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  Lyndhurst or prison.

  A sob of defeat tore from her chest. What choice indeed?

  Chapter 2

  “My lord?”

  Nicholas Somerville, the Earl of Lyndhurst, tossed aside his ruined neck cloth and turned from the mirror to inspect the Hessians his valet offered for his approval. Narrowing his eyes critically, he scrutinized their gleaming contours, searching for the slightest blemish. When he found none, he nodded once and returned to the exacting task of donning his neck cloth.

  Unlike most mornings, when he tied it with mindless ease, this morning the starched length of cloth refused to be drawn into a symmetrical knot, resulting in the growing pile of rumpled muslin at his feet. Not, of course, that he could compare this morning to those which had come before it. No. Today was different. Special.

  Today he was to propose to the incomparable Miss Barrington.

  And that meant that every detail of both his person and attire must be perfect. Thus resolved, he picked up a fresh neck cloth and resumed his quest for a flawless knot.

  “My lord? Will this do?”

  Nicholas’s fingers slipped, crushing the stiff fabric between them. Cursing his clumsiness, he glanced to where his valet stood holding the modishly embroidered red waistcoat his brother, Quentin, had given him for his birthday.

  For a brief moment he considered the garment, wondering if the ever-fashionable Miss Barrington might favor it. Then he shook his head and returned his attention to his neck cloth. “Perhaps something a little less, um, colorful might be more appropriate to the occasion, George,” he said, eyeing his spoiled neckwear with frustration. “We wouldn’t want Miss Barrington to think me suddenly possessed of foppish tendencies, would we?” George chuckled. “You could rouge your cheeks and wear a dozen patches, my lord, and no one would think you anything but a gallant. You are too fine a man to ever be considered less.”

  It was Nicholas’s turn to laugh. “Spoken like a good and loyal servant. Remind me to raise your wages.” “You are ever generous, my lord,” the man countered, moving to the wardrobe at the opposite end of the room. “And if I might be so bold as to comment, Miss Barrington is a most fortunate young lady to be engaged to you.”

  Nicholas sobered instantly. “She hasn’t accepted me yet.”

  “But she will. You’re counted among the finest gentlemen in England. How can she refuse you?”

  How indeed? Nicholas mused, ripping off the ruined neck cloth and tossing it onto the discard pile. The name he offered her was old and respected, the attending title one of power. As for his fortune, well, it ranked among the mightiest in England. Possessed as he was of all those attributes, he could have his pick of the Season’s finest marriage market offerings.

  And he’d selected Miss Barrington.

  Smiling his bemusement at his choice, he plucked a new neck cloth from the stack before him, and arranged it around his collar. Beautiful, young Sophia Barrington. She wasn’t at all what he’d had in mind when he’d decided to take a bride. Indeed, she was the exact opposite of the sort of woman he’d envisioned.

  Having turned twenty-eight the past January, he’d at last given into his mother’s badgering and agreed to take a wife. Not, of course, that his mother had truly had anything to do with the decision, though he chose to let her believe that she had. No, the truth was that he’d promised himself long ago that if he hadn’t fallen in love by the age of twenty-eight, that he would come to London and simply pick a suitable miss.

  His faint smile broadened into a wide grin. Miss wasn’t exactly the word for the sort of bride he’d sought. Miss denoted a young girl fresh from the schoolroom, and what he’d wanted was a woman with maturity; one who’d not only be a good, loving mother to his children, but who would be wise enough to partner him in the overseeing of his estates.

  As a means to that end he’d decided to select his wife from the females who had been out for several Seasons, a woman of say, twenty-two or twenty-three, who had outgrown the silliness that seemed to possess the younger set these days.

  What he’d sought was a sensible wife.

  Who he intended to marry was a seventeen-year-old girl with a head full of balderdash and the beauty of a goddess. An odd choice indeed for a man who chose his mistresses for their wits rather than their looks.

  He paused mid-knot to wonder at his own madness. Exactly what had wrought his curious turn of mind, he couldn’t say. All he knew for certain was that he’d somehow gotten caught up in the fierce race to court Miss Barrington, and was now driven to the point of obsession to win the prize: her hand in marriage.

  Perhaps it was his competitive nature that urged him to behave so. Or maybe the reason stemmed from the sense of entitlement that had been instilled in him since birth. He was, after all, the heir to the rich and powerful Marquess of Beresford, and as such was used to having the best of everything. Therefore, wasn’t it only natural that he should desire to have the finest of the Season’s bridal offerings?

  Sighing confoundedly, he looped the fabric in his hand and threaded the opposite end through it. Maybe, just maybe, it was neither of those reasons. Maybe he’d simply succumbed to what was being called “Barrington Fever,” the besotting delirium that had smitten every male in the ton between the ages of twelve and one hundred. Whatever it was, he wanted Miss Barrington.

  And he fully intended to have her.

  Tugging the now completed knot a fraction to the left, he considered the girl herself. While it was true that he didn’t love her, he liked her well enough. She was agreeable. And charming. And gay. Yes, she was exceedingly gay. So what if her conversation was limited to mindless pleasantries? He’d accepted long ago that she was one of those beautiful yet none too witty creatures men married for show rather than stimulating discourse. And oh! What a show she made!

  With her mane of golden curls, her soft gray eyes and lithe figure, she was the sort of woman every man desired and other women envied. No doubt she would give him beautiful children — the getting of which would afford him the greatest of pleasure.

  As always happened when he thought of loving Miss Barrington, his groin flamed with sudden heat, making him crush the knot he was adjusting. Oh! Dangerous thoughts, these. Ones that he was constantly forced to guard against while in her presence, what with the snug fit of breeches these days.

  He made a face at himself in the mirror. Ah, well. He’d just have to take care and concentrate on her other — safer — assets until after they were married. Commanding himself to do just that, he removed the neck cloth he’d spoiled in his lust and reached for yet another, the eighth of the morning.

  Her other assets. Hmm. Well, with her easy charm and flawless manners, she would make a perfect hostess when he chose to entertain. And speaking of entertaining, she had a distinct advantage in that she was accepted into the best of circles …

  Despite the unfortunate fact that her father had been in trade. A cloth merchant, if he recalled correctly.

  A faint frown creased his brow at that recollection. How her mother, the daughter of an earl and the greatest beauty of her day, could have made such a mesalliance, he couldn’t fathom. True. Walter Barrington was reputed to have been a most dashing man, not to mention wealthy, but he was still a commoner and therefore unsuitable …

  As would be his daughter had she not been all but raised by her mother’s brother and his wife, the Earl and Countess of Marwood. Fortunately for Miss Barrington, the ton had forgiven her humble paternity and accepted her as the Marwood daughter.

  Not, of course, that the earl had been the most respectable peer of the realm. Not with his regrettable fondness for gambling hells. Yet he was nobility, and as such had raised his niece in the ways of the ton. His son Edgar had seen to the finishing of her education by sending her to Lady Beal’s exclusive school in Bath.

  Nicholas’s fingers worked away on his neck cloth as he considered the latest Earl of Marwood. There was something not quite right about the man, though he w
as powerless to say exactly what that something was. It was more a feeling than anything his lordship had ever said or done.

  Nicholas sighed. Ah, well. What did it matter? He was marrying Miss Barrington, not Marwood. And considering his lordship’s fondness for Town, they would no doubt see little enough of him once they removed to the country, which was where he intended them to spend the bulk of their time.

  Satisfied with that conclusion, he refocused on the problem of his neck cloth. To his amazement, he found that he’d tied it and perfectly at that.

  “My lord? Is this more appropriate?” George stood behind him, reflected in the mirror, holding up a blue-and-gold-striped waistcoat.

  Without turning, Nicholas nodded and raised his arms so that the valet could dress him.

  When the last gold button was secured and his shirt frills adjusted, he sat on the edge of his dressing-table chair and allowed the servant to draw on his boots. That done, he picked up his watch and bejeweled family crest fob.

  As he rose to attach it, his valet moved behind him, studying him through squinted eyes. After a moment the man blinked and said, “I say, my lord. Your Egyptian brown coat, the double-breasted one, would be quite dashing with that waistcoat.”

  Nicholas paused in his task to consider. “I do believe you’re right,” he countered with a nod.

  “And your new hat, my lord, the one with the curled brim. You should wear it. It’s exceedingly nobby, you know.”

  “By all means, I must be nobby,” Nicholas agreed, hiding his smile at his valet’s modish vocabulary.

  “Oh. And yellow gloves, my lord.”

  “Yellow gloves it is.”

  When Nicholas was at last dressed and had been pronounced, “Complete to a shade,” by George, he summoned a footman and commanded, “Please have Mrs. Herbert meet me in the foyer with that basket of strawberries I had sent down from Hawksbury. And have Wykes bring around the carriage.”

  It was time to claim his bride.

  “Lord Lyndhurst has arrived,” Heloise announced, bustling into Sophie’s dressing room. “And just look what he brought you.” She presented a beribboned basket. “Strawberries! He had them sent all the way from his estate, Hensbury, just — ” She broke off abruptly, a frown knitting her brow. “Or did he say Birdbury?” She considered for a moment, then made a dismissive hand motion. “Oh, well. It matters naught. What is of importance is that he had this lovely fruit sent down because he knows of your fondness for it. Such a kind, considerate man! He shall no doubt be the most doting of husbands.”

  Until he finds out about our deception, Sophie ached to counter. But of course she couldn’t, not in the presence of her lady’s maid. As anyone with a single grain of sense knew, servants gossiped, and one must always guard their tongue against speaking of private or ruinous matters in their presence. One must also take pains to foster the illusion of well-being, even if one’s world was crumbling around them.

  Miserably forcing herself to adhere to that last rule, she glanced from the berries to the mirror before her, smiling as her gaze met the reflected one of the servant arranging her hair.

  Because of the taboo against her expressing her true feelings for Lyndhurst, her maid, Mademoiselle De Laclos, had automatically assumed her to be thrilled by the prospect of his proposal. Thus, the woman had spent the entire morning rambling on about his lordship’s sterling qualities. Indeed, so passionate was her admiration of him, that Sophie wondered if she didn’t perhaps harbor tender feelings for him herself.

  Bridling her urge to sniff at that thought, she returned her gaze to the basket, trying to look suitably pleased by the gift. If only mademoiselle would hurry up and finish her hair. Between the woman’s incessant chatter and having her scalp jabbed with hairpins, she had the beginnings of a headache … a headache that threatened to blossom into a full-blown megrim at her aunt’s vocal raptures over his lordship’s gift.

  “Oh! Such lovely, darling berries,” Heloise enthused. “Just look at how perfect they are … so plump and luscious. I’ll wager that there is nothing like them to be found in all of London.” Grinning as if it were she, instead of her niece, who had received the gift, she held a berry temptingly to Sophie’s lips.

  Sophie recoiled back, shaking her head. Had they been from anyone else, she’d have taken it without hesitation and would no doubt have devoured the entire basket of fruit before tea. Seeing as they were from Lyndhurst …

  Lyndhurst or prison.

  The looming threat of King’s Bench prison was enough to make her feign a smile and say, “Thank you, Auntie. But I’m not very hungry right now. I shall enjoy the berries later when I have more of an appetite.”

  Mademoiselle made a soft clucking noise behind her teeth. “But of course zhee young miss has no hunger. She has zhee nerves, no?” she said, apparently mistaking Sophie’s lack of appetite for maidenly anxiety. “And no wonder. Eet isn’t every day zhat a girl receives a proposal from a magnifique man like Lord Lyndhurst? N’est-ce pas?”

  Sophie gave her a strained smile, which the woman took for an affirmative answer. “Ah, well. Not to worry.

  His lordship will take one look at you zhees morning and eet will be him who has zhee nerves. Miss Barrington looks vraiment belle this morning. Oui?” She looked to Heloise for confirmation.

  Her aunt nodded. “You do look lovely, dear,” she verified, setting the basket on the dressing table next to the untouched box of bonbons Lyndhurst had sent the day before. After pausing to watch mademoiselle wind a ribbon through Sophie’s coiffure, she wandered across the room to examine the primrose and lilac round dress that had been selected for her niece to wear.

  The next few minutes passed in silence: mademoiselle deciding whether to knot or bow the ribbon, Heloise debating if Sophie should wear pearl or hoop earrings, and Sophie wondering if she had pin money enough to buy passage to France.

  Just as Sophie came to the dismal conclusion that her funds might take her as far as Dover, mademoiselle stepped back crying, “Voila!” gesturing grandly at her masterpiece of hair and satin.

  And it was a masterpiece. Leaving a single curl at either side of her brow, she had drawn Sophie’s hair back from a center part and pinned it up on her crown in a cluster of perfect ringlets. The lilac ribbon, which had been used as a band around her head, terminated in a bow that rested above her left temple.

  Even Sophie, as dispirited as she was, had to admit that the effect was fetching. Too bad the effect was to be wasted on Lyndhurst.

  “Excellent!” Heloise exclaimed, leaving off rummaging through Sophie’s jewelry chest to take a closer look. “You’ve truly outdone yourself today, mademoiselle.”

  Not given to false modesty, the maid nodded. “Oui. I have. I now have only to dress miss in zhat charming gown and add zhee jewelry, and — voila! — she is ready to accept his lordship.”

  Sophie made a face at the reminder of the horrid duty that awaited her. Never, not even with all the primping in the world, would she ever be ready for Lyndhurst and his cursed proposal.

  Unfortunately for her, neither of the other two women missed her sudden grimace of distaste. However, before her maid could comment upon it, and by the look on her face she was clearly about to do so, Heloise said, “You may go now, mademoiselle. I wish to speak to my niece in private.”

  “But zhee gown, madam! Eet has Spanish sleeves. Spanish sleeves must be arranged just so to be effective.”

  “I am perfectly capable of arranging sleeves,” her aunt countered, her voice ringing with a note of finality. When the maid still hesitated, she clapped her hands. “Chop! Chop, now, mademoiselle! There are delicate matters I must discuss with the girl before she goes down, and we mustn’t keep his lordship waiting any longer than necessary.”

  “Delicate?” A look of sudden dawning crossed the French woman’s face. “Ah! Zhee bridal talk, ouiV‘ “Bridal talk?” Heloise looked momentarily nonplussed. Then she flushed a dull shade of red. “Ur, yes. That talk, yes.”r />
  Mademoiselle chuckled and shot Sophie a knowing look. “You listen to your aunt, ouil She will tell you all about marriage so you won’t be frightened.”

  Sophie nodded, more wretched than ever at that prospect. Excellent. Just what she wanted to do, listen while her aunt told her of the horrors awaiting her in Lyndhurst’s bed. Filled though she was with repugnance, she still remembered herself enough to say to the departing maid, “Thank you, mademoiselle. His lordship shall no doubt be quite pleased with your efforts.”

  It was no lie, she thought, studying her reflection in the mirror. Despite the fact that she hadn’t slept a wink all night, she looked as fresh and rested as if she had just spent a quiet fortnight in the country. And a blessing it was, too. If she were out of looks, his lordship might have second thoughts about marrying her. Then she would end up in prison, where she’d heard a girl’s beauty faded in less than a day.

  Shuddering at the horror of such a tragedy, she rose and stepped into the gown Heloise held. With no reason to continue her pretense of either cheer or goodwill toward her aunt in the absence of her maid, she settled into a brooding silence.

  She had just sunk into a dark yet satisfying fantasy in which she feigned death to escape Lyndhurst, when her aunt grasped her arm and towed her to the cheval mirror.

  “See, dear?” she said. “That gown is just the thing for a girl to wear for a proposal. Charming yet sophisticated; youthful but womanly enough that you look of an age for marriage.”

  Sophie gazed at her reflection, though for the first time in her life she had no interest in her appearance. The gown in question was a new one, one which had arrived only two days earlier. Though she had been thrilled with it then — how could she not with its scalloped ruff and slashed Spanish sleeves? — today she saw it as a depressing symbol of her need to marry Lyndhurst.

  “Poor dear,” her aunt murmured, awkwardly patting her arm. “I know this is a blue day for you, and I’m sorry. Truly I am. If there were something I could do, you know I would do it.”