Chapter Eight
“Scotland is lovely this time of year, I understand. The solitude would be good for me.” Sophia would even make a go at the vow of silence, though doubted that would last. “I can tend sheep. Or bees. Churn butter.” She tried to picture herself doing so in a serene country setting. “Maybe learn to weave.”
Mama pinched the bridge of her nose.
“And after a few years, I can leave and retire to the country. Forever. I vow to never return to London.” She’d never cared overmuch for society or the Season.
Paying calls and attending balls was fine but monotonous.
Only the bookstores and museums held her interest. “In a year or so, no one will remember you had a younger daughter. Mara’s reputation won’t be infringed upon in the least. Roxboro would be relieved.
As would Lord Damon.” She gestured towards her sister as she walked into the drawing room.
“Mara’s prospects would remain forever untainted. ”
Her sister glided into the drawing room, skirts belling out about her trim ankles as if she were floating.
Sailing directly to the settee, Mara fluffed out her skirts in a fetching manner as she settled against the pillows.
Back straight. Chin tilted at exactly the correct angle.
An entire stack of books could be placed atop Mara’s head, and the tomes would be in no danger of falling.
She really is absolute perfection.
“Don’t be absurd,” Mama replied. “You’d make a terrible nun. You’ve not an ounce of humility, Sophia. Now, do something with your gown.” She waved a finger. “Emulate Mara. See how she places the folds of her skirts about her to make it seem as if she’s sitting in a flower?”
Sophia half-heartedly waved the silk folds of her gown about her, trying to imitate Mara, but failed miserably.
Mama sighed. “Stop. You look like a floundering fish.”
“I could learn humility. I can be pious. I’ve always liked livestock.”
“We are not sending you to a convent. Or the country. Goodness, the banns have been read. The church reserved. Invitations to the event have already gone out. You are to be a duchess, which I find more unbelievable than anyone else.”
“I could end the betrothal,” Sophia offered, her desperation apparent. “I would put no blame on Roxboro. Things merely didn’t work out.”
“Roxboro could end the betrothal and if he did, the shame would fall upon you as a discarded young lady. He would survive because he’s a duke, but not you, Sophia.”
Absolutely unfair.
“Mama’s right,” Mara chirped. “You must wed Roxboro, or else things will go poorly for you, Sophia. Just yesterday as I walked in the park, I came across Miss Newsome.” Her sister made a face. “Who made a rather impolite comment about you and Roxboro.”
“What was it?” Sophia had a general idea.
The talk hadn’t been complimentary towards her.
Also, the park brought to mind the ill-fated carriage ride with Roxboro.
A painful outing which was nothing more than an indication of the future that awaited her.
She and Roxboro had said terrible things to each other that day, all of which, Roxboro deserved.
He blamed her for this entire mess, insisting he hadn’t been at the Perswick ball, and that even if he had, Sophia took advantage of the situation because he was foxed.
Good god, he’s always foxed.
“Well,” Mara fluffed the pillow beside her. “All of London knows Roxboro drinks overmuch. You weren’t oblivious—it doesn’t matter,” Mara hurriedly added after a pointed look from Mama.
“You think I orchestrated my own ruination to become a duchess?” Sophia nearly choked on the words. “Because he drinks too much?”
“Of course not, dear,” Mama said in a soothing tone.
“I would never,” Sophia insisted. “You truly believe I would deliberately lead him out, completely intoxicated, for the sole purpose of ruination? Because I want to be his duchess?” She threw up her hands.
“I’ve been begging for weeks to be released from this betrothal.
For goodness sakes, I’m begging to become a nun. ”
“It isn’t what I think, Sophia,” Mara said, in a condescending tone. “I believe you, of course.”
No she didn’t.
“Miss Newsome is only jealous,” Mara continued. “She’s had her eyes on Roxboro for some time, despite his reputation. Always crowing about how a good woman could set him to rights and that reformed rakes make the best husbands. I gave her a brilliant set-down by insulting her bonnet.”
“You’re such a dear to defend your sister.” Mama nodded in approval.
Insulting her bonnet. What was next? Disdaining her shawl?
“I would have blackened her eye,” Sophia fumed. She had never cared for Miss Newsome. Turning her gaze to the window where a large elm sat directly outside, she tried to calm her raging thoughts. The branches swayed in the wind, leaves fluttering about.
“Oh, Sophia.” Mama took her hand. “You’ve done nothing your entire life but thumb your nose at the rest of the world.
Perhaps it is time to try a different tactic.
I don’t know what compels you to behave in such an obstinate manner.
You will have a distant, if amicable marriage to Roxboro, which frankly, is how most marriages in society are conducted.
You’ll find your own interests. Have a great deal of freedom as a duchess.
Besides, he’s bound to tumble down the stairs after too much brandy or scotch one night. ”
“I wish you would stop saying such things, Mama.” It was rather disturbing how often her mother claimed Roxboro would meet an early demise.
“I only want you to see that there are distinct advantages to the situation. A politician’s wife learns to be pragmatic about such things. And you should thank your sister for putting that horrible Miss Newsome in her place.”
“Thank you, Mara,” Sophia dutifully repeated.
Mama could crow all she wanted about becoming the mother of a duchess and enjoy her elevated status, but Sophia did not share her opinion of a positive future.
If Mama knew of Sophia’s heated, ugly discussion with Roxboro during the carriage ride, and that it was likely the reason he hadn’t called upon her since, she wouldn’t be so pleased.
Truthfully, Sophia shouldn’t have lost her temper.
Nor insulted him. That wasn’t the way to move forward.
But his continued insistence that he did not recall her, not even vaguely, reminded Sophia of how utterly forgettable she’d felt her entire life.
Which resulted in blunt, somewhat scathing observations spilling from her lips, or thinly veiled insults.
I really am terrible. I deserve to be wed to a libertine.
“I couldn’t allow her to disparage you.” Mara clasped her hands in her lap, turning her head so that her gorgeous profile was on display. “You are my sister.”
Ugh. Mara must have been practicing before the mirror. She resembled a bloody cameo.
“Lord Damon and the duke will arrive at any moment,” Mama said, gazing with approval at her eldest daughter.
“We’ll have a lovely dinner. Unfortunately, Lady Violet and Lady Rose will not be able to join us as they are with Lady Falworth.
A house party in the country to which they were committed.
But,” Mama clapped her hands. “They’ll return to London in time for the wedding.
I expect you four will become fast friends. ”
Doubtful. Sophia had even less in common with Violet and Rose Viceroy than she did with Miss Newsome.
“A house party?” Mara raised her brows. “Oh, Lady Dunkirk’s.” She narrowed her eyes on Sophia. “The one Mama and I had to decline due to…your impending nuptials, Sophia.”
Sophia had also somewhat reluctantly, she suspected, been invited, but would have feigned sickness not to attend. The only thing worse than a ball, in her opinion, was a house party.
“The Marquess of Caster isn’t even in attendance at Lady Dunkirk’s,” Mama reassured Mara.
“I have it on good authority. So there’s no worry he might be snatched up.
And,” she winked. “Lady Falworth is close friends with the Caster’s mother, the Dowager Marchioness, which is rather lucky.
Once we are family, I’ll receive an introduction. ”
Good lord. Mama was a mercenary.
Lady Falworth was her mother’s newest future conquest in society, though the poor woman was completely unaware.
She was the sister of Lord Damon’s late wife, May, and had assisted in Violet and Rose’s upbringing since their mother’s death.
Mama knew a great deal about the three women, as she did Lord Damon and Roxboro.
At this point, she could probably rattle off the entire lineage of the Viceroys, their estates and the names of their servants.
Mama was very thorough.
The previous duke and duchess, Roxboro’s parents, had met tragic ends.
Roxboro’s father was murdered. His mother died giving birth to him.
Lord Damon, who was barely twenty and newly wed to Lady May, raised Roxboro as their own.
Rose and Violet were born a few years later.
Perfect young ladies, that is what Mama said of Lord Damon’s daughters, if a bit snobbish.
Sophia had only met them once and was more than happy to wait on furthering the acquaintance as she’d found both young women a tad arrogant, which given they were Viceroys, made a great deal of sense.
Neither had seemed inclined to speak to Sophia outside of a polite introduction, though Mara flitted around them like a moth around a torch for as long as possible.
Well, I suppose they won’t be able to avoid me now, given I’ll outrank them.
The knowledge brought Sophia little comfort.
She didn’t want to be Roxboro’s duchess.
Or anyone’s actually. Society had strict expectations of a duchess, none of which Sophia could hope to meet.
Ducal behavior. Snootiness. Absolute commanding presence.
Splendid clothing. Constant calls paid upon her. Sounded absolutely…. exhausting.