Lady Parthenope stamped her foot in annoyance. “I don’t know, and I don’t care! Won’t someone find Sophie’s mama so that she can take poor Sophie home so her foot doesn’t swell like a grape and keep her from dancing the rest of the season?”
Everyone stared at her except Amélie, who was looking at Sophie with raised eyebrows. Sophie returned her inquiring look with a pleading one. Amélie gave her a tiny nod. “Vraiment, mademoiselle, you are entirely right,” she said crisply. “Pauvre Sophie, you must take my arm—or should I call for help? No? Very well. Monsieur le Marquis, won’t you ask that the carriage be brought?”
“Under the circumstances, I think that is an excellent idea.” Papa turned to find a footman.
Lady Parthenope looked relieved. “Thank you. I’ll call tomorrow, then, to see how you do, Lady Sophie. Good night.”
“Um, that would be lovely. Good night,” Sophie said, clinging to Amélie’s arm as Lady Parthenope swept away.
“Must we go so soon?” Aunt Molly asked plaintively, looking back at the comte, who hovered on the edge of the conversation.
“I too shall call tomorrow, if I may,” he assured her, bowing with his hand over his heart. Aunt Molly dimpled.
“Sophie?” Amélie asked quietly as they moved slowly down the stairs. “What is all this? Are you truly hurt?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know! I didn’t know what else to say to her. She seemed to gallop over everything, and it was easier just to let her think what she wanted and…”
And her first ball had turned into an utter disaster, hadn’t it? Sophie stared down at her hand clutching the banister. First her hair, then that Sir William being so unpleasant to Amélie, then overhearing that horrid man and Zeus nearly killing Papa and the mysterious magic she’d felt and the beautiful Lord Woodbridge being scared off by Lady Parthenope and … and everything. Her hand blurred through a film of tears.
“Chut! I am not scolding, petite.” Amélie squeezed her arm as they gained the lotus-columned hall. Lady Whiston herself came fluttering toward them with their wraps and bid them good night. Amélie thanked her and took Sophie’s arm once more. “This evening has been even more exciting than we expected, no?”
“Not exciting—horrible!” Sophie muttered.
“Are you all right, Lady Sophie?” someone asked.
Sophie looked up—and straight at Lord Woodbridge, who was standing at the base of one of the columns. He was regarding her steadily, brows slightly drawn.
“I—it has been a t-tiring evening, sir,” she stuttered.
He bowed and stepped back, but Sophie was sure she could feel his eyes on her as they proceeded to the door being held open by a tall footman.
Lord Whiston accompanied them out to their carriage and handed her and Aunt Molly and Amélie into it. After Papa climbed in and gave the coachman the signal to start, Sophie looked out her window toward the house. She thought she saw a dark-haired figure in a blue coat standing with Lord Whiston under the torches by the door, watching their carriage clatter down Mount Street.
“Well,” Amélie commented quietly, “perhaps not entièrement horrible.”
“Indeed not,” said Aunt Molly, sounding dreamy and faraway.
Chapter
4
Breakfast was barely over the following morning when the front door knocker rat-a-tatted loudly. A few moments later Aunt Isabel swept into the breakfast room, grim-faced above her enormous ermine muff. She fixed Papa with a steely look.
“Gilbert, we must talk,” she announced, then turned to Aunt Molly. “And you too,” she added. “If you feel that you can face us.”
Aunt Molly blinked. “What did I do?”
“You have to ask?” Aunt Isabel demanded.
Amélie rose at once. “Good day, Lady Dow. You must talk, and me, I must write some letters, which I should have done many days ago.” She glided calmly from the room, giving Sophie a meaningful glance.
Sophie rose too, ready to follow but wishing she could slide under the table instead and find out just what Aunt Isabel was so indignant about. It must have something to do with Aunt Molly’s comte last night, but why had he so upset her? If Mama were alive, she would have stood up for Aunt Molly—she had always been protective of her, especially when Aunt Isabel was around. If only Sophie could … but first she had to know what Aunt Isabel’s visit was about.
“I think the library would be more appropriate, if you do not mind, Isabel.” Papa climbed reluctantly to his feet.
“Indeed,” she snapped. “Come along, Molly.”
Aunt Molly’s vague blue eyes were troubled as she followed her sister, but her mouth had set itself in a line fully as stubborn as Aunt Isabel’s own. Good for her. Now all Sophie had to do was wander upstairs as if she hadn’t noticed the drama playing itself out in front of her, then set up a quick listening spell on the library—
Except that while Mama would approve of her wanting to help Aunt Molly, she would emphatically not approve of eavesdropping … and especially not of using magic to do so. And besides, by the time she’d concentrated hard enough to cast any spell, it would be time to dress for dinner. Which only left her one daunting option.
“Papa!” she called, as he was about to leave the room.
He paused. “Sophie?”
“Please—” She paused too, then said in a rush, “Please tell me what has upset Aunt Isabel so. Is it anything to do with Aunt Molly and the French comte we met last night?”
He frowned. “I am not sure that’s anything a young girl needs to know about—”
“But I’m not a young girl anymore, Papa.” She drew herself straighter and met his eyes. “If I am old enough to be out in society, then surely I’m old enough to know what is going on in my own family.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her, she thought, as he hadn’t for a long time—and let his hand drop from the door latch. “Yes … very well. But I shall have to give you the abbreviated version, or Isabel will be down here to drag me bodily up the stairs. When she was your age, your aunt Molly fell in love during her first season with a young Frenchman. He had escaped from the Terror, which had just gotten under way in France, and though he was heir to his family title and estate, there didn’t seem to be any chance that he’d ever inherit any of it, since the aristocracy of France had been abolished. So your grandfather forbade them to meet, and…” He hesitated.
“Go on.” Poor Aunt Molly!
Papa coughed. “Your grandfather arranged for the young Frenchman to be arrested and deported. It was not hard to do—there was concern that the Revolution might spread outside France, brought by secret agents, and in fact it was proven that the revolutionary government did try to encourage it here, to destabilize England and reduce any threat from us.”
“So that’s why she never married,” Sophie said softly.
“Indeed. The, er, problem was that she very nearly succeeded in running away with him. There was rather a scandal that had to be smoothed over, and your Aunt Isabel is sure that it cost her an offer of marriage from a duke.”
Ah. So that was what had Aunt Isabel so upset. Still … “But it’s all so long ago!”
“True, but I do not think she ever forgave Molly, and it turned her bitter. Never bear a grudge, Sophie. It will eat up your soul. Furthermore, she now has your cousins to find wives for—preferably wealthy wives—and doesn’t want old scandals revived. I expect she wants me to bundle Aunt Molly back to Lanselling and pretend we never met the comte last night.”
“Gilbert!” Aunt Isabel’s voice drifted down from the head of the stairs.
Papa grimaced. “That’s it in a nutshell. I had better go before she has apoplexy.”
“Wait, Papa—one more question. What will you say to them?”
He looked at her. “My sister—both my sisters—are adults. I can no more banish Molly than I could Isabel. She will have to live with that.”
“Do you think Aunt Molly and her comte will—”
“Gilbert!”
Papa sighed. “We can finish this later, if you wish to discuss it further.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Sophie sat back down and twiddled her cane thoughtfully. So this was the secret of Aunt Isabel’s bad temper, especially toward her sister. Well, if the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux was going to be in London for any amount of time and was a bachelor, then she would do her best to see that he and Aunt Molly would have a chance to discover if they still cared for each other, Aunt Isabel or no Aunt Isabel.
* * *
She was still thinking about Aunt Molly and her comte that afternoon when the door knocker announced another caller. Lady Whiston had already been there to see how they were, which was very good of her, and Lord Palmerston had left his card. Sophie hoped that this latest caller would be the comte, and looked up from her embroidery to make sure that Aunt Molly’s cap wasn’t askew or her gown streaked with dirt from her bad habit of dusting her hands on it after making the rounds of the greenhouse downstairs.
“Lord Woodbridge,” Belton, their butler, announced at the door.
For a moment, Sophie thought, Who? Then realization swept over her as she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired figure framed in the drawing room doorway. He wore a dark green coat this morning, with exquisitely cut pale buff-colored buckskin breeches and a simply but elegantly knotted neck cloth.
“I came to inquire after Madame Carswell and Lady Sophie and express my hope that they’re quite over their shock of last evening,” he said, advancing into the room and bowing to Amélie and Aunt Molly. But his eyes definitely kept flickering to her, Sophie realized with a little flutter.
“Woodbridge?” Aunt Molly echoed dubiously.
Amélie leaned over and murmured something in her ear.
Aunt Molly’s brow creased. “Did we? I don’t recall—”
“—recall when I have been to a ball more agréable,” Amélie said firmly, drowning out Aunt Molly. “I am quite recovered, but perhaps you should ask Sophie herself how she is.” She looked pointedly at the empty chair next to where Sophie sat, which was slightly apart from the sofa she and Aunt Molly occupied.
Sophie watched him bow his thanks and turn toward her. After they arrived home last night she had lain awake for hours, reviewing every moment of the evening and thinking about what she should have done or said. There was some small consolation in the fact that she hadn’t actually done any magic in public, but not much; the only thing that had kept her from it was falling over her own feet. She’d had to leave rescuing Papa and everyone to Lord Woodbridge. That might not have been so bad—according to those novels of Aunt Molly’s, men seemed to like doing the rescuing while young ladies stood by in excesses of terror-stricken sensibility before melting into their saviors’ strong yet gentle embraces. But any attempts at melting she might have made (even if she’d thought of it, which she hadn’t) had been blown away by the breezy Lady Parthenope.
Lord Woodbridge gave her another short, polite bow before sweeping aside the tails of his coat and sitting down beside her. Was her hair tidy? Were the ruffles around the hem of her white muslin morning gown flipped up or lying smoothly? She stole a peek at him from the corners of her eyes and saw that he was regarding her gravely, brows slightly drawn again over those sea gray eyes. Oh dear, he must be the handsomest man in London this season. What did one say to such a paragon?
She glanced past him and saw that Amélie was looking at her, even while she nodded sympathetically at whatever Aunt Molly was saying. Then Amélie gave her a tiny, private smile, and lifted her chin ever so slightly. Sophie felt her own chin rise in response and, with it, her courage.
“It is most kind of you to call, Lord Woodbridge,” she found herself saying with a smile. “Last night was quite an introduction to London society for me! I do find myself hoping other parties won’t be quite so, ah, exciting. Or should I be sure to take care around the statuary in all my hostesses’ ballrooms?”
“I’m relieved to see you taking it in such good part, Lady Sophie,” he replied. “I had feared that you would be more alarmed.”
“You are very kind, but as you can see we are all … er…” Drat, she should not have kept looking at him; now she’d lost the lovely smooth thread of speech that had somehow begun to unwind itself from her tongue.
“You are putting a good face upon it for me, but I should have known, when you left early … that statue … and I blame myself for my inexcusable clumsiness.”
Goodness, he was truly upset, wasn’t he? “Was it clumsiness that saved my father and Lord Palmerston?” she asked.
He shrugged impatiently. “It was clumsiness that might have injured you. That is what I can’t forget.”
Another flutter in her midsection. Why did the thought of having hurt her, even accidentally, trouble him so? “But you didn’t, sir.”
“But I might have. How could I have been so careless? You, of all people.…”
“Please don’t alarm yourself! You didn’t at all hurt me.…” Then his words sank in—words that raised a sudden horrid suspicion. “Me of all people? What do you mean?”
“Oh, er, nothing … nothing at all. Please forget I said it.”
Her previous tongue-tiedness had vanished. “I am afraid my memory is quite unbiddable, sir. Pray say what you meant.”
Oh yes, now he was definitely uncomfortable, suddenly absorbed in contemplation of the toes of his polished Hessian boots.
“I’d rather not,” he muttered.
“Perhaps not, Lord Woodbridge, but you can scarcely stop now. Why is it that you felt it necessary to be so careful of a young lady who was a perfect stranger to you … or was she?”
He stared at his boots a moment longer, then sighed. “No, she wasn’t.”
Of course she wasn’t. “Rumor travels faster in London than I thought,” she muttered.
“Rumor? What rumor?” he asked innocently—too innocently. “My mother is—was—a good friend of your mother. I believe they were out together, though I expect my mother is a year or two older. She didn’t come to London until she was nearly twenty, because—”
Sophie cleared her throat gently.
“Anyway, she was most shocked by you—by your mother’s—by your family’s…” He swallowed and looked even more uncomfortable. “She had to stay in Suffolk to nurse one of my brothers who is home from the war, but when she heard that Lady Lansell’s daughter would be making her come-out, she asked me to look out for you and try to be especially ki—”
Sophie felt her face redden. “Try to be especially kind to the poor unfortunate child. Was that what she told you?”
“But that’s not the only—I wasn’t expecting you to be…”
So that was why this beautiful young man had been staring at her so intently last evening—except that he hadn’t seen her at all. She remembered that he’d addressed her by name before Lady Whiston had introduced them. Of course he had, if he’d been on orders to “be kind” to the crippled daughter of his mother’s old friend. Good God, she’d feared the Lady Lumleys of the world being gossipy and unpleasant to her and had heard just what that gossip might entail, but it hadn’t occurred to her that people feeling sorry for her could hurt just as badly.
Maybe even worse.
“To be so normal?” she finished for him. “Lord Woodbridge.” A tremble in her voice only made her angrier. “Just because one of my legs is twisted and shorter than the other, it does not follow that I require your or your mother’s or anyone else’s condescension or pity … oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say your kindness.”
It was his turn to flush. “She did mean it kindly, whether you believe it or not. And I was surp—that is, I was only concerned that I’d hurt you. You cannot be strong—”
“No? In fact, I am anything but fragile. If I had been, I would not have survived to be here, would I?”
He frowned. “I … I’d not thought o
f it that way. Still—”
Sophie resisted the urge to ball up her handkerchief and throw it at him, since sobbing into it just then would not have been acceptable behavior. Here she had been dreaming that perhaps he had, just perhaps, spoken to her last night and called today because he found her attractive … at least a little. But that hadn’t been it at all.
Well, he wasn’t the only one who could say hurtful things. Something Lady Parthenope had mentioned last night about him popped into her head. “Please, sir. You may save your kindness for someone else—though it might not be so easy to find someone to be kind to who also has a father with connections in Whitehall.”
He stood up so quickly that his chair was nearly knocked backward. She caught it as he stalked to the window behind them and stared out into the street.
“That was unfair, Lady Sophie,” he said, not turning.
“Was it? I am sorry. Cripples don’t often get to go out in society and talk to other people, you see, so my conversation is perhaps not as polished as it might be.” So there!
“You have no right to make assumptions about me.” His speech was punctuated by another rat-a-tat from the front door.
Oh, lovely. More callers. Just what she wanted right now. “Nor do you about me, Lord Woodbridge.”
“Sophie?” Amélie’s voice drifted from the sofa, gentle as always but unmistakably inquiring. Sophie looked up and saw that she was looking at Lord Woodbridge with lifted eyebrows.
“We were just…” Sophie took a breath and hoped she wouldn’t falter. “That is, we were discussing the Duchess of Kellings’s picnic tomorrow, and Lord Woodbridge was just looking at the sky to see if it might not be coming over rain.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Aunt Molly said comfortably. “My aspidistra would be drooping if it were, and it isn’t. Rain always makes my aspidistra droop.”
“Ahem.” Belton coughed gently from the door. “Her Grace the Duchess of Revesby and Lady Parthenope Hardcastle.”
He bowed the two women into the room—or tried to, but Lady Parthenope swept past him and up to Sophie. She wore an elegant short gray cloak lined with red satin and edged with fur, and a matching bonnet in red silk.
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