Chapter One #2
“How,” her mother said, stepping forward, each word precise as a blade, “do you manage to distinguish yourself in the worst possible manner at every gathering?”
The heat rose in Sophia’s cheeks. “It was an accident—”
“Accidents,” her mother interrupted, “are the refuge of the careless.”
The woman in the stained gown said nothing, though her expression spoke volumes.
“I assure you,” Sophia began, “I meant no harm—”
“What you mean is rarely the issue,” her mother said sharply. “It is what you do.”
Around them, the air had shifted—curiosity sharpening into something quieter, more cutting.
And Sophia could tell what they were all thinking, what they had been waiting for all evening, and that was for her to fulfil their every expectation of what they knew her to be.
Sophia swallowed.
“I will have the gown repaired,” she said, more quietly now.
“You will do more than that,” her mother replied. “You will learn, at last, to conduct yourself with some measure of propriety—though I begin to fear it is beyond you.”
“That is quite enough.”
Sophia turned slightly, relief flickering through her chest as Charlotte stepped neatly between them, her expression all polite composure.
“I am certain Miss Sophia did not intend to offend,” Charlotte said smoothly. “And I believe Lady Harcourt would prefer assistance to further spectacle.”
Lady Harcourt inclined her head stiffly. “Indeed.”
Charlotte offered her arm at once. “If you would allow me—there is a retiring room just beyond the corridor.”
The woman accepted, and within moments, they were moving away, the tension dispersing with them.
Charlotte returned quickly, her gaze softening as it fell on Sophia. “Come.”
“I am quite capable of standing here and enduring it,” Sophia said lightly.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “But I am not capable of watching it.”
Sophia hesitated only a moment before allowing herself to be led away out of the ballroom.
The gardens were cooler, the heavy scent of perfume and beeswax giving way to damp earth, trimmed hedges, and the faint sweetness of early spring blossoms. Lanterns flickered along the gravel paths, their light gentler than the relentless brilliance of the ballroom.
Sophia exhaled, the tightness in her chest loosening with each step.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “that was a triumph.”
Charlotte snorted. “A resounding one.”
“I believe I have outdone myself.”
“You baptised Lady Harcourt in champagne.”
“She looked as though she could use some excitement.”
Charlotte laughed despite herself. “You are incorrigible.”
“Yes,” Sophia said, quieter now. “That does seem to be the general consensus.”
They walked a few steps in silence, the crunch of gravel soft beneath their slippers.
Charlotte glanced at her. “Do you remember,” she said slowly, “when we used to devise missions as girls?”
Sophia smiled, nodding. “Of course.”
“You insisted every dull afternoon required purpose.”
Sophia’s lips curved faintly. “I recall you objecting to climbing the garden wall.”
“I objected to falling from it.”
“You did not fall.”
“I nearly did.”
Sophia smiled, the memory warming her despite everything. “You were very dramatic about it.”
“I was injured.”
“You had a scratch.”
“It was a grievous scratch.”
Sophia let out a soft laugh.
Charlotte’s expression brightened. “We should have another.”
“A mission?” Sophia arched a brow. “At a ball?”
“Why not?”
“Because that sounds like an excellent way to worsen my reputation.”
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed. “It cannot possibly worsen.”
Sophia considered that. “A dangerous argument.”
“Which is precisely why I am making it.”
Sophia shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. I have done quite enough damage for one evening. Mama is as mad as a snake—”
Charlotte stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Sophia.”
“That tone is deeply suspicious.”
“I am quite serious.”
“That is even more concerning.”
Charlotte leaned closer. “You must steal a kiss before midnight.”
Sophia stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“A kiss,” Charlotte repeated. “A simple one. Nothing scandalous—merely enough to satisfy the terms of the mission.”
Sophia let out a disbelieving laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.”
“No.”
“If you refuse,” Charlotte continued, as though she had not spoken, “then you must dance with Lord Hatherly.”
Sophia’s smile vanished.
Of all the punishments imaginable, he was surely the most elaborate.
At forty-five, Lord Hatherly had the peculiar talent of appearing both overdressed and faintly disordered at once—his cravat perpetually too tight, his waistcoat straining with ambition rather than success.
He perspired with determination, spoke with alarming proximity, and possessed an enthusiasm for conversation that no polite interruption could ever hope to restrain.
Worst of all, he seemed to have fixed upon her with singular devotion, as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve simply by never leaving her side.
“That,” she said slowly, “is cruelty.”
“It is incentive.”
“He has been pursuing me for three seasons.”
“Yes.”
“I would sooner throw myself into the Serpentine.”
“He is not so dreadful.”
“He discusses his digestion, Charlotte,” she said.
“That is unfortunate.”
“He described it in detail.”
Charlotte winced. “Well then, I do believe you would not wish to give him any encouragement on the matter.”
Sophie shook her head. “You cannot simply assign me to kiss someone as though it were a task on a list.”
“I can,” Charlotte said. “And I have.”
“With whom, pray?”
Charlotte’s gaze shifted, lifting over Sophia’s shoulder toward the glowing windows of the ballroom.
“I believe,” she said thoughtfully, “our answer has just arrived.”
Sophia turned despite herself.
Through the tall glass doors, she caught sight of a gentleman she did not recognise. He was newly arrived and stood slightly apart, though not uncomfortably so, engaged in conversation with another gentleman, his posture relaxed, his movements unstudied.
He was pleasant to look at, fair-haired, with an open expression and a well-cut coat that spoke of good taste without excess.
Nothing about him demanded attention, and yet nothing repelled it either.
He smiled easily, as though conversation were a thing to be enjoyed rather than endured, and there was a lightness to him that set him apart from the careful stiffness surrounding him.
“Well?” Charlotte pressed.
Sophia watched him a moment longer, something uncertain stirring in her chest.
“You are not going to release me from it, are you?”
“Not for anything.”
Sophia glanced once more toward the ballroom, toward the gentleman with the easy smile.
She tilted her head slightly, considering.
There was no mystery there. No edge or sense that he might unsettle or challenge or disappoint in any meaningful way.
Safe, she decided. Entirely and reassuringly safe.
“How fortunate,” she murmured. “He looks as though he might survive me.”
Charlotte grinned. “Well then, what are you waiting for?”