dare say she would,’ Charles said warmly. ‘I’m very interested myself. Tell me about your works, perhaps I could help in some way.’
‘Oh, it is nothing you would be interested in. We are a small group, and new.’
‘Nonsense. I would be glad to help in any way I can. What have you accomplished so far? Have you a board? A charter? Perhaps I could serve as financial advisor and take that burden from you?’
Miss Ashford was looking more and more discomfited. ‘I am afraid you have surpassed me already, my lord. As I said, it is a group of ladies. We meet every week or so over tea to discuss society’s ills. We have not progressed so far as you imagine.’
Charles did his best to hide his disappointment. For a moment he had thought … but no, it was clear that Miss Ashford’s society would never progress as far as he imagined. Oh, she might throw a charity ball, but she would never truly interest herself in the plight of the less fortunate. The ‘Not Miss Ashford’ column was coming on rather stronger than he was comfortable with.
‘I fear I must warn you,’ he said, ‘Miss Westby was never a fan of discussion. If she sees a wrong being committed, she is far more likely to intervene herself than to sit and talk about it.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Ashford, ‘and that is precisely the character flaw I hope to eradicate. Do you know what she said to the Duchess of Charmouth?’
Charles did not know, but he could well imagine. ‘No, but I would wager that she criticised that cold and draughty ballroom that her Grace is for ever entertaining in.’ The ton had suffered, silently shivering, through year after year of the popular event. He almost laughed at the picture of Sophie haranguing the old termagant.
‘Worse,’ Miss Ashford declared, ‘she pointed out everything architecturally wrong with the room, then she came right out and told her Grace that she knew of a builder who could repair it.’ and she lowered her voice to a dreadful whisper ‘at a good price!’
Unexpected laughter burst out at the mental image, but Charles tried hard to contain himself when he noticed Miss Ashford’s shocked countenance.
‘It is no laughing matter, my lord. Such pretension on Miss Westby’s part must not be encouraged.’
‘And was the duchess insulted?’ he asked.
‘No, she was not.’ Clearly Miss Ashford was puzzled by this. ‘But she very easily could have been.’
‘What, exactly, was her reply to Miss Westby’s advice?’
‘She said she was glad indeed to meet someone who would talk sense to her despite her title, and would be gladder still to hear of a man who would not cheat her because of it.’
Charles chuckled, but he could see Miss Ashford’s point. Yet even though his head conjured images of Sophie suffering a scathing set-down and social disgrace, urging him again to distance himself from the girl, he knew in his gut that he would not.
She very likely would get herself in some sort of trouble this Season. With Sophie, it just seemed inevitable. But she was the closest friend of his childhood. He would stand by her, come what may.
It is a shameful thing, some deeply buried part of himself whispered, that you won’t trust her enough to allow her to return the favour.
The party made good time on the roads and arrived in Sevenoaks just past mid-morning. Everyone welcomed a stop in the village centre to stretch weary limbs and to admire the stand of trees that bestowed on the little town its name.
After a brief respite they climbed back aboard and travelled the short distance to Lord Dayle’s dilapidated house. For a few moments chaos reigned as the house servants came out to greet them, the stable hands swarmed to take charge of horses and vehicles, and those servants who had accompanied them from town set about unloading and locating the best spot to set up the picnic.
For Sophie, their arrival came not a moment too soon. She had fidgeted her way through the entire journey, apologising to Mr Alden and explaining it away as anxiousness to begin her project. What she could not admit to him was how unnerving she found the sight of Charles and Miss Ashford together.
The ride had been bad—the thought of watching them strolling together in the gardens, rowing on the lake, or doing any of a thousand things that courting couples do, was insupportable. She made haste to befriend the housekeeper, therefore, and swept away with her and Lady Dayle, happy to bury her anxiety in her work.
Confused feelings were easy to ignore when one had an entire house to bury them under. Sophie had poured over plans of the estate; she had imagined the rooms as she concocted colour schemes and design themes, but nothing compared to this: walking into the house and knowing that the transformation of it belonged to her. Touching the walls, studying the light, draping fabrics across furniture, and mentally turning a musty, neglected old house into a place of warmth and life.
Sophie had measured, climbed, scraped, pulled, and scribbled page after page of notes and sketches for several blissful, uninterrupted hours. This, this was heaven, and she resisted when Lady Dayle and Emily finally came to insist that she come join the party and eat.
‘Do come now, dear,’ wheedled Lady Dayle, who had kept up with her for most of the morning. ‘You must feed your body as well as your soul. And as much as I enjoy seeing you so happily engaged, it’s past time we go and save Charles from Miss Ashford.’
‘Save him?’ Sophie asked. ‘I rather thought he was happy for the chance to continue his courtship.’
‘Yes, well, a few hours of the lady’s unrelenting company should have cured him of that notion,’ Lady Dayle answered with a wry twist of a grin. ‘Let’s go down.’
The viscountess marched out. Sophie shot a questioning glance at Emily, who only shrugged. Feeling intrigued and more than a little hopeful, Sophie took her friend’s arm and followed.
She was quickly happy that she had given in. Charles, she found, had directed the picnic to be spread out in a sun-dappled grove overlooking the lake. The air was soft and full of birdsong, the company was in high good humour and a bountiful feast of cold meats, cheeses and fruit lay spread before them.
‘Which is the tree in which you hid Cabot’s teeth, Charles?’ Jack Alden called.
Charles’s only response was to roll his eyes at his brother.
‘We had a litter of new puppies in the stables,’ Jack confided to the company. ‘The butler refused to allow them in the house. Charles had to exact his revenge somehow.’
‘It isn’t nice to tell tales on your brother, Mr Alden,’ Emily said with a meaningful glance in Miss Ashford’s direction.
Jack only laughed and they all went forth to the feast. True to her word, Lady Dayle enticed Miss Ashford into conversation and into a seat next to her. Sophie noted that Charles did look grateful as he took his plate and joined his brother. She carried her own and settled beside Emily and her family.
Emily was slicing fruit for her young son. ‘You must see my little Edward, Sophie,’ her friend said joyfully. ‘He’s walking so well!’
‘The springy turf and even ground have inspired him,’ chimed in Mr Lowder. ‘He’ll be running soon, though
