Free The Arrangement by Mary Balogh

She could walk to the refreshment table with him, perhaps even stand there with him for a few minutes conversing while they ate or drank. She might, for a fleeting moment out of her life, be like any normal woman. No, not a
normal
woman. She might be like a privileged young lady who had attracted the attention of a viscount and a beautiful man, even if only for a few minutes, to be forgotten an hour later.
    And then, not having spoken up immediately, it was too late to make excuses. They were on their way across the room together.
    Sophia set the shawl over the back of an empty chair as she passed and avoided looking at her aunt and uncle, who were, of course, looking at
her,
as was almost everyone else.
    It was a dizzying, alarming, exhilarating experience—to mention but a few of the emotions she could identify.
    H e was an utter idiot. Why did he forever allow the women in his life to manipulate him and rule him? Sometimes it was benevolent, or at least intended to be. Other times it was distinctly malevolent. Yet the only time in recent memory he had stood up against it, he had done so by
running away
. This time, though he might have stopped when he and Miss March were outside the inn, with the firm and truthful explanation that he would not compromise her by taking her any farther into the darkness, he had allowed her to lead him back to what he remembered as a very dark, deserted alley behind the main street of the village.
    Was he never to be a functioning adult, able to think and act for himself, free of the influence of any woman? He had not always been like this, surely? He had been a distinctly independent boy. He had allowed himself to grow into a weakling—or at least he was in danger of doing so.
    He was more grateful than he could say to Miss Fry, who, he suspected, had come very deliberately to his rescue, though he was not sure why. She was Miss March’s cousin, was she not? Or was it Miss March she had been rescuing? Either way he was grateful—and intrigued. He had been able to hear her quite clearly just now, he realized, when she had said
thank you, my lord,
though she had spoken in the same low voice she had used to her aunt last evening. She must know the secret of making oneself heard above a din by pitching the level of one’s voice below it rather than trying to shout above it, as most people did.
    “Here we are,” she said just as softly.
    “Would you care for a drink?” he asked her. “Or something to eat?”
    “No, thank you,” she said. “I had some lemonade earlier.”
    “I am not hungry or thirsty either,” he said with a smile. He had no wish to attempt either eating or drinking in such a public setting. He had no doubt there were plenty of eyes fixed upon his every move. “Are there any empty chairs nearby? Shall we sit for a few minutes?”
    “A new set has just begun,” she said. “There are empty chairs.”
    And soon they were seated side by side and he half turned his chair so that he would be close enough to hear her and to make himself heard—and, he hoped, to discourage interruption for a short while. He was finding all the attention both touching and wearying.
    “You are Miss March’s cousin?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she told him. “Lady March is my father’s sister.”
    “Your father is deceased? And your mother?”
    “Yes, both,” she said.
    “I am sorry.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I was sorry,” he said, “that we were not introduced last evening.”
    “Oh,” she said, “I am not of any importance.”
    The music was loud and cheerful, and he could hear the sound of feet pounding rhythmically on the floor. The level of conversation rose above both sounds.
    But he had not misheard her. He did not know quite how to reply.
    “Perhaps not to your aunt and uncle and cousin,” he said. “But in the nature of things? And to yourself? I am sure you must be.”
    He waited for her answer and leaned slightly closer to her. He could smell soap. It was a more