Page 39 of To Woo and to Wed
Sophie, for her part, offered the duke a serene smile. She was wearing a riding habit of forest green, and a matching hat was set atopher gleaming golden hair, which was combed into an elaborate braided knot at the back of her head. Her spine was straight and she’d loosened her grip on the reins so that they rested easily in her hands—she might not be a natural horsewoman, but as the daughter of a viscount, she’d been taught to ride and had a good seat. She looked every inch a future duchess, and West knew it would not matter to his father one whit. The thought was enough to send a dangerous current of anger coursing through him; he’d been fighting against that anger for seven years, and was growing less interested by the day in suppressing it, now that he knew the full truth of what had happened all those years ago.
“Indeed.” The duke glanced from West to Sophie and back again. “I was intrigued to receive a note from you, West.”
“Yes.” West’s tone was careless, even as his grip on Sophie’s hand tightened slightly. “I thought you’d want to know about recent developments. I was so inspired by our discussion last week that I thought it best to take your advice to heart immediately.”
“I see.” A muscle in his father’s jaw was ticking; West realized that he was perilously close to enjoying himself, and so pressed onward.
“Yes. I’m certain you didn’treallymean to threaten me, but I started thinking about what you said, and all at once, I realized that Rosemere badly needed a mistress—and, eventually, the pitter-patter of small feet.” He managed to utter the words “pitter-patter” with a straight face, but it was a very near thing. He did not dare look at Sophie, but detected a slight stiffening in her posture out of the corner of his eye at these words.
“And so you wasted no time in seeing to this matter.”
“Exactly.” West offered his father a thin smile, which the duke did not return.
“We are, naturally, so thrilled,” Sophie chimed in, offering theduke a smile of such sickly sweetness that West was surprised not to see bees buzzing about her. “My sister is also newly betrothed—to the Earl of Blackford, perhaps you’ve heard?—and we are discussing adouble wedding.” These last words were uttered so rapturously that West half-expected to see tears glistening in her eyes as she spoke. “Would that not be lovely, Your Grace?”
His father looked as though he’d just swallowed nails. “It would be… an event,” he managed.
“Theevent,” Sophie corrected. “Of the entire Season, I expect! I mean to say—two of theton’s most eligible bachelors, long causing despair to matchmaking mamas who eyed them like the fattest calves at the county fair, finally settling down to matrimony, both in love matches with daughters of a mereviscount.”
She offered the duke another sickening smile, and West realized that—while she was undoubtedly enjoying herself a great deal in the moment—she was also very, very angry. It was a relief, this realization; he wanted her to be angry. Shedeservedto be angry. And, perhaps, if she was angry…
Then she was still as pained by what had happened all those years ago as he was.
She had explained the full history to him in even tones, not allowing emotion to creep into her voice, almost as if it were a show she’d seen at the theater, those involved mere players upon a stage. But this thin, constant edge of anger that laced her voice now—this proved that she was not unmoved.
That perhaps she still cared for him, beyond the obvious attraction that crackled between them like sparks.
He could not suppress the quick surge of hope that rushed through him at this thought.
“Truly an inspiring tale, Lady Fitzwilliam,” the duke said. “No doubt the revolutionaries in France would have cheered at this story of peasant triumph.”
West glanced sideways at Sophie, whose smile faltered slightly at this, because—he was nearly certain—she was trying not to laugh.
“Quite,” she said primly. “No guillotines in your future, Your Grace! What a relief!” She offered a tinkling little laugh. And then, West witnessed one of the most astonishing things he’d ever seen in his entire thirty-one years of existence:
His father’s lips twitched. As if he wereamused.
Naturally, he quickly wrestled them back under control. But Sophie was not yet done. “And I’m certain my parents will wish to host a betrothal ball, for Alexandra and me—youmustattend. I’m sure Papa would bedelightedto see you.”
“Of course.” The duke was watching Sophie consideringly now, like a man who had gone into battle thinking his opponent armed with knives, only to be confronted with a cannon. “I shall be awaiting my post each day with bated breath.” His gaze flicked to West. “West. You will join me for dinner at my club on Sunday night as usual?”
West inclined his head. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it, Father.”
“Indeed. You have, after all, been so obedient of late.” The duke gathered his reins in his hands, and nodded at them. “Good afternoon.”
And then he kicked his horse into a trot, and was gone.
“You know,” Sophie said thoughtfully, “I really rather enjoyed that.”
Chapter Thirteen
West was fond of hisbrother, but when, the night of his encounter with James and Violet in Hyde Park, West recalled that he’d invited James over for an evening of cards and brandy, he could not deny a certain sense of foreboding. By the time James arrived, West and Hawthorne were already settled in the library, brandies in hand; James appeared, announced by Briar, and barely so much as blinked at the sight of West drinking with his valet.
“Do you know, I think Briar might actually have grown a single gray hair at last,” James said as soon as the door had shut behind the butler, who spared a censorious look for the reclining Hawthorne (one that Hawthorne ignored).
“He’s older than I am,” West said patiently, accustomed at this point to his friends’ oft-repeated jokes on the subject of his butler’s age.
“Barely.” James moved to the sideboard uninvited. He flicked a glance over his shoulder at Hawthorne. “Does he disapprove of you?”
