“But in the end, you always do what’s expected of you.”
“Expected by whom? Mama and Papa? Not always.”
“You do when it matters,” Emily said. “You’re even willing to accept the gentleman they chose for you, though I know you don’t like him.”
“You’re wrong. I do like Mr. Sharpe. And Mama and Papa didn’t choose him for me. He chose me for himself. They merely encouraged the match.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it, but I know how it truly is. And you’re not to think I don’t care, just because I bicker with you and lose my temper at all your economies. I would save you from marrying him if I could.”
Sophie’s lips curved into a smile. She was both touched and a little amused by her sister’s concern. “There’s no need to save me, Em. Mr. Sharpe hasn’t even proposed yet. He may never.”
“Good. It will spare you the scandal of breaking a betrothal.”
Sophie laughed as she anchored the last pin in Emily’s hair, securing the final cluster of flowers. “There. What do you think?”
Emily preened. “Oh yes, this is just what I had in mind. And the pins only hurt a little.”
“I’m glad. Now bend your head and I’ll give it a good spray.” Sophie fetched the glass atomizer of liquid bandoline. It was made of a clear gum solution, the stickiness of which would keep Emily’s hair in place throughout the ball.
With her sister’s hair done, Sophie could at last retire to her room to attend to her own toilette. Annie quickly arranged her hair and helped her dress.
Sophie’s gown for the Christmas ball was really a combination of two outdated evening dresses the village seamstress had made over to match a plate in the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. The resulting ball gown was a fashionable—and quite daring—creation of wine-colored crêpe over wine-colored silk, with double skirts, tiny fluttering sleeves, and a V-shaped neckline cut low in both front and back.
The whole of it was adorned with sprays of gold flowers, oaken leaves, and gilded acorns. Annie stuck some into Sophie’s hair for good measure.
“You look ever so handsome, miss,” she said, beaming.
Sophie paused a moment to admire herself in the pier glass. “It came out well, didn’t it? It looks almost new.”
“No one could tell who didn’t know.”
Satisfied, Sophie pulled on her gloves, gathered up her little paper fan that doubled as a dance card, and made her way down the hall.
Evening had fallen and the corridors were lit with the soft glow of gaslight, an ever-present reminder of her father’s extravagance. For what must be the hundredth time, she resolved not to think about it. Fretting over their finances would serve no purpose except ruining the ball for her. And why should she do that? The money had already been spent. The guests were here. The food was ordered. And the orchestra was setting up in the ballroom.
There would be ample time to weep over their situation after Christmas.
For now, she would plaster a smile on her face and greet the guests with the rest of her family.
She’d gone no more than a few feet when she saw Ned coming from the opposite direction.
Her heart performed its now familiar somersault.
He was garbed in black and white evening dress, his dark hair combed into meticulous order and his short side-whiskers trimmed close along the hard line of his jaw. He looked elegant and commanding. So much like the severe gentleman who’d courted her in London that she almost forgot how dear he’d become to her.
And then he smiled.
Good heavens.
A flush of pleasure suffused her chest, as warm and glowing as the gaslight that surrounded her. She met him halfway down the hall.
His blue gaze drifted over her. “Sophie.”
“Hello.”
She’d never been more aware of him. Of the way he looked, so tall and handsome. Of the sound of his voice, so much deeper and huskier than usual. Her bosom rose and fell on a self-conscious breath. His gaze dropped and lingered there for a fraction of second. She was sure she blushed. She could feel the heat of it seeping over the wide expanse of exposed flesh at her neck and shoulders.
“Sophie,” he said again. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow. “You look…” But he only shook his head, seemingly lost for words.
“You’ve seen me in evening dress before,” she reminded him, her cheeks burning. “A ball gown isn’t so very different.”
“Isn’t it? It feels a world of difference to me.”