Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 58

The grinding of the carriage wheels, the creak of the harness, the clop, clop of the horses’ hooves—the regular everyday racket of a slowing carriage was as nothing compared to the sound of her own pounding heart. Sophie bounced in her seat, impatient with waiting for the footman, and leaned forward to open the door herself. She found her hand stayed by Emily Lowder’s.

As part of the evening’s entertainment, Sophie and Emily had come early to the Argyll Rooms, the site of Miss Ashford’s charity ball. ‘I’m having second thoughts,’ Emily said.

‘About what?’ Sophie asked. Finally the door opened and, without waiting for an answer, she eagerly alighted. The rooms were ablaze, but the spectacle couldn’t compete with the glow of excitement in Sophie’s breast. This was it. Tonight Charles would declare himself. She knew it.

Emily slowed once more as they crossed the threshold into the empty foyer. ‘Perhaps we should reconsider this scheme. I’m afraid there might be some backlash. For you, Sophie.’

Sophie was flabbergasted. ‘Emily Lowder, you’ve helped with every step of Miss Ashford’s plans! What is it that is bothering you?’

‘It’s … well, it’s your costume.’

She raised a brow in question. ‘What objection could you possess? Nearly every square inch of me is covered. Far less of me shows in this than in the average ball gown.’

‘I know!'Emily cried. ‘That’s why I thought it nothing more than a lark—but the overall effect—I couldn’t have imagined.’

‘Rubbish,’ she said, tugging at the cords of her cloak. ‘Come, let’s find Miss Ashford. She herself condoned the idea, and you don’t think she would countenance anything remotely scandalous tonight?’

‘I don’t think you should put your faith in Miss Ashford’s judgement in this case.’

‘Emily, I swear I don’t know what has got into you. You could look the world over and not find anyone more closely acquainted with propriety than Miss Ashford.’

‘Yes, but I see something in her eyes, occasionally, when she’s watching you.’

‘Shh. Here she is.’ Sophie gestured as Miss Ashford, dressed in the flowing robes of the goddess Diana, entered the entrance hall with a gaggle of servants on her heels.

‘Mrs Lowder, Sophie, dear!’ she exclaimed upon sighting them. ‘You are here at last. Do take their cloaks,’ she said to one of the footmen. ‘I’m so glad, I have been waiting to show you …’ She faltered as Sophie’s cloak came off.

‘Not you, too,’ Sophie groaned. She thought she looked rather well, especially for the role Miss Ashford had asked her to play. She wore churidar, or baggy silk trousers of deepest blue, an upper garment whose close-fitting bodice was of the same hue, with long, tight sleeves of white. Over this she had a tunic of pale blue, richly embroidered with silver and white, and reaching to her knees. Her hair hung loose in dark waves, adorned only by a plain corded band, with a single jewel—a sparkling tear-shaped sapphire—centered on her forehead. On her feet were velvet slippers of the same dark blue. A necklace of gold coins and bangles at her wrist and ankle completed the ensemble.

‘Is this not what you described?’ she asked. ‘Don’t I look like I could be Scheherazade’s sister?’

‘Indeed, it is what we discussed,’ said Miss Ashford, ‘and you do look very … erm … authentic.’

‘You look like you walked straight out of a harem!’ Emily said. ‘Even when we assembled the pieces I could not object, and on me or Miss Ashford there would probably be no concern. I don’t know how to say it, but somehow, on you, this outfit is very—’ she lowered her voice to a whisper ‘—sensual.’

Sophie laughed. ‘All well and good then, I should draw my share of donations.’

Instead of soliciting donations in a large bowl at the entrance of the ballroom as the guests entered, Miss Ashford had hit upon the charming scheme of offering entertainments in exchange for her guests’ generosity. All of the young ladies on her committee were cooperating and she had struck upon the idea of Scheherazade’s sister as a way of utilising Sophie’s artistic talents.

Sophie’s remark seemed to recall Miss Ashford to her senses. ‘Yes, we must keep our goal in mind, after all. But come, you must see what we have prepared for you.’

They entered the ballroom and Sophie was transfixed. ‘Oh, how delightful.’ The galleries were draped with rich fabrics and musicians tuned their instruments on a dais in the back. Hundreds of candles and a forest of fresh blooms had transformed the room into a sparkling fantasy.

‘It has turned out well, hasn’t it?’ Miss Ashford asked with a satisfied smile.

‘The vignettes are darling,’ Emily said.

Miss Ashford had set up separate areas around the room for each of her planned entertainments. The ladies who had agreed to perform were all present; they quickly gathered to exclaim over the new arrivals’ costumes and to show off their own.

One young lady in an ephemeral white gown had a small stage with a grand floor harp. Another had a banner-draped corner with a small table and was dressed as a fetching gypsy girl. A painted backdrop set the stage for a charming girl in scarlet who meant to sing.

But none held a candle to Sophie’s vignette. A shimmering ivory tent took up one corner of the ballroom. The flowing fabric was pulled wide, exposing an opulent scene straight out of Arabian Nights. Swathes of silk were everywhere, large pillows and rose petals covered the floor, and in the middle of this decadent Eastern scene sat a large easel and a pair of chairs.

‘Miss Ashford,’ Sophie said, trying to take it all in, ‘you have been hiding a decided flair for the dramatic.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Emily as they approached the tent. ‘It is nothing less than awe inspiring. Sophie will fit right in. I am still worried, however, about the stir it might cause.’ Her voice grew firm. ‘I will not have her thought of as fast. ‘

‘Nor would I,’ agreed Miss Ashford. ‘We must take care to see that all the proprieties are met. Would it suffice if we agreed that she shall have one of us as a chaperon at all times?’

‘Well. Yes,’ Emily said slowly. ‘That should do. I shall take the first shift.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘You must promise to be on your best behaviour tonight, my dear. The costume alone is risky; we dare not give the gabble-grinders any further ammunition.’

‘I do promise,’ she agreed, stroking the rich fabric of the tent.

‘Good, then I shall return when I find a chair to position at the entrance, for I will not recline on those pillows, even for a charitable cause.’

Sophie waved her off and turned around inside the tent. ‘How wonderful! I feel positively transported.’ She beckoned Miss Ashford in. ‘Come along, as this was all your idea, you must be first to sample Dunyazade’s talents.’ Lowering her voice and attempting an Eastern accent she cajoled, ‘Come, my dear, sit, make yourself comfortable. I shall draw you a picture of your fondest dreams.’

‘No, no,’ Miss Ashford protested. ‘I still have much to do.’

‘Nonsense. You have worked long.’ She gestured to the glittering ballroom. ‘All is set for a magical evening.’ Sophie pulled her to the comfortable chair across from the easel. ‘Sit back. Take a minute for yourself.’ She took up Miss Ashford’s hands and began to rub them, waiting for the tension to ease from her arms and shoulders.

‘This is silly,’ Miss Ashford protested weakly.

‘Indeed, it is not. Close your eyes,’ she directed softly.

Sophie took her seat. Paper was already tacked up, a box of coloured chalks sat at the ready. ‘Now, bring your mind to your favourite place. Where would you most like to be? It needn’t be a spot in the true world—perhaps it is where you have always dreamed yourself to be.’

She saw the moment when Miss Ashford gave in. She began to sketch quickly while her subject sat silent, still a moment. When she could see that Miss Ashford was absorbed in her own private world, she said quietly, ‘Tell me what you see.’

‘A garden. Full of blooms. The sky is very blue. It is lovely.’ She sighed.

‘Are you alone?’ Sophie pitched her voice lower still as her fingers moved swiftly on the page.

‘No. There are many people here. They are watching me.’

‘Look down,’ Sophie directed. ‘What is in your hand?’

‘More flowers. Lilies. I can almost smell them.’

‘How do you feel in your beautiful garden?’

Miss Ashford was quiet a long moment. ‘I feel … at peace. Appreciated.’

Sophie heaved a sigh. If this could work so well on practical, prudent Miss Ashford, then she could put away her last worry for the evening. She sketched in a few last details. ‘You may open your eyes now, Miss Ashford, though I would not blame you should you wish to stay in your garden.’

Her eyes popped open and she blinked to focus. ‘Oh. Yes. Well, I should run and check the kitchens.’

‘Wait a moment,’ Sophie called. She pulled the thick vellum from the easel and handed it over. ‘Don’t forget, a memento of your visit to Dunyazade.’

‘Oh, my,’ Miss Ashford whispered in awe. ‘It is just as I imagined.’

‘How lovely,’ Emily said as she entered. She directed a servant to place the chair and peered over Miss Ashford’s shoulder.

Sophie had drawn Miss Ashford in her garden, surrounded by a bower of fresh greens and pretty blooms. She wore a flowing white dress with tiny, capped sleeves, a wreath of flowers in her hair, and carried a group of vibrant lilies.

‘I hope you have many happy moments there,’ Sophie said, watching Miss Ashford’s reaction. She looked on the verge of tears.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered again.

‘Now then,’ Sophie said, turning to Emily and giving Miss Ashford a chance to gather her wits, ‘you must be my assistant as well as my duenna. Where are those ribbons we spoke of when we were planning this scheme? Ah, there in the basket. Let’s tie up Miss Ashford’s picture so that she may put it away until after her evening is done.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Miss Ashford, recovered now. ‘I must be off. I see they still do not have the bookcase in place for Miss Harraday’s poetry reading.’ She strode away, the golden ribbons in her hair catching the light as she left the darker environs of the tent.

‘Perhaps this will turn out well, after all,’ Emily said.

‘I do believe it will, at that,’ Sophie agreed.

In fact, it turned out to be a very near thing. Before long the rooms began to fill. Milkmaids mixed with kings, pirates led medieval princesses onto the dance floor. Miss Ashford’s young ladies began their performances and the silver bowls at each vignette began to fill.

Except at Sophie’s tent. Lady Dayle sat for Dunyazade. The Duchess of Charmouth told Sophie to draw her in her new ballroom. No one else ventured close. People gawked, whispered, and walked repeatedly past, but no one entered.

‘What is it, Lady Dayle?’ Emily asked from her post at the entrance to the tent. ‘Why aren’t they coming in?’

‘There’s talk of Sophie’s trousers, but even the highest sticklers cannot refute that she’s more than decently covered,’ the viscountess answered, her voice troubled. ‘But there is another problem. Someone is spreading rumours, accusing Sophie of being difficult and temperamental, of trying to outshine the other young ladies.’

‘I feared something would happen,’ moaned Emily. ‘What are we to do?’

In the end, they did not have to do anything. Charles’s cousin, Theo Alden, of all people, saved the day.

He didn’t mean to. He entered the lavish tent with malice, intending to take advantage of the wave of malicious gossip and take the impudent Westby chit down a notch or two. He settled in the chair with bad grace and pictured Sophie’s downfall instead of his own piece of heaven.

Sophie gave it to him anyway. His jaw dropped and his heart swelled when she handed him his picture, effectively expelling all of his ugly intentions.

She’d drawn him strutting in the park, dressed to perfection in an elegant, only slightly showy ensemble, while jealous dandies and worshipful females looked on.

‘The green of the coat exactly matches my eyes,’ he exclaimed. ‘The pleat in these pantaloons showcases the length of my limbs.’

He tore his gaze from the drawing. ‘I have wronged you, Miss Westby. You have the eye, the soul, of an artist. I will take this to my tailor tomorrow and have it exactly replicated.’

Sophie smiled. ‘I’m glad you approve.’

‘What shade of gold would you call this waistcoat?’

There were no more problems after that. Theo’s set crowded in and soon there was a line waiting to sit in Dunyazade’s chair. Sophie drew until she thought her fingers would fall off. The bowl outside her tent filled and had to be replaced. She hadn’t had a rest or a dance all evening, but she barely noticed. Always she kept one eye on her latest subject and the other trained for any sign of Charles.

Charles swore as his valet struggled with the high boots of his costume. He was going to be late again.

Truly, though, it couldn’t have been helped. He’d been closeted with the committee on farmland distress all day, and they had made significant progress. ‘Sorry, must go and gather my costume for tonight’s masquerade’ wasn’t an excuse that balanced against the fate of desperate English farmers.

His valet, Crocker, had done wonders without him, however. Now Charles stood and allowed him to drape the billowing black cape over his shoulders. There, he was the image of an eighteenth-century highwayman, lace collar, cuffs, and all. He had balked at donning the old-fashioned shirt, but Crocker had insisted. ‘No,’ his man had said in his usual raspy voice and blunt manner, ‘my lord must be the romantic, noble thief of the last century, not the ill-bred, dirty, illiterate road agent one encounters these days.’

Charles had looked askance at the man and wondered briefly just what it was he did with his off days. He decided it was wiser not to know. He threw back his cape, strapped the light rapier to his side and bade Crocker not to wait up.

It was a sorry highwayman who rode through town in a carriage. Outside his groom waited with two restive mounts. They set off, and Charles chuckled, wondering whom he might startle in the streets of Mayfair tonight. It was a fitting disguise, for tonight he meant to defy both fate and his enemy and steal back his future.

His future with Sophie. Just the thought fired his soul, filled him with a longing so intense it was almost frightening. His plan would work. It must. Sophie could do it—she could become the steady, respectable lady he needed. All this time he had fretted and worried that she might be a threat to his plans. It was the height of irony that she was now in the position where she might be the one to save them.

He needn’t have worried about frightening anyone in the streets, for everyone in London was obviously at the charity ball. Impatience winning out over manners, Charles made his way through the multitude of revellers just waiting to get in. He stood in the entryway and marvelled at the crowd. Good heavens, but the modistes must have been burning the midnight oil for weeks. He saw mermaids, chevaliers, and Roman senators. If he was not mistaken, that was a member of the Royal Family dressed as old Boney himself. But nowhere did he see the smile he was looking for.

He did catch site of Miss Ashford as he entered the ballroom, dressed as one of the goddesses. Diana, judging by the purely decorative bow she had slung over one shoulder. She must be in alt at the success of her ball, and as heartily as Charles commended her, he most definitely did not wish to see her now. He ducked to one side of a bookcase as her gaze wandered his way.

Hold a moment. A bookcase? In the ballroom of the Argyll Rooms? He peeked out and noted a pretty young lady taking a stand on a carpet just in front of his hiding spot. A group was gathering politely before her. The young lady breathed deep.

When Man, expell’d from Eden’s bowers,

A moment linger’d near the gate,

Each scene recall’d the vanish’d hours,

And bade him curse his future fate.

Not Byron, Charles moaned.

‘I say,’ a nearby satyr said to his companion, a robed wizard, ‘had you heard the story of when Dayle dressed as Byron and visited the Mayfair Ladies Byron Appreciation Society to sign copies of the latest edition of his poetry?’

Charles dropped his head in his hands. At least this was a short selection. Soon the masked audience was applauding and depositing coins and tokens in the silver bowl on a nearby stand. Then, vaguely, Charles remembered Miss Ashford prattling about the performances at her ball.

A sudden, uneasy prickle tripped its way down his spine. He’d better find Sophie, fast.

His anxiety increased as he paced the length of the ballroom and noted each of the performers as he passed. Singer. Harpist. He shook his head. Sword dancer?

When he caught site of the tent, he knew. He knew, and his blood began to boil.

It nearly erupted out the top of his head when he grew close enough to see inside. Long, curling hair pulled back from her face, hanging loose to her waist. Smouldering, painted eyes. Long slim legs in trousers, though they were baggy, and a tight-fitting bodice exposed under the covering tunic as her arm lifted to the easel.

She was sex personified, igniting fantasies of long desert nights and secret Eastern skills. His heart contracted, his body tightened at the sight of her and he wanted to scream his rage—because he knew every other man here was having the same reaction.

Desperately trying to clamp a hold on his anger, he stalked to the tent.

Sophie was tiring a little of her role and wishing she could get up to see some of the ball. She brightened, however, when her uncle stepped into the tent, bringing someone with him.

‘Uncle! How good of you to come. I’m sure Miss Ashford will be grateful.’ She smiled. ‘Shall Dunyazade draw your portrait? At least you have no mask to remove. Just have a seat and throw back the hood of your domino.’

‘Your uncle is always ready to support a worthy cause, my dear. But see, here is the reason I’ve come tonight.’ He motioned to the man accompanying him to step forward. ‘I’ve brought you a surprise.’

Sophie smiled and studied the man as he drew closer. Tall and slender, he was dressed soberly, with a broad-brimmed black hat over dark curls. He seemed familiar, but she did not recall that they had met. ‘Sir? Are you a Quaker, come to remind me of my old home?’

‘Dressed as a Quaker, for expediency’s sake, and definitely here to remind you of home,’ he returned with a sparkling smile showcasing white teeth against dark skin. ‘I do not expect you to recognise me, Miss Westby, but I would know you anywhere. You are the very image of your mother.’

‘My mother?’ Sophie stilled and cast a questioning glance to her uncle.

‘It’s been a long time,’ her uncle said, ‘but I’m sure you’ll remember your cousin, Mr Cardea.’

A sudden vision flashed in her mind. A curly-haired boy, eyes alight with mischief, tugging her braids, chasing her through her home while she shrieked in glee. ‘Mateo?’ she whispered.

‘Indeed, it is I!’ He swept her up in an impulsive embrace and twirled her around. Emily gasped from the entrance where she had once again taken up her post, and Mateo threw her a wink before he set Sophie down.

‘But what brings you to London?’ Sophie asked, smiling.

‘Lord Cranbourne and I have business dealings. I was already contemplating coming to London, but when one of his letters mentioned you, my fate was sealed. I hopped aboard the first one of our ships leaving port, and here I am.’

‘Here you are,’ echoed Sophie. His blithe statement raised several questions in her mind. What sort of business dealings? And surely the timing was off, was it not? But before she could find a polite way to ask, some small, inarticulate sound made her turn to the wide opening of the tent. It was filled with a large figure in tight black clothes, long dark boots and a small black mask. Her heart began to pound.

‘Charles!’

‘Sophie,’ he said abruptly. He advanced into the tent, changing the atmosphere with the dark menace of his assumed identity. Sophie swallowed and hoped it was only the costume. ‘Lord Cranbourne. And?’

‘Oh, Charles, please, allow me to introduce my cousin. Mateo, this is Lord Dayle. Charles, this is my cousin, Mr Cardea.’

Mateo flashed his charming smile and made a very credible bow. ‘Delighted, Lord Dayle.’

‘As am I, Mr Cardea.’ He turned to her uncle. ‘Congratulations, Cranbourne. I heard you had won the chairmanship for the Board of Trade’s committee. I missed you at the preliminary meeting today, but I look forward to working with you.’

Cranbourne grinned. ‘Thank you, Dayle. I’m sure we’ll accomplish much.’

Charles nodded. ‘I hope you will all forgive my rudeness, but Sophie is promised to me for this set.’

Sophie blushed with pleasure and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, that sounds lovely. I haven’t had a dance all evening. Pray, do excuse us, Uncle, Mateo.’

His eyes warm with regard, her cousin pressed her free hand. ‘We shall see each other again soon, I hope.’

Sophie could only nod as Charles stalked out, his hand tight on hers. She struggled to keep up with his long stride.

‘The sets are forming this way, Charles.’

‘We are not dancing,’ he growled.

She swallowed her disappointment and surprise and looked at him in question. His eyes were cold and hard again, a study in opposites from the warm openness of her cousin’s. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer. It appeared that he was looking for something. He stopped when his gaze fell on the galleries overhead and then he headed for the nearest stairway at the front of the room.

They had to manoeuvre through quite a crowd and by the time they reached the stairs, Sophie was tired of feeling like a toy on the end of a string. All of her happy anticipation was draining away. ‘I’m not going a step further until you tell me what has upset you now.’

He paused part way up and threw a heated glance over his shoulder. ‘We have to talk, and the things we must say to each other are not for other ears.’

She hesitated a moment. His walls were back and up and she was tired of trying to breach them. On the other hand, she’d heard of the cosy alcoves located above, and some of the things that were rumoured to go on in them. The thought of that early morning encounter and the way it had made her feel floated through her mind and sent a shiver of excitement through her. Before she could formulate another thought, her feet were mounting the steps right after Charles.

Oh, my. She’d come to the top and could see why the galleries were so well known, and masquerades so popular. Charles had passed by several alcoves, some with curtains drawn, some not. He drew her now towards a small room with a door, but Sophie’s attention was caught by something else. ‘Charles,’ she whispered, ‘is that shepherdess kissing the knight who I think she is?’

‘Yes, but you are not to repeat a word of it,’ he said in a harsh whisper.

‘I wouldn’t. I don’t think her husband would approve, though.’

He pulled her into the room and shut the door. It was a subscription room, or something like. The walls were covered with shelves of books and periodicals, but Sophie barely noticed. ‘Well,’ she said, her mind still on what she had just witnessed, ‘they shouldn’t be able to get up to too much mischief. Just think of the noise, with all that armour.’

Charles laughed, the sound soft and bitter. Sophie looked at him in concern. She didn’t wish to deal with one of his moods. In fact, she wanted him in another mood altogether. Like he’d been last time. Perhaps now she had a better idea on how to achieve that. ‘Are you going to tell me what has upset you so?’

‘I’m amazed that you must ask.’

‘How could I know? You barely speak, you won’t dance, you drag me up here like a toy you’ve found someone else playing with.’ She was staring at his mouth while she spoke, unable to tear her gaze away. She bit her own lip in nervous agitation. ‘You’re certainly in a different temper from the last time we met.’

She sounded wistful even to her own ears. Edging closer, she saw the anger that had been haunting his eyes turn to wariness. And something else—desire. Slowly she raised her hand, placed it on his chest. Hard, like marble, but so warm. ‘Perhaps we should just forget whatever’s bothering you and pick up where we left off.’

He groaned, either in agony or amusement. Perhaps both. ‘Sophie—you’re driving me mad.’ He reached out and wrapped her in his arms and she thought she’d gladly join him on the trip.

He smelled of sandalwood and leather and virile male. His vexation was apparent in the hard crush of his mouth on hers, but she didn’t care. She opened her mouth, drank it in, and gave it back as hot, slick passion.

He shuddered and pulled her tighter, running his warm hands under her tunic. She gasped when he cupped the swell of her breasts. Then those large hands were moving, flowing around the curve of her waist and tracing the thinly disguised line of her buttocks. She pressed tighter to him and he kissed her deeper yet, while she savoured the heat and the strength and the taste of him.

Sophie was briefly bereft when his mouth abandoned hers, only to trail over the line of her jaw and down her throat. The rough cloth of his mask brushed her soft skin, arousing her almost as much as his searing kiss.

His hands came back up to her breasts, kneading her through the tight bodice. She felt her nipples swell, and her body arched, answering the rough caress with a pulsing throb that travelled from the point of his possessive caress to the coiling heat in her belly.

With a moan, Charles pushed a leg between her thighs. With no enveloping skirts in the way the contact was close and powerful. She could feel his full arousal against her most intimate spot, and she suddenly understood why a woman in trousers was so scandalous. She also understood for the first time what true passion was. Not restless longing and vague, unrelenting craving, but a powerful, lust-filled whirlwind that stole away all reason, crushed resistance and blew her inevitably toward her final destination.

Sophie couldn’t summon the will to resist; she just clung to Charles and hung on, ready to follow the destructive vortex to the end. Charles, however, was made of sterner stuff. Eventually he wrenched his mouth from hers and pulled away.

Sophie breathed deep, desperate for air, for something to replace her abrupt loss. Charles was panting as well and glaring at her as if she had been the one to call a halt to the proceedings.

‘Do you see?’ he demanded. ‘What you drive me to? What every man down there wishes to get a chance at?’

Sophie was shocked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s a far cry from being ridiculous, it’s the truth. What was it I asked of you when we last parted? Just don’t get into any trouble. But you take the first opportunity to make a grand spectacle of yourself.’

‘A spectacle? It’s a benefit. Other young ladies are performing as well.’

‘None of the other ladies look like they sprang from a bordello’s re-enactment of the Arabian Nights! You’re wearing trousers! They’ll have to destroy half the forests of England to print all that will be said of you in tomorrow’s broadsides and papers.’

‘You are overreacting. And in any case, what if they do?’ she asked, tossing her hair. ‘I told you once before—you cannot control what others think. I don’t care what people say of me.’ If she did, she’d have broken long ago.

‘And I told you then—you should care.’ He groaned and ripped off his mask. ‘If you hold any hope of becoming my bride—you must.’

Sophie froze. All the elation she’d been feeling these past days began to wither. ‘Pardon me?’

‘You know my situation, what I’ve been doing this Season. I must find a bride of sterling character and reputation. People are watching me, judging me by the choices I make. I have to live down my past; I must show good judgement and an eye for the future when I wed.’

Sophie tried to breathe, but it seemed each word fed the pain that was building in her chest, cutting off her air, her blood, her belief in Charles and his in her. ‘Choosing me would be a show of bad judgment?’

‘I don’t think so, but others will.’

‘All this because of a masquerade costume?’

He took her hand, led her over to a little chair, then pulled up another close to her. ‘It’s not just the costume, Sophie. It’s—it’s more. I don’t know. It’s not always the things you do, it’s the way you do them.’

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t force any words past the fist of agony inside her. All the taunts, all the rejections of her childhood—none of them had hurt so badly as this. It was Charles throwing these barbs at her now, and hitting her most vulnerable spot with devastating accuracy. She could only look at him with accusing eyes.

He misunderstood. ‘No—it’s more than your designs—because it’s not just your designs. You don’t just have an interest in décor—you publish a book. You trade fabric swatches with the Prince Regent, for God’s sake!’

He took her hand, clasped it in his warm grasp. ‘Please, just listen to me for a moment. We can make it work,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we can. But it will take some effort from you, Sophie.’ He smiled, tried to rally her. ‘It won’t be so bad. Mother will help. I know you disapprove of Miss Ashford, but her reputation is spotless. We can use her as a model of sorts.’ He smiled again. ‘If I can go from England’s worst profligate to a politician on the path to the ministry, then you’ll have a much easier time.’

The air was cold in this little room, or perhaps it was just her frozen heart. She shook her head. He didn’t even know that he was betraying her, killing the one belief that had given her hope, kept her sane. ‘What you are saying—’ her voice was dangerous ‘—is that we can be married, once I learn to behave?’

He heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘Don’t phrase it in such a way. You know the situation. We just have to change society’s image of you.’

The cold was disappearing fast, fleeing before the heat of her rising fury. ‘Oh, but why stop there?’ she asked. ‘For you surely did not. No—you changed their perception of you and then you continued on, changing your personality, your heart, and your soul. You’ve changed more than I suspected, to be able to say such things to me.’ She turned, not wanting him to see the tears that she couldn’t hold back.

He moved closer, until she could feel his breath close to her ear. Before he could insult her any further, voices echoed in the hall, just outside the subscription room door.

‘Do not look at them, Corinne,’ someone commanded in a sharp, nasal tone. ‘Oh, I shall shake the wretched girl. I do hope you are wrong, but we must look into it, I suppose.’

‘I’m sure it is not what you might be thinking, Mama.’ Miss Ashford’s usually calm voice sounded almost smug.

The door opened and the two ladies peered in.

‘Miss Westby!’ Lady Ashford gasped. ‘I am sure I did not believe the vile rumours that have been circulating about you tonight, but I see I have been proven wrong. And you, of all people, Lord Dayle!’

‘It is perfectly all right, Mama, as I have tried to tell you,’ Miss Ashford said. ‘Lord Dayle and Miss Westby are old friends. They grew up together and regard each other more as brother and sister than anything else.’ She ran an assessing eye down Sophie. ‘No one who is familiar with them would suspect anything untoward. I am sure the situation is perfectly innocent.’

‘Is my daughter correct, Lord Dayle?’ Lady Ashford demanded.

He did not answer, did not even look her way. His gaze remained locked with Sophie’s. She turned from him, avoided the questioning eyes of the Ashford ladies, and moved to brush past them.

‘Please,’ he said to her. ‘I wish it were otherwise. Is it really too much to ask, when you consider what might be gained?’

She closed her eyes as the rage drained away. It left behind an empty husk in its wake, all too vulnerable to the pain that was quick to rush back. She turned to him, looked him in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘It is too much. If you knew me at all in the way that I thought you did, you wouldn’t have to ask.’

She fled, fighting tears, running from the ache of despair. Her feet flew down the stairs as she struggled to rein in her emotions. She must get away. She absolutely could not break down in front of so many witnesses.

Her every resource was focused inward. She did not see the two men whispering together at the bottom of the stairs until she had run into them.

‘I do beg your pardon,’ she said thickly, without stopping.

‘Sophie!’ It was her uncle, and her cousin. ‘Are you well? You look upset.’

‘I am not feeling at all the thing, Uncle. Do excuse me.’

‘Then of course you must go home at once.’

Sophie had to fight off a bitter comment about the extreme lateness of his solicitude.

‘Mr Cardea will escort you, will you not, sir?’ Mateo bowed low. ‘I shall be delighted.’ Sophie hadn’t the energy to decline. She left a message for Lady Dayle and departed with her cousin.

She never felt the weight of two separate, but very satisfied, gazes as she went.