by Jo Goodman
Lady Sophia was hardly foolish. On short acquaintance, it was perhaps the thing he liked best about her—if he was taking no note of her singularly splendid eyes. It was not their studied seriousness that had drawn his attention on their first meeting, but their coloring, which was in every way the equal of her hair. He supposed the color they approximated was hazel, but it was far too dull a descriptor to be leveled at these features. If her hair was honey shot through with sunlight, then so were her eyes. Sophia's radiance, though, came from within.
This last was what made her so totally unsuitable. She was very nearly angelic with her too perfect countenance. The heart-shaped face, the sweetly lush mouth, the small chin and pared nose, the large and beautifully colored eyes, and finally the softly curling tumble of hair that framed her face like the Madonna's halo... It was all rather more innocence than East believed he could properly manage. In principle he was in favor of innocence in females. In practice he found it tedious.
He waited for Sophia to gather the threads of her thoughts, loath to interrupt her now that she was earnestly giving him her full attention.
"I have heard the rumors," she said. "And I want you to know that I recognize they have no truth as their source. My cousin has admitted that you have not been in correspondence with his father, nor had any meeting with him in which you might have sought permission for my hand. Harold and Tremont would be happy if it were otherwise, but wishful thinking on their part cannot make it so. I am afraid they did nothing to dissuade people from believing as they will, and for that I am heartily sorry. The earl would count himself fortunate to have such a marriage arranged for me. I hope you will understand and go gently with such remarks as you might make to others. If they have caused you embarrassment by failing to deny any link between my name and yours, I apologize."
A crease appeared between Eastlyn's brows. He let his chin drop forward and rested it on his steepled fingers. "Surely it cannot be your place to apologize, Lady Sophia."
Since she did not think either Harold or the earl had the stomach for it, even if they had the vocabulary, Sophie couldn't imagine who else was in a position to make amends. "I am not without responsibility, m'lord. I did not deny the rumors, either."
East raised his head and let his steepled fingers fall. He plucked a blade of grass and rolled it absently between his long fingers as he leveled Sophia with his thoughtful gaze. "You had many opportunities, did you?"
"I... that is, I..." Sophie was unaccustomed to fumbling for words. She did not thank the marquess for having that effect on her. Of late her conversations were primarily with Robert and Esme, who at five and four respectively were somewhat limited in their topics. Still, she had not considered that she'd lost her ability to speak intelligibly, if not intelligently.
"I am not mistaken, am I?" East continued. "You are not often away from home."
He was scrupulously polite. Sophie could allow him that. He was kind to couch his observation that she was not the recipient of many invitations. "I am away as often as I need to be," she said.
"I see." A hint of a smile edged his mouth. "Almack's?"
"On occasion."
"The theatre?"
"When there is something worth seeing."
"The park?"
"When there is someone worth seeing."
He laughed. "Which is to say that you rarely take your constitutional there."
Distracted by his laugh, Sophie nodded faintly. She looked past his watchful eyes and focused on a point beyond his shoulder. A swallow alighted on the stone bench behind him and paced the length of it looking for crumbs. Since Sophie had permitted the children to take tea there only yesterday, the swallow was fortunate in his choice of picnic spots. "Perhaps I am about town more often than you suspect and it is only that I am outside your notice."
Eastlyn started to deny it but caught himself abruptly when she held up a hand. Her smile was slight, but genuine.
"You must not be gallant, my lord, and deny such a thing is the most reasonable explanation. I am fully aware that I am an unlikely female to command your attention. It will ease your mind to know that our initial introduction aside, you are not the sort of someone I would go to the park to see."
It did not ease the marquess's mind. In point of fact he was not insulted; but she had tweaked him rather sharply, and while he thought he should avoid hearing her explanation, he simply could not. When he had left the Battenburn estate this morning, he had been in expectation of a wholly different meeting with Lady Sophia. Though he had cringed at the possibility, he had forced himself to consider the prospect of tears and how they might be dealt with swiftly but with some compassion. The exercise had been a waste of gray matter, he realized now. Far from being near tears, the eyes that met him were frank and reasonable. Except for one brief lapse, Lady Sophia remained composed. Perfectly so.
"You would not go to the park upon hearing I would be there?" he asked. "Even if I were driving my new barouche?"
"Do not feign disappointment, my lord. It is badly done of you. You can be naught but relieved that I bear you no affection."
He was. Or at least he thought he was until she placed it so baldly before him. He wondered if she was entirely correct in assuming his disappointment was feigned. "There you have me," he said slowly, regarding her with new interest. "But you must allow that I am curious. What makes me so beneath your notice?"
"Oh, no." She shook her head, and the brilliant halo of hair waved softly about her face until she was still again. "You misunderstand. It is not at all that you are beneath my notice, only outside of it."
"There is a difference, I collect," he said dryly.
"Certainly. The former suggests you are not worthy of my attention. I meant to say that you simply do not fix my attention."
"You are not making it more palatable, you know. I cannot recall when last I was so deftly cut to the quick." He could, but it had been at Hambrick Hall, and he had planted the boy who had done it a facer. It was scarcely the tack to take with Lady Sophia. If she dealt blows with her fists as well as she did with words, he would be the worse for it in the end.
Sophie searched Eastlyn's face for some sign that she had indeed done him an injury. His finely cut features remained impassive during her scrutiny, giving nothing of his thoughts away, no hint of amusement or distress. Still, it was Sophie's conclusion that he was teasing her. Any other outcome would have been difficult to imagine, no matter what emotion he affected. Her words could not have truly pricked him. The Marquess of Eastlyn must know he was recklessly handsome.
How could he not be aware of heads turning when he came upon a room? Though she was not often out in society, Sophie still had had occasion to witness the phenomenon. For the marquess's part, he seemed supremely unconcerned by the attention he received, which only reinforced Sophie's opinion that he held himself as deserving of it. At the Stallworths' ball to open the Season past, she had observed him in conversation with his friend Viscount Southerton in front of an indecently large mirror in the grand hallway. Only a man as confident in his appearance as the marquess could have avoided a sideways glance at his person. Even Southerton, who was very well turned out himself, was not above darting a look in the mirror to check the line of his perfectly starched chitterling or the fit of his waistcoat.
The Marquess of Eastlyn did not require the use of a mirror for affirmation of his fine countenance. His mirror was every approving look cast in his direction, every warm smile that greeted him. Society was favorably disposed to him, and it was a circumstance unlikely to change no matter what sort of nonsense he perpetrated with his friends.
He was not so different from her father.
Sophie received that thought as though taking a physical blow. It caught her just below the rib cage, and she actually stiffened with the pain of it. Her mouth parted, and she drew in a short breath, making every effort not to gasp.
"Are you quite all right?" Eastlyn asked. It seemed to him that Lady Sophia had
become several degrees more sober, if such a thing were possible. The wash of pink in her cheeks was gone now; even her mouth was pale. He was moved to look behind him, suspecting that whatever had caused this change in her countenance must be at some distance beyond his shoulder. East saw nothing but the garden wall and the stone bench, neither occupied by any member of her family likely to induce such alarm. "Shall I get you something? Water? Spirits?"
His offer of assistance forced Sophie to collect herself. It required rather more effort than she wished it might. "I am all of a piece," she said calmly.
One of Eastlyn's brows kicked up, and he made a survey of her face, flatly skeptical. "You are certain?"
"Yes." Sophie watched him draw his fingers through his hair, leaving it furrowed until each burnished strand fell back into place. Clearly he did not believe her, yet he had no choice but to accept her at her word. She forced herself to return his steady, inquiring gaze, hoping he could not see past the lie. He could not truly want to be burdened with the truth; it was only his innate civility that prompted what appeared to be genuine concern.
She thought of all the ways he was different from her father and started with the physical, coloring being the most obvious. Where her father, the late Earl of Tremont, had been fair-headed and fair-skinned, the marquess was much darker, with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that were only a shade more warmly polished. Sophie's father had shunned the out-of-doors, preferring gaming hells to pastoral pursuits. In contrast, there was a touch of sun caught in Eastlyn's complexion, lending him the look of a man who had interests beyond the gentleman's clubs he frequented. Eastlyn was of a height with her father, though he cut a trimmer, more athletic figure. Sophie allowed that perhaps it was not a fair comparison because her clearest memories of her father were toward the end of his life, when drink and dissipation had left their mark at his thickening waist and heavy jowls. The portrait of Frederick Thomas Colley still hanging in the gallery at Tremont Park showed the younger man, the one who had difficulty with the serious pose he affected and whose quicksilver smile hovered like a poorly kept secret at the corners of his mouth.
When Sophie captured that portrait in her mind's eye, it was much harder to see how Eastlyn might be different.
She did not know a great deal about the marquess, although she would have had to have lived abroad these last three years not to know something of the man he was. He played at cards, she knew, and wagered often with his friends. He was a member of several clubs and kept a box at the theatre. He was welcomed at Almack's, though it was not his habit to attend, and he was invited to every function of note by every hostess who desired her gathering to be well attended. The particulars about his life were unexceptional, including the fact that like so many of his peers, he kept a mistress in town.
Sophie doubted anyone intended she should know this last thing about him; it was not the sort of detail one discussed in front of the rumored fiancée. Even had the engagement not been fiction, Sophie still thought she would want to know about a mistress.
There was nothing to be gained by not understanding the place she would have in her husband's life. If he meant to regularly commit adultery, it was something worth coming to terms with, no matter that it might cause her some distress in doing so. On the other hand, if she did not love her husband, a mistress might serve her very well, keeping her husband occupied while she was engaged in the activities that gave her pleasure.
Eastlyn regarded Lady Sophia's perfectly cast features with some consternation. Her expression was now one of absolute serenity, yet East had the distinct impression she was no longer aware of him in any substantive way. It was just as she had said earlier: he was unable to fix her attention.
Devil a bit, but it bothered him. It was not an admission he particularly wanted to make, and having made it, not one that he wanted to dwell on overlong. In what way could it possibly matter that Lady Sophia Colley was as uninterested in him as he was in her? Surely that was the best of all circumstances. Everything was made so much simpler by her easy acceptance of their situation. She did not blame him for any part of it, though she must suspect it was someone he knew who gave the rumor its sharp teeth. She was not in anticipation of a real offer of marriage, or even a sham engagement to satisfy the rumor mill until one of them was in a position to make a dignified exit. He would have insisted that she be the one to cry off, of course, and lay the blame for their dissolution at his feet. His reputation would not suffer unduly. Lady Sophia would not be so fortunate if she were cast as the one doing the injuring.
It was all moot. There would be no engagement, in truth or in fiction, and that was certainly as it should be. Eastlyn did not welcome the prospect of carrying out his work while observing all the tedious conventions that an affianced couple must needs endure. There might be less pleasurable ways to pass part of one's life, but they didn't come immediately to East's mind.
That was why it surprised him when he said, "You know, Lady Sophia, in some quarters I am considered a desirable partner."
She did not so much as blink. "At cards, you mean."
"At marriage."
"But you play cards."
"Well... Yes, I do." Eastlyn wondered at her point, for it seemed to be completely at odds with his.
"And you make wagers."
"Yes."
"You drink to excess."
"I may start soon."
Her mouth flattened rather primly.
"Very well," East said, entertained by her disapproving mien, and not proof against it either. "I admit to being foxed on occasion."
"You have called men out."
His amusement vanished. "One man."
Sophie gave no indication that she was in any way intimidated. "You shot him."
"Yes."
"And killed him."
"That was the purpose of shooting him, yes."
There was a brief pause as Sophie considered the necessity of her next words. She had not conceived that she might have cause to say these things to Eastlyn, but the remembrance of things past had shaken her. Mayhap the marquess did not deserve such a setdown, yet Sophie felt compelled as if by some force outside herself to deliver it. "And there you have it," she began with a gentle matter-of-factness. "By your own admission you are a gambler, a drunkard, and a murderer. With so much to recommend you, it is little wonder you are sought by mothers in want of a husband for their daughters. These qualities have a certain cache among the ton, do they not? Gaming indicates a willingness to risk, drinking to excess, a surfeit of confident recklessness, and—"
"And murder?" he asked.
While Sophie suspected he was out of all patience with her, she went on as if there had been no interruption. "Murder suggests a resolve to act. In your particular case, a regard for principles and the necessity of upholding them."
Eastlyn pretended to weigh her words carefully. "It is your estimation, then, that I am embraced by mothers and their daughters, indeed, by all of the ton, not because I am regarded as a model of rectitude and good sense, but because I am the very opposite of those things?"
"That," she said, "and the fact that you are rich as Croesus."
"Richer."
"Just so."
Eastlyn dusted off his palms, erasing all trace of the blade of grass he had ground between them. He leaned back so that his weight rested on his braced arms and extended his legs, crossing them casually at the ankle. His boots were layered with a fine coating of dirt from the long ride from Battenburn, and a similar dusting had attached itself to his jacket and trousers. He had not stopped at his town house to bathe or change his clothes, not because he did not think Lady Sophia deserved that measure of respect, but because he believed that it was more important to have this misunderstanding behind them. In hindsight, Eastlyn allowed that he had been more anxious to relieve himself of responsibility than he had been strictly sensitive to Lady Sophia's feelings.
It was clear he had offended her in some way, though how he had
managed to accomplish it—and so decisively—remained a poser. Perhaps she cared more for appearance than he had considered. It did not recommend her to him, for he often found too much was made of how one was turned out and little enough attention paid to what was turned in.
"I fear I must apologize for the poor state of my attire," he said. "I came here directly from Battenburn."
Sophie stared at him. It was no easy thing to follow the line of his thinking. "My lord," she said with some emphasis, as though speaking to one thick-witted. "It cannot have escaped your notice that only a few moments ago I called you a gambler, a drunkard, and a murderer. What sort of maggot do you have in your brain that would make you think I care a whit for your fashion?"
Eastlyn sighed. He thought rather fondly of the pistol lying snugly between his stockinged calf and the soft leather of his dusty boot. He had a mind to use it—on himself. It would put a period to the maggot. "You are not a restful sort of companion, Lady Sophia."
"I should hope not."
"I had thought quite differently," he said. "Even said as much to South and Northam."
"You spoke of me to your friends?"
He was fairly certain he had stepped into it once again, but since he had never quite managed to extricate the first misplaced foot, Eastlyn was comfortable having then both in the same place. His situation might be less than ideal, but at least he had regained his balance. "Of course. I speak of many things to my friends. Nothing would be served by making an exception in your case, and they were curious about my engagement. I had said nothing of it at all to them, you see, because I had not known I was engaged. They learned of it from some of the guests at the baron's estate, just as I did. It is quite an experience to be congratulated for something one knows nothing about."
