does not want you, I heard him tell you so.’
‘I have a mind to escort my sister and cousin to Lady Carstairs’s soirée.’
‘The dowdy little mouse? Good Lord, James, I had not thought to see you brought so low.’
‘Leave off your quizzing, Dick, I have agreed to sponsor the girl for the Season and it behoves me to act the father figure…’
It was a statement that had his friend in gales of laughter. He was so convulsed it was a full minute before he could speak. ‘Father figure! You!’
‘Why not? I am head of the family, am I not?’
‘True.’
‘Then I thank you to keep your mirth to yourself. Harriet has undertaken to dress her so she will not disgrace us and, my duty done, I can forget her.’
Except, of course, she was not easy to forget. Was it her worn and unfashionable garments, the very opposite of the modishly dressed ladies of his acquaintance, that made her stand out, or her composure and belief in herself, which made him think there was more to her than met the eye? Or was it her hair, dark as a raven’s wing, or those amber eyes that could be cold as the charity she disdained, or warm as treacle depending on her mood, which were so memorable?
Even now, with the noise of drunken laughter surrounding him, he could hear her. ‘How dreadful it must be to be despised and unloved in a strange country.’ She had been talking about the Princess of Wales, but it could equally have applied to her. It had unsettled him, made him feel unworthy. Was that what she had intended? And then she had bluntly asked, ‘Am I an encumbrance you would rather do without?’ So clever of her. Oh, how he disliked clever women. But, for all that, he must do his best for her, make her feel part of the family; nothing less would do, not only for his reputation but his self-respect.
Sophie looked at herself in the long mirror and smiled. Being a single girl not yet out, she should have been wearing white, but Lady Harley had said it did not suit her and her life before returning to England had been so unconventional it was not in the least necessary to follow custom slavishly. Nor would she countenance black. Another colour was called for, one to make her stand out in the crowd. Sophie wasn’t sure that she wanted to stand out in the crowd, but when Harriet had taken her to the mantua maker and insisted she try on a gown in a grey-green silk that reminded her of the lakes in Switzerland palely reflecting the green of the trees on their banks, she knew her mentor was right.
The fabric slid over her hips and swirled about her ankles in soft flowing lines and made her feel—oh, she did not know how she felt. Womanly, sensuous, consequential came to mind. She knew she was not beautiful, could never be that, but she found herself wondering if clothes could make a plain person attractive, or was it simply that the excitement of her first public outing was giving her a heightened colour, making her eyes sparkle.
She and Harriet had spent the morning and half the afternoon shopping for clothes. They were looking for something ready made, Harriet had explained, so that she could wear them straight away, but later she could choose some material and have gowns made up for her. In vain did she protest she could manage with the clothes she had, she did not intend to be seen out and about and that it was not right that Harriet should spend money on her.
‘It isn’t my money,’ Harriet had replied, nodding at the assistant who had been serving them to wrap the two day gowns they had chosen, one an azure blue, the other a warm apricot. ‘It is James’s.’
‘Oh, no! What will he say when the bills arrive? I can’t accept them. I really can’t.’
‘He will be insulted if you do not. He told me to buy whatever was necessary.’
‘But is all this necessary?’ She waved her hand at the pile of parcels waiting to be taken out to the coach.
‘Of course it is. You have promised to come out and about with me and you must be properly dressed for each occasion. It would not look well for us if you were not.’
‘But—’
‘I will hear no buts. You shall have a come-out and I will eat my best hat if you do not make a hit.’
Sophie was not sure she wanted to make a hit, especially if it meant being ogled by all the single young men with questioning eyes. How much was she worth? How big a dowry had been settled on her? Was it worth offering for her, even though she was so plain? Perhaps if she could make herself even more unattractive, they would give up. But when she had slipped into the beautiful gown for her first sortie into society, she knew she didn’t want to. It would be lovely, just once, to be admired, to flirt a little, and then retire into the life she had mapped out for herself.
What would his Grace make of her transformation? she wondered. Would he realise there was more to the waif he so disdained than he had at first thought? Would she elicit a smile from him, a genuine smile, not that condescending twitch of the lips that had characterised his exchanges with her until now? But then she stopped herself. He had handed her over to his sister and been relieved to do so, which was hardly flattering, but Lady Harley had been so welcoming and friendly that she more than made up for the shortcomings of her brother. After all, he had far more important things to do than put in an appearance at a musical evening being given by one of Lady Harley’s friends. It was a simple affair, she had told Sophie, a suitable occasion in which to introduce her to society.
Rose, one of the chambermaids who had been promoted to look after her, sat Sophie down at the dressing table and arranged her hair in a soft Grecian style, which went well with the classical lines of the gown, and then fastened her mother’s pearls about her throat. They lay against her skin, picking up the colours of her dress. ‘There, miss, you look lovely,’ Rose said.
‘Thank you.’ She stood up, slipped her feet into her matching slippers and, picking up her fan, drifted out of the room and down the stairs in a kind of waking dream. If only her mother could see her now. She had always talked to her about the grand occasions she had enjoyed as a girl, how she wished she could give them to her, and, if Papa’s ship came in, she would. It was an idle dream and they had both known it, but here she was, her eyes misted with tears at the memory, walking sedately down the grand staircase of Belfont House to be introduced to the beau monde. She was halfway down when she realised someone was in the hall looking up at her, and it wasn’t Harriet.
If she had not had her hand on the banister, she would have stumbled, but she quickly regained her balance, pausing a moment before continuing her stately progress down the stairs. Had she detected a tiny show of appreciation in his blue eyes as he watched her descend? If she had, it was gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it. She must have. He saw beautiful and elegant women every day of his life, was used to the opulence at court, the rich materials, the flashing jewels, the grandeur. In spite of her new clothes, she would be an antidote beside them.
She paused on the bottom stair because he had not moved. She would have to let go of the banister and step to one side to go round him and she did not think she could. Her knees felt as if they would not support her. On this step she was the same height as he was and could see the dark flecks in his blue eyes, his firm mouth and the tiny curls of hair about his ears. He had a tiny scar on his chin, too, which she had not noticed before. It made him slightly less than perfect, more human.
He had been so taken aback by the vision of her coming slowly down the stairs, one gloved hand on the banister, her head held high, her gown fitting so perfectly to a figure just the slim side of the curves fashion dictated that he had been mesmerised. Whatever had made him think she was plain? She was a vision of loveliness; he found his heart
