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“ I t’s hardly a wonder that you have yet to wed, Nephew, seeing as you are constantly propping up a wall and scowling at social events. Get out there, boy, and mingle. You need an heir.”

“Aunt Lavinia, how wonderful to see you. Are we to be blessed with your company in London long?” Patrick asked, bowing over the hand of the only member of his family, besides his sisters, he tolerated.

She was old and crotchety but had often come to visit when he was a child and read to them. These were small moments of joy that were rare for the children of Lord and Lady Coulter.

“Why are you scowling?” she demanded.

“I always scowl.” She wore a dress with a ridiculously high collar, unlike anything he’d seen other women wearing. Aunt Lavinia had always marched to her own drum in whatever she did. It was a bright shade of yellow—not a soft buttercup color, more jaundice.

“Would you like me to find you a wife?” Aunt Lavinia asked.

“Ah, no, that will not be necessary, thank you, Aunt. I am more than capable when the time comes to find my own wife.”

She squinted at him as if studying a small rodent that had scampered over her slippered foot. “Then hurry up. You’re not getting any younger, and your looks will fade.”

Aunt Lavinia never held back when she believed, rightly or wrongly, something needed to be said.

“As always, your wish is my command.” He bowed deeply. When he rose, she was stomping away to annoy someone else or bite the heads off a few insects.

Tonight was the Hadleigh ball, and he’d come because he wanted to see the countess. His eyes went back to her, where she was dancing with Stephen, stunning in deep blue with a shimmering overskirt.

He’d spent the two days since he’d found her and Timothy in that tea shop trying and failing to put her out of his head. He’d felt her fear when she’d looked to the window and seen those two men standing there. What he didn’t know was why.

He had so many questions about that woman, and every time he met her, another one formed.

Patrick watched as Stephen took the countess’s hand and turned before parting again. His friend had made several attempts to converse with her, and she had rebuffed each one with a polite smile, focusing her attention instead on her feet when she thought no one was looking.

He was looking and had been since she entered.

After yet another attempt, Stephen looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. Patrick had observed her dancing many times now and noted her trepidation as the steps grew more difficult.

When the dance finished, Stephen walked her to Lady Carstairs and then returned to where Patrick stood.

“She didn’t seem that cold in the tea shop with her son and Doddy, Patrick. But tonight I tried several times to strike up conversation and failed.”

“It’s like you’re losing your edge,” Patrick taunted his friend. “Your charm is slipping.”

“Now we both know that is not the case. I am universally adored, unlike you.”

“Aunt Lavinia just told me your looks are fading,” Patrick said.

Stephen’s head snapped left and then right.

“She’s at present arguing with Lady Joiner. You are safe for now.”

“That woman is terrifying,” Stephen said.

To many, Viscount Sumner was a devil-may-care peer whose biggest concern was the color of his waistcoat. Patrick, however, knew him differently.

Stephen and his family had been the only light in an otherwise dark existence for Patrick. The days he escaped, it had been to ride to the Sumner estate thirty minutes away from his family home.

“I think your aunt pretends not to like me because the truth is that she does,” Stephen said.

“Of course, that’s it exactly,” Patrick drawled. “Or she just doesn’t like you because when compared to me, you fall short.”

“Oh please. You’re the dark earl with an inability to smile and flirt,” Stephen said. “No one could ever believe you are better than me.”

While his sisters were with their governesses, Patrick had learned to become an earl under the ruthless tutelage of his father.

The late Earl of Coulter had been a cold, mean disciplinarian and had beaten all the soft edges out of him.

His parents’ death had been a relief for their children, as their mother had simply followed her husband’s lead.

When they were old enough, Patrick and Stephen had enlisted against their families’ wishes.

After proving themselves, the foreign office conscripted them to spy.

Often behind enemy lines for long periods at a time, Patrick had soon realized that his friend was a man with a sharp mind and fought like two men.

He was one of the few people Patrick would trust with his life.

“Now back to your countess,” Stephen said to annoy Patrick. “I thought she and I were at least on chatting terms after that day in the tea shop and the walk to the Monmouth town house. Alas, after that dance, I see I was wrong.”

“I don’t think it’s personal, Stephen.” Patrick glanced at his friend.

“How so?” the viscount questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Watch her for a while and then tell me what you think.”

“That’s your occupation most evenings, not mine,” Stephen said, but he did as Patrick asked, turning his body so that he had a clear view of the countess.

Lord Elliot placed her in the line across from him. It was a cotillion, which was one of the more difficult dances.

“Is she counting?” Stephen asked after a few minutes. “I’m sure her lips just moved.”

“Yes,” Patrick said, watching Elliot fail in his efforts at conversation with Sophie.

When had she become Sophie? She was an excellent actress, Patrick thought, or innocent of the fraud he’d laid at her door. But which was it?

“Elliot looks as frustrated as I was,” Stephen said when the dance finished. They watched as Sophie moved toward a group of four ladies.

“Look at her hands; she keeps opening and closing them and then tucking them into her skirts. How odd,” Stephen added. “I’ve never taken the time to watch her before. Do you think her cool facade is something she hides behind? That she is actually unsure of herself?”

“Perhaps,” Patrick said.

“She doesn’t offer a comment unless one is addressed to her. Very odd,” Stephen mused, turning once again to face Patrick. “She is also usually close to Lady Carstairs.”

“This is her first season,” Patrick said.

“She reminds me of you,” Stephen said so only Patrick could hear. “You had that look permanently etched on your face for the first year you entered society.”

He didn’t want to ask, but something made him.

“What look?” Patrick queried.

“Trepidation, almost as if you were waiting for the axe to fall.”

And Patrick knew Stephen was right because inside he had felt that connection with Sophie from the first. He remembered the gut-gnawing fear of failure that he felt all those years ago.

It had taken months to go away, and in that time, he had earned the reputation of a man who loathed small talk and was hard to befriend, not unlike the Countess of Monmouth.

“I saw you dancing with Miss Logan earlier,” Patrick said to change the uncomfortable subject.

“She said that a man is only as intelligent and witty as a woman allows him to be,” Stephen said. “If my ego were a delicate thing like yours, Colt, I would be feeling raw about now. However, as I know my true worth, I am not.”

“Clearly, Miss Logan is a woman of discerning taste,” Patrick said.

“She dresses like my grandmother and has a waspish tongue. It’s hardly surprising she is not a society darling,” Stephen added.

“Considering who her mother is, do you think she has a say in how she dresses?” Patrick asked.

“Fine. Not her dress, but she has a say in the way she speaks,” Stephen snapped.

Not many women stood up to Stephen; most just gazed adoringly into his eyes and smiled idiotically. Women didn’t often challenge Patrick either, but unlike Stephen, it was usually because they were terrified of him.

“Cards?” Stephen asked minutes later. “That will stop you from glowering at all the men who want to dance with your countess.”

“She will never be mine. I am merely curious after meeting her late husband, as I told you.”

“You keep lying to yourself if that is your wish,” Stephen added before walking away.

The truth was, his friend was right. He was lying to himself, Patrick thought and followed.