Temptation Has Green Eyes (8 page)

“I’m no debutante,” Sophia said and felt obliged to add, “But my mother was.”

Her ladyship’s gaze focused on something in the far distance, and then returned to Sophia. “Ah yes. Lady Mary Howard. She was a taking little thing in her day, but somewhat wild, they always said. We thought it very strange when she married…your father.”

A man from the City. One in Trade, or at least servicing it, for her father’s main concerns were shipping and insurance. Would it have been better had he been a country squire? It could have been worse.

Sophia had no way of assessing the nuances of the way society judged people outside its purview. “My father was a perfectly suitable husband for her.” She glanced at Max, busy in conversation with an older man she didn’t recognize.

With only a slight glance to one side, the dowager swept up a glass of wine held on a tray by a servant who was heading past her. Sophia would have tumbled the whole tray had she tried that. She took a sip of her own wine, the cut glass winking in the sunshine coming in through the window.

“I daresay you wish me to introduce you to society?” the dowager said.

Sophia hated that she had to say this, but if she wanted peace between Max and his mother, she would have to. “I would consider it a great favor, my lady.”

“Indeed.” The dowager accepted the tribute as her due. “I will view my invitations and arrange matters.”

“Will you move back to the house?” Sophia said.

Immediately the dowager shook her head. “I shall remain with dear Helena, and naturally Poppea will remain with me. They need me. Julius is interviewing suitable candidates for the post of governess to his daughter and companion for his sister, but it will take some time. He will be hard put to find one who fits his exacting standards, but I’m hopeful that he’ll find success. However, I will not be far away.”

This house was close to Grosvenor Square, set on one of the gracious streets nearby, the exterior white stucco, the interior all fashionable elegance. Sophia had not seen the room she was to occupy as the Marchioness of Devereaux, but she feared it already. If it was white or ivory, she’d have it changed tomorrow. If she dared. She needed
one
room to be comfortable in. Surely someone could be comfortable and fashionable at the same time?

Lost, adrift, Sophia planted her feet on the Aubusson carpet and waited on events, smiling and pretending to drink from her glass. Until the glass was empty and pretense had become reality. She took another one.

“Welcome to the family,” a soft, feminine voice said.

When she spun around, Sophia nearly lost her drink. As it was, she had to contain the sloshing by holding it aside. Another black mark for her. She wasn’t usually this gauche but then, she wasn’t usually facing a wedding night with a man she barely knew, fighting impulses she didn’t know what to do with.

She smiled at the lovely golden-haired woman standing before her and searched her memory for names. “Lady Ripley,” she said eventually. “Thank you.”

“Connie, please,” the lady said. “I’m a relative by marriage, still getting used to the great Emperors. I’m a countrywoman at heart.”

Married to the dark handsome man laughing with his cousin across the room. Lord Ripley, heir to the Earl of Leverton. Goodness, all these titles made Sophia’s head spin. As bad as remembering which guild the man her father wanted her to meet belonged to and which coffee houses he frequented to conduct his business. Her problem was she had to commit both those spheres of influence to her memory now.

“I’ve never lived in the country,” she confessed. “Unusual for an Englishwoman, I know, but not in the City. Most of us reside there all year round. We have a small house in the country, but we rarely go there.” At Connie’s arched brow, she gave a shamefaced laugh. “That is, my father and I. I’m sorry, I’m still trying to get accustomed to my new status.”

“One step at a time,” Connie said. “Take it slowly, and it will come to you. Remember when people say ‘My lady,’ they’re referring to you. That took some getting used to. I keep turning around to look for Lady Ripley.”

Sophia was surprised to discover she could smile. Even laugh.

Connie added, “Of course, I’m only a baroness. Alex’s title is a courtesy one, but you married straight into the aristocracy.” She lowered her voice. “Devereaux tends to intimidate me, although I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. He’s so clever! Please don’t tell him, because he is always so kind. But I have never been comfortable in the presence of people who can add a column of figures three times and get the same answer.”

Sophia wouldn’t tell her she could do it too, because this was the first person in this room to show her friendship.

Connie had clear blue eyes, and her lovely complexion was a thing of pellucid beauty. Everything Sophia had prayed for in her blemish-ridden, fluffy-hair days when she was supposed to be serene. Even this morning, she’d discovered a freckle on the upper slopes of her bosom and despaired all over again. Too high to cover with her fichu, which in any case was a gauzy silk affair and not her usual practical linen.

Connie’s husband glanced across the room, and his attention fixed and held on his wife. Slowly he smiled, and it was a wonderful sight. It demonstrated all his love and devotion with no excuses and no concessions to anyone watching.

In that instant, Sophia’s ambitions crystallized. She wanted her husband to look at her that way. As if the world revolved around her.

If only she’d known she wanted that before she married Devereaux! He was never likely to give her that kind of regard. He’d be considerate, in his way, and in time she could hope for an equitable relationship with him, but love? She doubted that. They’d agreed to marry for separate reasons of their own, but love didn’t feature in any of them. Nobody would ever adore her like that.

Loneliness seized her in a tidal wave of despair. She had to fight to prevent any trace of it appearing on her face.

After a word to Sophia’s husband, Lord Ripley set off across the room to join his wife. Devereaux accompanied him, and they arrived to claim their ladies, but Devereaux offered his arm for Sophia to lay her hand on and Ripley shamelessly ogled his lovely wife. Her response was to laugh.

Devereaux regarded them with indulgence, but when he turned to Sophia, his expression was coolly polite. But that expression the Ripleys exchanged had reminded her painfully of that kiss last Friday. For once, everything except the moment fell away.

She’d hoped to—what? Panic had driven her as much as any plan. She’d wanted to see him, try to understand what lay behind the handsome, controlled exterior, but she was no nearer that than before, when he’d been merely another of her father’s business colleagues. “We will be going in to the dining room soon,” he murmured to her. “Are you familiar with precedence?”

The rigid rules by which society conducted itself on formal occasions demanded that the hostess was aware of who went in with whom. At last something she could do. She knew all the ranks present today, and firmly putting personal considerations aside, she went about arranging people into the correct groupings.

* * * *

“That will please your mother,” Alex said to Max as they watched Sophia efficiently and graciously go about her duties.

Max grunted. “Nothing about Sophia pleases her at the moment. She’s not moving back home. She’s staying with Helena.”

Alex raised a dark brow. “Your mother could make Sophia’s entrance into society easier.”

“I believe she knows that.” Max had no illusions about his mother. “Sophia has to prove to her that she’s a worthy cause.”

Alex hummed. “It could be worse.”

As one of the few people who knew Connie’s difficult path to love, Max understood what he meant. Alex had determinedly forced his wife on society, and now they had little choice, since she had the backing of the rest of the family. The Emperors would not be denied.

“Be bold,” Alex said. “It’s the only way.”

“She has the strength to do it.” Max knew that much about his new wife. “I have faith in her abilities to win society over.”

“How about you?” Alex asked quietly.

Max shot him a puzzled glance. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Will she win you over? Has she done it already?”

Max raised a brow, giving his cousin a quizzical smile. “I am not unhappy, if that’s what you mean. Don’t expect everyone to find the kind of bliss you and Connie share.”

“At least we proved it’s possible, even in this family.”

“Even? Nic’s mother found true love.”

“At the second attempt. You know her husband well, don’t you?”

“He’s a City man, and yes, I do meet him from time to time.” Max recalled Thaddeus Beaumont, who was in a different line of business, but their paths crossed occasionally. “Aunt Frederica seems happy with him.” Like the rest of the family, he’d breathed a sigh of relief when his aunt remarried a man who gave her the tranquility she needed after the turbulent first attempt.

“I like her.” Julius had joined them.

He had two ways of moving. One was the flamboyant one, accompanied by the click of heels, the rustle of expensive fabric and waves of subtle but distinctive scent. The second was silent as a cat. This was the cat. Max had no idea how he did it, but he’d have paid dearly to know.

“My wife?”

“Yes, dear boy, your wife.” Julius stood behind them, speaking low so only they could hear. “She has grace and poise. And a determination that I don’t think you’ll find it easy to overcome. I’d advise you not to.”

What was this familial love for Sophia? She was winning over his family effortlessly. “I should have done this years ago, then. From what you say, I’ve married a saint.”

Sophia, in the process of linking the people to go in to dinner, glanced at him. Had she heard him? He hoped not. He hadn’t meant his comment to be as waspish as it sounded, but he was finding this day somewhat of a strain. Social occasions could be a trial, not to mention tedious, and this was no exception.

“Take care, Devereaux,” Julius murmured. “Your lady has teeth.”

* * * *

After dinner, they returned to the drawing room where Sophia set them working. One sang; another played the harpsichord. Since they were now joined by a stream of guests who arrived to wish the married couple well, this worked. At about ten, the company began to drift away.

Sophia kept her expression firmly in place, despite feeling like a doll tricked out for the amusement of the visitors. More would arrive in the days to come. How would she bear it? Whatever happened, she must. First impressions counted, and her acceptance into society was important to her husband.

Lady Devereaux mentioned her appearance at court during dinner. “For of course I will sponsor your appearance. I believe we should arrange a date for next month. Do you have a court mantua?”

Sophia shook her head. She’d never needed one. King George was old and a widower. Since the death of the Prince of Wales, Prince Frederick, the Duke of Cumberland and his wife had usually done the honors. Sophia knew that much because she read the newspapers. But before last week, she had no notion she would have to undergo the ordeal. With the gown.

Court dresses were hideous affairs that gave the wearer the appearance of a walking sofa. A huge flat hooped petticoat, the likes of the ones worn by the previous generation, and the mantua, long superseded in normal life by more modern styles.

“I’ll visit a mantua-maker next week.” Her usual dressmaker would probably not serve. Although she liked Mrs. Dormer’s work as it was neat and fast, the fashioning of a mantua would take an expert.

“I can take you to mine,” the dowager said. “You will probably find yourself in need of other items.”

A slow tide of anger rose inside Sophia. How dare her ladyship assume, as if Sophia had come to this house in sackcloth? She wasn’t without fashionable clothes, but she’d been aware she might need more. Armor. But to have her mother-in-law state the fact baldly made Sophia appear rustic and ignorant. Two things she was far from being.

“I appreciate the offer, ma’am, but I am not without resources of my own.”

“Still,” the dowager said, spreading her hands wide, “I would help you if you wish it.”

“Thank you. I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Without meaning to, Sophia had drawn battle lines. Her lamentable temper! What was worse, Devereaux glared at her, his green gaze cold enough to send a breeze down her spine.

She spent the rest of the day in a miserable mood, but that at least enabled her to assess what was needed after dinner and to ensure it took place. All the time she was aware of her ladyship’s icy regard, silent but deadly as a dagger between her ribs.

Girding her spirits, she decided to face this as she did everything, with serenity and dignity. Nobody should know her heart was quaking and her knees knocking under her elegant pale blue skirts.

She’d learned that lesson a long time ago; if she didn’t show it, nobody knew. She had the kind of face that would conceal her anxieties, such that many people assumed she was cool and in control. It helped, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t vomited in private before public functions. As she had this morning, for instance.

So now she lifted her head and offered her ladyship the baked mushrooms, secretly hoping that they didn’t agree with her and feeling guilty about the puerile wish.

Then finally, when the guests had departed, came her worst trial.

Predictably, Sophia lost most of her dinner before she left the powder room to take her place in the impossibly grand bed in the terrifyingly elegant room that would be hers. She had to rinse her mouth and clean her teeth all over again, but at least that deferred the moment.

The décor in her room was fresh and new, and as she’d feared, cream brocade predominated. For someone of her coloring—dark hair and skin some called creamy and others called sallow—it was the worst possible choice. But very elegant, nonetheless.

Her maid, French, helped her disrobe in near-silence. After all, what was there to say?

Sophia ordered tea. Always her first line of defense. She drank two dishes while French brushed out her hair and plaited it into its night-time braids.