Page 42 of To Woo and to Wed
Hawthorne fell silent now, looking mildly embarrassed to have offered this little speech, full of uncharacteristic sincerity as it was.
James, for his part, looked impressed. “When did valets get so wise?”
“When they had to spend all their time learning how to tie cravat knots, and therefore had a fair amount of extra mental energy to expend,” Hawthorne shot back.
“I’ll think about this, thank you,” West said, feeling strangely overwhelmed. This was a novel sensation for him; because of the position he had been born to, he was accustomed to people turning to him for counsel, to the heavy weight of responsibility he had borne on his shoulders since a young age. He spent hours with his secretary each week, sorting through correspondence, all from people who were certain that they had a problem that only the Marquess of Weston would be able to solve. And it would only get worse—exponentially so, he knew—once his father died and he assumed the title. There would be votes in Parliament—a dizzying portfolio of ducal properties to manage—men of importance seeking his opinion. This had never daunted him; it was his birthright.
Butthis? Seeking to convince Sophie, once and for all, that he was a good bet—that he was worth whatever unpleasantness his father heaped upon them, should they wed? Trying to create a future for them, rather than simply mourning the life they hadn’t led together these past seven years? This felt more intimidating than any task he had ever approached.
He wished that David were here; he missed his friend often, though over the years he’d grown used to his absence, and was no longer in the habit of turning multiple times a day, looking over his shoulder for a man who would never be standing there again. ButDavid, for all his recklessness, his rakish behavior, his refusal ever to take anythingtooseriously, had been an uncommonly good listener—and, too, he had seen West clearly, in a way that others often didn’t. To most of the world, West was the heir to a duke, stern and powerful, a man to be admired; to David, however, he’d been the boy he’d met at the age of ten who had a horror of frogs (particularly when hidden in his boots). David never hesitated to take him down a peg, when he deserved it—to tell him when he was making a mistake.
He would give anything to have a friend like that with him now; for all that James and Hawthorne were closer to him than any other people in the world, he was still the elder brother of one, the employer of the other. With David, he’d been close to an equal—and his friend had never been in the slightest bit awed by him.
But David was not here—and that was another weight that rested on his shoulders, and would for the rest of his life.
“Are you feeling noble and gloomy and martyred about something?” Hawthorne’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“He is,” James informed him. “I can always tell. He’s got his Long-Suffering Tragic Duke expression on.”
West blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Violet calls it that,” James said, having the grace to at least look a trifle sheepish. “I seem to have picked up the habit. It’s not inaccurate, you know.”
West paused; considered these words. Contemplated the satisfaction of chucking a vase at his brother’s head versus the fuss Briar would kick up about having to scrub bloodstains out of an Aubusson rug. And instead said, his voice utterly pleasant, “James?”
“Yes?”
“Please bugger off.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sophie was at Hookham’s circulatinglibrary, half-listening to Violet and Jane as they debated at length the merits of two volumes of poetry Violet was attempting to decide between, when she heard her name uttered by perhaps her least-favorite voice in all of London.
All of England, even. The world? Given that Sophie had never left the country, for her this was one and the same.
“Lady Fitzwilliam.”
She wheeled around and discovered that her ears had not deceived her: the Duke of Dovington was, indeed, standing a few feet away, regarding her with a mixture of hostility and curiosity. Sophie was all at once acutely conscious of every single thing about her personal appearance, and was glad that she happened to be wearing a newish gown of sky-blue silk embroidered with small white flowers—not terribly formal, as it had not seemed necessary for a simple afternoon outing to the library, but she was wearing a new pair of gloves and the ribbons on her hat matched her gown and, all in all, she thought she looked perfectly presentable. Even to a duke.
Even tothisduke.
She gritted her teeth, and dropped into a curtsey. Violet, sensing some disturbance, turned, and her face went slightly pale at the sight ofher father-in-law. She and Jane curtsied as well, though Sophie noted with some amusement that Violet’s was perhaps a trifle shallower than it should have been.
The duke acknowledged his daughter-in-law with a short nod. “Lady James.”
“Have you met Lady Penvale yet, Your Grace?” Sophie asked. “She is fairly newly arrived in town.”
“I have not,” the duke said, offering a slight inclination of the head in Jane’s direction. “Best wishes for your marriage.” It was not uttered with much warmth, but it was slightly less dismissive than Sophie might have expected from him, considering that Jane’s family was of considerably more humble origins than her husband’s—or even Sophie’s, for that matter. Of course, Jane had not had the audacity to attempt to marry one of the duke’s sons. He could afford to be polite toher.
“Thank you,” Jane said faintly, looking entirely out of her depth to be conversing with a duke; Sophie knew that she felt a bit like a fish out of water amid Penvale’s more elevated circle. This was likely doing nothing to make her feel more comfortable—but then, one did not expect to bump into a duke at a lending library! Didn’t he have servants to fetch books for him? Couldn’t hebuyany books he wanted? This thought crept into Sophie’s mind along with a sudden rush of dark suspicion—itwasodd that he was here. Had he somehow sought her out? It seemed too peculiar and unexpected a coincidence that he should suddenly happen to be here—a place she could not imagine that he frequented—at the exact same hour that she was.
“Lady Fitzwilliam, would you be so kind as to spare me a moment of your time—perhaps outside?” the duke inquired.
Sophie and Violet exchanged startled glances; Sophie had nodoubt that, were she to announce that she had no interest in conversing with the duke, Violet would drag her out of the library without another word, but Sophie thought it might be best to hear the duke out. And, in spite of herself, she was curious.
“Certainly.” She pressed the books she’d been holding—a couple of Gothic novels that Jane had enthusiastically recommended—into Violet’s hands, and followed the duke through the winding shelves of Hookham’s and outside into the bright June sunshine. The duke nodded at the impressive carriage stopped before them on Bond Street, the ducal crest prominently placed.
“We might have a bit of privacy in there.”
