She saw him shake his head to a footman offering him an umbrella, and then he was walking toward the house’s entrance. Sophia was expecting him to disappear into the doorway, but right before he did so, he looked up, and straight at her.
She gave an audible gasp as their gazes connected. Even from so far up, the intensity in his stare was palpable. It rooted her to the chair. She knew for certain that she would have happily spent the whole morning simply staring down at him. She would have done so despite the slight discomfort of smashing her face into the window and balancing on her hands. But then her father entered the library.
“Sophia,” he said, and she nearly shrieked in surprise as she turned around and fell off the chair.
Her father, ever the stoic, simply looked down at her and shook his head, then continued as if nothing had happened. “His Grace is downstairs, so please refrain from making excess noise for the next hour or so,” he said.
“Oh. But I should come down to greet him,” she said, struggling to rise into a sitting position.
“Why?” her father asked, as though this was a most preposterous suggestion.
“Er…”
Sophia paused, trying to think of an appropriate answer.
“Because Mama is out at Lady Chawton’s, and therefore there is no other lady of the house to greet him?”
Sophia knew the words were foolish the moment they left her mouth. There was no custom that said gentleman callers for the man of the house need be greeted by the lady of the house.
She was therefore expecting her father to dismiss her words and leave her there, supine on the floor. To her surprise, however, he affected an apathetic shrug.
“As you wish. You may come down to greet him, and then you can go back to…whatever it was you were doing at the window,” he said, waving at the glass panes behind her. He did not offer her assistance in rising off the floor, nor did he wait for a response. Instead, he simply left the room, assuming she would follow him.
Which Sophia did, after first rushing to the small mirror she had thoughtfully brought with her this morning. Her hair was slightly lopsided from all the activity, and it took a few moments and some strategic pinning to get it back in place. When that was done and her gown was straightened, she took a deep breath before leaving the library.
He is just a gentleman. Just because you have thought of nothing but him since your first meeting is no reason to act strangely towards him.
Her pace was rather quicker than she realized, and she nearly toppled right into her father as they met at the top of the staircase that led to the hall where the Duke was no doubt waiting.
“Do watch where you are going, my dear,” he told her tiredly as he held out his arm for her to take. “I do not know what has you so agitated, but if you could kindly calm yourself, I would very much appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Sophia said, though in truth she was not the list bit sorry. A few bruises from her earlier fall and one that might have resulted from their collision would have been well worth it for the chance to spend another second or two in the company of the Duke of Bersard. It might be all the chance she ever had to see him, if she was soon to be tucked away in the country as Lady Montrose.
Turning her thoughts away from Lord Montrose and back toward the matter, or gentleman, at hand, she focused on taking slow, even steps down the staircase. It was only at the very end that her heart started beating madly, practically able to feel the Duke’s presence just around the bend in the staircase.
Though she knew it was impossible, she swore she felt his eyes on her moments before she and her father actually came into view.
When they did finally take the last step onto the marble floor of the entry hall, the Duke was busying himself with the removal of his hat and coat. The butler stood next to him, waiting for the garments to be placed under his careful protection.
When the Duke finally did turn toward them, Sophia saw that underneath the coat and hat, his clothes were plain. Well-made, but without the frenetic embellishments that decorated Lord Montrose’s waistcoats.
She breathed an audible sigh of relief. She had not even realized she was worried about his wardrobe, but now that she knew him not to be a dandy, she could feel herself relaxing. Her image of him was safe, for now.
The simplicity of his clothing allowed the eye to travel back up toward his face, which was far more interesting than even the finest embroidery could be, in her opinion.
Skirting over his eyes, which she already knew were too complex for a mere cursory view, Sophia focused her attentions on his lips instead, which had been the subject of many fantasies these past few hours She had never kissed a man, never even seen two people engage in the act, but she was quite proud with how well she had managed to imagine the delicious, wet embraces they might share with their lips connected, their arms entwined.
Seeing his lips in person, however, made her realize that her fantasies had not remotely done the gentleman justice. He had the most perfect pair of lips she had ever seen, palest pink with a top lip just a small bit plumper than the bottom. This gave him a pouted, almost wanton look that had her longing to reach out with her fingers and trace the outline of his cupid’s bow with her index finger. She knew, she just knew, that the skin there would be so soft and warm.
She imagined that such an action might lead to a kiss, one that started out chaste but rapidly increased in intensity, until they were pressed against each other, biting and nipping and devouring and…
“Lady Sophia? Did you not hear me?”
Startled and with a fierce blush spreading across her cheeks, Sophia turned to find her father staring at her curiously.
“Er, no Father. I’m so sorry. I was just thinking about…books,” she said, nearly giggling at the lie. It wasn’t funny, but she felt so filled with giddiness and excitement that it felt like she would burst if she did not release it somehow.
“Of course you were,” her father said, shaking his head and turning back to the Duke. “You will have to excuse my daughter, Your Grace. She loves books above all things. Literature occupies the majority of her thoughts and the hours in her day. I have tried to tempt her into other past-times, but it is an addiction for which I fear there is no cure.”
“There are worse addictions than literature, I am sure,” the Duke said with a wry smile that made Sophia feel like her knees could not support her weight. “I myself am addicted to walking, and I do think it has served me well. I am never ill, for example, and can name practically every tree on my family’s property, having walked by them so many times.”
“Er, indeed,” Sophia’s father said, clearly unsure how to respond to such a comment. “Shall we adjourn to my study?”
“Yes. Lady Sophia, it was a pleasure to see you again,” the Duke said to her, emphasizing “pleasure.” Sophia felt her blush deepen, and she was glad for the chance to curtsy and look demurely at the floor, so that the Duke did not see exactly how much he affected her.
Which was, of course, very much so.
“Parliament…next week…Earl of Chawton…”
These were the only words that Wesley was able to hear as he watched the Duke of Wellingson speak. Much like Wesley’s late father, the Duke spoke in an emotionless monotone that, when one’s thoughts were already prone to straying, made it nearly impossible to pay attention to him. Wesley kept trying to focus on the conversation at hand, but the topic did not interest him in the slightest; not when thoughts of the aftermath of his time at the solicitor’s was still fresh in his mind.
He had left the solicitor’s office the day before shocked and scared at the things the will had revealed. However, the second his eyes fell on Lady Sophia, all worries had flown out of his mind. It was impossible to feel anything other than calm in her presence, and it was while he was bidding her and her father adieu and making plans to meet that he had realized something. Something that made the meeting he had just left far less painful.
Sophia w
as the perfect wifely candidate for him.
After all, she was intelligent and high in society. She was the daughter of one of the most prominent Dukes of the ton. Wesley knew her father was far up in the ranks of the House of Lords, and he conducted himself with such decorum that no scandal had ever touched him. She was, in short, perfect for him.
Or at least, she will be, if she is not already attached.
He had been about to ask his mother just what Lady Sophia’s status was—whether she was looking for a husband, involved in a courtship, or, perish the thought, already engaged—when his mother turned and spoke to him.
“Lady Sophia is so lovely, is she not? More beautiful than I expected, given her parentage. It is no wonder that she has caught the eye of the Earl of Montrose.”
Wesley had instantly felt all his hopes melting away, allowing despair over his situation to return anew and stronger than before.
It did not help that his mother had continued speaking as they climbed into the carriage. “Yes, I do believe they have danced at every ball this month, if the gossip pages are correct, as they so often are with these things. It is even rumored that a formal proposal of engagement will very soon occur. The match would be the best of the season. Uniting their two families would result in a combined fortune unparalleled by any other couple of the ton. She is a very lucky lady indeed.”
And I am a very unlucky man.
But of course, the news that she was already attached to someone else ought not to have been so surprising. If Wesley could think her lovely after having only just met her, it was no wonder that a gentleman who had courted her for a month would set his sights on marrying her. Lord Montrose no doubt wanted to ensure the lady for himself. She was, it would seem, the catch of the season.
Silence had settled between him and his mother as the carriage pulled away from the side of the road and began the slow, arduous journey home through the rain. Wesley had begun to consider whether he might be able to shut himself and Phillip up in the library for the rest of the afternoon.
A fire in the hearth, that book on the history of Rome, and perhaps a dram of whiskey. That is what I need.
His thoughts were interrupted, however, by his mother.
“You will need to act quickly before all the other eligible ladies of the ton are similarly affianced. I think it best if you go to the next four balls, at Lady Thorrington’s, Lord Furcell’s, and the two that the Chawtons are hosting. There will be plenty of lovely ladies there from which you can choose.”
Wesley was about to exclaim that four balls was, in his opinion, rather similar to hell on earth, but then he had seen her expression. For as upset as he was, she looked the very opposite.
As she continued to discuss just how they were going to find him a wife, her joyful look had only increased, until there was a real, bona fide smile on her face.
She had looked almost…happy. There was a brightness to her cheeks and eyes that he had not seen for the last year, not since his father’s health took a turn for the worse.
It had seemed that trading gossip had lifted her spirits, though Wesley could not discern why. His mother had never taken much of an interest in his wife before. But then, he had supposed, she had a husband. She had an occupation, someone to care for and about. Now, without his father, she had nothing. Nothing except Wesley, and it was clear she was going to transfer all the energy she used to spend on his father, on him. On finding him a wife. On ensuring his dolt of a cousin did not inherit half the family’s fortune.
But still! Four balls in one week. Good God, is there a worse fate?
Wesley had avoided the Season entirely so far, having decided to stay at the estate in Hertfordshire to give his mother what help he could in looking after his father. And while he hated to see his father sick, Wesley had been happy to avoid the crushing, crowded ballrooms, the insipid gossip, the dances he could never remember. Balls were his least favorite part of the season, and now he was expected to attend four? In the span of seven days?
He had turned toward his mother to protest, but she had held up a hand to stay him and said, “Time is of the essence. Once the season is over, all those eligible ladies will return back to the country for the summer. Some will even travel abroad, and that will make it much harder to meet them and develop a courtship that might lead to something more serious.”
Drat, she’s right.
Time was of the essence. The family legacy was more important than a little social discomfort.
“I know it is quite a lot to take on, especially for a gentleman of a quieter disposition like yourself, but needs must, Wesley,” his mother had said, reaching over and touching his arm again. Smiles, physical affection.
Who is this lady, and what has she done with my mother?
“I will make it easier for you by informing my friends that you are looking for a wife. They can spread the word, and hopefully when you enter the ball you will find yourself the most eligible gentleman there. To the outside eye, you are now one of the richest gentlemen in England, in possession of one of the oldest titles of the ton. It ought to be easy to find yourself a few dance partners and maybe even a potential wife with those to recommend you.”
His mother had sounded like a commander at war, plotting for victory by any means necessary. It had been impressive, certainly, and Wesley was glad to see his mother talking about something other than his father, but still, her actions infantilized him.
It was one thing for his father to involve himself in Wesley’s affairs, but for his mother to join on the action truly made him feel like a child that could not be trusted. Did neither of his parents believe in his decision-making skills? Was he, a grown gentleman, really being thrown at ladies by none other than his mother and her meddling friends?
It was humiliation, indeed, but Wesley had known he could not tell his mother that. Not when he saw her looking so happy at the prospect of helping him. If involving herself in this most important task would take her mind off her grief, wasn’t that a good thing?
And considering he had never courted a lady before, he would need all the help he could get. As the carriage had approached their London townhouse, Wesley had decided that he would accept her and her friend’s suggested partners.
If he couldn’t have Lady Sophia, he did not know who would do. Why not leave the search up to ladies who knew best, then, who understood the way that courtship and society intertwined? Wesley’s fantasies of love and affection would certainly be no help in guiding him.
The Duke of Wellingson cleared his throat and muttered, “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” which drew Wesley out of the chaos of his mind and back to the present.
He was glad for the distraction, for he had begun to feel truly morose. And such a feeling would lead to frowning, and it would most certainly not do to frown at one of the most powerful gentlemen of the ton. He could imagine his father rolling in his grave at such insolence.
Focus. Prove Father wrong, and focus.
Chapter 7
The meeting with the Duke went surprisingly well once Wesley was able to stop his wandering mind. Though the Duke was unfortunately in possession of a rather monotonous voice that made scattered thoughts far easier to slip into, Wesley found that the words the gentleman spoke were good ones.
The point of the meeting was to get Wesley on board with the committee on which his father had served. The committee, of which the Duke was the leader, was working on a bill that would reduce the tax on imports from Asia, benefitting many of the peers who had invested in mercantile companies abroad. Wesley himself had put aside some of his money for an investment in just such an endeavor, but he was reticent to actually make the leap when taxes were so high.
For the next hour, he and the Duke had an exceedingly fruitful discussion which resulted in a promise from Wesley to visit the Duke at his club the following day for an informal meeting with the rest of the committee that would decide when was best to put the bill forward. And one of the members
of that committee just happened to be Lord Montrose’s cousin, Benjamin Michaels, Earl of Canton.
“Lord Canton. Yes, I remember him from Eton. Good gentleman. Quiet, reserved, but very kind,” Wesley remarked.
“Indeed he is. And a cousin of the Earl of Montrose. We’ve been seeing quite a bit of Lord Montrose lately. He and Lady Sophia are…well, he has taken an interest in her,” the Duke said, and Wesley was surprised to find that there was actually a hint of excitement in the Duke’s otherwise stoic expression.
Perhaps, like him, it was Lady Sophia’s parents that were arranging her suitors. Perhaps it wasn’t a love match at all. Somehow, this made him feel better. Lord Montrose was an arrogant, awful gentleman. Wesley wasn’t entirely certain his good opinion of Lady Sophia could be maintained were he to find out she was in love with the gentleman. A gentleman who had once spoken at length to him about the proper length for riding trousers, of all things.
Addicted to a Rascal Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 6
