Page 4 of To Woo and to Wed
Sophie frowned, and opened her mouth to inquire further—she did not recall her sister having previously mentioned any potential plans for after the Season concluded—but before she could do so, Alexandra continued, “I want to hear more about the house party.” She took a bite of toast and directed a look of innocent inquiry at Sophie—one that had Sophie instantly on guard. “Was there any interesting company?”
At the sideboard, Harriet and Betsy broke off their murmured discussion and turned inquisitive gazes upon Sophie.
“Violet and Audley were there,” Sophie said serenely, reaching for a butter knife with calm deliberation. “And Emily and Belfry announced that they’re expecting a baby.”
Betsy—who was herself expecting, and therefore a bit more emotional than usual—was unable to suppress a soft, misty,“Oh!”at this news. Harriet turned a disgusted look upon her twin, and Betsyadded, a touch defensively, “Well, justthinkhow beautiful their baby will be! Those eyes!”
“All babies have blue eyes,” Harriet informed her sister, with the wisdom of a woman who had herself produced just such a creature the previous autumn, and Betsy sighed.
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Anyothercompany of note?” Alexandra asked, a bit louder than necessary, exchanging an exasperated glance with Sophie; they were both accustomed to the trial of attempting to hold a conversation while in the twins’ company. “Any… gentlemen?”
“Several,” Sophie said. She broke off a piece of the croissant on her plate. She had her doubts as to the veracity of her cook’s French heritage—she had an accent that was prone to rather alarming wobbles at the slightest provocation—but there was no denying that the woman had a way with bread products. “Our numbers were even.”
“Anyunmarriedgentlemen?” Alexandra persisted; Sophie glanced up and met Alex’s gaze. A brief, silent battle of wills was conducted. Sophie sighed resignedly; her sister, sensing victory was within her reach, leaned forward in her seat.
“Lord Weston was there,” Sophie said shortly, a fact her sister clearly already knew—proof that theton’s gossip mill was as efficient as ever.
“Washe?” Alexandra asked thoughtfully, tapping her chin.
“Alex.” Sophie bit back a dozen things she wanted to say to her sister, beginning with the fact that it had beenseven yearssince she had fancied herself in love with the Marquess of Weston, and spent a spring dreaming of the future they’d share—a dream that had proved too fragile to handle even the slightest bit of strain. And, since it had been, again,seven yearssince these events, she would very much appreciatebeing able to attend an event at which Lord Weston was also present without sparking a speculative fervor among her nearest and dearest.
She said none of this, however; as the eldest of five, she was well-practiced at resisting the urge to snap at her younger sisters. Instead, she merely waited for whatever torment would come next.
“Was he looking well?” Betsy asked, taking a bite of apple tart. She was blond-haired and pink in the face and rather round about the middle, given her pregnancy, and she had a dimple in her chin. She was darling, in other words, which was why it should not have been possible for an expression so closely akin to diabolical to cross her angelic face.
“I suppose.” Sophie popped a piece of her croissant into her mouth.
“Did he seem to be in good spirits?” Harriet asked, sitting down next to her twin and reaching for the teapot. Where Betsy was blond and pink-cheeked, Harriet was dark-haired and less rosy, though she did sport deceptively charming dimples of her own. Sophie had always darkly considered the twins’ dimples to be the human equivalent of the camouflage that predators in the wild used to lure unsuspecting prey to their demise.
“It was May in Cornwall—it’s not physically possible to be in anything other than good spirits,” Sophie said, a bit shortly.
“And yet you seem to be managing a rather impressive display ofbadspirits at the moment,” Alexandra said, her gaze on her sister shrewd. Sophie suppressed a sigh.
“Perhaps,” Sophie said, laying down her butter knife, “it is because I am no longerinCornwall—which, in addition to its sunny skies and ocean vistas, also has the advantage of being a week’s journey away from the three of you.”
“I am wounded!” Harriet cried, flinging a dramatic hand to herbreast in a display that would have been a bit more convincing had it not also been accompanied by her attempt to simultaneously take a generous bite of croissant. “But,” she added quickly, “as it happens, things have been ever so interestinghere.”
“Have they?” Sophie asked idly.
“Theyhave,” Harriet confirmed, casting a knowing glance at Alexandra, who suddenly seemed very busy stirring sugar into her tea—an interesting preoccupation for a woman who, to the best of Sophie’s knowledge, did not actually take sugar in her tea. Sophie’s attention sharpened on her sister. It was suddenly clear to her that this was the reason the twins, at least, were here this morning: They had news that they thought would interest their eldest sister, and they badly wanted to see her reaction.
“Define ‘interesting,’ would you?”
“Alex has abeau,” Betsy said in theatrical tones.
Alexandra shot a withering glance at her sister, laying down her teaspoon. “You make me sound like I’m a blushing debutante who just made my curtsey to the queen. I don’t believe widows have beaux.”
“What shall we call him, then?” Harriet asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Your paramour?”
“Your inamorata?” Betsy suggested.
“I believe he would technically be her inamorato,” said Harriet, who had recently decided that she was bored, and had therefore begun attempting to teach herself Italian.
“Lover?” Sophie offered—it was the obvious word they were all tiptoeing around, after all.
“He is my—my gentleman caller,” Alexandra said primly, causing both twins to hoot with laughter.
