Chapter 11
“You look beautiful, darling.”
Sophia’s mother adjusted the ribbon at her waist, her fingers gentle but her eyes sad.
They stood in Sophia’s bedchamber, the evening light casting long shadows across the worn carpet.
The gown Sophia wore was three seasons old, its once-vibrant green now faded at the seams, its lace trim repaired in places only a close eye would notice.
“I wish I could buy you something new.” Lady Brimsey’s voice caught. “A girl your age should have pretty things. New ribbons. Fresh flowers for her hair. Instead, every spare coin goes to that man.”
“Mama.” Sophia took her mother’s hands. “Our safety matters more than silk and lace. I would wear this gown a hundred more times if it meant keeping you from harm.”
Her mother’s eyes glistened. She cupped Sophia’s face, her touch feather light. “You grew up far too quickly, my love. Carrying burdens no daughter should bear.”
“I carry them gladly.” Sophia pressed a kiss to her mother’s palm. “Now come. Alice and Thomas will wonder where we are.”
The Countess of Thornhill’s ball was the event of the season, or so the gossip columns proclaimed.
Every candle in the grand ballroom blazed with light.
Crystal chandeliers threw rainbows across the ceiling.
The cream of London society swirled in their finest silks and satins, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.
Sophia felt distinctly underdressed.
“There you are!” Alice swept toward them, radiant in pale pink, Thomas trailing behind with the tolerant expression of a man who had learned to navigate his wife’s enthusiasms. “We were worrying.”
“Carriage traffic on the bridge.” Sophia embraced her friend. “You look lovely.”
“And you look like you need champagne.” Alice linked their arms and steered her toward the refreshment table. “Thomas, fetch Lady Brimsey a glass of ratafia and introduce her to the Dowager Countess of Wyndham. She was asking after mutual acquaintances.”
Thomas obeyed with a bow, guiding Sophia’s mother toward a cluster of silver-haired ladies near the windows. Sophia watched them go, tension easing from her shoulders. Her mother seemed steadier tonight. The shadows under her eyes had faded somewhat.
“Stop worrying.” Alice pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. “She is safe. You are safe. And tonight, we are going to enjoy ourselves.”
Sophia took a sip and let the bubbles fizz on her tongue. Across the ballroom, the orchestra was tuning their instruments. Couples began drifting toward the dance floor in anticipation of the first set.
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd. Heads turned toward the entrance.
The Duke of Heatherwell had arrived.
He stood at the top of the stairs, tall and broad in evening black, his golden hair gleaming in the candlelight.
Beside him, the Duke of Thornwaite surveyed the room with the lazy confidence of a man who knew himself to be handsome.
But it was Heatherwell who commanded attention.
Heatherwell, whose presence made the air feel charged, electric.
Sophia watched as ambitious mamas began gravitating toward him like moths to flame. Hugo intercepted them with easy charm, deflecting inquiries and redirecting conversations while Heatherwell’s gaze swept the ballroom.
Searching.
His eyes found hers across the crowded room. Something flickered in their blue depths. He went still for a moment, his lips parting, and Sophia felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
Then he looked away and began making his way through the crowd.
“He is coming in this direction.” Alice’s voice held a note of warning. “The Duke.”
“I know.” Sophia kept her expression neutral. “We have business to discuss.”
“Business.” Alice arched an eyebrow but said nothing more.
Sophia excused herself and drifted toward a quiet corner near the terrace doors. Moments later, the duke appeared at her side, facing the opposite direction, his voice pitched low.
“Lady Sophia.”
“Your Grace.”
A pause. She could feel his presence behind her, the heat of him, the subtle scent of sandalwood that she had come to associate with their encounters.
He cleared his throat. “You look less dreadful than usual this evening.”
Sophia blinked. She turned her head slightly, catching his profile in her peripheral vision. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your gown.” His jaw tightened. “The color. It suits you. I mean to say, you are…” Another pause, longer this time. “…not unpleasant to look at.”
She stared at him. He stared resolutely at the wall.
“Thank you?” The word emerged as more of a question than a statement.
He nodded once, as if satisfied that the compliment had been successfully delivered.
Sophia pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Or screaming. She had not yet decided which response was more appropriate.
“Lady Helena Forsythe is near the punch bowl.” She returned her attention to the ballroom.
“Daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Excellent lineage, accomplished musician, known for her patience with children. Miss Catherine Drayton stands beside her in the yellow gown. Heiress to a shipping fortune. Less prestigious family, but considerable wealth and a reputation for charitable works.”
“Very well.” His voice betrayed nothing.
“Dance with them. Make conversation. Try not to discuss the architectural merits of ancient monuments.”
“You will never let that go, will you?”
“Never.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I should return to my friends before we attract attention.”
She walked away without waiting for his response, weaving through the crowd until she reached Alice and Thomas.
The orchestra struck up the first notes of a waltz. Couples began taking their positions on the dance floor, a swirl of color and movement. Alice turned to Sophia with an expectant look.
“We can keep you company,” she offered. “Thomas doesn’t mind sitting out the first set.”
“Nonsense.” Sophia waved them away. “Go. Dance. I will be perfectly content watching.”
Thomas guided Alice onto the floor, and they joined the other couples, their movements graceful and practiced. Sophia watched them spin past, saw the way Thomas looked at his wife, the way Alice laughed at something he whispered in her ear.
No one had asked Sophia to dance.
She stood at the edge of the ballroom, champagne in hand, and tried not to feel the sting of it. She was five and twenty. Unmarried. The daughter of an invalid whose debts were whispered about in drawing rooms across London. She was not the sort of woman gentlemen sought for their dance cards.
Across the floor, the Duke waltzed with Lady Helena Forsythe. The earl’s daughter smiled up at him, her hand resting delicately on his shoulder, her movements precise and elegant. She was saying something, her lips moving, her expression animated.
The Duke’s gaze drifted over her head.
Toward Sophia.
Their eyes met. Something passed between them, a current of awareness that made Sophia’s breath catch. Lady Helena continued speaking, oblivious to her partner’s distraction.
Sophia looked away first. She did not want him to see the loneliness that had crept into her chest. Did not want him to know how much she wished someone would take her hand and spin her across the floor, making her feel, for just a moment, like she belonged.
The music swelled. The dancers turned. And Sophia stood alone, watching love bloom all around her while she remained rooted to the spot, a wallflower in a faded green gown.
She scanned the room for her mother. The cluster of dowagers near the windows had dispersed.
Lady Brimsey was not among them.
Sophia’s heart stuttered.
She moved along the edge of the ballroom, searching. Her mother was not by the refreshment table. Not near the orchestra. Not in the small sitting area where older guests had gathered to rest their feet.
Panic clawed at her throat.
She slipped through the doors and into the corridor beyond, her footsteps quick on the polished marble. The sounds of the ball faded behind her, replaced by the muffled quiet of empty hallways.
“Lady Sophia.”
She spun around. The Duke strode toward her, his brow furrowed with concern.
“What are you doing out here?” she demanded. “You were dancing with Lady Helena.”
“The set ended. I saw you leave.” He stopped in front of her. “What is the matter?”
“I cannot find my mother.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
His frown deepened. “She is a grown woman. Surely, she has simply gone to powder her nose, or stepped outside for air.”
“You do not understand.” Sophia pressed her hand to her chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart. “I must find her.”
“Is she ill?”
“No. I…” She shook her head, in no mood for excuses, “Please, return to the ballroom. We shouldn’t be found alone together.”
“Tell me what is wrong.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping low. “You’re frightened. I can see it in your eyes.”
She became acutely aware of him. The breadth of his shoulders blocking the corridor. The scent of sandalwood, warm skin and exertion from the dance. The way his evening coat stretched across his chest.
She turned away and resumed her search, pushing open doors, peering into darkened rooms. He followed, a persistent shadow she could not shake.
“Lady Sophia—”
“Your Grace, please—”
Voices echoed from around the corner. Female. Approaching.
Sophia froze. If they were discovered alone in a darkened corridor, her reputation would be in tatters. The scandal would destroy what little remained of her family’s standing.
“We cannot be found.” Her voice emerged as a whisper.
The Duke’s hand closed around her wrist. He pulled her sideways, through an open door, onto a moonlit balcony. In one fluid motion, he pressed her against the wall beside the French doors, his body blocking hers from view, his palm covering her mouth.
Sophia’s back met cold stone. His chest pressed against hers. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the warmth of his body through the layers of their clothing. His hand was firm over her lips, his breath hot against her temple.
The voices drew closer. Two women, chattering about something, their words indistinct. Footsteps clicked on marble. They paused near the balcony entrance, and Sophia stopped breathing.
“Did you hear something?” one asked.
“Probably a cat.” The other laughed. “Come, I must fix my hair before the next set.”
Their footsteps retreated, fading into silence.
He did not move.
He lowered his hand from her mouth, but his body remained pressed to hers, solid and warm in the cool night air. Moonlight spilled across the balcony, silvering his features, catching the darkness in his eyes.
Sophia could not look away.
His gaze dropped to her lips. His breath came ragged. She watched his control waver, watched the battle play out across his face, watched him lose. His thumb traced her lower lip slowly, and the breath left her body.
His breath became ragged. She watched his control waver, watched the battle play out across his face, then watched him lose.
“Forgive me.” The words escaped him like a confession. “I cannot help myself. You are… the undoing of every ounce of restraint I possess.”
He kissed her.
His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that stole her breath. His hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her head, deepening the kiss. Sophia gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.
Heat roared through her veins. Her hands found his chest, his shoulders, the back of his neck. She pulled him closer, arching into him, meeting his passion with her own. He groaned, low in his throat, and the sound vibrated through her body.
He kissed her like a man drowning. Like she was air and light and everything he had ever denied himself.
His fingers tangled in her hair, scattering pins, and she did not care.
His other hand gripped her waist, pressing her harder against the wall, and she welcomed it.
She could feel the strength in his hands, the roughness of his palms through the thin fabric of her gown, and she wanted more. Wanted to feel those hands everywhere.
She had been kissed before. Clumsy attempts by nervous suitors in her debut season. Those pale imitations bore no resemblance to this. This was fire and fury and a desperate, aching need that matched the one building inside her.
Her mother.
The thought broke through the haze of desire like cold water.
Sophia wrenched herself away, pressing her hands against his chest. He released her instantly, stepping back, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.
They stared at each other across the moonlit balcony.
“I should not have done that.”
The words found their mark. Sophia felt them settle in her chest, sharp and cold, cutting through the warmth that had bloomed there moments ago.
Of course he should not have. She was not the sort of woman dukes kissed on moonlit balconies. She was the spinster matchmaker he had blackmailed into service. An arrangement. An obligation.
A mistake.
“You’re right.” She lifted her chin, summoning every ounce of composure she possessed. “It was a mistake. We were both caught up in the moment. The danger of discovery.” She smoothed her skirts with trembling hands. “It won’t happen again.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, perhaps. Or disappointment. It vanished before she could name it.
“Stay here.” Her voice steadied. “I will return to the ballroom alone. Wait a few minutes before following.”
She did not wait for his response. She walked through the French doors and down the corridor, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, her lips still burning from his kiss.
She found her mother in a small parlor off the main hall, deep in conversation with an elderly countess about the merits of different rose varieties. A lady’s maid hovered near the window with a damp cloth in hand. Safe. Unharmed. Completely oblivious to the terror Sophia had felt.
Sophia pressed a hand to her racing heart and leaned against the doorframe.
Her mother was safe.
Her heart was another matter entirely.