Page 72 of To Woo and to Wed
“—and then Emily was making frankly absurd threats to Belfry about wanting to appear onstage, and then myown wife”—he spared a dark look for Jane—“tried to haunt me out of my own home, andnow this,whateverthisactually turns out to be—no doubtyou”—he gestured at Alexandra—“are about to inform West and Sophie that you were simply attempting to trick them into marrying, since anyone with eyes has been able to tell foryearsthat they’re still in love with each other!”
Alexandra blinked. “Well, yes, actually.” She turned to Blackford. “That’s about the shape of it, wouldn’t you say?”
“I believe so,” Blackford agreed affably.
“Exactly.” Penvale was breathing rather heavily. “My point is, aren’t you all weary of all of this by now?”
“Penvale,” Violet said hesitantly, and then let out a slight cough; the glare he turned on her at this juncture was so fierce that she ceased immediately. “A joke, a joke!” she said hastily. “But,” she added, her tone that of someone attempting to reason with a recalcitrant toddler, “whilst I would never blame you, I do think it worth pointing out that ifyouhadn’t sent me that note informing me that James was on his deathbed—which he patently was not, I might add—then this entire series of events would never have been kicked into motion.” She smiled brightly at him. “So, when you think of it like that, you’re really the reason we’re all here! Just think, if it weren’t for you, Emily and Belfry might never have met!”
“It’s true,” Emily chimed in, beaming.
Penvale looked appalled. “I am getting a drink,” he said, and walked away without another word.
Jane waved cheerfully after him before turning back to the rest of them and saying, rather eagerly, “Now that we’ve rid ourselves of him, would you please continue explaining what exactly is afoot here?”
“I should rather like to know that, too, Sophie darling!”
Sophie suppressed a sigh with some difficulty; the voice was that of her mother, and really she ought to be surprised that it had taken a full two minutes for Lady Wexham to make her way across the ballroom. Given the circumstances, Sophie would not have been shocked had her mother spontaneously sprouted wings and swooped down upon them within seconds.
West lowered his arm slightly—the one that Sophie was still gripping, perhaps a bit too tightly—but she realized a moment later that he was only doing so in order to take her hand in his.
“Lady Wexham,” he said, nodding at her mother. “Lord Wexham,” he added, looking over her mother’s shoulder; her father approached, evidently attempting to appear foreboding but seeming rather delighted instead. “I am sorry that we have not been entirely honest with you for the past week—past month, really,” he amended quickly.
Vaguely, from behind her, Sophie heard Mournday announce another arrival, and the inquisitive buzz that had slowly filled the room upon her arrival seemed to turn to the more natural hum of conversation. They were no longer the center of attention.
“However,” West continued, and she turned her attention back to him—they hadn’t worked out precisely how they would explain matters to her family, and she realized now that she wasn’t sure what he was going to say. “I have loved your daughter for the past seven years, and when she came to me proposing a feigned betrothal—something she only did out of concern for her sister,” he added, his gaze flicking to Alexandra—“I said yes, because I have never stopped loving her.” He turned to Sophie now, looking down at her as he added softly, “Not for one single moment.”
Sophie could not tear her eyes from his. It was still such a luxury, to be able to look at him as much as she wanted—she felt like someone emerging from the desert dying of thirst, now able to take deep gulps of water. For so many years, her glances at him had been swift, stolen snatches of time—looking in his direction when he was distracted in conversation, never allowing her gaze to linger for too long, lest someone else notice. Lest her expression say everything that she would not put into words—even to herself, as the years went by.
“And so,” he said, looking back at her parents, her sisters, their assembled friends, “when we realized that our feelings were mutual—that we did not want to repeat the same mistakes of the past—we thought it only right to marry as quickly as possible, before anyone else could talk us out of it.”
“And I suppose,” came a stern voice from behind them, “that by ‘anyone else,’ you mean me?”
Sophie’s shoulders went up before she even turned; she knew that voice all too well. But she would not allow its owner to dictate anything about her life anymore. She lifted her chin, tightened her grip on West’s hand, and turned.
“Your Grace,” she said, dropping into a shallow curtsey.
The Duke of Dovington was looking… decidedly odd. Not in appearance—he looked much as he ever did in that regard, dressed with the utmost care in black and white evening attire, his cravat knotted elaborately. She supposed she should be honored he’d deigned to put in an appearance this evening at all, and that he’d clearly dressed for the occasion; but then, blatant, obvious disrespect had never been his weapon of choice. He favored more subtle tools.
However, despite his immaculate appearance, there was somethingunsettled about him that Sophie could not recall seeing on any previous occasion. His eyes flicked back and forth between West and Sophie rapidly, and Sophie felt West’s hand tighten on hers.
“Father.” He inclined his head.
The duke tilted his head. “West.” He turned to look at Sophie, a pause growing heavier with each passing second. “Lady Weston.”
Sophie felt, rather than heard, the entire assembled group behind her exhale.
“I suppose you thought I was bluffing,” the duke said conversationally, and Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to steady herself for a moment before responding.
“On the contrary, Your Grace,” she said, offering him a demure smile. “I would never suspect a man such as yourself of being capable of such a thing.”
He held her gaze, and she willed herself not to blink. She was not going to let this man intimidate her anymore—because, like it or not, he was now her father-in-law, and she supposed she’d better get used to him.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve had interest in the property, you know,” he said, his eyes flicking back to West. “Somehow word got out that I was thinking of selling and I’ve had someone in touch with an offer. A very good offer, I might add.”
“How nice,” West said blandly. “Please let me know if the prospective owner needs any information from me, beyond the account books I’ve already sent you. I hope you received them?” he added politely.
“The carriage stuffed full of them was rather hard to miss,” the duke said, his gaze locked on his son’s. “If you think that you are playing a game of poker with me, West, then I would remind you that I don’t play games I don’t know I can win.”
