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She had thrown out her own arm to demonstrate, and he snatched her wrist. His fingers were shaking. The realization silenced her. He bent toward her, his lowered head catching a flash of stormy light. Green.

“You know as well as I do that nothing can become of us.”

His low voice, the raw edge to his gaze, made her bubble with questions. Or one question, which held a thousand possible answers: Why?

Nine hundred ninety-nine of them seemed momentarily insufficient.

“Does your father’s good opinion truly mean so much to you?” She studied him. “You say you want for choice, but you behave like a man imprisoned.”

Seconds passed. His fingers tickled the underside of her wrist before he dropped her hand. His voice, then, and his sharp mouth, might have been cut from anchor ice. “His opinion means everything.”

“And what of you?” Her breaths were heavy, as though the enormous hall had want of air. “Your feelings mean nothing?”

She closed the space between them. The thick wall of her cloak danced against his chest, their faces so near she had to lift her chin to frown at him. “Do not tell me you feel nothing.”

“Feelings,” he said, swiping a thumb coarsely over her chin before stepping away, “cannot further either of our purposes.”

Ah, so this was how it would be. Revive the practical pursuits. He would suffer through the Penneys’ disdain and she would flounder on the marriage mart, alone. For what, exactly? Approval? Power? Status? It all became terribly vague and useless in the dark.

A rattling sound came from the vestibule. The door shuddered open, and what sounded like a muffled curse echoed against the high ceilings. “Rafe? You in here?”

Sophie twisted her body away from his hard gaze. She tied the ribbons of her cloak, restarting twice before forming a tight bow. By then, Mr. Malloy had emerged on the top step. Mr. Balfour was buttoned into his coat. Only his tousled waves gave any evidence that she had ever touched him.

Mr. Malloy was short of breath, and he clamped a hand to his left leg. He looked between them. Sophie combed her nails through her hair, trying to settle it behind her ears.

“The nurse, she, uh, gave Barnard a good report,” Mr. Malloy said.

She and Mr. Balfour spoke over each other.

“Very good.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

Mr. Malloy placed his hand back on the banister. “Right. They gave him some tincture to make him ill, get some of the stuff rid of him. He was able to answer some questions, and he’s warming up. Resting well now, they say, so no company is wanted.”

Sophie exhaled and closed her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Malloy.”

This night had fragmented into many independent parts. She would do well to focus on Barnard’s recovery, and, more importantly, a permanent solution to his wellbeing.

“Thanks, Alf. Time to leave then.” Mr. Balfour offered his arm to her, no doubt only for appearance’s sake. She took it, but left a wide distance between them as they descended the stairs.

Those nine hundred odd reasons would come back to her in the fragrant daylight of Mayfair. They would seem sensible again when she looked into the eyes of her mother and heard the rheumy cough of her father. She had a purpose larger than sensation, a duty to her brother’s memory. But for now—even as she took her seat on the bench opposite Mr. Balfour and refused to look at him—she would secret tonight’s revelation against her heart.

He could not provide the one answer that would have crushed her.

He could not claim he didn’t want her.

fifteen

Since the St. Quintons’ arrival in London, Sophie had wanted her mother to claim a more active role in her society debut. But the following morning, when she was awoken by too-bright sunlight and a flurry of shrill orders, Mama’s interest came closer to interference.

Piercing, pale light lapped at Sophie’s cheeks and throat as she took her mother’s arm in Hyde Park. Oh, it was the fashionable hour. The perfect opportunity to cultivate ‘friendships’ with other families of ‘good standing.’ It might have been a suitable excuse if Sophie didn’t know her mother better. Lady St. Quinton liked three forms of company only: that of her needlework, her husband, and a bottomless tea kettle.

No, this wasn’t about any supposed friend. This was about Sophie’s need to find a husband.

“Yes, I heard it on good authority at Almack’s Thursday last,” said Lady Alder, the hunched, elderly woman who stood across from Sophie and her mother at the walking path’s edge.

It felt like an hour had passed since they’d stopped to speak with the old family friend. Sophie had scarcely said a word. She was heavy all over, be it from exhaustion or guilt or the fact she could still feel Rafe Balfour’s hands in places they shouldn’t be.