to this improper tête à tête and go about his business, but instead he glanced carefully about, then flashed her a wicked smile. ‘Do you wish for the truth or for a properly polite answer?’
Sophie tossed her head, her chin up. ‘Always the truth, please, sir.’
‘Very well, then. The truth is that for most of my days my conversations tended on the coarse and bawdy side. More like the seasonal bawling of young bucks and the bleating of … available females than true human exchange—’
Sophie interrupted him with a sigh. ‘You did warn me. I am sure I should be slapping your face, or stalking off in high dudgeon. Fortunately I am not so faint-hearted.’ She smiled. ‘Do go on.’
He shrugged. ‘Now I have political conversations. Long, relentless, occasionally monotonous, but in the end productive and worthwhile. Both sorts, I find, have their own drawbacks and pleasures.’
The playful gleam returned to his eye and he leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. ‘But I will let you in on a little secret. Sometimes, especially when the stakes are high, political debates are remarkably similar to primitive mating rituals. There is a little polite cooing, leading to an extravagant display of superiority, then a mad scramble as everyone pairs off. Occasionally there is a show of temper and brute strength. In the end someone wins, the victor takes the spoils and the next day we all ever so politely begin all over again.’
Sophie laughed. ‘Fascinating. It gives one a whole new perspective on Parliament, does it not?
‘It helps me get through some very long days in the Lords.’
‘It makes me wish I was indeed a reporter. Imagine the story I could write: “Wild Westminster, The Secret Life of Parliament.” Every paper in London would be at my feet. Alas, my talents lie in another direction altogether.’
Charles eyed her portfolio, then slid his gaze down her form. A swift, fierce heat swept through her, following its path. ‘I beg you won’t be insulted if I say that you decorate the city with your mere presence.’
Before she could gather herself enough to respond, his face suddenly contorted into a grimace of dismay that had her following his gaze. An elegant carriage pulled by an exquisite team passed them by. Very obviously staring was a pair of wide-eyed feminine faces. One even craned her neck to look back as the equipage moved on.
‘Oh, hell,’ he breathed before turning back to her. ‘As stimulating as this has been, I cannot afford any more gossip just now. Neither would I wish to harm your reputation with my tarnished presence.’ He sketched her the curtest of bows. ‘I wish you the best of luck with your endeavours.’
She returned with a curtsy just as brief. ‘Indeed, I understand, sir.’ She watched as he turned to go and called after him, ‘Off you go to save the world. I will content myself with dressing it up.’
He tossed a scornful glance over his shoulder at her. ‘Unworthy, my dear, and just when I had begun to judge you a promising opponent.’
Sophie watched, amused, as he stalked away. Let him have the last word for now, she thought. Oh, she was going to enjoy their next meeting even more than this one.
She became aware, suddenly, of a faint panting just behind her. She turned and found Nell, who handed over a sheaf of papers and wiped her brow. ‘Who was the gentleman you was talking with, miss? He looked a mite put out.’
‘That, dear Nell, was none other than the Wicked Lord Dayle.’
‘No!’ The maid’s gasp was more titillation than shock.
‘Indeed, although I recall him more fondly as my very own knight in shining armour.’
Nell had been pushed too far this morning to be discreet. ‘Happen that armour’s tarnished some.’
‘It does appear so,’ Sophie mused. ‘Though the polishing of it could be quite a bit of fun, indeed.’
Nell only shook her head. ‘If you say so, miss.’
Chapter Three
Miss Corinne Ashford’s hand was limp and cool as Charles bent over it. As was the expression on her face while he took his leave of her. Even so, Charles’s step was light when he stepped into Portman Street and set out for home.
He felt as if he could breathe again, as he hadn’t been free to since that cursed piece in the Oracle. He had been exonerated, of course, once it had leaked out that the dark-haired man sneaking out of Lady Avery’s window had been none other than Lord Avery’s valet. And society had quickly sunk their teeth into new and even more delicious gossip when the old girl had run off with the young fellow, the petty cash, and the family jewels.
Yet the damage had been done. The thinly veiled references were in every scandal sheet. Suddenly his old peccadilloes were fodder for gossip again.
Wild, reckless, restless—these were the epithets he had become accustomed to in his seven and twenty years, the labels a scandalised society had readily laid at his door. They were well and truly earned, too. He had misspent his youth in a frenzy of hard living, soft women, and outrageous pranks. He had, in short, enjoyed the hell out of himself.
But such carelessness belonged to another lifetime. Charles Alden might have spent his time in carefree pursuit of pleasure, but Viscount Dayle was not so lighthearted. Two years ago his brother had died, his father had shortly followed, and Charles’s life had been transformed.
It had begun as a penance he had embraced in a fury of remorse and determination, and, though it was true that grief and guilt still lay heavy on his shoulders, Charles could not deny that it was the work that had saved his sanity.
With fierce devotion he had immersed himself in the estates, the accounts and the politics. Somehow he had survived, had even reached a point where he could draw breath, enjoy the success he had wrought and begin to envision a future.
Until that ridiculous article. Now his name had once again been associated with scandal and vice, and his reception had significantly cooled, both in the corridors of Westminster and the parlors of Mayfair. He found the setback infuriating, and despite his best efforts, he still hadn’t a clue as to who was behind it.
So, he had temporarily abandoned his search for the villain, dragged out his original plan, and after careful deliberation decided that Miss Ashford might be just the thing to cure his ailing reputation. She was the daughter of a baron and a member of a notoriously staunch conservative family. Elegant and tall and proud to a fault, she wore respectability like an enveloping mantel. Charles just hoped that it was large enough to cover his own sins.
In truth, he had half-expected to be left standing in the street when he began to pay his addresses to the lady, but the past year’s good works—or his title and fortune—had proved credit enough to get him in the door. Whether he progressed any further remained to be seen.
He crossed his own portal now, satisfied for the moment, and more in charity with the world than he’d felt in weeks. He found his mother descending the stairs, straightening her gloves. ‘Going out, Mother?’ he asked.
‘Indeed, as are you. Please have the carriage sent around, dear. We won’t wish to be late.’
