If it wasn’t for Marrisa and her absurd plan to catch the duke, Sophia wouldn’t have even met the man, let alone become engaged to him. Someone should reprimand Marrisa for her behaviour, but it wasn’t going to be Mama, who thought the thing as great a joke as Marrisa, and it wasn’t going to be Papa, who was watching his daughter with an indulgent twinkle. Sophia toyed with the end of her fork, trying to formulate a speech which told them how unhappy shewas without becoming the boring daughter yet again. The problem was that Marrisa was genuinely happy for Sophia; her wide, innocent smile was completely without guile. As far as her sister was concerned, Sophia’s life was a thousand times better than it had been yesterday, for who wouldn’t want to be marrying into the esteemed Dashworth family? For most people that would be true. The Glanmore title was old and venerated. It was rumoured that the family could trace their origins back to the first dukes of the land. Their wealth was known to be vast and it was probably hard for any of her siblings to understand that having access to these riches was not a motivation for Sophia. From a young age, she had decided that sensible, thoughtful Robert was the ideal husband for her, and accidentally getting engaged to someone else was a nightmare. But seeing Marrisa’s genuine happiness for her made it impossible to be annoyed with her sister, despite it being Marrisa’s fault Sophia’s life now lay in ruins.
‘I wish I could have been there,’ Annie, Sophia’s middle sister, claimed, a hand placed above her heart, her eyes shining.
‘I know. I would have loved it if you were there too. We all had such a jolly good time; the whole thing was so romantic. Who would have thought the plan would actually work? Soph is engaged!’ Marrisa clapped her hands together as if the whole point of yesterday evening had been to get Sophia betrothed to the youngest Dashworth brother.
If Sophia’s head hadn’t been trying to split itself in two, she might have pointed this out, or she might not. Despite being as different from her family as a mouse was to a goldfish, she did adore her sisters. As she’d tossed and turned all night, trying and failing not to think about every excruciating detail of the ball, the brandy had twisted itself through her body, making her one minute scorching hot, the other curled in shame. She’d added the worry over whether or not Marrisa would be angry with her to her list of things to panic about.Finding out her sister thought the whole thing was a great escapade was mostly a relief even if there was a tinge of annoyance through that feeling.
As the conversation rambled along around her, each sister trying to outdo the other with the romance of it all, not one of her siblings thought to ask whether getting married to Lord Christopher was something she wanted. Her betrothed was, as far as they were concerned, perfect. They would not be able to see that he was far from what she wanted in a spouse and that getting forced into marriage because you’d both been found in a conservatory was about as romantic as a used chamber pot.
Sophia slathered butter over a thick slice of toast, its salty goodness a balm for her churning stomach. The brandy was not helping her clear her head or find words that might explain all of this. In truth, all she could do was eat the hearty breakfast in front of her and try hard not to die. She plucked another slice of toast from the rack and reached once more for the butter.
The post arrived on a silver tray and she watched its progress as Peterson took it first to Papa and then Mama. Mama flicked through the remaining post, collecting all the letters and dropping them onto the tablecloth next to her, before smiling at their butler and asking him about how his gout was faring. News of the betrothal would not have spread outside of London. There was no need for a hot sweat to cross her brow at the idea of Mama’s dear friend Mrs Harber writing to her to question her about it. It was probably Mama’s turn to write anyway, and as she was an inconsistent correspondent, it might be a while before the news reached Robert, Mrs Harber’s son. Robert was a sensible young man, a couple of years older than Sophia and someone she had admired for a long time. He was perhaps too young to consider a wife, but she had been happy to wait for him. No oneelse in the Seasons since she had made her come out had appealed to her in the same way his calm learnedness did. But although he had hinted that he would commit to her, he had never outright said it to her or anyone else, which was yet another reason why she was in her current mess. If he had asked to court her, perhaps that would have been reason enough why she could not have become betrothed last night, or maybe that was wishful thinking on her part. Having never been caught in an awful scandal before, she did not know how these things resolved themselves.
When Peterson left, Mama began to open the envelopes addressed to her; Sophia slid further down in her seat, the sharp crunch of the toast only slightly raising her spirits.
‘You and I have been invited to Glanmore House this afternoon,’ said Mama, addressing her and waving a short missive in the air.
Her sisters squealed as the toast lodged itself in Sophia’s throat. After a moment of coughing, she managed to croak, ‘So soon?’
Couldn’t she at least have a day to recover from her first encounter with strong alcohol? A plan on how to get out of this would be useful, but her brain was too foggy to come up with one. Although, going to meet the Dashworth family at any time was too soon, even if it were planned for a year from now. How was she to face any of them, particularly the man to whom she was supposed to be betrothed? First she had insulted him by implying he was a loose screw and then she had drunk so much brandy, she had been incoherent on the floor of a library. Sweat was gathering along her hairline and she dabbed at it with her handkerchief. All she wanted to do was finish her food and fall back into bed, preferably never to emerge again, but as her sisters cooed over the thick paper used for the invitation, it was clear she was not going to get her wish.
Chapter Four
Such was the splendour of Glanmore House that Sophia’s mother’s easy chatter trailed off as the building came into view, its height and grandeur dominating the other, also impressive, houses around it. The Jacobs were not poor by any means, but this was wealth on a scale that Sophia had never encountered before. Even though it was only early spring, months before flowers normally made an appearance, delicate petals lined the curved carriageway, nodding in the breeze as if bowing a welcome. The vibrant colours softening the otherwise imposing building did nothing to make her breathing any easier.
The beat of the horses’ hooves began to slow and the reality of what was about to happen crashed into her, knocking the air out of Sophia’s lungs. She gripped her mother’s arm so tightly she could see her white knuckles beneath her skin. ‘Mama, I cannot do this.’
Her mother turned her gaze away from the carriage window to face her. In the dim light of the carriage, her face was thrown into shadow, making it impossible to read her expression. For a heartbeat or two there was only silence. Sophia tightened her grip, hoping the gesture would explain all the things she couldn’t say. This was too much; meeting these people was ridiculous. She could not become engaged to a man she did not know, could not talk to his family as if the whole thing were a normal everyday event.
Mama’s gloved hand closed over hers and she squeezed. ‘You, my darling, are the bravest of all my daughters. I know this situation must be difficult for you. You like to have your life ordered and contained and this betrothal has the potential to be untidy. This morning will make you uncomfortable in a way that your sisters or I would not experience if we were in your place. You have much more of my mother’s temperament in you than any of the rest of us and that makes you different. Do not think I have not noticed how exasperating you find the rest of us and our ways. And yet, you are so fiercely loving, so tenacious, so positive that every day I am proud of you. You can do whatever you put your mind to and this will be no exception.’
Sophia’s lips fell open. She and Mama were not close friends, and although she adored her mother, Sophia often didn’t understand her. Mama was effervescent, a glass of champagne in human form. Sophia had her curls but nothing of her personality. Mama loved spontaneity; anything unplanned brought Sophia out in a rash. Mama thought that Marrisa’s plan to trap the duke into marrying was as romantic as a Byronic poem; Sophia thought it was nothing short of a nightmare.
Sophia’s family were always telling her to relax and enjoy herself more, not seeming to understand it was fundamentally impossible for her to do so. Although never stated outright, she’d always believed her difference made her family awkward. No one had ever said anything so wonderful to her like that before. Reeling from the unexpected compliment, Sophia allowed herself to be tugged from the carriage and up towards the grand front door. The dreadful effects of the brandy had faded after copious cups of sweet milk tea and toast, but now her stomach was churning as if a thousand butterflies had taken up residence and were trying to flap their way free.
A smartly dressed butler opened the door almost before they had finished knocking, and although he was the most dignified manSophia had ever met, he somehow exuded welcome. Now was not the time to puzzle out how he was able to achieve such a feat. Not when all her energy was focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
The walk to meet the Dashworth family was both the longest and the shortest one she had ever taken. Large halls echoed with the sound of their shoes on the highly polished floor; no bursts of laughter from raucous sisters could be heard coming from any of the closed doors they passed. Sophia had once visited an exhibition early in the morning, before the crowds had woken and made their way there. This residence reminded her of the hushed reverence of the quiet moments she had spent with others there to see the artifacts with no one else talking their ear off.
Far too soon the butler was announcing them into a long sitting room with the Earl and Countess of Blackmore standing to greet them.
Sophia vaguely remembered them both from the night before. They had helped her to their carriage and the countess had taken her and Tabitha to their respective homes. With her had been Lord Christopher’s other sister-in-law whom, to Sophia’s deep shame, she could not remember. The countess was all smiles now, no hint that she was scandalised by Sophia’s behaviour. She wore a pale yellow gown, the neckline bordered with an intricate design of interlocking vines. Sophia studied that rather than look at her directly, not able to face any condemnation in this graceful woman’s eyes. Because how could she not feel contempt for the woman who had forced her youngest brother-in-law into offering a proposal he did not want to make? To say nothing of the drunkenness.
As the conversation continued, Sophia found the confidence to look up and take in the surroundings. The butler had said the words the Blue Lounge when he had led them here and the dedication withwhich the designer had stuck to their theme was staggering. There was not a single item that was not a shade of the colour.
‘It is quite something, is it not?’ said a deep voice from her right, coming as if from nowhere.
She jumped at the unexpected noise, shock rushing through her, making her heart race. Turning, she found Lord Christopher standing only a few steps away. ‘You need to stop sneaking up on me.’
‘When have I done that before?’ he asked.
Her maid had taken great pains with her outfit this morning, picking the pale pink dress she was wearing because it complemented her skin. No amount of preparation could wipe away her clamminess; she was sure the brandy was making a reappearance in the sweat beading across her upper lip. Her betrothed, however, looked annoyingly perfect. His exquisitely tailored clothes clung to his wide shoulders and tapered waist and his cravat was an art form in itself. His dark hair fell across his forehead in the style worn by young men, and he had been shaved so closely, she could not make out any stubble. He looked remarkably composed to be meeting his unknown betrothed, especially when she had snapped at him rather than offer a greeting.
‘In every encounter we have had, you appear when I do not expect you.’
Behind him, her mother, the countess and the earl all moved to a settee, their chatter sounding light-hearted. Neither she nor Lord Christopher made any attempt to follow them. If the others were going to be talking about the wedding, they needed to be plotting the opposite.
‘I can understand your surprise at my presence in the conservatory,’ he said. ‘I did not think for a moment that you would be in there and I was equally as astonished to discover you there as youwere to see me. But your shock at me arriving at your side is surprising, given that this is the house I live in and Sutton announced that I was in the room when you arrived.’
