Page 23 of To Woo and to Wed
Chapter Seven
Sophie, not wishing to leaveanything to chance, appeared in her parents’ breakfast room at nine o’clock the following morning.
“Darling,” her mother said, glancing up in surprise from a letter in her hand, “has someone died?” Across the table from Lady Wexham, her husband lowered his newspaper. Not waiting for a response, Lady Wexham continued, “Is one of the children ill? Is Betsy well? Did Harriet challenge someone to a duel?”
“I—what?”
Lady Wexham set down her letter. “I don’t know! I simply wished to offer all the most likely possibilities!”
Sophie dropped a kiss atop first her father’s head, then her mother’s. “Everyone is fine. Am I not permitted to join my parents for breakfast?”
“Not at this hour,” her mother said, looking equal parts relieved and suspicious. “Besides, I thought you were fixated on your cook’s breakfast pastries.”
“I can barely manage to eat one before the twins descend,” Sophie said. “Dining here seems quite restful by comparison.” She reached forward to pour herself a cup of tea. She did not think West would call so early, but she wanted to beat him to the punch. During the carriageride home the evening before, he had not been remotely repentant for having surprised her with his plan to seek her father’s blessing, so she had decided to steal a march on him.
Sophie rose and drifted toward the sideboard, considering the options—noticeably lacking in any pastries, as usual, she noted with a sigh—before piling her plate with eggs, conscious of her parents’ eyes on her all the while. Back at the table, she set about briskly buttering a few slices of toast, spooning eggs atop one before taking a bite. She polished off one slice, then another, before taking a sip of tea, setting down her cup with a gentleclinkof china, fixing her mother with a determined look, and saying, “Mama, I’ve something I wish to tell you.”
“I assumed you did not appear here solely out of a desire to breakfast with your parents,” Lady Wexham said. She had not resumed her perusal of her letter, but had instead spent the past few minutes regarding her daughter as one might look on a mystifying creature at the zoo.
“Yes, well,” Sophie said, a bit sheepish, “what I wanted to—” She broke off at a faint sound. Was that the front door opening? She glanced at the clock. Seven past nine. Surely not—
But, yes, she was now fairly certain she heard footsteps approaching.
She turned her attention back to her mildly perplexed parents. “What I wanted to tell you is, I’ve agreed—”
At the sound of a throat clearing, she glanced over her shoulder to see that her parents’ butler had entered the room.
“Yes, Mournday?” her mother asked.
“The Marquess of Weston is here to see you, my lord,” Mournday said, looking toward her father. “He apologizes for the impolite hour, but I showed him to your study, as he said it was urgent.”
Sophie huffed out an irritated breath.
“Thank you, Mournday,” her father said with a faint frown; as soon as the butler had retreated, both parents turned inquiring gazes upon Sophie.
She offered them a faint smile. “Do you feel like planning a wedding, Mama?”
West was mildly embarrassed to realize that he was, of all things,nervous.
He stood in Lord Wexham’s study, his hands resting on his cane without taking much of his weight, gazing at the portrait of the Wexham daughters that had pride of place above the fireplace. The sight of this portrait made him feel vaguely fond of a man who would so proudly display his daughters in a room that was ostensibly for business; he stepped closer, his eyes drawn magnetically toward the eldest daughter. Sophie looked younger, but not shockingly so; he guessed this portrait had been done at some point in the past five years, based on the appearance of the twins, who looked approximately of debuting age. Sophie was smiling softly, her expression inscrutable; he realized, with a jolt of surprise, that that complicated, opaque expression had become familiar to him, over the past seven years. She had never been terribly emotional, but she’d been easier to read when she was younger, her expressions less guarded.
He wondered how much he was to blame for the change in her.
Hearing footsteps, he turned in time to see Lord Wexham walk into the room, pause, and shut the door behind him. Sophie’s father was, judging by appearances, a few years younger than West’s father; tallish, but not imposing, with sandy hair that had largely turned togray, and a face marked by laugh lines. He gave the impression of a man who was entirely content with the circumstances of his life; West had always liked him a great deal.
At the moment, Wexham was looking at him with an expression best described as a cross between irritation and amusement.
“Weston.” Wexham extended his hand, which West shook.
“Lord Wexham. Thank you for seeing me so early.”
“It appears to be a trend this morning,” Wexham said, sounding faintly amused. Seeing West’s inquiring glance, he added dryly, “My daughter is currently sitting at my breakfast table.”
West did not have to ask which daughter he meant.
“Sit down,” Wexham said, gesturing at one of the chairs opposite his desk, behind which he seated himself. He braced his elbows on the dark mahogany surface, pressed his fingertips together, and surveyed West evenly. He did not say anything else, and, after a moment, West took this as an invitation to speak.
“Sophie has agreed to marry me,” he said, because he could hardly saySophie has asked me to pretend I’ve asked her to marry meinstead.
