Rosenberg Estate
One week later
“Let us pray this shall be my first and only debut ball,” said Margaret to Sophie as she observed her suitors from afar.
Margaret looked determined—until the weight of her own words dawned on her. “If I wish to accomplish that… then I must marry by the end of this season,” she murmured, her confidence giving way to a flicker of trepidation.
Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Smile, Margaret. The gentlemen’s eyes are all on you. Compose yourself.”
“Of course, mother,” Margaret replied stiffly.
Sophie, standing just behind her charge, offered a sympathetic smile.
After much persuasion, the countess had finally agreed to let Sophie remain close to Margaret as her companion for the evening.
“I am quite certain you will marry this season,” Sophie said warmly. “What man could possibly reject a rare, fine diamond such as yourself? You’re perfectly magnificent. Only someone with appalling taste would fail to see that.”
Margaret giggled. “Thank you, Sophie. With a smile as lovely as yours, I believe you speak nothing but the truth.”
Sophie chuckled softly, then cleared her throat and adopted a mock-serious tone as she imitated one of the gentleman earlier. “Yours, of course, are incomparable, my lady. No beauty could compare to yours—it is simply unparalleled.”
Margaret nearly snorted with laughter but managed to stifle it as she caught her mother narrowing her eyes at her. “All right, Sophie, I understand you completely! Now cease your flattery or I shall be forced to dance with you!”
---
At the ball, Sophie had been quite right—Margaret had captivated many. Her dance card was already full, much to the countess’ delight, though the girl herself was secretly overwhelmed by the prospect of engaging with so many strangers in one evening. But refusal was out of the question—not with her mother’s hawk-like gaze tracking her every step.
Lady Rosenberg had ensured that Margaret wore only the finest gowns, crafted by a renowned French modiste. Tonight, she looked truly enchanting in a baby-blue gown that contrasted beautifully with her blonde curls. She looked regal and composed—so much so that Sophie was reminded of the late Lady Maria during her own debut.
The countess held high hopes that Margaret would secure a proposal from a duke or an heir to a dukedom. Sophie recalled two who had expressed interest: the Duke of Hemmings and the Duke of Fritzham. Both were wealthy and titled—ideal in the eyes of society—but their reputations left much to be desired.
The Duke of Hemmings, in his early forties, had yet to marry—a curiosity for a man in need of an heir. Rumors swirled about his indulgence in drink and his fondness for keeping multiple mistresses. Sophie had even witnessed him cavorting scandalously with two young maids from the House of Lucille—in the garden she so loved, of all places.
Though she didn’t usually entertain gossip, that sight had been... undeniable. It was also whispered that he’d sired several illegitimate children and had no qualms about securing a wife who would turn a blind eye to his vices.
As for the Duke of Fritzham, he was young and dazzling—too dazzling, perhaps. Every mother and daughter in the ton sought his attention. Though charming and well-endowed financially, there were whispers of his volatile temperament and cruelty toward his servants. Sophie found such traits deeply disturbing.
She wondered, as many young women must, whether Margaret should marry for wealth, status, or love. In truth, Sophie regretted once advising her that love was not as important as rank and security. It now felt like a betrayal of the heart.
---
“Oh, Sophie… My legs are about to give way, and I still have four dances left,” said Margaret with a sheepish smile.
“A quick respite is in order then,” Sophie replied, offering her a glass of fruit punch and helping her to a seat. “Tell me—how were your partners? Are we to expect wedding bells soon?”
Margaret giggled. “Sophie, you must be jesting. Not so soon, I hope.” She pressed a hand to her flushed cheeks.
Sophie grinned. “Given how pink you are, I daresay someone has captured your interest.”
Margaret glanced around carefully, then leaned closer. “Well, I’d be lying if I said no one had. He reminded me of Danny… until he started speaking of art, poetry, and literature.”
Sophie laughed. “That certainly sets them apart. And what else?”
“He’s gentle, kind, and—oh, just so easy to speak to.” Margaret’s voice softened. “He made me laugh.”
“Who is he?”
“The Earl of Hastings,” she whispered.
Sophie had never heard of him before, but that could only be a good sign—no scandal seemed to surround his name. Margaret pointed discreetly across the room. The man in question was tall and striking, with chestnut hair, deep green eyes, and a strong jaw.
“What were you two discussing, to leave you so smitten?”
Margaret flushed. “I can’t say just yet. But he made me feel seen.”
“And the others?” Sophie asked gently.
Margaret’s smile faltered. She cast a glance toward the Duke of Hemmings. “They were… less charming. The Duke of Hemmings is far too old—and the way he looks at me, and touches my hand... it makes my skin crawl.”
She shuddered as the duke raised his glass toward them.
“And the Duke of Fritzham?”
“He’s handsome, yes. But the way he teased me—he was far too direct. I felt insulted, though I knew he meant it in jest. Ugh. What is the matter with him?”
Sophie tried to spot him in the crowd but found no sign of the young duke.
“Would you like to tell me what he said?” she asked.
“Oh, Sophie, you’d be as speechless as I was. I’ll tell you later—when the ton isn’t watching my every step. I just hope I won’t see him again.”
Sophie nodded. Margaret then excused herself to visit the ladies’ retiring room. As Sophie stood waiting, she found herself thinking bitterly how unfair it was to expect a young woman to choose a husband after mere introductions and a few dances.
Her musings were interrupted by the voice of Lady Rosenberg.
“So,” said the countess, “what has Margaret said about her suitors?”
“She seems most taken with the Earl of Hastings, my lady. As for the dukes... she was less impressed.”
To Sophie’s surprise, the countess nodded without protest. She made no comment about the dukes’ reputations.
Before she could ask more, Lady Thaddenburg appeared with her usual cheer.
“Excellent work watching over my niece, Sophie. How are you holding up, my dear?”
Sophie brightened. “Quite well, my lady. Lady Margaret is naturally charming and magnificent—I’m certain she’ll receive many grand proposals.”
Though Lady Rosenberg seemed pleased, she quickly excused herself as soon as her sister in-law came.
“You’ve been standing here like a poor wallflower, haven’t you?” said the older woman. “Come now, I won’t have it. You look thinner than the last time I saw you.”
Before Sophie could protest, Lady Alexandria popped a custard puff into her mouth.
“My lady!” Sophie sputtered.
The countess chuckled and wiped her lips with a handkerchief. Sophie couldn’t help but feel warmed—this woman had always shown her kindness, never treating her with suspicion or disdain. It was the sort of love Sophie imagined a mother might give… though she had no memories of her own.
Lady Thaddenburg had no surviving children of her own, having suffered miscarriages and a stillbirth before her husband died of lung disease. Her strength humbled Sophie.
“Are you well?” the countess asked, clasping her hand.
“I am, my lady. I hope you’re well too, especially with this cold air.”
Lady Thaddenburg laughed. “I may be getting old, but not that old. Now—shouldn’t you fetch something for yourself?”
“I already have, my lady.” Sophie bit into a scone. “Would you like anything?”
“No, no. I only wished to talk.” She looked at Sophie fondly. “It would be such a shame for you to settle as Margaret’s governess and companion forever. You’re far too beautiful, too bright. Let me help you find a good husband, someone worthy of you.”
Sophie smiled, touched. “It’s a generous offer, my lady… but I’m truly grateful just to have a place here.”
The countess shook her head with a fond sigh. “Then I shall try again another day. But at least stop standing around like a statue. I’ll speak to Mary and buy you some time.”
Before Sophie could object, Lady Thaddenburg was gone.
Left to herself, Sophie wandered to the kitchens, but they were already bustling. She didn’t wish to intrude. She murmured to herself, “The stables then…”
She loved horses. She couldn’t recall when she first learned to ride, but the sight of them always comforted her. Of course, under Lady Rosenberg's scrutiny, she was never allowed to be near them.
But tonight… who would notice?
---
At the stable, Sophie marvelled at the sight of numerous horses of various breeds, all looking remarkably healthy—thanks to the diligent and attentive care provided by the Wilhem brothers. Even if they were to find her, she trusted they would be kind enough not to report her presence.
Sophie approached a large white horse with slow, measured steps, as always enchanted by its beauty.
"Hello, Desmond," she greeted softly.
The horse shifted slightly, wary of her approach. Sophie moved gently so as not to startle him. Then she recalled the apples she had taken earlier and retrieved one from her pocket, holding it out in offering.
"I met you the last time, remember? Why are you still afraid of me?" she asked in a soothing voice.
Desmond gave a soft neigh, almost as if replying—and requesting more apples. Sophie giggled at his persistence. There was something so familiar, so comforting, about being near horses.
A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over her. She could just glimpse a fleeting memory: a pony and herself as a child riding it. A boy stood beside her in the image, though he appeared only as a faint silhouette.
“What was that?” she murmured to herself, frowning slightly, trying to recapture the moment. But before she could grasp it, Desmond neighed again, startling her back into the present.
“I’m sorry, Desmond. That was the last apple. If only I could come here more often…” she sighed.
She reached out to brush the horse’s neck—but just as her hand extended toward him, someone seized her wrist and yanked her arm away.
Startled, Sophie gasped and turned to face the intruder. At first, she thought it might be one of the Wilhem brothers—but no. This man was a stranger, and unlike any stable hand. He was tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in finely tailored attire. His hair was dark brown, and his striking eyes were a stormy shade of deep blue, almost oceanic.
Sophie instinctively tried to pull her wrist free, appalled by the force he had exerted, but his grip remained firm.
"Miss, you are not supposed to be here," the man hissed.
"Sir, it is entirely inappropriate to seize a lady by the wrist—especially one you have just met. Kindly let me go at once," Sophie said sharply, her eyes flashing with disapproval.
To her surprise, the man released her—but rather than apologise, he continued in a condescending tone.
"That horse is untamed. Touching him was reckless. He does not take kindly to unfamiliar hands. Had something happened, there would have been no one here to help you. And besides, it is highly unladylike to wander here alone and unchaperoned. Have you no understanding of the ton’s expectations?"
Sophie scoffed in disbelief. His tone grated on her nerves, and his assumption even more so.
"I am not a lady of the ton, sir. I serve this household and I believe no one would question me being here unchaperoned. And, if I may remind you, it is none of your concern. I was careful. No one was causing trouble—until you arrived," she said pointedly.
She was certain she had irked him, but he did not raise his voice. Instead, he stepped back, and in the dim lighting, she could barely see the tension in his jaw.
"Noble or not, you are still a lady," he said stiffly. "And whether you like it or not, I would not stand idly by if a scoundrel appeared and whisked you away."
His implication unsettled her. His phrasing was poor, and Sophie did not appreciate the patronising tone.
"I would appreciate it if you returned to the ball now. That is where you ought to be," he said firmly.
Sophie was thoroughly displeased. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the distant sound of someone approaching caught both their attention. It was Patrick, muttering loudly as he neared the stables.
The man looked instantly alarmed. Without warning, he grabbed Sophie’s arm again and pulled her behind a secluded wooden platform at the far end of the stable, clearly familiar with the structure’s hidden corners.
"Keep quiet," he whispered.
“My lord? Are you there? Strange... Where did he go? My lord!" Patrick called out, confused.
Sophie could scarcely believe the situation she had found herself in. Yet, as much as she resented it, perhaps hiding had been the right decision. If Patrick had found them alone together—especially with Sophie not knowing who this man was—it would have raised far too many questions.
As soon as Patrick moved on and the coast was clear, Sophie took her chance. Without saying a word, she slipped away from her hiding place and hurried off before the stranger turned back to face her.
She did not spare him a glance, nor did she offer the slightest curtsey—even though she was certain he was a man of the ton. Hopefully, her cold silence made her displeasure perfectly clear.
And she prayed—fervently—that she would never have to deal with him again.
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