Page 64 of To Woo and to Wed
“I haveexplainedto you why I could not marry you!”
“And I understand your reasons better now—but if you will not marry me now, I would like us to atleastbe clear on the reasons.”
“You haven’t—we haven’t—” Sophie lifted her hands in frustration, and West relished the sight; he could not bear to discuss these matters with her if she appeared cool and unmoved. He was grateful for any sign that she was as moved as he was—even by anger, at the moment.
“If I thought there was the slightest chance that you would have me, I would be on my knees before you in an instant,” he said quietly.
She blew out an exasperated breath. “This is ridiculous—you can’t even pretend to be in love with me without us quarreling.”
He lifted a brow. “I’m finding it’s the pretendingnotto be in love with you that is the problem, actually.”
That, at least, momentarily shocked her into silence. West, for his part, was darkly amused—had she really not known? Or had she merely not thought he would dare to say it?
At last, after a long moment, she sighed, her expression sad. “Love is not enough of a basis for a marriage, West—not if it comes at the cost of everything else one holds dear. I would not ask that of you—I would not wait to see if you came to regret it.” Her voice was quiet, calm, but West knew her well enough still—always—to detect the note of sadness, oflongingthat ran beneath her words.
And suddenly, he understood.
He understood itall.
“You’re frightened,” he said, and she blinked, a faint crease forming between her eyebrows.
“I don’t—”
“You’re frightened that I wouldn’t choose you, above everything else. Or that if I did, I would regret it.”
A hint of color appeared in her cheeks—a telling sign in a woman who was not prone to blushes. West noted this, but did not linger on the thought; he was gripped with the giddy certainty of the truth of his words, his thoughts dwelling on the entire history of his courtship with Sophie, of all the heartbreak in their past—
And he felt nearly close to laughter. Because it all made sense, at last.
“Tell me what I have to do to prove to you that I mean it.” He reached out and gripped her hand, the contact electric even through his glove and hers. “Tell me what I must do to prove to you that I wouldn’t regret it—that you areeverythingto me.”
“You can’t!” she burst out. “This isn’tRomeo and Juliet—I’m not going to drink poison just because the only man I’ve ever loved can’t marry me! Ilikemy life—and I think you like yours—and I don’t want you to destroy everything you’ve worked for, that you care about, simply because you think we’re the characters in some sort of romantic tragedy!”
The carriage drew to a halt, startling them both; they’d been so preoccupied by their argument that they hadn’t realized they’d reached Sophie’s house already. She gathered her reticule, waiting to alight, but just as the door creaked open and she prepared to rise, West reached out and gripped her elbow, drawing her startled gaze back to his.
“I do not think our story is a tragedy, Sophie,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers. “I think it is a love story—a romance, like one of those novels by Miss Austen that Violet is always banging on about.” He released her elbow, and leaned back in his seat as the carriage door opened fully, allowing Sophie to depart. “And I am going to prove it to you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The air was damp andthe sky foreboding as West made his way to his father’s house the next day. Clouds had begun to gather overhead before he left home, and by the time he arrived in Berkeley Square, the first raindrops had started to fall. West leaned a bit more heavily than usual on his cane as he ascended the front steps—damp weather always seemed to aggravate the pain in his leg—and he nodded at his father’s butler, who informed him that His Grace was in the library.
“I’ll show myself in, thank you, Jennings,” West said, making his way up the stairs before the butler could protest. The library was just off the second-floor landing, and West offered a brief tap at the door in warning, but did not wait for a reply before he entered.
“West.” The duke looked up in surprise from where he sat in an armchair, reading a letter. He folded the letter and set it aside on a side table as West approached, though West caught enough of a glimpse of the handwriting to suspect that it came from a woman. He’d never been privy to much of his father’s personal life; once, years earlier, James had asked him idly if he thought their father had a mistress—it had been nearly two decades at that point since their mother’s death, after all—and West had paused, startled, to contemplate. It was difficult to reconcile the stern, unyielding man who had raised him withthe idea of a man who might be capable of great tenderness toward a woman. He’d always imagined his father employing a series of short-term mistresses he could set up in tidy little houses kept safely away from the rest of his life, but it was difficult to imagine any ofthosewomen sending him a letter.
There was so much about his father that he did not understand—because his father had ensured that this was the case.
“What brings you here this afternoon?” his father asked, watching him carefully. They had not spoken since Sophie had informed West of her meeting with the duke at Hookham’s; West had even sent a note of excuse for their usual Sunday night dinners the past two weeks, claiming that he had other engagements. He’d half-expected his father to show up on his doorstep, demanding an explanation for his absence, and for his supposed betrothal, but his father seemed to be waiting him out.
“I was out with Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said casually, “and happened to be passing your house on my way home.”
“Ah.”
West ignored the multiple open chairs near his father’s, instead taking a slow, circuitous route around the room. The duke did not speak, apparently aware that he was engaged in a high-stakes chess game with his son, waiting to see what move West would make next.
“I was thinking, Father, about our discussion a few weeks ago.” West came to a halt before the fireplace—empty today—and studied the portrait above the mantel: one that had been painted before James’s birth, of the duke and his duchess and their toddler heir. Judging by the age West appeared to be, his mother would have been expecting James at the time, but the artist had carefully arranged the scene so that herpregnancy was not visible. The duke dandled West on his knee, and his wife had a hand on the duke’s elbow, her expression serene.
West had often wondered how James felt whenever he entered this room, seeing a portrait given pride of place that did not even acknowledge his existence… but West had never paused to consider howhefelt.
