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Sophie jerked her hand away. “I saw them while out shopping last week,” she said, pasting on a smile. “Aren’t they lovely? I could hardly resist.”

What she hadn’t been able to resist was the way Rafe had held her wrist before he’d given them to her, the way his lips had drank in her pulse. That was the first day he had confided in her. The first he told me of his father. Of the danger he lives in. And how had she repaid him in kind? By calling his life a nightmare.

“Yes,” Lady St. Quinton said slowly, surveying the delicate lace work. “They look just as costly. A fine choice for today’s calls, hm?” She walked toward the door, dropping the crumpled scandal sheet into a footman’s hand. “Come along, dear, or we’ll be late. Lady Milton has no tolerance for tardiness.”

Sophie followed, like a sleepwalker with a hole where her heart ought to have been. She might have tried harder to bring Rafe around to her way of thinking, or been slower to anger, or—yes, by heaven, she was really thinking this—perhaps she could have listened to his reasons. If the journey truly meant so much to him, she might have insisted on going.

Surely danger would be preferable to the not knowing. Was he well? Did he loathe her? Would he return, and if he did, would he still care anything for her stubborn-headed self?

Those were problems for another day. Today, she must cling to the one thing she knew—her duty to her family—and do her best to behave sanely and pleasantly.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Sophie said, once in the carriage and seated across from her mother. “What is behind Mr. Price’s calls? That makes twice I’ve seen him since we’ve been in town.”

“Oh?” Lady St. Quinton sniffed and scratched at her grey coiffure. “I do believe you are mistaken. He’s only called the once, about some estate matters.”

Sophie scrunched her brow, scrutinized her mother’s fitful movements as she adjusted her dark bombazine skirts. “No. I have certainly seen him twice. What sort of estate business?”

“I haven’t a clue, Sophie.” Her mother’s voice turned shrill. “Matters for men, no doubt, which brings me to a most important subject: Lord Hansbury is expected to be in attendance this afternoon.”

“Are there problems concerning the tenants?” She had been too self-absorbed to think much about Belmaine Hall as of late, but it was home. “Please tell me Papa is not encouraging any more renovations. The roof is sound, nothing is—”

“Might you listen to me for even a moment?” Mama’s eyes were sharp, the heavy skin around her mouth clenching into deep lines. “If it’s property that concerns you, dear, you should care very much what I have to say. You must make a favorable impression on Lord Hansbury today. His father, the Duke of Marham, owns two estates apart from their residence in Grosvenor’s Square, and has seemingly grown quite fond of your father.”

“When—?” Sophie silently answered her own question. The men had met in the House of Lords, no doubt; Papa seldom saw sunlight until a biweekly parliamentary session demanded his attendance.

Her mother continued talking over her. “—could arrange to please him, you’d have nary a thought for our little Belmaine Hall again.”

Unease trickled into Sophie’s veins. “Nary a thought? Mama, my whole purpose in marrying well is to find a gentleman who will prize our home as you and Papa have. As I said the very first time you mentioned this Hansbury fellow, a man like him will have no cause at all to care for our estate. He will be consumed with his own concerns. He may even wish me to live elsewhere. It’s a ludicrous hope, heir to a dukedom or otherwise. Not at all the sort of arrangement to ease your mind.”

“You are wrong. It would be just the thing to absolve your father and I of all our concerns.”

The carriage jerked to a harsh stop. Either that, or Sophie had gone spineless in her seat. She gripped the cushioned edge of the squabs to steady herself.

“Just conduct yourself well,” Lady St. Quinton said through clenched teeth. She raised a thin brow. “Please.”

Said as if Sophie were an untamed mongrel and had not spent the last nineteen months dedicating the whole of herself to her mother, her father, their fitful moods and ambiguous needs. Heaven above, how was it possible to love two people so horridly much, and yet feel an anchor’s weight about her ankles because of them?

Today was not about regular calls so much as an exclusive invitation to take tea at the home of Lady Milton. Sophie’s mind was still swimming—or drowning beneath the weight of that expectation-shaped anchor—when her outer garments were taken at the door. It was only when the Miltons’ butler led them down a corridor, its walls drenched in salmon-pink paint, that her pulse quickened to life.

Yes, a few paces ahead on the left lay the study door. Shut fast, just as it had been when she and Rafe had stowed themselves inside the night they met. Emotion seized her chest with a boa constrictor grip. It seemed years had passed since then, or perhaps only a few hours. He had laced himself into her life, knitted his smile and his dark gaze into the fibers of her heart. She would never be free of him.

The Miltons’ drawing room was proof they thought much of themselves. The furniture had been uncovered to reveal a matching set of Chippendale’s, upholstered in cabbage green silk damask and sitting on carved cabriole legs. Long curtains were thrown back to let in the full afternoon sun, and the light was bright enough to feel like a stifling second presence. Beams of it latched onto the chandelier overhead, drawing Sophie’s eye.

“Seems a waste of glass,” came a deep voice at her back.

She turned sharply and met with a wall of male chest. The silk fibers of a Tyrian purple waistcoat winked at her, and higher, a sardonic blue-green eye did the same. Heaven help. She knew, instantly, this was the Lord Hansbury her mother wished to set her upon. It was in his self-possession, the way he cocked all his weight onto one leg and still towered above her like some entitled Archbishop of Arrogance.

She didn’t answer, but lengthened her posture and turned her gaze inward toward the rest of the room. Leave me be. She commanded her flexing jaw and stiff joints to say what her tongue ought not to.

Lord Milton was upon them, and Mama reappeared, too.

“Good afternoon, Miss St. Quinton,” the old man bellowed. His bald pate seemed all the nearer to earth, and his rounded paunch all the wider, when compared to the loose-limbed maypole beside her. “It is a thorough pleasure to have you in attendance today. Might I have the honor of introducing you to Lord Hansbury, Marquess of Alton?”

Sophie tolerated his bow, curtsied as shallow as would still appear respectable, and promptly set off in the opposite direction. She did not possess the endurance to deal with such a creature today. Her coldness to him might be frowned upon by Mama, but what might occur if they spent much time in each other’s presence was sure to yield even more detriment.

The guests began taking their seats, and a familiar face compelled Sophie across the room.

Miss Penney arranged her skirts with the care of draping theater curtains, flicking the pale muslin to and fro atop her crossed legs until the fabric spilled around her like a waterfall. She looked portrait ready, not like a grieving girl whose supposed beau had run off and whose father was in financial straits.