Page 1 of To Woo and to Wed
Prologue
London, June 1811
Sophie Wexham was quite convincedthat a future duke was the worst possible man to fall in love with.
She had no complaints about the gentleman himself: The Marquess of Weston was tall, broad-shouldered, and possessed of dark hair, green eyes, and a stern brow that softened, somehow, whenever he caught her eye. He was polite and interesting, and—astonishingly—seemed just as inclined to listen toherspeak as he was to offer his own thoughts, a vanishingly rare quality in men of theton. (Or, Sophie suspected, in the male sex more generally.) He was respectful toward her parents and amused by her sisters, and had hinted—multiple times—that he was planning to have a word with her father about a matter of great import soon. Very, very soon.
There was, however, one rather large problem: the Duke of Dovington. The man whose title West would one day inherit. And, unfortunately, a man who Sophie was increasingly convinced did not like her one bit.
“Miss Wexham.” Sophie glanced up, startled; she was at the Haverford ball, where supper had just ended, and she was caught inthe crowded exodus from the dining room, searching for her younger sister Maria, whom she liked to keep an eye on. The Duke of Dovington stood before her. Dressed in evening attire, he bore a startling resemblance to his sons, though his eyes were an everyday brown, rather than the arresting green that West and his brother had inherited. “I wonder if I might have a word?”
She cast a brief, desperate glance around the room, hoping a savior would materialize, before conceding there was no polite option other than to drop into a curtsey and say, “Of course, Your Grace.”
Until now, she’d had no complaints about the evening; the Haverford ball was one of the last grand events of the Season, and she’d arrived swathed in silk and lace, wearing her mother’s favorite emerald necklace, loaned specifically for the occasion. She had danced twice with West, and much of the rest of her dance card had been filled by friends of his: his best friend, the Marquess of Willingham, who teased her slyly about West’s attentions to her; Willingham’s younger brother, Lord Jeremy Overington, who was rakish and flirtatious to the point of it almost—almost—being inappropriate; and finally, the supper dance with Lord Fitzwilliam Bridewell, another friend of West’s who only had eyes for a dark-haired beauty across the room.
The duke offered his arm and led her from the crowded dining room back to the ballroom, where he began to escort her on a leisurely circuit of the room. “You and my son seem… fond of each other.”
He seemed to have chosen the word specifically to annoy her, so she merely said, “Rather.”
“I understand he has taken it into his head that he might even propose marriage.”
“I believe that may be his intent, yes.” She and West had beendancing around the subject for weeks; yesterday he’d mentioned his plan to pay a call on her father in the days to come.
There was a long beat of silence as they slowly circled the room, and then the duke said, “He is only four-and-twenty, you know.”
Sophie hesitated for a moment; this was not the angle she had been expecting him to take. “I know.”
“That is young. Younger than I had expected him to marry. He still has much to learn.”
“And I look forward to being at his side along the way,” Sophie said. It was odd to hear West discussed in such terms; twenty-four was, yes, younger than men of his station were accustomed to marrying—the general view among polite society was that young men still had too many wild oats to sow at that age, and that it was pointless to expect them to settle down much before thirty—but it was certainly not unheard of. And the burden of his inheritance, of expectation, seemed to weigh more heavily upon him than such things did on other men, making him seem older than he was.
“Mmmm. You have younger sisters, do you not, Miss Wexham?”
Sophie stiffened at this inquiry, but did not allow her steps to falter, nor did she remove her hand from the duke’s arm. “I do. Four.”
“No doubt you are hoping that they will make successful matches.”
“Naturally.”
“I understand that your sister—Miss Maria, is it?—has been quite taken with a certain marquess this Season.” The duke’s tone was idle, but Sophie was not fooled, and she went very still at the sound of her sister’s name.
“I fear you must be mistaken, Your Grace.” Her voice was cool, but dread began to creep through her.
“I would never argue with a lady, of course,” the duke said politely,and Sophie suppressed the strong urge to roll her eyes. “I just know how much you must hope for your sister’s happiness, and I should hate for any of these unsavory rumors to get in the way of that—and, naturally, there are your other sisters’ prospects to consider as well. I’m told the two youngest in particular are quite… spirited.”
Now Sophie did stop, turning to face the duke fully; they were slightly obscured behind an enormous potted palm.
“What, precisely, are you implying, Your Grace?” She managed to keep her voice polite, just barely; being the eldest of five sisters, the one who was relied upon to set a good example, had lent her valuable experience in keeping her temper in the face of extreme provocation.
“Nothing at all, Miss Wexham. I merely seek to remind you that actions have consequences. And I wouldn’t want you to take any actions without fully considering what those consequences might be.”
Before she could respond, he bowed over her hand, offered a curt good evening, then turned and strode away, leaving Sophie batting palm fronds out of her face and with a horrid sinking feeling in her stomach.
“There you are!”
West turned away from David—Willingham (it was still difficult to adjust to his friend’s new title, even though it had been a couple of years since he’d inherited)—at the sound of Sophie’s voice. She looked beautiful, as always, wearing a gown of light-green silk; her golden hair was dressed simply, with none of the curls that were so in fashion, leaving her lovely face clearly exposed to his hungry gaze.
“Hello.” He gave her a small smile, which faded immediately upon catching a proper glimpse of her expression, which was stricken. “What’s wrong?”
