Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  “Good God—are you injured? I’m so sorry! Please, let me.…” He bent to grab her upper arms and hoisted her to her feet. Sophie stumbled, trying to find her balance, and winced because one of her long ringlets was caught somewhere. Drat them anyway.

  “Did I hurt you? How could I be so cursedly clumsy to you, of all people.…” He pushed her tumbled hair out of her face, his other hand still firm on her shoulder, and she saw that his eyes weren’t pale blue as she’d guessed but gray, gray like morning fog over the meadows at home, deep-set under dark brows drawn down in concern.…

  And something else. She’d felt it on her ungloved hands just before she fell, a blast of cold, charged air.…

  Magic.

  There had been an unmistakable aura of magic in the air, tingling against her bare palms as if someone had just done a spell in the immediate vicinity, barely a few feet away.

  “Lady Sophie?”

  Sophie blinked. The young man was staring at her, and she realized that he still held her by the shoulder, absentmindedly smoothing her hair back from her face. “It wasn’t you, was it?” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “The spe—um, nothing, sir. I beg your pardon—I’m a little overset—” She moved slightly. The young man started and dropped both his hands.

  “You—Lansell—Lord Palmerston—I was afraid you—he—” His cheeks bloomed red above the points of his crisp collar. “Did—did I hurt you, falling over you like that? I’m sorry to have been such a clod.”

  “No, it was my fault entirely.” Sophie tore her eyes from the young man’s face, realizing as she did that the orchestra had stopped playing and that a jostling, murmuring crowd had gathered around them and Papa and the broken remains of Zeus on the floor. A deep gouge marred the herringbone parquet where the bust had struck, and its head had rolled some distance. Dear God—if Papa had not been shoved aside—

  “Papa!” she cried, turning to search for him.

  Her father stood a few feet away, white-faced and silent, his arms around an equally pale Amélie. Lord Palmerston stood staring at the floor, his jaw slack in shock, and Lady West was sobbing. Then Papa shook his head as if to clear it. “We’re quite unharmed, thanks to this gentleman.” He held his hand out to her. “It’s all right, Sophie. Don’t cry.”

  “It was so close—I felt the wind from it as it fell,” Amélie murmured. She turned her face away from the chunks of white marble littering the floor and hid her face in Papa’s shoulder. He bent his head and murmured something to her.

  “I’m not surprised you did. It was this close.” Aunt Molly, her eyes enormous, was there too. She held her hands up a few inches apart. The Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux nodded his agreement.

  “‘Thank you’ seems rather inadequate under the circumstances,” Papa said, lifting his head and looking past Sophie to address the young man. “But it must do, at least for now.” He looked into his face. “Do I know you, sir?”

  Lord Palmerston raised his quizzing glass and cleared his throat. “It’s young Woodbridge, isn’t it? Rendlesham’s son?”

  The young man stepped toward him and bowed, looking pleased despite his pallor. “Yes, sir. I—”

  “Good God, Lansell. Are you all right?” Lord Whiston had finished pushing his way through the crowd, closely followed by a white-faced Lady Whiston. “Palmerston, you too? I can’t think how—those pedestals were bolted in place. Damme, stand back, everyone. Give them some room to breathe. Please, madam, won’t you sit down?” He held his arm out to Lady West and led her to a chair. “Someone fetch some wine!”

  Sophie tottered back to her chair while everyone fussed over Lady West and Amélie, which suited her quite well. She needed a moment to catch her breath and to puzzle out precisely what had happened.

  Except that she already knew. Someone had just tried to make the bust of Zeus fall on Papa or one of the people standing with him. With magic. Though she’d tried, she’d fallen before she could get a spell out … if it would even have worked. If that young man hadn’t been there—

  But who could possibly want to kill them? Amélie was a complete stranger, and Lady West looked harmless enough. Which left Papa and Lord Palmerston. Why would anyone want to hurt them? Who possessed magic—magic strong enough to move a marble column bolted to the floor?

  “Here, my dear.” Lady Whiston was before her, holding out a glass of hock. “No, don’t stand up. Be still and drink this. It was a fright for you as well, wasn’t it? Did you injure yourself when you fell?”

  “I’m quite well, thank you, Lady Whiston.” She took the glass and sipped cautiously. The wine was delightfully cool and sweet. “Your Zeus—we were right here next to it, and it seemed so solid and unmovable.”

  “So I thought too.” Lady Whiston’s forehead furrowed as she took the seat next to Sophie. “I shall certainly at the earliest possible moment speak to the workmen who put it there for us. I can’t have statuary falling on my guests. Thank heavens for Woodbridge’s being so observant and quick.”

  Sophie forced her face into an expression of what she hoped was only polite interest. “Woodbridge? Is that who pushed Papa and Madame Carswell out of the way?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes—Peregrine Hollesley—the Earl of Woodbridge. He’s Lord Rendlesham’s eldest. Their estates are up in Suffolk, on the coast. Fine boy. We know him well—has an interest in government, like your papa—Foreign Office I believe, since the War Office will—one hopes—not require much help any longer. He has two younger brothers in the navy and cousins in the army, and felt it quite keenly that they saw action and he could not, as his father’s heir.” She smiled. “Do you wish me to make him known to you?”

  “Oh, I…” Sophie knew that her cheeks were glowing pink. “Thank you, Lady Whiston, I should like that, but perhaps not just now.” What an awkward way to meet, crashing to the floor and tripping him up like that … and with her disgraceful hair hanging around her like a deranged milkmaid’s.

  “Nonsense. No time like the present.” Lady Whiston rose and called, “Woodbridge, my boy! Do come here.”

  “Lady Whiston, you don’t have to—”

  But it was too late. The young man had already turned back to them. He looked at Sophie intently, without smiling, and she was sure that her face must resemble her new dinner dress from Amélie’s sari cloth.

  “Falling over young ladies in my ballroom does not constitute an introduction,” Lady Whiston said, only slightly archly. “You must let me remedy that. Lady Sophie, may I present the Earl of Woodbridge? Woodbridge, Lady Sophie Rosier.”

  Sophie took a deep breath and curtsied in response to Lord Woodbridge’s bow. At least she could do that gracefully. “My father—I can’t thank you enough for what you—that is, it was fortunate for him that you happened to be there.…” She gestured toward where Zeus had stood.

  “For poor Palmerston, too!” Lady Whiston inserted. “Good heavens, if those two had been hurt by my Zeus, Napoléon would have been dancing a jig in Paris when he heard.” She smiled at them both, then rejoined Lord Whiston and Papa.

  The young man frowned at her retreating back and opened his mouth as if to reply. But then he seemed to think better of it and turned back to Sophie.

  “I should probably confess … to be honest, I didn’t just happen to be there.” He hunched his shoulders slightly and suddenly looked very young. “I had, er … hoped someone would be kind enough to present me to you.”

  Yes, she definitely was blushing. What did one say to such a confession? “Oh—indeed? That is, I … we noticed you standing nearby.”

  He smiled and looked down at his feet for an embarrassed instant. “I hope I didn’t stare you out of countenance. I couldn’t help it, I’m afraid. You looked so—”

  “Perry?” called a girl’s voice, pleasant but imperious. “Good God, boy, what trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

  A young lady was pushing her way through the milling guests with cheerful unconcern for where
her elbows landed. She was tall and dark-haired and beautiful in a distinguished, strong-featured way, like a sculpture of a medieval queen. Her deep blue dress was as elegant as Sophie’s (but not more, Sophie was glad to note). She halted by them and glanced curiously at Sophie, then turned to Lord Woodbridge.

  “Well?” she demanded, poking him with her fan. “By Jupiter, I can’t let you out of my sight or else you’re in it up to your neck, aren’t you?”

  Sophie couldn’t help bristling. Who was this girl? Lady Whiston had mentioned that he had brothers, but not sisters—and even a sister wouldn’t presume to scold so publicly. A sister wouldn’t, but a fiancée might.

  “I’m not in anything up to my neck, Parthenope,” Lord Woodbridge said patiently, but a hint of annoyance edged his voice. “Instead of plowing in and jumping to conclusions, you might consider asking questions first for a change. It’s astonishing what you can learn if you do.”

  Well, that didn’t sound very loverlike, but one never knew. Some people quarreled by way of love talk, according to a few novels she had borrowed from Aunt Molly.

  “I did ask questions, if you’ll only think. You just haven’t answered them yet.” The girl turned to Sophie. “Really, he’s impossible. Since he seems to have forgotten his manners, I suppose I must introduce myself—”

  “I haven’t forgotten my manners.” Lord Woodbridge was definitely gritting his teeth now. “You just haven’t let me get more than two words in—”

  “Oh, abominable! I have so! You just said—let me see…” She began, very ostentatiously, to count on her fingers while muttering under her breath.

  He ignored her. “Lady Sophie, though it pains me to do so, may I present to you my most vexatious and trying cousin, Lady Parthenope Hardcastle—though God knows she doesn’t deserve the title of lady.”

  His cousin! An absurd feeling of relief flooded Sophie, followed by a tide of embarrassment. Why should she be so relieved that this girl was merely his cousin and nothing more? Of course, that didn’t mean that they still might not … but somehow she didn’t get the impression that they had the least amount of interest in each other in that way.

  Lord Woodbridge was still speaking. “Parthenope, Lady Sophie Rosier, Lord Lansell’s daughter. Behave yourself and be civil to her, or I swear on Grandfather’s grave that I’ll take a horsewhip to you.”

  Sophie waited for Lady Parthenope to explode at this shocking introduction, but she only laughed as she dropped a curtsy in response to Sophie’s. “You’ll have to catch me first. Don’t listen to him, Lady Sophie. My manners are perfect, but his—” She broke into a tinkling laugh. “Do you recall that day two summers ago when you poured your tea down my back? Is that what you consider behaving oneself?”

  “I was provoked, if you recall.” Lord Woodbridge’s voice remained calm, but his brows had drawn together threateningly.

  “Ha, I like that! All I said was that if you were brave enough and really wanted to go to sea like your brothers, you’d surely have found a way—”

  “Lady Sophie,” Lord Woodbridge interrupted, “I trust the rest of your evening will be less alarming—though that is open to question in present company—and that I did not injure you in any way.” He bowed to her, pointedly excluding his cousin, and stalked away.

  “Oh ho! That still rankles, does it?” Lady Parthenope called. “Good night, Perry. I say, do call on my mother tomorrow if you have a moment. She said just today that she was sorry not to have seen you in town yet.”

  Sophie watched Lord Woodbridge’s retreating back—he didn’t turn to acknowledge his cousin’s admonishment or even show that he’d heard it—and wanted to tread on Lady Parthenope’s toes and hurry after him so she could hear what he had been going to say … well, insofar as she could hurry. Why had he hoped to meet her so much? Her first introduction of the season to a young man (and such a handsome one, too!), and it had to end almost before it had started. It was positively maddening.

  “Heavens, he’s gone all prickly,” Lady Parthenope observed, staring after him. “Perhaps he’s out of practice—we haven’t seen each other to argue since Christmas. He’s been in London, Mama says, haunting Whitehall in hopes someone will employ him. He’s mad to join the Foreign Office.”

  “Indeed?” Sophie couldn’t keep a chill out of her voice, but Lady Parthenope didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, quite. Our families call us Oil and Water. We’ve always squabbled, partly because he’s far too perfect and needs humbling, I think—of course, he thinks the same of me—and partly just for the fun of it. But he seemed different tonight … I don’t know. Like there was something else on his mind and our war suddenly didn’t matter anymore.” She paused and peered at Sophie. “I say, your hair seems to have gotten rather tumbled. Let’s go to Lady Whiston’s room and I’ll fix it for you. I love fiddling about with hair and I don’t have any sisters, so I don’t have anyone to practice on except Macky, and her hair is rather thin and gray and governessy. Which isn’t surprising, I suppose, since she’s my governess, but still, it’s not like yours at all. Did you manage to find all your pins? No matter, we can always borrow some from Lady Whiston. Come on, I think it’s this way.”

  Sophie blinked at this sudden change of topic. “You don’t have to do that. I—”

  “Yes I do. Besides, I don’t know anyone here apart from Perry, and he’s not talking to me, so it would be diverting to talk to you. This is my first time in London, you know. Papa and Mama haven’t brought us till now, since I’m the eldest. Are you?”

  “Am I the what?”

  “The eldest in your family, of course. I suppose you must be, since I don’t see any brothers or sisters here with you, though I suppose that could mean you’re the youngest, too. Well, let’s go. We can chat while I fix your hair.” She linked her arm through Sophie’s and took a step.

  Sophie glanced over at Papa and Amélie, still the center of a small crowd, and Aunt Molly and the comte, still being glowered at by Aunt Isabel. No help could be expected from that quarter. Letting this dizzying young woman redo her hair seemed to be inescapable, so she let herself be pulled along.

  After they had taken a few paces toward the ballroom’s door, Lady Parthenope paused. “Are you all right? Did that great lummox Perry break your foot?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t a lummox! I—” Of course. How could she forget her limp? She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. This girl had just arrived in London and seemed determined to be friendly. Would she continue to be so once she’d heard gossip about hunchbacked, half-witted Sophie Rosier, even if it obviously wasn’t true? Would a crippled Sophie be just as unacceptable? Quite possibly. Some people had foolish prejudices and believed that a bodily infirmity must reflect a spiritual or mental flaw as well. But there couldn’t be anything wrong with an injured Sophie.

  “Why, yes—I may have hurt something—it was such a hurly-burly.” She took another step and pretended to wince. “Oww—I jumped up to try to warn my father and tripped on my hem, and then Lord Woodbridge fell over me—”

  “Just what I said! A lummox!” Lady Parthenope looked amused but shook her head. “Wait till I see him next. I’ll give him a good—”

  “No! That is … please don’t scold him.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think that Parthenope’s scolding came from her. “I assure you, it was all my fault. If he hadn’t been there, my father might have been injured, or—or worse.”

  “Well, I suppose.” Lady Parthenope sighed. “I do love having an excuse to cut the boy into thin strips, though.”

  “You need an excuse?” Sophie said, then bit her tongue.

  But the girl only grinned. “No, not really. And I take dreadful advantage of being a girl, because he’s got a chivalric streak as wide as the Channel and doesn’t think he ought to abuse me the way I abuse him, even though he loves to. Which is a pity, because he can out-insult me quite handily when he puts his mind to it—or when I drive him to it, as you just sa
w. Wasn’t he good? I wanted to pat him on the head and say ‘bravo!’ but it would have rather destroyed the moment.… Heavens, I shouldn’t keep you standing here when you’ve got a hurt foot. Here, let’s get you back to your seat. Your hair can wait, though I would so have liked to fix it for you—”

  Still chattering about hair, Lady Parthenope helped her back to her seat, then boldly stepped up to Papa and Amélie. Lord Palmerston and Lady West had left, and the crowd around them had by now mostly dispersed. A pair of footmen had gathered up the pieces of Zeus, and the musicians were again playing, but Amélie still looked pale as she leaned on Papa’s arm, sipping a glass of wine.

  “Lady Lansell—Lord Lansell.” Lady Parthenope curtsied. “I must apologize for my cousin. Your daughter seems to have been injured by his clums—”

  Amélie blushed hotly and shook her head in protest. “Mademoiselle, you are mistaken. I am not Lady Lansell—”

  “Aren’t you?” Lady Parthenope looked interested.

  “Sophie’s injured?” Papa turned quickly to find her.

  “Oh, not badly injured, I don’t think,” Lady Parthenope assured him. “He tripped over her, you see, and seems to have stepped on her foot. He isn’t usually that clumsy, but I suppose the circumstances were extenuating. Anyway, I think it might be a good idea if you took her home and did something for it. Her foot, that is. A cold poultice, probably. My Macky always—she’s my governess, you know, Miss MacTavish—anyway, Macky always puts an angelica root and oatmeal poultice on bruises—”

  “Angelica root and oatmeal?” Aunt Molly had materialized behind Papa. “I’ve never heard it used for that before.”

  “It’s a Scotch remedy. They use oatmeal for everything, I think. Oh, you must be Lady Lansell, then—”

  “Goodness, no!” Aunt Molly shook off the suggestion impatiently. “Tell me, does she grind the angelica or does she just bruise it?”