Sophia entered the townhouse with such force that her slippers very nearly struck the marble like an accusation.
Not ran — she was too old now, too conscious of herself for outright childish rushing — but she came in with all the compressed agitation of someone trying to remain a lady while feeling anything but ladylike. Her fan was still in her hand, half-folded and gripped too tightly. Her cheeks held a lingering colour not entirely attributable to the spring air.
Behind her, Laurence followed more slowly, the front door closing at his back.
He had seen the carriage.
Seen Astor descend.
Seen Sophia step out after him.
Seen Edward retain her hand long enough to kiss it again before parting.
And though he had said little while the Marquis remained within earshot, he now had considerably more questions than answers.
Sophia moved ahead into the drawing room without waiting to be asked, and Laurence, still mildly stunned by the entire spectacle, stopped near the hearth and looked at her.
She looked furious.
Not distressed.
Not flustered.
Furious.
It almost amused him.
"Should I understand from this," he asked at last, very mildly, "that you have undergone some sudden change of heart and decided to permit the Marquis of Astor to court you after all?"
He had meant it half in jest.
Sophia stopped so abruptly that her skirts swung around her.
Then she turned, her eyes glaring "Never."
The force of the word would have checked a less self-possessed man.
Laurence lifted a brow.
Sophia, already afire with everything she had held in during the journey home, took that single question as full permission to begin.
"Never," she repeated, striding farther into the room. "Not if he were the last gentleman in England. Not if every title in the kingdom vanished and his were the only one left standing. Not if society itself lined up to insist upon it."
Laurence, sensing that interruption would be both useless and counterproductive, moved to the armchair nearest the settee and sat.
"Very well," he said. "I withdraw the suggestion."
"You should." Sophia flung her fan onto the table, then began pacing.
She did not so much begin speaking as burst.
"It began at the book club," she said, still standing because she was too agitated to sit properly. "No — it began before that, because the moment I saw him there I knew he had no business being there. What was he doing at a book club? He and Lord Grosvenor both. As though men such as that have deep attachments to novels and not to rooms where there are more ladies than gentlemen."
Laurence said nothing.
He sat back and let her pace.
That was usually the best thing to do when Sophia was in this sort of temper. If he interrupted too soon, she would only lose the thread and start again from a more dramatic point. Better to let the storm spend itself into shape.
"I had gone there to hear sensible discussion," she went on, "or at least discussion less tiresome than luncheon, and instead there he was, asking to sit beside me in that calm way of his, as though of course I should say yes and of course the chair should be his if he wanted it."
She turned toward Laurence, exasperated all over again at the memory.
"And then he was agreeable."
Laurence's mouth nearly moved at that, but he wisely did not let it.
"Yes," Sophia said, catching even the hint of amusement. "Agreeable. Which was worse. At luncheon he was impossible, and at the book club he chose to be thoughtful and reasonable and to ask proper questions, which was very unfair because I had already decided to dislike him."
She began pacing again.
"He asked what I thought, and I told him what I thought, and he agreed in that very measured way, and for a moment — only for a moment — I thought perhaps I had been too severe, but then I remembered perfectly well that he was the same man who thought Vincent Goodwin had made such an excellent point about Aurelius."
Laurence's gaze stayed on her.
That, he thought, was the true center of it.
Not that Edward had contradicted her.
Not that he had offended her outright.
But that he had proved harder to dismiss than she wished.
Sophia flung one hand in the air.
"And then when I decided I had had enough of him and would very sensibly leave in another direction, the settee betrayed me."
At that, Laurence's attention sharpened slightly.
She saw it and pressed on.
"My foot caught on the leg. Such a tiny thing, but enough — enough that I lost my balance and of course it had to happen there, at that exact moment, in front of him, because apparently God wished to try my patience personally today."
She stopped pacing long enough to drop onto the settee at last, but she sat on its edge, restless still.
"And he caught me," she said, more darkly now. "By the waist. Which, if it had ended there, would have been perfectly gentlemanly and left me with nothing to complain of. But I was flustered and trying to preserve some scrap of dignity, so I said I must have stood too quickly and felt a little faint — which I know now was foolish, you needn't say so — and that gave him the opening."
Laurence did not say so.
He only leaned one elbow against the arm of the chair and listened.
"He looked at me as though he had been handed a gift and said I ought not travel home alone if I felt unwell. And because my carriage had not yet arrived and because I had just claimed to be faint and because no one would have found it improper for him to offer, I had no elegant way of refusing without making myself look even more awkward than I already was."
She let out a breath through her nose and dropped back against the cushions, though only for a second before she sat forward again.
"So I accepted. Because what else was I meant to do? Refuse and make a scene? I thought, very sensibly, that it was only a carriage ride and I could simply pretend to feel faint the whole way and say nothing at all."
Laurence, still silent, thought that was exactly the sort of calculation she would make — practical, defensive, and doomed the instant it met a man who enjoyed being challenged.
Sophia's expression sharpened again at the memory.
"Only he did not speak."
That, more than anything so far, seemed to reoffend her.
"He just sat there and looked at me. Not politely. Not absentmindedly. He stared. As if I were some portrait hung up for his private inspection. I tried not to notice, and then I tried very hard not to notice, and then I thought if he looked one moment more I might truly say something improper."
Her cheeks warmed slightly again, whether from anger or the vividness of the memory Laurence could not quite tell.
"So at last I asked him whether everything was all right and said that he had been looking at me so intensely I began to think there was something wrong with my appearance. Is there something wrong with my appearance? Am I that amusing to be stared at?"
That did make Laurence's mouth move faintly.
Sophia caught it at once and pointed a finger at him.
"You are not to enjoy this. Is there something wrong with my appearance?"
He said nothing.
Which was wise, because he was enjoying parts of it — not her discomfort, never that, but the sharpness of her answers, the fact that she had not sat meekly beneath Astor's gaze and fluttered like some grateful fool.
"Don't you dare laugh like he did!" Sophia said. "How ungentlemanly it is to laugh at a lady! And then he said that if looking at a beautiful woman were a sin, he was willing to call himself a sinner."
She rolled her eyes with such force that it almost pulled another smile from Laurence.
"So I told him," she continued, "that London is full of beautiful women and if he wished to stare uninterrupted at beauty he should visit the National Gallery, where the portraits would not object to being gawped at for hours, and that I am not merely something to be looked at because I happen to possess a face."
That, Laurence thought, was excellent.
Sophia, however, was too deep into the rant now to notice how pleased he was.
"And what did he do?" she demanded of the room itself. "Laugh again. Call me amusing. Tell me I have a wonderful way with words and that my future husband would be fortunate to have such a well-spoken wife."
At that Laurence's fingers tightened once against the carved arm of the chair.
Sophia kept going.
"And I said — because someone had to say it — that I hoped my future husband would not find me merely something to look at, nor my reproaches laughable, but would instead be considerate and understanding."
There was, Laurence thought, absolutely nothing wrong with that.
But then her expression shifted into fresh annoyance.
"And then he asked my standards."
Laurence remained still.
"He offered," Sophia said, with all the disgust the word deserved, "to help me find a man who might meet them. As though I should simply disclose them and let him decide what sort of husband I ought to want."
This, too, Laurence let pass in silence.
Sophia huffed and crossed one ankle over the other with aggrieved precision.
"I told him that I would judge for myself whether a gentleman met them. And that if I ever truly required a gentleman to assist me, my brother the Duke was perfectly capable of such responsibilities."
That pleased Laurence very much indeed.
He kept his face neutral.
Sophia, now fully committed to the whole recollection, leaned forward.
"And that," she said, "is when he said you could not spend your whole life attending to me."
Laurence's eyes sharpened.
"He said you would have to marry one day, and continue your line, and that I would need someone else to take over that place in my life." Her voice sharpened as she repeated it. "As though I were some matter to be transferred. As though one man simply stands down and another steps in and that is that."
She stared at him in disbelief all over again.
"I disliked him before that," she said, "but after it I think I could quite cheerfully have thrown him from the carriage."
That, Laurence thought, was a very appealing image.
Outwardly he remained quiet.
Sophia's agitation rose another degree.
"And just to spite him, I nearly said I would rather end a spinster and remain at De Montfort under your care than ever put myself into the keeping of some husband I found intolerable."
That struck Laurence with such sudden pleasure he had to look away for one brief second lest it show too plainly.
A spinster.
At De Montfort.
Under his care.
The idea settled in him with dangerous sweetness.
He would not have objected in the least.
Sophia, entirely unaware of the effect of her own words, continued in full force.
"And then," she said, "because he apparently found all of this too straightforward to leave alone, he began trying to turn the question back on me and speak of himself in that smooth way, as though if I wished to know more about him I need only ask and he would be an open book."
She made a face.
"As if I had asked from curiosity rather than annoyance."
Laurence thought that was exactly the sort of answer Astor would give.
Sophia pressed one hand to her temple, then dropped it dramatically.
"And then the carriage jolted."
At that Laurence's attention sharpened completely.
"Quite violently," Sophia said. "I had only just begun to tell him that he ought to speak plainly and stop leading earnest young ladies where he wished, and the next instant I lost my seat."
She stopped there, and the pause itself told Laurence enough.
A small silence followed.
Laurence's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Sophia sat back letting out a short, furious breath.
"That is likely why he is still unmarried. What woman could even live with such a man? He would laugh at every reproach, answer every serious word with some polished little turn of phrase, and think himself delightful for it."
Laurence let her continue.
Better to hear it all now.
Better for her to spend the anger than hold it.
Sophia lifted her chin.
"A man ought to be modest," she declared. "And measured. And understanding. If he wishes to know a lady, he ought actually to listen to her and try to understand what she means, not merely smile and charm and take every chance to tease her because he thinks it makes him irresistible."
That, Laurence thought, was quite sound.
"And I do not understand why he is so admired," she went on. "Truly, I do not. Why so many ladies should fall over themselves because he speaks of romance in a polished voice and smiles at them as though he has already chosen whether they deserve another word."
She looked at Laurence then, eyes bright with the force of her own certainty.
"If society must admire gentlemen, then it ought to admire the right sort."
Laurence said nothing.
Sophia only gathered more speed.
"You, for example." she said at once. "It ought to admire you."
He remained very still.
She continued without guile, because to her the comparison was entirely obvious.
"If you and the Marquis stood side by side in a room, everyone should prefer you. He may be broad and seasoned and very sure of himself, but unlike him you are reserved and dignified and do not lead ladies on merely because you can. You do not sit there making sport of them when they are earnest, and you do not go about speaking of marriage and romance as though the entire world exists to admire your intentions."
Laurence kept his face composed only by habit.
"And how dare he bring up your marriage," Sophia added, "when he is not wed himself. I know you are admired too, but at least you do not seem to enjoy the admiration in that same… that same slick way."
She made a helpless gesture, "He is clearly a rake."
"A reputable one," Laurence said before he could stop himself.
Sophia looked at him sharply.
"Yes. Exactly. A reputable rake. Which is much more dangerous because everyone insists on calling him respectable while he goes about smiling in that way."
That, Laurence thought, was likely true enough.
At last the force of the whole speech began to leave her.
Her shoulders lowered.
Her voice lost a little of its edge.
She looked not less displeased, but more tired.
Laurence let the silence sit for a moment.
Then he said, quietly enough to steady rather than argue,
"Best pay such a man no particular mind."
Sophia frowned faintly, "That sounds simple."
"It often is," he said. "Men too pleased with themselves do not always thrive on disinterest."
She looked unconvinced, "He did not seem the sort to disappear merely because one wished him to."
"No," Laurence admitted, "but you are not obliged to like him. Nor to decide anything because of one luncheon, one book club, and one carriage ride."
That softened her.
He continued, because now he did have something useful to add:
"If he vexes you, keep your composure and let the season lengthen a little. Many men appear impressive in their first three meetings. Fewer improve by the fourth."
That made the faintest smile tug at her mouth, "And if they do not?"
"Then you will know it."
Sophia exhaled.
She sat there a moment longer, then said with less heat and more sincerity,
"I truly would rather remain here forever than marry a man I found unbearable."
The words struck Laurence with dangerous sweetness all over again.
He answered evenly, "Then do not marry one."
Sophia nodded once, grateful for the simplicity of that.
Then she rose and retired to her room for the rest of the evening, her fury spent for the moment and replaced by a kind of weary indignation that would no doubt improve after sleep.
When the room had emptied of her presence, Laurence remained where he was for a long while.
He thought of Edward's carriage.
Of the hand-kiss on the pavement.
Of the smooth explanations.
Of Sophia's fury, which had been honest enough to be trusted.
Something about the Marquis remained wrong to him.
Not openly wrong.
That was part of the trouble.
He had heard no scandal attached to the man.
No gaming debts.
No houses of infamy.
No broken engagements or obvious dishonours.
Nothing that would immediately disqualify him in the eyes of society.
And yet Laurence felt, with the sharpened instinct of a man too responsible to trust instinct lightly, that Astor was hiding something.
Or perhaps not hiding — merely controlling too well what others were allowed to see.
Better to know than regret ignorance later.
He rang for a servant and, when the man appeared, gave his instructions plainly.
"I want discreet inquiries made into Marquis Astor."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"His habits, his intimates, the steadiness of his household, any woman ever too attached to his name, any servant too suddenly replaced, any place he frequents which society overlooks because society is lazy. Quietly."
"At once, Your Grace."
"And if there is anything trifling," Laurence added, "bring it anyway. I shall decide what is trifling."
The servant bowed and withdrew.
Laurence remained by the hearth a little longer still, looking into the fireless grate as though answers might already be arranged there.
Edward, meanwhile, went where he often went at the close of an interesting day.
The club was lively by the time he arrived.
Michael Grosvenor was already there, speaking too quickly and too happily to several acquaintances over drinks, and the whole room hummed with that masculine ease which settles after dusk when men have eaten well and intend to sit long.
But tonight Edward entered with something unusual about him.
A brightness.
A festive certainty.
Michael noticed it immediately.
"Astor," he called. "You look devilishly pleased."
Edward smiled.
"Do I?"
"You do," Michael said. "And if you deny it, I shall only ask more questions."
Edward removed his gloves and handed them off to a servant.
"In that case," he said, glancing toward the steward, "best whisky in the house. Tonight I am paying."
That alone was enough to earn a cheer from two nearby men and a laugh from Michael.
"Well now," Michael said, rising slightly from his chair. "Something has happened."
Edward sat.
Something had happened.
Or rather, something had begun.
He could still feel Sophia.
The brief pressure of her when she had fallen.
The shape of her beneath his hands.
The heat of her anger.
The way her scent had lingered in the carriage.
The bright challenge in her voice when she told him he was vexing.
No woman had ever quite treated him like this.
Most melted.
Some posed.
Others flattered or tried to disarm him before he had even chosen whether he wished to be disarmed.
Sophia bristled.
Resisted.
Contradicted.
Watched him with mistrust and tried, in every small way, not to give him the victory of seeing her affected.
He liked that.
More than liked it.
He wanted more.
Not just another glimpse.
Not another conversation in a room full of witnesses.
Not merely praise or flirtation or the easy little triumphs men collected from women who yielded without challenge.
He wanted to win her.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
Until all that spirited resistance turned sweet.
Michael lifted his glass, "To whatever has made you so generous."
Edward smiled and lifted his own, "To good fortune."
He thought, not without pleasure, of the chain of events.
Michael's feverish praise after the debut.
The promenade.
The luncheon.
The book club.
The carriage.
Funny, really, how much could begin from a friend insisting he look twice at a girl.
Now Edward wanted far more than a second look.
He wanted her gaze.
Her blush.
Her hand reaching without protest.
Her anger softened into reluctance and then into something else entirely.
He would persist.
He would wear down that sharp little shield she held before herself.
He would exhaust every avenue if necessary.
And when it crumbled —
when she smiled at him not in duty but in surrender,
when she blushed because his hand had touched hers and not because she was angry,
when she wanted to see him as much as he meant to see her—
Then he would claim what he had set his sights upon.
It might take time.
Time he had.
He had remained unmarried for years.
Waited, if he was honest, for something that did not bore him.
Now he had found it.