Sophia snorted, some of the brandy coming back out of her mouth and making a reappearance on her dress. She wiped it off with the heel of her palm, realising that the brandy was definitely making an impact. An action like that would normally mortify her. ‘As you know, Mama never reins in any of Marrisa’s ideas, which she should sometimes, because this one was particularly bad.’
Tabitha rolled her eyes, familiar with the workings of Sophia’s family. For whatever reason, perhaps the ill health she had suffered as a young child or maybe because she was often described as the prettiest Jacobs daughter, Marrisa was her parents’ favourite out of their five daughters. Or at least, that was how it seemed to Sophia. They doted on her, especially Mama. Not that Mama was harsh to any of her children. Sophia was aware she was loved, just as she was aware she was different from the rest of them. If she didn’t look so much like her mother, she might think she had been swapped at birth. Neither her sisters, nor her parents appeared to have a coherent plan for anything, from what they were going to eat that week, to whether or not they needed to hire more staff, and Sophia loved order and plans.
‘Over the last few days, Mama and Marrisa hatched a mortifying idea to trap the duke into marriage. I wanted…’ What was it that she had wanted? Did it make her a bad person that as soon as she heard about it, she had not wanted the ploy to work? As a sister, shouldn’t she want Marrisa to get her heart’s desire? But the thought that the duke would get no say in his choice of wife had not sat right with her. No matter that women rarely got to choose their life partners either. ‘I tried to talk them out of it, but they would not listen. I thought it was only fair to warn him. Does that make me bad?’
Tabitha shook her head far more vigorously than necessary; perhaps the brandy was a lot stronger than she’d thought. ‘You should not trap someone into marriage. Getting married to someone should be moochfully… mutabilly… mootially.’ Tabitha wrinkled her nose. ‘What is the word I am trying to say?’
‘Mutually.’
‘That is it.’ Tabitha wobbled slightly, which was odd as she was sitting on the floor. ‘I wonder why it would not come out. Marriage is something that is a moochfully decided thingy.’
Sophia didn’t think that sentence was quite as it should be, but the sentiment behind it was undoubtedly wise and profound, perhaps the wisest and profoundest thing she had ever heard. Had she and Tabitha always been this way? Or was the brandy somehow altering her brain? She peered into her glass. It was nearly empty. She topped them both up, the brandy sloshing over her fingers. ‘Anyway, I was going there to warn the duke, but his brother was in the place with all the glass.’ She could not think of the word for it. ‘Not him and not my sister. Only the younger brother, you know, the one all the stories are about. His face was one big circle of shock and I tried to sneak away, but from out of nowhere all these women appeared, which was probably planned. I bet it was. They went on and on and on about how I was ruined unless I married Lord Christopher and the only thing I could say was no, no, no, no, which was not useful and…’ She inhaled deeply as she ran out of air.
‘And?’ prompted Tabitha.
‘And…’ She could not for the life of her remember what she had been about to say. ‘I think I might be drunk.’
‘Sme too.’ Tabitha sighed, her head flopping back onto the shelf behind her. ‘Sit’s not good.’
‘No, it is not, but it is not the worst thing to happen today. I am engaged to Lord Christopher, the… the… buffoon with the pigs. Every time I think about what Robert will say to this whole debacle my insides rearrange themselves.’ She poked herself in her stomach where the horrible churning sensation was only getting worse.
‘So Robert is his name,’ said a deep gravelly voice from high above her.
The sound was so unexpected, she screamed before throwing the remaining brandy in her glass in the direction of the intruder. She heard the liquid hitting cloth before she saw two dark-clad legsappearing in front of her. She blinked at them, having no idea where they had come from or to whom they belonged.
‘Are you drunk?’ asked the voice.
‘How very dare you,’ she replied to the legs.
A deep masculine sigh was followed by, ‘Since returning to the ballroom earlier, the entirety of the Ton, or so it has seemed, has been congratulating me on the demure paragon of virtue to whom I have found myself betrothed. I have been told both discreetly and overtly that marriage to someone as saintly as Miss Jacobs will be the making of me. Imagine my surprise to find the very same Miss Jacobs on the floor of Beauvarlet’s library, stealing his brandy.’
It was hard to follow the man’s velvety voice when the legs in front of her kept changing in number. Sometimes there were two but then there would appear to be more, before they merged back again to two. At the accusation of misbehaviour though, her head snapped up and then up again, because she was surely looking at a giant. No. Not a giant.Him. Christopher Dashworth, the most unwanted betrothed in the history of the world.
‘You,’ she said, pointing up at him in case there was any doubt to whom she was referring. ‘You have ruined everything. Why were you even there? I could have done the saving myself and then all would have been well. You could be out…’ she waved her hands around trying to conjure the right words, but her brain was decidedly muddled ‘…doing whatever it is that men like you do all the time.’
‘I am not going to dignify your insinuation with a response. Besides, you can hardly criticise my behaviour when you are as drunk as a newt on the floor of the library.’
What fustian this man spoke. ‘I am not as drunk as Newton. And I think you will find that he was not a drinker. Perhaps he was contusioned by the apple when it fell on his head and that is why hestarted acting oddly. I suspect it hurt.’ Was contusioned a word? It sounded right, but then she wasn’t sure what was up or down in this moment.
‘There is so much wrong with that sentence, I do not know where to start.’
It was he who had started talking about Sir Isaac Newton; there was no need for him to take that tone with her. ‘Start with what you were doing in the place with all the glass. The conservaltory.’ No that wasn’t right. Whatwasthe word?
‘What wereyoudoing in the conservatory?’
That was the name of it. Theconsalverytery. She would remember that. But hang on. Hadn’t she asked that question? Or had she been talking about apples? No matter, she would answer; it wasn’t as if there was any point holding on to the secret. ‘I was saving your brother from having to marry my sister. Not that she is not lovely, but you should choose whom you marry, do you not think? Maybe you do not. Some men buy their wives. It is shocking.’ You weren’t supposed to speak about such things in polite society, but Lord Christopher wasn’t renowned for doing things in the correct way.
There was that sigh again. ‘I gathered that was what you were doing. And, yes, I do think marriage should be something entered into with free will and not something thrust upon you, which is why…’ He petered off, or had he said something? Her brain was foggy. ‘Can you stand?’
What an absurd question. Lord Christopher was a peculiar man. Of course she could. All she had to do was find the floor with her hands and push herself upwards. It was no problem at all, except… the floor seemed to have moved. It was still underneath her legs, hard and cold, but her hands kept missing it.
She heard some dark muttering above her, then he said, ‘Wait here. Do not move. Can you do that?’
‘How dare…?’
‘Yes, yes, I know. How dare I? But if you would be so kind as to wait here, Miss Jacobs, I should be most grateful.’
Since he had asked so politely and because the floor was still proving elusive, she would. ‘Very well, I shall stay here.’
