Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 61

Of course, he didn’t die. He didn’t even get out of the house party. In the end, it wasn’t worth it. It would have insulted his guests, hurt his mother, and given the score keepers one more black mark next to his name. He’d given them enough ammunition with this last trip below the mahogany, and they had revelled in it. He had a flock of reporters following him now, all poised with pencils and pads, waiting for him to speak in tongues or start fornicating in the streets, he assumed. He ignored them. He had other things to worry over.

When Sophie had walked out on him at that charity ball, he’d been shocked. As angry as he’d been, he’d thought they could come to an understanding. He’d still thought it an inspired solution to all their problems. He’d quickly moved from shocked to furious, and had spent the next couple of days cursing the inconstancy of women in general and Sophie’s misplaced pride in particular.

And then, in the middle of a committee meeting, right in the midst of a report documenting bread riots in Birmingham, the realisation had struck him. How his brilliant idea might have sounded to Sophie. How it must have made her feel.

Gone were the disturbing details of protesting farm labourers refusing to work and harvests rotting in the field. Instead, images of Sophie began to flash in his mind. The hurt on her young face when her vague aunt forgot her name again. The defiant squaring of her shoulders when her birthday came with no acknowledgement except his own. Her reluctance to be drawn into the social whirl. Her grim pronouncement that she was a designer, not a débutante.

She put up such a brave front that even he—who knew what hurts lurked behind her bright vitality—had forgotten. He knew the frightened little girl who hid behind the beautiful woman. Yet he had been so wrapped up in maintaining his own façade, that he’d forgotten hers.

It was then that he’d realised the magnitude of what he’d done, how his callous words would have hurt her. It was then that he’d gone on his carouse. Lord Cranbourne—her uncle, no less—had shaken him back to reality when the meeting ended. Charles had thanked the man and left. Unable to bear the thought of the damage he’d inadvertently caused, he’d left Westminster, gone straight to the nearest grogshop, and washed away the agony brought on by his latest bout of selfishness with a river of cheap gin.

Unfortunately, one could only hide in an alcoholic haze for so long. Jack and Crocker had fished him out, and he’d tried to get on with his life. Only to find he could not. Politics, Miss Ashford’s expectations, even the thought of the elusive Mr Wren—none of it could hold his interest. He’d wandered through the next few days numb, lost. He didn’t know who he was any more. Not rakish, carefree Charles Alden, and no longer Viscount Dayle, young politician on the path to the ministry. Who was he then? He didn’t know or care.

His only thought was that he must see Sophie. He burned to see her, with an aching desperation that obliterated all else. He had to know what they might salvage out of the mess he’d made. He had to tell her he finally understood how profoundly stupid he had been. He had to make amends.

He’d latched on to that thought like it was a lifeline. With his brother and his father there had been no opportunity for apologies, but with Sophie he had a chance to make everything right again. He didn’t mean to waste it.

Thus he stood now, on the threshold of his newly redecorated house, and at a crossroads in his life. He breathed deeply and entered.

The entrance hall was bright with sun and welcoming with the gleam of polished wood and crisp, whitewashed stucco. Charles advanced, breathing in the homey, welcoming smells; beeswax and biscuits and the faint tang of new paint.

The dining room to the right stood empty, of both people and furniture. The paint smell was stronger here. He turned to the left and approached the entrance to the drawing room.

Sophie was there, with his mother. They were both bent headfirst into a packing crate. Bits of straw floated in the air above, and when his mother straightened, he could see it stuck in her hair as well. But it wasn’t that that brought him up short. It was her face, alive with mischief and laughter. His mother, he realised, was happy.

Sophie stood then, laughing as well. She had a smudge on her cheek and a huge stain down one arm. Her dress was old and faded. Her dark tresses, once gathered simply at her nape, were a dishevelled mess. She was beautiful. Charles stood, absorbing the brightness of her smile, drinking the music of her laughter, and knew, with sudden clarity, what a colossal fool he was.

Sophie was a shining light in a world of dark indifference. She’d borne so much, and never broken. She might have become bitter and withdrawn; instead she gave of herself with every word, every smile. She didn’t hide behind superficialities, or stifle her talent because it wasn’t fashionable. No, she laid her true self before every person she encountered and she risked censure and disdain to make others happy.

Like his mother, who must endure one of life’s worst hardships. Like Emily Lowder, who had faced the same sort of disappointment and heartache, yet emerged victorious. Like she might have done for him, had he been clever enough to recognise her for the treasure she was.

She might have shone her light into his darkness. He closed his eyes and imagined it. Gentle smiles, healing hands, forgiveness. He could have cherished her, pleasured her, buried his hurt in her lithe body and emerged clean, and nearly whole.

It was more than he deserved. He had disparaged her, lectured her, hurt her. She was open and generous, while he had secrets he could never share. But his yearning for her purity, her warmth, her love, was visceral and undeniable. He didn’t deserve her, yet he wanted her with a desperation that was nearly palpable.

‘Charles!’ His eyes opened. His mother had noticed him in the archway. ‘You’re here!’

‘Yes,’ he said, trying to hide his need, his confusion. ‘I thought I should be here when the guests begin to arrive tomorrow.’

Sophie stood silent. His mother was fluttering, placing the top back on the crate and signalling the footman who had appeared behind Charles to take charge of it. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, dear. We are nearly ready. I do need to see Mrs Hepple about the dinner tomorrow, though, so I’ll let Sophie give you the tour of the house.’ She gave him an affectionate peck on her way out. ‘I shall see you a little later, hmm?’ and then she was gone.

He advanced cautiously into the room, his mind awhirl with so many regrets. She dropped her eyes when he grew close. He stopped. ‘Sophie.’

‘I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,’ was all she said.

‘I wanted to see you. I thought it might be awkward were we to meet again in company.’

She risked a fleeting glance. ‘Yes, it might have been awkward.’ A flash of a quick smile gave himhope. ‘But so is this.’

He grinned back, with relief. ‘Yes, but at least there are no witnesses.’

Her face fell and he cursed himself for a fool. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ He took a step closer, fighting to keep from just taking her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her, softly, until the wounded look in her eyes was gone. ‘Every time I try to hold a conversation with you, I’m suddenly a gawky boy again.’ He waited but she gave no response. ‘I have to tell you how sorry I am. It finally penetrated my feeble brain just how my idiotic ramblings might have hurt you. I never meant to, though. It nearly killed me when I realised it.’

She drew a ragged breath and he stopped. ‘Please. I accept your apology.’

Charles sighed his relief. ‘Thank you.’ He couldn’t help himself then; he reached out and took one of her hands. Stained and callused, with ragged nails, it was a physical representation of all that she’d endured, of the generosity of mind, spirit and talent that set her apart. Ridiculous as it might seem, the touch of that worn little hand was more beautiful, more dear, more arousing to him than the boldest caress from any other woman in the world.

‘I know I’ve been selfish, blind, and testier than William the Goat—’ there, almost a smile ‘—but I also know that my feelings for you are real and abiding. Can’t we salvage something from the wreck I’ve made of our friendship?’

The smile disappeared and she pulled her hand from his. ‘No, Charles. You were right all along. We can’t go back. I was foolish to think we might.’

Charles’s breath caught. ‘But, Sophie, there’s so much I want to tell you—’

There was panic in her face now. She stopped him with a sharp motion of her hand. ‘I’m sorry. No. I cannot have this discussion with you now. This house party is going to be very difficult for me. If I am going to get through it with any semblance of dignity, then I have to ask you to wait.’

‘Wait?’

‘Yes. All the … things we need to discuss will still be there later. Perhaps they will come easier then, too.’

‘I understand.’ Charles thought a moment. ‘I don’t want to make this more difficult for you. Shall I go then, make an excuse for abandoning the party?’

‘No.’ Her reply was instantaneous. ‘It means so much to your mother.’

He should have expected her reaction. He was truly a fool. ‘Perhaps, then, we can try something new. Grant each other a clean slate. Spend these days as new acquaintances.’

Her look was speculative. ‘Yes, I think perhaps I should like that.’

‘Good. Well, then, Miss Westby, as a new acquaintance who also happens to be my designer, will you escort me on a tour of the house?’

They were both able to relax a little as he inspected the renovated rooms. It was easy to show his approval of her work. She’d turned a musty old house into a vibrant, welcoming home.

He was especially pleased with the library. The old pair of windows, tall and narrow with a padded seat at each base, had been ripped out, along with the entire wall between them. In their place stood an entire bank of windows, turning a gloomy room into a warm and sunny retreat. Outside the lawns stretched in a gorgeous, gradual slope down to the lake. Dappled sunlight danced on the water’s surface and reflected back from something shiny on the far side.

‘What is that, across the lake?’

‘A folly, a very beautiful one in the classical style. Your mother specifically requested it and has overseen its installation. She walks out there most mornings.’

‘Shall we go out and inspect that as well?’

‘Perhaps later.’ She smiled. ‘The reflection is from the copper cupola. The effect won’t last, though. Once it weathers a bit it won’t bother you.’

‘It doesn’t bother me now.’ Charles strode about the library, admiring the new bookcases, the tasteful refurbishings, the elegant carpet. ‘Is this new?’

Sophie’s smile was genuine now. ‘No, we only cleaned the old one. I don’t think it had been done in years.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ He trailed a finger over the immaculately shining, nearly empty desk. ‘I see my correspondence hasn’t caught up with me.’

Sophie winced and Charles chuckled. ‘Yes, I can well imagine the tone of your own correspondence of late.’ He grew more serious and looked her in the eye. ‘I’ll only mention it this once, until you are ready to talk, but I want you to know that I am glad you emerged from that situation unscathed. For your sake,’ he emphasised.

Her face was pale, and she only said, ‘Thank you.’

He lightened his tone a bit. ‘There’s something you might have missed, if you’ve been neglecting your post.’

She raised a brow in question.

‘Lady Avery has returned.’

That did capture her interest. ‘Has she?’

‘Indeed. She ran out of money and the valet ran off with the jewels. She’s returned to London.’

‘And what of Lord Avery?’

‘By all accounts, he’s taken her back.’

‘Oh, but I am so proud of him! How he must have missed her. I hope they can find happiness in each other, now.’

‘I do as well, for he’s little chance of finding it elsewhere.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the poor man’s a laughing stock—even more so than before.’

‘Because he loves his wife?’ She looked indignant.

‘Because he looks a besotted fool, and men are … well, men. Society will shun them. They may establish their own circle, as Lord and Lady Holland eventually managed, but Lord Avery’s political influence will falter as his supporters scurry away.’ Much like his own, Charles thought with some irony. ‘Like rats before a fire.’

The dismay on her face both touched him and ignited a twinge of exasperation. ‘Have you learned nothing from my situation over the last months? From your own dip in the scandal broth?’

‘Yes,’ she shot back. ‘I’ve learned that London is full of hypocrites, people who won’t hesitate to criticise others even while perpetrating worse behind closed doors.’

‘Exactly!’ Charles said. ‘Then you’ve learned the most valuable lesson regarding the ton. You can get away with almost any evil if you are discreet. The only unforgivable sin is to get caught.’

She was ablaze with anger now. ‘Token sanctimony. It is ridiculous! How can you so calmly accept such a gross injustice?’

Lord, but she was beautiful when she was in a passion. Charles shook his head as the import of her question sunk in. ‘Because I’ve already tried to fight it, and lost. Can you have forgotten my misspent youth? I broke every one of society’s rules and flaunted each misdeed. I flung their hypocrisy into their faces—and what did I reap? Ruination and destruction.’

‘Destruction?’

He’d said too much. The warning was in the arrested look on her face. ‘Yes,’ he hedged, ‘even now, after so much time, it is destroying my political career. I fashioned my detractor’s most lethal weapon myself.’

She didn’t look entirely convinced that’s what he had meant. ‘Lord and Lady Avery know this, Sophie,’ he said, trying to get her back on to the thread of the conversation. ‘I’m sure they’ve accepted it. They’ll be happy in their private life, even if they must give up their public one.’

‘They should have both. They’ve harmed no one but themselves. If they can forgive and embrace each other still, what can anyone else say of it?’

Her anger faded, and the look in her eye became thoughtful, crafty. Charles sucked in a breath. He’d seen that look enough to know that trouble followed.

‘All that is required is a little help.’

‘Help?’ he asked.

‘Yes, someone to show their acceptance and support.’

Charles considered. ‘You may be right. Some of Avery’s cronies are very well placed. He might muddle through with their assistance.’

‘I hope so.’ She sighed. ‘Have you seen them?’

‘Me?’ Charles snorted. ‘I have no doubt that mine is the last face either of them wish to see.’

‘On that score I would guess you are wrong. Lord Avery strikes me as a very honourable man.’ She lifted her chin, looking him direct in the eye. ‘They would both be easier if given the opportunity to apologise to you, I imagine. At the very least you might let them know you hold no grudge. Your good wishes would probably hold more weight than anyone else’s.’

Charles closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. He had always hated it when she was right. ‘No doubt you are correct. I shall call on them.’

‘Good.’ Now that she had won her point, she grew brisk, businesslike. ‘I hope you enjoyed the tour and approve of the house,’ she said, turning to the window as if unsure of his answer.

‘You know I do. It is lovely.’ Like you, he wanted to say.

‘I’m so glad you like it.’ She turned back. ‘It’s time I changed for dinner, and I must speak with your mother first. We have been dining early. I hope it will be acceptable? It’s a bit late to ask Cook to put it back.’

He nodded and she continued. ‘Shall I see you in the drawing room around six, then?’

‘Six,’ he affirmed. He watched her go, and then sank into the chair behind the desk. His head was spinning. He stared out of the window, the glinting light catching his eye again, and decided what he needed was a walk. Time to think, to sort all the conflicting loyalties that beset him, to decide what it was he wanted. Of Sophie, of his life. Perhaps he would have it all solved by dinner.

He would not care to wager on it.