Chapter 2

Hollystone Hall, Buckinghamshire

24th December 1812

Sophia Belvoir woke, heart pounding, from the same dream that had haunted her for months.

Nightmare, rather, except for how it ended. She was sitting frozen in the middle of a dusty village street, with her death bearing down on her.

But before she was trampled under eight sets of hooves and two sets of carriage wheels, a golden horse came racing from behind a cottage, and suddenly, she was safe in the arms of a barbarian prince. He was splendid in a richly embroidered red robe over white trousers and shirt, with a towering hat of black sheepskin that made him seem enormous. And the dream ended when he kissed her.

She shook her head to dislodge him. “Stay out of my dreams,” she told him.

At least he would not follow her here in person. The house belonged to the Duke of Haverford, and no Winderfield would cross its threshold.

Follow her! Her short laugh at her own expense held no humor. Follow Felicity, rather. When she met him in that village eight months ago, when she encountered him again a week later in a London ballroom, she had hoped he felt the same connection as she did.

But, of course, that was before he met Felicity.

Her younger sister was everything Sophia was not. Felicity’s hair was fair; Sophia’s was brown. Felicity had blue eyes; Sophia’s were a dull gray. Felicity had a classic peaches and cream complexion; Sophia’s was… well, all right, not beige, exactly. But certainly not as pretty than Felicity’s.

Added to that, Felicity was dainty; Sophia was tall. Felicity was fashionably slim where Sophia was altogether rounder, and had to insist on her bodices being cut a little higher than the current mode lest her partners spend an entire dance staring at her breasts.

Of course Lord Elfingham was interested in Felicity, though he made no more of Felicity than of Sophia, nor of any other single lady. As was entirely proper, of course. Lord Elfingham behaved in every way like an English gentleman, even after the Duke of Haverford sponsored a claim in the House of Lords that, if proven, would declare Lord Sutton’s marriage invalid and Lord Elfingham not a viscount and in a direct line to inherit a dukedom, but merely the base-born son of Sutton’s Persian mistress.

The success or failure of the challenge remained to be seen. Meanwhile, the Winderfields behaved as if it, and the Haverfords, did not exist.

It took Sophia a while to notice that Lord Elfingham appeared at the same entertainments as the Belvoir sisters. Not just occasionally, but all the time, until she fell into the habit of looking for him wherever they went.

If there were dancing, he always solicited two dances from each of them. He sat near them at musical entertainments, fetched them supper at soirees, walked his beautiful horse next to their carriage in the park, and contrived to stroll with them at picnics.

And then some busybody pointed it out to her brother, the Earl of Hythe, who made a fuss. “I will not have that baseborn mustee hanging after Felicity!” Hythe declared. “You must put a stop to it, Sophia.”

Quite what Sophia was to put a stop to, when Elfingham’s behavior had been beyond reproach, Hythe did not say, but Sophia was confident the young viscount’s pursuit would end with the Season.

Far from it. Viscount Elfingham had been at Bath where she and Felicity had spent eight weeks with an aunt, and also in London later in the autumn when they went up for a bit of shopping.

But not here in Hollystone Hall. Here, at least, she could go about her day without seeing that dark slender face, all sharp lines, and those piercing eyes. Rather like a hawk, sailing in an updraft over the arid mountains he described to her one afternoon at a garden party, his melodious voice painting images in her mind of the wild rugged land and its colorful people. No. She would not see him here, except in her dreams.

Experience told her there was no use expecting to sleep again, though it was still so early that the maid had not yet made up the fire.

But she could stay snug in her bed and still make some notes about the day’s activities. Today, she and her two friends and co-workers would be leading the decorating of the house for Christmastide. The kissing boughs were made, and the swags. The Yule log had been selected. It remained only to enlist the rest of the guests in the fun.

They worked well together, Sophia Belvoir, Grace, Lady de Courtenay, and Cedrica Grenford. Perhaps they should set up a service for hostesses, like Aunt Eleanor, who wanted a magnificent event and someone else to organize it.

Sophia smiled at the conceit. Hythe would be outraged. She might suggest it to him just to see his reaction.

She lit a candle, picked up the slate and chalk from her bedside table, and commanded her mind to stop thinking about Lord Elfingham. Which was, as she knew it would be, a complete waste of time.