She had to admit the voice had a point. She hadn’t thought much past leaving London and being able to survive without having to become a poor relation. What if that was all there was to her life? Things that were less bad than something else?
Was that a way to live? Now it was her father’s voice talking to her, and she frowned. It was because of his daydreams, his refusal to settle for less than the best, to look to the future, that she had been landed here in the first place. He didn’t have a say in what she was going to do for the rest of her life, given how he hadn’t thought of it at all while he was alive.
She would just have to adopt her father’s viewpoint, ironic though that felt; she would get to the point where she was in the cottage, but wouldn’t think beyond that.
“Yes, we’ll be able to go to the country, and buy a little cottage, and live there. Forever.” Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound delighted at the prospect, but thankfully Maria was focusing on the words, not how she said them.
“Thank you, my lady,” Maria said in a fervent tone. “We will persuade all of them. We have to.”
And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? “Yes, we will.” Sophronia walked to the wardrobe in the corner of the room, opening the doors to reveal a few gowns that Madame Fairfax happened to have on hand. The rest she’d promised for the following day. Sophronia hated to think of what the workers would have to do to make that happen, but she needed the clothing in order to make this work, so she couldn’t spare sympathy for a tired dressmaker. Hopefully the women there would be compensated. She’d tell her betrothed of her concern, perhaps ask him to send them some of what he had promised to give her. “And here are some of my disguises, so you can help me dress for dinner.”
Maria followed her, her hand reaching in to touch the gowns with a near palpable reverence. “Oh, my goodness, these are lovely. Not only will we get our cottage, you’ll have these gorgeous gowns, as well.”
“And no chickens to waste them on,” Sophronia muttered under her breath.
Jamie wasn’t prepared for the sight he saw as Sophronia walked down the stairs for dinner. He’d known she was tall, and slender, but beyond that, he hadn’t noticed much except her suitability for the task.
But now, dressed in one of Madame Fairfax’s gowns, she was a different word than “beautiful”—she was glorious. The amber sheen of the silk brought out the gold highlights in her brown hair, and made her brown eyes glint gold, as well. The gown was simply adorned, something Madame Fairfax had insisted on, since Sophronia was so tall, and any kind of furbelow would make her look awkward.
Jamie had to admit that Madame was correct. Sophronia looked like she was a goddess in truth, descended from Mount Olympus to take pity on mere mortals by blessing them with her presence. Her figure was flattered by the cut of the gown, the soft swell of her breasts showing above the fabric, the center dipping down in a V that made him want to see what was underneath.
Her waist was tiny, and then the gown flared out below, no doubt hiding long, lissome legs. She met his gaze, a hesitant look in her eyes, and he felt his chest tighten that she didn’t know, that she didn’t enter the room knowing what she looked like, and the effect she was having on him.
But given that this was an entirely fake betrothal, perhaps it was good that she didn’t realize any of it. He was intrigued, of course, but he most definitely did not want to become entangled—that was the whole purpose of this deception, to keep his way of life and make his mother happy.
Although the thought did cross his mind that they were technically betrothed, after all, so he might have to do some of the things one did with one’s betrothed.
If one were quite, quite intrigued.
And not determined to leave the country at the earliest possible moment.
“You look lovely, Sophronia,” he said, taking her hand in his and raising her fingers to his mouth. Her eyes widened as his lips made contact with her skin, and he wondered for a moment what she would do, how she would react, if he were to turn her hand over and press a kiss into her palm.
And then immediately vowed to himself he absolutely should not satisfy his curiosity. It would not be fair, either to her or to himself, to mix that possibility into their business agreement.
They were to be intimately acquainted for less than a month, and then they would leave one another, him to travel, knowing his mother was pleased, and her to her cottage, wherever that might be.
“Let us go in to dinner. Mother is waiting,” he said, retaining her hand in his and leading her to the dining room.
“Just one moment, please.” She sounded shaky, and he had to wonder if she was having second thoughts.
“I don’t—I just wanted to say thank you for this.” She uttered a little snort. “Thank you for the opportunity to pretend to be someone I am not so I can avoid having to deal with poultry for the rest of my life.”
That explained the chickens—somewhat. “You are welcome,” he said.
“Only,” she asked, “what will you tell your mother later on? I won’t be in London when this is over. How will you explain that?”
“Easy,” he said smoothly. “I will make some excuse about why we have to get married elsewhere, then we will leave to do just that, and then when I return, you will be staying there, taking care of our numerous children.”
She blanched. “Numerous—?”
He exhaled. “Well, that part probably isn’t wise. Mother will wish to see her grandchildren. I might have to kill you off, I hope you don’t mind.”
Her eyebrows rose up, her eyes wide. “Kill me off? How are you going to do that?”
He waved his hand in the air. “An inconvenient snake, a village uprising. Don’t be concerned, you will be far away by the time you die.”
“Good to know,” she replied drily.
He hadn’t quite worked out all the details, honestly, but he had to deal with the situation one step at a time. Or, rather, one false betrothal at a time. He knew well enough he could persuade his mother of anything; she had believed him when he’d told her he had developed a sudden, but not fatal, illness that could only be cured by eating an entire apple pie. He’d been five at the time. He hadn’t eaten apple pie since.
“Now, let us go persuade my mother we are hopelessly in love.”
He held his arm out for her, and she looped her arm through his, fitting perfectly to his side.
Her skirts rustled as they walked into the dining room, and Jamie detected a faint floral scent—he couldn’t identify which flower, just that it wasn’t overpowering and he found he liked it more than he might have originally thought.
Or was that just her?
Laetificate:
1. To make joyful, cheer, revive.
2. A portrait done in miniature.
3. The lower level of a raised garden.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Allow me to present my son’s intended, Lady Sophronia Bettesford.” Mrs. Archer spoke to an older woman with a faintly disapproving air. That was probably due to Mr. Archer having arrived with a betrothed in tow. Given what he’d said about the available ladies, and his desire to escape them.
Sophronia dipped into a curtsey, feeling her muscles protest at the movement. Six hours in the coach with Mr. Archer and his mother had resulted in her feeling like she’d been wrapped around herself and tied into a few knots—she couldn’t imagine how Mr. Archer felt, given that he was so much taller. He stood next to her, not showing any sign of travel strain. But then again, perhaps that was because he traveled so frequently—his mother had spent nearly an hour listing, to comic effect, the various countries her son had been to in the course of his work, something Sophronia vaguely understood to be the buying of things from one place to sell to people from another.
She had to pretend to cough when Mrs. Archer announced her son had been in Paws Hill when she m
eant Brazil, and then couldn’t stifle her laughter at her saying Jamie had found the most wonderful cotton in Eyesore—meaning Myosore.
Thankfully, the lady herself was well aware of how she muddled things, and laughed the longest and loudest when her son gently corrected her.
“Sophronia, this is our host, Mrs. Green, and her daughter, Miss—?”
The disapproving woman drew a younger version of herself forward. “Miss Mary Green.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Green, Miss Green?”
“And you hadn’t met my son yet, had you? Of course when I first accepted your kind invitation to spend the holidays together, I had no idea we would be bringing his future bride! I do so appreciate your making room for dear Sophronia. She is the best Christmas present.” The Green ladies’ expressions indicated that, indeed, they were not quite so pleased as Mrs. Archer at this development.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Green.” Sophronia kept her voice as pleasant as she could, given the looks in the other ladies’ eyes.
Mrs. Green looked as though she were about to sniff in disdain, but merely said, through a pursed mouth, “You are welcome, Lady Sophronia.” She regarded all three of her newly arrived guests as though they were things to be allocated somewhere, not people to interact with. Sophronia hoped Mrs. Green’s guests were not as severe as their hostess, or she would be longing for the chickens.
Or forced to spend hours with Mr. Archer.
She darted a glance over at him, wishing that her pretend betrothed wasn’t quite so impossibly good-looking. And charming. And intelligent. And patient with his somewhat scatter-brained mother.
She let out an involuntary sigh, and felt his elbow touch her arm. “Are you all right?” he whispered, as his mother was engaged in a long description of the carriage ride to the house, which was apparently far more interesting than Sophronia had experienced.
“Yes, I am fine,” she replied softly. And observant, she would have to add in her assessment. Her father had often told her he could see what she was thinking, she was that easy to read, and she would have to guard her expressions here, among all these strangers. And Mr. Archer.
Who was no stranger, not now, not when she’d seen the amused smirk on his face as he recited the list of possible nicknames. Or seen his expression as she’d descended the staircase in her new gown, the one that made her feel like a princess, not a lady who was down on her luck and (hopefully) would not have to pluck. Or cluck.
And now she was allowing her mind to wander, to practically gallop through the forest of her imagination, where she was witty, and not alone, and had a future that wasn’t one that just featured her and her maid off in a small house somewhere.
That was dangerous, especially since a distinctly tall, handsome, and observant gentleman was lurking nearby in her imagination as well, now doing whatever it was he would do after looking at her like that.
She shivered, just thinking about it.
“Lady Sophronia is chilly,” Mr. Archer announced, taking her arm. “Perhaps you could take her up to her room, and she could lie down before dinner?”
“I’m not—” Sophronia began, only to snap her mouth shut as she realized she was about to contradict him, her betrothed, and she didn’t want anyone—particularly the Green-Eyed Monster ladies—to think there was any kind of discord between them. “Ah, yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” she said in a stronger tone.
“You will meet the rest of the party at dinner,” Mrs. Green said, waving her hand over her head to summon the housekeeper who’d apparently been waiting in the shadows. “The Martons have had to cancel”—a swift glance to Sophronia revealed why—“but the Viscount Waxford and his family will be here later on. Dinner is at eight o’clock. We keep country hours, you see.”
“This way, my lady,” the housekeeper said.
“Rest well, my dear,” Mrs. Archer called as Sophronia began to walk up the stairs. “And do you know, Jamie met his bride-to-be at an exhibition of Arty Facts?” Sophronia heard her pretend future mother-in-law say.
“Artifacts, Mother,” Jamie replied. She wished she had been down there to see his expression at his mother’s colorful language.
Three hours later, Sophronia was wearing the most lovely gown she’d ever seen in her entire life, Maria had outdone herself with her coiffure, and yet she knew she was the most despised person in the room.
“My lady,” the Viscountess Waxford asked, leaning past the vicar, who’d arrived to round out the table, Mrs. Green explained, with yet another look toward Sophronia, “how did you meet Mr. Archer?”
Her words asked how they had met, but her tone implied, “how did you dare?” A young lady with light blond hair and the most enormous blue eyes sat two seats down from the viscountess, and also appeared to want the answer to the question. Perhaps the viscountess’s daughter? Goodness, there were certainly an enormous number of unwed girls here. No wonder James had been so desperate.
Mr. Archer answered before she had the chance to. “My beloved Sophy and I first found a commonality of spirit in our shared love of hieroglyphics.”
Sophronia blinked, realizing she wasn’t quite certain what hieroglyphics were. Or was. She didn’t even know if they were singular or plural.
But no matter, nobody was questioning the veracity of Mr. Archer—James’s—words. Not when he was sitting at the table, all tall, charming, roguish self of him, his entire manner setting out to charm, to persuade, to convince, to deceive.
For goodness’ sake, she nearly believed his words, and she knew full well they hadn’t met because of hieroglyphics. And she hoped she wouldn’t be asked to repeat the word, because she was imagining she would mangle it as thoroughly as Mrs. Archer would.
“What are your favorite ones, Mr. Archer?” Miss Green asked. She was apparently studious, judging from what her mother said. She blinked myopically in the candlelight, her youth and petite self and protective mother all making Sophronia stupidly, ridiculously jealous. And too tall.
Or that could be because of the way Mr. Archer was looking at her. As though she was the only woman in the world he wished to gaze upon. Sophronia hated herself for wondering if Miss Green could even see it, since he was across the table.
And then wondered what she would do, how she would feel, if he were to look at her like that.
She felt suddenly hot and restless, as though there was a heat storm about to roll through her general vicinity. Not that she knew what a heat storm was as much as she didn’t know what hieroglyphics were, but that was how she felt.
“I find it so hard to choose, Miss Green,” James replied. He shot a quick glance toward Sophronia with an accompanying curl of his lips.
Yes, the same lips she couldn’t seem to get her mind off of. And somewhere her father was yelling at her about ending a sentence with a preposition, not the fact that she could not stop thinking about a man’s mouth.
Father’s priorities were always off.
“I think I like whichever one my Sophy likes,” he continued. Sophronia had to concentrate not to let her mouth drop open. What was he doing? Was he trying to reveal the falsehood? Could he just not help himself? Or was he being so clever at trying to make it appear that they were truly and well-acquainted that no one would question them?
Which was a lot of words that basically meant, “I am not certain what hieroglyphics are, much less which ones are my favorite, and I don’t know why he had to possibly expose the reality of our situation to all these people who are at this moment wondering who I think I am.”
Instead of saying any of that, however, she pretended for a moment she was him, and thought of what he might say in reply. She glanced toward him and gave him as warm a smile as she could manage, given that she wanted to strangle him. “My favorites are the ones you showed me when we first met,” Sophronia replied, imbuing her tone with as much honey-cloying
sweetness as she could.
His answering grin, the spark of recognition in his blue eyes, caused that heat storm to flare up into something almost tangible—as though he were touching her, running his fingers down her neck, onto her spine, making her tingle everywhere.
All of that didn’t mean she wasn’t still aggravated with him, and worse, for jeopardizing their subterfuge, but it did mean that she wished she could find out what his mouth felt like. Firsthand. Or firstlips, so to speak.
All of the other ladies in the room, even the married ones, appeared to feel the effects of his charm. Mrs. Green had shed some of her haughty demeanor to ask his opinion on the epergne in the middle of the table, while the viscountess had told him she was interested in finding candlesticks that would suit her Oriental sitting room, keeping her hand on his sleeve as she described in exact detail what the room looked like.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Archer just observed, smiling widely, seeming blissfully unaware of all the currents of want flowing through the room—the ladies wanting Jamie, Jamie wanting (apparently) to irk Sophronia, Sophronia finding she wished to discover a way to disturb his casual charm.
“My lady, you are the Earl of Lunsford’s daughter, are you not?” It was the vicar—Mr. Chandler, she thought—addressing her, thankfully taking her attention away from the current conversation between James and the girl who was indeed the viscountess’s daughter, who seemed to believe she had been an African princess in a previous life.
“Yes, I am. That is, I was. Father passed away two years ago.” Leaving behind a massive amount of books, little debt, but even fewer funds for his daughter.
“I am so sorry, my lady. I was a great admirer of your father’s, I might even go so far as to say we were acquaintances. He and I exchanged a few letters on etymological issues several years ago. I keep those letters still.”
“Ah,” Sophronia replied. “Father was an avid correspondent.” He rarely left the house, in fact, preferring to live his life through books and letters rather than venturing outside. In hindsight, perhaps it was just as well; if he had gone out more, he would have spent more money, and Sophronia would have been among the chickens much earlier than this. There definitely would not have been the opportunity Mr. Archer had presented.
No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella Page 3