Chapter 3
“Are there any particular gentlemen you wish to dance with tonight?” Lady Carlisle asked from where she sat on the ottoman at the foot of Sophie’s bed.
Sophie’s instinctive response was to say, “No,” but her mother wouldn’t be pleased by that.
She was trying to give Sophie time to choose her own husband and was definitely exerting less pressure than she had on Violet and Emma, but her patience was wearing thin.
New cracks appeared in it with each passing day.
“Baron Sylvestor asked me to save him a dance,” she said, hoping her mother wouldn’t ask when they’d spoken, since she’d still not mentioned her solo jaunt in Hyde Park. “He seems nice.”
Facing the dressing table mirror with her back to Lady Carlisle, Sophie couldn’t see her expression, but she imagined that her mother was surprised that Sophie had offered an opinion on any gentleman at all.
Usually, she did her best to refrain, knowing that any indication of preference would only encourage her mother.
Nicholas, her heart cried. I want Nicholas.
Unfortunately, Nicholas had long since declared his intention not to marry, and he’d given no hint that he might have changed his mind.
“The baron is very handsome,” Lady Carlisle said, a warmth in her voice that wasn’t usually there. “And you already know I like the dowager baroness. He respects her greatly, and you can always tell a good deal about a man from how he treats his mother.”
“Remind me where he’s from.” She’d probably been told at some point, but she rarely remembered facts about people unless she was particularly interested in them.
“Lincolnshire, I believe. Or maybe Nottinghamshire. Somewhere northwest, in any case.”
“Interesting.” Sophie had never visited that part of the country. She had no idea whether she’d like it or not.
She winced as Betsy twisted a strand of her hair too tightly.
“Sorry, my lady,” Betsy murmured, releasing it instantly and starting again.
She was in the process of dressing Sophie’s hair for the Hampstead ball.
She’d arranged most of it in an elaborate display of braids knotted together on the back of Sophie’s head and was now curling the strands that remained free to frame her face.
Many of the pins holding the braids together were bejeweled with tiny sapphires that matched Sophie’s eyes, and the gown she’d chosen for tonight was also a rich shade of blue.
Designed by Kate, of course.
Betsy pinned the last of the curls into place and stepped aside so that Sophie could study her reflection. Pale skin, her freckles proudly on display because she refused to wear powder, and pops of blue amid the red of her hair.
“Excellent work, Betsy,” her mother said. “Shall we get her dressed?”
Betsy curtsied. “Yes, my lady.”
Sophie looked down at her lap and smirked. Betsy was much more deferential when Lady Carlisle was around than when it was just the two of them.
Sophie rose from her chair and opened her arms so that Betsy could remove her robe. The maid held her dress in position, and Sophie stepped into it, then slipped her arms into the sleeves, the silk whispering over her sensitive skin.
She winced as Betsy grabbed the ties at the back of the gown and yanked on them, wrestling the gown so that it was as tight as possible around Sophie’s torso, displaying her slim waist.
“I need to breathe,” Sophie muttered, and Betsy loosened the ties slightly.
Once the gown was secure, Sophie checked her reflection again. The blue suited her nicely, giving her a faint flush rather than washing her out as many pale colors did, and it complemented the sapphires in her hair.
The waist nipped in right beneath her bosom, and the sleeves were short and puffy. The gown might have been plain if not for the floral detailing near the bottom hem.
Betsy knelt and helped Sophie into a pair of matching blue silk slippers, then passed her a shawl that she doubted she’d need, since it was a pleasantly warm night.
Lady Carlisle rose from the ottoman and extended her arm to Sophie. “Shall we depart?”
Sophie looped her arm through her mother’s, and they strolled together along the corridor, down the stairs, across the foyer, and out the house’s large front entrance.
The Earl of Carlisle’s formal carriage awaited, glossy black with the Carlisle crest on the door and dark curtains framing the window.
A footman assisted them into the carriage, and they trundled the short distance to Viscount Blackwell’s townhouse, where Kate was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a gown in a soft shade of sage green that made her friend look even more beautiful than usual, which wasn’t an easy feat.
They slowed and a moment later, the door opened.
“Are you sure you wish to accompany us?” Sophie called to Kate as her friend used the makeshift stairs to enter. “You wouldn’t rather remain home with Lord Blackwell?”
Kate settled opposite them and stacked her hands on her lap. “I’m looking forward to the ball. Theodore isn’t much for social occasions, and I’ve been waiting for an excuse to wear this gown.”
“It’s lovely,” Sophie said earnestly.
“One of your designs?” Lady Carlisle asked.
Kate ducked her head as if embarrassed by her own accomplishments. “I saw the fabric at Madam Baptiste’s and simply knew I must design a dress for it.”
“The color suits you perfectly.”
That said, it was a rare thing that would not suit Kate. She was that kind of person. It was fortunate she was so sweet, or Sophie might have hated her for it.
They chatted about the events of the day until they reached the Hampstead residence. They joined a line of carriages and waited their turn to disembark.
As the oldest of the three, Lady Carlisle took the lead, with Sophie and Kate walking arm in arm behind her. They entered the foyer and paused outside the ballroom to exchange pleasantries with Lord and Lady Hampstead.
Lady Hampstead was renowned for her love of shrubbery and her view that one could never have enough flowers at a social engagement.
Sophie could already tell that she’d stayed true to form tonight.
A thick, heady floral perfume permeated the air, and she thanked her good fortune that she’d never been the type to sneeze in gardens.
Once inside the ballroom, they paused to get the lay of the land.
“I see Lady Sylvestor,” Lady Carlisle said, motioning to the dowager baroness. “I’m most eager to hear about her experience at the new modiste’s shop. I’ll find you again later.”
Sophie and Kate exchanged a scandalized glance as her mother glided toward Lady Sylvestor.
A new modiste?
Who would dare challenge Madam Baptiste’s claim as the premier modiste to the ton?
“Oh, look, it’s the Duchess of Arundel,” Kate exclaimed, nodding toward an elegant brunette perhaps ten years their senior. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with her.”
Sophie allowed Kate to lead her to the duchess, who was drinking a glass of lemonade and watching the crowd with a slight curve to her mouth, as if she found something amusing but had no intention of letting anyone else in on the joke.
When they reached her, Sophie and Kate both curtsied deeply, showing the duchess due respect.
“Your Grace,” Kate murmured, tilting her head up and smiling. “You look very nice tonight.”
Lady Arundel gave a light curtsey in return. “Lady Blackwell, Lady Sophie, it’s a pleasure to see you both.”
Someone bumped into Sophie, and she ushered Kate forward so that they were standing beside the wall with Lady Arundel, out of the way of passersby.
“Have you heard about the Duke of Wight?” Lady Arundel asked conspiratorially.
“No,” Sophie said, unable to help herself. “Has something happened?”
God forbid the man had chosen another wife. He’d already married three—all of whom were now dead. Sophie wasn’t particularly superstitious, but one didn’t need to be to see that something bad was going on there.
Lady Arundel glanced left and right, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He passed away last night.”
“Really?” The question burst from her before she could restrain it. “Who will the estate go to?”
He had no heirs, after all. None of his wives had managed to produce one. Most of the ton had determined that the problem must lie with him, but he hadn’t believed that, marrying younger and younger women under the insistence that one of them would bear him a son.
Lady Arundel turned her hand palm up. “A distant cousin, I’m given to believe.”
Kate turned to Sophie. “Perhaps the new Duke of Wight will be a young gentleman with roguish charm, and he’ll whisk you away to be his duchess.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “That is called a fantasy, my dear Kate. A lovely one, I grant you, but a fantasy nonetheless.”
There would be no dashing duke, able to make her forget Nicholas. His claws were sunk too deeply into her heart, and he didn’t even realize it.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Sophie.”
Sophie glanced at the gentleman who’d stopped in front of her and bit the inside of her cheek, hoping he hadn’t overheard her last remark.
It was Jonathan Adair, the second son of Baron Marwick. He was of average height, with a gentle smile and the sort of steadfast presence she imagined someone like Kate might find attractive.
Sophie, however, did not. She refused to find any of the Adair brothers attractive because of how Marcus, the youngest, had abandoned Emma following Violet’s scandal.
She curtsied. “Good evening, Mr. Adair.”
He offered her his hand. “I’ve been told a cotillion is about to begin. Will you join me?”
She laid her hand on his, doing her best to school her features so he wouldn’t see her reluctance. Based on how his smile fell, she doubted she’d succeeded.
“It’s rather stuffy in here, isn’t it?” Jonathan asked as he guided her into the starting position on the area of floor that had been cleared for dancing. “I hope they’ll open the balcony doors later to let some cooler air flow through.”