Chapter 13
The sun set, and still they hurried on, buying pies at one of the post houses so they could eat while travelling. Their pace slowed as the light faded, and they were forced to rely on lamps to light the road ahead. But this close to the capital, the roads were in good repair and—even in the growing dark—traffic still rumbled toward the great city.
More than seven hours after they left Hollystone Hall, Sophia woke from a fitful sleep to find they were pulling up before the Winshire front door. She did her best to straighten her bonnet and her redingote, and pulled her warm shawl over her shoulders as much to cover the worst of the rumples as to protect her from the cold.
Straw on the road muffled the horses’ hoof beats. Sophia peered anxiously up at the front door as Aldridge handed her down then turned to perform the same office for the maid. No black wreath hung on the door, though the knocker was wrapped in cloth to muffle it. All these precautions against noise hinted that the duke still lived.
“I can manage now,” she said.
“We will just check Elfingham is at home,” Aldridge assured her. “We can take you on to your own townhouse if there is a problem.”
Sophia wilted under a fresh cascade of doubt.
Aldridge bounded up the steps, disgustingly agile for someone who had jolted in a carriage for seven hours, while Gren descended beside her and offered an arm. Both Grenford brothers had somehow managed to weather the journey uncreased.
Sophia blushed at her own disarray and almost turned and climbed back into the carriage.
“Courage, Sophia,” Gren whispered. “He loves you.”
Aldridge was arguing with the servant who had opened the door, insisting that a message be taken to Lord Elfingham, that the viscount would wish to be advised immediately about the delivery Lord Aldridge had brought. Reluctantly, the servant let the four of them into the entry hall while he went upstairs with the message, but only after treating Sophia and her maid to a superior sneer that clearly showed his opinion of bedraggled wenches who turned up after dark in the company of such men.
One more day was over, and the duke still breathed. Ruth warned that death often came in the still hours before dawn, but James was convinced the old man was clinging to the year and would not go until it ended. Tomorrow night, then, or the following morning.
There was a comfort in gathering with family. Even his sole remaining son and his daughter did not like the old tyrant, but his death would be a change, for all of that. New burdens to bear. Regrets for opportunities lost. The duke’s sitting room had almost taken on the atmosphere of a chapel as they waited, talking in hushed whispers.
The reverent quiet was barely disturbed by the butler, who sidled into the room and approached Papa sideways. James would not have taken notice of the man, except that he kept his eyes fixed on James from the time he entered.
Papa beckoned James, and he went, trailing the butler and his father out into the hall.
“Were you expecting the Marquis of Aldridge to deliver something for you?” Papa asked.
“Aldridge? Here?”
His father raised his brows and inclined his head. “Yes. Haverford’s son. Here. With his brother and two women, one apparently a gentlewoman.”
Could hearts bound? Apparently they could, and he started toward the stairs without another word.
Papa hurried to catch up. “Your lady, you think?”
“I hope, Papa.”
“And with a man like Aldridge?”
He stopped to prevent whatever calumny his father was thinking, but the warmth of expectation was spreading. “She is the noblest of ladies, Papa. You will see.”
And he waited no longer but hurried to the stairs and down around the curve until he saw her, and only her, his Sophia, drooping with tiredness in the middle of the marble hall.
“Sophia!”
She looked up, and in her eyes, he saw it was not just tiredness that made her wilt, but the same doubts about her worth that had stood between them these months. So brave she was, to come to him anyway, even unsure of her welcome.
“Sophia,” he said again, pouring all his longing and his joy into her name as he hurried down the last of the steps, and the flame spread from him to her, igniting her own joy, so she hurried to meet him. “Sophia,” he said one more time as he crushed her in his arms and met her lips, trembling with his own name.
“James.”
For a long moment, he forgot himself and his surroundings, his whole being focused on absorbing the smell, the taste, the feel of her, his hands shaping her back, her waist, her…
He reluctantly drew away, suddenly aware again that they had an audience: his father, a small smile playing around his lips; Lord Aldridge, looking benevolent; Lord Jonathan, grinning broadly; the butler and a girl who must be Sophia’s maid, both attempting to pretend they were elsewhere.
“James, I have come to give you my answer.”
“After that kiss,” Papa suggested, “I must assume it is yes. My dear, I am Sutton, and soon, I collect, to be your papa. And you are the lovely Lady Sophia, with whom my son has fallen in love.”
Sophia blushed as she held out the hand James did not retain firmly in his possession.
“Yes, my lord,” she agreed, sliding her beautiful eyes sideways to look up at James. “My answer is yes. As soon as you wish, James.”
“Tomorrow, if I can manage it, my heart.”
“It seems we owe you a debt, Lord Aldridge.” Father’s colorless tone, all courtesy and no substance, hinted at the discomfort he felt at being beholden to the son of a man he hated.
James countenanced no such reserve. “Yes, Aldridge, Gren. My everlasting thanks for bringing my lady safely to London.”
“We were coming, Elfingham. Bringing Sophia was a courtesy to my mother, who is fond of her goddaughter.” Amused hazel eyes turned to Papa. “You owe us nothing, Lord Sutton. And now we have delivered her safely, we shall be on our way.”
Papa recalled his duty of hospitality. “Refreshments before you go. A bed. Food. A wash. A stirrup cup.”
“Thank you, sir,” Aldridge replied, “but we must not keep the horses waiting in the cold. Perhaps another time?”
They made their bows and left, and Papa whirled into action, commanding a room for Sophia, a hot bath, and food to refresh her. “We shall not inflict the entire family on you tonight, Sophia. May I call you, Sophia? Rest, and you shall meet them in the morning.”
Sophia stopped at the door of her room to kiss James again, too tired and too happy to care what the servants thought. Tomorrow they would be wed, and she would not need to leave him at the door. That put her in mind of the duchess’s letter, and she fetched it from her reticule, which he claimed meant she deserved another kiss.
“You should be kissing Her Grace,” Sophia pointed out. “It is her letter.”
“I would not enjoy it nearly as much,” he murmured against her mouth before claiming it again.
They tore themselves reluctantly apart. Sophia washed in a daze of exhaustion and fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow to dream of kisses and James.