The Earl I Adore (3 page)

May stared at her in utter disbelief, one golden eyebrow raised in an impressively high arch. “You, at a loss for words? Impossible.”

“It's true!” Sophie leaned forward earnestly. Suddenly it seemed very important that May know exactly how doomed Sophie was thanks to her mother's ultimatum. “Whenever I see him, my brain seems to go utterly blank, like a sheet of parchment left out in the rain, leached of all its former content.”

May's other eyebrow joined the first. “Oh, there's a specific ‘him'? Well, this just got infinitely more interesting. Do tell, my friend.”

Heat promptly flooded Sophie's cheeks. If May was to help, it was best that she know everything. “You've met him, actually.”

“Lord Evansleigh, I presume?”

Sophie gasped. “You knew?”

May broke out in a wide grin, delight shimmering in her brilliant blue eyes. “I knew you said you embarrassed yourself in front of him the last time you spoke, but that didn't quite explain your desperation not to speak with him at the opening ball. I suspected you might have had a bit of a
tendre
.”

If ever there was an understatement, that was it. “It's worse than that,” Sophie said, burying her face in her hands. “Honestly, I fear I could love the man if given half the chance.”

“Excellent,” May replied briskly, not a trace of sarcasm or amusement in her voice. “I should hate to participate in marrying you off to someone you were only mildly fond of.”

Sophie peered up from her hands and offered a weak smile. May winked and continued. “Furthermore, he's handsome, wealthy, and best of all, available. I'd say he's perfect for you.”

Leave it to May to make it all sound so easy. Sighing, Sophie nodded. “I have come to that exact conclusion ever since Mama issued her ultimatum, but there are so many problems, I scarcely know where to start. I mean, I've only seen him a handful of times since arriving in Bath, and when I have seen him, I've ducked away like a proper coward because if I were to speak to him, I would only say something asinine like last time, when I inquired after the health of his deceased father.”

“Deep breaths, remember?” May smiled, then gathered her celadon silk skirts and scooted over to sit beside
Sophie. She wrapped a reassuring hand around Sophie's elbow and said, “I can help you with the first part if you can take care of the second.”

Grasping onto the less scary part of her response, Sophie gave an indelicate snort. “My dear May, you know fewer people in the
ton
than I do—how can you help get me in the same room as the man?”

Her friend's confidence didn't waver. “I've spent my life in the company of very clever and somewhat less than scrupulous sailors and tradesmen. You may know the way of the
ton
, but
I
know the way of the world.”

Oh dear. Sophie bit her lip, not entirely sure whether to be grateful or worried. Perhaps both were in order. “I don't know. What if I make a cake of myself in front of him again?”

“What have you to lose if you do?”

What had she to lose? She counted them out on her fingers. “My reputation, my pride, my heart, and my chance at a happy life, to start.”

May's smile was oddly smug, as though Sophie had said the exact thing she was waiting for. “In that case, I suggest you take a deep breath, look him in the eye, and show him
exactly
what he's been missing these past two Seasons.”

With her heart pounding at the mere prospect, Sophie nodded. She could do this. She could walk up to him, smile, and behave like a normal person. She could talk to him, woo him, and convince him to marry her in two weeks. A slightly hysterical giggle threatened to escape from her tight throat, but she valiantly held it back. “Absolutely.”

Tilting her head to the side, May regarded her silently for a moment. “Sophie,” she said, her voice gentle, “you don't have to do this if you don't wish to. There are worse things in life than not marrying.”

Sophie closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath.
Looking back at her friend, she said, “It's not as easy as that. I may be the granddaughter of a viscount, but the truth is my family has very limited means. My parents cannot afford to support me indefinitely. I suspect the only reason my father agreed to the expense of this trip was in order to position me in front of potential suitors who enjoy the one thing I have a talent for.”

Smiling so as to blunt the stark truth, she shrugged. “Besides, I want half a dozen children, and a messy home to call my own, and, well,
romance.
”

May reached out and grasped both Sophie's hands in her own. “Then, my darling, you shall have it. We will fight together to make it so.”

“Well, then,” Sophie said, blinking against the unexpected prick of tears. She gave a little laugh and squeezed her friend's fingers. “I am very glad to have you at my side. We'd best prepare, for the battle begins tonight.”

“L
ud, Evansleigh, you've been holding out on us.” The unmistakable baritone of Lord Derington's voice rumbled over the high-pitched notes of the lively quadrille.

Evan glanced to his left and nodded in greeting, though he made no effort to hide his grimace. “Not at all. I'm quite certain I've mentioned my sister before.”

Crossing his muscled arms over his barrel chest, Dering cut his eyes to the dance floor. “Yes, but not a word as to her beauty.”

Evan followed the other man's dark gaze to where Julia and her partner, the young vicar, Mr. Thomas Wright, danced in time with the music. The golden-brown curls around her face bounced with each step she took, highlighting her rosy cheeks and framing her smile. Her
overbright
smile, as far as Evan was concerned.

“Not that I blame you,” Dering added, flicking his gaze back to Evan. “No doubt you'd have suitors lining your drive when word got out. In fact, I'll be interested to see what kind of traffic your drawing room sustains tomorrow.”

Evan scowled, his jaw clenching at the thought. “None.
Julia is not in the market for a husband.” Even as he spoke the words, she laughed and said something to Wright, her eyes dancing with delight that was visible from half a room away. The scene could very well be titled “Gaiety at the Dance Hall.”

“Hm. Are you sure she knows that?”

“She knows,” he replied tersely. Perhaps he should have turned her around and marched her back to Ledbury when he had the chance. He bit the inside of his cheek. Not that he'd ever
had
the chance. She'd been so determined, he doubted anything he would have done could have compelled her to leave.

The question was, what had happened to distress her so much? And why was she here now, laughing and dancing like some sort of freshly presented debutante?

“It begs the question, you know,” Dering murmured, his voice a dull rumble.

Evan did know. He didn't even have to ask what his friend meant. “She's of sufficient fortune and family to make her own decisions, and she decided to pursue spinsterhood. Brilliant idea, in my opinion.” It was an explanation they had decided on together, and he always had it at the ready.

“Perhaps she is simply waiting on the right man to turn her head. Sounds like a challenge to me.”

Pointedly turning away from the dance floor, Evan looked up at his towering companion. “Don't you need a drink?”

Dering shook his head. “No, actually. I've a dance card to sign when this set is over.” He winked, a rakish grin turning up one corner of his mouth.

Damn it. Evan liked the man, but he wasn't above thrashing him should Dering get the idea in his head that Julia was fair game. Gritting his teeth, Evan nodded. He'd
rather not make too big a concern out of it, lest he pique the viscount's interest any more. “Suit yourself.”

Dering chuckled. “To think I imagined you an easygoing type of fellow.”

He was—when his “friends” weren't eyeing his sister as though she were some sort of dessert. “Do you have a sister, Dering?”

“You know I don't.”

“Then shut the hell up.”

*   *   *

Considering the hundreds of people crammed into the Assembly Rooms, it shouldn't have been so easy to spot Lord Evansleigh, but Sophie had seen him almost the moment she arrived. He stood on the perimeter of the dance floor, ridiculously handsome as usual, his attention riveted on the gliding dancers.

Given the likelihood of his attendance—Evan seemed to enjoy the dances as much as she did—his presence should have been a forgone conclusion, yet she still breathed a long sigh of relief. Operation Woo the Earl had begun.

Sophie stepped a few feet to the left, out of the way of the steady flow of traffic pushing into the cavernous Ballroom. The air was warm and humid, yet every last candle on the five monstrous chandeliers was blazing, surely two hundred of them if there was one. She stood on her tiptoes and tried to keep the earl in her line of sight, madly fluttering her fan all the while.

Step One—being in the same room with the man—could officially be considered accomplished. Step Two—having him fall in love with her—and Step Three—accepting his proposal—were surely right around the corner now. She bit her lip against a slightly deranged laugh. This was hopeless.

Already the butterflies had taken flight in her belly, and he wasn't even within speaking distance. Did the earl have to fill out his jacket quite so well? Really, if he could have a bit of a humpback, or a face full of spots, perhaps, then maybe she wouldn't feel quite so thoroughly out of her league.

No such luck. He was perfect, with gorgeous shining mahogany hair just long enough to tie back in a dashing tail, and a jaw that was surely the envy of statues everywhere. Lord Derington stood at his side, but instead of dwarfing the earl, the comparison actually served only to make Dering seem oafish and Evan just right.

She dropped down from her toes and sighed. Oh, why had she eaten supper tonight? She should have known her stomach would be rioting at the prospect of actually going over and talking to the man. Putting a hand to her middle, Sophie started edging back to the door.

She couldn't do this. The sort of bravery such things required was beyond little mousy her. She would simply have to return home, learn a trade, and be self-sufficient for the rest of her life. Or perhaps there was a great need for oboists that she hadn't known about, but for which she would be perfect. Or even better, she and her youngest sister, Pippa, could join forces, triumphing in the underserved niche of oboe and viola duettists.

“Where do you think you are going?”

Fiddlesticks
. Sophie smiled guiltily and met May's stern expression. “Nowhere. Why?”

“I know a retreat when I see one, Sophie Wembley, and I shan't let you get away with it.” She stood tall and straight, as effective a barrier as a silk-draped stone wall.

“I was afraid of that.” Wrinkling her nose, Sophie sent her friend a rueful glance. “Where is Charity when she's
needed? She would understand the deep and abiding need to flee.”

“She'll be back soon enough. In the meantime, you have me.” Despite her firm tone, May's aquamarine eyes were soft. Looping her arm around Sophie's elbow, she pulled her close. “You deserve a future, my dear. And the clock is ticking before news of the scandal breaks. This is not the time to turn tail and run. Now, chin up, breasts out, and go forth and enchant your man.”

“May!” Sophie exclaimed, sending furtive looks in all directions to make sure no one had heard the outrageous comment. Horrified laughter bubbled up from deep within her, eclipsing the nervousness. “You can't say things like that in public. You'll get us thrown out. Though at this point, I'm not sure that's a bad thing. On second thought, can you say it again, only a little louder this time?” She fluttered her eyelashes, only half teasing. Still, May's reminder of why Sophie was here was exactly what she needed.

Now was the time to be bold. Or, at the very least, to
attempt
to be bold.

Without answering, May started forward, pulling Sophie along with her through the crush. Given May's height and the striking jade-and-cream silk gown she wore, there was certainly no blending in with the crowd. People naturally gave way to her, which meant that they were proceeding much more rapidly than Sophie was prepared for. Her heart pounded jarringly in her chest, so loudly that she was sure others could hear it above the din of the packed Ballroom. Ahead, she could see Dering's wide shoulders, a beacon in the rushing tide of revelers sweeping by on the dance floor.

As they approached, she caught better glimpses of
Evan. Sophie smiled vaguely to those she brushed past, all the while keeping her gaze firmly on the earl. His attention, in turn, seemed captivated by the dancers, his eyes tracking their movements with the dedication of a theatergoer at a particularly well-done play. How strange that he should be standing to the side instead of dancing. She had presumed he loved to dance just as much as she did, and she rarely saw him without a partner.

Tonight he looked . . . dour. Stern, even.

“May,” Sophie said, tugging against her friend's momentum. “Wait.”

She paused, lifting an eyebrow. “Yes?”

The music ended then, and a swell of conversation rushed to fill the void. Sophie rose on her toes so she could speak close to her friend's ear. “I don't think this is a good time. He looks almost cross, and I certainly don't want to approach him when he is in a bad mood, because, really, if one wants to make the best impression, shouldn't one approach one when one's positive reception may be most assured?”

She was babbling, but this suddenly felt all wrong. She fumbled with her forgotten fan, desperate to cool her overheated face. Snapping it open, she swished it back and forth so rapidly that her carefully coiffed curls lifted from her temples.

May pursed her lips, probably attempting to decipher Sophie's rush of words, then gave a decisive shake of her head. “I won't let your nerves get the best of you simply because he's—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing in the direction of where the earl had stood. “Oh, Lud, where did
she
come from?”

Sophie followed her friend's gaze, then nearly cursed right there in the middle of the Ballroom.
Miss
Harmon.
Sophie's nose wrinkled in displeasure and not a little jealousy. The woman was a menace. Or a plague. Yes, a plague was more like it. She was beautiful—as well she knew—and a talented pianoforte player, but she was the type of individual who preyed on other people's weaknesses so that she might feel better about herself. At least that's what Sophie assumed her motive was; it could just be that she reveled in making others look bad.

Marianne was the youngest daughter of Lord Wexley, and when she and Sophie had debuted together two years ago, someone had confused the names, accidentally calling Marianne Miss Wembley. Gasping in overdramatic horror, she had proceeded to verbally berate the man for daring to confuse her dignified family with the lowly Wembleys. Sophie had been only a few feet from them, too shocked to do anything other than back away and escape to the ladies' retiring room.

Sophie had since learned how better to stand up for herself, but she still disliked the woman. And now here she was, resting her gloved fingers on the arm of the one man Sophie longed for above all others, leaning toward him as though she needed his warmth to survive.

“Go, now,” May urged, giving her a nudge. “Don't let her get her claws into him.”

Nodding, Sophie squared her shoulders, pulled herself up to her full height—all five feet two inches of it—and started on her way. With every step, the butterflies in her stomach fluttered a little faster, until she was sure she would lift from the ground and be carried away. But she stayed the course. Somewhere between Step One—being in the same room with Evan—and Step Two—having him fall in love with her—she probably needed to actually be within speaking distance of him.

Of course Marianne would look absolutely beautiful tonight, with her golden hair piled in gorgeous twists and curls atop her head, and her bronze and ivory gown making her skin fairly glow in the candlelight. No doubt her eyes would be luminescent as well, since bronzes and golds always complemented their amber hue.

Meanwhile, though Sophie had felt quite confident in her minty green dress and remarkably tamed curls when she had arrived, she had the sinking feeling she would look like an overripe pear by comparison.

She slowed, now only a few yards away. Perhaps she should wait until Miss Harmon moved on. Yes, that was best. No use offering herself up for an unflattering comparison, one that she knew from experience the woman would have no qualms about pointing out. Even though deep down Sophie knew she was grasping for a reason to turn around and release the tension building within her like a teakettle with a clogged spout, she still desperately wished she could take the coward's way out and retreat.

Steeling herself, she marched forward. She could do this. She was good enough, pretty enough, talented enough, and intelligent enough to not only speak to Evan, but stand up to the comparison with Marianne. Now she was six feet away, five feet, four . . .

At the last second, she spun on her heel, doing an about-face. She couldn't do it—she just couldn't. All at once the tension vibrating through her body eased. She exhaled a pent-up breath, relief and dismay sagging her shoulders.

“Miss Wembley!”

Sophie froze. Oh God, that was Evan's voice. That was Evan's delectable voice, and he was saying
her
name. With her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she swiveled
on the balls of her feet to face him. Or rather, to face his chest, which just happened to be at her eye level. It was a very nice chest, one that she would be quite happy to stare at, especially if it meant not having to meet his gaze. Gathering every bit of nerve she had in the world, she forced herself to look up into his gorgeous pale blue eyes. “Yes?” she squeaked.

“There you are,” he said, smiling as though they'd been intimates for years. He stepped forward and held out his hand to her, his long fingers holding steady only a foot away so there was no mistaking that she really was the person he wished to address. “I believe this is our dance.”

Their
dance
? Of their own volition, her hands covered her heart.
Me?
She had meant to say the word, but no sound had escaped when she opened her mouth.

He nodded, the movement small but unmistakably in the affirmative. His hand stayed right where it was, beckoning her to slip her fingers into his. The very thought sent shivers cascading down her back. With his smile still firmly in place, he tilted his head and said, “Shall we?”

*   *   *