Chapter 22 #2
Alice laughed and took his hand. They moved toward the dance floor, and Sophia watched them go with a bittersweet ache.
“Lady Sophia.”
The voice slithered down her spine. She turned to find Lord Drakeston standing too close, his pale eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
“I believe this dance is mine.”
“I have not agreed to dance with you.”
Drakeston stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “I thought you might wish to reconsider. These gatherings do provide excellent opportunities for conversation. About all manner of topics. Family matters. Financial arrangements.” His smile widened. “Debts.”
Sophia’s blood turned to ice.
“I would hate for certain information to reach the wrong ears.” Drakeston offered his hand. “A single dance, my lady. Surely, that is not too much to ask.”
She stared at his outstretched hand. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. To walk away. To find Edward or Hugo or anyone who might shield her from this man.
But she could not. Not without risking everything.
She placed her hand in his.
Drakeston’s fingers closed around hers, too tight, too possessive. He led her onto the floor, and the music began.
A waltz. The most intimate of dances, the one that required the closest contact.
Drakeston pulled her closer than propriety allowed. His hand pressed against her lower back, fingers splayed wide. His breath was hot against her ear.
“You dance beautifully, Sophia.” His thumb traced a slow circle against her spine. “I wonder what other talents this luscious body of yours possesses.”
Sophia stiffened. “You forget yourself, my lord.”
He spun her through a turn, his grip tightening. “Oh, I think I know exactly what I am doing. And what you are willing to endure to protect your family’s secrets.”
Bile rose in her throat. His hands on her felt like a violation, his fingers pressing into her flesh as though he already owned her. She wanted to wrench herself free, to slap the smug satisfaction from his face, to scream the truth of what he was to everyone in this glittering ballroom.
But she could not. Her father’s debts bound her to this man as surely as shackles, and Drakeston knew it. He was enjoying her helplessness, savoring it like a cat toying with a mouse it had already caught.
“You are despicable.”
“I am practical.” Drakeston’s lips brushed her ear as he spoke. “As are you. We are not so different, you and I.”
“We are nothing alike.”
His hand slid lower on her back, grazing the curve of her hip. “We both know what it is to want things we cannot have. To do what is necessary to survive, and to wear masks for the world while hiding our true natures.”
Sophia felt sick. The room spun around her, a blur of light and color. She counted the measures of music and tried to will the dance to end.
But his words burrowed under her skin, twisting something inside her.
How dare he compare them? Yes, she wore a mask.
Yes, she hid her true nature from the world.
But Lady Fairhart brought people together.
She created happiness, forged connections, and helped lonely souls find their way to one another.
She had never used her secrets to extort money from desperate families.
She had never preyed on the vulnerable. And she had never taken pleasure in another person’s suffering.
They were nothing alike. And the fact that he believed otherwise only proved how little he understood about anything that mattered.
“Your father was a weak man.” Drakeston’s voice was soft and poisonous. “He gambled away everything and left you to clean up his mess. How noble of you. How pathetic.”
“Do not speak of my father.”
“Or what?” Drakeston laughed, low and ugly.
“You will report me? To whom? The Duke, who is too busy courting his perfect lady to heed you? The ton who already thinks you are beneath notice?” His grip tightened to the point of pain.
“You have no power here, dear Sophia. You have nothing. Except what I allow you to keep.”
Each word found its mark, precise and merciless.
He was right. That was the worst of it. She had no allies here, no protectors, no one who would believe her word against that of a marquess.
She was alone in a room full of people, trapped in the arms of a predator who knew exactly how vulnerable she was.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give him that satisfaction. She would not let him see how deeply his cruelty had cut.
The music swelled to its conclusion. Drakeston released her with a flourish, bowing as though they had shared a pleasant dance.
“Thank you, my lady. Until we meet again.”
Sophia curtsied. Her hands trembled. Her skin crawled where he had touched her.
She turned and walked off the dance floor, her pace just short of running. She needed air. She needed space. She needed to be anywhere but here.
She slipped through a side door and into the quiet darkness of the corridor beyond.
“Your Grace. Might we speak privately?”
Miss Stanton stood before Edward, her expression composed, her hands folded at her waist. The ball swirled around them, but she seemed untouched by it, a still point in the chaos.
“Of course.” Edward offered his arm and led her toward a quiet alcove near the windows. The night air drifted in, cool and welcome.
“I wished to discuss our understanding.” Miss Stanton’s voice was measured, careful. “We have spent considerable time together this weekend. I believe we suit each other well.”
“I agree.” Edward kept his voice neutral. “You’re accomplished, intelligent, and well-suited to the demands of the position.”
Miss Stanton smiled. “You speak of marriage as though it were a business arrangement.”
“Is it not?” Edward met her gaze. “We both know what is at stake. Legacy. Duty. The continuation of the Heatherwell line. These are practical matters that require practical solutions.”
“I appreciate your candor.” Miss Stanton inclined her head. “It is refreshing to speak plainly.”
Edward straightened. “There is one matter I wish to be clear about. My nephew, Oliver. Any wife of mine must be prepared to care for him as though he were her own child. His welfare is of paramount importance to me.”
Miss Stanton nodded. “Of course. The boy requires guidance and stability. I am prepared to provide both.”
Something in Edward’s chest eased.
Perhaps this could work after all. Perhaps Miss Stanton, with her practical nature and clear understanding of duty, could provide Oliver with the stable home he needed.
“However.” Miss Stanton’s voice remained pleasant. “I do think it important that we discuss the future honestly. Once we are married and have children of our own, your primary duty will be to our sons. To the heir of Heatherwell.”
Edward frowned. “Oliver will always be part of this family.”
Miss Stanton waved a hand. “Naturally. But surely, you understand that certain adjustments will need to be made. A nephew, however beloved, cannot take precedence over one’s own children. It would be confusing for everyone involved.”
“What sort of adjustments?” Edward’s voice had gone cold.
Miss Stanton smiled, as if explaining something simple to a child.
“Nothing dramatic. Perhaps he might be sent to the country estate. Or to stay with other relatives. Somewhere he can receive proper attention without complicating the household hierarchy. Once you have an heir, your duty will be to that child first and foremost. Oliver will understand. Children are remarkably adaptable.”
Edward stared at her. The pleasant mask he had worn all evening cracked and fell away. He thought of Oliver’s small hand reaching for his. Of the boy’s tentative smile when Edward agreed to paint purple horses. Of the way he had begun, just barely, to trust.
Send him away.
As if he were an inconvenience. As if Leonard’s son were a problem to be solved rather than a child to be loved.
“Miss Stanton.” His voice emerged quietly, which was somehow worse than shouting. “I believe I have been operating under a grave misunderstanding regarding your character.”