Page 30 of To Woo and to Wed
“The physician left an hour or so ago,” the duke continued. “West has not yet awoken, but we hope he will do so today. Dr. Worth said to give him as much time to sleep as he needs, so we are not attempting to wake him.”
“May I see him?” Sophie blurted out; she felt oddly as though she might burst into tears, but could not bear the thought of doing so before the duke.
Predictably, he shook his head. “I’ll not have him disturbed.”
A flash of irritation cut through her overpowering, giddy relief. “I don’t intend to disturb him—I just want toseehim.”
An arch of the brow—a gesture eerily reminiscent of his son. “Do you think that I am lying to you, Miss Wexham? That my son is dead,and I am attempting to conceal the fact? Or that I have some other sinister purpose in mind?”
“Of course not,” Sophie said impatiently, though come to think of it, she wasn’t entirely certain she’d put any of that past the duke, based on all her interactions with the man thus far. “It’s just that I’m very—veryfondof West, and I’ve been so worried—”
“Yes. Well.” The duke cleared his throat. “In fact, Miss Wexham, I am glad you called this morning, unexpected as it was. I’d been hoping to follow up on our conversation of a few evenings past.”
For a moment, distracted as Sophie was by thoughts of West’s well-being, she didn’t realize what the duke meant; that night at the Haverford ball felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had been less than a week. All at once, however, the memories returned, his threatening words echoing in her mind:
You have younger sisters, do you not, Miss Wexham?
She went very, very still. Then, feigning coolness, she asked, “What about it, Your Grace?”
“Well,” the duke said conversationally, “I thought I had made my position, as it pertains to you and my son, perfectly clear—but your presence here this morning would indicate otherwise. So perhaps I ought to speak a bit more plainly.”
“Yes,” she agreed, her heart thudding in her chest. “Perhaps you ought.”
“Very well. If you do not wish me to put it about that I personally witnessed Miss Maria Wexham in the company of the Marquess of Sandworth slipping away from a ballroom, not a chaperone in sight, just a few weeks ago, then I’d very much appreciate it if you took yourself far, far away from my son.”
Sophie met his eyes, even as a chill crept through her. Sandworthwas a reprobate—fifteen years older than Maria, handsome and suave, but lacking in much of a moral compass, from what Sophie had heard. West, who was usually fairly measured in his speech, had made it clear that he was not fond of the man—and that wasbeforehe and Sophie had discovered Sandworth and Maria pressed together in a shadowy corner of Vauxhall Gardens a fortnight earlier. Sophie had, at the time, been terrified that someone had noticed Maria and Sandworth sneaking away together, but after a week passed and no whisper of gossip emerged, she had begun to relax, thinking they’d escaped unscathed.
Sandworth was a dreadful snob—his family line was nearly as old as West’s, and she knew that he’d never marry Maria, a fact he’d made perfectly clear when he all but laughed in West’s face at the suggestion, that night at Vauxhall. (This had been a particularly bold reaction on Sandworth’s part, considering that West had had him by the throat, pressed against a hedge.)
Maria, of course, was young and foolish and overly fixated on titles, and had not been interested in Sophie’s warnings, after she’d seen them dancing together at a ball a week or so before the night in question. Quite probably the very same ball where the duke had witnessed this, Sophie thought grimly. Maria had evidently held romantic visions of making a spectacular match with Sandworth, but his reaction—and hasty retreat, without so much as a glance in her direction—that evening at Vauxhall had disabused her of these notions.
The Wexham parents had been horribly angry, when West had grimly deposited their shamefaced daughter back into their keeping; the quarrel that evening, upon arriving home, had been enough to rouse all three younger sisters from their beds to eavesdrop shamelessly on the landing. Maria had spent the next two days locked in herroom, pleading a headache and refusing all of Sophie’s attempts to speak to her; eventually, she had resumed her normal activities when Lady Wexham had begun to talk of calling for a doctor, concerned about Maria’s health. Maria had been a bit standoffish toward Sophie ever since; Sophie knew her sister was embarrassed about having so badly misjudged Sandworth, and decided to give her space, merely relieved that they had avoided catastrophe, and that her sister’s reputation remained intact.
Now, though, all of this effort on Sophie’s part could be ruined, if the duke so much as breathed a word of this. He would do it—she did not doubt it for a moment. He was a duke, a man accustomed to getting precisely what he wanted. And what he wanted right now was for his son to marry someone considerably more eligible than the daughter of an upstart viscount.
“Do you not think West would object to this, once he found out?” she asked, deciding to brazen it out. “Do you not think he would take issue with you ruining the reputation of the sister of the woman he wishes to marry?”
There: the faintest flicker of uncertainty in the duke’s gaze, though it was quickly masked. Hewasn’tcertain, she realized—he was fearful of the bond she shared with his son, of whatever power she had over him. Perhaps now he would retreat, would concede that West’s life was his to do with as he wished, would resign himself to her presence.
But no—she should have known better thanthat.
He inclined his head. “A fair point, Miss Wexham.” A delicate pause. “Have you considered, then, what West himself would sacrifice, were you to wed?”
“I think you’ll find that other members of thetonmight view a great love match with a more benevolent eye than you do, Your Grace.And anyone who disapproves of me would not risk incurring the wrath of a future duke by being anything less than polite to me.”
“Unless,” the duke said, “they knew they would incur the wrath of acurrentduke by so much as speaking to you in public.” He offered a thin smile.
“And do you think that West will want anything to do with you, if you make my life such a misery?”
“No, I don’t suppose he will,” the duke conceded. “Perhaps he might even think to live quietly in the countryside, away from the gossipington, hosting his friends who are too loyal to shun him—or you.” There was a brief pause, one that felt decidedly menacing—an impression that was confirmed a moment later when the duke added, “Although, it would be unfortunate that he would no longer have Rosemere to retreat to.”
Sophie frowned. Rosemere, she knew, was the country estate that had been West’s mother’s particular favorite—the one that had been in his charge, these past few years. He’d spoken of taking Sophie to visit. “Rosemere belongs to West.”
The duke shook his head. “No, it does not. Rosemere belongs tome—it is part and parcel of the dukedom, and has been so ever since his mother brought it to our marriage as part of her dowry. I have handed it over into West’s keeping, knowing his fondness for it, the fact that it was his mother’s favorite…” The duke trailed off, as if to allow Sophie to appreciate the value that West placed on Rosemere—not that she needed any reminding. She’d heard him speak of it often enough, heard the genuine affection in his voice as he described his time there, the work he was doing, the relationships he had built with his tenants. She knew how much effort he’d dedicated to it, in the years since he’d left Oxford.
He loved that house, and its surrounding land, just as his mother had.
“It’s unentailed, you know,” the duke said. “Since it’s not part of the original entailment, and was only recently acquired. It would be easy enough to sell.”
