Fitz had let them down, and so had he.
Sophie spooned a mouthful of soup, her insides churning.
For the sake of her cook and the hungry boys, Lady Loughton had started dinner without Fitz. Though she hadn’t entirely given up. Not one, but two empty places remained, one at the head of the table, and one directly across from Sophie, and the footmen made no moves to clear away dishes.
“Who else is coming, Mother?” Twelve-year old James called from his place near the vacant seat at the head of the table.
“You shall see,” Lady Loughton said.
“Is it Fitz’s fiancée?” Cassandra asked.
Nancy leaned over her plate and peered down the table. “Why have you placed her between Charlotte and me, Mama, and not next to Fitz?”
Lady Loughton smiled.
“Mama,” Cassandra said. “Tell us.”
Sophie glanced at her hostess and cleared her throat. “The soup is delicious, my lady.”
“Not too tepid?”
“Not at all,” she lied. As in many great houses, the kitchens were a good distance away.
“Lady Glanford,” Cassandra said, “you are purposely diverting our mother.”
Just as Sophie opened her mouth to defend herself, the dining room door burst open.
“Here we are.” Windblown and damp, Fitz filled the doorway and paused with a grin and a flourish. “And look who I’ve found. Your favorite brother.”
A man appeared next to Fitz and Sophie’s heart leapt into a gallop.
“I knew it would be you,” Cassandra cried.
Chapter Three
Sophie steadied her spoon and tried to quiet the bolt of instant, unbidden attraction, and the rollicking tumult inside her. Taller than Fitz, the brother’s profile revealed a strong stubbled jaw, straight nose, and full lips. Dark hair brushed the edge of a white collar and crisply tied neckcloth; wide shoulders filled the dark superfine of a coat that tapered down to buff breeches covering the powerful legs of a man who must spend a great deal of time in the saddle.
Her gaze traveled back up and met blue eyes, and her breath left her. The same hard-planed cheeks, the same stubborn jaw, the same sardonic lips—but young Lovelace had grown into a shockingly handsome man.
It would have to be that brother.
She stiffened her spine as she’d done on that long-ago day in the Townsends’ garden, fighting the sudden attraction, holding the piercing blue gaze. Oh, he was delicious, and challenging, and…interested. Heat flooded her insides and rose into her cheeks.
“George.” The Lovelace boys swarmed him and pulled his attention away.
She took in a much-needed breath. She’d won this round.
As the tumult increased, she cast her gaze up the table. Artie squirmed in his seat, watching his friends. At the other end, Lady Loughton’s lips twitched as if fighting a frown. Or a smile.
The woman had ten children, but this new arrival was special to her, and as Fitz said, a favorite of his younger brothers and sisters. He was equally windblown and ruddy-cheeked, and likely showing up for dinner in the same clothing he’d traveled in.
Her own father—another hard-edged man—might have done the same, arriving late from the mill after a business meeting. Her vision blurred again.
She shook herself and glanced around—anywhere but at him.
Across from her, Charlotte, her jaw dropped like a fish ready to take a hook, was craning her neck as this brother went to kiss Lady Loughton.
Loughton was betrothed. Was this brother unmarried?
He might be interested in Charlotte’s fortune. Perhaps he’d be a good match, even without a title.
Sophie lifted her gaze again and found him studying her. He didn’t remember her. Or he did and…his lips twitched into a lopsided grin.
Oh heavens. He was drunk—both men were. While Fitz shouted greetings to all and sundry and ploughed into his dinner, this Lovelace’s gaze devoured her, promising things she’d never experienced.
And perhaps never would. The thought saddened her and cooled her racing heart. She’d once longed for romance, for passion, for true love, but ten years with Glanford…
At her age, it was best for a woman to shed that hope. Charlotte, on the other hand, was young and fresh.
If she was to bring the girl out…Charlotte would have a chance at a full season, a chance to meet someone worthy. Whether or not this Lovelace was worthy was an open question.
He knew her.
But from where? Foxed he might be, but desire flooded George, his gut and other parts recognizing this lady, who was no green girl from Cassandra and Nancy’s school.
He fell into the loveliest gray eyes he’d seen in a long time—wide, and luminous, and equally interested—while his ale-addled brain searched for a name.
Hands tugged at him, and he tore his gaze away, greeting James and Edward.
When he straightened, the lady was staring intently at a boy about Edward’s age, a boy with eyes the same shade as her own.
“Come kiss me, George.”
Mother’s voice pulled his attention from another split-second glimpse of a dark gown and a jeweled cross over a generous bosom.
“Mother.” He kissed her cheek. “You look well. I’ll change in a blink and return for the main course.”
“You will not. You will join us this moment.”
The footman ushered him to a seat across from the lady. His youngest sister, Nancy, sat to his left. The young lady to his right—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and rosy-cheeked—might have been Cassandra’s twin, so much did she resemble her.
He dropped a kiss on Nancy’s cheek, then inclined his head to the two strangers. “How do you do? I’m George Lovelace. One of you must be Cassandra’s school friend visiting for the Yuletide, but which one?”
Next to him, the girl pressed her napkin over a giggle, her cheeks flooding with more color. The other lady went impossibly still and her gaze shuttered.
His breath caught. Face heating, he remembered.
“Do behave George. Lady Glanford, Miss Cartwright, you both know Fitz. This other handsome fellow is my usually punctual son, George.”
Lady Glanford. He’d spent years remembering her hurt, her embarrassment. Her scold: There are no gentlemen in the garden today.
Lessons on gentlemanly behavior from an ironworker’s daughter? Try as he might to shake off the shaming, he was grateful he hadn’t. It had served him well in the wider world of trade.
A bowl of soup appeared and he picked up his spoon. Lady Glanford’s lips moved in a stiffly polite greeting, stirring the devil in him.
Fitz and his fool of a friend, Glanford had been close once, but father had forced a stop to the loans and the gambling. What was she doing here? Had she changed much? Her innate dignity appeared intact. She was seldom in London, and their paths hadn’t crossed there. He’d heard bits and pieces over the years, that the marriage had been preserved, somehow, and that she’d even given her feckless husband a spare.
Head tilted, she listened to Cassandra’s babble whilst studying the new plate set before her, completely uninterested in both.
Her gaze lifted and met his, and held…and held…and…
Cassandra spoke, and the lady’s eyes flashed irritation before turning away and releasing him for a view of the same porcelain neck with its pounding pulse.