Meant To Be (Pendleton Manor 1)

“Do you want to dance?” James asked her once they were alone, or at least as alone as it was possible to be among the chattering crowds.

“Later perhaps,” Sophy said with a smile. “It is so lovely here.”

“You should visit my estate in the north. In fact, I insist upon it. I would not call it ‘lovely,’ but the scenery is spectacular.”

“I would like that,” she said.

For a moment they just looked at each other, and Sophy wondered if her grandmother was right. Was James going to propose to her? If he did, was she going to accept him? During their conversations she had touched on her dream of teaching poor children and he had listened and seemed interested. He was a compassionate and intelligent man. If she decided to marry him, could she combine a life with him and fulfilling her dream?

“James …?”

He was looking past her shoulder, his shoulders rigid, and his intense expression had her turning to follow his gaze, only to have her heart sink. Lady Evelyn Rowe stood next to Harry, their heads bent close. As if she had sensed their interest, she looked up. Her face was pale, but no less beautiful. She looked away again almost at once, but not before Sophy read the tumult in her expression.

James reached for Sophy, slipping her hand through his elbow and began to walk away. “Perhaps it would be a good thing to visit my estate in the north,” he said quietly. “A broken heart will never heal if it is constantly reminded of what cannot be.”

She squeezed his arm, not knowing how to answer. They reached the east side of the house and, as the Marquis had promised, there were couples waltzing here on the lawn. Sophy watched them, thinking how elegant and smooth the dance was, and yes, how intimate. The gentleman’s hand on the lady’s waist, and hers on his shoulder, their other hands clasped together, as they turned around and around. It was the lack of other partners that some people found objectionable, how the two dancers were together for the entire waltz, so unlike the more old fashioned frolics where partners changed regularly.

“Sophy,” James spoke up, “We are friends, are we not? Good friends?”

Sophy turned to face him. His eyes looked rather wild, as if he had come to a decision and meant to see it through. “Of course we are.”

“Do you think friendship is enough to build a marriage on? Could you imagine spending your days and nights with me? I know I am not your first choice.”

“And I am not yours.”

“Yet, if I am to be happy with someone then I think it will be you, Sophy.”

“James …” she was suddenly aware of where his questions were taking them. Was he really going to do this now?

“I wonder if you would consider … If you would do me the honour—”

Harry’s deep voice interrupted them. “Sophy.”

Sophy turned, shocked. Harry’s brown hair was fashionably tous

led and his white neckcloth expertly tied above his silk shirt with his dark blue jacket covering his broad shoulders. He wore his town polish well—she could see the change in him—and still it was Harry.

“Will you dance with me, Sophy?” Harry asked quietly. His eyes were shadowed, and there was a seriousness to him she hadn’t seen in a while.

She knew she should say no. She was with James, and Harry might have caught her unawares but she knew that to let him touch her in the intimate manner the waltz required would not be good for her. And yet she ached to say yes.

His warm fingers closed over hers, as if he had no intention of letting her go. “Please?” He smiled a half smile, one side of his mouth turning up, and his eyes narrowed, lines appearing at the corners. Harry, she thought, used to smile a lot. He used to smile at her a lot.

“Sophy?” James came up beside her. He seemed to know what was in her heart, because he said, “It is just one dance, and I will wait here for you. If that is what you wish. One final dance, and then we can continue our conversation when you are done.”

Harry frowned at him. “When you are done?” he repeated. “You make it sound as if we will never meet again.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Sophy is considering travelling north with me, to see my estate. By the time we return you will be married to Lady Evelyn. You are no fool. To keep picking at this scab means it will never heal, and I am sure you would wish Sophy to be happy. Enjoy your dance, Baillieu, because it must be your last.”

Harry was smiling. Why was he smiling? James had spoken the truth, Sophy suspected, and they both knew it, so there was no reason for Harry’s cocksure smile.

“Sophy?” Harry held out his hand in a way that was almost proprietorial.

Sophy could remain angry with him after what he had said to her at Monkstead’s house, but what would that accomplish? After a brief hesitation, Sophy whispered, “One last dance.” His fingers closed around his. His expression still puzzled her. This should be a sad moment, their final dance, and yet he didn’t seem sad at all. Before she could ask him why that was so, he led her onto the dancing area of the lawn.

Their last dance together, she thought dizzily. One final memory to add to the collection, and then everything would change. She could not live like this any longer, with her heart torn in two. She needed to let Harry go once and for all. James was right. But for now she was here, with him, and she would squeeze every last drop of pleasure from this moment.

Harry turned her into his arms. Her gaze caressed his smoothly shaven jaw and firm lips, and the way his dark lashes framed his brown eyes. He wore the sort of cologne a fashionable London gentleman would wear, but underneath he still smelt like Harry. She wanted to close her eyes and savour him somehow, but she also wanted to keep her eyes open so she didn’t miss a thing.