Page 13 of To Woo and to Wed
“I have been rather distracted this morning. Did I forget an engagement we had?” This was so implausible as to be laughable, and the slight curve at the corner of her mouth confirmed that she knew this as well as he did. That hint of a smile was like a punch to the chest. She was not dressed with particular care—she wore a simple green walking gown, a bonnet in her hand that she had apparently removed upon being admitted to the house. Her golden hair gleamed in the firelight of the library. She was still—was always—the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“No, I—I’m here today with a proposal.” She paused, then seemed to reconsider the wisdom ofthatparticular word, given to whom she spoke, and the seven years of history that stretched between them. “A proposition,” she corrected, and then a hint of color stole into her cheeks—a rarity for a woman who was not prone to blushes. “Apparently there is no word I can use that will not seem ill-advised the moment it leaves my mouth,” she said with an exasperated sigh.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked, gesturing at the armchairopposite him, the one that his father had vacated scarcely more than an hour before.
She seemed about to refuse, and then her gaze flicked to his leg, and she said, “Yes, of course.” There was no hint of pity in her face or her voice as she crossed the room to sit, and West followed suit with some relief at the feeling of weight being lifted from his protesting leg. He wondered a moment later, however, if this had not been a mistake—if perhaps a bit of pain was worth suffering—because she was suddenly much, much closer to him than she had been a few moments before. And he organized much of his life with the unstated but determined goal of avoiding being in close proximity to her if possible.
Lately, unfortunately, it hadnotbeen possible—and he had an uneasy feeling that, whatever her reason for calling on him today was, it was going to make that goal even less attainable.
She took a breath, as if steeling herself.
“My sister has formed an attachment,” she announced, without further preamble.
“I presume you mean Mrs. Brown-Montague—otherwise, this seems like not quite the sort of confession I ought to be hearing.”
She cast him a narrow look; he kept his face carefully blank, but after a moment an amused gleam lit her eyes, and he knew she could tell that he was teasing. Still, after all this time, she could always tell.
“Yes, it’s Alexandra,” she said. “She and the Earl of Blackford have fallen in love, it would seem, and she’s refusing to marry him because she’s worried about me.”
He frowned. “Why is she worried about you?” he asked. “Is something amiss?” His tone was neutral; he knew all too well that she would not welcome any concern from him.
“She fears that if she remarries, she’ll be leaving me all by myselfagain,” she said, her glance skittering off his as she spoke. She shifted in her seat, and his gaze sharpened on her—Lady Fitzwilliam was one of the most self-assured women he’d ever met, and not prone to fidgeting. “Which is absurd, obviously,” she added hastily. “It’s not as though she and I share a home. I already live alone; nothing would change about my life if she and Blackford were to wed.” There was something defensive in both her tone and her posture as she spoke these words, and he could see how much this conversation was costing her—admitting tohim,of all people, that the younger sisters she had always focused so much of her energy on protecting might regard her as someone in need of protection, too.
“And you have not been able to convince her of this?”
She pressed her lips together. “She is being… difficult, when I have tried to broach the subject with her. I spoke to Blackford, who confirmed my suspicions. He thinks I just need to speak to her again, reassure her, but…”
“You’re unconvinced?”
“She can be quite stubborn, occasionally,” Lady Fitzwilliam said, and it took considerable effort for West to refrain from pointing out that this was a trait that seemed to run in the Wexham family.
“How does this concern me, then?” he asked, keeping his tone polite enough to soften the bluntness of the question. He and Blackford were friendly, but if she wished for him to speak to Blackford, he thought it might strike the other man as decidedly odd—and he couldn’t imagine what good he could possibly do anyway. Nor, for that matter, why she thought to come tohim, of all people, with this worry. Theirs had not been a relationship, of late, that invited the sharing of confidences. Or of anything else.
She took a breath, and then looked directly at him. “I was hoping that you might ask me to marry you.”
Chapter Four
Seven years earlier
Sophie was not overly contraryby nature, but she was not certain how much more of her mother’s giddy delight she could handle. After two and a half Seasons of increasing despair that her daughter would ever make a happy match, she now seemed to be relishing every moment of Sophie’s courtship. Sophie herself had no complaints about said courtship, but she was occasionally possessed of the wild, absurd thought that it would be rather satisfying if West were a disreputable, fortune-hunting rake instead of a marquess of impeccable reputation, just to see her mother’s reaction.
Then, as if on cue:
“Is West calling today, darling?” Lady Wexham trilled down the breakfast table, interrupting Sophie’s thoughts. Sophie suppressed a sigh by taking a healthy sip of tea. Next to her, Harriet’s spine straightened, her head turning eagerly; the twins were fourteen, and—in their minds—heartbreakingly far from their own debuts, and so they were living vicariously through Sophie’s spring of romantic intrigue.
“Of course he is,” Maria said with an eye roll. “He callsevery day.”Her words were softened by the teasing grin she directed at her sister; Maria seemed rather fond of West.
“I think it’s sweet,” Alexandra said with a soft smile; her debut was still a couple of years away and, unlike the twins, she was not overly eager to make her curtsey. She was in the habit of cheerfully waving Sophie and Maria off to whatever their evening’s entertainment was with a sketchpad or novel in hand, clearly relishing the prospect of a quiet night at home. (Or, rather, as quiet as it was possible for an evening at the Wexham home to be, given that it was inhabited by Harriet and Betsy.)
“We are going to an exhibition at the Royal Academy,” Sophie reminded her mother patiently, ignoring all of her sisters. “You agreed to chaperone us for this outing, don’t you recall?”
“Oh, of course,” her mother said vaguely, not sounding remotely concerned about her solemn duty to protect the virtue of her eldest child; West had charmed her so thoroughly that she clearly did not think she need worry about any ungentlemanly behavior from that quarter. So far, this assumption had proved correct—which Sophie was beginning to find a bit disappointing. She didn’t wish to be ruined, of course, and she knew that West was far too honorable to take too many liberties, but surely a kiss or two was not too much to hope for? She knew that sheoughtnot to hope for any such thing until a betrothal, but, well…
She’d been so frightfully well-behaved her entire life, and particularly these past few years. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to be a little bit naughty, just once?
These thoughts had not left her mind by the time West called for her and her mother that afternoon; he presented himself at their door in a green jacket and waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes,sweeping his top hat off for a polite bow over Lady Wexham’s hand, and then Sophie’s.
“You both look lovely today,” he said, but his eyes were on Sophie as he spoke, and she smiled at him, resisting the urge to blush.
