Or those who married into it.
Her spine prickled. Would she become like them someday? With a heart made of stone? Would her spirit and ideals and optimism be beaten down and sucked out of her? Would she feel dead inside and disillusioned and finally become too weak to cling to the person she once was?
Feeling as if she had been cast adrift in a stormy sea, Sophia clambered out of bed and went to her desk, where her candles still burned. She pulled out a single sheet of stationery, picked up her pen and dipped it in ink. She wanted to write to her mother and tell her how miserable she was. She wanted to pour out all her woes. She wanted her father to make it all better like he always did. He had even said he would come and fetch her if she wanted him to.
Sophia held the pen over the paper. Her hand trembled; she shut her eyes.
She was a grown woman now, a married woman. She couldn’t go sobbing home to her parents at every disappointment, no matter how enormous that disappointment was or how desperate she felt.
She searched inside herself for the strength she knew she still possessed and reminded herself that she had only been here a few days. Perhaps all she needed was more time to adjust. James had admitted that he wanted her. Maybe that was the way it was with men. Maybe they simply required more time to cultivate their deeper feelings.
But he had not just said that he didn’t love her. He’d said he didn’t intend to love her. Ever.
Sophia dropped her pen and covered her face with her hands. The memory of his cruelty pierced her heart again and again. If only there was someone she could talk to.
Sophia wiped the tears from her face. Florence! Who better to understand what this was all about? Florence, too, had left her home and country to marry an English aristocrat—a man who was kind, but exceedingly reserved.
Sophia penned a short note to Florence: Please come. I must speak with you. She signed it simply, A fellow countrywoman. She sealed the note and set it on her desk to send first thing in the morning, then she climbed back into bed.
Despite her letter to Florence and the tiny ember of hope it rendered, her insides continued to pitch and roll, and she did not know how to make the sick feeling go away. The only thing she knew was that she would not allow herself to lose her dignity and self-respect. It was the only thing she had left. No matter what Florence had to say, if Sophia’s husband did not truly love her, she would not go begging for his attentions again. He would be the one to come to her.
For an entire fortnight, Sophia did not see or hear from James. He had gone to London allegedly for Parliamentary business, without even informing Sophia that he was leaving. His drawn-out absence without a single letter to his wife only served to stoke the flames of her anger and discontent.
Day after difficult day, she ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with her mother-in-law, who continued to criticize Sophia’s manners and her lack of knowledge about her duties. The dowager offered no help or encouragement, and tormented Sophia with a you-are-so-hopeless tone whenever Sophia was forced, out of sheer desperation, to ask for guidance.
It was all she could do to keep up with her daily duties: the ceremony of her attendance at the morning prayers in the chapel, consulting with Cook about meals, learning the way things were done and keeping up with all the little traditions Marion had always adhered to. All this, between trying to learn proper forms of address and study Burke’s Peerage, which Marion had insisted was a top priority.
Sophia did not even have her more congenial sister-in-law, Lily, to turn to, for Marion had sent her away to visit an elderly aunt in Exeter. Sophia was beginning to think that the dowager had sent her daughter away for the express purpose of removing the one person who would offer some cheer to Sophia and make her life even slightly, momentarily enjoyable.
Sophia was hanging on to her grand ideals by her fingernails, and she knew it. She had wanted to be a devoted wife and a great duchess and make a difference in people’s lives. She had wanted to help those in need.
Now, all she wanted to do was survive.
Sophia opened the door of the coach just as Florence Kent, the Countess of Lansdowne, stepped off the train into a harsh downpour of rain. A footman greeted her and escorted her to the carriage, where she hugged Sophia. “I left home in an absolute state of panic. What is it, my dear? Your note sounded urgent.”
The footman attended to her bags and assisted them both into the shelter of the coach, then leaped up onto the page-board as the vehicle lurched forward.
“It felt urgent at the time,” Sophia replied, recalling how desperate she had felt the night James had rejected her. She had needed to talk to someone, someone who would understand. Someone who would be able to shed light on the situation. Florence was an American, and she’d been through all this a few years earlier, marrying an earl. Surely, she would have some words of wisdom for Sophia.
“Thank you for coming, Florence. It does me good to see a familiar face, to hear the sound of your voice.”
“Is everything all right? Where is James?”
“He’s in London attending to some Parliamentary business. He left two weeks ago.” Sophia neglected to mention that he had not even informed her that he was leaving, nor had he contacted her since.
“Why didn’t you go with him?” Florence asked. “We could have met there instead of here.” She tried to peer through the rain-soaked window. “Heavens. I’ve never been this far north before.”
Sophia peered out, too, at the mist and moors in the distance, at the stony grayness of it all. “It’s not exactly how I pictured it either.”
Florence squeezed her hand. “You sound disappointed.”
Oh, she hoped she had done the right thing, bringing Florence here. “It’s just not what I expected, that’s all.”
“Is it the countryside that has not met with your expectations? Or the house?”
Sophia shook her head. “It’s all of it.”
“All of it. Oh dear.” Florence pulled off her gloves. “You must tell me what has happened. Nothing could be as bad as all that.”
The coach rattled and bumped over the road, and the narrow wheels washed through deep puddles. Sophia gave in to the motion and let everything come spilling out in one simple verdict. “I’ve discovered that James married me for my money.”
Florence stared at Sophia for a moment, blinked a few times in bewilderment, then rubbed a finger over her cheek. “Oh, my dear, sweet girl. That is what’s bothering you? But you knew your dowry was a part of this. You knew how much your father was offering, and you came to England to raise your family in society. Don’t tell me you thought that you were marrying for love.” Her face went pale . “Upon my word. You did think that?”
Sophia gazed at Florence with surprise. “Of course I thought it! Couldn’t you see how I felt about James?”
Florence hesitated before she answered. “I knew you wanted him.”
“Of course I wanted him. I was in love with him. Madly in love. I thought he loved me, too. He let me believe that he did. The way he looked at me and spoke to me.... There was such passion between us. Or so I thought.”
Florence grimaced. “Oh, passion is so easy for men. You’re a beautiful woman, Sophia, and it would be impossible for a man not to feel desire in your presence. The important thing is that James did marry you. He could have had any woman he wanted, and he chose you. He made you a duchess. You don’t realize how lucky you are.”
The coach swayed beneath them. “I don’t feel lucky and I don’t care anything about being a duchess.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Sophia gazed resolutely into Florence’s eyes, then remembered a question that had niggled at her ever since the moment Florence tried to discourage her and her mother from hoping for a proposal from James. “Florence, did you tell me everything about how you first met James?”
The countess’s expr
ession grew taut, and she took a long moment to form an answer. “Why must you ask me that?”
Her reply sent a stabbing dread through Sophia’s insides. “Because I can’t help but sense that you’ve kept something from me. Please, tell me what it is.”
A dark tension closed in around them. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me, Florence. You must tell me.”
“I don’t see what—”
“Please.”
Florence sighed in defeat. “Fine. If you really must know… Something happened between us, but as I said, nothing came of it. I met James at a ball, my first week in London, when I was still in awe of everything. He walked into the room looking so beautiful and elegant, and I wanted him, right then and there. More than I ever wanted any man in my life.”
Sophia felt a sudden chill.
Florence continued. “I was presented to him and we danced, and we met a few more times at assemblies and such, until one night, I was determined to make him mine, and I went off with him, alone. We found a private library that was closed off to everyone, and we remained there for...for quite some time.”
Sophia’s heart was ramming against her ribcage as she listened. She feared she might be ill, there in the coach.
“I could have been ruined,” Florence said.
“Were you?”
The countess shook her head. “No, but I came very close. Thank goodness I came to my senses and put a stop to things, not a moment too soon I dare say. By some miracle, we were not caught, but he never spoke another word to me. I even wrote letters to him, hoping he would request my hand, but he never replied. He was as silent as a grave, and as cold. A heart made of stone, I soon came to see. I hated him after that. I still hate him now.” She stared out the window for a long moment, then spoke softly. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t say that. He’s your husband.”
Sophia swallowed over the painful lump in her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“I did try to. I told you about his reputation.”
“But you made it all sound like idle drawing room gossip.”
Florence clenched her jaw. “Most of it was. Even so, you and your mother wanted him so badly, nothing I said would have made any difference. And then—every time I thought about the time when fashionable New York wouldn’t touch us—I couldn’t help but cheer you on. Sophia Wilson, an American duchess. I wanted to be a part of that beautiful, poetic justice.”
Sophia tried to keep the shock and anger from her voice. “You kept those things from me because you wanted revenge on the Knickerbockers?”
Florence sat forward on the seat. “It wasn’t just that. It was the thrill of the hunt! He was the best, Sophia, and I knew you and your mother wanted him. I wanted you both to succeed and be happy.”
Sophia felt her blood rushing hotly through her veins. If only she had been wiser. If only she had not been blinded by a fairy tale. “Please tell me that you are happy now in your own marriage, Florence.”
Florence shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone really knows what true happiness is. The point is, I married very well, and no one can ever take that away from me.”
Tears began to fill Sophia’s eyes. “But you and your husband have grown to love each other, haven’t you?”
Florence kept her eyes down as she smoothed a gloved hand over her skirt. “Of course. Just as you and James will, as well.”
With all her might, Sophia smothered the urge to cry. There was an uncomfortable silence in the coach. It was as if the air had suddenly become too thick to breathe.
Florence squeezed Sophia’s hand. “You should be proud. The Duke of Wentworth married you after he vowed never to marry anyone. You accomplished a great feat. And you, an American! No one ever thought you would actually pull it off. You cannot possibly be anything less than ecstatic about your magnificent victory.”
Staring bewildered at Florence in the dim, dusky light, Sophia realized that this woman had no words of wisdom to offer. Sophia had hoped Florence would be a kindred spirit, but she was far from it. She did not understand, nor did she care to. She had come to England in search of a title, she had found it, and nothing else mattered.
Or perhaps she did not wish to be reminded of what she had not found.
Sophia gazed out the window, feeling more displaced and alone than ever, wondering if in a few years, she would become like Florence, and not want to face the possibility that she had made a mistake. Would she ever be able to do that? To paste a pretty smile on her face, pretend that she was happy, and eventually forget that she’d ever known what real happiness was in the first place?
The carriage bumped, and her head began to throb. Florence’s attempt to appease her meant nothing, for she now knew that both James and her mother’s dearest friend had kept a secret from her. They had both ushered Sophia into a world that they must have known would suffocate her.
Sophia suddenly felt as if her soul was being annihilated. She had been stuffed and sealed in a gilded tomb with nothing but a coronet on her head to keep her happy, and no one wanted to hear her complain about it.
A few days after Florence left, the dowager announced over breakfast that it was tradition in late October for the Duke and Duchess of Wentworth to host a shooting party. Sophia would therefore be required to send out invitations to the usual people.
Who the “usual people” were was left for Sophia to guess at, until the time came to actually prepare the invitations. Sophia had no choice but to go to the dowager and request a guest list.
She was about to knock on Marion’s door when she heard a loud, gut-wrenching sob from inside. Startled, she hesitated and listened for a few seconds, then gathered her resolve and knocked.
Something dropped on the floor inside the room, and it was a few more seconds before Marion shouted, “Come in.”
Sophia entered.
If Marion had been crying, it was over now. Her face was as cold and unfeeling as ever. “What do you want? I’m busy.”
Sophia wondered if she should ask Marion if she was all right. “I need the guest list for the party.”
Marion huffed as she rose from her chair. “I don’t have the time or the inclination to do your duties for you, Sophia. You must learn to do them on your own.”
The dowager’s terse reply helped Sophia to decide not to pry into her personal business. She simply wasn’t up to being shouted at today. “Believe me, Marion, I want that as much as you do.”
The dowager gave her a sidelong glance, then went to her desk and retrieved a book. She handed it over. “This is my record of last year’s party. It includes the menus and the guest list as well as my notes about each guest’s tastes and preferences regarding food and rooms. Viscount Irvine, who is quite elderly, found the bed in the green guest chamber too hard, if I recall. You’ll have to put him elsewhere this year.”
“Thank you, Marion, this is exactly what I need.” Sophia accepted the book and turned to leave.
She had just stepped over the threshold when the door slammed shut behind her and almost caught the hem of her dress.
Forcing herself to ignore her mother-in-law’s hatefulness—for if Sophia surrendered to her own smoldering temper, her soul might explode—she returned to her own boudoir and sat down at her desk, dipped her pen in the ink and began her letters.
Three hours later, she leaned back in her chair and sighed with fatigue as she marveled at the enormous stack of invitations, each sealed with red wax imprinted with the ducal coat of arms.
A knock rapped at her door just then. “Come in.”
The creaky door opened slowly, and her mother-in-law walked in.
Not knowing what to expect, Sophia sat up straight in her chair. “Hello, Marion.”
“You’ve been working on the invitations?”
A sudden desire to
please this woman—whose approval should not matter to her—infiltrated her weary spirit. She gestured with her hand toward the pile in front of her. “Yes, I finished all of them. I invited everyone who came last year.”
“Not Lady Colchester, I hope.”
Sophia cleared her throat. “Yes...I do believe I invited her, along with her husband.”
Marion shook her head in that slow, eyes-toward-the-ceiling manner. “No, no, no! Lady Colchester passed away last winter. You must redo that one. It will be Lord Colchester only.”
“I see.” With hands stiff from all the writing, Sophia began to sort through the pile of invitations on the desk, searching for the one she had written to the Colchesters. The cards slid off each other and a few fell to the floor. Marion approached and began searching, too, squinting to read the names on the outsides of the invitations, and scrutinize the quality of Sophia’s penmanship, no doubt.
“I can find it,” Sophia insisted, crouching to pick up the ones she’d dropped. Oh, how she disliked the feel of her mother-in-law standing over her, breathing down her neck, as if Sophia were incapable of finding one simple invitation.
“Here it is,” Marion said, her blue-veined hand scooping it up from near the bottom. She broke the seal and opened it. “Oh, good gracious!” she bellowed, as if Sophia’s letters were lists of profanities.
“What’s wrong?” Sophia asked, not quite sure she wanted to know.
“You do not sign your name as Sophia Langdon! Your signature must read Sophia Wentworth! Wentworth!” Marion threw the letter down onto the desk and picked up another and ripped it open. “This one is the same.” She ripped open another. “And this! They’re all wrong! You must redo them all. All that paper has been wasted. You will have to burn it.”
She walked out, slammed the door behind her, and Sophia swallowed hard over the fury and frustration that was escalating in her chest. She felt like a child, back in the one-room schoolhouse with Mrs. Trilling as her teacher. Sophia could still hear that ruler smacking the desks.
To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1) Page 15
