Page 75 of To Woo and to Wed
“Hmm.” Despite being seated on the wrong side of the desk, the duke still looked like a man holding court: he reclined in his chair, bracing his elbows upon the armrests, and brought his fingers together before his mouth in thoughtful contemplation. “An interesting question. I do not know if ‘amiss’ is the correct word, however.”
“Oh, are we to have a lesson on vocabulary?” Sophie inquired innocently. “How delightful. There are a number of invectives I’m positivelydesperate to learn polite synonyms for.” She paused briefly. “Not that I would need to use them in present company, of course.”
“Of course,” the duke agreed dryly; West did not think he imagined the brief, faintest hint of a twitch at the edge of his father’s mouth, almost as if he were amused. He had not known the Duke of Dovington to be capable of such an emotion.
“I was intrigued, last week, to receive interest in purchasing Rosemere, as you will recall,” the duke continued. “I have corresponded further with the potential buyer, and their offer is certainly a tempting one.” He paused. “But nottootempting, you see. It is a fair offer, but not overly generous—the buyer clearly has some knowledge of the estate and its potential yields.”
“I would hope that anyone looking to purchase an estate would do some research before making an offer,” West said blandly.
“Hmm,” the duke said again. “Well, I grew frankly curious about this man making the offer, who was being quite mysterious. The correspondence I had was all from his solicitor, you see; this solicitor proved to be distressingly unforthcoming when I asked for specifics regarding the identity of his client.” Next to the duke, Sophie had gone very still, though the duke gave no indication of having taken note of this. “So, to assuage my curiosity, I had my own solicitor do a bit of digging, and was intrigued to learn that this very solicitor is employed not just by your parents, Lady Weston, but by your mother’s entire extended family, and their various shipping companies.”
“What a coincidence,” Sophie said calmly, lacing her hands together on her lap. “My mother’s family does often employ the services of a reputable solicitor, given all the legal matters that tend to crop up in their line of work—they run quite a profitable set of businesses, you know.” She paused delicately. “I believe it is this very fact that made meso objectionable to you as a potential daughter-in-law, in fact. Unless my memory fails me—it is all soverylong ago now.” She smiled at the duke.
West was tempted to applaud.
“Indeed,” the duke said, and his gaze was steady on Sophie; she met his eyes unblinkingly. She should not, in her simple afternoon gown, have looked anything like a future duchess—she was not draped in fine fabrics, elegantly coiffed, dripping in jewels. But there was a certain set to her chin, and a look in her eye, that made it quite obvious that she was not remotely intimidated by the man seated next to her, whose wife had once held the title that would someday be hers.
At last, the duke gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He rose to his feet. “I’ll notify this solicitor that the sale can go through,” he said curtly, and West and Sophie exchanged a single, startled glance.
“But—” Sophie said.
“Lady Weston,” the duke interrupted her, “I am not a man who takes kindly to having my own will subverted, so I would prefer not to linger on this any longer than necessary. But I can recognize a worthy opponent.” He extended a hand to Sophie then, and she seemed to realize, after a brief, surprised pause, that he wished to shake hands with her. West doubted his father had ever shaken hands with a woman in his entire life—women were to be flattered; they were to be waltzed with, made love to, given idle, meaningless compliments. But West thought now, watching his wife and father shake hands warily, that there was something like respect in the way his father looked at Sophie.
Respect was not admiration, or affection, or even acceptance—but it was something. And in this instance, it was a concession.
His father dropped Sophie’s hand, picked up his hat, and cast West a wry glance. “I’ll have that paperwork regarding the estatereturned to you, shall I? And in the future, perhaps you’ll refrain from wasting my time with such absurd stunts?”
West gave the duke a thin smile. “Only if you’ll refrain from meddling in my marriage, Father.”
The duke pressed his lips together into a grim line, but did not offer a rejoinder. Instead, he merely tossed imperiously over his shoulder on his way out the door, “You might see to providing me with an heir, at least.”
The door shut behind him.
“You know,” Sophie said thoughtfully, as she and West stared at the door through which the duke had departed, “I simply cannotwaitto disappoint him on that score.”
West was inclined to agree; he felt the familiar irritation creeping through him that so often came on the heels of discussions with his father, even as he knew that the conversation that had just occurred was likely the best they could ever hope to exchange with the duke on the matter of their marriage. He rose to his feet and, ignoring his cane, walked slowly toward Sophie. He reached down a hand, pulling her to her feet, and she tilted her head back slightly to look him directly in the eye.
“I love you,” he said simply. He would never tire of saying it—not after so many years of feeling it and yet keeping it so carefully tucked away.
She dimpled. “I know.” She reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders. She gently pushed against him, until he took a step backward. “Now, you are going to sit in that chair, and I’m going to get down on my knees and do something that you’re going to enjoy very much indeed, and then, if you’d like to thank me, you can bend me over your desk and have your way with me.” A commanding note enteredher voice as she described this program of events, one that was like an invisible finger stroking down his cock.
“Unless,” she added graciously, “you have any complaints about this proposed plan?”
West most emphatically did not, and he leaned down to kiss her by way of reply.
“So you did it, then,” Violet said admiringly the following evening, leaning back in her seat and taking a sip of sherry with a happy sigh. “You outsmarted the duke. I’m tempted to applaud, really.”
It was the first time Sophie had played hostess as a marchioness; they’d invited their friends to dinner, and then, instead of the ladies withdrawing to leave the gentlemen to their port and conversation, they’d all moved to the library. It was a warm evening, and they’d opened the French doors leading to the terrace, allowing a breeze and the scent of roses to waft in from the back garden. They were scattered around the room in odd configurations: Harriet and Betsy had their heads together, laughing over something in a book they’d pulled from the shelves, while their husbands were deep in conversation with Blackford and Risedale. The Countess of Risedale and Alexandra were debating something good-naturedly with Maria and Grovecourt. Diana, Jane, and Penvale were cheerfully arguing about—unless Sophie had entirely misheard—the size of seagulls in Cornwall; Emily was attempting to reclaim her overgrown kitten, Cecil, from Belfry and Jeremy, who had it chasing a feather in increasingly tight circles. (Sophie remained unclear as to why, exactly, the kitten was in attendance at all this evening; Belfry had informed herin apologetic tones upon their arrival that he’d learned not to question the emotional needs of a woman in a delicate condition, which Sophie could not argue with.)
That left Sophie, West, Violet, and James sitting rather cozily together on a settee and a couple of armchairs set against one wall, near the open doors. West and Sophie had just finished regaling the other two with the tale of the duke’s visit.
“I just wish I could have seen the look on his face,” James said, taking a sip of brandy. He was reclining on the settee, his arm resting along its back, his fingers playing lazily with a loose curl of dark hair on Violet’s shoulder.
“I will cherish the memory for the rest of my life,” Sophie assured him. She was seated in an armchair at one end of the settee, facing West, who sat in the matching chair opposite her. He lifted his glass of brandy to her in a silent salute, one side of his mouth curving up in a private smile that was just for her. There was something looser, more relaxed to him as he reclined in his own chair, she thought; not as pertained to his appearance, which was as immaculate as ever—cravat neatly tied; dark hair combed back from his face; shoes shined to a dark gloss. But there was an ease to his limbs, to the lines of his face, that she had not been accustomed to seeing in him in recent years. Despite the faint lines in his forehead—a product, no doubt, of repeated skeptical lifting of a brow—and the occasional strand of gray hair she’d taken to gleefully informing him of when she spotted them at his temples, he reminded her, very forcefully, of the man she’d met seven years earlier.
“And he just gave you Rosemere?” James asked, his voice laced with faint incredulity; he was, after all, quite familiar with the perils that came from accepting any gifts of real estate from their father.
West rolled his eyes heavenward. “He did not; he sold it to us—to Sophie, really; it’s her dowry that went to the purchase—and had the gall to haggle with her solicitor.”
