Chapter 17
The high, sweet notes of flute music ended as the song came to an end, and Lady Carlisle motioned toward Sophie with her fan. “Won’t you play next, my dear?”
They were gathered in the largest drawing room at Nunhaven, exchanging gossip over tea and biscuits while the guests took turns entertaining one another with displays of their musical prowess. The previous performer, Miss Marianne Bloombury, had played a simple but delightful song.
The same could not be said of all of the guests.
“Yes, you must,” Baron Sylvestor urged from where he sat opposite her. “I’ll turn the pages for you.”
When no one else made a move for the instruments, Sophie rose and headed for the piano. Miss Bloombury was packing away her flute, and she smiled as Sophie approached, but her face fell as she glanced over Sophie’s shoulder.
Sneaking a look back, Sophie realized that the baron had followed her.
She recalled what Lady Wembley had said about Miss Bloombury’s crush on him and felt rather sorry for the other woman.
She knew how much it hurt to long for a man she couldn’t have and, in this case, Sophie herself was one of the obstacles in Miss Bloombury’s way.
She was contributing to someone else’s misery.
“You played wonderfully,” Sophie told her, but the words didn’t ease her guilt.
Miss Bloombury forced a smile. “Thank you, Lady Sophie.”
Sitting at the piano, Sophie leafed through the music. The Wembleys’ taste differed from hers, so there were many she hadn’t played. She found a song she was reasonably familiar with and readied herself, skimming the notes to ensure she wouldn’t stumble over the first few bars.
Baron Sylvestor stood at her shoulder, and as she began to play, she was all too aware of how close he was and the way her body seemed to instinctively lean away from him.
There were flutters in her gut that might have been mistaken for attraction, but she doubted it was truly anything more than nerves.
She couldn’t afford to make a misstep at this point. Not when she’d gambled everything on attending this house party in order to secure the baron’s hand in marriage. By the time they returned to London, there was no guarantee that her other viable candidates would still be unattached.
Everything rode on the baron.
Her fingers slipped, a discordant note jangling in conflict with the others, but fortunately no one seemed to notice, and she recovered quickly.
When she finished, the baron touched her shoulder, and she flinched, caught off guard. She turned toward him, and he smiled sheepishly.
“You’re very talented,” he said, moving away to give her space. “Perhaps the best musician we’ve heard yet today.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.” She wasn’t sure it was true. The performance hadn’t been her best work.
“And sincerely meant.” He offered her his arm, and she took it, allowing him to lead her away from the instrument. “I thought I might walk to the pond in an hour or so. It’s a reasonable hike but not too tiring. Would you like to accompany me?”
Her gut plunged. A walk alone with Baron Sylvestor?
That would certainly cement their courtship.
Her insides roiled. She should be pleased, so why did the suggestion make her want to run to her bedchamber and hide?
“I thought we’d decided on a group outing to the pond,” Nicholas broke in, startling her once again.
She wasn’t sure exactly when they’d reached the sofas, but apparently they had. She glanced at Nicholas, whose eyebrow was arched, the twist of his mouth verging on smug.
What was he doing?
The whole purpose of their fake courtship was to help her attract the baron and keep his attention for long enough to secure a betrothal, and here Nicholas was, blithely getting in the way of the best opportunity she’d had to make progress with him.
She raised her chin and smiled at the baron. “I would be delighted to walk with you. If the pond is as lovely as you say, then I’m certain I won't mind seeing it more than once.”
He beamed. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“I’ll be ready to depart on the hour,” she said, ignoring Nicholas’s glare. “Thank you for the invitation, my lord.”
Baron Sylvestor bowed and walked away.
Sophie glanced around to make sure that no one was paying them any mind, then turned slowly to Nicholas and narrowed her eyes. “May I have a word with you?”
He got stiffly to his feet. The laughter that usually danced in his eyes was nowhere to be seen, and the set of his mouth was grim as they marched out of the drawing room.
There was no one in the corridor, and Sophie drew Nicholas farther from the doorway to reduce the chance of anybody overhearing them.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, her hands on her hips. “You’re acting like you’re trying to get in the way of our courtship. If you and I were genuinely courting, I’d understand, but we’re not. This isn’t real.” Her heart was heavy, her tongue thick as she added, “None of this is real.”
No matter how badly she might want it to be.
The corner of Nicholas’s eye twitched and his jaw set. “Are you sure?”
“I…” She trailed off. “I beg your pardon?”
“Doesn’t this feel real?” He grabbed her shoulders and, before she had time to react, pressed his lips to hers. They were soft—more so than she’d expected—but there was no uncertainty in the kiss.
His scent—sweet orange and lavender—filled her nostrils, and it was all she could do to clutch him and hold on. Her knees wobbled, and he gripped her hips and steadied her.
A sound nearby jolted her into the present, and she shoved him away, scooting backward so that they were no longer touching.
She looked wildly around, but no one was in sight. Relieved, she ran her trembling hands over her dress, smoothing everything into place. Her heart battered the inside of her rib cage, and she drew in a sharp breath as she forced her gaze to meet his.
“What on earth was that?” She hated how breathy her voice was. She sounded like a silly, kiss-addled girl.
Which, she supposed, she was.
Whatever point Nicholas had been trying to prove, the kiss certainly had felt real.
Had been real.
“I’m sorry.” He reached for her, but she sidestepped him. “I shouldn’t have done that without permission.”
“You shouldn’t have done that at all.” She winced. Her claim didn’t sound terribly convincing. Perhaps that was because she wanted him to wrap her in his arms and kiss her again.
But it couldn’t happen. Not if he refused to marry. Unless… he’d changed his mind?
He nodded, his expression closing over. “You’re right, of course.” He dragged his hands down his face and groaned. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I shouldn’t have kissed you, and I shouldn’t be interfering in your courtship, but I never expected to get so jealous.”
Jealous?
Sophie’s breath bottled in her chest. Did that mean he cared for her? That he wanted her for himself?
“I can’t stand seeing you with another man,” he went on, and she could have sworn she was floating inches above the ground, her body vibrating in a delicious way she’d never experienced before.
She wanted to revel in it, but before she could do that, she needed answers.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she inhaled slowly, steeling herself for whatever might come. “Does this mean you intend to court me sincerely?”
Please let him say yes.
He sighed heavily. “I can’t.”
Her throat tightened and she choked down a sob. “What?”
Surely she must have misheard him.
He tore his gaze from hers and looked away, his shoulders slumping. “I can’t court you.”
“Why not?” Her voice had risen, and she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to continue more quietly. “What’s so wrong with me that you won’t at least consider it?”
She understood the concept of men not wishing to marry in general, but if they had feelings for someone, then why wouldn’t they put aside their previous opinions of marriage to pursue the possibility of happiness?
She would risk everything for a chance with him. Why couldn’t he feel the same way about her?
He wiped his palms on his trousers and raised those fathomless dark eyes to hers. “It’s nothing to do with you. I swear.” He looked almost desperate for her to believe him. “It’s my problem. There are reasons I cannot marry, but it has nothing to do with you.”
She crossed her arms. “It certainly feels like it does. I’m the one you’re rejecting.”
He snatched her hand, but she yanked it away. “I’m not rejecting you. It’s just… complicated.”
“It really isn’t.” She swallowed around a lump, tears stinging her eyes. “If you truly wanted to marry me, then you would make it happen. If you insist that you cannot, then you must understand that I in turn cannot halt my courtship with Baron Sylvestor. I must safeguard my own future.”
Deep grooves formed around his mouth, and his eyebrows pinched together. “I understand.”
“But,” she added, unwilling to give up just yet, “if you were to change your stance on marriage, I would gladly commit to you.”
She watched him intently, scarcely daring to breathe. This was the closest she had ever come to confessing her feelings for him. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting to find out whether anyone would catch her if she fell.
Seconds ticked by. He didn’t say anything.
“Nicholas?”
Please, let him speak up. Let him decide that she was worth him dealing with whatever were the reasons he’d decided he couldn’t marry.
Don’t let him throw her away.
Still, he remained silent.
A tear trickled down the side of her nose, around her mouth, and dripped off her chin.
She swiped at her face before another one fell.
Pivoting, she stalked away.
A little under an hour later, she met Baron Sylvestor in the foyer and sent him a brittle smile. Her eyes were no doubt red from crying even though she’d dabbed them with cold water to stop them from getting puffy.
She carried her parasol in one hand and offered him the other. Betsy followed closely behind.