Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  He laughed softly and sat down next to her. “Only at my peril.”

  Sophie regarded her fan in her lap. “Weren’t you talking to my father?”

  “Yes. But he’s presently otherwise engaged. I hope I am not bothering you—please say if you’d rather be left in peace.”

  Sophie followed his gaze and saw that Papa was leading Amélie to the card room, to join those guests who were not dancing. Amélie, glancing back over her shoulder, caught Sophie’s eye and nodded at her. In encouragement?

  She picked up her fan and began to fan herself with it, more out of a need to do something than because she was hot. “Er, no, not—that is, Parthenope asked that you wait here for her, as she had something to ask of you.”

  “I see. One does not gainsay my cousin—not if one is wise.”

  “I thought you did so all the time—at least, that is what she told me.”

  “Our ‘merry war’ betwixt oil and water.” He smiled again. “It lasted us for several years, but even the bitterest wars come to an end eventually.”

  “That’s what we all thought about Napoléon,” she said.

  He laughed. “Very true.”

  Sophie was about to respond, but her attention was drawn by a pretty girl with cornsilk hair almost skipping toward them, like a graceful young muslin-clad deer.

  “Lord Woodbridge!” she cried, halting in front of them and sketching a quick curtsy. “How lovely! Mama said you would be here, but I was sure you wouldn’t come till later. Please, we need one more for our set, and the music’s about to begin—won’t you come dance with us?” She held out her hand to him. “We’re simply counting on you.”

  “Good evening.” Lord Woodbridge stood and bowed. “Lady Sophie, may I make Miss Susan Halliday known to you? Miss Susan, Lady Sophie Rosier.”

  “Oh!” Miss Susan blinked her large, rather watery blue eyes. “You’re the one who’s—that is, good evening, Lady Sophie.” She turned back to Lord Woodbridge and caught at his hand. “Please, Woodbridge. Do say you will.”

  He inclined his head. “At any other time I should certainly be happy to oblige you—but I fear I cannot just now.”

  “Oh, er, of course.” The girl looked at Sophie from under her lashes for a few seconds. “I understand, but … my dear Lady Sophie, do you like to play cards? You know, cards?” She pantomimed holding a hand of cards before her. “There’s a very cozy room just over here where lots of lovely people are playing—I’m sure they would be very happy if you would go and play with them. You can just watch if you don’t know how to play the games. I’ll take you there, shall I, so that Lord Woodbridge may dance for just a little while?”

  Sophie stared at her. Was this girl truly addressing her as if she were feeble-minded? “I beg your pardon—”

  “Shall I say it very slowly, as you do not seem to comprehend?” Lord Woodbridge said, an edge to his voice. “I … am … engaged … at … present … and … will … not … dance. There, now, wasn’t that easier to understand? Would you like me to say it again?” He mimicked exactly the tone Miss Susan had used when speaking to Sophie about playing cards.

  Miss Susan flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment it was impossible to tell. “I was just trying to be kind,” she muttered, backing away a step.

  “A lady would first have found out if such kindness, as you call it, was required.”

  This time her flush was definitely anger. “Why—of all the—”

  “I do believe your dance has started, Miss Susan,” Sophie said gently.

  “Oh!” Miss Susan actually stamped her foot, then turned and hurried away, casting a venomous glance over her shoulder.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Sophie wasn’t sure what to feel: certainly angry and insulted at Susan Halliday’s treating her like an imbecilic child. But what of Lord Woodbridge’s behavior? What did it mean?

  “You could have danced, if you wished. You didn’t have to stay,” she said, fidgeting with her fan.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Not … not really—”

  “But Parthenope wishes to speak to me, if you will recall. You told me so yourself.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure—”

  He cut her off in midsentence by leaning past her and addressing Aunt Molly. “Lady Mary, it’s rather close in here, don’t you think? We would be delighted to procure you some refreshment. Champagne? Ratafia? Lemonade?”

  Aunt Molly looked up from the bamboo plant she was still examining, having progressed to the leaves. Sophie hoped she wouldn’t climb up on her chair to get a better look at them. It was a pity the comte was not here this evening. “Eh? Oh, lemonade would do me just fine. I don’t care much for nasty little bubbles.”

  “Certainly.” He stood up and held his hand out to Sophie. “Will you accompany me?”

  “What about waiting for Parthenope?”

  “That set will last some time. I do not think we shall be missed if we go now.”

  Sophie accepted his arm and rose, glancing back at her cane as she did. Should she take it?

  Something of her thought must have occurred to Lord Woodbridge. “I’m sorry—I thought a stroll—but if you—”

  “I am quite capable of accompanying you to the supper room, sir.”

  He flushed. “Yes, you are. My apologies.” He hesitated, then said, “Would the other arm be more useful to you?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He moved around her so that she could lean on his left arm, supporting her right side, and they promenaded slowly around the edge of the ballroom as Sophie tried to puzzle out Lord Woodbridge’s behavior this evening. When he’d called at home, he’d been pitying; on their ride in the park, carefully agreeable. But tonight—

  “I was about to tell Susan that I had already asked you for that dance,” he said abruptly.

  She stopped in surprise. “Why? It’s obvious that I don’t dance.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still want it … very much.”

  Sophie looked up at him. He was looking down at her with a hard, brooding expression in his eyes that made her feel odd, somehow, as if the bodice of her lovely new dress were suddenly a bit snug.

  “I used to dance, once,” she found herself saying as they resumed walking. “Before I was ill. We even had a dancing master come to us each year for a month in the summer to help us polish our steps. My brothers used to complain, but I never did.”

  “The way you carry yourself shows it. You miss it, don’t you?”

  His tone had been carefully neutral. She tried to match it. “I try not to think about it.”

  “Have…” He hesitated. “Have you tried?”

  She laughed derisively. “Where? With whom? And how many of my fellow dancers will be willing to catch me when I stumble and fall? I thought at first I could manage a minuet if it were played slowly enough, but I doubt it, and I certainly cannot do anything as lively as a country dance. I’m sorry, Lord Woodbridge, but you shall have to put aside your wish to dance with me.”

  They had reached the supper room. Lord Woodbridge led her to a seat at a table and offered her a glass of champagne. She regarded it doubtfully, then took a small sip. Not too nasty, as Aunt Molly thought it, but the tickly sensation of the bubbles on her tongue was decidedly peculiar, like the feeling of magic hanging in the air after a spell had been done. She watched as he took a sip from his own glass and gazed fixedly at the linen-covered table, as if he were lost in thought. If only it were possible to reach over and lift up the top of his head, so she could see what those thoughts were.

  “Would you be averse to a small wager, Lady Sophie?” he suddenly asked.

  She looked down into the rising bubbles in her glass, then took another small sip. “A wager? But … I don’t know. What are the stakes?”

  “Stakes to be determined, but won’t be claimed if disagreeable to the loser. The wager is this: that I will, within a year of this day, claim my dance with you.”

 
She set her glass down on the table and looked at him levelly. “A few days ago you were astonished that I could ride a horse, an action which, I might remind you, is not at all affected by my lameness. And now today you say you will dance with me. It makes no sense.”

  It was his turn to look down at his glass, smiling faintly as he did. “Does it have to make sense?”

  “With you? Yes,” she said bluntly. “You have diplomatic ambitions. And Parthenope says that you are a fencer with words beyond compare, though I must say that I am not as impressed with your oratorical skills as she seems to be.”

  “Family prejudice,” he murmured.

  She made an impatient noise. “At the risk of being undiplomatic, Lord Woodbridge—what do you want with me?”

  Again, a pause and that faint smile. “I want you … to—to give me a chance. We started out on the wrong foot—”

  “The wrong foot,” she repeated. “What an elegant way of putting it.”

  He looked up at her, smile gone. “Stop that. Not everything has to do with your condition, Lady Sophie.”

  That surprised her. She closed her mouth and looked at him thoughtfully. Good heavens, had she become so self-absorbed that a common turn of phrase would set her hackles up?

  He took advantage of her silence to continue. “It was my fault. I … yes, I felt sorry for you, but it made me want to protect you. I guessed you’d be facing people like Susan Halliday and worse. It made me determined to—yes, be kind to you. Defend you, if you will.”

  She shifted impatiently in her chair. “I do not need that sort of kindness.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that. That is why I am asking if we can start again. Let us drop our—our preconceived notions of each other. Do you think it is possible for you to try that? Do you want to try?”

  She looked down at her champagne again. Did she? It would be so much easier to say no, to clutch her anger to her and hate him and the rest of the world outside the safe little wall she’d made around herself, just as she’d said to Amélie, no matter how much she longed for it at the same time … which would only make her angrier and hate it more.

  “I … don’t know what to say,” she finally said to her glass.

  “Please.”

  The word brushed her ear like a moth’s wing. Its very delicacy made her flinch. “But I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  He was silent, and she was sure she could hear his quiet breathing despite the music and the chatter nearby. After a few breaths—were they his or hers?—she felt him take her glass from her and set it on the tiny table. Very carefully, he took her hand, barely holding her fingertips in the lightest of grasps, the way one might hold a silkworm’s cocoon.

  “I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t,” he said, then released her fingers. “Shall we take some lemonade back to your aunt?”

  * * *

  The set was just breaking up as they brought Aunt Molly her lemonade, gentlemen escorting their partners back to their chaperones or out to the supper room for refreshment. Parthenope, escorted by Mr. Underwood, beamed when she saw them. “Perry, I’m so glad you’re still here! Won’t you take me back to Mama for a moment so she knows where I am? We’ll come right back, I promise, Sophie.” She took Lord Woodbridge’s arm before anyone could say anything and firmly led him off.

  Sophie sat down, grateful for a moment to try to untangle her whirling thoughts. But to her irritation, Mr. Underwood, instead of taking himself elsewhere, seated himself beside her. “Thirsty work, dancing with your friend. I could use a glass of champagne.”

  “You are quite free to go and get one, sir,” Sophie said pleasantly.

  “Oh, I shall in a moment. Not polite to abandon you here.”

  “I assure you, I would survive.”

  Mr. Underwood ignored her. “Lady Parthenope’s a lively chit, isn’t she?” he said meditatively, after a moment.

  “That’s one way to describe her.”

  “Tell me about her family. Brothers or sisters?” he asked.

  “Four brothers, no sisters. She’s the eldest.”

  “Ah.” There was a meditative look on his narrow face. “All younger brothers, then. None of them out yet? Away at school, I assume?”

  “Of course.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, idle curiosity.” Underwood shrugged. “Wasn’t familiar with the family except by hearsay. So how is she taking?”

  “She’s the only daughter of the Duke of Revesby. How do you think good society regards her?”

  “Oh, I’m sure the tabby cats at Almack’s have decided she’s quite acceptable.” He still had that thoughtful look on his face. “What I meant was, what about her? Has she formed any attachments yet? Lost her heart to some gallant? Have any attentive swains making a nuisance of themselves underfoot?”

  The suspicion that had slowly been sprouting in her mind as he spoke burst into flower. “Only one.”

  “Oh? Who is that?”

  Sophie took a breath. “You. Keep away from my friend, Mr. Underwood.”

  Underwood laughed lightly. “Good God! I’ve stood up for one dance with her. Does that constitute a threat on her virtue in your book? Ask her if my demeanor was at all exceptionable—or ask any of the twenty other people in the set with us.”

  “I am very happy to hear that, sir. And I trust matters will stay that way.”

  He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “I have the distinct feeling that you do not like me, Lady Sophie. What have I ever done to deserve your aversion?”

  What would he do if she told him what she had overheard him saying at the Whistons’ ball? “Nothing, yet,” she said. “But don’t think I am not keeping an eye on you. Ah, there is Parthenope. Pray excuse us.”

  He did not protest this summary dismissal but bowed, one hand sardonically on his heart. “Cut to the quick, cruel lady,” he murmured, and turned away.

  The rest of the evening was uneventful, and might even have been enjoyable, had Sophie paid any attention to it. But she had too much to think about, between her conversations with Lord Woodbridge and Mr. Underwood. At least the latter had been straightforward; she had warned him off Parthenope. Whether or not he took her warning … well, that remained to be seen. She would be watching him, however, and if he tried to make one improper move, she’d … she’d do something.

  Her conversation with Lord Woodbridge, on the other hand, had been anything but straightforward. She was still thinking about it as they clattered home through a fine misty rain and after she’d taken off her beautiful green dress and lace-trimmed petticoats and left them to air on a chair before being folded away in her wardrobe.

  What should she think about him? Did she want to give him a second chance, as he’d asked?

  Why did he want one, anyway?

  She unpinned her hair—finally grown in as thick as it had been before she’d fallen ill—and let it tumble over her shoulders and down her back. She unknotted and loosened the laces of her corset and wiggled out of it, then went to stand in front of her mirror. Her hair shone in the candlelight, and she turned her head slowly to watch the play of light along it, then smoothed her chemise over her figure with her hands. Her breasts were full but not overlarge, her waist slender; Mrs. James had nodded approvingly as she measured her for her new dresses.

  Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted her chemise and stared at her legs. They both began well enough at the top, long and shapely … or at least the left one was. Somewhere just above the knee, the right one started to seem off, somehow … and then, in the calf, it became awkwardly shaped, wasted, twisting inward to a splay-toed, flattened foot. What if Lord Woodbridge were standing behind her, looking over her shoulder into the mirror? What would he see—the lovely young body or the misshapen leg?

  She turned abruptly away from the mirror.

  Chapter

  8

  Late the following afternoon, Parthenope paid a call with her mother. She wore a large cloak rather than one of her
more usual sleek pelisses and was walking with a rather peculiar hunched gait as Belton ushered them into the drawing room.

  “Sophie! I’ve brought a surprise to show you,” she announced, heading toward the corner of the room that had become their spot. “Are you ready?”

  Ah, that would explain the cloak and the hunch. “I don’t know. How surprising is it?” Sophie asked as she sat down.

  “Silly. Do you think Mama would permit me to call with anything horrid?”

  “No, probably not. Very well, what is it?”

  Parthenope’s eyes twinkled. “Close your eyes and put out your hand.”

  “Parthenope—”

  “Just do it! I promise you’ll like it.”

  Sophie closed her eyes and held up one hand, holding her breath. It was true that the duchess wouldn’t let Parthenope do anything too outrageous, but still—

  A slight weight settled on her hand, accompanied by a delicate, prickling grip on her forefinger. “Parthenope—”

  “There! Open your eyes. Isn’t she darling—or he—we’re not quite sure which it is.”

  Sophie opened her eyes and found that she was holding a bright green bird with a long tail and a most attractive reddish purple head. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed.

  The bird looked at her, cocking its head slightly, then reached up one clawed foot to scratch near its yellow beak. “Turnip!” it announced.

  “Oh, you naughty little girl. Why can’t you say anything other than that?” cooed Parthenope.

  “What is that?” Aunt Isabel, who had arrived just in time to prevent Aunt Molly from driving out with the comte, gasped from the sofa.

  “Don’t worry. It’s just Hester,” Parthenope explained. “Isn’t she the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “Parthenope insisted on bringing her new pet to show Sophie,” the duchess said soothingly to Aunt Isabel. “Believe me, she’s quite tame and won’t make messes on the carpet—the bird, I mean.”

  “Thank you for clarifying,” Sophie murmured. Parthenope put out her tongue at her.

  Amélie’s laugh rang out. “C’est une perruche!” She smiled at Parthenope. “I saw many of these in India. But I am afraid that this is a monsieur, not a mademoiselle. The females have a head that is gray-blue, not this color of a plum.”