Page 17 of To Woo and to Wed
Sophie took a deep breath, then glanced down at her half-empty glass of champagne, taking a small sip as West joined their loose circle and greeted everyone in turn. There was an infinitesimal pause before he said, “Lady Fitzwilliam,” and she turned to offer him her hand. She wished she didn’t still feel a bit like a flustered schoolgirl in his presence, though she was fairly certain she was able to hide it well.
“West,” she said calmly, very aware of Violet, Audley, and Jeremy’s eyes all fixed on this unremarkable exchange of polite greetings.
“I enjoyed running into you at Hatchards yesterday,” West replied; they had decided that they ought to allude to some sort of precipitating incident that had occurred out of sight of their friends, so that this sudden thawing of relations between two people who had gone to considerable lengths to avoid being alone together would not seemtoostrange and unlikely.
“As did I,” she said, taking another sip of champagne. “Did you find the book you were looking for?”
“I did.” He inclined his head. “I inquired at the counter, and they had another copy tucked away in the back room.”
“I’m so glad.” Sophie didn’t dare look at their friends as she spoke; doubtless they were watching this exchange with some degree of curiosity as to why West and Sophie were conducting a conversation that sounded as though it had been scripted for two matrons swapping pleasantries in the village shop. She met West’s gaze, and while his expression was all polite inquiry, there was a trace of amusement lurking in his eyes. She was not certain someone who did not know him well would have been able to spot it, even though she had not counted herself as such a person in a very long time. It was what she had loved about him, once: his serious demeanor, and the sense of humor he hid beneath it.
She drained her glass of champagne.
“May I fetch you another drink?” he said, taking this as the cue it was.
“Oh, I can do it myself,” she assured him. “If you would be so kind as to escort me to the refreshment tables, though…” She gazed at him coyly through her lashes.
“I would be honored,” he said, and offered her his arm. She turned to flutter her fingers in a wave at Violet, Audley, and Jeremy, who were all witnessing this little tableau with expressions ranging from incandescent hope and joy (Violet) to utter confusion (Audley) to amusement (Jeremy).
As soon as Sophie was certain they were out of earshot, she murmured, “Have you seen Alexandra?”
West tilted his head toward the dance floor. “She’s waltzing with Blackford at the moment.” His arm was stiff under Sophie’s hand, his gait slightly uneven, but his back was straight and tall, his jaw closely shaven, his cravat tied in an elaborate knot so precise that shewondered idly if his valet had used a ruler to ensure that it was perfectly even.
Nothing but the best would suffice for the Marquess of Weston, of course.
“Do you think you should ask me to dance?” She glanced sideways in time to see his hesitation.
“I don’t dance often. Ever since my… accident”—she noticed the faint hesitation before he uttered the word—“I’m a bit awkward at it.” And he, naturally, could not bear to be awkward at anything, she thought.
Sophie did not care to linger on the memory of what it had once felt like to waltz with him, his hand at her waist, their bodies pressed close.
“If it will hurt your leg—” she began, a bit hesitant, but he interrupted immediately.
“Plenty of things I do hurt my leg. That is not my concern.” His voice was curt, and she determinedly did not look at him as they continued their slow progress toward the refreshment tables. She tried not to think about the accident that had led to his injury, unable to suppress the thought of the life she might have lived, had West and Willingham not raced that day. It was painful to consider, like staring directly at the sun; she came at the thought from sneaky angles occasionally, when she was feeling particularly morose, then just as quickly retreated when she grew overwhelmed by the mere act of considering some alternate reality in which Willingham lived, in which West had not been injured, in which she and West…
“I would not wish to ruin a waltz you might enjoy with some other, more surefooted partner,” he continued, interrupting this thoughtbefore she could allow it to take hold. He paused, cast her a considering glance, and then added in a low voice, “No matter how appealing the prospect of waltzing with you might be.”
Sophie glanced at him, startled; his tone had not softened, and he was looking away from her, his gaze taking in their surroundings, but that had sounded an awful lot like…
Flirting.
She did not know what todowith a West who was flirting with her. It had been seven years since she’d flirted with him; a lifetime ago. He, certainly, seemed like an entirely different man than the one she’d once exchanged sly smiles with across crowded rooms. The West she had known back then had been serious, yes, but still young—still certain that the world would arrange itself to his liking. Still amused by theton, delighted by the joy of flirting with a pretty girl. The West she knew—or, rather,didn’tknow—now was someone else entirely. Sterner—sadder, she sometimes thought. Careful with his words, careful not to reveal too much of his thoughts. Forthisman to flirt with her was… well, she supposed it was expected, for the sake of their ruse, but she found herself peculiarly flustered by it.
“Perhaps at the next ball, then,” she said lightly. “I think we’ve already given our friends plenty to discuss.” She suppressed a wild desire to laugh at the memory of their confused expressions. How odd it felt, to walk like this with him, no one else to act as a buffer between them. It was not the only time they had been alone in the past seven years—there had been a memorable afternoon four Junes ago, one that she did not allow her thoughts to dwell on; there had been, too, a handful of occasions in the past year, as they’d found themselves increasingly drawn into each other’s orbits. A quick walk along a garden path at a country house. A tense, mostly silent escort through the doors ofBelfry’s theater. A murmured exchange in a hallway in a manor house overlooking the sea.
Each of these instances stood out, bright as a jewel, in her memory. None of them had felteasy, however, and she realized that tonight she felt lighter, somehow, than she had done on any of those occasions. The roles they had to play for their scheme allowed them a bit of liberation, and Sophie was unexpectedly grateful for it.
They had reached the refreshment table, and Sophie allowed him to fill a glass with lemonade for her; much as she wanted another glass of champagne, to ease whatever the rest of the evening would bring, she thought it best not to drink too much when she was going to be in close proximity to him.
He turned, handing her the lemonade, and their fingers brushed.
Her eyes caught his and held. She’d forgotten about the particular darker shade of green his eyes took on in the evenings, in candlelight—a shade mossier and less clear than the vivid hue they were in daylight. A curl from his carefully combed hair threatened to break ranks and tumble onto his forehead, and she was possessed of a nearly irresistible desire to reach up and brush it back into place.
But that was dangerous—too dangerous.
Because while she was not fool enough to deny the attraction that still crackled between them, she knew that they could not act upon it—not when any sort of future between them was impossible.
Did he still want her? She’d never considered herself a vain creature, and yet she felt utterly certain that he did, if for no other reason than her unwillingness to believe that a desire this strong could hover in the air between two people without it being experienced on both ends. She knew there was plenty of unrequited love—and lust—in the world, but that was not what this was. She was certain.
