the fairy realm.’
‘Your mother and I did the very same thing, dear, when we were young.’ Lady Dayle’s voice was gentle.
‘I know,’ Emily said fondly. ‘She discovered me one day. She joined me, plopped herself right down amongst the toadstools in her best day dress. We spent many a happy day so occupied.’ She sat quietly a moment and Sophie’s heart ached for her friend.
‘So when we began this room,’ Emily continued, ‘I tried to convince … ah … my designer, to use a fairy wallpaper pattern I had seen in a design guide. It really was quite loud and colourful, though, and not nearly so tasteful as what we have here now. It was my designer who convinced me and still found a way to incorporate the youthful fantasies of a silly, nostalgic woman.’
‘Don’t keep us in suspense, dear,’ said Lady Dayle. ‘Where is it?’
‘All around us,’ said Emily, ‘and neither of you had any idea! But if you look closely, you’ll see a pixie here and there peeking out at us.’
The viscountess immediately rose and began to search, but Charles looked straight at Sophie’s green-stained fingers then right at the high spot where she had been when he entered the room. And there she was, a tiny green and gold-haired sprite, peering at them from the top of the curio cabinet.
He looked back at her and Sophie smiled and gave a little shrug.
‘Well, Charles,’ his mother said with a touch of sarcasm as she returned to her seat, ‘that’s a sour look you are wearing. Have you too much lemon in your tea, or are you in some kind of pain?’
‘No, no.’ He let loose a little bark of laughter. ‘No more than any other gentleman forced to listen to a pack of ladies fussing over décor. ‘
It was Sophie who was in pain. He was being deliberately cruel. But why?
‘Well, pull yourself together, dear,’ his mother was saying, ‘for you are in for more than a little fussing.’
‘Yes, for we have saved the best surprises for last,’ Emily said.
‘I think he has already discerned one of them,’ said the viscountess shrewdly. ‘And you are correct, my son, it was indeed Sophie who envisioned the design of this room. She has done a magnificent job, both here and at Mrs Lowder’s home in Dorsetshire.’
‘I congratulate you on your fine work, Miss Westby,’ he said, his voice coldly formal. ‘I wish you equal success in your début.’
Sophie was growing tired of Charles’s swaying moods. What on earth was wrong with the man? None of this was going as she had planned. ‘I am a designer, my lord, not a débutante,’ she said firmly.
He cocked his head as if he had heard her incorrectly. ‘Nonsense. You are an earl’s niece. You are of good birth and good connections.’ He nodded at the others in the room. ‘Why else come to London at the start of the Season?’
‘She has come at my invitation, Charles,’ his mother intervened. ‘Both to be introduced to society and to aid me with your birthday present.’
His look was so frigid that Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised if the viscountess had sprouted icicles. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Lady Dayle was a warm-hearted and giving woman. She was also still Charles’s mother. ‘Do not practise your high-handed ways with me, sir.’ She softened her voice a bit and continued. ‘The Sevenoaks house, dear. A politician needs a place to get away, to invite his cronies and plan strategies, to entertain. The place is run-down and shabby. For your birthday, I would like to ask Miss Westby to help me with the redecorating of it.’
Sophie could have cheerfully kissed Lady Dayle’s hem. A house. A nobleman’s house. It was exactly what she hoped for.
‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mother, but such a large undertaking is unnecessary. I would not wish you to tax yourself. Nor would I wish to be responsible for taking so much of Miss Westby’s time away from her first Season.’
Sophie could have cheerfully punched Lord Dayle’s nose. Was he insane or merely trying to make her so? Who was he? Haughty aristocrat or charming gentleman? She was beginning not to care.
‘Nonsense,’ returned his mother. ‘I shall see to it that we both divide our time favourably. And with Emily’s help as well, we shall have a grand time with it all. You will,’ she added her pièce de résistance, ‘be in no way discommoded.’
‘But, Mother,’ he returned gently, ‘perhaps this sort of project should be undertaken by my bride?’
‘I should place a great deal more weight with that argument if such a person existed.’ The viscountess sniffed. ‘You haven’t won the hand of a dyed-in-the-wool puritan yet, my boy.’
Emily spoke up. ‘I dare say that your mama should derive more enjoyment from such a project, in any case, my lord,’ she said with a significant look.
This argument did indeed appear to sway him. ‘Oh, very well,’ he capitulated with bad grace. He turned, his eyes narrowed, to Sophie, ‘But I beg you both, here and now, to leave me out of it. It is entirely in your hands. I do not wish to be conferred with, consulted with, or called on. In fact, I would be mightily pleased if I hear not another word on the matter until it is finished.’
Even before he had finished his sentence Sophie was swallowing her disappointment, pushing away a deep sense of betrayal. She had been so humiliatingly wrong. The Charles Alden she had longed for was nothing more than a foolish girl’s fantasy. A ghost of a man who might have grown from a good-hearted boy.
The real Charles Alden, she was forced to conclude, was this hard-eyed monument, more marble than flesh. He had no inclination to renew their friendship, and she—well, she was long past the time she should be indulging in daydreams.
She met his stony gaze and nodded her agreement as Lady Dayle and Emily chattered, full of excitement and plans. Sophie would easily—gladly—meet his terms. She would do her very best for the viscountess and she would make the viscount’s home a place of beauty and harmony. But another ten years would be too soon for her to ever see Lord Dayle again.
He stood. ‘I shall leave you ladies to your fairies, furniture, and furbelows.’ He bowed and took his leave, never quite looking Sophie’s way. She watched him go, felt her dreams dragging out behind him, and took some small satisfaction in the cheerful green handprint showing clearly on his left shoulder.
Charles clutched his hat with shaking fingers as the door closed firmly behind him. For several long moments he stood, shoulders hunched to ward off the pain. Sophie.
When he had first realised who she was—for the briefest moment—he had forgotten. Elation and an odd possessiveness had surged through his veins. At last fate had smiled upon him and sent the one person who in some elemental, deeply satisfying way, understood him completely.
The flash of joy and relief had been overwhelming. His ally, his friend, his very own Sophie.
Then Mrs Lowder had come in talking of riots, and he had remembered. Realised. She didn’t know, could never understand. They couldn’t ever go back. The thought hurt on a nearly physical level.
She had grown up, his childhood friend.
