned. Masquerades were a time of forbidden kisses; a time when anything could happen. He turned them over and stared down at her soft palms. “I agree, sweet Athena. I don’t want to spoil this moment with revelations that will do neither of us any good.”
“So this is good-bye.”
It was. It had to be. For the both of them. When the masquerade ended, they would be forced to reenter the world of rigid expectations and arranged unions.
Devil that he was, Christopher wanted to steal one more moment, before his father ultimately forced his hand and he found himself wed to assuage a familial debt. Just so they knew that at one time there had been nothing but laughter, honesty, and freedom between them. “Meet me.”
Her eyes widened at the scandalous proposition. What he wouldn’t give for the room to be bathed in full light so he could make out the shade of her riveting eyes. “What?” she squeaked.
“On the last day of the Season, if you are not betrothed and I am, of course also free, meet me in Kensington Gardens.”
The words sounded foolhardy even to his own ears. There was nothing appropriate, wise, or necessary about his impulsive suggestion, but if he were to honor his father’s wishes…then he’d at least allow himself the excitement of pondering over his mystery Athena and one day learning her actual identity.
“Very well.” Athena leaned up, placed a kiss upon his cheek, and hurried across the room.
She’d just settled her fingers on the handle.
“Oh, and Athena?”
She turned back to face him.
“Thank you.”
She angled her head. “For what?”
For allowing me to forget. For making me smile. For the wisp of a dream that you represent.
Instead, he murmured, “Your company.”
Athena opened the door and fled.
Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet
While waiting in Viscount and Viscountess M’s receiving line, Miss S.W. dropped her fan upon the staircase. The Incomparable Lady D.H. stumbled upon the item and fell quite gracefully down the stairs.
~3~
Sophie squinted against the rays of sunlight that streamed through the dining room. Her stomach churned at the morning smells of smoked haddock, rice, boiled eggs, and a host of other scents. She wanted to bury her head in her hands and groan, but her brother, Geoffrey Alistair Winters, the Viscount Redbrooke, was seated across the table from her.
A black, glowering frown turned his lips.
/> He hadn’t said anything about her obviously foxed state last evening. Sophie had thought she’d been fortunate enough to have escaped his notice and that she’d be spared his censure.
Geoffrey waved over a servant. “Please serve my sister a heaping plate of kedgeree.”
The liveried servant rushed over with a plate piled with kedgeree and ham from the sideboard. He set it down in front of Sophie. Her throat worked convulsively. She raised her napkin to her lips and fought back a wave of nausea.
Her brother set aside his paper and leaned forward. “Is something the matter, sister?”
Bile surged to the back of her throat and she swallowed it back. “Nothing at all.” With the tip of her fork, she speared a piece of ham, and dangled it over the side of her chair. Her dog, Duke, a fawn-colored pug with a stripe of black down his back, stood and swallowed the ham whole. “Why do you ask?”
Geoffrey leaned back in the chair with a snort. He folded his arms across his chest and continued to study her. “You’re certain you are well?”
Sophie’s head and entire body ached as though she’d been dragged by her heels through London and tossed underneath a fast-moving carriage. The last thing she could formulate was a coherent thought. “I’m fine,” she said with a forced smile. She nibbled at a piece of warm, crusty bread. When her stomach roiled like a ship tossed about the sea, she dropped the remainder of bread to the floor.
Duke swallowed the offering in two large bites and yapped his pleasure.
“I’ve spoken to you about allowing that dog in in the dining room.”
Sophie reached down and scooped Duke up onto her lap. She buried her cheek against his coarse fur. “Do hush. You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“I do not care to discuss that miserable dog.”
“He isn’t miserable.” Sophie didn’t care what her brother thought of her dog. As if he’d understood his mistress’ defense, Duke licked her cheek.
Geoffrey frowned. “I’d like to discuss your marital state.”
She groaned and then winced as the sound threatened to split her skull in two. No! This was not the time for her to discuss marriage. She needed to be clear-minded and not battling the influence of too many spirits. Alas, her brother had neatly trapped her.
Sophie set her dog back onto the floor. He gave a final yelp and then waddled from the room. She sighed. Lucky little fellow. She shoved her untouched plate aside.
“I’ve been patient with you for three years,” Geoffrey said, jerking her attention back to the moment.
Yes, yes he had. Sophie folded her hands in her lap to conceal the manner in which they shook. Geoffrey had spoken about wedding her to Lord Carmichael if she didn’t make a match by her third Season. Lord Carmichael was as bald as a newborn babe with a paunch to rival Prinny. And he’d already had three wives to date. Sophie had no desire to be unfortunate number four.
“I don’t want to marry a man three decades my senior.”
“What about a man eight years your senior?”
Well, that seemed rather specific and all the more concerning for it.
“Who are we speaking about?”
Both her and Geoffrey’s gaze swiveled to the doorway where Mother stood, framed in the entrance.
Sophie sighed. The day had gone from bad to worse. Mother must have heard the word marriage mentioned and come running.
Geoffrey waved for her to sit down. “I’m speaking to Sophie about her marital prospects,” he said, as Mother settled into her seat.
Or lack of prospects, hence her brother’s humiliating need to interfere.
“I’m quite content—”
Geoffrey held up a hand. “As I was saying, I’ve been patient.”
“We’ve been patient,” Mother corrected. She leaned back in her chair with a humph.
Geoffrey continued. “I agree that Carmichael is too old a match for you.”
“You do?” Her brother never agreed with her on any score. Her breath left on an audible exhale but died at his next sentence.
“But that does not mean there aren’t entirely suitable gentlemen who would make you an excellent mate.”
Sophie grimaced. Her brother made it sound as romantic as a broodmare being paraded and inspected for her suitability. She tried to shove back the throbbing ache behind her eyes and focus on his words. Geoffrey clearly had a gentleman in mind for her. “Who?”
“He is a perfectly acceptable gentleman. He has a respectable stable of horseflesh.”
Yes, because that is what every young lady dreamed of. “Who?” she pressed.
“The Earl of Waxham.”
Surely she’d heard him wrong? A laugh burst from her throat. She winced immediately, regretting the explosion of mirth. Sophie pressed her fingers along her temple. “You jest. Christopher?” Christopher’s family estate in Kent bordered her family’s. “I’ve not spoken to Christopher since…” Her words trailed off, and she fell silent. Her mind wandered back to that long ago night when she’d come upon him reading in the Marquess of Milford’s stables. The night of the fire. From then on, he’d never spoken to her anything more than a passing greeting. It was as though he’d blamed her for the incident that had destroyed his father’s stables.
Geoffrey placed his elbows upon the table and leaned forward. “Since?” he pressed.
“It matters not. I won’t wed him.” Sophie tossed her head back. Nor, for that matter did she believe Christopher would want to wed her. As children they’d teased one another quite mercilessly. When Sophie had arrived in London, however, as a bright-eyed young lady, eager for her first Season, she’d imagined Christopher would set aside any childhood animosity and present himself as a friend, a familiar face, to help ease her entry into Society.
She’d learned all too quickly that the deeply admired Earl of Waxham had little intention of acknowledging her, or their familial connections. Instead, he’d seemed to go to great lengths to avoid her.
Which was entirely fine with Sophie. As she was considered a social oddity, Christopher’s flawless image amongst the ton had always grated on Sophie’s nerves. No young lady cared to be reminded of her imperfections.
Mother cleared her throat. “I assure you, Sophie, your brother and I are quite serious. Waxham would make you a splendid match.”
“No.”
Geoffrey frowned. “I don’t necessarily have to ask.”
“You act as though this is the feudal ages, Geoffrey. What next? Will you lock me in a tower if I disagree?”
Geoffrey’s brows lowered. “We don’t have a tower.”
Sophie’s eyes slid closed. She directed a prayer skyward in the hope of strength in dealing with her brother. She opened her eyes and held Geoffrey’s stare. “I was being facetious. I’ll not wed him.”
As it was, Christopher had courted her dearest friend, Lady Emmaline, now the Marchioness of Drake. He’d not even paid Sophie any notice, for which Sophie had been immensely grateful. What would make Geoffrey or Mother believe she could bring someone of his exalted position in Society up to scratch?
Her mother stroked her skirts and spoke gently. “Sophie, dear, you could do far worse than to find yourself wed to Waxham.”
“I could also do a deal better,” she muttered under her breath.
“Oh,” Geoffrey drawled. “Who?”
“The Duke of Mallen.” The room went silent at the name she’d blurted. Mother and Geoffrey exchanged a look. It was the one name that could silence the viscountess.
Geoffrey laughed and cut into the shocking piece Sophie had dropped. Oh, the insufferable lout.
“Do you expect me to believe you can secure the duke’s affections?”
Sophie bristled and looked to her mother, who wore an equally bemused expression. No help, there. That was saying a good deal when the very woman who’d brought you into the world had so little faith in your ability to secure a husband. Not just any husband…but one of the most esteemed peers of the realm.
“You must be
mad,” Geoffrey said.
Sophie frowned. She held the duke in very high esteem, but the fact that she’d proffered his name had nothing to do with any tendre she carried and more to do with her mysterious Odysseus. She’d managed to remain unwed for two Seasons. If she could manage one more and meet the man who’d so captivated her in the library…
“Sophie, are you listening to your brother?”
No. “Yes,” she lied.
“The Duke of Mallen has given little indication of any interest in you.”
“That isn’t true,” she insisted. “He asked me for several sets last Season; two of which were waltzes.”
“Only because you are friends with Lady Emmaline,” Geoffrey pointed out.
Well, he had her there. She’d not say as much. To do so would kill her argument. “That isn’t at all what Em told me.” Underneath the cover of the table Sophie crossed her fingers.
Geoffrey and Mother exchanged skeptical looks.
However, the stretch of quiet indicated they were both appearing to consider the merit of Sophie’s words. They might want her wed, but both Geoffrey and Mother were quite enamored with their status in Society.
“Waxham is a certainty,” Geoffrey said at last, cutting across her hope.
“Oh, of course he is,” Sophie mumbled.
“He is very sought after,” Mother said, coming to the earl’s defense in a way she hadn’t moments earlier when Geoffrey had called into question Sophie’s status in Society.
Sophie’s frown deepened. That stung more than she cared to admit. “I don’t need Geoffrey to provide his unending list of Christopher’s greatness. He’s already mentioned the earl’s stables.”
Neither Mother nor Geoffrey appeared to pick up on her attempt at sarcasm. Or, mayhap they chose to ignore it.
Geoffrey continued with his argument. “I merely say Waxham is a certainty because of our familial connections.”
Sophie sat back in her chair and rested her arms along the sides of the seat. She drummed her fingertips and then winced as the ache in her head grew. “The connection is not as great as you give credit for—”
Mother’s gasp interrupted Sophie’s words. “Your father and the Marquess of Milford’s friendship goes back to their youth. How dare you say something so insensitive?”
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed Page 3