Sophie let out a watery laugh that turned into a hiccup. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll think about it Cousin,” Noah said. “And then say yes.”
She nodded quickly. “Yes. Of course, yes. I… Noah, thank you. I love this place so much. I love that cottage. I’ve been sketching it for days like some kind of creep.”
“Artist,” Lucas corrected. “Like some kind of very talented artist.”
He slid his hand into hers without seeming to realise he’d done it.
I watched Lady Beaumont from the corner of my eye. She stood a little distance away, hands clasped, eyes shining as she watched her granddaughter being folded into the legacy she’d been denied.
She looked almost content.
Sophie wiped her cheeks again and then, in a rush of impulse, ran up and threw her arms around Noah. He stiffened in surprise and then hugged her back, one big hand cradling the back of her head the way you do with someone who is both fragile and fiercely loved.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Thank you for not hating me.”
Lucas cleared his throat. “And for what it’s worth,” he said, “I think the cottage is a great idea. I’d be more than happy to visit. You know… to make sure she’s settling in.”
He added looking nervously over at Lady Beaumont.
Lady Beaumont lifted her chin a fraction, that regal micro-movement she’d honed over decades of intimidating entire rooms into silence.
Her eyes moved between Sophie and Lucas, slowly, deliberately, like she’d been watching them with a magnifying glass all week and had finally reached her verdict.
“My dears,” she said, voice crisp enough to slice through cake, “please stop pretending.”
Sophie froze. Lucas froze. Honestly, I’m fairly sure my soul briefly left my body.
“P-pretending what?” Lucas attempted, which was bold, considering his ears immediately went pink.
Lady Beaumont blinked once. Slowly. With great disappointment.
“Lucas,” she said, “I am eighty-six years old. I raised three children, guided six grandchildren, survived the fall of the British aristocracy, a duke for a husband, and a decade of Margaret’s book club. Do you truly believe I would fail to notice the two of you making eyes at each other across every room like characters in a poorly funded BBC period drama?”
Sophie squeaked.
Lucas opened his mouth. Closed it. Then pointed vaguely at the reception. “But… I flirt with… everyone?”
“Yes,” Lady Beaumont said, folding her hands, “which is precisely the problem. You have been over-compensating at a level that suggests a head injury.”
I choked on my own spit.
Even Noah's composure slipped.
Lady Beaumont continued, unmoved. “You may hide your engagement from the other’s if you wish. But don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you are not in love.”
Sophie let out a mortified groan.
Lucas, who had been leaning on swagger for thirty-odd years, just sagged, shoulders dropping in defeat. “So does that mean you… approve?”
Lady Beaumont’s expression changed, elegantly, carefully, as though affection was a delicate scarf she only wore on special occasions.
“I do,” she said. “I have had the privilege of watching over Sophie and her mother after Thomas passed, and she deserves someone who adores her. And you…” She tilted her head, studying him. “You appear to adore her so loudly that even the kitchen staff are aware.”
Sophie’s hand flew to her lips. “Grandmother…”
“I only ask,” Lady Beaumont added, tone sharpening again, “that you cease attempting to seduce half the guest list as a cover. It is unbecoming, unnecessary, and deeply confusing for Mrs Carmichael from table fourteen.”
