had forgotten his role. Forgotten his debt. Let down his guard and laughed like he hadn’t since Phillip had died.
She fascinated him, yet he was terrified of her. She knew him too well. So easily she had discovered the chinks in his armour. He could never let her look inside. She might discover that there was nothing left underneath.
They would be friends, he had told her, though they both felt that spark, that potential for more. It was that instantaneous jolt he felt in her presence, perhaps, that sizzling reminder that a man did indeed exist under the viscount’s shell, that frightened him most of all.
Because she was still Sophie. Still outrageous, outspoken and slightly out of step with the rest of the world. They were qualities he had always enjoyed in her—now they were the very reason he must avoid her.
He had already lived life his own way, for his own pleasure, ignoring the strictures of society, and what had it got him? Only a hellish reputation at first, but too quickly followed by a dead brother, a dead father, a lifetime of remorse and a title that he hadn’t ever wanted.
He’d never coveted the viscountcy, but he was saddled with it now, and it came with an enormous debt to repay. It was clear that, if he ever meant to pay that debt, sacrifices were required, the first and greatest of which was his freedom.
He knew now that his theory was sound. Society was quick to judge, but easier to manipulate. They had fussed and worried over his past like a dog with a bone, but all he had needed to distract them was a bigger prize: his bachelorhood.
A few dances with the right debs, a compliment here, a witty rejoinder there; all he’d had to do was show a proper interest in making one of their darlings his viscountess, and suddenly his wickedness became youthful high spirits, his transgressions were forgiven, and invitations began piling up again.
His political prospects had improved as well. He’d been approached at Lady Edgeware’s ball by Sir Harold Luskison, an influential member of the Board of Trade. The gentleman had stuck to polite conversation at first, but eventually he had given Charles a friendly slap on the back and approved his attention to Miss Ashford.
‘I know you’ve been down a rough road recently,’ Sir Harold had said. ‘Avery’s nonsense is easy to ignore, but together with the character assassination in the papers? It becomes more difficult.’
Charles had started to speak, but the man had stopped him. ‘I know I’m not the only one who has noticed that all of those published escapades are shades of a murky past.’ He had flashed Charles a conspiratorial grin, ‘Do you know I myself was caught up in one of your pranks, once?’
Charles groaned, but Sir Harold appeared lost in fond remembrance. ‘It was that contretemps you got up to at the Lady’s Slipper. Do you recall it?’
Recall it? How could he forget? The tavern in the Strand was the scene of the most notorious brawl he and his cronies had ever got mixed up in. The owner had been in a fury and had had Charles and his friends thrown into the street. He’d even threatened to send the bill for repairs to Charles’s father.
Sir Harold was still grinning. ‘You make a fine rum punch, lad. Not too proud to say I sampled a cup myself.’
Charles rubbed his brow and hid his eyes. The very next night, he had set up camp outside the pub, with a small cauldron fitted out like a woman’s shoe, in the likeness of the tavern’s famous sign. He had mixed up his best rum punch and ladled it out for free to every comer, ruining the pub’s business and infuriating the owner all the more. The man had called the watch and Charles had been lucky to escape.
‘It took me all day to put together that cursed shoe.’ He dropped his hand and returned Sir Harold’s smile. ‘Do you know I still have it?
The man laughed. ‘I dare say there’s not one among us who couldn’t rake up a hairy tale or two from our youth. I just wanted you to know you have your defenders. The energy and dedication you’ve shown since you inherited has done you good.’
Sir Harold had gestured toward the dance floor then. ‘Good gracious, not since that dreadful Fitzherbert woman has anyone’s courtship been so closely examined. But you are doing well. A steady girl of good family and reputation will prove your sound judgment and lay your past to rest.’
Charles had been thrilled at the reassurance. His instincts had been correct, his gambit had worked. He had, in fact, felt completely vindicated in his course of action.
Until he had almost kissed Sophie.
‘What do you think, my lord?’
Even her interruptions were timed perfectly, Charles thought, mentally noting the addition of another ‘Reason to Marry Miss Ashford’. More than happy to be distracted, he fixed his attention on the young lady. ‘I beg your pardon, my attention was drawn elsewhere for a moment.’
‘I asked,’ she said again, allowing the smallest hint of exasperation to colour her question, ‘how you think I might best approach Miss Westby. You seem to know her well, so I thought you could advise me.’
‘Approach Miss Westby?’
‘I think she might benefit from my influence. I shall take her under my wing, as they say. With my help I dare say she shall go on very well here in town.’
Charles shrugged. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I think she’s doing well enough on her own. I can see no need for you to so trouble yourself.’
Miss Ashford threw Charles a significant glance and favoured him with a very small, tight smile. ‘Naturally a busy gentleman such as yourself would not encounter the same sort of small talk that a lady would. Normally I would not deign to pass on such, well—let us call it what it is—petty gossip. But a few things have been brought to my attention, since I am known to also be an acquaintance of your family’s.’ She paused and this time her speaking look was even more pointed. Charles would have been amused if he hadn’t had a sudden chilling vision of the thousands of such arch glances the lady’s husband would be subjected to, day in and day out. Chalk one up for the ‘Reasons to Consider Someone Else’.
‘Fortunately there is nothing that cannot be overcome with my help. The incidents are mostly small and insignificant, in the manner of what we saw this morning, when Miss Westby engaged that beggar man in conversation.’
Charles knew, without a doubt, that he should be grateful to Miss Ashford. She only sought to please him. She only echoed his own doubts about Sophie’s behaviour. She only offered to help Sophie in exactly the manner that he wished for himself, if on a larger scale. There was no earthly reason for him to feel such indignation on Sophie’s behalf. Yet feel it he did. Indignation and irritation flashed through him at the thought of Miss Ashford’s forcing Sophie into a mould fashioned after herself.
‘That military man, and all his like, deserves our condescension and compassion, Miss Ashford. God knows they have obtained precious little from the government they risked all to defend.’
‘I agree. Yet for a lady to be seen in conversation with them in the street is not at all the thing. If Miss Westby has a charitable bent, I have a far better notion of how she may proceed.’
Charles’s interest was piqued. Perhaps Miss Ashford had more bottom than he had suspected. He hadn’t had an inkling that she participated in charity work. He couldn’t help but approve. ‘How so?’ he asked.
‘I, and a few of
