Chapter Two #2
Sophia didn’t think that sentence was quite as it should be, but the sentiment behind it was undoubtedly wise and profound, perhaps the wisest and profoundest thing she had ever heard.
Had she and Tabitha always been this way?
Or was the brandy somehow altering her brain?
She peered into her glass. It was nearly empty.
She topped them both up, the brandy sloshing over her fingers.
‘Anyway, I was going there to warn the duke, but his brother was in the place with all the glass.’ She could not think of the word for it.
‘Not him and not my sister. Only the younger brother, you know, the one all the stories are about. His face was one big circle of shock and I tried to sneak away, but from out of nowhere all these women appeared, which was probably planned. I bet it was. They went on and on and on about how I was ruined unless I married Lord Christopher and the only thing I could say was no, no, no, no, which was not useful and…’ She inhaled deeply as she ran out of air.
‘And?’ prompted Tabitha.
‘And…’ She could not for the life of her remember what she had been about to say. ‘I think I might be drunk.’
‘Sme too.’ Tabitha sighed, her head flopping back onto the shelf behind her. ‘Sit’s not good.’
‘No, it is not, but it is not the worst thing to happen today. I am engaged to Lord Christopher, the… the… buffoon with the pigs. Every time I think about what Robert will say to this whole debacle my insides rearrange themselves.’ She poked herself in her stomach where the horrible churning sensation was only getting worse.
‘So Robert is his name,’ said a deep gravelly voice from high above her.
The sound was so unexpected, she screamed before throwing the remaining brandy in her glass in the direction of the intruder.
She heard the liquid hitting cloth before she saw two dark-clad legs appearing in front of her.
She blinked at them, having no idea where they had come from or to whom they belonged.
‘Are you drunk?’ asked the voice.
‘How very dare you,’ she replied to the legs.
A deep masculine sigh was followed by, ‘Since returning to the ballroom earlier, the entirety of the Ton, or so it has seemed, has been congratulating me on the demure paragon of virtue to whom I have found myself betrothed. I have been told both discreetly and overtly that marriage to someone as saintly as Miss Jacobs will be the making of me. Imagine my surprise to find the very same Miss Jacobs on the floor of Beauvarlet’s library, stealing his brandy. ’
It was hard to follow the man’s velvety voice when the legs in front of her kept changing in number.
Sometimes there were two but then there would appear to be more, before they merged back again to two.
At the accusation of misbehaviour though, her head snapped up and then up again, because she was surely looking at a giant.
No. Not a giant. Him. Christopher Dashworth, the most unwanted betrothed in the history of the world.
‘You,’ she said, pointing up at him in case there was any doubt to whom she was referring.
‘You have ruined everything. Why were you even there? I could have done the saving myself and then all would have been well. You could be out…’ she waved her hands around trying to conjure the right words, but her brain was decidedly muddled ‘…doing whatever it is that men like you do all the time.’
‘I am not going to dignify your insinuation with a response. Besides, you can hardly criticise my behaviour when you are as drunk as a newt on the floor of the library.’
What fustian this man spoke. ‘I am not as drunk as Newton. And I think you will find that he was not a drinker. Perhaps he was contusioned by the apple when it fell on his head and that is why he started acting oddly. I suspect it hurt.’ Was contusioned a word?
It sounded right, but then she wasn’t sure what was up or down in this moment.
‘There is so much wrong with that sentence, I do not know where to start.’
It was he who had started talking about Sir Isaac Newton; there was no need for him to take that tone with her. ‘Start with what you were doing in the place with all the glass. The conservaltory.’ No that wasn’t right. What was the word?
‘What were you doing in the conservatory?’
That was the name of it. The consalverytery.
She would remember that. But hang on. Hadn’t she asked that question?
Or had she been talking about apples? No matter, she would answer; it wasn’t as if there was any point holding on to the secret.
‘I was saving your brother from having to marry my sister. Not that she is not lovely, but you should choose whom you marry, do you not think? Maybe you do not. Some men buy their wives. It is shocking.’ You weren’t supposed to speak about such things in polite society, but Lord Christopher wasn’t renowned for doing things in the correct way.
There was that sigh again. ‘I gathered that was what you were doing. And, yes, I do think marriage should be something entered into with free will and not something thrust upon you, which is why…’ He petered off, or had he said something? Her brain was foggy. ‘Can you stand?’
What an absurd question. Lord Christopher was a peculiar man.
Of course she could. All she had to do was find the floor with her hands and push herself upwards.
It was no problem at all, except… the floor seemed to have moved.
It was still underneath her legs, hard and cold, but her hands kept missing it.
She heard some dark muttering above her, then he said, ‘Wait here. Do not move. Can you do that?’
‘How dare…?’
‘Yes, yes, I know. How dare I? But if you would be so kind as to wait here, Miss Jacobs, I should be most grateful.’
Since he had asked so politely and because the floor was still proving elusive, she would. ‘Very well, I shall stay here.’
His shoes clicked on the polished floor until a heavy door slammed shut and silence descended, broken only by a gentle snore from Tabitha. Somehow, during all that, her faithful friend had fallen asleep.
Sophia’s fingers brushed the edge of the glass; she must have dropped it to the floor after throwing its contents at Lord Christopher.
A hot wave of embarrassment swept through her, burning her from the inside.
The brandy had robbed her of herself, dulling her good sense and robbing her of coherent sentences.
The numbing sensation was what she’d craved when she had set out to drown her sorrows, although now she’d been found in such an undignified position, she wished she could pull herself together, but it was no good.
Trying to reach her normal self was like trying to clutch at pins through a thick ball of wool.
She slumped backwards, her head falling into the bookcase, the hard shelf pressing into the top of her spine. Her body weighed more than it ever had; she could not imagine a time when she would ever be able to lift her arms again.
She’d barely been engaged to Lord Christopher for an hour and already she didn’t recognise herself.
Normally able to recall conversations months or years after they had taken place, she was already having a hard time remembering what she’d been talking about only seconds ago.
Such was the deadening effect of the brandy that she couldn’t even find the energy for tears.
Sometime later, the legs reappeared, this time with more legs and at least one dress. Sunk in misery and heavy exhaustion, she could not bring herself to look up at the new arrivals. What did it matter if new people were witnesses to her humiliation?
All her life, she had been a demure woman, desperate to be different from her rambunctious and often embarrassing family. It had got her precisely nowhere. No, it was worse than that. She was further away from marrying Robert than she had ever been. Being well-behaved had sent her backwards.
‘Goodness,’ said a voice she did not recognise. ‘Who would have thought the idea of marrying you would make a respectable young woman turn to drink?’
‘That is not helpful, Freddie,’ said Lord Christopher. Despite the fact that all the legs were clad in the same type of dark trousers, she was able to pick out his from the two pairs in front of her.
‘No one can see her like this. She would not like it,’ said a light feminine voice, which was followed by the soft rustling of silk. A delicate face framed by golden ringlets appeared in front of her. ‘Good evening, Miss Jacobs. I am Lady Blackmore.’
Sophia’s soul cringed. There was no hope of salvaging this situation. No one should meet a countess for the first time, while drunk and sprawled across the floor of a library. ‘Good evening,’ she managed to croak.
‘We have not met before, but I am to be your new sister-in-law.’
Perhaps it was the kindness of the lady’s tone, or maybe the reference to becoming one of the family brought home the reality of the situation, but for whatever reason, the tears finally arrived, spilling unheeded over her lashes.
She wiped them away with the backs of her hands, trying to hide them by making no sound.
But it was of no use. The tears were so copious, it was as if she were washing her face with water.
‘Oh dear,’ said the countess. ‘It really is not as bad as it seems. Christopher is a good man, you will see.’
‘It does not matter what I am like,’ said the man himself. ‘There will be no wedding.’
‘Christopher!’ Lady Blackmore twisted slightly to look up at him. ‘Have a little compassion. There is no need to add to Miss Jacobs’ distress. There must be a wedding or it will be worse for her.’ That did not help with the tears.
‘My nerves have been sorely tested this evening, and this situation is not helping.’
‘This situation is a young woman whose entire life has been altered because some bossy old grand dames have put their noses into something they should have left well alone. Miss Jacobs is having to adjust to her whole life being turned upside down. Her heart is breaking.’
‘Mine would be too,’ said the first voice, which belonged to a man she did not know. ‘I cannot imagine the horror of being engaged to Christopher.’
‘Again, that is not helpful, Freddie.’ Lord Christopher sounded cross, an emotion she would not have expected from the ever-cheerful man, or at least she supposed he was.
He was always laughing and joking with his friends and the stories of him that circulated the Ton suggested that his escapades were always entertaining to him at least.
Lady Blackmore ignored the two men. ‘Can you stand?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ She hoped that wasn’t a lie.
‘I think we should have the Glanmore carriage brought round. Kate and I will escort you and your friend home, and we can resolve everything at a later date. How does that sound?’
She did not know who this Kate was, but hopefully she was someone kind; it was difficult to summon up enough energy to care. Although, ‘later’ and ‘resolve’ were the two best words she had ever heard. ‘Good,’ was all she managed.
Next to her, Tabitha’s snores were getting louder; her friend would be mortified if she realised. Perhaps it would be better if Sophia kept it to herself. Heaven knew, she would prefer to be completely unaware of current events.
Getting to her feet was far harder than she’d anticipated. Lord Christopher’s hand wrapped tightly around her upper arm as he helped her to remain upright.
‘I do not think I like brandy,’ she told him, as Lord and Lady Blackmore helped Tabitha to her feet. ‘I shall avoid drinking it in future.’
He ignored her, shifting on his feet. Presumably, he wanted to see if progress was being made with her friend, but, in doing so, he caused her to stumble and her face collided with his chest. It was firm and he smelled citrusy, with a deep layer of orange, which may have been caused by her dousing him in brandy.
Leaning against him was far preferable to sitting on the floor, so she stayed there.