And so it was that Sophie found herself pacing outside Fontaine’s private rooms after everyone retired. As apprehensive as she was about meeting with him alone, she forged ahead out of necessity. There was no other solution. She required his assistance in extricating them from this shameless matchmaking. They could not marry-a man of the marquess’s station would never accept a woman in her circumstances, regardless of their past friendship-but neither could they simply point that out and be done with the business. The dowager and the countess knew everything, and it apparently had not swayed them. But if Fontaine was willing to work with her to prove her point, they could prevail.
She sighed and came to an abrupt halt before the door.
Fontaine was known for his impeccable deportment and faultless manners. She could not predict how he would respond to the gross deviation of propriety she had committed so many years ago. He had been polite and dryly charming at dinner, but they had witnesses then. Now they would be alone and perhaps his true feelings would be aired. She had suffered and survived malicious gossip and been ostracized. But Justin…
Sophie swallowed hard. Dear God, how would she bear it if he was cruel?
Of course, there was only one way to find out.
Sophie lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and knocked on the paneled door.
Chapter Two
The moments that passed after Sophie knocked seemed an eternity. She forced herself to breathe in and out with slow, deep breaths and wait, rather than scamper back to her room and find another way. Finally the door was opened by a manservant who was most likely Fontaine’s valet. The smile she gave him was both a greeting and an expression of relief.
“Good evening,” she said cheerfully. “I wish to speak with his lordship, if I may.”
There was a pause as the man blinked wide eyes at her, then a large hand curled around the top of the door and pulled it open further.
Fontaine came into view looking even better than he had at dinner. Then he had been fully, faultlessly dressed. Now he was sans coat, waistcoat, and cravat, the opening at his collar revealing honey-colored skin and a light dusting of pale blond hair. He looked relaxed and far less rigid than he had earlier, a softening her female sensibilities enjoyed far too much.
“Lady Sophie,” he murmured, in the deep voice of a pure male. “An unexpected pleasure, to be sure.”
“Might I come in, my lord?”
“This is my bedchamber,” he pointed out.
She gave him a wry look. “Yes, I know.”
His mouth twitched at the corners. “If you wish to compromise me, I must tell you that asking permission first is a rather odd way to go about it.”
Sophie blew out her breath and tapped her foot impatiently. “Why must you always be so difficult? Have you any notion-”
He reached out and hauled her into the room.
Dismissing his valet, he then shut the door, enclosing them in a space that smelled strongly of him, a delicious blend of bergamot and tobacco that stirred her in ways she wasn’t prepared for.
Needing distance between them, she stepped farther into his space. Her gaze drifted across the large, well-appointed chamber. Decorated in dark woods and shades of gold and brown, it reminded her of a lion’s den and suited its master perfectly, as did the two matching, fully grown mastiffs who approached her.
“You’ve no need to fear them,” he assured her. “They are quite gentle.”
“Well, hello,” she greeted, extending both hands. The massive fawn-colored beasts pressed their great muzzles into her palms and sniffed. Apparently finding her acceptable, they welcomed her with copious amounts of viscous drool. She glanced over her shoulder at the marquess. “What do you call them?”
“George and Edward.”
“Truly? How unusual.”
“They share their names with the two gentlemen who were with me when I purchased them as pups. Since both men felt the need to jest at length about salivating animals, I deemed them appropriate monikers.”
“Lovely!” Sophie laughed, pleasantly surprised by his sense of humor, which she did not remember ever seeing much of.
She watched him step behind the screen in the corner and when he returned, gratefully accepted the damp cloth he offered to wipe her hands. “They are beautiful dogs.”
“I think so,” he said easily, watching her with a stare that made her feel slightly breathless. His intensity had always frightened her a little, although she could not collect why. He would never hurt her; she knew that like she knew the sun would rise in the morn.
Moving to one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fire, Sophie sat and tugged a footstool closer so she could set her slippered feet upon it.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he teased, taking a seat opposite her. The way he filled the chair caught her attention. He did not sit with any sort of straightness to his spine, as she would expect. Fontaine lounged like a king of the jungle, his long legs stretched out and his back angled into the groove between the chair back and the wing. George and Edward studied him a moment, then shuffled over to the footstool and set their giant heads atop each of her feet.
“They like you,” he said.
“I like them.”
“I thought you hated dogs, or were afraid of them. Some such. You could not tolerate Lady Cardington’s pet. His name eludes me now…”
“Max, and he was a beast. I like dogs, truly. But Maximillian was not a dog; he was a demon. He chewed up my best shoes and lifted his leg on my bedpost at every opportunity.” She smiled suddenly. “But I am grateful for him now, because he works in our favor.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Grand-mère refused to see how horrid that animal was. I tried to tell her, but my complaints fell on deaf ears. He was wickedly clever and always on his best behavior for her.”
“So you invented a fear of canines?” The chastising shaking of his head was tempered by obvious indulgence.
“The feigned phobia served its purpose,” she said. “And now it will be one of the many points of contention between you and me.”
He grinned, and she was riveted.
Tilting her head to the side, Sophie contemplated her old friend with new eyes. How dashing he looked in his inelegant sprawl with his throat revealed to her gaze. He had always been uncommonly handsome, but the intimate pose made him seem overwhelmingly so. Where once he had been lean and youthful, he was now large and mature. His features were more angular, his gaze more knowing. Sophie could not shake the feeling that she had just walked into a predator’s lair.
“So we are to be contentious.” His lips twisted wryly. “I am not certain how to feel about so much effort being expended to avoid marriage to me.”
“Relieved?” she suggested blithely. “If I left the matter to you, you would most likely pronounce that you’d never marry a woman such as me, and that would goad them to dig in their heels. I am saving you endless trouble.”
“You believe I would never wed you,” he repeated, frowning.
Sophie drummed her fingers restlessly against the end of the armrest. “Of course not. I would drive you to insanity.”
“Perhaps I would like that.”
“Stuff,” she scoffed.
“Hmm…”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind. So tell me, how are you faring, Sophie?” The low, intimate timbre of his voice was slightly distracted, as if part of his mind was occupied with other thoughts.
She offered a small smile. “As well as can be expected, my lord.”
“Justin,” he corrected.
“Justin.” Her gaze lowered to his throat, which she could not seem to resist looking at. “How are you? You look…well.”