Arnaud’s thoughts collided in opposition and his gut clenched. This was probably the moment he’d hoped for. Someone would soon go to Lord Howick and offer for Sophie. Someone would take Sophie as his own. Someone would protect her, love her, give her children and the life she’d always deserved. And it looked like that someone would probably be Sir Thomas.
Arnaud would be free to move on with his life, hire a crew, get his ship ready to return to his squadron. So why did he feel as though he were headed for the hangman’s noose at Old Bailey instead of the life he’d chafed to resume for all these weeks? Why did he want to howl like a wounded animal instead of celebrating?
Arnaud thought he was still walking until Cullen grasped his elbow and gave him a sharp shove toward the ballroom. “Listen, you stupid swab, you’ve made your own, pig-headed tack in the wrong direction. Now live with your decision and sail on before she sees you wallowing in self-pity over here in the dark.”
Once inside, Arnaud took up a guard position near the garden doors, just in case Sir Thomas, or Sophie, should need him. Who was he trying to convince? He wanted to see the expression on her face when she walked back through those doors. He needed to see she’d made her decision so he could quit punishing himself with visions of what life would be like if she belonged to him.
Sophie swallowed hard. She could barely believe the intimate tale Sir Thomas had just shared with her. She was grateful for the half-light beneath the garden path torch. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the heated flush his story and proposal had elicited.
“I know this is probably too much for a gently bred young woman to take in all at once, but after you’ve had time to think over my proposal, I believe you will see this could be the answer to your dilemma as well as mine.” Sir Thomas took both of her hands and feathered kisses around them before standing and offering his hand to help her rise. “We should return to the dance before we’re missed.
“I’ve discussed my plan with my mother, and she approves. All that remains is for me to go to Lord Howick and make my intentions known.”
When she sucked in a sharp breath, he added, “I will not say another word about what has passed between us until you send word you’ve made up your mind. My fate now is entirely in your hands.”
“I would never hurt you, Sir Thomas.”
“Just Thomas, please.” He kissed her hands again. “I know you love another who cannot offer for you. I also love another I cannot be with. Why should we not comfort each other? We could stumble along together and wring as much happiness as possible from this life, if only you could agree to be my wife and let me take care of you.”
“I do not wish to be hurtful, but I must ask.” Sophie raised her eyes to his with a stubborn jut to her chin. “Will there be children?”
This time he leaned over and brushed a soft kiss across her forehead. “Of course, but only if you wish. I’m merely the third son. My two brothers are reasonably healthy, and the younger one already has a growing tribe of his own. I will never make demands on you…” He paused for a moment. “Unless that is what you want.”
Sophie’s head whirled. She was not theton’susual coming-out innocent. She’d been exposed to the louche group of writers and artists her father had gathered around him. She understood exactly what Sir Thomas offered. And she suspected she had an inkling of what drove Lord Rumsford’s wife to dalliances with tall footmen.
However much that particular kind of arrangement might appeal, it was not for her. Lady Howick was right. Somehow, rarefied ducal blood still flowed in her veins, regardless of how the rest of society viewed her. She knew who she was. She wanted, no, she deserved, nothing less than a true marriage. She was a realist as well, though, and would think over Sir Thomas’s offer. Very carefully. As long as she had to marry a man she did not love, leg-shackling herself to a husband who would not make demands was not such a bad choice.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lydia lay so still,Sophie rolled toward her to make sure she still breathed. Her eyes were wide open in the dark, staring straight above, as if something fascinating lurked within the draping of the fabric at the top of the canopy.
“Lydia, talk to me. What is wrong? You are never like this. You always roll over and go straight to sleep.”
“You don’t know that, Sophie.”
“Of course I do. We’ve shared beds ever since we were tiny girls. You make that little half snuffle, half snore noise when you’re deep asleep.”
Lydia abruptly sat up and stared down at her. “Oh, Sophie, what is going to become of us?”
“We’re going to go on living and breathing, taking one step after another, doing all the things we’re expected to do.”
“But it’s not fair.” Lydia’s words came out so explosively, Sophie sat up as well and covered her friend’s hand. “When we’re small, we’re cosseted and given everything we want. We’re made to believe the world is ours to do with as we choose. And then, then…” She trailed off with a snuffle that wasn’t her usual fading into sleep noise.
Sophie finished Lydia’s speech for her. “And then, we grow into young women and we learn the awful truth. Our lives are not our own.”
“No matter what Papa says, he knows I’m right. The only future I can look forward to is marrying some stuffy titled gentleman and settling down into a boring life of running a household and producing a string of brats.”
“Lydia, this is the life you were born into. What else would you want? A future as the wife of a Royal Navy marine? Living alone most of the time while he’s at sea and running a householdwithoutmuch money while producing a different string of brats?”
Lydia burst into tears. “I can’t live without George. I’ll die when he leaves to go back to sea.”
Sophie gave her friend awkward pats on the back while she sobbed, meanwhile easing her back down onto her pillow. When the sobs finally subsided into hiccups and then little snores, Sophie slid from bed and lit a candle to see her way downstairs to the library. Only a book would calm her frayed nerves.
She pushed open the heavy door and padded across to the shelves where she’d earlier seen a copy of Scott’s “Ivanhoe.” After clutching the novel beneath one arm and holding the candle with the other, she slipped back out into the hallway.
She had no more than put one foot on the stairway to the upper level when she heard loud voices in argument outside. She raced up to the first landing to see what was happening in the front courtyard. The front entrance torchlights revealed Arnaud’s men half pushing, half holding him upright in an attempt to get him to the staircase on the other side of the house and thence on to his room. He appeared to be singing a bawdy tavern song in a voice so loud, they took turns clapping strong hands over his mouth to quiet him.
Sophie spun back against a wall on the landing to hide in the shadows. She sucked in a deep breath and remembered the many nights she’d watched her father’s friends doing much the same coaxing of him. She closed her eyes and willed the unhappy images to leave her head. Sophie missed her father desperately, but she did not miss his frequent bouts of drunkenness. Lord, she’d nearly linked her life with another man who could not control his intake of spirits. How could she not have known this about Arnaud? Of all the nights he’d kept watch through endless balls and routs, he’d never once had even one drink.
