The luncheon progressed more spiritedly than Sophia had expected.
At first the conversation around the table remained divided into the polite, shallow lanes such gatherings often produced. The ladies nearest Lady Henbury discussed a recent musicale. Two gentlemen farther down were already disagreeing mildly about a bill in Parliament. Someone laughed too loudly at a remark that had not deserved the effort. Servants passed with chilled drinks and the first delicate course, moving in a smooth pattern beneath the hanging wisteria.
Sophia found, to her relief, that the gentleman seated beside her was easier company than she had feared.
He introduced himself properly once they had all settled.
"Vincent Goodwin," he said with a small inclination of the head. "My father is the Earl of Lancaster. I am afraid I stand second in the line, which means I must try to make myself interesting in other ways."
Sophia smiled.
"That seems a sensible arrangement."
He smiled back, a little more openly now that she had relieved him of the need to begin too solemnly.
"I am glad you think so. Most men would rather inherit than cultivate a personality."
That won a real laugh from her.
Vincent was not dazzling, nor was he one of those gentlemen who entered conversation with the assumption that his very presence was already a gift. He was fairer than dark, pleasant-faced rather than striking, and there was something studious in the way he spoke — a care with words, a habit of precision. It reminded her at once of Fredrick, though Vincent was kinder in manner and less likely, she thought, to take offense if contradicted.
He began in exactly the way Laurence had predicted men would.
"Have you spent much time in the country, Miss de Montfort?"
"A good deal."
"Then you may perhaps forgive me if I say that London in spring is far less persuasive to me than properly managed land."
Sophia almost smiled at the predictability of it.
"Land is persuasive to many men, I am told."
"It ought to be," Vincent said. "I have always thought one can tell the quality of a man's mind by what he notices in an estate."
Sophia, who had no wish to spend the whole luncheon discussing acreage and grain yields, prepared herself for boredom.
But Vincent surprised her.
He spoke first of crop rotation and arable use, yes, but only briefly — just enough to show he understood what interested him. Then, quite neatly, he shifted.
"What I actually find more compelling," he said, lowering his voice slightly as though confiding a preference not all men would respect, "is what can be grown alongside necessity. Flowers, certainly. But also medicinal herbs."
That changed everything.
Sophia turned more fully toward him.
"Medicinal herbs?"
"Yes. I read a paper some months ago that mentioned small domestic cultivations of feverfew, valerian, mint, comfrey, and others. My mother laughed at me when I tried to rearrange one of the kitchen plots, but some of the experiments have been useful."
Sophia's expression brightened at once.
"That does not sound foolish at all."
Vincent looked pleased.
"No?"
"No. I keep a medicinal plant myself."
"You do?"
"For more than five years now," she said. "It was given to me by a friend."
He leaned in just enough to show real interest.
"And has it proved useful?"
"Yes," Sophia said. "At times of pain and fatigue, it has helped greatly."
"What plant is it?"
"Golden root."
Vincent's brows lifted.
"Truly?"
She nodded, "I believe it comes from Russia as well as other countries with a colder climate. A friend up north had cultivated it and sent it as a gift."
"That is no ordinary gift."
Sophia lowered her eyes for a moment, both because she knew that and because there were some histories one did not care to unfold at luncheon.
"It was a thoughtful one."
Across from them, Edward had been listening without seeming to.
The lady beside him — Miss Evie Brunswick — had made two attempts already to begin something pleasant on her own account, and he had answered each with perfect politeness. But his real attention had shifted, almost against his will, toward Sophia.
He had expected beauty.
He had expected composure.
He had expected perhaps a little practiced charm.
He had not expected her to know what golden root was without prompting, nor to speak of medicinal cultivation with ease.
Interesting, he thought.
More interesting than the women who spoke prettily and said nothing.
Vincent, encouraged now, continued.
"I was trying," he said to Sophia, "to introduce a modest herb plot at Lancaster. My father thinks medicine should come from London and wheat from the earth and that one ought not confuse the systems."
"That sounds tiresome."
"It is. But occasionally I win small battles."
Sophia smiled.
"Then perhaps you should write to my brother. He would sympathize with estate experiments."
"Would he?"
"Only if they are sensible."
Vincent laughed.
"I shall make certain they are."
The conversation might have remained there — in plants, country practice, and useful cultivation — and if it had, Sophia would have thought him entirely agreeable.
But there are some men who, once given comfort, begin to overreach.
And Vincent, perhaps wishing to sound broader in learning than he had yet proven himself, let the subject drift into philosophy.
"I have often thought," he said, "that medicine reveals very well the difference between men and women in fortitude."
Sophia's expression changed only slightly.
"In what way?"
Vincent, encouraged perhaps by the feeling of his own intelligence, replied, "Men must generally master pain more often. Marcus Aurelius says, after all, that the mind can keep itself free from suffering if it chooses not to call suffering an evil."
Sophia knew the line he meant, or near enough to it. She had indeed read Meditations, though not as deeply as some. Still, she had not read it carelessly.
"Aurelius also writes about the judgment one makes of things," she said. "That pain itself and one's opinion of it are not always the same."
Vincent gave a polite smile — the sort men give when they think a woman has nearly understood them.
"Yes, precisely. And men, being formed more naturally for hardship, must train their minds to bear what comes. Women, being more emotional by nature, are better aided by comfort and medicine."
Sophia's face remained composed, but something firmer entered her tone.
"I do not think Aurelius was writing only for men as men," she said. "He was writing for people."
Vincent looked surprised.
"For emperors, certainly. For rulers. For men engaged in public life."
"He writes about human judgment," Sophia replied. "About how one governs one's own mind. Women possess minds too."
Across from them, Evie Brunswick lowered her gaze to her plate in mild alarm.
Vincent recovered quickly, though the recovery carried condescension in it.
"I do not mean to offend you, Miss de Montfort. Only that some parts of such texts are perhaps more difficult on first reading. The Stoics speak often of duty in a manner more immediately suited to men."
Sophia's chin lifted the smallest amount.
"I have read him more than once."
Vincent blinked.
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"And I still think," she said, "that endurance is not solely male. Women also bear pain, inconvenience, grief, and responsibility. Aurelius would hardly approve of self-government as a masculine accomplishment only."
The words were quietly spoken, but they had edge.
It was the edge of a girl who had grown among brothers and had learned, perhaps too early, that if one did not hold one's ground, one's point would be trampled under male certainty.
Vincent saw at once that he had slighted her more than he intended and attempted, awkwardly, to soften it.
"You misunderstand me. I only mean that men are born to confront harsher forms of suffering. War, inheritance, public burden. Women ought, ideally, to be spared the worst of it."
"A beautiful ideal," Sophia said, and though her voice remained gentle, the gentleness had become very precise, "but not always reality."
The tension might have sharpened further had she not, in that moment, turned to the lady seated beside Edward.
"Miss Brunswick," Sophia said, "you mentioned before we sat that you had also read Meditations. What did you make of it?"
Evie, who had indeed read it but had not expected to be summoned into philosophical arbitration at luncheon, looked almost startled enough to drop her fork. She was a shy girl, soft-spoken, with the kind of reserve that made every opinion feel like an exposure.
"Oh," Evie said. "I—well—Lord Goodwin makes a fair point in some respects. But I thought… I thought rather as you did."
Sophia looked faintly vindicated.
Vincent, to his credit, did not look offended so much as mildly embarrassed.
Evie, wishing at once to lessen the sensation that she had just contradicted a gentleman, searched visibly for an escape.
Then her eyes landed on Edward.
"Surely," she said, with a shy little smile that was half admiration and half self-preservation, "the Marquis would understand such things far better than any of us. He has seen much more of hardship than we have."
Edward's mouth curved.
She had flattered him, and she knew it. But she had also given him an elegant opening.
It ought, Sophia thought, to have impressed her more than it did.
Lady after lady probably did this for him, she suspected — lifted him into a conversation so that he might illuminate it with superior experience. It was the sort of maneuver that seemed likely to follow a man like Edward through every drawing room in London.
Edward set down his glass.
"Lord Goodwin is not entirely wrong," he said. "Marcus Aurelius speaks often of mastery — of not allowing oneself to be overthrown by pain, fear, inconvenience, or appetite."
Vincent looked immediately relieved.
Evie looked pleased.
Sophia folded her hands in her lap and prepared herself not to flinch.
Edward continued, and his tone was thoughtful rather than pompous, which made him harder to dislike openly.
"In practice," he said, "it is often men who must bear the more visible burdens. A first-born son who inherits before he is ready. A father who must go to war. A brother expected to defend his sisters if the need arises. A husband who ought, if he is worth the title, to build a life in which his wife may want for nothing."
Evie lowered her eyes with unmistakable admiration.
Vincent nodded at once.
Edward went on, and now his voice took on the deeper cadence of a man who knew exactly what effect certain kinds of language produced.
"I should hope," he said, "to be that sort of man myself. One who can endure hardship and remain standing. One whose future wife may rely upon him in every imaginable way. One who takes the heavier load so thoroughly that she may move through society not anxiously, but admired."
Evie blushed.
Vincent said warmly, "That is very well put."
Edward inclined his head slightly, accepting the praise as though it were ordinary.
Sophia, meanwhile, felt a small and unwelcome defeat settle into her.
It was not that she thought him wrong in every respect.
It was worse than that.
He had said what many people believed, and he had said it beautifully.
Beautifully enough that to object further would make her seem argumentative rather than intelligent.
So instead she smiled.
A gentle, controlled smile.
"Then perhaps," she said, "gentlemen ought to study you as much as Aurelius, my lord. If they all lived up to such expectations, many ladies would be less troubled."
Evie gave a breathy little laugh.
Vincent, eager now to repair any offense he might earlier have caused, said quickly, "And if Meditations proves difficult even for gentlemen — which I assure you it often does — then the fact that both you and Miss Brunswick have read it at all is very much to your credit."
That softened things.
Evie, grateful beyond words to feel the topic turning away from philosophy and pain and the possibility of having said too much, seized at once upon safer ground.
"Miss de Montfort," she said, "you mentioned the National Gallery yesterday. Which rooms do you most wish to see?"
Sophia accepted the rescue immediately.
"The Italian masters, I think. Though I suspect I shall stand too long before some portrait and make everyone impatient."
Vincent brightened, relieved.
"I have always thought portraits reveal more of the sitter than intended."
Evie smiled now that the danger had passed.
"And landscapes reveal more of the painter than the place."
"That is clever," Sophia said.
"No," Evie replied quietly. "Only something my governess used to say."
The conversation flowed much more naturally after that.
Edward listened more than he contributed, though when asked he gave opinions that were measured and intelligent enough to satisfy without revealing too much. Sophia found, to her irritation, that he was not boring. Not even slightly. That made caution more necessary, not less.
By the time the luncheon ended, the little crisis over Aurelius had dissolved almost entirely under the gentler traffic of art, museums, and what constituted good taste in galleries versus country houses.
And when at last the guests began rising from the table, the whole meal was counted a success.
Vincent escorted the ladies away from the table and, before departing entirely, bowed over Sophia's hand once more.
"I have enjoyed your company very much, Miss de Montfort," he said. "I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing you again soon."
Sophia, remembering every word Madame Rose had taught her about giving nothing too definite too early, smiled with perfect warmth and no promise at all.
"You are very kind, Lord Goodwin. Good afternoon."
It was enough to encourage without binding.
Vincent left looking pleased and uncertain in exactly the proportion Madame Rose would have approved of.
Evie remained a moment longer.
Sophia turned to her and said, "I am glad you were there to rescue me."
Evie looked startled.
"I did not rescue anything."
"You absolutely did."
That earned a shy smile.
After a brief pause, Sophia added, "Would you like to be friends?"
Evie blinked.
"Friends?"
"Yes. Properly. You must come to our townhouse. Or perhaps we might visit some part of London together — the gallery, or a book circle, or something more interesting than watching gentlemen misread philosophers."
Evie laughed softly at that.
"I should like that very much."
"Good. I shall have a note sent."
They parted on those terms, both a little more pleased than either had expected to be.
Edward, who had heard enough of this exchange from not very far away, made a quiet note of the book circle mentioned.
Useful.
When the departures began in earnest, Vincent was among the first to go, then Evie. The house slowly thinned.
Edward lingered.
In the drawing room he poured himself a drink and stood near the open doors overlooking the garden, one hand resting lightly at his back, watching without appearing to watch.
Outside, Sophia was speaking with Lady Henbury while they waited for her carriage. The older woman seemed animated, pleased with the success of the gathering and perhaps even more pleased, Edward suspected, with what she imagined she had set in motion.
At length both ladies turned and looked in his direction.
Lady Henbury lifted one hand.
"Marquis Astor."
He came at once, wearing a gentle smile so polished it appeared almost spontaneous.
"Lady Henbury," he said, bowing over her hand. "Thank you for inviting me once again. Your luncheons are always full of interesting guests — and ladies for whom one cannot help but feel admiration."
His eyes settled on Sophia as he said the last part.
Lady Henbury, who understood perfectly well what game was beginning and had every intention of helping it along, said with a pleased little sound,
"You are very kind. And I do hope you have had the pleasure of speaking with Miss de Montfort properly."
It was a comical question, given that she herself had arranged the seating.
"I have," he said. "And I found Miss de Montfort as interesting in conversation as she is remarkable in appearance."
Sophia looked away for a moment, not because she was entirely unaffected by praise but because she did not wish either of them to know exactly how much she had noticed it.
Lady Henbury smiled brightly.
"She is a darling, is she not? We are very glad she accepted."
"I am glad too," Edward said, still looking at Sophia. "I was unfortunate enough to miss her debut, but now that I am better acquainted, I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing her more often this season."
It was all perfectly civil.
Perfectly proper.
Perfectly smooth.
And because it was all those things, Sophia found it dangerous.
Not in any explicit way.
Only in that she could feel how practiced he was at this sort of speaking. How easily praise moved in his mouth. How little embarrassment he seemed to feel at talking of admiration and future meetings as though all of society were one long, agreeable courtship.
She liked it.
That was the difficulty.
She liked it, and because she liked it, she distrusted it more.
Madame Rose's warnings stood bright in her mind.
A man who seems too sure of his way with women is often exactly that — a man who has his way too often.
So Sophia only smiled and said, "You are both very kind."
At that exact moment a servant stepped into the room.
"Miss de Montfort, your carriage has arrived."
Sophia felt a swift and unworthy gratitude.
Saved.
She turned at once.
"Lady Henbury, thank you again for having me."
"My dear, the pleasure was mine."
"And my lord," she said to Edward, giving him no more than she must, "good afternoon."
"Until next time," he replied.
That phrase, so simple and so self-assured, followed her unpleasantly as she left.
In the carriage home, Sophia sat very straight and looked out the window, replaying the luncheon in her mind.
Edward Astor was admired.
That much was obvious.
He was handsome.
Well-spoken.
Confident.
Entirely aware of the effect he produced.
And perhaps that was the trouble.
He did not behave like a lovestruck young gentleman uncertain of his footing. He behaved like a man who already knew how women would answer him if given enough time. A man society called respectable, no doubt. A man mamas approved of. A man ladies sighed over.
A reputable rake, she thought privately.
The phrase pleased her in some way.
It gave shape to the caution she felt.
She would not give in to him merely because he was practiced.
The season had only just begun.
And Edward Astor was certainly not the last man in England.
Back at Lady Henbury's, Edward watched the carriage disappear.
He did not look frustrated.
He looked thoughtful.
Hungry, perhaps — but in a controlled way, like a man who enjoyed strategy more than impulse.
He had no intention of giving up simply because Miss Sophia de Montfort had been careful.
On the contrary.
Careful women were often the most rewarding to win.
He had already begun, in his mind, to set the next meetings in order. Not too often. Never clumsily. Always in ways that would appear accidental. Coincidence was far more persuasive than pursuit when a woman still wished to feel unpursued.
A book circle here.
A promenade there.
An evening gathering where one happened to be invited as well.
A luncheon through an old family friend.
Not pressure.
Pattern.
Not insistence.
Presence.
By the time he left Lady Henbury's house, he had already decided which invitation he could send an agreement to next.
And all of them, to any innocent eye, would look very much like fate.