The captain bathed after her, while the tub was set up behind the screen near the fire. She assured him she did not mind. With all the extra work the servants were already doing, there was no need to ask for the tub to be moved into the dressing room—even if it would fit, which was questionable.
Sophie sat at the dressing table, towel drying, then combing out her long hair to help it dry faster and remove the tangles. She angled her back and faced away from the tub. The screen had been set up to block the view from the door, should anyone enter. It partially blocked her view as well. But now and again, she sneaked a glimpse of him in her mirror: muscular shoulders and arms, scarred chest, flat abdomen, damp dark hair, skin glistening . . .
Sophie swallowed. He glanced over and caught her looking. She quickly feigned interest in a tangle and worked to remove it with her comb.
When the captain had dried off, covered himself in a dressing gown, and left the room, Sophie released a long breath.
Libby bustled in to help her dress. She tied silk stockings over Sophie’s knees and cinched long bone stays over her shift. She had to loosen the laces but made no comment. She then helped Sophie on with her new gown, doing up the lacings and tiny pearl buttons at the back of the bodice. The new evening dress was not quite as formal as a ball gown but nearly so, and Sophie felt like a princess in it. Especially now that it had been altered to fit her expanding figure.
Libby brushed Sophie’s hair until it shone gold, then pinned it high on her head, with two braids looped like garlands at the back. With hot irons she curled spiraling tendrils at each temple.
The maid touched the faintest tint of rouge to her lips and cheeks, and powdered her nose. Then around Sophie’s neck she fastened a simple strand of glass beads that Kate had lent her, insisting it would look perfect with her blue-and-white dress.
Finally Libby stood back and admired her work. “There. You look beautiful, madam. If I do say so myself.”
“Thank you, Libby. You are a real artist.”
Libby winked. “Takes one to know one.”
Sophie rose and turned to regard her reflection in the long cheval mirror.
The maid shook her head, dimples showing, “Just you wait until the captain sees you. My, my.”
Sophie glanced at the closed dressing room door, assuming Captain Overtree had finished dressing and gone downstairs. She longed to hear him say she looked all right. And hopefully not too showy.
Sophie gave her reflection a final inspection. She was pretty, she thought. No matter what her father said about her being too plain to model. For a flash of a moment she wished Wesley were there to see her. To see how lovely she was and regret leaving her. She willed away the foolish, disloyal thought. Tonight was about Captain Overtree. And her. And their marriage, such as it was.
She pulled on long white gloves and made her way downstairs.
From the half landing, she saw Captain Overtree standing at the bottom of the stairs in full evening dress. He looked serious—jaw set, shoulders wide and squared—and wonderfully masculine in black tailcoat, brocade waistcoat, and linen cravat. Knee breeches and white stockings emphasized his muscular legs.
He glanced up, and then again, mouth parting. “Sophie . . .” he breathed.
She paused to relish the look on his face. The low timbre of the single word more powerful than any long speech could have been.
She continued down the stairs, her stomach tingling.
As she tentatively approached him, he held out both hands. Surprised but happy to do so, she slipped her gloved hands into his.
His warm eyes traced her hair, her face. “So beautiful . . .”
“Thank you.”
He slowly shook his head, drawing in a long breath. “Hang me. I shan’t be able to stop staring long enough to eat a bite or remember a single dance step.”
She smiled. The captain’s black hair, for once brushed back from his brow, showed the strong contours of his face. She had never seen him look more handsome.
Kate appeared, oohing and ahhing over Sophie’s dress and hair. The younger woman was a picture of loveliness in the pale pink gown, pearls, and gloves, and her brother was quick to compliment her. Then he excused himself to greet one of the guests.
When he’d stepped away, Kate leaned near and whispered, “You’ll never guess who just arrived.”
“Mr. Harrison?”
“Why, yes!” Kate’s dark eyes sparkled. “I encouraged him to come—assured him we were expecting him.”
“I’m happy for you.” Sophie hesitated, then asked, “How did your mother react?”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “Oh! That reminds me. Mamma wants us to welcome Mr. Darby-Wells. So pleased with himself. Though I suppose Mamma is right and I should try to like him. He is handsome, I own. Tell me what you think.”
Kate took Sophie’s arm and led her across the hall. In the anteroom, they first encountered the vicar, his wife, and son. Kate drew up short, pulling Sophie to a halt beside her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Nelson. Mr. Harrison!” Kate enthused. “I am so glad you came.” She turned. “Sophie, you remember the Nelsons and Mr. Harrison, I trust? You met in church, I believe.”
“Yes.” Sophie greeted them warmly. She felt a tug of empathy for Mr. Harrison, who looked uncomfortable in formal evening attire and stiff cravat.
“Did you know Mr. Harrison is writing a book?” Kate beamed.
“Is he indeed?” Sophie smiled at the young man.
“It’s quite true.” The vicar’s chest puffed with pride. “A history of the county.”
“Papa . . .” Mr. Harrison self-consciously ducked his head. “Mrs. Overtree doesn’t want to hear about that.”
“On the contrary. I think it wonderful.”
“He was going to stay home tonight and work on it,” Mrs. Nelson added. “But I assured him it was no doubt an oversight that his name was not included on the invitation. He thought it would be impolite to presume. Then I reminded him, had not Miss Overtree personally told him her family was expecting him?”
“Indeed I did, Mrs. Nelson,” Kate said. “You are all very welcome.”
Sophie knew that wasn’t wholly true but nodded her agreement.
Across the room, Captain Overtree and his parents approached an elegant blond gentleman. Mrs. Overtree glanced their way and tried to catch her daughter’s eye.
Noticing, Kate’s smile faltered. “Well, if you will excuse us, I see Mamma beckoning. Someone else she wishes Sophie to meet, no doubt. I will look forward to talking with you more later. In the meantime, do enjoy yourselves.”
“I am sure we shall,” the vicar assured her. “Thank you, Miss Overtree.”
His son seemed less convinced.
Heedless, Kate smiled at Mr. Harrison and might have kept standing there had not Sophie gently taken her arm and led her through the milling crowd.
As she and Kate approached the others, Sophie heard Mr. Darby-Wells offer the captain hearty congratulations on his marriage. Then he turned and congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Overtree as well.
When he spied Kate, he smiled at her. “Miss Overtree. What a pleasure to see you again. You are lovelier than ever.”
With a glance at her mother, Kate returned his smile. “Thank you.”
Poor Mr. Harrison, Sophie thought. Mr. Darby-Wells was well-spoken and indeed handsome, with fine features and confident bearing. But when the young dandy bent over her hand, Sophie caught an oily gleam in his eye as his gaze lingered on her bosom—fuller now than it had ever been, though still, she hoped, modest.
Mr. Darby-Wells returned his attention to Kate, asking to dance with her after dinner. She sweetly agreed.
While the two young people talked, Mrs. Overtree stepped between Sophie and Stephen and whispered, “A charming young man, don’t you think?”
“Apparently,” Stephen agreed.
Sophie held her tongue.
At that moment, her attention was captured by Carlton Keith, elegant in evening c
lothes. There was something different about him. . . . Then she realized. Both of his sleeves were filled, and a gloved hand protruded from each.
Astonished, Sophie walked over to him. “Mr. Keith! How well you look.”
He grinned at her. “Limbs suit me, don’t you think? Two arms are all the crack these days, so I thought I’d give it a go.”
She returned his grin, then asked, “But how did you manage it?”
“Colonel Horton took me to see a Scottish bladesmith he knows who makes these contrivances. Not bad, ay?”
“It’s very realistic.”
“Made of metal, actually.” He tapped it against a nearby door latch, producing a muffled clank.
The hand was skillfully shaped—and encased in a glove, as it was now, the illusion was convincing.
“Does it . . . function?” she asked as he stood there, arms at his sides.
“Afraid not. But I wager it’s better than a hook, or an empty sleeve.”
His grin faded as something over her shoulder caught his eye. She turned to look and saw Angela Blake, resplendent in green silk, and a man Sophie assumed must be her brother, with similar red hair.
Seeing her, Angela approached and said, “Mrs. Overtree, may I introduce my brother, Horace Blake. Horace, Mrs. Overtree, Stephen’s wife.”
She curtsied, and he bowed. “A pleasure.”
Angela’s eyes turned frosty when they settled on Sophie’s companion. “Mr. Keith,” she acknowledged with cool civility but quickly turned to greet someone else, her brother swept along in her wake.
When the butler announced dinner was served, they all entered the dining room in order of precedence, though Sophie still didn’t understand all the particulars. She waited until Stephen offered his arm and was grateful for his nearness and relative familiarity amid the sea of strangers.
The dining room was awash in candlelight from candelabra and wall sconces. The table had been extended to its full length to accommodate their many guests and laid with fine linens, the family china, and decorative arrangements of fruits and hothouse flowers. Place cards directed her and Stephen to one end of the table near Angela Blake, Mr. Keith, and Mr. Darby-Wells. Kate sat on his other side, while Mr. Harrison and his parents were seated at the opposite end.
During dinner, Mr. Keith waved away refills of wine, Sophie noticed. Taking his cue from the captain, he nursed a single glass, while sipping on spring water.
Mr. Darby-Wells leaned toward Mr. Keith. “Haven’t seen you in months, Keith. Been to White’s lately?”
“No, not in ages. I’ve been in Devonshire with Wesley Overtree.”
“Ah. Devonshire.” The handsome man nodded sagely. “Spend any time with the Exmoor ponies while you were there . . . ?” His tone dripped with innuendo.
A euphemism for betting on horse races, Sophie guessed.
“Afraid not,” Mr. Keith replied.
“Care for a friendly game after dinner?” the man asked.
“No, thanks. I’ve given it up.”
“Have you indeed? That’s a shame.”
Keith’s eyes glinted. “No. It’s a shame when you lose your family’s estate and have to marry for money.” He gave the young man a pointed look.
“Do you say that from personal experience?” the dandy retorted.
“Yes, but I was not thinking of myself or my father in this instance.” Keith’s eyes held the other man’s steadily. Knowingly.
Darby-Wells gave a casual shrug, but Sophie noticed him shift in his chair.
“Bah. You know how rumors spread . . .” The young man smirked and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I may have lost a fortune, but at least I still have all my appendages.”
Sophie sucked in a little gasp and looked at Stephen and Kate, but they hadn’t heard. Miss Blake had, however. So had Mr. Keith, and the bravado faded from his eyes. He lowered his artificial hand into his lap.
After dinner, Kate begged for dancing, and soon the men set aside their port and pipe, and the women their gossip, to oblige her.
Together the party moved toward the great hall. In anticipation of the dancing, servants had rolled up the carpets and laid a fire in the massive hearth to chase away the chill in the cavernous room. Mr. Overtree had surprised his daughter by hiring musicians after all, who even now sat at the ready in the raised gallery above. As the company entered they began playing a jaunty tune with fiddle, flute, and pipe.
Kate and Mr. Darby-Wells claimed the position of head couple and called for a Scottish reel. Its militant pace put Sophie in mind of soldiers marching into battle. At the thought, her heart fell, knowing Captain Overtree might soon do just that.
The tune reminded Stephen of his regiment’s bandsmen. He blinked away an unwanted image of a drummer boy who looked no older than twelve, lying dead in a Spanish wheat field. This was not the time or place for such remembrances. If only he could wipe them from his mind forever.
As other couples joined in, Stephen touched Sophie’s elbow. “May I have this dance?”
She blinked up at him in surprise. “I did not think you cared enough for dancing to wish to begin so early.”
“I don’t. But I refuse to waste a moment with you.”
She bit her lip. “Would you mind terribly if we waited until the next? I don’t think I’m equal to a reel after that large meal.”
“I don’t mind at all, as long as you stay near.”
She smiled shyly up at him. “I shall.”
They stood beside one another, watching the dance. Stephen grinned at Kate’s enthusiastic, energetic steps compared to her partner’s smooth, polished style.
“They may not be well matched in dancing, but no great matter,” he said. “A dance is fleeting, but marriage is forever.” Where had that come from—was he a philosopher now? Stephen inwardly cringed. What a thing to say when their marriage could very well be short-lived.
“I don’t think they are well matched for marriage either,” Sophie said mildly.
Stephen didn’t challenge her and was relieved when she didn’t expound on her reply. He hoped to avoid another argument, this night of all nights.
The first set ended, and the gentlemen escorted their partners from the dance floor. Then the musicians began another tune.
Stephen watched in surprise as Mr. Harrison led Kate on to the floor, her face flushed and radiant as she smiled up at him. He wondered how his mother felt about Mr. Harrison’s presence.
A few feet away from them, Keith leaned near Miss Blake and said earnestly. “I beg your forgiveness for my behavior at Windmere. Upon my honor, it shall not happen again.”
“I forgive you.”
Keith reared his head back in surprise at how readily his apology was accepted. A moment later, he asked glibly, “I don’t suppose you’d care to dance with a one-armed pauper?”
Stephen knew the man’s teasing tone hid his fear, or perhaps even his assumption, that she would refuse him.
“I would indeed,” Angela replied, as though he’d referred to himself as a titled lord.
Stephen’s fondness for his childhood friend deepened then and there.
“I recognize this music,” Sophie spoke up. “A favorite in Bath. It’s called ‘Our Mutual Love.’”
“Well, then,” Stephen replied. “We had better dance to it.”
They shared a private smile and joined the other couples forming two lines down the center of the long hall. As they moved through the patterns, Stephen observed Mr. Harrison as he danced with Kate, noticing the young man’s respectful distance and correct, if faltering, steps.
Soon, he and Sophie found themselves at the top of the line with Miss Blake and Mr. Keith. Stephen was glad Angela and Sophie would be the two ladies taking his lifeless hand.
He and Keith stepped around their partners, then turned them with both hands—or in Keith’s case, one hand. Then the ladies did the same. The two couples changed places, right hands across, left hands back, moving down through the line. Ste
phen relished Sophie’s nearness and the feeling of her hands in his. It only made him want to hold her closer. God give me strength.
He watched Sophie with unabashed admiration. When Mr. Keith could not reach or turn, she continued on fluidly with enough grace and ease that only those watching closely would know Mr. Keith did not perform his role perfectly. Miss Blake was a little less serene looking, as though concentrating very hard on the steps and hoping not to make a fool of herself. Or perhaps hoping others were not scoffing at her partner. And he had to admire Keith’s bravery as well. Dancing in such august company, with many eyes on him, took a great deal of bravery. Nearly as much as facing a line of French infantry.
When Stephen and Sophie reached the bottom of the set, they stood out for a round as the dance dictated. This left another couple at the top of the line to dance the steps and repeat the pattern. As they waited to rejoin the dance, they were free to converse. To flirt. It was the time that young men, whether courting or simply admiring a fair partner, looked forward to most of all. A time to have a lady’s undivided attention away from the listening ears of chaperones. To talk, or tease, or whisper sweet words of flattery. Instead, standing there with his wife, Stephen found himself tongue-tied.
He faltered, “Your dress is . . . well, you in that dress, I should say. You take my breath away.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She looked down, embarrassed, and he thought, or at least hoped, pleased at his praise. She said, “I am glad your mother had it made for me.”
“So am I. And here I am in ordinary evening attire like every other man in the room. Perhaps I ought to have worn my dress uniform, but as it is my last night as a civilian . . .”
“You look very handsome as you are.”
His body warmed at the shy admiring glance she gave him from beneath her lashes.
“Why, Mrs. Overtree, are you flirting with me?” he teased.
“And . . . if I am?”