by Anna Bennett
For a few seconds, the studio was silent. Then Fiona said, “I’ve the feeling you’re thinking about someone in particular. Do you want to talk about him now?”
Sophie sank onto the sofa and leaned her head back against the cushions. It would be a relief to confess her feelings for Reese to her friends. “There’s someone I care for, and I think he cares for me too. We’ve been spending time together … alone.”
Fiona set down her paintbrush and came to sit beside Sophie. “Have you changed your mind about marrying Lord Singleton?”
Sophie shook her head slowly. “I can’t. My family’s financial situation grows more dire by the day. And the man I mentioned … he’s not in a position to help—even if he were so inclined.”
Fiona reached over and squeezed Sophie’s knee. “I wish you’d let Gray and me assist you. He even suggested it again over dinner the other evening. I didn’t mention it to you because I know your feelings, but if you’ve changed your mind…”
“No,” Sophie said hoarsely. “My parents are too proud. I suppose I am too. Perhaps it’s old-fashioned and unenlightened, but I can’t bring myself to rely upon the generosity of friends—even the most wonderful of friends.”
She sniffled, letting out a long sigh before she continued. “This problem won’t go away with the wave of a wand. Even if I could, somehow, repay all my father’s debts today, his profligate tendencies will land him back in trouble. For my family’s sake, I must marry well, and soon. I could do much worse than Lord Singleton,” she said firmly. Almost as though she was trying to convince herself.
Lily hopped off her desk and paced the room. “What about the man you care for?” she said. “If money weren’t an issue, would he be a good match?”
“He would,” Sophie admitted, even though she’d told herself not to dream of such things. “There’s no denying we’re drawn to each other. But I made it clear from the start of our relationship that I intend to marry another.”
“People change their minds all the time,” Fiona said, sympathetic. “I know you want to stand by your word, but if keeping your promise to Lord Singleton means you’re miserable for the rest of your life, you shouldn’t feel obliged to keep that promise.”
“It’s complicated. Reese—the man I’m fond of—only recently and reluctantly came into his title. I don’t think he wants to marry anyone—at least not anytime soon.”
“Even the most steadfast of bachelors has changed his mind about marriage after meeting the right woman,” Fiona said sympathetically. “Have you considered that you might be that woman for Reese?”
Of course she had, despite her resolve to avoid imagining a future that could never be hers. “He’s going through a difficult time and still mourning the loss of his brother. It doesn’t seem right to broach the subject right now.”
“Better now than after the reading of the banns for your marriage to Singleton,” Lily pointed out. “What do you have to lose?”
Sophie fingered the silk sash of her dress as she pondered her friend’s question. Maybe part of her recognized that Lord Singleton was the safer choice. He wasn’t fiery or passionate. Their relationship would be pleasantly civil, and he’d demand very little from her. Which meant she’d never completely lose her heart to him, and there was no possibility of him hurting her.
But baring her soul to Reese was an altogether different proposition. There would be no wading in or half measures. If she confessed her love for him, and he couldn’t or wouldn’t love her back … well, she wasn’t sure she could endure that sort of pain.
“I’ll give it some thought,” Sophie said. She still had a few weeks until her betrothal to Lord Singleton became official. Granted, it wasn’t much time, but perhaps it would be enough for her and Reese to figure out what they meant to each other. Their relationship was like a beautiful, fragile orchid, and she wondered whether it would be able to survive outside the cozy hothouse they’d created for themselves at Warshire Manor.
“Thank you for confiding in Lily and me,” Fiona said. “And even though there are at least a dozen more questions we’d love to ask, we shall refrain.”
“We will?” Lily asked, obviously disappointed.
“Yes.” Fiona pinned her younger sister with a stern stare—the sort that would have made Miss Haywinkle proud. “Sophie has a difficult decision to make, and she will make the correct choice, as she always does.”
Sophie wasn’t so certain, but she managed a weak smile. “I appreciate your faith in me. And I know I can count on you both, no matter what.”
“No matter what,” Fiona repeated, her blue eyes twinkling with affection.
“Perhaps this week’s column will be about trusting one’s instincts—especially when it comes to assessing a gentleman’s character,” Lily mused.
“I’m sure the members of the Debutante Underground would find the topic intriguing,” Sophie said. “Heaven knows I would.”
Fiona pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I believe I have an idea for a sketch, too. I’ll begin working on it this afternoon.”
“Good,” Sophie said, rising from the settee. “I’m rather tired, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll head home a bit early. I could use a nap before dinner.”
Lily propped a hand on her hip. “Miss Sophie Kendall,” she teased, “I would hand over my best bonnet just to know what you’ve been doing for the past twelve hours.”
Sophie winked at her friend. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
* * *
A half hour later, Sophie walked into her foyer, surprised to find the house unnaturally quiet. She hung her pelisse and hat before heading to the drawing room, where her mother and Mary perched on the edge of their chairs, dabbing the corners of their eyes with soggy handkerchiefs.
Dread slithered around Sophie’s neck, squeezing her in a chokehold. “What’s happened?” she asked, rushing into the room. “Is it Papa?”
“No, darling,” Mama assured her. “He’s fine. He’s just upstairs … resting.”
A sob escaped Mary’s throat.
“What, then?” Sophie said. “Why are you both crying?”
Mama stood, smoothed her skirt, and raised her chin in a valiant effort to regain her composure. “I had to let most of the staff go this morning. The truth is, we haven’t been able to pay them for several months. They’ve stayed out of loyalty, but when they heard that a wealthy merchant was setting up house in Mayfair, they asked for a reference … and I couldn’t refuse.”
“Mr. Wickett?” Sophie asked, thinking of their dear old butler—the one who’d been more like a grandpa to her than a member of the staff.
“He regretted that he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to you,” Mama said soothingly. “He asked that I convey his sincerest apologies.”
Sophie’s throat closed painfully. “He doesn’t owe me an apology,” she whispered, sinking into a chair.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Mary whined. “Lottie’s gone too. Who’s going to help us dress and style our hair and make our beds?”
“We’ll help each other.” Sophie reached out and patted her sister’s hand. To her mother, she said, “I didn’t realize things had become quite so desperate. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you more than I already have,” Mama said, looking thinner and older than she had just twenty-four hours ago. “Besides, what could you have done?”
“I would have thought of something,” Sophie said, adamant. She would have gladly handed over the small sum she’d saved from her share of the column. Maybe she could have pawned a few items, just to keep them solvent until … until her marriage to Lord Singleton.
Mama forced a smile. “At least we still have Mrs. Appleby and Mrs. Pettigrew,” she said, referring to their faithful cook and their longtime housekeeper. “And Mr. Crawford, of course,” she added. “Your father simply can’t do without his valet.”
“No,” Sophie said dryly. “Of course not.”
“I know it’s not an ideal situation,” Mama said, “but it’s only temporary.”
Sophie felt her sister’s and her mother’s eyes trained on her. Knew just what they were thinking—that they’d rehire the staff once Sophie married the rich marquess.
“I … I’m rather tired,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even and her demeanor calm. “I think I shall go lie down for a while.” She walked over to Mama and pressed a kiss to her soft cheek before picking up her portmanteau. She was just about to make her escape from the drawing room when Mrs. Pettigrew appeared in the doorway, looking unusually harried. “Forgive me, ma’am,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “But Lord Singleton has just arrived.”
Sophie’s stomach dropped through her knees. “What’s he doing here?” she asked Mama. “I didn’t extend an invitation.”
“That’s rather ungracious of you,” Mary said, sniffing. “I should think Lord Singleton would be welcome here any time.”
Some of Sophie’s dismay over the marquess’s unexpected visit twisted itself into resentment. “Then perhaps you should be the one to entertain him,” she suggested.
“Girls!” Mama hissed. “That is quite enough.”
Guilt sliced through Sophie, and she pressed her fingertips to her forehead, contrite. “Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. Of course I’ll receive Lord Singleton.” She set her bag behind the sofa, plucked a book from the shelf, and sat in a chair beside the window. Opening to a random page, she mustered a smile for Mrs. Pettigrew. “Would you be so kind as to show the marquess in?”
“Of course, Miss Sophie,” said the kindly, ruddy-faced housekeeper. “Shall I prepare tea?”
It had been on the tip of Sophie’s tongue to say no, but Mama quickly replied, “Please, Mrs. Pettigrew. Lord Singleton is an esteemed guest, and we must make him feel most welcome whenever he deigns to visit us.”
Sophie swallowed the knot lodged at the back of her throat, because while her mother’s words had been directed toward the housekeeper, Sophie knew that they were intended for her.
Mary quickly packed up her needlework, no doubt preparing to escape to her room, as she usually did. But then Mama lifted her chin and, looking uncharacteristically stern, said, “Mary, you will remain here for the duration of Lord Singleton’s visit and endeavor to be both pleasant and engaging. Is that understood?”
Mary swallowed, set down her sewing basket, and patted her head self-consciously. “Thank heaven Lottie was able to see to my hair one last time,” she said dramatically.
All three women—Mama, Mary, and Sophie—took their seats like actresses preparing for the curtain to go up on a scene. Mama sat at the desk as though she’d been tending to correspondence. Mary picked up the handkerchief she’d been embroidering. Sophie pretended to read.
A few moments later, Mrs. Pettigrew announced Lord Singleton, then scurried off to help Mrs. Appleby prepare tea.
To the marquess’s credit, he acted as though he hadn’t noticed the absence of the butler. Addressing Mama, he said, “Good afternoon, Lady Callahan.”
“Lord Singleton,” she said graciously. “How terribly kind of you to call. I believe you’ve met my oldest daughter, Mary.”
“A pleasure to see you again,” the marquess intoned, bowing over Mary’s hand. He turned to Sophie and gazed at her with the bright blue eyes he was rather famous for. “Miss Kendall,” he said smoothly. “I’ve brought something for you.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small ivory carving. “I know how much you like roses,” he said, placing it into her palm. The perfectly formed flower felt cold and hard and lifeless against her skin.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful,” she said diplomatically.
“How thoughtful of Lord Singleton.” Mama clasped her hands beneath her chin.
“Yes,” Sophie said. “Very kind.” But she couldn’t help comparing the ivory carving to the gifts Reese had given her. She missed her wilted crown of asphodels—and him.
She’d said goodbye to Reese only a few hours ago, but the marquess’s visit had all but erased the warm, hopeful glow in her chest.
Her family’s situation grew more desperate by the day.
Lord Singleton was throwing them a lifeline.
But he wasn’t going to wait forever.
Chapter 17
On his third straight day of working in the garden that week, Reese wiped the sweat from his forehead, tossed his scrub brush into the bucket, and stepped back to survey the results. The entire surface of the pavilion gleamed bright white in the sunlight. He’d cleaned every inch of the steps, floor, pillars, and roof, just as Sophie had suggested.
During the hours he’d labored, he’d had plenty of time to think—mostly about her.
And he’d realized two things.
First, their relationship had reached a critical point—the precarious, pivotal moment when the scale could easily tip toward success or failure. He’d experienced the same moment in the midst of battle. Every minute felt like an hour, and every move could end in victory or defeat. In a fight that had lasted for days, the outcome hinged on one heartbeat in time.
Not that he and Sophie were enemies—far from it. But their relationship couldn’t continue on as it was, couldn’t stand still. They had a choice to make: charge ahead together or retreat to their separate lives.
The second thing that Reese realized was that if he wanted to keep Sophie—and God knew he did—he needed to make a strategic move. Not pretty flowers or colorful lanterns or hot baths.
Sophie may have liked those things, but now she was demanding more. She wanted him to read the letters he’d been hiding away. She wanted him to face his ugly, shameful past. Which meant he was going to have to give her the one thing he’d hoped to keep buried forever—the truth.
It was risky as hell, and it was going to hurt like the devil.
But he’d been in this situation before—behind enemy lines, under attack, and down to his last bullet.
If there were any other option, he would have jumped at it, but he knew in his gut that this was the only way for him and Sophie to have a shot at a future together. He was going to have to bare his godforsaken soul and hope that she stuck around.
At least for another week or two.
* * *
“Rule number four,” Sophie recited, finishing up her usual welcome to the members of the Debutante Underground. “We shall always speak the truth, the best we know it. Now then, I believe we’re ready to begin. Would anyone like to read this week’s column?”
Several women raised their hands to volunteer, but Sophie’s gaze was drawn to Violet, the maid she’d met a couple of weeks ago. She sat on the edge of her chair, her face pinched and pale. Her thin shoulders trembled as though she was chilled, even though the room was toasty. “Violet, are you feeling well?” Sophie asked.
“Excuse me,” the dark-haired woman mumbled, pushing her chair back from the table and rushing toward the door.
Sarah, the young widow seated next to her, popped out of her seat. “I’ll make sure Violet’s all right,” she said to Sophie. “Please, proceed with the meeting.”
Sophie nodded and selected another member of the group to read. But as soon as the discussion was underway, she slipped out the door of the shop to see how Violet was faring. Sophie found her and Sarah in the alley outside the shop. Violet leaned against the brick wall with her eyes closed, greedily inhaling the cool night air. Sarah stood beside her, giving her shoulder gentle, soothing pats.
Sophie shot Sarah a questioning look, and the pretty redheaded woman responded with a smile that was both sad and serene.
“Violet,” Sophie said softly, “do you require a doctor?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “This happens sometimes, but it always passes. I’m feeling better already.”
Sophie cast a skeptical glance at the woman’s pallor. “Are you certain?”
“I’m familiar with these symptoms,”
Sarah said, matter-of-fact. “I’ve two young ones myself.”
Sophie blinked as Sarah’s words sank in, and she chided herself for not guessing the truth sooner. “You’re with child?” she asked, her voice tinged with both relief and concern.
The bright red flush on Violet’s cheeks was answer enough.
“When do you expect the babe?” Sarah asked gently.
“I think I’m about six months along.” A tear trickled down Violet’s face. “I haven’t told my family, although I’m sure they must suspect. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Sarah said, but lines marred her normally smooth forehead. “Can the baby’s father help?”
“No.” A sob erupted from Violet’s throat. “He fired me.”
Flashing hot anger pumped through Sophie’s veins. “Your former employer is the father?”
Violet nodded. “He was wonderfully kind at first. He treated me like he … cared. I knew he wouldn’t marry someone like me, but I never imagined he’d turn so cold and harsh. When I told him I was pregnant, he called me a … a trollop. He said the babe wasn’t his.”
“What a vile, pathetic man,” Sophie spat. She was already thinking of ways to hold him to account. Perhaps she could enlist help from Gray and Nash. Surely they could shame the cad into providing for Violet and her child.
“He behaved horribly,” Violet agreed. “But I’m afraid I’m no better. I let him seduce me with pretty words and trinkets. How could I have been so daft?”
Sophie grasped Violet’s slender shoulders and forced the young woman to meet her gaze. “Listen to me,” she said. “You are not daft. He was your employer, and he took advantage of you. He is the one who should be ashamed of his behavior.”
“Well, he’s gone now,” Violet said, sniffling. She took the handkerchief Sophie offered and fanned herself. “I’d rather not talk about him anyway.”
“I understand,” Sophie said, even though her blood still boiled. “What can we do to help?”
