hearing, my needlework skills are mostly of the practical variety, and my musical ability, though competent, is nothing special.’
‘Her artistic talents, however, are unsurpassed,’ Charles broke in unexpectedly. ‘I don’t believe I have a single memory of Miss Westby without a sketchbook close at hand.’ He smiled at the company in general. ‘Unless, of course, I had squirrelled it away and hidden it. It was the greatest torture I could devise.’
Despite the tension that still crackled between them, Sophie was warmed by Charles’s defence of her. And by the brightness of that smile. It sparked a longing to see it more often.
She forced herself to laugh and keep her tone light. ‘I, on the other hand, devised any number of ways to torture you.’
‘Yes, and I still bear the scars of a few of them,’ he said with mock-severity.
‘I know Miss Ashford would love a hint on how to beat Charles into submission, Sophie dear …’ Lady Dayle spoke with the indulgence of a fond mother hen with a brood of wayward chicks ‘.but it will have to wait for later, for isn’t that the builder’s cart travelling up the drive?’
‘Oh, it must be,’ Sophie said, rising to her feet. ‘He is due to arrive some time this afternoon.’ Pausing, she flashed Charles her biggest smile, then stopped and bent down to Miss Ashford. Still holding Charles’s gaze, she said in a deliberately loud stage whisper, ‘Ear flicking, he hates that’, before striding off to the house.
Chapter Seven
The afternoon sun was still high when Charles entered the house in search of Sophie. Though there was plenty of daylight left, most of the party wished to return to London before dark. He’d avoided the bedlam of repacking, calling to his mother that he would find Miss Westby so that she might bid everyone farewell. Now he wandered the empty rooms of a house that had never been meant for him, searching for a woman who was undoubtedly wrong for him.
There were signs of her everywhere. Long shrouded furniture lay newly uncovered, the discarded linen lying in heaps in the corners. Sunlight and fresh breezes poured through the place, as every window had been thrown open to let the day in. Splashes of colour, in swatches and sketches, sat prominently in each room.
She was up a ladder again when he found her, measuring a window for curtain lengths, he surmised. He stood, unnoticed in the doorway, watching the graceful bend of her body, the sunlight fighting against the glorious night of her hair, the gentle sway of her dress in the breeze.
He was a fool for being here. He was playing with fire and likely to get burned. But there was a part of him that could not resist her call, the young man in him who missed her chaotic friendship, and perhaps also the dark part of him that had always relished such danger.
‘Don’t fall,’ he said softly, remembering the last time he’d discovered her on a ladder.
She turned her head and gifted him again with that dazzling smile—all white teeth against soft, exotically toned skin. ‘Don’t worry, Charles, I’m not going to fall.’
Her mocking tone made him wonder if she referred to something other than the ladder.
‘The rest of the party is preparing to leave, I thought you might wish to come and see them off.’
‘Yes, of course, just let me finish these measurements.’ She bent again to her task. It grew quiet, with only bird sound from the open window to break the silence. Charles leaned on the doorframe and stayed where he was. He almost started when she spoke.
‘Tell me, Charles, do you see much of Lord Avery lately?’
She surprised him with the question. ‘Only in Westminster.’
‘How does he go on?’
‘I have not the faintest idea, except for the fact that he does go on about my reformist leanings every time we meet. He and his cronies keep up a continuous dark mutter when I am present.’ He shivered. ‘It is deuced unsettling. Why do you ask?’
‘An odd notion. I know you feel you were sorely abused in that whole strange situation, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him and his wife, as well. It seems to me that they were quite as ill used as you.’
‘I agree, in large part, but I assure you my sympathy is the last thing Avery wishes. He persists in blaming me, at least in part, for the whole débâcle.’
‘I suppose there is no one else for him to concentrate on, is there? It’s human nature to look to others instead of yourself when something goes wrong. But I still feel for him. Has he heard from his wife?’
‘After she ran off with the valet? I’ve no clue, but I don’t wish to know anything else about the tawdry affair. What has brought all this on?’
‘It’s nothing. I just hate to see a relationship—and they do seem to have loved each other, in an odd way—come to such an end.’
Rolling up her tape, she climbed down and tried to put herself to rights. The familiar sight caused an unexpected ache, but still made him smile. It was so easy and comfortable, being with Sophie.
‘What is it?’ she asked, rubbing a grubby hand against her cheek and only making it worse.
‘Nothing.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s just with dirt smudges all over you and your hair coming down like that, you look about eleven years old again.’ He let his gaze roam over curves and valleys that had never graced her younger figure. ‘Well, perhaps not,’ he said, unable to keep the husky appreciation from his voice.
She stilled and did not reply; a wild thing scenting something dangerous.
He advanced into the room, trying not to feel like a predator. ‘I didn’t wish to discuss it in front of everyone, earlier today, but I remember the first time we really discussed your designs. Do you remember?’
She still had not moved. ‘Yes.’
Her caution, her attitude of expectancy, of uncertainty, was affecting him. His heart was pounding. God, she was beautiful.
It was warm in the room, and the space was somehow growing smaller as he drew closer. ‘It was summer, and we were trying to keep cool in the gazebo by the lake. You were drawing another of your infernal rooms, another place that existed only in your mind. I remember the breeze teasing the edges of your paper.’ His own voice filled the small distance between them, wrapping, winding about them both and carrying them somewhere else entirely.
‘I had never asked you before why you created those imaginary parlours and kitchens, ballrooms and stillrooms, instead of sketching flowers or houses or landscapes like every other girl. But that day I watched you, the intensity in your eyes, the heat of the day in your cheeks, and the wind whispering in your hair. And I asked. Do you remember what you answered?’
Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t here any more. She was lost in the sweet summer’s warmth of long ago. ‘Yes.’
‘You spoke of your father’s warehouse, how he would take you there with him. You described the dust in the air, the sunlight spilling into the shadowy places, illuminating boxes, and crates,
