would slay her. More important, Sophia found him beautiful to behold from afar but almost impossibly intimidating from close to. But she had come outside to prevent the jaws of the trap from snapping shut.
She took a few steps toward him and slid her hand through his arm. And—oh, goodness—he was all warmth and solidity, and he smelled of some lovely musky and very male cologne. Sophia had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life. It felt as if the very air had been sucked out of the alley.
“We cannot walk three abreast on this lane,” Henrietta said no more than half a minute later, and her voice was betraying her this time. She sounded distinctly petulant. “I am afraid we must go back after all, my lord. Mama and Papa will be anxious at my absence. I did not realize how far you had brought me from the inn. Do let us return.”
“They will see that I am with you and be consoled, Henrietta,” Sophia said. “They will see, as will everyone else, that the proprieties have been observed.”
She could not remember another occasion when she had addressed a whole sentence to Henrietta.
Viscount Darleigh turned his head to smile at her. She was almost sure that she could read relief in his face.
Poor gentleman. Everyone was trying to marry him or arrange for him to marry someone else. During the half hour she had sat alone in the assembly room she had listened to the conversation around her, almost all of which was about Viscount Darleigh. She had already heard again that his mother and his sisters were urging him to marry and were actively matchmaking for him. People here were speculating about who in the neighborhood might suit him, since he had been plain Vincent Hunt until recently and did not appear to be at all high in the instep and might prefer someone who was familiar to him. The names of Miss Hamilton and Miss Granger had loomed large in the speculations. And, of course, the Marches were trying to net him by any means within their power.
Everyone noticed their return to the assembly rooms—and that was scarcely an exaggeration, if it was an exaggeration at all, for there was no set currently in progress to distract even those who would have been dancing. Everyone turned from their conversations to look from Viscount Darleigh to Henrietta to … her, Sophia Fry. Her aunt’s and uncle’s faces were a sight to behold. They looked first identically relieved and joyful as they beheld their daughter returned after so long in the company of Viscount Darleigh, her arm still drawn through his, and then they looked … astonished and chagrined and a number of other things they had not expected to look. For there, her arm drawn through the viscount’s other arm, was … their mouse.
And this time she was invisible to no one. She felt a curious mix of extreme discomfort and triumph.
The orchestra played a decisive chord as a signal to the dancers that a new set was about to begin, and the moment passed. All was well, depending upon one’s perspective, of course. There had been no impropriety after all, for there had been two ladies with the gentleman and so their walking outside, even along a quiet alley, had been quite above reproach.
A fast and furious dance began.
Henrietta hurried toward her mother.
Viscount Darleigh pressed Sophia’s hand to his side when she would have slipped it free.
“Miss Fry,” he said, “thank you for your concern for Miss March’s reputation. It was careless of me to walk so long and so far with her, but she did not wish to return, you see. I ought to have insisted, of course. May I escort you to the refreshment table? I believe I can even remember the way.”
He smiled. And she knew, despite his gallant words, that he was thanking her for rescuing him. He must have understood, almost too late, the danger in which Henrietta had placed him.
“Thank you, my lord.”
She was about to add a
but
and make some excuse before scurrying away. But she paused to consider.
She took a few steps toward him and slid her hand through his arm. And—oh, goodness—he was all warmth and solidity, and he smelled of some lovely musky and very male cologne. Sophia had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life. It felt as if the very air had been sucked out of the alley.
“We cannot walk three abreast on this lane,” Henrietta said no more than half a minute later, and her voice was betraying her this time. She sounded distinctly petulant. “I am afraid we must go back after all, my lord. Mama and Papa will be anxious at my absence. I did not realize how far you had brought me from the inn. Do let us return.”
“They will see that I am with you and be consoled, Henrietta,” Sophia said. “They will see, as will everyone else, that the proprieties have been observed.”
She could not remember another occasion when she had addressed a whole sentence to Henrietta.
Viscount Darleigh turned his head to smile at her. She was almost sure that she could read relief in his face.
Poor gentleman. Everyone was trying to marry him or arrange for him to marry someone else. During the half hour she had sat alone in the assembly room she had listened to the conversation around her, almost all of which was about Viscount Darleigh. She had already heard again that his mother and his sisters were urging him to marry and were actively matchmaking for him. People here were speculating about who in the neighborhood might suit him, since he had been plain Vincent Hunt until recently and did not appear to be at all high in the instep and might prefer someone who was familiar to him. The names of Miss Hamilton and Miss Granger had loomed large in the speculations. And, of course, the Marches were trying to net him by any means within their power.
Everyone noticed their return to the assembly rooms—and that was scarcely an exaggeration, if it was an exaggeration at all, for there was no set currently in progress to distract even those who would have been dancing. Everyone turned from their conversations to look from Viscount Darleigh to Henrietta to … her, Sophia Fry. Her aunt’s and uncle’s faces were a sight to behold. They looked first identically relieved and joyful as they beheld their daughter returned after so long in the company of Viscount Darleigh, her arm still drawn through his, and then they looked … astonished and chagrined and a number of other things they had not expected to look. For there, her arm drawn through the viscount’s other arm, was … their mouse.
And this time she was invisible to no one. She felt a curious mix of extreme discomfort and triumph.
The orchestra played a decisive chord as a signal to the dancers that a new set was about to begin, and the moment passed. All was well, depending upon one’s perspective, of course. There had been no impropriety after all, for there had been two ladies with the gentleman and so their walking outside, even along a quiet alley, had been quite above reproach.
A fast and furious dance began.
Henrietta hurried toward her mother.
Viscount Darleigh pressed Sophia’s hand to his side when she would have slipped it free.
“Miss Fry,” he said, “thank you for your concern for Miss March’s reputation. It was careless of me to walk so long and so far with her, but she did not wish to return, you see. I ought to have insisted, of course. May I escort you to the refreshment table? I believe I can even remember the way.”
He smiled. And she knew, despite his gallant words, that he was thanking her for rescuing him. He must have understood, almost too late, the danger in which Henrietta had placed him.
“Thank you, my lord.”
She was about to add a
but
and make some excuse before scurrying away. But she paused to consider.
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