Читать книгу Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat - Deb Marlowe - Страница 13

The afternoon sun was still high when Charles entered the house in search of Sophie. Though there was plenty of daylight left, most of the party wished to return to London before dark. He’d avoided the bedlam of repacking, calling to his mother that he would find Miss Westby so that she might bid everyone farewell. Now he wandered the empty rooms of a house that had never been meant for him, searching for a woman who was undoubtedly wrong for him.

There were signs of her everywhere. Long shrouded furniture lay newly uncovered, the discarded linen lying in heaps in the corners. Sunlight and fresh breezes poured through the place, as every window had been thrown open to let the day in. Splashes of colour, in swatches and sketches, sat prominently in each room.

She was up a ladder again when he found her, measuring a window for curtain lengths, he surmised. He stood, unnoticed in the doorway, watching the graceful bend of her body, the sunlight fighting against the glorious night of her hair, the gentle sway of her dress in the breeze.

He was a fool for being here. He was playing with fire and likely to get burned. But there was a part of him that could not resist her call, the young man in him who missed her chaotic friendship, and perhaps also the dark part of him that had always relished such danger.

‘Don’t fall,’ he said softly, remembering the last time he’d discovered her on a ladder.

She turned her head and gifted him again with that dazzling smile—all white teeth against soft, exotically toned skin. ‘Don’t worry, Charles, I’m not going to fall.’

Her mocking tone made him wonder if she referred to something other than the ladder.

‘The rest of the party is preparing to leave, I thought you might wish to come and see them off.’

‘Yes, of course, just let me finish these measurements.’ She bent again to her task. It grew quiet, with only bird sound from the open window to break the silence. Charles leaned on the doorframe and stayed where he was. He almost started when she spoke.

‘Tell me, Charles, do you see much of Lord Avery lately?’

She surprised him with the question. ‘Only in Westminster.’

‘How does he go on?’

‘I have not the faintest idea, except for the fact that he does go on about my reformist leanings every time we meet. He and his cronies keep up a continuous dark mutter when I am present.’ He shivered. ‘It is deuced unsettling. Why do you ask?’

‘An odd notion. I know you feel you were sorely abused in that whole strange situation, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him and his wife, as well. It seems to me that they were quite as ill used as you.’

‘I agree, in large part, but I assure you my sympathy is the last thing Avery wishes. He persists in blaming me, at least in part, for the whole débâcle.’

‘I suppose there is no one else for him to concentrate on, is there? It’s human nature to look to others instead of yourself when something goes wrong. But I still feel for him. Has he heard from his wife?’

‘After she ran off with the valet? I’ve no clue, but I don’t wish to know anything else about the tawdry affair. What has brought all this on?’

‘It’s nothing. I just hate to see a relationship—and they do seem to have loved each other, in an odd way—come to such an end.’

Rolling up her tape, she climbed down and tried to put herself to rights. The familiar sight caused an unexpected ache, but still made him smile. It was so easy and comfortable, being with Sophie.

‘What is it?’ she asked, rubbing a grubby hand against her cheek and only making it worse.

‘Nothing.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s just with dirt smudges all over you and your hair coming down like that, you look about eleven years old again.’ He let his gaze roam over curves and valleys that had never graced her younger figure. ‘Well, perhaps not,’ he said, unable to keep the husky appreciation from his voice.

She stilled and did not reply; a wild thing scenting something dangerous.

He advanced into the room, trying not to feel like a predator. ‘I didn’t wish to discuss it in front of everyone, earlier today, but I remember the first time we really discussed your designs. Do you remember?’

She still had not moved. ‘Yes.’

Her caution, her attitude of expectancy, of uncertainty, was affecting him. His heart was pounding. God, she was beautiful.

It was warm in the room, and the space was somehow growing smaller as he drew closer. ‘It was summer, and we were trying to keep cool in the gazebo by the lake. You were drawing another of your infernal rooms, another place that existed only in your mind. I remember the breeze teasing the edges of your paper.’ His own voice filled the small distance between them, wrapping, winding about them both and carrying them somewhere else entirely.

‘I had never asked you before why you created those imaginary parlours and kitchens, ballrooms and stillrooms, instead of sketching flowers or houses or landscapes like every other girl. But that day I watched you, the intensity in your eyes, the heat of the day in your cheeks, and the wind whispering in your hair. And I asked. Do you remember what you answered?’

Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t here any more. She was lost in the sweet summer’s warmth of long ago. ‘Yes.’

‘You spoke of your father’s warehouse, how he would take you there with him. You described the dust in the air, the sunlight spilling into the shadowy places, illuminating boxes, and crates, and barrels, of furniture, and paintings, and pottery. You told me how, just a small girl, you would close your eyes and dream of the homes those beautiful things would go to, of the rooms they would adorn.’

Sophie’s eyes snapped open, and the spell was broken by the spark of fear shining there. Charles knew she did not want him to go any further. She lifted her chin. ‘Pray don’t mention this to Miss Ashford,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just been warned not to discuss my mercantile background.’

He accepted her retreat, knowing they both recognised it for what it was. ‘I’m sorry if she offended you.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘I am sure she meant it well.’

He sighed. ‘I am sure that is what she tells herself, at any rate.’

‘What’s this?’ The old Sophie was back, grinning her mischievous insight. ‘The courtship’s path travels over rocky ground?’

‘No, maybe I would prefer that it did. Anything would be better than the bland, unexceptional terrain we’ve already traversed.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that. I was afraid you hadn’t seen it.’

The relief in her voice puzzled him. ‘Seen what?’

‘Seen how ill the two of you would suit.’ She smiled again. ‘I thought I was going to have to exert myself to disentangle you from her clutches.’

Charles flinched. ‘You misunderstand. I shouldn’t have spoken so, it was a mistake.’

She stared. ‘The only mistake would be to continue to pursue her.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an advantageous match for both sides.’ This was not a conversation Charles wanted to have with Sophie.

‘Charles, I’ve seen you with her. Watched you.’ She spoke carefully, patiently, like he was a child, too young to see things clearly. ‘In her company you disappear. There is only some sober, solemn stranger standing there in your skin.’

‘That is exactly the intended effect.’ His voice sounded as tight as the constriction in his chest.

‘I don’t understand. You mean to say you wish to be rigid, humourless, and unapproachable?’

‘No, I mean I wish to be seen for what I am—an adult, a responsible, respectable peer of the realm.’

‘Oho! Convenient, but unoriginal, Charles. I never thought to hear you playing Lord of the Manor. Does it all come back to the title, then?’

The scorn in her tone infuriated him. ‘Of course it comes back to the title!’ he said harshly. ‘The bloody thing hunted me, laying waste to my family. Now it’s got me. The duties and responsibilities are mine now; some of them so heavy, you cannot comprehend.’

‘Balderdash! Do your duty, accept the responsibility, but don’t let it change who you are.’ Her hands were moving, sharp and fast, emphasising the force of her words. If he hadn’t been so angry, Charles would have laughed. You knew Sophie was in a passion if she started talking with her hands. Then he heard what she was saying and any urge to laugh died instantly.

‘You may not believe it, Charles, but I remember many things as well. I remember a girl making herself miserable, turning herself inside out trying to please the adults who tried to forget her existence. I remember the boy who taught her to find her own happiness. I remember the small confessions, the shared stories. My uncle, your father. My sad aunt, your overburdened brother. I remember the words too. Do you want to hear them?’

‘No,’ he said harshly.

‘“We’ll think of the others, but live for ourselves.” That’s a wondrous piece of wisdom for a mere boy. Too bad the man’s forgotten it.’

Her voice was heavy with disdain, and Charles shocked himself by welcoming it. Yes, he deserved nothing but her contempt, however misdirected its focus might be.

Sophie turned away from him and gripped the faded curtain. ‘That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it? Living the life that others expect of you?’

She would never understand. He felt a sudden, insane urge to blurt out the truth, all of it. But he couldn’t bear to see her reaction.

She’d grown tired of waiting for one. ‘It’s just a title, Charles. It may define your station in life, but naught else. You’ve hidden from yourself for so long, I think you’ve forgotten who you are. You’re more like Phillip now than I ever thought you could be.’ She paused a moment, as if digesting her own words, then realisation dawned on her face. ‘It’s Phillip,’ she breathed.

This time, Charles knew, his flinch was noticeable. He’d known she was dangerous. Now he struggled to gain control, to throw the mask back up before it was too late.

It already was too late.

‘My God, Charles! Is that what this is all about? Phillip was a serious man, a good and studious man. But it was his nature; the title didn’t make him that way. Do you think to turn yourself into your brother?’

Charles’s heart was pounding, his breath coming fast. ‘We’re not children anymore, Sophie. You don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

‘I know you well enough. Don’t throw yourself away in such a marriage. Phillip would not approve. He would want you to be happy.’

Charles almost choked on the conflicting emotions within, all trying to fight their way out. She was beautiful in her passion, terrifying in her perception. He wanted to run, back to London, if necessary, where he could bury himself in work and never hear his brother’s name again. He wanted to drop the mask and let the warmth of her affection and acceptance flow over him, absolving him of his sins. He wanted to shout the terrible truth at her: I can’t be happy. I don’t deserve to ever be happy again.

He couldn’t do any of those things. So he buried his hands in her already dishevelled hair and kissed her instead.

For a moment, a shocked Sophie could only stand frozen, stunned. It was a short moment. Then she came alive under his hot and insistent mouth.

She couldn’t push her mind past the miracle of it: Charles kissing her. She was overwhelmed by the taste and scent of him, the wonder of the dark need curling through her.

Through the long, lonely years, when Charles had been a companion only in her mind, he had represented safety, acceptance, and warmth. Then she had found him again, and he wasn’t her best friend anymore, just a stranger who had shown her mostly arrogance and disapproval. Now, with his mouth slanting hotly over hers, he radiated something else entirely: risk, danger, molten excitement that welled deep in her belly.

She welcomed it, thrilled to it, reached for him so she could demand more. He groaned as her arms went around him, and the sound made the throbbing deep within her that much stronger.

He was barely in control of himself. She didn’t care. He drove her head back with his hard, brazen kiss. She yielded to the assault and met him kiss for kiss. He backed her against the wall as his hands crept up to crush the curves he’d admired so boldly. She clung to him as if her life depended on it.

She had cracked his armour, touched the man underneath. His passion served in part as a stalling technique, a way to avoid dealing with the emotions that frightened him. But it was true, and it was hers. She accepted it and while the wind gusted through the open window, draping the faded curtains over them and enclosing them in a cocoon of desire, she gave him back all the fervent warmth in her heart.

He wasn’t ready to accept it.

With a despairing moan he tore his mouth from hers and slid his hands up to grasp her shoulders. His chest heaved as his eyes closed and he rested his forehead on hers.

‘I remember it all, Sophie,’ he gasped, ‘even the part you didn’t wish to hear. I asked you that day why the rooms you drew were always empty. You said they were waiting for the happy people who would come to live in them.’

Sophie closed her own eyes in pain. She’d pushed him too far. She deserved this, she knew.

‘Don’t do it here,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t create rooms for my happy family. They don’t exist. They never will.’

He loosed her abruptly and strode out of the room. He didn’t look back.