The next morning Sophia came to breakfast with a look upon her face that Laurence could not at first decipher.
Not misery.
Not excitement.
Something between a frown and a grievance — as though she had spent the early morning arranging all her indignations in proper order and was determined not to let any of them go to waste.
The breakfast room was warm with sunlight. The windows stood open just enough to let in the soft air of the morning, and the silver on the table caught the light in brief, polished flashes. Beside Sophia's plate, untouched for the moment, lay a small card and a letter that had arrived not long after she had come downstairs. A potted medicinal plant had been sent with them, carefully wrapped and already unboxed by a maid.
Laurence had noticed it at once.
A letter and a gift this early after the luncheon ought, by all ordinary reasoning, to have pleased her. If anything, he had expected a certain triumph. Vincent Goodwin, it seemed, had already joined the growing procession of men attempting to place themselves favorably in her memory.
And yet Sophia sat with that oddly huffed expression, poking rather than eating.
Laurence lifted his coffee.
"You look as though someone has deeply offended your principles."
Sophia looked up at once, almost too quickly, as though she had indeed been holding herself in readiness for precisely such an opening.
"He has."
Laurence paused.
"He?"
"Yes."
He set down the cup.
"I had thought the luncheon ended well."
"It did," she said. "And then it did not. And then it did again. But that is not the point."
"That is a great many states for one luncheon."
Sophia drew a breath and then, before he could say another word, began in a flood.
"It began very pleasantly. Lord Goodwin was tolerable — more than tolerable, really, at first. Quite sensible, actually, and he reminded me a little of Fredrick if Fredrick had better manners and less desire to prove himself right every third minute. He spoke exactly as you said men would — about land and grain and estates — and I thought I should die from boredom, but then he turned to botany and medicinal herbs, which was much improved."
Laurence listened.
"And I told him about the plant in my room, which was entirely civil and harmless and should have remained so," Sophia went on. "But then somehow philosophy arose, and Marcus Aurelius, and from there everything became intolerable."
Laurence leaned back slightly.
"Did it."
"Yes." She looked at him with genuine offense still alive in her eyes. "He spoke as if men are naturally fitted to understand suffering and women only fitted to endure comforts. As if pain belongs more properly to men because they inherit titles or go to war or own things, and women may perhaps suffer in decorative ways, but not seriously."
Laurence said nothing yet.
Sophia continued, voice quickening.
"And when I answered him — very calmly, I think — and said that Aurelius speaks of governing one's own mind, not solely of male hardship, he looked at me as if I had misunderstood the book."
"That was unwise of him."
"Yes, it was," she said at once. "And then, as if that were not enough, the Marquis was drawn in."
At that Laurence understood.
Astor.
Sophia set down her spoon with more force than necessary.
"They asked his opinion, and he agreed with Lord Goodwin."
"Not entirely?"
"Entirely enough."
"What did he say?"
She repeated it in substance — Edward's grave, handsome speech about burdens borne by men, titles inherited too young, fathers who go to war, brothers who protect, husbands who shield their wives from hardship by enduring it on their behalf.
Laurence, to his private discomfort, knew that if asked coldly and in a different room, he might have said much the same in broad outline.
But he also knew that breakfast was not the place to tell Sophia that.
"He made it sound beautiful," she said bitterly. "That is almost the worst of it. If a man says something foolish, at least one may dismiss him for being foolish. But when a man says something infuriating in a polished voice and all the ladies look as though he has quoted scripture, what is one meant to do?"
Laurence's mouth almost moved.
"One is meant," he said carefully, "to remember that polished men often speak in polished simplifications."
Sophia looked at him narrowly.
"Do you agree with him?"
Laurence reached for his knife and calmly cut into a piece of toast.
"I think," he said, "that society teaches men and women very different forms of endurance."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the answer you are getting."
She huffed, "You are impossible."
"I am measured."
"You are avoiding me."
"I am saving your morning."
Sophia, though still aggrieved, nearly smiled against her will.
Laurence took advantage of the softening at once.
"Listen to me," he said. "A luncheon table is not a battlefield worth dying upon. Men like Goodwin read half a book and think themselves emperors. Men like Astor know how to speak in a way that makes ordinary ideas sound heroic. That does not mean you were wrong to answer. Only that it was never likely to end in complete victory."
She folded her hands more tightly.
"I still felt slighted."
"I know."
"And I do not want a husband who thinks a woman incapable of understanding pain merely because she cannot inherit a title."
"Then do not choose one."
Sophia blinked.
The simplicity of it startled her.
Laurence continued, more lightly now, "You are not being marched to the altar tomorrow. You are allowed to find men absurd."
That eased something in her.
Sophia tried to hold on to her indignation, but it was becoming harder when he was clearly amused by it.
Then, because one storm in her never quite finished before the next began, she set down the issue of Aurelius only to seize another.
"And another thing."
Laurence, now better prepared, only lifted his cup.
"The Marquis." Sophia poked her food firmly with a fork, as if the food had also slighted her, "He is infuriating."
That nearly made Laurence choke on his tea, though he disguised it as a brief cough.
Sophia, too occupied by her own outrage to notice, continued.
"He has this way about him — this very sure way. As if he enters a room already knowing exactly what effect he will have. And he looked at me as though I were meant to be impressed by it."
"Were you?"
She hesitated.
Then said with absolute honesty, "A little."
Laurence set down the cup rather more carefully than before.
"But," Sophia added quickly, "only because he is practiced. Which is why I distrust it."
"That is promising."
"It is not promising. It is vexing." She frowned into her plate. "He speaks of admiration and seeing me again and being unfortunate not to have attended my debut as though all of society were one endless romantic arrangement. It is too smooth. I've heard some stories how every year new debutants fall prey to all of his buttery smoothness and then, as if it was not his fault, he leaves the poor lady guessing whether he had indeed wanted something proper with her or she had just fallen into a fantasy all on her own accord!"
"A dangerous quality."
"Yes." Sophia straightened, as though naming it gave her power over it. "He is a reputable rake."
Laurence looked at her.
"A what?"
"A reputable rake," she repeated firmly. "I thought of that one myself. Society sees him in a good light, but I can see perfectly well that he is slick. Luckily Madame Rose had instructed me well so I will not fall for such obvious performances. If he ever presents himself in the same room, I shall keep my distance."
At that Laurence laughed, properly this time.
Sophia looked pleased with herself.
"You think I am wrong? I understand he's looked kindly upon by all, but surely you do not expect me to encourage such a man and hope he becomes my husband!?"
"I think," he said, still half smiling, "I will leave the matters of the heart up to your own judgement."
"So I am correct!"
Laurence smiled as he sipped his tea.
Inwardly he was delighted by her fury. Let her find these men frustrating. Let the season show her vanity, polish, male certainty, and theatrical nonsense until she discovered, of her own accord, that no one alive could satisfy her standards.
And when she found that no man was good enough—
Well.
A man might hope.
Sophia's mood improved by degrees after that. The edge of the luncheon disappointment softened under the force of her own indignation and Laurence's strategic placating. By the time breakfast ended, she had stopped looking personally betrayed by philosophy and had turned instead toward the day ahead.
"The book club will take place in two days time," she said as she rose. "And at least books do not speak back with smug confidence."
"That depends on the author."
She smiled faintly, "I shall take my chances."
Two days later the invitation was answered by attendance.
The chosen book was Pride and Prejudice, which already gave the gathering an advantage over most society entertainments in Sophia's eyes. She knew the premise, had read the opening chapters, and looked forward to hearing the opinions of people who actually cared for such things rather than merely endured them to appear civilized.
She dressed with greater ease that day than she had for the luncheon.
The style was still elegant, still carefully considered, but softer. Less ceremonial. More suited to an afternoon among readers than an event designed to weigh marriage prospects openly.
When she came downstairs, Laurence was in the front hall fastening his gloves.
"Off to reform literature?" he asked.
Sophia smiled, "To discuss it, not reform it."
Laurence glanced at the book in her hand.
"Pride and Prejudice?"
"Yes."
He gave a brief nod, "Then I wish you patience. Half the room will admire Mr. Darcy for the wrong reasons."
Sophia laughed, "And the other half?"
"Will pretend not to admire him at all."
"That sounds very like society."
Lady Sussex's drawing room was bright with afternoon light and already pleasantly full by the time Sophia arrived.
The gathering possessed a softness entirely different from a ball or luncheon. There was no orchestra, no carefully staged entrance, no immediate pressure of formal conversation. Instead, the room held the easy movement of guests arriving in stages — ladies greeting one another, gentlemen bowing, servants taking gloves and shawls, books resting on side tables as though they too had been invited and were waiting for their proper turn.
Lady Sussex received Sophia near the center of the room.
"Miss de Montfort," she said warmly, extending one hand. "How good of you to come."
"Lady Sussex, thank you for inviting me."
"We are very glad to have you. I do hope you shall enjoy the afternoon. There are enough opinions in this room already to quarrel with Austen herself."
Sophia smiled, "Then I am sure it will be lively."
Lady Sussex laughed softly, "We can only hope. Do make yourself comfortable. We shall begin shortly."
Once the formal greeting was done, Sophia allowed herself to move gradually through the room, as one ought. She spoke first with two ladies she had met at a previous gathering, exchanged pleasantries with another who admired Lady Sussex's collection of bindings, and listened while a gentleman near the mantel declared that no modern novel could rival proper history, only to be contradicted by an older widow who told him that history was merely gossip dressed in dates.
Sophia found herself at ease almost at once.
This, she thought, was a far more civilised sort of society. There was less strain in it, less overt performance. One could stand with a cup of tea and speak without every sentence feeling like part of a negotiation.
As more guests arrived, the room slowly settled into readiness. Ladies began choosing seats. A few gentlemen drifted toward the chairs at the back or along the sides, clearly aware that this was not their dominion but unwilling to miss an afternoon where so many women had gathered with books in hand.
Sophia made her way toward the settee nearest Lady Sussex and sat there, smoothing the skirt of her dress carefully beneath her. From that place she could see most of the room without being too exposed to it. She was pleased with the position at once — near enough to the hostess to seem favored, but not so near as to invite unnecessary scrutiny.
She had only just made herself comfortable, adjusting the book in her lap when she saw a pair of men's shoes approach.
Then came a familiar voice.
"Miss de Montfort."
Sophia looked up rather more quickly than she intended.
There stood the last man she had expected — and perhaps, given her lingering irritation, the one she least wished to see.
Marquis Edward Astor.
He wore that same gentle, self-assured smile that already seemed too practiced to be entirely innocent.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I hope I do not intrude. Is this seat beside you taken?"
For the briefest instant Sophia simply looked at him.
What was he doing here?
Then, almost immediately, she noticed over his shoulder another familiar face near the doorway — Lord Michael Grosvenor, already greeting Lady Sussex.
Of course, she thought.
Where there were more ladies than gentlemen, men such as these would always find reason to appear.
She recovered at once.
"Good afternoon, my lord," she said properly. "No, it is not taken."
He inclined his head and sat beside her with easy elegance.
Sophia turned slightly away, opened the book in her lap as though she had been deeply occupied by it already, and fixed her eyes upon the page.
It was a perfectly polite gesture.
And a perfectly deliberate one.
I am occupied, it said.
You are not yet of consequence.
Beside her, Edward noticed the little act immediately and laughed under his breath — softly enough that no one else would hear.
The sight of her, mildly riled and pretending indifference, only sharpened his interest further.
No matter.
The afternoon had only just begun.