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

He lifted a questioning brow. ‘Her book?’

‘Yes, her book.’ His mother sounded exasperated, but when she saw his puzzlement she relented. ‘Do you mean she hasn’t even told you? Oh, she must indeed be serious about keeping it quiet.’

‘Explain, please, Mother.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s too late now, and I’m sure she doesn’t mean to keep it from you. And at least I can break the news to you, if to no one else.’

‘Mother.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, isn’t it the most wonderful thing?’ She leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘Sophie has written her very own design guide! And a very reputable publisher has agreed to take it on. The proceeds, of course, will be donated, but I know you can appreciate what such validation means to her.’

Indeed he could. Charles was sure that the accomplishment left Sophie feeling deeply satisfied. Unfortunately it left him feeling frustrated and strangely upset. He shook his head. Why should Sophie’s good news make him furious? He murmured something to his mother about finding a drink and wandered off, quite forgetting the one he held in his hand.

The party broke up soon after, but far too late for Charles’s peace of mind. He caught Sophie alone as her party was preparing to leave. In the dark corner of the hall he caught up her hand and held it, searching for something, anything, he could say to express the myriad of emotions that swamped him. It was all too much. He’d schooled himself to feel nothing save ambition for so many long months, and now Sophie had him twisted in ten different knots in one evening.

He couldn’t just stand here, dumb as a doorknob. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. Her hand lingered in his, however, and they stood together, silent, connected in a way that went beyond touch. The moment stretched on, but Sophie never looked up. Instead she kept her gaze locked on their clasped hands, until Emily Lowder cleared her throat, then Sophie recalled herself and her hand and swept away.

Somehow Charles got through the next hour. He bid goodbye to all the guests, kissed his mother goodnight, bade the servants to go on to bed and leave the mess for the morning. He took himself to the book room and shut the door. He poured a brandy, but didn’t drink it. He stared long at the fire, without seeing it. He sat down in his favourite chair and slowly descended the slippery slope into insanity.

It must be what this was, insanity—or as close as he’d ever come to it. His mind was whirling, events and voices from the past weeks were haunting him. Sacrifice anything … decide what you want … you forgot me.

They were all slipping away, all the reasons that had given him purpose, allowed him to go on. If Viscount Dayle faltered, would there be enough left of Charles Alden to survive?

All of his hard work had been for naught. The progress he’d made in redefining his character, his potential—wiped clean. His committee position—gone. Even his social standing stood in jeopardy. He was a joke again, Wicked Lord Dayle who had played the greatest prank of his career on his peers.

He stood and leaned into the mantelpiece. It had been so hard, and now he must start again. But damn it, he would. He would. Just as soon as he could focus his thoughts, just as soon as he could deal with Sophie.

His heart began to pound, his hand, still holding a drink, to shake. He regarded the trembling amber liquid in a vague, detached way for a moment, wishing it contained the solace he needed. His goals were ripped out of his reach, his life was falling apart, and all he could think about was Sophie.

He stood abruptly and flung the glass into the fireplace, where it erupted into a flash of blue flame. He left the book room, grabbed a walking stick from the urn in the entry hall and strode past his startled footman into the night.

Damn her. Damn her for coming back into his life at the worst possible time and wreaking her own special brand of havoc. Damn her for being beautiful, and funny, and irresistible. Damn her for waking him up, making him laugh, making him want.

He walked far and long, but he could not escape his thoughts. The past had often haunted him, but now the future loomed troublesome as well. He didn’t know which terrified him more—possibilities he feared might be closing to him, or the ones that he sensed might open.

Decide what you want. Perhaps Jack was right, perhaps it was time he faced the truth. It was simple and frightening at once. He wanted Sophie, passionate, beautiful, impossible Sophie.

She was intoxicating in a way that spoke directly to his soul. She comforted his battered spirit, captivated his wary mind, and tempted him with her exotic beauty.

For a dangerous moment he allowed himself to imagine what life might have been like if Phillip had never come to him on that fateful day. He might have reunited with Sophie a free man, unencumbered by grief and guilt. They could have met by chance in Dorsetshire or here in London—No, down that path lay madness. The nightmares were real. He would never be free.

Not even for her could he abandon the vows he’d made. There it was, plain and simple, the festering truth that had tormented him. He’d wanted her since she’d nearly knocked him down in the street. He’d known, almost since then, that to choose her would be to forsake everything he owed to his dead brother and father.

He’d told himself many times that Charles Alden had died right along with his brother. Viscount Dayle had sprung from the ashes of his former life, a shell of a man whose only purpose was payment of dark and deep debts.

Sophie had changed all that when she fell back into his life. Suddenly Charles Alden was alive again, resurrected by the laughter in her eyes, and torn between heart and mind, want and need.

He’d become a living cliché. A stone bench sat up ahead—he sank on to it and buried his head in his hands. It was an age-old dilemma. He supposed he was no worse off than a thousand poor devils before him. But who would have thought it would hurt so much?

A book. Charles could hardly believe she’d done it. He had given her her first design guide himself, to help her fill the imaginary rooms she created. His mother was right; he did know how much this meant to her, not just the book, but everything.

He felt a twinge of guilt. After a lifetime of censure, Sophie was finally enjoying what she longed for: welcome, acceptance. He should be happy for her, not begrudge her this first real triumph. But begrudge it he did, because her unconventional, meteoric success pushed her beyond his reach.

He was afraid for her too. Fickle society loved to force people on to pedestals, if only to watch them fall. Look at what had happened to Byron. Look at what had happened to him.

A cool breeze swept by, ruffling his hair and just possibly, bringing the idea with it. Look at what had happened to him. He lifted his head. It seemed so simple. Was it possible? Could both Charles Alden and Viscount Dayle have what they wished?

He looked about and found himself near the gates of the garden in Hanover Square. How long, he wondered, had he been here, across from the house where Sophie slept? A light came on in one of the upper windows, and Charles laughed softly. Perhaps Fate had finally taken pity on him and come to intervene on his behalf. There could be no other explanation. It must be Sophie up there, stirring long before anyone else would dream of doing so.

One way to find out. He searched out a few small stones, and, stifling a strong sense of déjà vu, launched them at the window.

Sophie had spent a restless night, but to no avail. Finally, just before first light, she gave it up as a bad business. She hadn’t slept a wink, and still her thoughts were in a worse tangle than her sheets.

She had spent half the night fuming over Charles’s perfidy. ‘You’d been kissed’ indeed! How dare he? When he’d spent years wenching his way through the female half of the population? He was no better than a child; he didn’t want her, but he didn’t want her playing with anyone else either.

Never would Sophie have imagined Charles indulging in such hypocrisy. She shook her head. But then, neither had she predicted the change in his temperament. And now his vacillation between hot and cold had taken on new and frightening dimensions.

She’d been so naïve! She had longed for the connection she’d felt with him so long ago, and had allowed her fantasies to run away with her. The understanding and intimacy that they had enjoyed had been so strong, so vital to her, that she’d assumed they would survive the years apart.

She sighed. There had been too many changes. He’d been correct, she didn’t know the new Charles, but she was beginning to suspect that he didn’t know himself either.

The thought led her back to Nell’s attempt with the family’s servants last night. Though Nell had enjoyed the idea of intrigue, she hadn’t been very successful. The only thing of interest she’d heard was that old Lord Dayle had been furious when Phillip had accepted Lord Castlereagh’s mission, and travelled with important papers to Wellington in Brussels. Sophie still wasn’t sure just how he’d ended up at the battle at Waterloo, but she supposed it made no difference. Phillip had died, just as many thousands of other good and gallant men had.

Could she be making too much of the situation? Perhaps there was no mystery, only her own desires and the wish to fuel her own fantasies. There could be a simple explanation that she didn’t wish to see. People changed. Or perhaps Charles’s wish to mould himself into his brother’s likeness had simply been the desire to impress his hard-to-please father?

Something kept her from embracing such an idea. She hoped it wasn’t her own self-indulgence, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Charles was hiding something. There was a desperation about him that she could not explain. He seemed driven to succeed in politics, to impress the men in government with his solidity and responsibility. It must go deeper. Also, she thought, why wouldn’t he have eased off after his father’s death? And why the strange talk about old Lord Dayle’s death? No, there was something more here she couldn’t yet see.

Sophie shook her head and rang for Nell. She might suffocate if she stayed in this room any longer. She needed to get out, to breathe fresh air, to walk and clear her mind.

A small clattering sound, quite nearby, had her suddenly jumping back into her bed. Heart pounding, feet tucked safe away under her night rail, she inspected the floor. The noise came again, there by the window, but she could see no sign of a rodent invader. Once more, louder this time, and Sophie recognised the sound for what it was. Laughing despite herself, she climbed down, threw back the curtains and looked below.

Charles. He stood there on the pavement, wearing a grin and last night’s clothes.

‘Are you insane?’ she called in a loud whisper. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Come down!’

‘Now? Can’t you pay a morning call like all the other gentlemen?’

‘Where would be the excitement in that?’ He gestured to the burgeoning light in the east. ‘It’s morning. Come! We have to talk.’

Behind her a drowsy Nell scratched on the door and let herself in. She came wide-awake, however, when she took in the situation. ‘Miss!’ she gasped.

‘I’ll be down presently,’ Sophie called to Charles. She turned to the maid. ‘I know, Nell. Pray, don’t look at me like that! Just fetch my wrapper, quickly.’

Oh, Lord, but she was a fool. She couldn’t help it. This smacked of older, better times, and was nigh irresistible. She hurried into a heavy robe, allowed Nell to put her hair up loosely, and crept quickly down the stairs.

The night footman dozed in his chair. Nell put her mouth to Sophie’s ear. ‘It is Richard. He sleeps like a stone.’