He took a step closer. ‘Are you saying that you are indifferent to me?’
‘Yes.’ Sophie stuck her chin in the air. ‘Yes, definitely.’
‘Liar.’
She went still. Her heart raced and her mouth became parched. She wet her lips. ‘I do not make a habit of lying, Lord Bingfield.’
‘Richard.’ He reached her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I am your fiancé now. You need to think of me as your true betrothed or Putney will create an even bigger scandal. Remember that. This might help you. Think of it as an aide-mémoire.’
She was aware of him in the same heart-thumping way she’d been aware of him the night before. She concentrated on the chintz curtains behind his left shoulder, rather than on his mouth. ‘What are you intending on doing?’
‘Demonstrating … Sophie.’
Her name sounded like a soft caress, sliding over her jangled nerves and soothing her. A warm pulse went down her spine. No one had ever used her name in quite that fashion before.
His hand tilted her chin so she looked into his eyes of pure gold.
She had only time to blink before his mouth descended, slowly, like a tiny fluttering of a breeze and then increasing intensity. Sophie told herself that she should keep her body still or scream. She should do something besides enjoying the kiss, but she discovered she was powerless to do anything else.
She closed her eyes, savoured the sensation and swayed towards him.
He let her go and stepped back. ‘Point proved … Sophie.’
This time her name was anything but a caress. Her cheeks grew hot and she rubbed her aching lips furiously. ‘It proves nothing except you, like any self-respecting rake, know how to kiss.’
He picked up his hat. ‘I will pick you up tonight.’
‘What is happening tonight?’ Sophie asked, her hand freezing in mid-air. The hard part of this engagement was not going to be pretending to be attracted to him, but keeping the attraction at bay. After insisting on the fake engagement, she could hardly back down now. When it was all over, she wanted to walk away with her head held high, knowing she had withstood the cynical seduction of a rake.
‘You and I will go to the Assembly Rooms tonight. You will demonstrate your waltzing skills to me. We want people to talk.’
‘Are we announcing the engagement?’
‘Not yet.’ He leant forwards and his breath caressed her cheek. ‘Everyone needs to see how besotted we are with each other. You can do besotted, Sophie, can’t you?’
Sometimes it was better to know than not to know, Sophie decided as she fastened her earrings, the final detail in tonight’s dress. In the grand scheme of things she would have liked to ask Richard Crawford more about himself and to have set the precise boundaries for their relationship, but she didn’t have time.
She glanced at her stepmother, who was already dressed in her evening finery and hovering behind her, making comments. ‘You will tell me what you know about Lord Bingfield from the scandal sheets.’
‘You should ask your intended about what the scandal sheets have printed over the years, if you want to know. If you had read them before now, you wouldn’t have to ask me. You must do the decent thing and wait for Lord Bingfield to tell you.’
‘Stepmother!’ Sophie turned on the stool and motioned for her maid to leave the room. ‘You may tell me what is bothering you.’
‘It is difficult to understand why you have kept your cards so close to your chest. How well do you know this Lord Bingfield? He does have a reputation for sweeping married women off their feet. There was that Russian countess with the dead husband and a duchess more recently. Possibly there have been more.’
Sophie stood up and fluffed out the upper tier of her skirt. Married women. Women of experience. Not unmarried heiresses. He had not lied about that. He had his code. ‘It is what an engagement is for. A chance to get to know the gentleman in question. I have not married him … yet. If I decide we will not suit, then I have the chance of changing my mind. The item in the newspaper left me few alternatives, Stepmother. Once the gutter press get hold of you, they keep hold. You can remember what Robert said after The Incident.’
‘Sometimes I feel like you are keeping secrets from me. We used to share everything, Sophie, when I first married your father.’
‘You are the one keeping secrets now, Stepmother. You love gossip. Generally I have to block my ears. Tell me something about Lord Bingfield and his family, please. Help me to understand why the press are so interested in him.’
Sophie waited as a variety of emotions warred on her stepmother’s face. If her stepmother would not supply the information, she would go to the Lit and the Phil and spend time looking at old papers to see if she could discover the scandal.
‘Very well, I shall tell you about his parents,’ her stepmother said when Sophie had given up hope. ‘Lord Bingfield’s parents were involved in a massive scandal about twenty years ago. The marchioness ran away with her lover and there was a huge crim. con. case. It was absolutely fascinating and a best seller. Of course they say the marquess never recovered from it. And the marchioness … well … she was never received in polite society again. When Lord Bingfield entered society, everyone was naturally curious, and he didn’t disappoint.’
‘It must have been awful for Lord Bingfield,’ Sophie said. ‘He was a child, the innocent victim of two people’s complicated lives.’
‘He certainly hasn’t been shy about courting scandal in his adult life,’ her stepmother remarked tartly. ‘He must have a list of mistresses as long as your arm. Women seem to forget the sense they were born with around him. There are things which have to come from the other person, my dear, rather than from reading a newspaper.’
‘You know the newspapers do print lies. Robert has told you enough times.’ Sophie tilted her chin upwards. Her stepmother’s revelations were proof enough that she needed to be cautious.
‘Sophie, are you sure you want to marry this man?’ her stepmother asked in a rush. ‘With Robert and Henri out of the country, I feel I must say something. Refuse to be rushed. You can have a long engagement. You don’t need a special licence, an ordinary one will do.’
‘I thought you always wanted me to marry by special licence.’
‘Only if the man is suitable for you.’ Her stepmother gave a long sigh. ‘I don’t know what is wrong with me. This morning when Lord Bingfield was here, I was transported with happiness for you, but I have spent all afternoon staring at Mr Ravel’s portrait and wondering—is this the sort of man your father would have approved of? Is being in the aristocracy worth your ultimate happiness?’
Sophie concentrated on her bare hands, rather than looking at her stepmother’s face. Her stepmother only ever spent time talking to her father’s portrait when she felt overwhelmed. It was tempting to confide in her, but the arrangement
