Her mother emerged from the drawing room doors at the top of the stairs and waved at Sophie excitedly. “You have an unexpected visitor, darling.”
Sophie’s belly somersaulted at the announcement. Mama’s pink cheeks and shining eyes left no doubt that the visitor in question was a gentleman, and Sophie couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Peabody had come to call. It was the height of foolishness to suspect it—and even more foolish to hope for it—but her body thrummed at the mere possibility that he might be sitting in her drawing room.
“Who is it?” Sophie asked in a stage whisper.
Mama merely smiled and met her halfway down the stairs, grabbing her arm so she could hurry her up to the landing. “You look lovely,” Mama assured her. “The brisk walk home has given you a fetching glow. Let me take your portmanteau so you may join your guest in the drawing room without delay. I’ve already rung for tea.”
Sophie planted her feet outside the drawing room door and faced her mother. “You’re not going to tell me who’s in there?”
“Go see for yourself,” Mama said, giving Sophie a surprisingly strong shove toward the door.
Sophie stepped into the drawing room and spotted her gentleman caller lounging on their slightly shabby settee, his back to her. His broad shoulders, clad in an expertly tailored jacket, were visible above the settee’s curved back, and his muscular arms spanned its length as if staking out his territory.
Drat. Lord Singleton had finally succeeded in cornering her.
She looked longingly over her shoulder at the door but knew she couldn’t avoid the marquess this time. “Good afternoon, Lord Singleton,” she said, trying valiantly to mask her lack of enthusiasm. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He quickly scrambled to his feet, took her hand, and bowed over it. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, Miss Kendall.”
Sophie resisted the impulse to snatch her hand away. The marquess was well-mannered, impressively fit, dark haired, and clean-shaven. Attractive by most standards … just not hers.
When she could politely withdraw her hand, she waved at the settee, encouraging him to sit. She poured a cup of tea, handed it to Lord Singleton, and pretended to be oblivious to his chagrined expression when she sat in the chair opposite him rather than joining him on the settee.
“I spoke to your father again last night,” he said smoothly. “He’s eager for you and I to … move forward. As am I.”
Sophie’s tea gurgled in her belly. This conversation was the primary reason she hadn’t wanted to be alone with the marquess. “I see no need to rush into anything, my lord.”
“No one could accuse us of rushing.” He blew out a long breath, clearly frustrated. “Your father led me to believe that you were amenable to the arrangement. If you’ve changed your mind…”
Sophie shook her head. “I haven’t.” She wouldn’t shirk her duty to her family, no matter how much she might like to. “However, I thought perhaps we could wait a few more months before making anything official.”
“Two months,” he said firmly.
Her traitorous teacup trembled on its saucer. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m willing to wait two months—and then we will announce our betrothal.”
Sophie’s mouth went dry. “We can discuss the timing and the other particulars toward the end of season,” she hedged. The mere thought of adhering to a timeline, setting a definitive date, made panic bubble at the back of her throat.
“Two months,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard her, “should be sufficient. It’s longer than I’d hoped, but we’ll use the time to become better acquainted and marry as soon as the banns are read. With any luck, you’ll be with child by Christmas.”
Sophie choked on a swallow of tea. Barely managed to keep from spraying it across the table onto the marquess’s pristine waistcoat. She smothered her mouth with her napkin, hacking and coughing until tears spilled down her cheeks.
Lord Singleton leaned forward, clearly distressed and unsure what to do. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She blotted her eyes with the corner of her napkin and shook her head. “I’m fine. Your comment simply took me by surprise.” The truth was that she couldn’t imagine any of it—not the betrothal, the wedding, and most definitely not the wedding night. An involuntary shudder enveloped her body.
Though she’d met Lord Singleton almost a year ago, he was still a relative stranger—who was already anticipating procreating with her. She fanned herself with her napkin.
“Your mother tells me you’re planning to attend Lady Rufflebum’s ball,” he said, oozing a specific strain of charm—one she seemed to be immune to. “I do hope you’ll allow me to claim you for the first set.”
Sophie pasted on a smile and graciously agreed. It felt like she was taking the first momentous step toward saving her family from financial and social ruin.
But she couldn’t help wishing that saving her family didn’t mean sacrificing her own future. Like yellowing leaves on the brink of a brutal winter, her dreams were about to shrivel and die.
Chapter 4
Lurking behind the hedges outside Lady Rufflebum’s ballroom and trying to avoid amorous couples on the terrace had to be a new low—even for Reese.
His valet, Gordon, had tried to cajole Reese into attending the ball as a guest. But that would have required him to wear an evening jacket and to walk through the front door and to be generally … civil.
Which was really asking a bit too much.
Reese was desperate to speak with Miss Kendall, however, and that was the reason he was currently peering over a bush beneath a window, peeking into the ballroom like a common criminal. At Reese’s behest, Gordon had made some discreet inquiries among the staff at her family’s residence and determined that Miss Kendall would likely attend the Rufflebum ball. There were no guarantees, of course, but it wasn’t as though Reese’s calendar were full.
The one thing he had plenty of—an endless supply, really—was waking hours. And therein lay the problem.
The last time he’d slept more than a couple of hours was five nights ago—on the evening he met Miss Kendall. He’d woken early the next morning feeling more rested than he had in ages. Almost human.
If she’d been able to help him sleep once, surely she could do it again.
He craned his neck above the sill and looked through the mullioned windows into the ballroom—a world so foreign and mysterious to him that it might as well have been two continents away. He was the second born, and while he’d attended a ball or two as a young buck, he’d eagerly traded in his formal wear for an officer’s uniform. He’d given up the opera, theater, and men’s clubs for rifles, fighting, and battlefields—and hadn’t regretted it for a single moment.
But then, three months ago, the unthinkable had happened. Edmund, the older brother he’d worshipped, had died.
Reese had no choice but to return home. But part of him still bled in the trenches, still heard the moans of the fallen all around him. He could never go back to being the person he’d been before.