Chapter 8
“Another one. Can you believe it?” Hugo materialized at Edward’s elbow, champagne in hand, his face alight with the particular glee he reserved for gossip.
The Viscount Pembury’s musicale had attracted the cream of London society, all of them crammed into a ballroom that smelled of hothouse flowers and ambition.
“Another what?” Edward scanned the crowd, searching for a particular pair of green eyes.
Not because he wanted to see her. Only because they had business to conduct.
“Engagement.” Hugo gestured with his glass toward a cluster of women near the pianoforte. “Lord Trentham and Lady Emmeline Merrivale. Announced this very afternoon. The ton is beside itself.”
“And this concerns me because?”
“Because, my dear oblivious friend, it is the fourth match this season attributed to Lady Fairhart.” Hugo clarified.
“Fourth. The woman is a phenomenon. Half the mamas in London are desperate to secure her services, and the other half are terrified she will match their daughters to men they have not pre-approved.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. He thought of Lady Sophia bent over her letters at Colborne’s printing office, her quill scratching across parchment, her face illuminated by candlelight. He thought of the secret she carried and the weight it must place on her shoulders.
He thought of her far more often than was wise.
“I have heard,” Hugo continued, oblivious to Edward’s distraction, “that Lady Fairhart once matched a baron’s daughter with a shipping merchant. A merchant! The baron nearly had an apoplexy, but the couple is said to be deliriously happy. Can you imagine?”
“Delirious happiness sounds exhausting.”
“You would think that.” Hugo sighed. “Speaking of exhausting, have you made any progress with your own matrimonial endeavors? Or are you still waiting for the perfect candidate to fall from the sky?”
“I am working on it.”
“Working on it.” Hugo snorted. “You have been ‘working on it’ for weeks. At this rate, Oliver will be of marrying age before you find a bride.”
Edward opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat.
Across the room, Lady Sophia appeared near the refreshment table. She wore a gown of deep blue that made her skin glow like porcelain in the candlelight. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the graceful line of her neck, and Edward traced that line with his eyes before he could stop himself.
She turned, as if sensing his gaze. Their eyes met. Something flickered between them, electric and unsettling, before she looked away and resumed her conversation with Lady Guildthorpe.
“Ah.” Hugo’s voice held a note of amusement that Edward did not care for. “Lady Sophia. I wondered when she would arrive.”
“I had not noticed.”
“Of course you hadn’t. That explains why you have been staring at the refreshment table for the past five minutes.”
“I was contemplating the lemonade.”
“The lemonade.” Hugo’s grin widened. “Yes. The lemonade is quite captivating this evening. Particularly the way it wears blue silk and has eyes the color of spring leaves.”
“Go away, Hugo.”
“With pleasure.” Hugo clapped him on the shoulder. “I see Lady Fothergill near the musicians, and she owes me a dance. Do try not to set the refreshment table on fire with your longing glances.”
He sauntered off before Edward could murder him.
Edward waited until Hugo had disappeared into the crowd, then made his way toward the edge of the room. A small alcove near the terrace doors offered a measure of privacy, and he positioned himself there, watching the musicians tune their instruments.
Moments later, Lady Sophia appeared at his side. She did not look at him. She studied the painting on the wall as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
“Lady Georgiana Huxley,” she said, her voice pitched low. “Near the window. The blonde in the green gown.”
Edward followed her gaze. Lady Georgiana stood with a small group of young women, her posture elegant, her expression serene. She possessed the kind of classical beauty that painters immortalized in portraits with her fine features, pale skin, and golden hair arranged in perfect ringlets.
“She looks like a porcelain figurine.”
“She is accomplished, well-bred, and known for her kindness to children.” Lady Sophia’s voice held a note of impatience. “She volunteers at a foundling hospital every Tuesday. She speaks three languages. She has never been involved in a single scandal.”
“You make her sound like a saint.”
“Would you prefer a sinner?”
Edward glanced at Lady Sophia. A faint flush had risen to her cheeks. Whether from irritation or the warmth of the room, he couldn’t tell. He wanted to find out.
“What should I discuss with her?”
“Her charitable work. Her travels abroad. Her love of music.” Lady Sophia finally turned to face him, and the impact of her gaze hit him like a blow to the chest. “Ask questions. Listen to the answers. Pretend, for once, that you are capable of human warmth.”
“I am capable of warmth.”
“Prove it.” She stepped back, creating distance between them. “Go. And try not to terrify the poor woman.”
Edward straightened his coat and made his way toward Lady Georgiana. The group of young women parted as he approached, their eyes widening, their fans fluttering.
Lady Georgiana curtsied with practiced grace. “Your Grace.” Her voice was soft, melodic, and pleasant. “What an honor.”
“Lady Georgiana.” He bowed. “I understand you do charitable work with the Foundling Hospital.”
Her face brightened. “Yes, I visit every Tuesday. The children there are so deserving of kindness. I read to them and help with their lessons when I can.”
“Commendable.”
Silence stretched between them. Lady Georgiana’s smile remained fixed, waiting. Edward searched his mind for something to say and found it distressingly empty.
“And you enjoy music?”
“Oh, yes.” She clasped her hands together. “I play the pianoforte and the harp. Do you play, Your Grace?”
“No.”
Another silence. Lady Georgiana’s smile faltered at the edges.
“Perhaps you enjoy listening?” she ventured.
“On occasion.”
The young women behind Lady Georgiana exchanged glances. One of them coughed. Lady Georgiana’s cheeks flushed pink, and she glanced toward the musicians as if hoping they might rescue her.
Edward knew he was failing. He could feel Lady Sophia’s gaze on his back, burning with judgment. He tried to remember her instructions. Ask questions. Listen to the answers. Pretend to be human.
“You have traveled abroad, I hear.”
“Yes, to Italy.” Lady Georgiana’s enthusiasm returned. “Florence was magnificent. The art, the architecture, the history. Have you been, Your Grace?”
“Once. For business.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “Business. How… practical.”
The conversation limped onward like a wounded animal.
Lady Georgiana gamely tried to steer them toward topics of mutual interest, but each attempt ran aground on the rocks of Edward’s monosyllabic responses.
He watched her enthusiasm drain away, replaced by the polite mask of a woman counting the seconds until she could escape.
He did not blame her.
When the musicians struck up the first notes of a country dance, Lady Georgiana seized the opportunity with visible relief.
“Oh, the dancing has begun. I promised Lord Fenwick the first set. Please excuse me, Your Grace.” She curtsied and fled.
Edward watched her go. Lord Fenwick, a cheerful young man with an unfortunate nose, greeted her with the genuine smile Edward had apparently lost the ability to produce. They took their places in the line, and within moments, Lady Georgiana was laughing at something he said.
Laughing. At the man with the unfortunate nose.
Edward retreated to the alcove, where Lady Sophia waited with an expression that suggested she had witnessed every excruciating moment.
“Practical?” Her voice dripped with disbelief. “She told you about the glories of Florence, and you responded with ‘practical’?”
“It was a business trip.”
“You could have mentioned the Duomo. The Uffizi. The Ponte Vecchio. Anything that suggested you have a soul.”
“I saw the Duomo.”
“And?”
“It was large.”
Lady Sophia pressed her fingers to her temples. “You are hopeless.”
“I am efficient.”
“You are a disaster.” She dropped her hands and fixed him with a glare that, perversely, made him want to smile.
“Lady Georgiana is kind, intelligent, and would have made an excellent mother to Oliver. And you drove her into the arms of Lord Fenwick with your complete inability to engage in basic human conversation.”
“Fenwick has an unfortunate nose.”
“Fenwick has charm.” Lady Sophia stepped closer, and Edward caught her scent. Something floral beneath the cloying perfume of the ballroom. “Charm, Your Grace. The ability to make another person feel seen and valued. You might try gaining some of those skills.”
They stood too close. He could see the rapid pulse at her throat, the slight parting of her lips, the fire in her eyes.
A flush crept up from her décolletage, painting her skin with warmth that made him wonder how it would feel beneath his fingertips.
Something stirred in his chest, warm and unfamiliar.
“Perhaps you could teach me.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Lady Sophia blinked. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. Then her chin lifted, and that familiar spark of defiance returned.
“Perhaps I could.” She held his gaze. “If you are willing to learn.”
The music swelled around them. The crowd laughed and chattered, oblivious to the charged silence in the alcove. Edward found he did not want to look away. Found he did not want to step back, to restore the proper distance between them.
Found he wanted things he had no business wanting.
“The musicale ends at eleven.” Lady Sophia’s voice emerged softer than before. “We will discuss strategy during my next visit with Oliver.”
“Very well.”
She turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Edward watched her go, the blue silk of her gown swaying with each step, the candlelight catching the shine of her hair.
Hugo appeared at his elbow. “How did it go with Lady Georgiana?”
“The Duomo was large.”
Hugo stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.” Edward straightened his cuffs. “I need more champagne.”
He walked toward the refreshment table, ignoring Hugo’s confused protests, and did not look back at the spot where Lady Sophia had stood.
He did not need to look. He could still feel her presence, like a brand on his skin.