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  “You may be assured that I shall follow your instruction to the best of my ability,” she vowed, almost sagging in her relief.

  “That is all I shall ever ask of you. Now, having told you that, I believe it is time for me to frame my question.” Clasping both her hands between his as if they prayed, he asked, “Miss Barrington, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  At last. Tugging her mouth back into what was by now a well-rehearsed smile, Sophie looked up and said with as much pleasure as she could muster, “You do me great honor, my lord. Yes, I will marry you.” Despite her efforts, the words came out wooden.

  Apparently only the meaning of those words mattered to him, for he smiled as if she’d just granted him the world. Lifting her left hand to reverently kiss her ring finger, he murmured, “You’ve made me the happiest of men, my dearest Sophie, and I promise that you shall never regret your decision.” Lowering her hand to clasp it to his heart, he inquired, “I may call you Sophie now that we’re engaged, mightn’t I?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Nicholas,” he corrected her. “You must call me Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas.” Oh. So that was his name. She’d never so much as wondered what it was. Before she could ponder the matter further, his palm cupped her chin and raised her bowed head.

  Drawing her face close to his, he whispered, “I believe that it is traditional for us to seal our engagement with a kiss.” Without awaiting her response, he pressed his lips to hers. As he did so, the scar came into clear, sharp focus.

  Sophie screwed her eyes shut. Tightly. Think pleasant thoughts. Think pleasant thoughts, she frantically chanted to herself. Pretend that he’s Julian.

  Yet, try as she might, it was impossible for her to imagine that it was her beloved who kissed her. Where Julian’s lips were soft and cool, Lyndhurst’s were hard and hot, claiming hers with a hunger that she found terrifying.

  Oh, heavens! He must be a daisy man after all. Or worse yet, a custard man. Lydia’s brother had told them of men who made their wives sit naked on their equally bare laps, licking custard from a cup held pressed between their breasts. Just the thought of being subjected to such an indignity made her want to die.

  Mercifully the kiss was a brief one, and was over almost as soon as it began.

  “Now,” he murmured, pulling back with a grin. “The only thing left to do is to choose our wedding date. I was thinking of sometime around Christmas, say, the twenty-second of December?”

  “I, uh,” she stammered, distracted by the horrible suspicion that he might be a custard man. The twenty-second of December? Hmm. Why not? She opened her mouth to give her consent, then her mind cleared and she remembered that time was of the essence. Praying that he wouldn’t think her brazen and thus withdraw his offer, yet seeing no other option, she coyly ducked her head and whispered, “I’m not so certain I want to wait so long.”

  Silence.

  Just when she was starting to dread the worse, he chuckled. “In truth, my dear. After kissing you. I’m not so certain I can wait that long, either.”

  A custard man. He was definitely a custard man.

  His hand cupped her chin again. “Just say the word, sweet Sophie, and I shall obtain a special license. We can be married within the fortnight.”

  “And that word is?” she sweetly inquired.

  He kissed her. This kiss was a gentle one, filled with all the tenderness and reverence a girl could wish for from her groom. To Sophie’s surprise, it wasn’t nearly as awful as the first. Not when she didn’t think of daisies or custard.

  Like his first one, this kiss too ended quickly. Yet this time he didn’t pull away, but instead leaned his forehead against hers to stare into her eyes.

  Brown, she noted. His eyes were a rich, warm brown, rimmed with a most enviable fringe of lashes. In truth, they were quite beautiful.

  If only they weren’t set in a ruined face.

  “The word?” he finally murmured, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. “It was the unspoken promise of your kiss.”

  It was over.

  At last.

  And Sophie had never been more wretched in her life. Not only was she to be Lyndhurst’s bride at the end of the month, the headache that had plagued her all morning had exploded into an excruciating megrim, making her pray for a quick and merciful death.

  Unwittingly heightening her misery was her aunt, who hovered over her sickbed, chattering like a magpie enthralled by a particularly tasty worm. “I must say that Eddie is quite pleased with the way you handled Lyndhurst,” she said in a head-splitting chirp. “Why, his lordship all but demanded that you be married within the fortnight. If you ask me, such eagerness bodes well for our scheme. Indeed, my guess is that our troubles are over.”

  Yours, maybe. But mine are just beginning, Sophie thought grimly. In just two weeks time she would be the

  Countess of Lyndhurst. That meant that she must begin the nightmarish ordeal of trying to get with child. And to do so she must —

  Shuddering convulsively, she pushed the swirling montage of feathers, daisies, and custard from her mind.

  Heloise made a clucking noise. “Poor dear. Are you cold?”

  Sophie opened her eyes to reply, only to moan and squeeze them shut again in the next instant. Though the drapes were drawn, the midday sun blazed around the edges, stabbing through her eyes and into her brain like stakes of red-hot steel.

  Apparently her aunt took her moan for an affirmative response, for she said, “Yes. It is a bit chilly in here. I shall summon a footman to lay a fire.”

  Alarmed by the prospect of more light from a fire, Sophie started to shake her head. The first motion, however, sent paralyzing pain stabbing through her temples, and she was forced to lie still, croaking instead, “No. Not cold, just ill. Terribly ill. My head …” she broke off with an agonized groan and laid her hand on her brow to illustrate her complaint.

  Heloise countered with another series of her mother-hen clucks. “I know, sweeting. I know it hurts.” There was a splash, then she gently pushed Sophie’s hand from her forehead and replaced it with a cool, vinegar-soaked cloth. “Mademoiselle has gone to the stillroom to prepare her special megrim infusion for you. She should be back in a moment or two.”

  Sophie made a face. Vile stuff! Still, her maid’s concoction did ease her megrims, usually within a half hour, so she would gladly swallow it without protesting its foul taste.

  As if on cue there was a scratch at the door, followed by the faint creak of well-oiled hinges. A beat later she heard the swish of her aunt’s skirt as she crossed the room. Though Sophie recognized the voice of the new arrival as that of her maid, the woman spoke too low for her to decipher her words.

  After a few moments, during which her aunt replied in an equally hushed tone, the door closed with a soft slam. A brief time later the cloth was lifted from her head. “Here’s your infusion, dear. You need to sit up to drink it.” It was Heloise.

  When she had propped Sophie up on four plump cushions, her aunt held a cup of steaming liquid to her lips, crooning, “Drink it slowly, now. Just one tiny sip at a time. It won’t do you a bit of good if it comes back up again.” Obediently, she did as instructed, holding her breath against the foul aroma.

  For a long while they remained like that: Heloise coaxing Sophie to drink, and Sophie docilely complying. When the cup was at last empty and Sophie lay back down with a fresh cloth on her head, her aunt bid her to sleep and slipped from the room.

  Sleep, yes. I shall lose myself in my dreams … escape my troubles, Sophie thought. As she teetered on the brink, ready to embrace the sweet oblivion of slumber, her mind flashed on Julian and what he might think when he heard of her engagement.

  Oh! Awful, selfish girl! she reproached herself, vaulting back to the grimness of reality. So consumed was she with self-pity, that she hadn’t stopped to consider him. Now that she did, she wanted to weep with despair.

  Her poor, poor da
rling. Surely he wouldn’t think that she willingly married Lyndhurst, would he?

  Of course not, she told herself firmly. He had only to reread any one of the dozen notes she’d written him to know just how much she adored him. No. He could never believe she’d played him false. Unless …

  Unless in his hurt he chose to push aside the evidence of her love and judge her a heartless jilt.

  A cold rush of panic washed through her at that thought. It could happen, especially in light of the fact that he’d had his heart broken by such a woman just last Season.

  Her panic deepened as she remembered his agonized tone as he confessed the affair. He’d told her of it the day he declared his love, saying that he wanted her to understand the depth of his feelings that he would risk as he did being hurt again. And he had been hurt. So badly, in fact, that he broke down halfway through his tale, weeping and begging her to never forsake him. She meant everything to him, he sobbed, more than life itself. Moved to tears herself, she’d taken him in her arms and sworn her undying love.

  Remembering the tender scene made her eyes well up all over again. Oh! She simply had to see her beloved and reassure him of the steadfastness of her vows … before he heard of her engagement and suffered more pain. Once she expressed her anguish at her upcoming marriage, he would …

  Why, he would refuse to let her wed Lyndhurst. Sophie clasped her hands in a sudden burst of excitement. Hadn’t he told her time and again that he adored her beyond everything, that he would do anything for their love? That being as it was, he would probably insist that they elope to Gretna Green.

  For one fleeting yet marvelous moment, she envisioned their flight across the border, thrilling at the romance of the adventure. Then she remembered her debts, and the dream vanished. Whatever would he say when she told him of them?

  Briefly she pondered the problem, then dismissed it with a smile. The way he worshiped her, he’d never let a thing like money stand in the way of their happiness. Besides, her debt wasn’t so very large. Edgar had said that it was only fifteen thousand pounds. Well, fifteen thousand, two hundred and sixty-three to be exact. Not an impossible sum by any means. No doubt Julian could discharge it readily enough. If not the full amount, surely enough to satisfy her creditors until he could pay the balance from his ten thousand a year.

  And if clearing her debt left them unable to afford the pleasures of Town? She pushed the cloth from her brow and sat up, her headache vanishing with her renewed optimism. With Julian by her side, she would gladly rusticate in the country … forever if necessary. No doubt he shared her feelings.

  Her only problem now was seeing him before he heard of her upcoming marriage. And she must see him. A note simply wouldn’t do. She could never adequately plea her case or convey the true depth of her feelings for him in writing.

  Bending her knees to her chest to rest her chin upon them, Sophie contemplated her problem. Waiting to see him at the Seabright’s rout tonight was out of the question. By then the news would be all over England, and he would most certainly be too devastated to attend.

  Absently she rubbed the bridge of her nose, searching for another option. Well, there was always Hyde Park. Like all young bucks, he rode along Rotten Row every afternoon at five o’ clock. Perhaps she could speak to him there.

  She considered the plan for a moment, then flopped back onto her pillows with a sigh of frustration. No. That would never do. Even if it weren’t too late by then, they would never be able to steal a word in private. Not with the way mademoiselle and her aunt’s groom shadowed her every move.

  That left only one alternative, the shocking and scandalous one she’d hoped to avoid: She must go to Julian’s quarters now, this morning, before he ventured forth for the day and heard the news. It was really the only hope she had.

  Unnerved by the prospect, she rolled over and hid her face in her pillow. Did she dare do something so very bold? If she were seen, it would mean instant ruin. Visiting a gentleman at his bachelor quarters was an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the ton, one almost akin to murder.

  Visiting a bachelor, yes. But there was no sin in a wife attending her husband at his home.

  Sophie’s smile returned in a flash. And she would be a wife. Indeed, by the time news of her indiscretion got out, if indeed anyone even noted it, she’d be a married woman. Married to the man whose quarters she’d visited.

  She’d be Viscountess Oxley.

  She rolled onto her back with a sigh and said the name out loud, savoring the feel of it on her tongue. Even if the dragons from Almack’s were to witness her banging at his door, her position in the ton would be secure once they revealed their elopement. Indeed, their daring would probably make them the most celebrated and romantic couple in all of London.

  Her decision thus rationalized, Sophie tossed aside the covers and slipped from the bed. It wasn’t until she’d donned her gown and struggled to button it that she bothered to consider Lyndhurst and how her actions might affect him.

  He’d be crushed, of course. Like every bachelor in the ton, he adored her and was desperate to marry her. Unlike those men, however, he had an arrogant, overblown sense of pride …

  … A cold, aristocratic pride that could very well turn vengeful if stung.

  Her hands stilled on her buttons. Dear heavens! What if he directed his ire at Julian and called him out? While dueling was illegal, she’d heard that it still took place, usually over matters of the heart such as this.

  For one awful instant she pictured Julian and Lyndhurst in the pale haze of dawn, leveling pistols at each other’s head. Then she remembered Lyndhurst’s sterling character and laughed. What a chucklehead she was! Why, his dull and ever decorous lordship was the last man in London who would ever engage in anything as dangerous or litigious as dueling.

  Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she buttoned the last of the buttons. No. Though the affair would undoubtedly wound his lordship’s pride, he would recover in time. Indeed, by next Season he should be improved enough to return to London and find a new bride. If he were as sharp-witted as his reputation claimed him to be, he’d have learned from his experience with her and pursue someone more suited to him — say, a plain woman with excellent breeding and no looks to speak of.

  In the long run he’d be happier with such a wife. And who knows? He might someday come to see her jilting him as the blessing it was and deign to forgive her, though in truth she didn’t care.

  She’d have her Julian, and that is all that mattered.

  Chapter 4

  “Yes?”

  Sophie returned the majordomo’s haughty stare, momentarily taken aback. Wherever was Julian? She’d expected him to answer her knock. Indeed, she was counting on it. So much so, that she’d spent the whole miserable hackney ride here dreaming of the moment when he opened the door and saw her standing there.

  And — oh! What a splendid dream it was. She’d grown positively giddy just imagining it. Especially the part where he crushed her into his embrace and welcomed her with a tender yet eager kiss. And …

  “Miss?” When Sophie merely stared at him, mute in her disappointment, he made an impatient noise. “Your business, miss? I haven’t all day.”

  Her business? She blinked. Yes. Of course. What a ninnyhammer she was to be thrown off by a minor hindrance like this. Why, she had only to ask to see Julian for him to come and enact her dream exactly as she’d envisioned it. Her wits thus restored, she nodded and said, “Miss Sophie Barrington to see Viscount Oxley on a private matter of the utmost importance.”

  “A private matter, is it?” He pursed his lips and swept her length with a critical gaze. Unlike the gentlemen of the ton, who grew calf-eyed at the sight of her, he was utterly unimpressed, glancing away without pausing so much as a beat to admire her numerous feminine charms. Rolling his eyes toward the heavens, he muttered, “They’re always private matters with his lordship.”

  Sophie ignored his remark, too affronted by his rude dismissal
of her person to ponder its meaning. Insolent old wigsby! As if she cared what he thought. He was clearly too moss-grown to appreciate an Incomparable when he saw one. Promising herself to dismiss him the instant she became Viscountess Oxley, she coolly demanded, “Tell his lordship I’m here. Now.”

  “Your card?”

  Gracing him with her most withering look, she yanked open her ridicule and extracted one of her gilt-edged calling cards. As she offered it to him, she mentally revised, No. I’ll not wait until Julian and I are married to dismiss the old crosspatch; I shall insist that it be done now, this very hour.

  With disapproval tainting every line of his furrowed face, the man seized her card between two fingers, holding it suspended by the corner as if it were a soiled chamber pot rag. After a moment during which he perused it from arm’s length, he intoned, “I shall see if his lordship is receiving.” Without sparing her so much as a parting glance, he closed the door, leaving her standing on the stoop like a tradesman with unsolicited goods.

  Sophie glared at the brass knocker, more outraged than she’d ever been in her life. Rude old crank! How dare he treat her so! First he detains her on the stoop, interrogating her as if she were a pickpocket on trial. And now this! It was too much! It really was. Especially after all she’d suffered to get here.

  And she had suffered — dreadfully! — being forced as she was to take her first, and hopefully last, public conveyance. Why, if she’d even suspected how poorly hackney coaches were sprung, much less how vile they smelled —

  She stamped her foot in impotent rage. Enough was enough!

  In that brief instant she seriously considered marching down the stairs and, yes, hailing the first hackney she saw. Then, in a flash of reason, she remembered why she was there and all thought of retreat fled.

  She was there to marry Julian.

  And wasn’t spending the rest of her life with him worth tolerating an hour or so of travail?