All I Ever Needed by Jo Goodman

been remarkably without incident, and the heat of the late afternoon sun did not influence his coloring. The windows in the drawing room at the rear of the house were opened to the garden, and a pleasant enough breeze ruffled the curtains and occasionally the chitterlings on his shirtfront. No, it was Lady Sophia who had become the bane of his existence, a position heretofore held by his late cousin, her father.
    Sophie sat perched on the edge of a damask-covered chair. She wished she had chosen something other than the apple green calico to wear this afternoon; something in ecru would have been a better choice, for it would have blended splendidly with the chair. She was not nearly as prepossessed as Tremont and Harold believed her to be. The earl had always cut an imposing figure, and it was difficult not to shrink from it. While Harold was trim and athletic, taking pleasure in gentlemanly pursuits like boxing and racing, his father looked as if he worked on the docks all day, hefting crates without benefit of nets or pulleys. Tremont had a robust voice and broad mannerisms. He often emphasized his speech with abrupt gestures, from time to time even shaking his mallet-sized fists.
    It was an effective performance from the pulpit. Sophie remembered visiting the church where Tremont had his living when he was still the vicar at Nashwicke. She could not have been more than seven when her father had first taken her to hear his cousin preach. She sat in the very first pew and actually felt the bench tremble beneath her. Her father did not stop her from crawling onto his lap, and that was where she remained until the Reverend Richard Colley gave the benediction. She was no longer afraid of the fire and brimstone sermons that he was wont to deliver, even without benefit of a pulpit, but that experience was not easily forgotten. It would have been sufficient reason to be uncomfortable in his presence, but it was no part of the reason she despised him.
    She waited him out and was rewarded for her patience when he focused his sharp attention on his son.
    "I thought you said she could be brought around, Harold. Is that not what we discussed?" The earl's eyes did not absorb heat the way his complexion did. The look he had for his son was glacier blue. "This is not at all what I expected from you."
    The tips of Viscount Dunsmore's ears turned red, but he held his ground. To give up even a fraction of the space he held would be interpreted as acknowledging his failure. "We knew at the outset that it was unlikely that Eastlyn would make a proposal, Father. It really was not incumbent upon him to do so."
    "Then you promised that Sophie could be made to agree because you believed she would never have the opportunity to do so? Is that what you are telling me now? You were merely being patronizing?" As so often was the way with Tremont, the questions were strictly rhetorical. He had often challenged his congregation in a similar manner and would have been heartily surprised if anyone had considered speaking out. Questions of this nature were meant to stir self-reflection, and he saw that this was certainly the case with his son. "Well, he did propose," Tremont said, slapping the flat of his hand on the mantelpiece for emphasis. A pewter candlestick jumped in place, and the candle it supported was set askew. "And she has most churlishly refused."
    "I was not churlish," Sophie said. The words were not meant to be spoken aloud, but when the attention of both men turned to her as one, she knew what she had done. Steadying herself for a reply that was neither tremulous nor impudent, Sophie added, "The marquess was acting contrary to his own judgment. He did not want to marry me, and I would have been most unkind to have preyed upon his honor."
    "His honor?" Tremont said, his voice rising a notch. "Have you so much fine feeling, then, for his honor and none at all for your family's? Eastlyn is as rich as Croesus."
    "Richer."
    Tremont was so struck