“It is still quite early in the day, Your Grace.” She turned to her parents. Mama was engaged in conversation with the Dowager Marchioness of Caster and Papa was speaking to Damon and Lady Falmouth. Neither were overly concerned with Sophia. Or that she’d possibly wed Roxboro under false—
It is impossible, Sophia. Stop thinking of it.
“Time.” Roxboro flicked his wrist. “A social construct. Scotch tastes the same no matter when you have a glass, my unwanted wife.” The hint of a smile on his lips took the sting out of his words. Teasing her again.
“Tell me about your cousins, my sot of a duke,” she returned, nodding just slightly to Rose and Violet. “And Lady Falmouth.”
“Lady Falmouth,” Roxboro said, “isn’t related to me. She is the sister of Damon’s late wife, May. She and my uncle have never really got on.” He tilted his head towards her. “She begged May not to wed him.”
“Hmm.”
“Lady Falmouth feels, strongly, that it is her duty to take Rose and Violet under her wing in the absence of their mother. A directreflection on her feelings that Damon lacks the skills to parent his daughters. May died,” he closed his eyes in thought. “Eight years ago. I adored her.” He looked down into his glass of scotch and took a slow breath.
Roxboro hadlovedMay Viceroy.
“In any case, Lady Falmouth faces quite a challenge given the temperaments of my cousins.”
Sophia mulled that over. There were rumors, of course, about the Viceroys, but outside of Roxboro, Rose and Violet had done nothing that was considered reputation damaging. Not yet. But Sophia could see the arrogance in them both, much like their cousin. Bred into them. A confidence that the world would simply do as they asked.
Given their looks and pedigree, it likely would.
“My uncle has received numerous offers for them both but has refused them all, though that earl is still mooning over Violet.” Roxboro snapped his fingers. “Woodstone? Woodberry?” He shrugged. “The name escapes me, only the image of a rather timid gentleman resembling a parrot.”
“A parrot?”
“Tuft of hair.” He pointed to the top of his head. “Sprouting out like feathers. Wouldn’t survive a week with Violet. She’d have him thrown in a sack and tossed onto a ship bound for India. Damon’s most fervent desire is that Lady Falmouth cease being a widow and remarry, but she is not inclined to do so probably out of spite.”
“Why would it matter to him?” Sophia wondered.
“She’s always underfoot and as I said, she and my uncle are amicable, but little else. Rose,” Roxboro nodded to the dark-haired girl laughing at something Mara imparted. “Is my uncle’s favorite of my cousins, though he would never admit it. I suppose because she is the most like him.” He didn’t elaborate what it meant to be like Damon Viceroy. “Violet, however, is…less agreeable. Scathing temper, which she loses as frequently as she does at whist.”
Violet had been listening to their conversation, as evidenced by her turning to give Roxboro a pained look.I’m bored; she mouthed.
He lifted his glass to her. “Too bad.”
Violet turned away.
“She’ll likely come to a bad end one day,” he murmured. “She’s quite terrible. Much like you, Your Grace.”
“I’m not terrible. Nor will I come to a bad end. Though I’m certain marriage to you won’t help my prospects.”
Roxboro chuckled into his glass of scotch. “A matter of opinion. I happen to like terrible.” He watched Sophia for a moment, the silver bits in his eyes glowing against the green. “Then there is Uncle Damon.”
“He doesn’t like me,” Sophia blurted out.
“You have a blunt way of speaking, after all, why need to overthink things. But you aren’t wrong. Damon doesn’t care for you at all.”
“That’s rather impolite.” It was one thing to think it, another to hear Damon’s opinion of her voiced aloud.
“To be fair, Your Grace.” An odd look crossed Roxboro’s features. “There are times I don’t think he likes me much either. But do not fear. You won’t see him often. Damon hates the country, so he won’t be coming to The Pillory.”
“The Pillory?” Oh, yes. The somewhat alarming name of Roxboro’s ducal seat.
“It’s a lovely estate, despite the name. The Romans once had a fort near there and a general, whose name escapes me at the moment, built a series of stone towers. The towers still stand. None of my ancestors had the desire to tear them down. The house was built around them. The general kept his wife captive in the largest of the three towers.”
“Captive?”
“He was gone often, commanding his troops. She was flirtatiousand quite beautiful, according to the tale. The tower he locked her in has no windows, only holes large enough to stick one’s head out or perhaps your hands or feet. Originally, I believe the holes were for defensive reasons. I’m not sure. But when he took off on one of his campaigns and shut her inside, the only contact with the outside world were those holes. A prior Duke of Roxboro decided the tower reminded him of a pillory, the sort you use for punishment. Which is fitting, because being locked in a tower for weeks on end couldn’t have been pleasant. Up until then, The Pillory was known as Roxboro Woods which isn’t intriguing at all.” He leaned over, smelling of warm bergamot with a hint of scotch.
