inquire after Madame Carswell and Lady Sophie and express my hope that they’re quite over their shock of last evening,” he said, advancing into the room and bowing to Amélie and Aunt Molly. But his eyes definitely kept flickering to her, Sophie realized with a little flutter.
“Woodbridge?” Aunt Molly echoed dubiously.
Amélie leaned over and murmured something in her ear.
Aunt Molly’s brow creased. “Did we? I don’t recall—”
“—recall when I have been to a ball more agréable ,” Amélie said firmly, drowning out Aunt Molly. “I am quite recovered, but perhaps you should ask Sophie herself how she is.” She looked pointedly at the empty chair next to where Sophie sat, which was slightly apart from the sofa she and Aunt Molly occupied.
Sophie watched him bow his thanks and turn toward her. After they arrived home last night she had lain awake for hours, reviewing every moment of the evening and thinking about what she should have done or said. There was some small consolation in the fact that she hadn’t actually done any magic in public, but not much; the only thing that had kept her from it was falling over her own feet. She’d had to leave rescuing Papa and everyone to Lord Woodbridge. That might not have been so bad—according to those novels of Aunt Molly’s, men seemed to like doing the rescuing while young ladies stood by in excesses of terror-stricken sensibility before melting into their saviors’ strong yet gentle embraces. But any attempts at melting she might have made (even if she’d thought of it, which she hadn’t) had been blown away by the breezy Lady Parthenope.
Lord Woodbridge gave her another short, polite bow before sweeping aside the tails of his coat and sitting down beside her. Was her hair tidy? Were the ruffles around the hem of her white muslin morning gown flipped up or lying smoothly? She stole a peek at him from the corners of her eyes and saw that he was regarding her gravely, brows slightly drawn again over those sea gray eyes. Oh dear, he must be the handsomest man in London this season. What did one say to such a paragon?
She glanced past him and saw that Amélie was looking at her, even while she nodded sympathetically at whatever Aunt Molly was saying. Then Amélie gave her a tiny, private smile, and lifted her chin ever so slightly. Sophie felt her own chin rise in response and, with it, her courage.
“It is most kind of you to call, Lord Woodbridge,” she found herself saying with a smile. “Last night was quite an introduction to London society for me! I do find myself hoping other parties won’t be quite so, ah, exciting. Or should I be sure to take care around the statuary in all my hostesses’ ballrooms?”
“I’m relieved to see you taking it in such good part, Lady Sophie,” he replied. “I had feared that you would be more alarmed.”
“You are very kind, but as you can see we are all … er…” Drat, she should not have kept looking at him; now she’d lost the lovely smooth thread of speech that had somehow begun to unwind itself from her tongue.
“You are putting a good face upon it for me, but I should have known, when you left early … that statue … and I blame myself for my inexcusable clumsiness.”
Goodness, he was truly upset, wasn’t he? “Was it clumsiness that saved my father and Lord Palmerston?” she asked.
He shrugged impatiently. “It was clumsiness that might have injured you . That is what I can’t forget.”
Another flutter in her midsection. Why did the thought of having hurt her, even accidentally, trouble him so? “But you didn’t, sir.”
“But I might have. How could I have been so careless? You, of all people.…”
“Please don’t alarm yourself! You didn’t at all hurt me.…” Then his words sank in—words that raised a sudden horrid suspicion. “Me of all people? What do you mean?”
“Oh, er, nothing … nothing at all. Please forget I said it.”
Her previous
“Woodbridge?” Aunt Molly echoed dubiously.
Amélie leaned over and murmured something in her ear.
Aunt Molly’s brow creased. “Did we? I don’t recall—”
“—recall when I have been to a ball more agréable ,” Amélie said firmly, drowning out Aunt Molly. “I am quite recovered, but perhaps you should ask Sophie herself how she is.” She looked pointedly at the empty chair next to where Sophie sat, which was slightly apart from the sofa she and Aunt Molly occupied.
Sophie watched him bow his thanks and turn toward her. After they arrived home last night she had lain awake for hours, reviewing every moment of the evening and thinking about what she should have done or said. There was some small consolation in the fact that she hadn’t actually done any magic in public, but not much; the only thing that had kept her from it was falling over her own feet. She’d had to leave rescuing Papa and everyone to Lord Woodbridge. That might not have been so bad—according to those novels of Aunt Molly’s, men seemed to like doing the rescuing while young ladies stood by in excesses of terror-stricken sensibility before melting into their saviors’ strong yet gentle embraces. But any attempts at melting she might have made (even if she’d thought of it, which she hadn’t) had been blown away by the breezy Lady Parthenope.
Lord Woodbridge gave her another short, polite bow before sweeping aside the tails of his coat and sitting down beside her. Was her hair tidy? Were the ruffles around the hem of her white muslin morning gown flipped up or lying smoothly? She stole a peek at him from the corners of her eyes and saw that he was regarding her gravely, brows slightly drawn again over those sea gray eyes. Oh dear, he must be the handsomest man in London this season. What did one say to such a paragon?
She glanced past him and saw that Amélie was looking at her, even while she nodded sympathetically at whatever Aunt Molly was saying. Then Amélie gave her a tiny, private smile, and lifted her chin ever so slightly. Sophie felt her own chin rise in response and, with it, her courage.
“It is most kind of you to call, Lord Woodbridge,” she found herself saying with a smile. “Last night was quite an introduction to London society for me! I do find myself hoping other parties won’t be quite so, ah, exciting. Or should I be sure to take care around the statuary in all my hostesses’ ballrooms?”
“I’m relieved to see you taking it in such good part, Lady Sophie,” he replied. “I had feared that you would be more alarmed.”
“You are very kind, but as you can see we are all … er…” Drat, she should not have kept looking at him; now she’d lost the lovely smooth thread of speech that had somehow begun to unwind itself from her tongue.
“You are putting a good face upon it for me, but I should have known, when you left early … that statue … and I blame myself for my inexcusable clumsiness.”
Goodness, he was truly upset, wasn’t he? “Was it clumsiness that saved my father and Lord Palmerston?” she asked.
He shrugged impatiently. “It was clumsiness that might have injured you . That is what I can’t forget.”
Another flutter in her midsection. Why did the thought of having hurt her, even accidentally, trouble him so? “But you didn’t, sir.”
“But I might have. How could I have been so careless? You, of all people.…”
“Please don’t alarm yourself! You didn’t at all hurt me.…” Then his words sank in—words that raised a sudden horrid suspicion. “Me of all people? What do you mean?”
“Oh, er, nothing … nothing at all. Please forget I said it.”
Her previous
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