muster without a problem. My stepdaughter will become a member of the aristocracy, even if she will forget me.’
‘Stop spinning fantasies and nothing is finalised.’ Sophie slumped back against the chair. She would have to tell her stepmother the full unedifying story. It was the only option. ‘But there are, and will be, no impending nuptials to Lord Bingfield. I’m quite decided on that point. It happened—’
‘There is a gentleman to see you, Miss Ravel.’ The footman came in, carrying a silver platter with a single card, interrupting Sophie’s story.
With a trembling hand, Sophie picked it up. Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield.
She stood up and absurdly wished that she was dressed in something more up to the minute than her old blue gown. She ruthlessly quashed the notion. Lord Bingfield and last night’s escapade needed to be consigned to the past. The papers this morning proved it. Scandal dogged his footsteps.
‘I will see Lord Bingfield in the drawing room.’
‘I shall come with you, my dear.’ Her stepmother started to rise, but Sophie put a hand on her stepmother’s shoulder.
‘That is far from necessary, Stepmother. If I need assistance, I will shout. I have access to a poker and am not afraid to use it.’
‘Sophie!’
‘The truth, Stepmother.’ Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘Allow me to do this or I shall write to Lady Parthenope, explaining that I have rejected her nephew’s suit and therefore neither of us will be able to take tea with her.’
Her stepmother covered her eyes. ‘I shudder to think what Robert—or Henri, for that matter—would say, but very well, my dear, you may see him on your own. On pain of death, do not close that door and I will be in earshot. Your father wanted the best for you and I am determined you shall have it, even if I have to beg Lady Parthenope on bended knee for a voucher to Almack’s.’
‘My father would expect me to sort out this mess. Despite what you or Henri or Robert might think, I am perfectly capable of sorting this tempest in a teacup out. I am an adult and, according to the papers, redoubtable.’ Sophie raised her chin. ‘I will simply tell him no.’
Richard stood in the middle of the Ravels’ overly ornamented and chintz-hung drawing room, trying not to knock over any of the porcelain shepherds, china ladies or vases filled with wax flowers of every hue imaginable. The entire drawing room was a riot of pink tassels, lace doilies and small tables strewn with knickknacks, all in the most fashionable but horrendous taste. His frock-coat had narrowly missed one china pig and a precariously balanced bowl of waxen fruit already as he paced, waiting for Miss Ravel to put in an appearance.
What sort of woman was the redoubtable Miss Ravel? The woman he rescued last night had not seemed in any way formidable, but badly in need of protection. The gossip from the club said that she was aloof, an ice maiden, but he kept remembering the way her eyes had flashed when she rejected his offer of a polka.
His head pounded worse than ever. All the way here, he kept going over in his mind the possible scenarios and becoming angrier. Who else could have linked their names and informed the papers? He also knew that he had to make Miss Ravel understand that he had never made a proposal of that sort.
He had expected more from Miss Ravel. He regarded a particularly nauseating shepherdess who was more strangling a lamb than cuddling it. He knew next to nothing about her except that her ball gown had fetching sophistication and she had been in trouble. Hardly the stuff to build a relationship on. It was far better to get his painful interview over and get back to leading his life.
The lady in question strode into the drawing room. The simplicity of her blue dress contrasted sharply with the overly fussiness of the room. Richard drew in his breath sharply. His dreams had not done her features justice. A certain forthrightness about her jaw warred with the frankly sensuous curve of her bottom lip. Her waist appeared no bigger than his handspan.
Her quick backward glance at the door to ensure it remained wide open, rather than shut, was telling. She appeared determined to observe proprieties, even if no one else was in the room with them.
‘Lord Bingfield,’ she said, dropping a perfunctory curtsy and her lips curving up into a smile, but she failed to hold out her hand to be kissed. Truly redoubtable this morning. ‘An unexpected development.’
‘You have seen the papers?’ he asked, surprised. ‘I could hardly avoid calling on you after such item was printed. It would mean neglecting my duty. I may be many things, Miss Ravel, but I have never been a cad.’
‘We both made our positions quite clear last evening.’
‘I understand the item in question may have made some of the later London editions. My father—’
‘This would be the father who doesn’t know you are in Newcastle?’ She gave a superior smile. ‘I can remember what your aunt said. I’m far from stupid, Lord Bingfield. However, if your being in Newcastle was going to cause problems with your parent, you should have been open and honest about it.’
‘My reasons for being in Newcastle are private.’
She raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘I will allow you to keep your reasons private. I merely mentioned this as plans have a way of going awry.’
‘Have you seen the item?’
‘My stepmother informed me of it.’ She gave a small cough. ‘Apparently your aunt has written to her, inviting her to tea. My stepmother is transported with excitement at the thought of taking tea with the great Lady Parthenope.’
‘How charming.’
Her eyes flashed blue fire. ‘I won’t have my stepmother mocked, Lord Bingfield.’
He inclined his head. ‘I was referring to my aunt, rather than your stepmother. I had not anticipated this development.’
‘Your aunt began it.’
‘Aunts are a law unto themselves, Miss Ravel, particularly my aunts. They can be wildly unpredictable. It is part of their charm.’ Aunts were a law unto themselves, but he’d never expect his aunt to take it this far, making contact with Miss Ravel’s relations before any nuptials were publically announced. There again, his aunt prided herself on her ability to ferret out people’s most discreet indiscretion and remembering snippets of gossips. It was why she proved such an effective gatekeeper for Almack’s. Currently slow torture would be too good for her, in Richard’s opinion. He’d suggest it to one of his cousins. ‘I hope your stepmother will not be too disappointed when you explain why she must not accept this invitation.’
‘My stepmother has longed for such an invitation ever since she first married my late father. She wishes to mingle with the truly genteel.’ Her neat white teeth worried her bottom lip, turning it the colour of ripe cherries. There was something innocent about her. Despite her age and reputation of being formidable, she seemed soft and gentle and in definite need of protection. ‘It was one of the reasons I was sent away to school for a time.’
‘My aunt is haughty rather than genteel. Her rudeness and sense of entitlement can be shocking at times.’
