Page 9 of To Woo and to Wed
“I know.”
It was her turn to lift a brow. “You do?”
“Almost everyone seems to know who I am, so I make a point of trying to learn who others are, too.” She gave him a skeptical look, not entirely convinced by this rather pretty proclamation of his concern for his fellow man. He sighed, then admitted, “I saw you at the Mottram ball last week, and I asked my friend Willingham who you were.”
A thrill should not have coursed through Sophie at this, but it did nonetheless. She had no business havingthrillsover men like the Marquess of Weston.
“I am Weston, by the way,” he added as an afterthought.
Sophie waved a dismissive hand. “As you so charmingly mentioned,everyoneknows who you are.”
Then, for the first time, she witnessed the telltale twitch at the corners of his mouth—the sign that he was amused, but wouldn’t let himself show it. “I believe I saidalmosteveryone.” He dusted an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. “I wouldn’t want to presume that every pretty young lady I meet is already aware of my existence.”
“Are you trying to charm me?” Sophie asked suspiciously.
Another twitch. “Perhaps. Is it working?”
She suppressed a smile of her own. “Perhaps.”
Belatedly, he seemed to realize that they were still standing in the doorway, the door slightly ajar behind him. He stepped fully inside and clicked the door shut, then gave her an assessing look. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the sweet tones of the Misses Durand serenading you with…” He floundered.
“Mozart,” Sophie supplied helpfully. “Left before they even started playing, did you?”
“Lady Holyoak was a friend of my mother, and I like to pay her the respect of accepting her invitations, but…” He trailed off, and Sophie could tell his gentlemanly instincts were at war with his truthful ones. “Well, I heard the young ladies play last year,” he finished diplomatically.
“I cannot imagine they have improved.” Sophie paused, struck by a troubling possibility. “Unless theyhave, in which case I truly pity anyone in attendance at last year’s musicale.”
“It was indeed harrowing,” he admitted. “So I thought it might be better if someone found me smoking, rather than just cowering on a terrace with my hands over my ears.” He grimaced. “I always forget quite how much I dislike cheroots.”
“So I was right, then,” Sophie said smugly. “You’renotthe sort of man who smokes cheroots.”
“Guilty as charged.” He was watching her with an odd gleam in his eyes—one that was close to a smile, somehow, even if his mouth was not cooperating. “Shall I escort you back so that we might suffer together?”
Sophie sighed. “I suppose—my mother will no doubt notice myabsence eventually. Although, if listening to those violins is the price I must pay to find an eligible husband, I think I’m perfectly happy to remain unwed, even if all of my younger sistersdomarry before me, as has been Mama’s latest dire prediction.”
Lord Weston offered her his arm, and she took it; it was reassuringly firm under her hand, and she caught the faintest scent of sandalwood, no doubt from his soap. She determinedly tried to ignore it—who cared about nicely scented marquesses with strong arms? Not she. Obviously!
“How many Seasons have you had?” he asked curiously, glancing down at her. Sophie was of average height, and he had at least seven or eight inches on her. She felt a bit exasperated with herself at the discovery that she, like most other women on earth, appeared to have a bit of a weakness for a tall, dark, and handsome man.
How frightfullyclichéd.
“This will be my third,” she said, suppressing a sigh. “I’ve four younger sisters, and the next one just made her debut, so my mother feels strongly that I ought to… set a good example, if you will.”
“By settling down with some dull fellow with a crumbling pile in Sussex, I suppose?” They were walking at an inordinately slow pace, so as to delay for as long as possible the aural horrors that awaited them.
“No,” Sophie said slowly, thinking it might be simpler if her mother were as strictly mercenary as that—it would certainly be easier to resent her, if Sophie did not know that she truly only wanted her daughter’s happiness. (But a crumbling pile—or a fully intact one—would not go amiss.) “My parents… well…” She trailed off, then cast a furtive glance up and down the hallway, confirming they were still alone. “They’re inlove.”
“Ah,” West said, nodding. “Your father’s one of the footmen, then?Bold of him and your mother to continue the affair, even after a child was produced, but rather touching, in its own way.”
Sophie glanced up at him, saw the insistent tugging at the corners of his mouth, and burst out laughing.
Later, she would think helplessly that that was probably the moment she fell in love with him.
“My birth was entirely legitimate, thank you very much,” Sophie said, still chortling. “But my parents’ marriage was a matter of practicality—my father’s family had a newly granted title, but no fortune to speak of, whilst my mother’s family had plenty of the latter to share—and then they had the absolute gall to fall sickeningly in love, went on to have five children, and have spent the past two decades staring rapturously across the breakfast table at each other. So they want me to marry, but they also want me to marry someone Ilike, which just makes it that much more difficult.”
“Because you dislike everyone you’ve ever met.” His tone was serious, but she glanced up and caught that gleam in his eye. The Marquess of Weston had a sense of humor! This, on top of his cheekbones and his scent and his height, was frankly beginning to strike Sophie as a bit unjust.
“Because it’s an awful lot of pressure!” She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “It will break their hearts if they think I’ve married because they want me to, and then I end up miserable and they have to watch me drift about sadly in an unhappy marriage for the rest of my days.”
