Nothing, however, seemed capable of distracting her from thoughts of Alex. Everything seemed to remind her of him, and of the fact that he had neither called on her nor sent word in the five days since they had kissed in the carriage.
After her visit with Mirabelle and Kate, she had wanted to run straight to Alex. Wanted to tell him everything, so he could…what? What would he do? Offer her the role of mistress, and the protection that came with it? Admittedly, the idea held some appeal, but it wouldn’t guarantee the safety of Whitefield. Moreover, it would break the hearts of the people she loved.
Perhaps he’d offer to help her secure a husband—which would, no matter how irrational she knew it to be, break her own heart.
Perhaps he’d tell all and sundry there was a rift in the family. Really, how well could you know a person after so short a time?
Perhaps he’d mention to Loudor how desperate she’d become. Or perhaps….
Perhaps she needed to keep her mouth closed and forget him entirely.
A round-nosed man in a gray coat and a tall, thin woman in a blue dress sat on a bench in Hyde Park.
They watched as the birds flitted from tree to tree and the occasional squirrel chattered its annoyance at the intrusion. To any passerby, they were an unremarkable couple enjoying the rare appearance of the English sun.
“How are things progressing?” he inquired, lifting his face into the wind, enjoying the way it brushed lightly across his skin.
“I’m not certain,” she replied. “They haven’t met for several days, as far as I know.”
“Hmm.”
“Could you be mistaken about him?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
She nodded thoughtfully and turned her attention to her toes. They were covered in the not-quite-yet-soft leather of new boots and peeking out from under the hem of her dress. It had been a long time since she had bought new shoes.
“And you?” he asked, watching her watch her toes.
She looked up. “I don’t even know him.”
“I meant her,” he replied with a small smile.
“Oh.” She resumed the inspection of her footwear. “No, she is perfectly suited. I suppose things shall come about. We need only be patient.”
“I am not a patient man.”
“No, you are not,” she chuckled. “If it’s any conciliation, there is the most intriguing rumor being circulated.”
“And that rumor would be?”
She raised her head to meet his eyes. “It’s being said that she is looking for a husband.”
By the night of the Forents’ ball, Alex was very nearly climbing the walls of his London home. His self-imposed exile had proved a spectacular failure. He’d spent the last few days alternately anxious, bored, and intolerably frustrated. His usual pursuits had done nothing to relieve his mind, and subsequently his body, from thoughts of Sophie.
He had worked on estate business, taken a quick trip to Rockeforte for some fishing, read two books on the history of China (for self-improvement and his own edification, of course), gotten drunk once with Whit and Lord Loudor, once with just Whit, and once entirely by himself.
The first bout of drinking had been all business, with Alex steering the conversation toward the unpopular Prince Regent, the war with Napoleon, and what Loudor made of the whole messy affair. But then Loudor’s change of residence had come up. Sophie’s cousin had given the excuse of needing more privacy. Alex thought it a weak explanation at best, and so he invited Whit over for a few drinks the next night to discuss the matter. That bout of drinking had resulted in nothing more productive than an endless demonstration of Whit’s clever—and vastly amusing to Whit—insights on Alex’s interest in Sophie. This had prompted the final, solitary bout of drinking which, sad to say, had coincided with his perusal of the second book, leaving Alex with the muddled idea that China had somehow once belonged to the French.
He was tired, hung over, and annoyed by the certain knowledge that he would have to reread that book before attempting any sort of conversation on the topic with Sophie.
And he had every intention of speaking with her to night. And the night after that. And every night thereafter until he was finally sick of her.
He had to have her. There was nothing else for it. He wasn’t sure in what capacity he wanted, no had, definitely had to have her, although in his bed was a certainty. And if it became necessary—and with this thought he gave a long-suffering sigh that some small part of his brain recognized as an affectation—he would marry her.
The idea had some merit, really. He needed to marry sometime, didn’t he? He needed to produce an heir. She seemed as likely a candidate for a bride as any. He might even go so far as to say better than most since he truly liked Sophie.