Page 40 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

Sophronia swallowed hard. Her parents had enjoyed love, visible, overwhelming, the kind of deep, enduring love that filled a room when they shared it. Then her mother died young, and her father had barely survived the heartbreak. Even now he was but a shell of the hearty, lively man Sophronia remembered him being. Love was the single most destructive force on the planet, after the plague.

“Mrs. Glass, you of all people must be aware a woman in any position need be wise in choosing her partner. Lifelong decisions cannot be based on infatuation, nor even affection,” Sophronia said. “Not when there is so much else at stake.”

Humphrey tapped his walking stick against his leg and scowled. “So you admit you did not marry Hinton for affection. It was his fortune, then. We all thought so.”

Sophronia set her teeth and tried not to let her anger show in her eyes, nor her resentment. All those years with Henry, bought at what cost? The sacrifice was worth it, for her father’s security, her family’s home, a refuge for her own self should the worst happen. But the price was dear, and she was still paying it.

“What do you suppose I could have done?” she asked in a low, furious tone. “My father was ill at the time. You and your father were all at once coming round with hints that you meant to take Foxleigh away from us. What choice did I have but to marry to ensure that my father could keep his home?”

Fanny looked back and forth between them. “Oho, this seems an interesting revelation. So she thwarted your ambitions, my darling?” She read her lover’s face easily, and blinked. “No, worse! You made a bid for her and were rebuffed?”

Now it was Humphrey’s turn for the red to appear, the dull flush rising above his white stock and showing in his ears, not quite hidden by his hair or the brim of his hat.

Fanny realized her error instantly. “But how foolish of her, to pass you over,” she said in a cajoling tone, squeezing his arm to her bosom. “You will not give her the opportunity to be so goose-witted again, I hope.”

“No, because he cannot be sure my father will leave Foxleigh to me,” Sophronia said, no longer attempting to veil her scorn. “It is my father’s estate to dispose of, not entailed, and while I am his heir in all other respects, he can direct for his possessions to go where he wishes. Humphrey will be doing his best to persuade my father to leave Foxleigh to him directly.”

Her cousin’s lips lifted in a snarl, and he lashed his walking stick against his leg. “It would be the right thing to do. The decent thing. To restore the estate to the Feltham family, since he is done with it. Your husband left you his property. Your father could live under your roof. You already have more than enough.”

So this was the heart of her cousin’s grudge. “It isn’t fair, is it?” Sophronia said softly. “That I should have two houses, and you should have none, languishing under the thumb of your parents, waiting on your allowance, living on credit and promises. You might take up a trade, you know.”

Fanny pulled away slightly. “How much credit?”

“Trade doesn’t befit the status of my family. Have you been your father’s daughter all these years and still do not know that?” Humphrey all but gnashed his teeth.

Sophronia’s skin heated with a flush of her own, but this was indignation. “If trade is so despoiling, then you’d best steer far clear of me. I aim to set up a girls’ school and I will be earning my own income. Supporting my own endeavors. My father nor I owe you nothing.”

“Your bankers will never furnish you the funds for such a foolish enterprise,” Humphrey said. “What need is there to educate women, when you’re all only looking for a man to support you?”

“You show a sad want of understanding if you think—” Sophronia caught herself. The scent of snuff stung her nose as a nearby woman opened her box. “How do you know I have applied to the bank for funds?” She had spoken of doing so with the Falstead women, but not with her cousin.

The dark color spread to Humphrey’s hairline, shame or anger. “Are you so flush from your husband’s demise, then? Have all this money to throw about, yet you’ll be stingy with your own family?”

“When have you ever treated me like family, unless you wanted us to make something of that claim?”

They stood at odds, the three of them, Sophronia challenging her cousin, Humphrey lowering his head to glare at her, and Fanny gently tugging her hand from Humphrey’s arm as if preparing to flee. But the mistress paused and composed herself suddenly, just a subtle change of posture that elevated her breasts and her chin.

Sophronia felt the prickle again, and this time she knew what it meant.

“You’re not causing a ruckus in my rooms, Feltham? I’d hate to be so disobliging as to throw Fanny’s guest out of the Albion.”

Rowden loomed behind her shoulder, and a rush of heat covered Sophronia’s collarbones, as if he’d wrapped her in a shawl. He wasn’t looking at Fanny, or at Humphrey. His dark, steady gaze riveted on Sophronia.

He studied the plumes in her hair, the tidy curls of her coiffure, then followed the line of her neck to the deep scoop of her bodice. His gaze brushed the tops of her breasts, then he jerked his eyes up to meet hers.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was a low rumble. Sophronia rubbed the gooseflesh that rose on her arms.

“What is she doing? Why, gambling, frequenting clubs, and engaging the attention of whatever men she can find, all while unaccompanied,” Fanny said. “Your friend is very fast, Rowden.”

“Feltham is her cousin, and you likely know that, since you’ve been nosing about for any gossip you can find about Sophronia,” Rowden replied. “Not jealous, are you, Fanny?”

“How would you know if—” Fanny snapped her lips shut and anchored her hand on Humphrey’s elbow again. “Just because you lost me doesn’t mean you need spread lies.”

“Since our association is over, I have nothing to say on the matter of what company you choose to keep. But I do find it curious that you should be so enraged about Sophronia visiting me, and in the next day have a new protector in the form of her cousin, who has never shown any goodwill towards her.” Rowden slipped an arm around Sophronia’s waist, as if she were a sister.

Or a lover. Or a wife.

She couldn’t breathe, and she couldn’t blame her stays, since she’d worn the loose, short-waisted ones. His arm was firm and strong, taut with muscle.