Cam smiled at Pen. “In Miss Thorne’s case, that’s definitely the case.”
Pen sent him a withering glance. “So gallant, my lord.” She turned back to Mrs. Barker-Pratt. “His lordship is a childhood friend. We met by chance this evening.”
If she wasn’t careful, the story would unravel. The staff knew that they’d arrived together. Still, he’d do his best to play along. “A pleasure to see dear Miss Thorne again.”
Mrs. Barker-Pratt looked puzzled. “We heard you were meeting your brother in Paris, Miss Thorne.”
Pen paled. During these last weeks, her grief for Peter had been a palpable presence.
Cam saved her from having to talk about Peter. “Lord Wilmott has passed away.”
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Barker-Pratt might be an unwelcome intruder, but Cam felt a surge of gratitude when the woman swept Pen into a motherly embrace. For weeks, he’d longed to extend a similarly generous response. Once he wouldn’t have hesitated. But they’d both grown up since then, damn it.
Cam stepped back. “I’ll wish you good night. You have much to discuss, I’m sure.”
As he walked away, he couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if he and Pen had remained alone in the lamplight. Nothing to be proud of, that was sure.
Prescott Place, Wiltshire, March 1828
“Yes,” Sophie said immediately and her hand tightened around Harry’s. “I’d love to marry you.”
“Oh, my dear!” Harry raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. He could hardly believe that the space of an afternoon had delivered not just this glorious creature’s vow of love, but also a promise to be his. “I’ll speak to your brother the instant he returns to London.”
Sophie snatched her hand back and regarded him with horror. “No, you mustn’t.”
The abrupt change left Harry bewildered. “You’re under twenty-one, Sophie. I need his permission.”
She scrambled to her feet and stared down at him as if he’d suggested some unnatural practice. “My brother wants me to marry Lord Desborough.”
More slowly, Harry rose from his knees, his gaze never wavering from Sophie. “You can’t marry Desborough. You love me.”
For a moment, he thought she might hurl herself into his embrace, but she curtailed the movement and wrapped her arms around her crushed bodice. “My brother is determined on the marriage.”
“Your brother is a reasonable man. He’ll—”
She interrupted him. “He is a reasonable man. He’s arranged a match with a kind gentleman of great fortune who’s fond of me.”
Harry glared at her. “You sound like you want to marry the sod.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said on an exhalation of despair. “You don’t understand.”
He folded his own arms, fighting his hurt. To think, five minutes ago, he’d considered himself the world’s happiest man. “I understand that you said you’d marry me and now seem to say that you won’t.”
She curled her hand around his tight forearm. “Let’s not quarrel.”
“I can’t let you marry Desborough.”
“I don’t want to. But my brother is in a state because of Uncle Neville’s suicide and because Sedgemoor is working against us and because he thinks the scandal may end his political career. It’s not the time to tell him that his carefully laid plans won’t eventuate.”
“You’re frightened of him.”
The suggestion shocked her. “Of course not. But open defiance now, when he feels like the world turns against him, would hurt him.”
What about me?
Harry bit back the childish question. “So what do you propose?” Moments ago, “propose” had conveyed a completely different meaning.