someone who knew her as well as he did would guess how rattled she was. “Mr. and Mrs. Barker-Pratt, this is Lord Pembridge who has been touring the lakes.”
He bowed, wondering whether the game was finally up. Anyone familiar with noble English families would recognize that heirs to the Sedgemoor dukedom took the courtesy title of Marquess of Pembridge. “Mrs. Barker-Pratt, Mr. Barker-Pratt.”
“My lord.” Mrs. Barker-Pratt curtsied while the husband, a little man who faded into invisibility in his wife’s dominant presence, bowed.
“The Barker-Pratts hail from Shropshire, but have lived in Tivoli for many years,” Pen continued with false brightness. “Mr. Barker-Pratt is an expert on Roman funerary monuments.”
“How interesting,” Cam murmured. Pen’s skill at weaving through the introductions filled him with dreadful fascination. It was like watching someone cross a gorge on a high wire while a river full of hungry crocodiles snapped below.
“We haven’t returned to England in forty years, despite war and revolution. We’d feel quite foreign in London. Although with so many English friends here, it’s like being at home.” Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s laugh could shatter glass. “At home with only the most interesting people, of course. Don’t you agree, my lord, that the best of the English are those who leave the country?”
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 herarms 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
He bowed, wondering whether the game was finally up. Anyone familiar with noble English families would recognize that heirs to the Sedgemoor dukedom took the courtesy title of Marquess of Pembridge. “Mrs. Barker-Pratt, Mr. Barker-Pratt.”
“My lord.” Mrs. Barker-Pratt curtsied while the husband, a little man who faded into invisibility in his wife’s dominant presence, bowed.
“The Barker-Pratts hail from Shropshire, but have lived in Tivoli for many years,” Pen continued with false brightness. “Mr. Barker-Pratt is an expert on Roman funerary monuments.”
“How interesting,” Cam murmured. Pen’s skill at weaving through the introductions filled him with dreadful fascination. It was like watching someone cross a gorge on a high wire while a river full of hungry crocodiles snapped below.
“We haven’t returned to England in forty years, despite war and revolution. We’d feel quite foreign in London. Although with so many English friends here, it’s like being at home.” Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s laugh could shatter glass. “At home with only the most interesting people, of course. Don’t you agree, my lord, that the best of the English are those who leave the country?”
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 herarms 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
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