That same evening, Sophia dined with Laurence in the smaller dining room of the townhouse, where they had taken to eating when no guests were expected. The larger room felt too ceremonial for ordinary meals, and tonight — though ordinary no longer seemed an apt word for any part of her life — she was too full of excitement to endure distance.
The candles had already been lit. Their glow softened the silver and crystal, made the white cloth gleam, and turned the windowpanes black beyond their reflections. Outside, Mayfair still moved and murmured, but here there was only the two of them, the discreet passage of servants, and Sophia's voice, which ran ahead of itself in bright waves.
Madame Rose had only just left her after reviewing the invitations one final time.
Sophia could still hear her.
"You are not to be seen only in candlelight."
"No gentleman should be judged with wine in him."
"Daylight is more honest than music."
"And never mistake quantity of flowers for seriousness of intention."
Sophia repeated half of it now, speaking over her supper with such earnest animation that Laurence scarcely needed to ask anything at all.
"Madame Rose says I must be seen in a variety of places," Sophia said, gesturing lightly with her fork before remembering herself and setting it down properly. "Not only at balls, because a man may seem tolerable in the evening and quite unbearable at luncheon."
"That is sensible."
"And she says I must observe what interests them when they are sober. Not what they say after too much champagne, but what they choose to speak of when there is no orchestra to rescue them."
Laurence glanced at her over his glass.
"And what if what they choose to speak of is equally intolerable?"
Sophia smiled.
"Then, according to Madame Rose, I must learn to look engaged without becoming trapped."
"She has trained many ladies well."
"Yes," Sophia said with satisfaction. "And she is right about promenades too. Today proved it."
Laurence knew what was coming then, because her whole face brightened in that particular way it did when she was pleased with some small triumph and eager to relive it aloud.
"You ought to have seen them," she said. "Or rather, no, you ought not, because I think I preferred having the advantage."
"What advantage?"
"The one Madame Rose promised." Sophia leaned slightly forward. "The less one appears to care, the more men begin to care terribly."
Laurence lifted a brow.
"Does that strategy already please you so much?"
"It works," she said simply, then laughed. "At least, it seemed to."
She began recounting the promenade properly then, and Laurence let her. He had not been able to attend, and though he disliked the thought of men approaching her at all, he preferred hearing the details from Sophia's own mouth rather than from gossip three hours later.
"Lord Grosvenor stopped me first," she said. "Though 'stopped' is generous. He nearly lost his courage halfway through."
"Did he."
"Yes. Quite badly." She smiled into her plate at the memory. "He greeted me properly enough and kissed my hand as though he had rehearsed it, but once he began speaking, he seemed to forget what he meant to say. I almost pitied him."
"That would have been charitable."
"I was charitable," Sophia said. "I thanked him for his compliments and did not laugh until after."
"After?"
"Internally."
Laurence gave a short breath that might have been amusement.
Sophia continued, "And then there was the friend behind him."
Laurence's expression changed only slightly.
"Marquis Edward Astor, I think. I hope I have the name right."
"Yes, I've heard of him."
Sophia rested her elbow too near the table edge, caught herself, and corrected her posture without losing her train of thought.
"There was something odd about him," she said. "Not unpleasant exactly. Only… deliberate."
Laurence said nothing.
"He did not fumble as Lord Grosvenor did," she went on. "At least not visibly. He looked at me as though he expected to be looked at in return. When he kissed my hand, he held eye contact the entire time."
Laurence's fork paused against the plate.
"And what did you make of that?"
Sophia considered.
"I thought perhaps he is very sure of himself."
"That would not be an unusual trait in a marquis."
"I know," she said, smiling faintly. "But it was not like Micha—Lord Grosvenor, I mean. Lord Grosvenor looked as though he wished me to approve of him. The marquis looked as though he assumed I might."
Laurence watched her carefully.
"And were you pleased by his attention?"
Sophia took a sip of water before answering, not because she needed it but because she liked the effect of making him wait a heartbeat.
"I was prepared for it."
"That is not what I asked."
She smiled then, a little more mischievously.
"I was pleased that I did not seem pleased. Madame Rose said some men need to knocked down a peg or two, especially if they are too sure of themselves."
At that, Laurence laughed softly.
He returned to his dinner, though the mention of Edward Astor had lodged unpleasantly in him. He knew of the man, knew his accomplishments, knew the absurd admiration he inspired in certain circles. He also knew — from inquiries already made and filed away — that polished reputation and private worthiness were not always twins.
Still, he hoped this encounter had been nothing more than chance.
Let Sophia think of Edward and Michael as men who fumbled for her attention, he thought. Let them remain amusing ornaments of the season and nothing more.
Sophia, unaware of the direction of his thoughts, had moved on already.
"Tomorrow is the luncheon," she said. "Madame Rose says it will be full of respectable gentlemen."
The word respectable was spoken with enough brightness to make Laurence look up again.
"And that delights you?"
"It interests me."
"It amuses you." Laurence scoffed lightly, raising his brows.
"It does both."
Laurence shook his head slightly.
"And what do you imagine respectable gentlemen discuss over luncheon?"
Sophia brightened further.
"That is exactly what I meant to ask you."
"Then ask."
"You've been at these luncheons before if I remember?" Sophia angled her head, "What topics are best discussed? And also, what would a gentleman prefer to speak about? I don't want to seem naive, I've even read one of Aurelius's books."
Laurence considered, then answered with all the honesty of a man who knew too much of such things and liked too little of them.
"Philosophy is a good start but most men like to talk big, so politics."
Sophia's expression faded a little.
"Trade."
It faded further.
"Military matters. Parliamentary appointments. The price of grain, if they pretend to be useful. Horses, if they are dull. Foreign affairs if they wish to sound informed. Estate management if they are earnest. Finance if they are tedious. Hunting if they have nothing better."
By the end of the list Sophia looked almost stricken.
"For two hours?"
Laurence nearly smiled, "Possibly longer!" He said in jest.
"That is inhumane." Sophia touched the side of her temples, feeling like she might just faint from the thought of such boring conversation.
"You asked."
"I had hoped for better."
He cut into his supper with suspicious calm.
"What had you hoped for?"
Sophia frowned, darting a look of agitation at him "Art. Books. Travel. Architecture. Music, perhaps."
"Men do speak of those things."
She brightened slightly, "Do they?"
"When they are trying to charm women who care for them."
That only half restored her.
"I do not know how I am meant to sit through grain and Parliament and still appear delightful."
"If you truly dislike it, you may always sit in silence."
She stared at him, "In silence?"
"Yes."
"How would that make a good impression?"
"It might suggest thoughtfulness."
"It might suggest I am a social bore," Sophia replied at once. "I do not wish to be thought a bore and then not be invited anywhere else this season."
Laurence laughed outright then, the sound warm enough to restore her entirely.
"You will not be mistaken for a bore."
"You say that because you are biased."
"I say it because I know society better than you do."
She narrowed her eyes slightly, "That is not comforting."
"It is meant to be."
Sophia huffed softly, then relented into a smile, "Very well. I shall endure the luncheon. But if someone speaks too long on parliamentary reform, I reserve the right to die quietly in my chair."
"I should prefer you did not."
That silenced her only for a moment.
Then she laughed again, and the dinner continued with a lightness as if her ramblings weren't anything serious, merely forms of entertainment that Laurence would amuse.
The next morning dawned clear and pleasantly warm.
Sophia was dressed for the luncheon in pale pink silk, soft enough in colour to suggest sweetness without childishness. The gown was embroidered delicately and caught here and there with small beads and seed pearls so fine they did not glitter so much as glow when she moved. There were no garish ribbons, no artificial flowers, no excess. Madame Rose had forbidden all of that.
"Sweet and elegant," Madame Rose had said that morning as the maids made their final adjustments. "Not decorative. There is a difference."
Sophia's hair had been arranged in an updo suited to daytime — refined, lighter than an evening style, with a string of pearls threaded through it and small pins shaped in peony motifs placed with calculated irregularity. White lace gloves, a fan to match, pearl earrings, and a light fragrance completed the effect.
When she stepped into the withdrawing room where Madame Rose waited, the older woman looked her over once from head to toe.
"Well?" Sophia asked.
Madame Rose gave a single nod.
"You will do."
Sophia smiled.
That, from Madame Rose, was approval.
They drove to Lady Henbury's in a compact carriage fit for daytime visiting rather than display. The house itself stood in one of the better streets and had, as all such houses must, a garden large enough to make itself useful in the season.
Lady Henbury received them in the entrance hall with gracious warmth and the faintly sharpened eye of a hostess assessing whether her guests had arrived in the form she wished them to be seen.
"Miss de Montfort," she said, taking Sophia's hand briefly. "You are most welcome."
"Lady Henbury, thank you for inviting me."
"We are delighted to have you. Madame Rose."
"Lady Henbury."
They were shown through to the garden, where the luncheon gathering had already begun.
The atmosphere was quieter than a ball, exactly as Madame Rose had promised. Light drinks were being served, but very little alcohol. Conversations drifted in clusters beneath the spring air with none of the looseness that evening or music could excuse. This was not a place for theatrical flirtation. It was a place for being observed soberly.
Sophia felt the difference at once.
The garden was shaded here and there by trees and trellised blooms. Wisteria hung in great lilac trails over one side, and a long table had been laid beneath its canopy for the meal to come. Smaller standing groups occupied the lawns and stone paths, ladies in soft daytime silks and gentlemen in lighter coats moving through polite conversation.
Madame Rose did not keep Sophia on her arm for long.
Instead she introduced her to two young ladies who had also only recently debuted and then, after ensuring the introduction had taken root properly, withdrew with perfect calculation.
"Miss Sophia de Montfort," she said. "Miss Clara Wren. Miss Eliza Fenwick."
Sophia inclined her head.
"How do you do?"
The girls greeted her warmly enough, and within minutes conversation had begun to flow.
It started with harmless subjects — the weather, a concert one of them had attended, an acquaintance common to all three. Then Miss Eliza mentioned that she hoped to visit the National Gallery the following week if her mother did not invent some reason against it.
"I have wanted to go for months," she said. "There is a new arrangement of paintings I wish to see."
Miss Clara said, "I went to the museum two days ago and did not wish to leave. There is something so comforting in old things kept properly."
Sophia's interest sparked at once.
"The museum? Which rooms did you see?"
The conversation shifted beautifully from there. Paintings, statues, museum collections, history, what one wished to see and what one pretended to understand. Sophia found, to her relief, that with girls of intelligence and some liveliness of mind, talking came easily and even pleasantly. By the time Lady Henbury called everyone to table, she found herself hoping one of them might be seated near her. It would be useful, should the gentlemen prove as Laurence had threatened.
The arrangement at table was deliberate.
Two ladies, then two gentlemen, repeated down the length of the setting beneath the wisteria. A gentleman opposite each lady as well, so that no woman need be trapped entirely by the conversation of the man beside her if a more tolerable one sat across.
Lady Henbury took the head.
Servants moved with chairs.
Sophia found her place and was assisted into her seat by the gentleman beside her, whom she thanked politely. Then, as she lowered herself, she looked up — and saw directly opposite her a face she recognized at once.
Marquis Edward Astor.
For the briefest moment she was genuinely surprised.
So soon again?
Michael's words from the promenade returned to her at once: He is often seen at society events. You are likely to cross paths.
It seemed he had not exaggerated.
Edward inclined his head and gave her a pleasant smile — not warm in the easy way Michael's had been, but polished, self-possessed, the smile of a man who expected to be well received.
Sophia returned the smallest proper nod.
Inside, she felt caution rather than fluttering.
Madame Rose's teachings had done their work well.
A man too certain of his own effect, she had been warned, was often a man best watched carefully.
So when the gentleman beside Sophia asked whether she preferred lemonade or watered wine, she turned to him first and thanked him, leaving Edward's smile unanswered for just long enough to force him to register the slight.
Edward did register it.
And found it interesting.
This luncheon was no accident for him.
Lady Henbury was a friend of his mother's and had looked in on him more than once in the early years after his parents' deaths. He had attended her gatherings before for the ease of them, for conversation that cost little and demanded less, for the pleasure of being among polished company without the full labour of evening society.
But today he had come with purpose.
He had asked in advance who would be there.
And when he learned Sophia de Montfort had accepted, he had ensured, with the lightest of manipulations and a hostess's willing cooperation, that he should be seated exactly where he now sat.
An orchestrated coincidence.
But coincidence still, so far as Sophia knew.
He watched her as the first little exchanges around the table began.
Yes, he thought, she was beautiful in daylight. More so than the descriptions of his lovestruck friends.
She retained her composure, her brightness, her slight remoteness. She did not seem like the many women who had once angled themselves toward his attention in hopes of being chosen. She seemed, if anything, slightly beyond the reach of most men in the room.
That pleased something in him at once.
The chase.
He had always loved the chase.
It was in his nature, perhaps sharpened by experience. He had fought too long and too hard in too many forms of life to be moved by anything that yielded immediately. As a boy of fourteen inheriting title, estate, burden, and expectation all at once, he had learned to make himself formidable or be consumed. He had built his marquisate into something wealthy enough to rival houses above him. He had gone to war. He had returned decorated, broadened, burnished by achievement. Men admired him. Women wanted him. Very few things withheld themselves from him long.
Sophia, he thought, might.
That made him want her more.
Across from him, Sophia had become aware that his attention was on occasions was fixed, and because she had been warned precisely against men who looked too knowingly at women, she decided the safest course was not to encourage him.
So she ignored him for the moment in favour of the gentleman beside her, who, though less striking, at least seemed harmless and rather overly eager to be helpful.