forward, Charles decided to nip that little bud before it could bloom into a larger flower of disgruntlement.
‘Good evening, Theo. It has been a while, has it not?’
‘Dayle,’ returned Theo, still in a pout over the attack on his sartorial splendour.
‘My mother must be pleased to have you tonight, I know she wants all the family to meet her particular friend, Miss Westby.’ As a warning it was not much, but it was all that was required. Mumbling his agreement, Theo and his friend took themselves off.
Charles watched them go. He was annoyed with Theo, but, oddly enough, the bulk of his irritation lay on Sophie’s shoulders. Just once he wished she would hold her tongue and not say the first thing that leapt to mind. Yes, Theo was ridiculous, but must she point it out in such a public forum?
Who was he to conjure criticisms? His life was unravelling faster by the minute. He left in search of a drink.
He found one, but his mother also found him.
‘Charles, dear,’ she fussed, drawing him aside. ‘Do you think you could influence Sophie and persuade her to allow me to make an announcement about her book?’
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
