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“I think my brother and sister called me Roni.” Sophronie puzzled her forehead as she adjusted her leather riding gloves. “Papa says my full name was too difficult for them. Then after they and Mama died, Papa used it as a term of endearment and as a credit to their memories.”
“How tragic, Roni,” Rosalind put in. “Ye’re an only child then, like Miss Wesleyan.”
Sophronie’s gaze drifted to the ostentatious house.
Was Leah Wesleyan the woman she’d seen at the racecourse?
“That’s the only thing Roni has in common with Leah Wesleyan.” Sarah pulled a face. “Roni is friendly, sincere, and kind, and she’s no’ stalkin’ our brother for a husband.”
“God forbid,” Sophronie said a trifle too quickly, which sent the sisters into peals of laughter and caused Evan to launch a raven brow high onto his forehead.
“We’d be at cross purposes constantly,” she tried to explain, which only made his sisters giggle again and the planes of his face tighten. She’d offended him again, which only served to prove she was right.
He moved several feet away and gave her his back.
“Doth she protest too much?” Sarah teased good-naturedly.
No, I do not.
Sophronie had spent the past two days reliving that brief but delicious kiss. If she detested the Duke of Waycross as much as she’d convinced herself she did these past months, then why had his kiss left her breathless, confused, and utterly shattered?
Rather than her avoiding him as she had the first two days she’d been in residence at Balston House, Evan had been the one to make himself scarcer than a fat goose at Christmastide. His well-meaning family, attempting to assure Sophronie no slight was intended toward her, promised such behavior was not unusual for him.
Today’s ride from Balston House to the Wesleyans’ was the first time she’d seen him for more than a few minutes in passing. His manner was relaxed and jovial with his sisters but reserved and watchful with Sophronie.
Just as well. Sophronie was leaving in a week, and she didn’t need to drag a complex, emotional tangle with her as extra baggage back to America. Whatever Evan mistakenly believed the thing, the perplexing spark between them was—it didn’t exist.
She set aside her useless musings and focused on the current discussion.
“You don’t care for Miss Wesleyan?” Sophronie had detected a distinct dislike for their hosts’ daughter.
Sarah gave a most indelicate snort. “Leah Wesleyan’s been after Evan worse than a dog after a flea.” Her regard lingered on her brother. “She means to become the next Duchess of Waycross through fair means or foul, I suspect.”
“Over my dead body,” Rosalind muttered. “Or hers.”
“Or Grandmother Gordonstone’s.” Larissa brushed horsehair from the sleeve of her riding habit. “The last time she saw Miss Wesleyan, she told her she didn’t fit the mold for a duchess, and Leah ought to set her cap for a gentleman other than Evan.”
“Aye, and Leah laughed and pretended Grandmother was jestin’.” Rosalind arched her eyebrows. “She wasna.”
She exchanged a glance with her sisters that clearly said they objected to the union as fervently as she did.
“Isn’t she suitable to be a duchess?” Sophronie couldn’t explain the queer pull at her ribs that came with discussing a possible wife for Evan. Surely it was because his sisters obviously objected to such a match, which could only mean tension and trouble for the close-knit family later on.
Smiling, Eufamie McCollister claimed Sophronie’s other arm. “That depends on what one considers suitable, my American friend. Miss Wesleyan is beautiful, has impeccable manners, never raises her voice or says anythin’ untoward, dresses like a queen, and yet, an asp in the dead of winter possesses more warmth and benevolence.”
“Speak of the devil’s handmaiden,” Rosalind whispered out the side of her mouth, her attention fixed behind Sophronie.
Sophronie knew before she turned and faced the stairs ascending to the manor who she’d see standing there. The striking woman she’d seen at the racecourse in the vibrant red and black riding habit lingered at the top of the stair. Today, she was gorgeous in sapphire blue.
As those confident of their power and position often do, she affected various poses to show off her exquisite riding habit and even more exquisite figure. She was, in a word, breathtaking from her intricately coiffed ebony hair to her ruby-red lips.
This was a woman who knew what she wanted and was seldom denied anything.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Leah Wesleyan said in practiced sultry tones. “How nice that your entire family—and American guests—could attend our little soiree today.”
Rather than the lilting brogue Evan’s female kin preferred, Miss Wesleyan spoke the king’s clipped English, and Sophronie had to strain her ears to detect even the slightest hint of a burr. However, even a deaf man could’ve detected the distinct frigidness in her tenor when she mentioned Evan’s guests.
Perhaps he’d been mistaken regarding Sophronie’s and Papa’s welcome despite having assured both of them that as Evan’s house guests, the invitation extended to them as well.
