He couldn’t hide the twinge he felt at Phillip’s name. She saw and stopped to put her hand on his cheek. ‘They were good times, Charles. It is fine to remember them.’ She smiled and straightened his cravat. ‘And we will have good times again, I feel it.’
Charles could almost believe her. His mother was smiling again. She had come up from Fordham Park with a spring in her step, a list of some kind in hand, and he had barely seen her in the weeks since. He had warned her of the Avery scandal, but she had only laughed and dared anyone in society to vilify her son to her face.
‘How went the hunt?’ she asked now. ‘You have certainly given the rumour mill enough grist. Word is out that the Wicked Lord Dayle is looking for a wife to tame his ways. Surely the worst must indeed be past if such a high stickler as Lavinia Ashford gave you entrance to her drawing room.’
The arrival of the carriage saved him from a response, but his mother would not let the subject drop. She teased a list of names from him and then cheerfully dissected each one, as callous in her regard for the young ladies as if they were no more than choice offerings at the butcher’s stall. ‘If what you truly wish is to wed a pattern card of propriety, Charles, then there are in truth only three or four girls who will do. Nearly everyone of consequence is in town now. There should be plenty of time for you to meet them all and select the best.’
Charles suffered a little qualm hearing his mother discuss his marriage in such cold-blooded terms. He suffered a bigger qualm picturing the many long years ahead leg-shackled to a cold-blooded shrew. Then, like a sudden summer breeze, the image arose in his mind—dark, windswept tresses, laughing eyes, a radiant smile. The chit from Cheapside.
The exotic little beauty had invaded his thoughts more than once since their encounter. That smile—it kept coming to mind. Perhaps she reminded him of someone? And perhaps it was only a knee-jerk reaction to the course he had chosen. Intelligent and witty as well as pretty, she would be a far more pleasing prospect to face every morning over breakfast.
Except that such a prospect did not exist. Nor should it. He could not forget the near panic he’d felt during the lowest moments of the last weeks. The thought of failure was insupportable. He had hit upon the best path out of this mess and he was going to follow it right into a cold and sterile marriage.
He gave a cynical shrug; it would be a fair trade, surely. A cold marriage bed for a lifetime of credibility. And he should be down on his knees thanking the powers that be for even such dim prospects, for he was lucky to have a future at all.
These reflections left him in a mood of grim determination. He would prevail, would sacrifice anything to ensure his success. His resolution lasted across Mayfair, through all of his mother’s chatter, and right up until he entered the Lowders’ family drawing room. It might have lasted through the entire Season and seen him through the tedious weeks ahead, had it not encountered the pair of ankles.
A very fetching pair of ankles, framed by a scalloped flounce and situated right at eye level. Grim determination stood not a chance; it melted under a combined onslaught of shock and pure male appreciation.
‘Have the guests arrived, Thomas?’ asked a voice situated somewhat above the ankles and the stepladder they were perched upon. Charles couldn’t see how far above because his gaze remained locked where it did not belong. ‘Hold a moment and let me hand down my things. I wouldn’t wish to be caught at work.’
‘Too late, my dear,’ his mother chirped. ‘Come down, please, you frighten me out of my wits on that thing.’
But the unexpected reply had disturbed the girl’s balance, both mental and physical. A surprised ‘Oh!’ came from above and then the ankles and the stepladder began to sway.
The footman who had admitted them—the recalcitrant Thomas, no doubt—lunged for the ladder, but it was Charles who, without conscious thought, reached out and plucked the girl from the air.
‘Charles, dear, I did particularly wish for you to meet Miss Westby today,’ his mother said, her voice wry.
But Charles was staring at the woman he held in his arms. She was a beauty indeed, and she’d had quite a fright. Large dark eyes stared apprehensively into his, her arms were locked tight about his neck and her soft, full bosom was pressed quite delightfully into his chest. But pleasure faded as realisation dawned, and then it turned to growing outrage. ‘You!’ he gasped.
Sophie’s heart was beating so fast—partly from fear, partly from exasperation at the absurdity of the situation, and partly from sheer feminine appreciation—that she was sure Charles could feel it. To view Charles from a few feet’s perspective was a delight; the prospect from a few inches was awe-inspiring.
It was as if he had been designed to be pleasing to every eye. His hair was the colour of chestnuts, thick and luxuriant, his eyes a deep brown that clearly signalled his shock—and his interest. Strong cheekbones, stubborn chin, every inch of him solid, authoritative, and somehow English. It was enough to tempt one to sing in praise of a nation that could produce such a specimen.
She’d forgotten that smug English superiority. Ever so slowly the astonishment faded from his face, only to be replaced once more by haughty disdain. What was it? she wondered. What had happened in the intervening years to turn her laughing boy into this proud, imposing man?
This proud man who still held her tight in the incongruous safety of his arms. Sophie took encouragement where she could find it, and forged ahead.
‘Well, my lord, you have caught me—literally—at a disadvantage once again.’ She peeked over his shoulder, ‘Really, Thomas, it was too bad of you to neglect to warn me. I’m sure we have embarrassed Lord Dayle past all bearing.’ She handed the footman her wet paintbrush and cut off his apologies. ‘No, it’s fine, really, just remove my equipment, please, and we shall muddle through, shan’t we, my lord?’
Charles did not reply, although the stark lines of his face tightened, and so did his grip.
‘Do put her down, Charles, for heaven’s sake,’ Lady Dayle commanded.
He flushed and immediately set her down, with a bit more force than was necessary, Sophie thought. She flashed him an unrepentant smile, and wiped her paint-stained fingers. She would break through his stone-sober demeanour, she thought, if she had to take up a chisel and hammer to do it.
‘I’m fine, truly,’ she said as Lady Dayle fussed over her. ‘I should have known not to ask Thomas to warn me, he’s started up a flirtation with the parlor maid and was bound to forget.’
‘Mother,’ Charles said tightly, ‘you seem to have some idea just what the dev—deuce is going on here. Perhaps you will enlighten me?’
‘It is what I have been trying to do, my dear, indeed, it is why you were invited today.’ Beaming, she took Sophie’s hand. ‘Allow me to reacquaint the two of you. I do not say introduce, for, if I recall, the two of you did bump into each other in Dorsetshire in years past.’
‘We have indeed bumped into one another,’ Charles began in an acid tone, ‘and only too recently—’ He stopped. ‘In Dorsetshire?’
‘Yes, dear. May I present Miss Westby? Sophie, surely you remember my son?’
Sophie could only nod. Her heart was, unexpectedly, in her throat and she could not tear her eyes from him as she waited for the truth to strike. She could almost see his mind spinning behind the dark and masculine beauty of his
