Page 5 of A Counterfeit Engagement

“Do you think I should attend the assembly tonight, mother?” Sophie asked her mother.

Mrs Anderson blinked at her in surprise. “Why ever would you stay at home, Sophie? Do you have a headache?” she asked with concern.

Sophie shook her head. “I thank you; I am well. Only…I am rather unnerved by Sir Owen’s visit. I should not like to meet him again.”

“I think you ought to go nonetheless,” Mrs Anderson said gently. “Simply because his behaviour is unaccountable and rude is no reason for you to change yours, my dear. And your sister will be so disappointed if you do not go with her.”

“I suppose you are right,” Sophie said reluctantly. “I should not like to have him think I was ashamed to show my face.”

“No, indeed. You have done nothing wrong. Sir Owen’s abominable rudeness has nothing to do with you.”

“He thinks it does,” Sophie said wryly. “All the same, I shall go. It would be a shame not to see Isabel’s new gown. I think she will look like an angel.”

“I am blessed to have two beautiful girls,” Mrs Anderson said, and put her arm around her.

Sophie was glad the movement hid her face from her mother’s careful eyes.

It made it possible to conceal her involuntary expression of dismay.

Sophie knew all too well that her mother was blinded by affection.

Isabel was beautiful. She was merely Sophie.

Sensible, adequate, and easy to discard.

∞∞∞

When Jonathan and Sarah arrived at the assembly rooms, there was already an impressive crowd.

“After so many years, will you even recognise her?” Sarah whispered to Jonathan.

He shrugged. “Perhaps not. We were never well acquainted. In such a small town, someone will know Miss Anderson, even if I cannot identify her. It looks to be a pleasant assembly, do not you think, Sarah?” They looked over the rooms together, impressed at their elegance and grace for so small a town.

“The musicians are excellent,” Sarah commented with a smile. From one with her passion for the pianoforte, it was no small compliment. “And look there — I think that girl may be one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. She would have little competition, even in London.”

Jonathan looked, struck by such a compliment, but his attention quickly switched to the woman next to her. “Sarah — that’s Sophia Anderson!”

“Surely not, she isn’t any older than I am,” Sarah protested, puzzled.

“No, not the beautiful girl with the golden hair. The taller one with the chestnut hair next to her. That’s Sophia Anderson.”

“I am impressed that you can recognise her after so long,” Sarah commented lightly.

“Yes, I am surprised as well,” Jonathan said mechanically.

In fact, he had not recognised her face at first. Not exactly.

It was the expression in the face that was painfully familiar, one he had seen on Arthur’s face in the bad old days when their schoolfellows would taunt him for being Scottish.

It was the look of someone who has been on the outside of things so long that they expect to stay there forever.

Jonathan did not like the sudden bolt of understanding it raised in him.

This would be a humiliating conversation as it was.

It did not need to become an emotional one as well.

Across the room, Sophie was better pleased with the assembly than she had expected to be.

Sir Owen was indeed there, but apart from glaring at her from the other side of the room, he had not approached her.

She had had a number of enjoyable dances with good partners, and had the pleasure of seeing Isabel greatly admired.

They had managed to save enough for a really good new dress for her, and though Sophie would have said that nothing could make her sister more beautiful than she was already, having the proper setting for such a jewel certainly didn’t hurt.

The soft dove grey of the fabric flattered her delicate complexion and made her golden hair shine more brightly than ever.

The admiration of every gentleman there was marked indeed.

Sophie only wished they could bring her to London, where she would have the wider circle of choices she deserved.

Suddenly, a voice broke in on her musings. “You are Miss Sophia Anderson, I believe.” The speaker was an older woman in a lavish gown. Her jewellery was rather excessive for a country dance, Sophie noted. In fact, it would have been thought a bit much even in the midst of the London Season.

“I am, Ma’am.” Sophie said. She paused a moment. “I am sorry — I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance.” There? Sophie thought. I have said, “You are abominably rude and I should like to know why,” as gently as I possibly can.

“I am Lady Phoebe Ferrars,” the stranger announced with a disdainful look. “I believe you have already met my son,” she said, and gestured to the other side of the ballroom, to Sir Owen.

Sophie kept her face blank as her mind was working furiously. “Sir Owen paid us a call the other afternoon,” she said with pleasant neutrality. “But I am afraid he had been misinformed regarding myself and…and the situation concerning one of your family.”

“My son informed me that you had said so,” Lady Phoebe said sneeringly.

“But however you choose to disassemble, Miss Anderson, you will not be able to impose on me. The report that you have the presumption to enter into an engagement with my nephew, the Duke of Belford, is already everywhere in London. There! Now, what do you have to say to me?”

“If you do not choose to believe me, ma’am,” Sophie said in astonishment, “I can have nothing of any importance to say. Therefore, I bid you adieu,” she said, and left with alacrity, leaving Lady Phoebe sputtering behind her.

Hurriedly, she walked out to the balcony and drew in a deep breath of the soft night air.

Slowly, Sophie breathed out, trying to calm her mind.

It was rather like living in a farce, she thought.

If every new and farcical absurdity hurt you by reminding you of what you wouldn’t ever have, that is.

“Miss Sophia Anderson?” a deep voice said behind her.

Sophie spun around. A tall and quite astonishingly handsome man was addressing her with an air of hesitation almost amounting to diffidence.

He did not look like a man accustomed to uncertainty.

His clothes were unadorned and his cravat tied simply, but their fabric had a richness and lustre that spoke eloquently of their quality.

Yet it was not his garments that left her no doubt of his position in society. He had the air of command about him. The very hesitancy of his address made her think him a man careful to avoid intimidating or overpowering others, rather than one accustomed to being over-ruled himself.

“Miss Anderson, please excuse me for speaking to you without an introduction,” the man said.

Sophie found her eyes drawn to his thick brown hair as it was ruffled by the night breeze.

“I am afraid it is really quite important, and would not allow me to wait until I had found someone to introduce us.”

With an effort, Sophie shook off her silence.

“I have had several such conversations in the past few days,” she said with her best attempt at a smile.

“Are you also here to warn me against marrying the Duke of Belford? I will tell you plainly, though no one seems to believe me, that I am not engaged to the duke and never have been.”

“I know,” the man said simply. “Please allow me to introduce myself, Miss Anderson. I am Jonathan Haverly, the Duke of Belford.”