Sophia sat opposite the Marquis of Astor and thought, not for the first time that day, that twenty minutes could be longer than a winter.
The carriage had scarcely turned away from Lady Sussex's townhouse before she arranged herself into what she hoped resembled a lady suffering delicately from a sudden spell of faintness. She kept her fan moving lightly before her face and turned her gaze toward the window, as though the passing streets required all her concentration and any interruption in that concentration might cause her to collapse entirely.
It was, she thought, a very sensible strategy.
If she appeared unwell, conversation might be kept to a minimum.
If conversation was kept to a minimum, the Marquis might grow bored.
If he grew bored, he might look elsewhere.
If he looked elsewhere, she might survive the journey with dignity intact.
Only—
He did not grow bored.
He simply looked at her.
At first Sophia tried not to notice. She counted turnings. She watched the wheels of another carriage pass in the reflection of the glass. She studied the movement of light across the shopfronts and façades outside.
But his attention did not shift.
It remained on her with such steady intensity that after several minutes she could feel it like warmth against her skin.
When she finally dared glance in his direction, he was still watching her.
Not idly.
Not politely.
As if she were some painting in a gallery whose details rewarded close study.
He smiled.
Gently.
Almost innocently.
Sophia turned back to the window at once and felt, to her irritation, the faintest heat rise in her cheeks.
This would not do.
She was trying to seem unwell.
Not shy.
Another minute passed.
Then another.
Still he said nothing.
Still he looked.
Something in her, youthful and proud and already somewhat wearied by his smoothness, snapped before the carriage had reached even halfway home.
She turned fully toward him.
"My lord," she said, trying for composure and landing somewhere closer to accusation, "is everything all right?"
Edward's expression did not alter except for the smallest lift at one corner of his mouth.
"Entirely. Why do you ask?"
Sophia folded her fan shut with a faint, decisive click.
"Because you have been looking at me very intensely."
He said nothing at first.
That only made her continue.
"It makes me feel there must be something wrong with my appearance."
For one brief moment he only looked at her.
Then he laughed — softly, under his breath at first, then a little more freely.
"If looking at a beautiful woman is a sin," he said, "then I am entirely willing to call myself a sinner."
Sophia stared at him.
For one treacherous instant, something inside her seemed to loosen at the straightforwardness of it. The words were so direct, so entirely unashamed, that had they come from another man they might have felt almost magical.
But they had come from him.
Which meant they must be resisted.
She lifted her chin.
"I am sure London holds plenty of beautiful women, my lord. If uninterrupted admiration is what you seek, perhaps you ought to visit the National Gallery. It is full of lovely portraits, and none of them would object if you stared for hours. I am not merely something to be gawped at because I happen to possess a face."
That made him laugh again, properly this time.
"You are very amusing."
"I did not mean to amuse you."
"That is perhaps why you succeed so well."
Sophia's brows drew together at once.
How infuriating he was.
Edward, however, looked thoroughly entertained.
"And," he added, "you have an excellent way with words. Your future husband will be a fortunate man to have such a well-spoken wife."
Now her cheeks warmed more sharply.
The remark was too forward.
Too familiar.
Too intimate for a man she scarcely knew.
And yet he delivered it as though it were a casual truth, not something calculated to disturb her pulse.
Sophia drew herself up further.
"I am grateful for the praise," she said, "but I should hope my future husband will not think of me merely as something to look at. Nor will I hope he finds my reproaches laughable. I should much prefer a man who is considerate and understanding."
Edward rested one arm along the side of the carriage and regarded her with visible pleasure.
"Then you have standards."
"Of course I do."
"And what, precisely, are they?" he asked. "Surely I could be of some assistance. I am quite well connected, Miss de Montfort. If there is a type of man you seek, perhaps I might help you find him."
Sophia almost laughed at the audacity.
How very convenient, she thought, that he should wish to hear her standards. Then he might arrange himself to meet them by degrees and congratulate himself on having been chosen by merit rather than manipulation.
She answered at once.
"I do not wish to disclose my standards, my lord. I shall be the judge of whether a gentleman meets them."
He smiled, "And you would not trust my advice?"
"I can only imagine how very well connected you are," Sophia said sweetly, "but I would not wish to consume your precious time. Surely you have more pressing things to manage. If ever I require guidance or escort, my brother the Duke is perfectly capable of such responsibilities."
Edward's eyes sharpened with amusement.
There, he thought, the claws.
Small, but real.
"I am sure the Duke is capable," he said. "But there will be times he is occupied. He cannot spend his entire life attending solely to you."
Something in Sophia stiffened, "Can he not?"
"He has his own line to consider," Edward replied, still in that smooth, almost conversational tone that only made the words more irritating. "He must marry one day, I presume, if he means De Montfort to continue properly. And you"—he gave the smallest inclination of his head—"you must find someone suitable to take over the mantle he now holds around you."
There it was.
Something in the way he said it displeased her instantly.
Not because, by society's standard, it was false.
It was not false.
That was almost the worst of it.
But there was a faint undertone to it — a suggestion that she was some matter to be transferred, some charge to be handed from one man to another in due course. Laurence now. A husband next.
She felt heat rise again, but this time not from flattery.
From temper.
"Then perhaps," she said, with a dangerous softness, "I ought to ask why you, my lord, have remained unwed for so long. You are, after all, older than my brother. If he is not yet in danger of neglecting his line, I am sure you were in none either."
Edward laughed lightly.
It was not the laugh of a man struck.
It was the laugh of a man delighted to have been challenged.
"If you wished to know more about me," he said, "you need only ask. There is no need to look so heated about it. I should be more than willing to be an open book for you."
Sophia narrowed her eyes, "I did not ask because I was curious."
"No?"
"No. I asked because you are the one placing your nose into a lady's affairs." She leaned forward slightly, the fan now forgotten entirely in her lap. "And if you mean to speak to me, then I would rather you did it plainly and not in that way men do when they think they are leading some poor young lady where they wish her to go."
The carriage jolted.
Hard.
So suddenly that Sophia, mid-reproach and unprepared, lost her balance entirely. She pitched forward with a startled breath, the world shifting at once beneath her — and before she could catch herself, Edward caught her.
For one astonishing instant she was in his lap.
One of his arms was around her back, the other at her waist, holding her fast and steady with no effort at all. Her hands, in trying to catch herself, had landed against his shoulders. She looked up at him in disbelief, her face flushed hot with shock and indignation both.
He looked down at her and smiled.
Not broadly.
Not cruelly.
But with unmistakable amusement.
"Well," he said softly, "I had not expected you to throw yourself at me quite so soon. Though I cannot claim I object."
Sophia froze in outrage, "My lord!"
"What?"
"How dare you are making jest of something I could not help! Unhand me this instance!"
At once, his expression sobered a degree — not because he had been chastened, but because he realized he had pushed her far enough that even his amusement could not safely continue.
Sophia's eyes flashed.
"If this is the sort of conduct you enjoy," she said, breath still uneven from the jolt, "then I strongly suggest you seek it elsewhere. And if you will not cease behaving in this manner, I would rather you stop the carriage and let me walk home."
That made him frown, truly this time, "You will do no such thing."
"Then release me." She tried to wriggle herself from his grasp, pushing away at his chest.
He held on for a second longer, watching her flustered face, feeling the slimness of her waist as his eyes traced down to her neck and then the rise and fall of her bosoms. Her struggle to break free only ignited the heat below more.
He released her. Carefully.
Lifting her back into her seat opposite him, though not before allowing the movement to take just slightly longer than it needed to. When she was settled again, he took her hand — swiftly, before she could withdraw it — and kissed the back of it with a correctness that was almost mocking in context.
"I did not mean to offend you," he said. "Will you forgive me?"
Sophia snatched her hand back at once.
He was still smiling.
Not enough to seem insincere.
Just enough to be unbearable.
"You are very vexing," she said.
Edward laughed softly, "I have been called worse."
To stop anything more, she turned immediately back toward the window and resumed the posture of the faintly unwell lady. This time, however, the act was less strategy than necessity. She genuinely could not bear another moment of looking directly at him without saying something even more improper.
Across from her, Edward settled back into his seat.
And once again, he watched her.
Sophia tried not to notice, but his silence was no easier now than before. If anything, it was worse, because she had just been in his arms, had felt how easily he had held her, how firm his hands were, how steady. The imprint of the moment refused to leave her skin. She could still smell him. Could still remember the warmth of his chest behind her, the low note of his laugh when she had fallen against him.
It was infuriating.
He was infuriating.
And yet beneath the irritation was something more dangerous — the awareness that no man before him had spoken to her with such directness or played with such boldness at the edges of impropriety without quite crossing into open offense.
Edward, for his part, was thoroughly pleased.
He could still feel the shape of her in his hands.
Could still catch the light trace of vanilla in the enclosed carriage.
Could still hear the clipped indignation in her voice.
No lady before Sophia had treated him in this way.
None had held herself so tightly against his charm. None had refused to melt when complimented, or answered him with little sharpened phrases as though she were a kitten discovering its claws. Others had flirted, fawned, tried to entice. Sophia resisted, and in resisting became far more compelling than any of them.
He liked every part of her.
Especially the parts that bristled.
The remainder of the drive passed in strained silence.
Sophia stared out the window.
Edward stared at Sophia.
And both, in their own way, replayed the journey already.
At last the carriage slowed.
Then stopped.
Sophia looked up, startled by relief before she hid it.
Outside, just beyond the lowered window, stood Laurence.
He had been waiting near the steps of the townhouse, one hand gloved, the other behind his back, his posture easy only to anyone who had never had reason to study him. In truth there was nothing easy in the angle of his shoulders now. He had seen the unfamiliar carriage. He had seen the crest. And the longer it took for its door to open, the less pleased he had become.
The footman moved first.
Edward descended.
Laurence looked at him in open perplexity.
Marquis Astor?
Before any question could form into speech, a hand appeared from within the carriage.
Sophia's.
Edward turned at once and helped her down.
She stepped onto the pavement and, before she could properly withdraw, felt him keep hold of her hand just long enough to bend once more over it.
"I enjoyed our conversation," he said, low enough that it was meant chiefly for her. "I hope our paths cross again soon."
Sophia's thanks came too quickly and too sharply to count as warmth.
"Thank you, my lord."
She pulled her hand free and crossed at once toward Laurence.
Laurence, who had not missed a single detail, looked from her to Edward and back again.
Edward seemed entirely at ease.
"It was a fortunate chance," he said before Laurence could ask. "Miss de Montfort felt faint after the gathering, and I was glad to ensure she returned safely."
Laurence answered with exactly the same polished calm.
"You have my thanks for seeing my sister safely home."
He let the word my sit there deliberately.
Then added, with smooth precision, "Though you must not burden yourself so. If you offered aid to every lady in London who felt momentarily faint, I imagine you would have very little time left to manage your marquisate."
Edward laughed.
There it is, he thought.
So that is where she learned it.
How similar the two were when sharpened.
"Do not worry, Your Grace," he said lightly. "I do not offer every fainting lady assistance. Only those particularly pleasant to converse with."
Laurence's expression did not alter.
"I am sure she is grateful."
Sophia, standing beside him now, kept wisely silent.
Edward inclined his head.
"Good evening, then."
"Good evening," Laurence replied.
Edward returned to the carriage and, as it rolled away, looked back once through the glass.
He saw them only in outline by then — Laurence and Sophia entering the townhouse together, one dark figure and one pale, moving in step.
He leaned back against the carriage seat with a satisfaction too warm to be called simple pleasure.