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She was meant for this side of the world, where people stepped into the sunlight determined to prove they were ‘somebody’—respectable, faultless, important. But her aching heart was still in the Greenwich shadows. There, she could act on her own ideals of right and wrong. Here …

Marrying a gentleman that would one day assume responsibility over Belmaine Hall was meant to be a sacrifice for the family, so selfless that it would fulfill Sophie as much as her parents. At some point, it had quietly transformed into just a sacrifice.

A burden.

She was ashamed to take ownership of the word; doing so wouldn’t change anything. Sophie’s reputation would remain outwardly pristine, her choice of suitors respectably bland and hopefully titled. That was her responsibility.

“Well, there can be no doubting it, then!” Lady St. Quinton laughed, high and giddy, and her gloved fingers dug into the back of Sophie’s arm. “My husband, you know, is well acquainted with the Duke of Marham after sitting alongside him in the House of Lords for so many seasons. I daresay we will have to arrange a dinner party when Lord Hansbury has settled in.”

The grasp tightened into a pinch, and Sophie realized her mother was looking at her. She could see little around the coal scuttle shape of her bonnet. “Oh, yes,” she said, aiming a smile at Lady Alder. She had tremendous, large eyes, which only served to make her mouth more drawn. “That would be lovely, I’m sure.”

The older women shared a refined chuckle, and the pressure on Sophie’s arm eased into a gentle pat.

She hadn’t a clue what she’d just agreed to. Maddening heat was pressing between the fabric of her half cloak and shoulders, perspiration sprouting under her arms and along her hairline. Silk. Why must everything be silk? It trapped heat like an overzealous gaoler confined vigilantes. She longed to place herself in the shade—it was just three paces away—and remove the confounded contraption that heaped her hair tight against her skull.

Lady Alder gasped. “Oh! Look.”

The clouds were white enough to pain Sophie’s eyes. She squinted in the direction Lady Alder’s limerick-gloved forefinger stabbed. Every muscle in her chest seized when she recognized the group walking toward them.

Mr. Balfour. His father and Lord Penney flanked his sides, and Miss Penney and her mother trailed close beside him. How well suited they looked for each other! The vibrancy of the Balfour men’s rich, oceanic blue coats, paired with the proud edges of their posture, put them quite at home beside their titled peers.

There was a crease in Mr. Balfour’s brow as he surveyed the prospect about him, his walking stick moving idly in his gloved hand. How had it been just last night that she had felt closer to him than anyone in the world?

She jerked her chin away. It seemed the temperature had climbed another several degrees.

“—find it to be a most preposterous match, indeed. Watch,” Lady Alder hissed. Sophie was looking down, heart pulsing, when the old matron’s heels ground into the gravel and she called, “Oh, Lord and Lady Penney! What a delight. You must come here!”

Sophie pasted on a smile and knew, without seeing herself, how terribly false it looked. “Mama, didn’t you say something about returning home?”

Lady St. Quinton leant into her daughter’s side, dropping her voice. Their difference in height meant she spoke into Sophie’s shoulder. “Not quite yet, dearest. We must appear civil.”

The group closed in around them. Sophie smiled through the greetings, caught herself spinning her parasol roughly against her shoulder, and stopped. Heaven above, Miss Penney was beautiful. Hair like spilled champagne and features more redolent of a doll than a woman. Small, symmetrical, fair. The only thing that could have made her more picturesque—or more painful to Sophie’s eye—would have been if she appeared happy to be in the Balfours’ company. Her jaw was squared tightly, and she stayed close against her mother’s side.

“Have you heard the good news?” Lady Alder whirled around, flashing the whites of her eyes at Sophie as if she were in on the joke. “The Duke of Marham’s son has returned to town, after all. He will unseat Lord Tennyson as the most eligible bachelor, beyond a doubt. Miss St. Quinton was just saying how delighted she will be to enjoy his company.” The bulging gaze turned on her again. “Weren’t you, my lovely?”

A lone trail of sweat slithered between Sophie’s breasts. She looked directly at Mr. Balfour and those dark, somber eyes traveled straight through her skin. “Yes, my lady. That is precisely so.”

“I believe he’s come in from his father’s Hampshire estate—no, perhaps the Derbyshire house.” Lady Alder put three fingers to her lips. “Whichever lady secures him as her husband is sure to be the luckiest in the whole of England.”

“How wonderful,” Lady Penney said with a grin. Her upper lip beaded with sweat, and she flicked her third glance in as many seconds at her scowling husband. “Well, then, I’m sure we’ve disrupted you ladies long enough as it is.”

Sophie tried not to watch the group’s retreat. She really tried. But she found him again, and again … The quiet precision of his footsteps. The way his hands looked behind his back. The inch of skin that showed when he bent his head, situated just between his collar and the last of his recalcitrant curls, soft and begging for her touch.

She wanted to loathe him; she had every reason to. He had given her a taste last night—of freedom, of what it meant to share both pleasure and opinion, of himself—and now he was here, trotting through the park with the lady he intended to court. It was despicable. Worthy of loathing. And yet the mutual disconnection between them, that look of inward suffering, kept her from scorning either him or Miss Penney. It made her angry. Why must they all be puppets?

“What was all Lady Alder’s nonsense about?” Sophie asked, once she and her mother were alone and walking in the direction of home. She adjusted her bonnet over one ear. She could’ve ripped the curst thing in half.

Lady St. Quinton hummed. “Nonsense? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, all that ridiculousness about the Duke of Marham’s son.” She tugged roughly at her glove where the seam chafed between her thumb and forefinger. The man’s reputation preceded him. His absence had been noted at many of the engagements she’d attended already, and that same absence then made everyone comfortable with gossiping about him freely.

“I wouldn’t dismiss it as nonsense, precisely. It would be most advantageous to have him and the duke for dinner.”

Sophie drew in a sharp breath. “You mean to advertise me to the most dissolute man on the continent?”

“Sophie.” Her mother’s voice turned chiding, the spray of wrinkles on her forehead deepening. “It is only typical for gentlemen to sow their wild oats, only Lord Hansbury’s … experiences are more talked about, given who his father is.”

She scoffed. “How generous you are, Mama, to call shattering a bust of baby Jesus at the Louvre an experience.”