Lily George by Healing the Soldier's Heart Page A

likely wind up with their faux engagement becoming a reality. Which was wonderful, only—Lucy’s heart gave a little lurch. Then Sophie would go, and she’d be on her own again. She’d come to rely so heavily on Sophie’s friendship. She took the loneliness out of life.
    “I think it’s horrid,” Amelia scoffed, flouncing over to a nearby chair with a huff. “For now I have no one to chaperone me next week. Papa won’t do it, you know. He’s always too busy with his own affairs once we arrive at a ball.”
    Sophie and Lucy exchanged a mutually understanding glance. Lord Bradbury’s reputation, particularly as a wealthy and sportive widower, was well established amongst the ton. More than one highborn widow or captivating soubrette had been linked to his lordship since his wife’s passing. And while he was a dedicated father, he also put a lot of thought and emphasis into his affaires de coeur.
    “I think Lucy should escort you,” Sophie replied, casting a pleading glance in Lucy’s direction. Lucy understood the look. If they placated Amelia, then Sophie could go in peace. “Lucy is your governess after all. She understands all the rules of deportment just as well as I do.”
    Amelia toed the rug with her slipper, her eyes stubbornly downcast. “Papa says that because Lucy isn’t of the gentry—”
    Sophie cut her off with a snap of her fingers. “You shouldn’t repeat such nonsense, Amelia.” Her voice was so stern that Lucy eyed her curiously. Why would Sophie say such a thing? Whatever was the matter?
    “Amelia, Louisa, we shall settle this matter later. Sophie has a chance to take a trip with her aunt, and we will not begrudge her the opportunity. Now, shoo.” Lucy flicked her hands at both girls, flushing them toward the doorway. “Your dancing master awaits your presence down in the ballroom.”
    As both girls retreated, Lucy shut the door behind them. Now she would have an opportunity to get to the heart of the matter. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face Sophie. “Why did you shush Amelia so sharply?”
    Sophie colored to the roots of her golden hair. “She was about to say something rather rude—or so I feared.”
    “Rude? In what way? I know full well that I am not of the gentry.” Lucy sank onto the chair opposite Sophie and cocked her head to one side. Both girls were a little spirited, to be sure—but hardly ever outright offensive. They were too well bred for that.
    “I know, but what she was going to say was far too impolite toward you.” Sophie pursed her lips, her brilliant blue eyes clouding a bit. “You see, his lordship has a silly notion that because you grew up in an orphanage you don’t know the finer points of etiquette or how to move in society. That is why, even though I am a seamstress, he placed me in charge of Amelia’s debut.”
    Lucy’s stomach sank like a stone. Of course his lordship felt that way. After all, Sophie’s father was Sir Hugh Handley, and they had a grand family home before they fell prey to bankruptcy. Even though Sophie had no money, she was of gentle birth and breeding. But even before Lucy lost both of her parents to gaol fever, she had no grand roots. Her father was nought but a humble preacher. And he preached to the least of them—prison inmates.
    ’Twas a background that hardly qualified her for socializing with the ton.
    Some of her conflicting emotions must have showed on her face, for Sophie leaned forward and hugged her. “Don’t worry, Lucy,” she soothed. “I’ve told his lordship that you are more than qualified to take over. And I insisted that you, and no one else, escort Amelia to the Assembly Rooms ball next week.”
    “I am not angry or upset.” Lucy extricated herself from Sophie’s embrace, a cold feeling settling at the pit of her stomach. She could well understand why her employer would hold those beliefs about her, even if they weren’t true. It hurt, of course, to have Lord Bradbury say such things