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

Lord help him, but it was true. Though he hadn’t articulated the thought to himself, it had been nagging at him, poking and prodding, making him squirm perhaps even more than his other troubles. ‘You knew how to kiss. Someone had to teach you.’

True to form, Sophie laughed, but it was a desolate sound. Despairing. She turned and walked away.

Well, what did he expect? She would be well within her rights to leave the room and never speak to him again, but he couldn’t stop himself, he had to know.

‘Was it Sean Hill?’

‘The blacksmith’s boy?’ Anger brought her back, and Sophie was angry indeed. Her dark eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed, and she advanced on him like Ney and d’Erlon into Wellington’s centre line.

‘You were gone, Charles. You left for school and never looked back. I didn’t blame you. I knew how things were with your father.’ She stopped before him, magnificent in her fury. ‘But I was still there. I might be there still if not for Emily and your mother.’

She turned away again, and retreated to the far side of the room. ‘Did you think because their mamas disapproved of me, the boys would steer clear of me? Foolish—don’t you know that that made me even more interesting?’ Her voice fell away to a whisper. ‘I was alone, Charles.’

She rallied and shot him a look of defiance. ‘Thank God for Emily. If we hadn’t struck up a friendship, I might have done far worse than allow a boy to kiss me.’ She gave an ironic snort. ‘I might have run off to Gretna with the first man old enough to ask me, just for the conversation on the way. Had any of them paid me any serious attention, I think I might have done almost anything.’

Charles found himself barely able to respond. The picture she painted was devastating. ‘I didn’t know—I never thought …’

Undaunted by her own admission, she faced him squarely. ‘You judge me if you wish, Charles Alden. But you remember that I never judged you. I cheered when the rest of the world reviled your exploits, and wished I could be kicking up rows right along with you. Nor did I judge you when you stayed away all those years, with never a word or a letter. You returned home for what—a mere two days—for Phillip’s funeral? Less than that for your father’s, but you never came to see me.’

Her anger seemed to have fled. It was disappointment he read in her eyes now. ‘I didn’t judge you, Charles. Even when you forgot me.’

Her skirt flared as she turned her back on him. This time she was the one to sweep out of the room without looking back.

Had he forgotten her? Charles sat through dinner ignoring his food, nodding as Miss Ashford talked—she had decided her ball must be a masquerade—and trying to answer that question.

He remembered the brash youth he had been, daring anything, risking everything, determined to force his father’s displeasure, since nothing had ever earned his respect. He had indeed left for school, but he had always looked back—back to be sure his father was watching.

No, he hadn’t forgotten Sophie. Unconsciously, he had held her memory close, sure as he raised every kind of hell he could imagine, that there was one person in the world who would forgive him. But he had held her static in his mind, never considering her growing older, becoming a young woman. She had always been his pig-tailed, adventurous partner in crime.

He hadn’t forgotten her, but he had failed her.

That truth gnawed at him throughout the evening as he watched her. Another sin to shoulder responsibility for, another person who had suffered while he exercised his fertile imagination and frittered away his life. He wasn’t sure his soul could bear another such burden.

Oddly enough, though, he found a measure of peace while he watched her. She had been hurt—perhaps only he knew how much—yet she had risen above it. Sophie had grown up, and Lord knew she had turned out to be unconventional, but she was also good natured, amusing, and intelligent. She was a beacon of light in the room, smiling and animated, and the people around her responded. She charmed her partners through dinner and was kept happily occupied in the drawing room afterwards. He noticed Mr Huxley was often at her side.

Watching her gave him hope. And that was only the top reason on a long list of them to stop.

Nevertheless, he was achingly aware of her as he circulated through the guests after dinner. There was excited talk of costumes for Miss Ashford’s masquerade, and much animated gossip over the state of Prinny’s health. The knot of young people about Sophie all seemed to be embroiled in a discussion on fashion, and of course, there was a good deal of political debate going on in pockets about the room.

At his request, his mother had invited a few members of the Board of Trade. Charles knew he should be courting them, but he was more worried about the young men courting Sophie. Was this the sort of attention she had craved? The thought had him contemplating mayhem, not party platforms.

But he knew his duty. Resolutely he turned his back and joined the men plotting the course of the nation.

He found his own situation to be nearly as dire as England’s. Though the men here tonight supported him, there were others, they reported, who felt that his character was not steady. Charles sighed. Before all this he’d been at the top of the list to chair their new committee; now he’d be fortunate to be invited as a committee member.

Sir Harold commiserated with him, but advised him to be patient. ‘Now is perhaps not your time, Dayle,’ he said. ‘Wait until this gossip dies down. There will be other committees, other paths to the ministry.’ He sympathised with him on the simmering scandal broth as well. ‘Still no idea who your enemy might be?’

‘No.’ Charles did not go into detail. ‘Jack seems convinced that it is not Avery, however.’

‘Hmm. His antipathy doesn’t help your situation, for certain, but I tend to agree. Avery’s style is to confront you directly, just as he has been doing. He’s not the sort to sneak behind a man’s back.’

Sir Harold was quiet a moment. ‘I have the feeling that whoever is behind this is more powerful than we suspect. It won’t be easy rooting him out.’

‘I begin to wonder if the struggle is worth it,’ Charles said. This setback disheartened him. He was tired, tired of fighting, tired of trying to prove himself to a world determined to see only the worst in him.

‘Don’t give up, Dayle. You’ve a great future ahead of you. Find the man behind all this and give him back a taste of his own misery. Once you’ve done that, take a little time for yourself. Concentrate on choosing one of these fine young ladies. Set up your nursery. Show the doubters that your judgment is sound, that you’ve finishing sowing oats and are ready to reap a more steady crop.’ He gestured to the others, still energetically debating the latest Poor Relief Bill. ‘We’ll still be here for you.’

His mood low, Charles shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his kindness. He stood alone a moment, wishing all his guests back to their own homes, himself to his favourite brooding chair, and his unseen enemy to the devil. He sighed. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. The way Charles’s luck was running, he’d likely be trampled instead. He would do better to seek out his brother.

He’d just spotted Jack in animated conversation with a crowd of young bucks when the sound of Sophie’s name, spoken with derision, drew him up short. He glanced quickly around and saw a cluster of dandified gentlemen just off to his right.

‘Impudent chit. I don’t care if she is an earl’s niece; she has spent her life buried in the country. What does she presume to know of fashion?’

Charles stared. Was that his cousin Theo rigged out in that hideous get-up of turquoise and buttercup yellow? Yes, he rather believed it was.

‘Didn’t like your waistcoat, old boy?’ sniggered one of Theo’s companions while gesturing to the elaborately embroidered disaster.

‘Don’t you dare laugh—this is the height of fashion, and cost me ten guineas! No, the chit betrayed her own ignorance when she said that not only should I not wear this colour combination, but no one in all England could pull it off.’

‘Except for a jockey on the back of a deep chestnut bay!’

Peals of laughter rang out from the group, heightening Theo’s colour, along with his temper, Charles surmised.

‘Theo’s right,’ interjected a gentleman arrayed in silver and puce, ‘the girl has no business giving fashion advice.’

‘Well, you cannot deny her success, and certainly I’ve never seen her look anything less than smashingly gorgeous,’ someone argued.

‘True enough!’ came a chorus of agreement.

‘I wonder what her dowry is like?’ someone wondered out loud. ‘I think I shall ask her to partner me in whist.’

‘You shan’t get a jump on the rest of us,’ someone cried and as a group they moved off to seek out the lady’s attention, leaving only Theo and the other malcontent still grumbling.

Moving forward, Charles decided to nip that little bud before it could bloom into a larger flower of disgruntlement.

‘Good evening, Theo. It has been a while, has it not?’

‘Dayle,’ returned Theo, still in a pout over the attack on his sartorial splendour.

‘My mother must be pleased to have you tonight, I know she wants all the family to meet her particular friend, Miss Westby.’ As a warning it was not much, but it was all that was required. Mumbling his agreement, Theo and his friend took themselves off.

Charles watched them go. He was annoyed with Theo, but, oddly enough, the bulk of his irritation lay on Sophie’s shoulders. Just once he wished she would hold her tongue and not say the first thing that leapt to mind. Yes, Theo was ridiculous, but must she point it out in such a public forum?

Who was he to conjure criticisms? His life was unravelling faster by the minute. He left in search of a drink.

He found one, but his mother also found him.

‘Charles, dear,’ she fussed, drawing him aside. ‘Do you think you could influence Sophie and persuade her to allow me to make an announcement about her book?’