Sophia, under normal circumstances, would have been over the moon at the prospect of planning her wedding. She was a girl who’d always appreciated fashion, flowers, and the details involved in such a grand spectacle.

Not that Mr. and Mrs. Scofield had ever had the funds to throw any lavish events themselves, but she’d attended enough to know the difference in a well-planned party and one thrown together by a novice.

But this wedding was not something she anticipated, and she did not experience the excitement of a normal bride. So instead of reveling in the questions she was asked regarding color, flowers, flavors, and whatnot, Sophia, rather endured the meetings she and her mother attended at Prescott House with the duchess and a various collection of Lord Harold’s aunts.

A pre-wedding ball would be held the night before the ceremony at St. George’s, and then a celebratory breakfast would follow. She and the groom would spend their first night as a married couple at Prescott House, for there really was no reason to stay anywhere else, and nowhere else would be finer, that was for certain. And then the day after, to signify a premature end to the Season for most of the family, they would all travel in an assortment of distinctively ducal vehicles to one of Prescotts’ large country estates adjacent to the sea. After a few weeks, Sophia and Lord Harold would travel to a nearby estate which had been gifted to them by the duke.

Sophia was becoming numb to all of it. It had been decided that Rhoda and her mother and sisters could join them following the wedding. Sophia’d not asked for much, after all. Such a simple request by the bride could be honored.

Sophia rather thought of herself as a mannequin to be dressed, an actress reciting her lines. It did not matter, she surmised, who she was, merely that she existed.

That was why, on one of these visits to Prescott House, the duchess caught her unawares when she requested a moment alone.

Her grace, always regal and poised, exuded confidence and calm. Since their first meeting, Sophia had been somewhat in awe of the woman.

As the two walked together through one of the endless corridors that wound through the mansion, Sophia realized that her future mother-in-law’s presence was not due to any great beauty. Upon closer inspection, the duchess was, in fact, rather normal-looking.

She had the same brown hair and eyes which had attracted Sophia to Lord Harold. Her grandeur was not derived from beauty, rather from her bearing and her dignity.

When they came to an iron gate blocking the corridor, the duchess took a key from a hook on the wall and then unlocked it. As the structure rested upon wheels, it slid off to the side easily, into what must be a deep narrow compartment.

“I thought you’d appreciate a glance at some of your future husband’s ancestors.” She spoke graciously as she hung the key back on the wall. She then took Sophia by the arm again and led her into the portrait-lined galley.

“I want you to know, Sophia, my dear, that you are welcome in this family. It can be overwhelming. I understand.” The duchess led Sophia along at a leisurely pace. Sophia was intrigued. This stroll was not about Lord Harold’s ancestors. “I remember when I was a new bride, how daunting it all was. And although Harold is not the heir, and God-willing, never will be, he is my son. His happiness matters greatly to me.”

Sophia didn’t know what to say to this. She’d barely had two words alone with her fiancé since that dreadful night at the theatre. The feelings she’d had for him were now, not just clouded, but stormy. In contemplating the reality of her betrothal, she only could rely upon her previous acquaintance with Lord Harold and Captain Brookes’ opinion of his cousin. But what could she say to the duchess?

“As it does to me,” Sophia said cautiously.

The duchess nodded approvingly. “And, my dear.” Her grace patted Sophia’s hand reassuringly. “I have learned from my own experience that if I wish for my children to find comfort and contentment with their spouses, then the best I can do is ensure their spouses are as content, themselves, as possible. That they always feel safe and that their concerns matter within this family.

“I have watched you, and I feel as though I have come to know a little of who you are, Sophia. I think you are often underestimated, for your compassion, for your courage, and for your ability to love deeply. These last few weeks you have been subdued, however, and I think, overwhelmed.”

The portraits on the wall had taken them through centuries of dukes and duchesses and a few landscapes. When they rounded the corner, Sophia could not help but smile.

“I thought to myself, what would make Sophia feel at home? What could I do to help her feel as though she belongs with us?” The large, prestigious portraits on this wall were of dogs. Enormous long-haired dogs, Thin, spindly, short-haired dogs, a pug, a poodle… and…

…Peaches.

It really was Peaches!

Sophia laughed for the first time in days. The duchess released her arm and stepped aside. “Oh, your grace,” Sophia said, moving closer to the painting and shaking her head. No one had ever done anything like this for her! “When…? How…?”

“When the maids would take Peaches out for those little constitutionals during our meetings, our family artist awaited her. I commissioned the painting the first time I saw you with your pet.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Sophia said. She wanted to touch the painting. The hair, the eyes, the tilt of her head — the likeness was uncanny. “Thank you, your grace.”

“You are protective of her. I want you to know that she will always be safe here. I quite understand.” Her grace gestured to another portrait of a poodle. “Figaro lived to be eighteen years old. He was perhaps a little spoiled. But not a day passed that he did not love me. And I realize we humans cannot always say that about one another.” She laughed at herself then, a little self-consciously.

“Your suites will always have the conveniences you will need for Peaches to make herself at home, wherever you and Harold stay.”

Sophia reluctantly backed away from the painting and turned toward the duchess. “Your gift warms my heart,” she said.

The duchess nodded at Sophia’s compliment. Her grace had said that she, too, had been overwhelmed when marrying into the dukedom. Had her marriage been an arranged one, Sophia wondered?

After staring at the painting for a few more moments, the woman gestured toward where they had come.

“Your mother must be wondering where we’ve wandered off to. Shall we return and finalize the details of this wedding of yours?”

What could Sophia do? She smiled. “Of course, your grace.”

The duchess turned back and led them out of the gallery, sliding the gate closed behind them. Sophia was not marrying into a family of monsters! Lord Harold, except for those few moments he’d shown her his irritation, had been nothing but kind and gentle toward her.

But he had indicated an affection for her, even though he was supposedly in love with another woman.

If this was, in fact, the truth.

Could the captain have been mistaken?

Self-doubt encroached again.

Was she imagining the unfairness?

The corruption?

The manipulation?

Even the duke himself had never so much has uttered a single threat toward her.

And what part did Devlin play in all of this, really?

Oh, God, for the millionth time she reminded herself that she’d blurted out that she loved him!

Everything had felt so romantic, so tragic, as they’d stood in the pavilion, his arms tightly wrapped around her. Was that the love her mother had warned her about? The kind that caused her to see an upcoming wedding as a prison sentence? The kind of love that caused her to stand in a frigid rainstorm, telling a man she’d known less than a fortnight that she loved him? If it had been possible, in that moment, she knew she’d have given herself to him.

He affected physical, emotional — egad — even spiritual feelings that altered her perspective of the world. Was that a good thing, or was it a very, very bad thing?

Even Rhoda could find no fault in Sophia’s future in-laws. They presented a united front to the world, they lived together quite peaceably — if one discounted Devlin, of course, — and they were free from scandal.

In addition to all of this, it appeared that St. John was respectfully courting Rhoda. Rhoda was of a well-connected family, just as Sophia was, but nobility did not exist in her ancestry. In fact, both girls had lived most of their lives near the shadow of hovering poverty.

Did not these facts reveal compassion and a liberal-minded attitude within the Brookes’ family?

Had the payments to her parents been, perhaps, merely an exaggerated gesture of charity on their part?

Again, sitting amongst Harold’s womenfolk, Sophia tried to concentrate on tying the ribbons at the base of the paper cutouts of wedding bells. The paper was of the finest parchment, the ribbon of the finest silk.

She looped and tied and stacked, listening to the casual conversation floating around her, until her mother stood, indicating it was time for them to leave. Rhoda had not attended this meeting. Lord St. John had offered to escort her and her sisters to the tower this afternoon. Rhoda had expressed interest in a temporary exhibit, and he’d quickly offered his escort.

His offer showed a gentleman of kind spirit, did it not? And such a gentleman would not be of an evil family.

Sophia glanced around before they made their goodbyes and was forced to admit something she’d been resisting. Her fiancé and his family were not, in fact, ogres and demagogues.

So, what did that make her?

And what did that make Captain Brookes?

Her mind was tired from trying to figure it all out.

With the wedding less than a week away, one would think she’d be more panicked than she was.

She had seen Captain Brookes at various social occasions. And even though, around his family, he’d treated her with a proper respect and distance, she had found a comfort knowing he was near. She’d felt… peace in seeing him, even knowing their love — if that was what it was — was bound for disappointment.

When they last spoke at the park, he’ been supportive of both her and of his cousin, Harold. She was trying to think of Lord Harold by his first name. He’d not asked her to, but knowing that he was already her husband…

And that thought set her off again; she bristled at the high-handedness of it. Why had they done that? Why had they stolen her choices?

The questions never came with any answers.

She only wished she could quiet them somehow.

* * *

The evening of the pre-wedding ball, Sophia couldn’t help but have a sense of expectancy. For surely, surely, if anything could be done to stop the ceremony, it would be accomplished tonight. For even though she’d already signed the license, Sophia could not help but hope for Captain Brookes to somehow produce a miraculous discovery, discrediting it all.

And in her wildest imaginations, Sophia had dreamed up numerous scenarios whereupon she stumbled upon thousands of pounds and could refund the monies paid by Harold’s family. Not that she truly expected any of this but…

A girl could hope, couldn’t she?

If she was to be saved from this marriage, it would happen tonight.

With such ridiculous expectations in mind, she stood in the reception line beside her fiancé and greeted each guest pleasantly, as though for all the world she were a blushing bride. Lord Harold did the same.

Nearly every young lady who greeted her was most likely envious. Harold was the son of a duke. He was good-looking, kind, and wealthy. She’d achieved great success on the marriage mart. She must be over the moon!

And she might have been... but appearances could be greatly misleading.

Sophia had, as of yet, failed to find a single moment alone to speak privately with her fiancé. Had he designed it that way intentionally? Was it his way of avoiding her accusations?

With questions whirling around her brain, she would not pass up an opportunity, no matter how brief, to speak privately with him tonight.

Such a chance arose as she and Harold greeted an endless train of guests in the receiving line before the ball. The duke and the duchess –– on one side of them –– were earnestly listening to an elderly man, and her parents –– on the other side –– could not escape the one-sided conversation of Mr. Scofield’s sister. Sophia and Harold had only each other with whom to converse.

She determined to make the most of it.

Leaning in, she wasted no time. “Your cousin says you are in love with another. Tell me, please. I know nothing can be done, but be honest with me. Is this true?”

He’d not been looking at her when she first hissed these words, but as he realized what she was saying, he turned to her, initially making an attempt at shock and denial.

“Do not play me for a fool, my lord. I hold no malice but I would have you be honest with me. Please.”

And then he let out a long breath.

And nodded. “Dev spoke with you?” His tone held more sincerity in that moment than she’d heard from him… well, ever.

“He has.” Glancing toward her mama, and realizing she’d not a great deal more time, she had to ask the next question. “I can never find a chance to speak privately with you. But I wanted, well, I need to be certain, to know…” Oh, how did one say such a thing? “We aren’t going to consummate this marriage, are we?” She wished she could have been allowed some privacy with him before now. Lord Harold’s eyes flew open wide, but no sooner had the question escaped her, when they were interrupted again.

“Lord Harold, Sophia dear.” Aunt Gertrude and an elderly man who often acted as her companion stepped forward. “What an exciting night for both of you!” Her aunt, whom she’d only just seen at nuncheon, gushed as though it had been months. She exclaimed over how handsome a fiancé Lord Harold was and how honored Sophia must be to marry into such a fine family.

Sophia wished to stomp her foot in frustration. She’d wanted an answer from Harold, by God. And if it proved to be the wrong one, she would have an argument. She was tired of the lack of transparency she’d experienced these past few weeks, and, well, a girl needed to know this sort of thing.

Because she most certainly did not want to do, well, that… with Harold.

She would not.

Not as matters stood.

And he needed to know that.

Of course, he would not expect to, would he? Especially in light of Brookes’ plan — whatever that was.

Nonetheless, if Lord Harold had any expectations in that quarter, she’d felt it best to set him straight tonight!

On the heels of her Aunt Gertrude came Harold’s Great-Aunt Florence, and then his second cousin on his mother’s side, Mr. White, and then his mother’s dearest friend, Lady Catherine — Caroline — Camilla — something or other…

Before she knew it, the reception line was dwindling, and the guests of honor, primarily, she, her parents, Dudley — damn him — and Harold were announced.

No further chance at privacy arose.

Even the single waltz they were allowed was performed with the entire ballroom of guests looking on. Thank heavens, she knew the steps well. As, of course, did Lord Harold.

It was as though every guest, note of music, and rule of etiquette was designed to keep Sophia from discussing anything of import with her fiancé.

Surely, he would not intentionally avoid such an important matter, would he?

As the evening progressed, Sophia resigned herself to the fact that she would simply have to make herself clear to her fiancé when the time came.

Furthermore, she had another matter on her mind. Well, another man, that was. At the beginning of the evening, her mother had handed her a dance card, prefilled of course!

God forbid the bride be a wallflower.

Was all of this planning performed out of some misguided sense of altruism, or was it blatant manipulation? She’d become quite cynical in that the details of her life were now organized by some all-knowing, unseen force from above.

She’d been thrilled to see, however, that somehow, Captain Devlin Brookes had managed to reserve a waltz with her.

It was to be the last set of the evening.

* * *

Brookes, being a gentleman in a gentleman’s world, had, in fact, found several occasions to speak privately with Harold. And they’d not wasted time discussing the weather.

In addition to their original plan, they’d discussed a myriad of other possibilities, no matter how farfetched. By this time, their options were narrowed down to two scenarios.

Harold’s self-confidence was their largest stumbling block. He’d never been known for his courage, nor for his strength of will.

Dev did not blame his cousin. As an adolescent, Harold’s father had criticized him relentlessly. And not with simple rebukes, rather with persistent attacks to Harold’s dignity.

Harold had had little reason to doubt the duke.

On some days, Harold was bold, outspoken, and ready to act. Unfortunately, on those other days, he questioned himself, the core of who he was and what he deserved in life.

Devlin’s support persisted.

He knew Sophia had doubted him, despite her words.

Good heavens! She’d told him she loved him!

At first, he’d been shocked. He’d not considered love, romantic love or otherwise, a great deal in his life. It was something that existed, between himself and his father, his other family members, and at times, between a captain and his men.

It was never spoken. It was just there. It existed.

It existed when Devlin visited his father, when they shared a drink. It existed when he’d protected another soldier, putting himself at risk. It existed when he and his men sat around a fire on a harsh, cold night with little protection. When they’d lifted each other up, knowing that melancholy was a dangerous thing.

And so, when Sophia had told him she loved him, at first, he’d felt… irritated by it, suffocated.

No, that was not the right word. He’d felt frightened that she would insert such a word into their situation.

But then she’d expanded on it. She’d gone on to explain that it was not in a silly, whimsical feminine way, but because he would save her. And not because of how he made her feel, but for the goodness within him. “Your heart, it speaks to me.” She’d said. “You give me a foolish hope.”

And suddenly, it had not been enough.

It was insane. He barely knew her, and yet…

Something shifted inside of him.

He wanted her love in every way possible, including that silly, whimsical, and feminine way.

But he must wait. He’d not spoken the sentiment to her, not verbally, anyhow. And, then later, almost like a lovesick schoolboy, he wondered if she had been offended at this.

He’d been forced to watch Harold squire her about for over three weeks now. Of course, he was not jealous! How could one ever be jealous of Harold?

But as time passed, she’d softened toward his family. He’d seen it in her eyes.

Had her feelings for him been a temporary infatuation? He’d swooped into her life, literally, and saved her from a lion. At which thought he scoffed at himself. Anybody could have done it. Most likely, she’d been in no danger at all.

He’d kissed her with passion and yearning. God knew, she’d not shared anything like it with Harold.

And then, when she’d discovered some duplicity within her family, and on his family’s part, he’d supported her opinion that it had been manipulative, devious even. He’d promised to rescue her.

She’d told him once that they did not really know one another. Had she merely been swept away by the unique moments they’d experienced together? Those brief interludes had been filled with romance, passion, and an abundance of sentimentality.

On a few occasions, when he’d caught her watching him from a distance, he’d done his best to send her some sort of reassuring signal, a nod, a wink — hell, he’d even sent her a smoldering glance or two.

He was to dance the waltz with her tonight.

She looked, to all the world, like a beautiful young lady, caught up in a fairy-tale, marrying into a prosperous, dynastic family. But Dev saw her differently. And the troubled look behind her gaze persisted.

Dressed in something flimsy and floaty, she was separate. The underskirt of her gown was an icy blue with a lacey, gauzy confection floating over it. It was cut just low enough as to give a hint at her feminine curves, but not so low as to be common or gauche. And those curls, those delightful golden curls, somehow were less bouncy, the style, subdued.

He also noted that she wore one of her grace’s necklaces, a sapphire pendant on a white gold chain.

She was never alone.

And so, when at last their dance was next, Dev strode toward her with resolve.

In that moment, he was eager to breech the distance that had grown between them. He wanted another chance to address the troubled look in her eyes.

Eyes cast downward, she dropped into a curtsey when he stood before her. He bowed and then plucked her away from the various protective family members and chaperones she’d had in her midst all evening. And once they reached the middle of the room, he pulled her into his arms.

This waltz had originally been claimed by another, but Devlin would settle for no less. He’d erased the name and written in his own.

He needed to touch her. To hold her.

As did she, he thought.

He hoped?

“Where’s Peaches tonight?” he whispered above her ear.

And then the music began. She raised her eyes, and he led them into the dance. As they moved, her perfume teased his senses.

“Silly man,” she admonished.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he spoke softly as he steered them through the crowded floor. She was too quiet, too withdrawn.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I hardly know what to think anymore! I’m not really afraid of your cousin, or your uncle, or even…” She shook her head, trailing off. “I’m rather afraid of myself, of my own thoughts… Am I paranoid?” She glanced up, confusion raw in her gaze.

“And me?” He could see the crack in the trust she’d professed to have for him just a few weeks before.

“Are you even real? I mean, of course I know that. Of course you are real. You are live flesh and blood, here before me. But am I making more of this than I ought? Oh, how fickle and foolish I must seem! But these feelings… Are they real? Are they like vapor? Will they disappear when the sun comes out?”

He twirled her expertly and then pulled her close again. She was not fickle or foolish. Her very concerns proved this to him. He’d known she was experiencing such qualms.

He steered them around another couple before answering.

“I’ve never been compelled to obstruct or hinder anything my uncle has ever attempted to do. I’ve disagreed with him. I’ve doubted him. But I’ve never before interfered in either of my cousin’s lives…” He twirled her again. “…but—”

“But?” she prompted.

“—I’ve never wanted a woman as badly as I want you.” Was it fair of him to tell her this?

“But am I real?” He would address all of her concerns. “I am here. I have a strategy, and I intend for it to go as planned. Are these feelings real?

“Real enough to keep me awake, several nights in a row. Real enough to cause me to think of nothing but you, even when other women are readily available. Real enough to be painful at times. Are your feelings like vapor?

“If the sun comes out, what will become of them? Will they dissolve into nothing but a fine mist on millions of blades of grass? And what if the sun disappears? Will they turn to ice?”

At his words, she chuckled.

“Are you mocking my attempt at poetry, Sophia?” A few wisps of her hair tickled him when he bent down to speak near her ear.

She glanced at him out of the side of her eyes. “I’m mocking myself…” She spoke so softly that he almost missed her words. But she had smiled. “…for doubting something more real than anything I’ve ever known.”

He twirled her again, pleased that she’d smiled for him. A real smile, too, not that halfhearted one with the distant look in her eyes.

He pulled her close, perhaps closer than he ought. “Ah, Sophia,” he whispered. “Trust me?”

* * *

She should tell him. No matter they were on a crowded dance floor.

It was not that she did not trust him, but she knew.

His plan was doomed to fail.

How would he feel about her then? Knowing she was tarnished? He’d said his feelings for her kept him up at night. But how much of that was based on the image he’d created in his mind? For she was not so innocent as everyone thought. And when he discovered…

“‘Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them,’ my captain.”

It was his turn to laugh. “Are you quoting Lord Byron to me?” But his eyes creased as he smiled. This was how she would remember him. Long after he’d left her life in search of something attainable. “And very cryptically. I’m not sure I delight in your answer.”

“I trust you.” She held his gaze unwavering. “And I adore your poetry.” This drew his laughter again. She would lock this moment away, in the safest part of her heart. She would pull it out and cherish it as she grew into an old, forgotten woman.

For that was how she was beginning to picture herself as Lord Harold’s bride.