Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Lord Ashford gave an indulgent smile. ‘She’s a very good sort of girl, Dayle. Just what a lady ought to be.’

‘I hope you are aware of my agreement on that score,’ Charles said easily.

‘Well, that’s the subject I wished to discuss with you. I thought we had an understanding regarding your intentions, but now I find myself unsure.’

Startled into stupidity, Charles just gaped. ‘Sir?’

‘Rumours are one thing, Dayle. A man can’t help what the tabbies will say about him, most especially if he possesses as chequered a past as your own.’ He nodded his head in approval. ‘You’ve had a rough spot recently, and I thought you were handling it well. Some kind of ruckus seemed inevitable, and I thought you might as well put your past to rest early in your career rather than later. Good for you too. Tempered steel is stronger, as they say.’

‘I can honestly say, I never thought about it in that light.’

‘But this broadsheet’s another thing entirely. Takes it to another level, so to speak. Can’t have my girl mixed up in such.’

‘Surely you don’t believe such rubbish, Lord Ashford?’ said Charles, his temper starting to get the best of him.

‘Don’t matter what I believe, when it gets to this point. Matters what the rest of the world believes. I have a good bit of political weight. Meant to throw it behind you, if you and my girl found you suited. But I don’t mean to hitch my girl to a runaway wagon, if you understand. Want what’s best for her.’

‘I comprehend your meaning, sir,’ said Charles. And he did indeed understand the most salient point: his unseen opponent was gaining ground.

‘Now, don’t fret. You just keep your feet on the straight path and the situation will right itself.’ He squeezed Charles’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture. ‘My girl rather fancies you, I believe. At least she likes you as well as she’s ever liked anyone. If you need my help, you need only to ask.’

‘You are most generous,’ said Charles. It was a struggle to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The baron departed in search of his spouse, and Charles returned to Miss Ashford and his mother. Once there, however, he found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. The events of this long and trying day were beginning to take their toll. He could swear the universe was conspiring against him. The harder he tried, it appeared, the heavier his burdens grew.

Suddenly the crowd in the parlour shifted. His gaze fell on Sophie, and the weight of his troubles was instantly forgotten. She was stunning. Her shining dark tresses were arranged in an elaborate coiffure that accented the length and slenderness of her neck. Her shimmering gown, dark blue over a white satin slip, had the same effect on her frame, without hiding her luscious curves. She was standing with Mrs Lowder and a blonde gentleman he had never seen before. A gentleman who had taken the opportunity of her turned head to run an appreciative gaze over her décolletage.

‘Is that Mrs Lowder over there with Sophie?’

‘Indeed it is,’ his mother answered. ‘Does she not look divine this evening? I believe motherhood agrees with her.’

‘I had a mind to speak to her husband. If you will excuse me, I believe I’ll go and ask if he is here.’

Oh, Lord, but he was seven kinds of an idiot. He’d just spent a fortnight avoiding Sophie, trying to forget how she’d felt in his arms. He’d thought long on what to say to her tonight, and promised himself that he’d make sure he never found himself in that situation again. He’d just determined to spend the evening securing another woman’s favour, and been warned by her father to keep his nose clean. Yet one glance had him abandoning all those good intentions, stifling the warning ringing in his head. He cursed himself for a fool all the way across the long, crowded parlour, but he didn’t stop.

‘Good evening,’ he said when he reached them.

‘Charles! You have finally come!’ Sophie said, reaching out to him. Was that relief he heard in her voice? And was she relieved to see him or to be distracted from her companion? ‘Please, allow me to present Mr Huxley? Mr Huxley, this is our host, Viscount Dayle.’ They greeted each other and Sophie continued, ‘And of course you are already acquainted with Mrs Lowder.’

‘Of course. May I present my compliments? You look lovely this evening.’

Mrs Lowder thanked him with an amused look and a brow raised in Sophie’s direction. Sophie, predictably, was not impressed.

‘There, Emily, now you have experienced first hand a bit of Lord Dayle’s famous charm! Come now, Charles, enough flattery, what we really wish to see is your hand.’

‘My hand?’

‘Oh, yes, my lord!’ Mrs Lowder was smiling quite genuinely now. ‘You see, Miss Westby and I were walking in the park today.’

‘Which park?’ asked Mr Huxley.

‘Hyde Park, of course,’ said Sophie, ‘and we walked there via Brook Street to Park Lane.’

‘I’ve always found Mount Street to be superior,’ Huxley answered. ‘Less traffic, you see.’

‘In any case, we were introduced to a most impertinent young lady there. She knew we were acquainted with you, Charles.’

‘But what does any of it have to do with my hand?’ asked Charles.

‘She wished to know if it were true that you were part-Selkie, Lord Dayle!’ interjected Mrs Lowder. ‘Can you imagine?’

Despite himself, Charles laughed. ‘Unfortunately, I can imagine.’ He shot Sophie a look of mock-severity. ‘I can also imagine you telling the poor child it was true.’

‘Well, I did assure her we would check for webbed fingers when next we saw you, but considering the light such a thing would cast upon Lady Dayle, I felt compelled to deny the charge. In any case, I told her, you most assuredly have your father’s nose.’

Charles just shook his head. He didn’t know which was more outrageous, the rumours or her method of dealing with them. ‘I must thank you for defending my family’s honour.’ His mother, he could see, stood in whispered consultation with the butler, and was turning to leave the room. He turned to Mrs Lowder. ‘I remember your skill on the pianoforte very well. I hope you will play for us all after dinner, but right now I must whisk Miss Westby away, as my mother has requested her assistance.’

‘Of course, I would be honoured,’ Emily answered with a smile.

‘Mr Huxley, grand to have met you,’ said Charles as he firmly grasped Sophie’s elbow, ushering her away before she had a chance to protest. He led her out the door his mother had just exited, and stood a moment in the hall, debating. Likely, his mother had been called to the kitchens. The dining room, he knew, would be swarming with servants. As he hesitated, Sophie pulled her arm from his grasp.

‘Where is your mother, Lord Dayle?’

‘Soothing the cook, I imagine.’

‘She doesn’t need my assistance.’

‘No, I do. We have to talk.’

Ah, the bookroom. He herded Sophie in and carefully left the door partially open. She looked around curiously, and then turned to him with a frown. ‘How disappointing. Nary a radical nor a ladybird in sight.’

‘Very amusing.’ Charles grimaced.

‘Well, I do have first-hand knowledge of what you get up to in empty rooms.’

‘Stop it, Sophie, can we not talk seriously for a moment?’

She took a calming breath and threw back her shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t—it strained both her neckline and his control. ‘You’ve ignored my existence for a full fortnight, but you are compelled to talk now, in the middle of your dinner party?’

‘My mother’s dinner party, but yes.’

She waited; he stared, trying to gather his thoughts. What was there to say? There were at least a thousand thoughts crowding his brain, he had to tread carefully and choose just the right one.

‘You’d been kissed before,’ he said.

Her jaw dropped. He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair. That had not been the right one.

Her décolletage was heaving now, in perfect time with his gut. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she gasped. ‘That’s what you dragged me in here to discuss? That’s what you took away from our—encounter?’