Page 68 of To Woo and to Wed
“Indeed,” Sophie murmured, catching Alexandra’s eye and suppressing a smile with some difficulty. “Given the other details of the wedding,clearlywe don’t wish to be seen as vulgar.”
Alexandra narrowed her eyes at her. “Do you have a complaint to voice, Sophie?”
“Not at all,” Sophie demurred, turning in a slow circle to admire the afternoon light spilling into the ballroom through the enormous windows. “I am merely looking forward to experiencing the wedding of your dreams.”
“If you have some objection to raise, I’d be delighted to hear it,”Alexandra said, lowering her voice slightly so that their mother—now debating, apparently with herself, whether potted plants encouraged licentiousness—would not overhear. “For if there is something about the plan for our wedding that is upsetting you, I’d naturally bemorethan happy to remedy it. It’s your wedding, too, after all.” She paused with deliberate care. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Sophie agreed. She had been avoiding Alexandra this past week. She’d already suspected that her sister guessed some of what was afoot between her and West, and today’s conversation merely served to confirm it. Maintaining a healthy distance seemed the safest option for all involved.
“I had the most interesting conversation with Maria recently,” Sophie said idly. “She reminded me of how much you complained about the fuss of your first wedding.” She paused deliberately. “I’m so overjoyed to see you’ve had such a change of heart in that regard.”
She was rather curious to see how Alexandra would respond tothat,but before her sister had a chance to do so, they were interrupted—their mother seemed to have belatedly noticed their lack of attention.
“Girls!” cried Lady Wexham, for all that the “girls” in question had both been married and widowed. “I need you to focus on what is important: How likely do you think it that someone loses their virtue behind a potted palm?” She paused to consider her own question. “Or do you think the fronds would get in the way of any lewd behavior?”
Sophie—and, from the looks of her, Alexandra, too—had not the slightest idea of how to respond to this query, but it did prove successful at driving her simmering quarrel with her sister out of mind.
For the moment.
It was the next day—the day of the betrothal ball, at last—and Sophie was seated in her library, enjoying a leisurely cup of afternoon tea while attempting to read the book Jane had loaned her, about a haunted house that did not actually appear to be remotely haunted, when Grimball opened the door and announced solemnly, “Mrs. Brown-Montague.”
“Hello,” Sophie said, glancing up in surprise as her sister sailed into the room. “What on earth are you doing here? I assumed you’d be tormenting your lady’s maid by not being able to make up your mind which hairstyle you wanted for tonight.”
“Ha,” Alexandra said, sinking down next to Sophie on the settee beneath the window. Her dark hair was coiled at the back of her head, and she was dressed for riding. “I’ve been in the park with Harriet, actually, and thought I would stop by on the way home. I haven’t much time—I’ve a footman waiting for me outside. But I wanted to discuss tonight with you.”
Sophie set her book aside, a dark pang of foreboding in her chest at her sister’s tone. “What about tonight?”
“It’s very important to Mama, you know,” Alexandra said briskly, and Sophie nearly rolled her eyes.
“I’m well aware, thank you. Or have you not noticed the multiple notes per day from her about everything from the number of candles to whether ratafia is still served in the best houses?”
Alexandra ignored this. “I would hate for Mama’s memory of tonight to be tarnished in any way.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes at her sister. “In what way, precisely?”
Alexandra took a deep breath. “If, for example, it should come to light that you were feigning a betrothal.”
A brief silence fell. Sophie was a bit impressed; she had not thought her sister would come out and say it so bluntly, but clearly Alexandra had had enough of the elaborate farce that had been playing out for more than a month—and Sophie, for her part, was entirely in agreement with this sentiment.
“I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that you’re entirely mistaken and I’ve not the faintest notion what you’re referring to.”
“You could, I suppose, if you wished to be incredibly irritating. But I’d personally prefer it if you didn’t, and if you told me the truth instead.”
“The truth,” Sophie repeated, considering her words carefully. “The truth is, I’m not engaged to West, and Ididask him to feign a betrothal, solely so that you’d agree to marry Blackford.” It felt liberating to speak these words aloud; West had confessed to James, but she’d had no such opportunity, and admitting it made her feel like a weight was being lifted.
“I knew it,” Alexandra said. She eyed her sister narrowly. “I didn’t think you’d admit it so readily, though.”
Sophie threw her hands up in the air. “What was the point in denying it, if you’d already worked it out? I promise not to spoil Mama’s night, by the way—I can’t believe you think I would.”
“You were hardly behaving like yourself, this past month—if you didn’t plan to go through with the wedding, then I presume you’ve some sort of plan for staging an elaborate quarrel with West, and how was I to know that you didn’t plan to do so tonight?”
“Because you might credit me with abitof common sense,” Sophiesaid, a bit more acid in her tone than she intended, or than was perhaps fair, given that that had, until recently, been precisely her plan.
“Perhaps I shall start doing so whenyoucredit me with being an adult capable of holding an intelligent conversation,” Alexandra said with uncharacteristic sharpness. “You might have just spoken to me and avoided this entire unhinged scheme, you know. I presume you concocted this plan after waltzing with Blackford at the Northdale ball last month?”
“Indeed. Directly on the heels of one of the stranger breakfast conversations of my entire life,” Sophie said, crossing her arms. “In which you acted like a criminal when I so much as dared to question you about your feelings. You can understand how I might have thought you wouldn’t be receptive to a reasonable conversation.”
“But you didn’t even try.” Alexandra’s voice had lost its edge now, and there was a muted quality to it—one that was almost sad. Sophie felt a pang of guilt, which she tried to suppress. Why should she feel guilty for trying to ensure her sister’s happiness?
