Page 19 of To Woo and to Wed
This surprised a laugh out of West—a real laugh, one that she had not heard from him in a long, long time. She had forgotten how much his face lit up when he laughed, how much younger he looked.
Their eyes caught and held, and she felt it again—that spark between them, evident from the very first night they’d met. It was the reason none of the men she’d flirted with in the years sinceher widowhood—even Jeremy, with whom she’d had anaffairlast summer—had come close to matching the West of her memories.
She experienced a pang of longing as they made their way back toward their friends, but she fixed a serene smile upon her face and did what she had become quite skilled at doing: She ignored it.
Chapter Six
West had not courted anyonein seven years, and he had forgotten quite how muchworkwas involved.
“My lord.” West glanced up from the letter he was scrutinizing at his desk to see Briar, his butler, standing in the doorway to his study. “The gardener wishes to know if you would like to send Lady Fitzwilliam roses again, or if you would like a mixed bouquet this time.”
West set down his letter with a sigh. “What did we send yesterday—roses?”
Briar’s expression was impressively bland as he replied, “Indeed, my lord. Perhaps you noticed my use of the word ‘again,’ to imply that roses would be a repetition of a previous action?”
West shot Briar a look; for a man who had not yet achieved the age of forty, he was remarkably skilled at conveying an air of haughty butler-y disdain. West suspected it wasbecauseof his age, in fact; to be the butler to a future duke was a lofty position, and what Briar lacked in age, he seemed determined to make up for in arrogance.
“Perhaps let’s send something different today, then,” West said.
Briar nodded, then hesitated. “Are you aware that Hawthorne has been composing poems and signing your name to them, to be sentalong with the flowers?” His tone was a conflicted combination of disapproval and reluctant amusement.
West grimaced. “Yes. It seems to amuse him, so I left him to it.” He was not entirely certain this was wise, but he also didn’t want Hawthorne to ask him too many questions about his sudden, joyful reunion with Lady Fitzwilliam, so this had seemed an innocuous enough way to distract him.
“Whatever you think is best, my lord,” Briar said, his tone indicating that he clearly thought this was not, in fact, best. “I do hope Lady Fitzwilliam has a sense of humor.”
“She does,” West said absently, returning to the letter before him, only belatedly realizing the ease with which this assurance rose to his lips—as if he stillknewLady Fitzwilliam at all.
Briar offered a very correct bow and vanished to convey West’s message to the gardener, who had been kept busier for the past week than he had in the entire duration of his employment with West. West had been sending bouquets to Lady Fitzwilliam daily, the hope being that her sisters and friends would call upon her and make note of the hothouse’s worth of flowers in her sitting room. He’d also taken her out in his phaeton a couple of times, to Gunter’s for ices, and shopping on Bond Street, all in the hope that they might be seen together. It had all been very… civilized.
The first outing—on horseback in Hyde Park, the day after the Risedale ball—had been decidedly awkward; for all that they’d been seeing more of each other, it had not fully prepared them for the reality of being alone together, mimicking what they had once been in truth. They had both looked determinedly ahead rather than at each other, their halting attempts at conversation frequently interrupted by passing acquaintances. They had discussed the weather, how much they’denjoyed Penvale’s house party in Cornwall, her sisters… everything other than themselves, and their history, and anything approaching how they felt about any of said history.
Things had continued along a similar course for the past week—a bit of the initial awkwardness had dissipated, but their conversation remained light, superficial; the point of these excursions was to be seen together, not to actually say anything of weight to each other. In that regard, their aim was being served perfectly: they’d encountered numerous friends and acquaintances while out and about, and West hadn’t missed the light of interest that had sparked in more than one set of eyes once they’d been spotted together. It was foolish of him to find this all vaguely dissatisfying.
It was just that, after years of thinking of her—and also, pointedly,notthinking of her, somehow at the same time—it was decidedly strange to find himself so frequently in her company, and for this to so little resemble what time in her company had once been like. But he had been different, all those years ago—and so had she.
A clock chimed, recalling West from his thoughts and causing him to take note of the hour. Speaking of his soon-to-be fiancée (they planned to announce their betrothal that very evening), he realized that he was due to escort her to Hatchards in a quarter of an hour; Emily had just celebrated her birthday, and Lady Fitzwilliam wished to buy a book for her.
He sighed, and reached for his cane.
An hour later, West was beginning to think that a man should never agree to accompany a woman to a bookshop.
“What about this one?” he asked, waving a book in Lady Fitzwilliam’s direction; she was standing a few feet away, scrutinizing the first page of what had to be the fiftieth book she’d picked up since they entered the shop half an hour earlier. She glanced up and squinted, trying to make out the letters embossed on the leather cover. He held it closer, and she shook her head.
“No, she’s read that one—I heard her discussing it with Jane whilst we were at Trethwick Abbey.”
West carefully replaced the volume on the shelf, and walked closer to Lady Fitzwilliam. “What’s this one, then?”
“I’m not certain,” she said, her tone a bit distracted as she skimmed the first few pages of the book in her hand. “It’s been published anonymously—it seems to be about a gentleman by the name of Frankenstein.” She flipped through a few more pages, then snapped the book shut. “It’s newly published, at least; I worry Jane will already have loaned Emily a number of more popular books, and I don’t want to get her something she’s already read.”
Emily, it transpired, was feeling somewhat weary as her pregnancy progressed, and was spending less time at her husband’s theater and more time at home; she’d taken a fancy to Gothic novels—strongly encouraged by Jane, who was an avid reader—and her friends planned to surprise her with a basketful of books to occupy her during her confinement, which she would enter by the end of the summer.
“I think this one will do,” Lady Fitzwilliam said decisively, and slipped past West to make her way to the counter, where her purchase was carefully wrapped in brown paper. West took her parcel in his free hand and offered her the same arm, which she took, and they emerged from the shop into bright afternoon sunlight. Piccadilly was bustling, and West tugged Lady Fitzwilliam closer to his side as theyapproached his barouche, where his driver patiently awaited them. He helped her in, then leaned back to instruct his driver to take them through the park on their way home—it seemed a shame to waste perfectly good sunshine, particularly when the vagaries of English weather only allowed so many such days in any given summer.
This done, he turned back to face her. She was wearing a white gown with a pattern of roses done in green, and her face was shielded from the sun by a bonnet with a matching green ribbon. She tilted her head back to look at him, and he realized that, on their previous trips to the park, they’d been side by side—either on horseback, or perched atop his phaeton. He was not used to having to stare at her face as they rode. Her cheeks were a bit pink, undoubtedly from the warmth of the day, and a single strand of blond hair had come loose, clinging to her temple beneath her bonnet. His hand twitched with the desire to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
Instead, he attempted polite conversation—another of their meaningless chats that touched on none of the things he truly wished to say to her. “Lady Fitzwilliam,” he began, then broke off at seeing a peculiar expression cross her face. “Is something wrong?”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “You ought to call me Sophie. If we are to convince everyone that we are courting, that is. I think we might dispense with the formality.”
