Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Sophie could do no less for the woman who had been so kind and generous. And indeed, Lady Dayle had no true idea just how much her kindness had meant, for she could not know that in the very act of bringing her to London, she had brought Sophie that much closer to two of her most heartfelt desires.

First, of course, were the incredible opportunities that could arise from a London project. She smiled when she remembered thinking that Emily’s drawing room had been such a coup. As wonderful as that had turned out, it was as nothing compared to what exposure to the ton’s finest might do. So much might be accomplished if her designs were well received.

Second, and somehow more importantly, Lady Dayle had placed Sophie squarely in a position where she might see Charles again. Her pulse leaped at the thought.

She wondered what Lady Dayle knew of their relationship—but perhaps relationship was the wrong word. Friendship, then, because he had indeed been her friend. Her friend, her companion, her confidante, the knight of her youth.

Anticipation brought a secret smile to her face when she thought of the paper hidden in Nell’s bag. How she loved to read of his exploits. Through the years she had followed his nefarious career with the same glee that she had felt hearing of his schoolboy stunts. She could scarcely wait to tease every scandalous detail from him. It was her favourite fantasy; the pair of them, reunited, sharing laughter and dreams just as they had used to do.

Sophie had always known that some day they would meet again. But now that the distant promise had become a near certainty, she found that it had gained new significance.

How had he changed? What would he have to say to her? Sophie knew she stood at a crossroads in her life, a rare point filled with promise and possibilities ahead. Yet she also knew that she would not be able to settle to any one of them until she had the answers to those questions.

‘Miss!’ came a gasp from behind her. ‘Is it very much farther, miss?’ Nell sounded breathless. Apparently Sophie’s pace had quickened along with her thoughts.

‘Not much farther, I don’t believe.’

For Nell’s sake she slowed her steps and resolved to keep her mind off of the distant past and the uncertain future, and firmly on the task in the present.

It proved easier than she might have imagined, for Cheapside was a treat for the senses, populated as it was with all manner of shops and craftsmen. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the hot smell at the silversmiths, and again at the raw scent of fresh dye at the cloth weavers. She marvelled at the crowded windows of the engravers, but it wasn’t until she reached the tea merchant’s shop that she came to a delighted stop.

The merchant had at one time been blessed with a bowed shop window, but the area had been converted, or inverted, and now held a charming little protected alcove. Like a miniature Parisian café, it held a small table, meant, she supposed, for customers to sit and experience some exotic new flavour before they parted with their coin. It was the seating, in fact, which had so caught Sophie’s attention.

‘Nell, just look at those chairs. If I’m not mistaken, those are true Restoration pieces, sitting right out in the street! Yes,’ she said, rushing forward to stroke one lovingly. ‘The Portuguese arch. Oh, and look, Nell, you must hold my portfolio while I examine the pé de pincel.’

She could never truly say, afterward, just what went wrong. Perhaps the clasp had already been loose, or perhaps she herself accidentally triggered it. In any case, one second she was absentmindedly passing her portfolio back to Nell, and the next it was dropping wide open. Another gust of wind hit just then and all of her sketches and designs were sent skyward in a veritable cyclone of papers.

For a moment Sophie stood frozen in panic and watched as her life’s work scattered about the busy street. Then she sprang into action. First she sent Nell after those that had skipped back down the way they had just come. Then an enterprising street sweeper approached and offered to help retrieve the papers that had fluttered into the street. Sophie gave him a coin, entreated him not to place himself in any danger and sent him off.

She herself set after the bulk of the lot, which had gone swirling ahead of them. She was not heedless of the sight she must present, chasing, stooping, even jumping up to snatch at one desk design that had impaled itself on the pike of an iron railing, but she was beyond caring. These designs were her hopes for the future; she could no more abandon them than she could go quietly back to Blackford Chase.

At last, after much effort, there was only one paper left in sight. It led her a merry chase as it danced mere inches from her fingertips more than once. But each time she drew near another mischievous breeze would send it bounding ahead. Sophie’s back ached and her gown grew more filthy by the minute, but she refused to give up.

And she finally had a stroke of fortune. Just ahead a gentleman stalked out of a printer’s shop, right into the path of the wicked thing. It fetched up against a pair of well-formed legs, then flattened itself around one shining Hessian.

With a triumphant whoop Sophie swept down and snatched the paper up. Oh my, she thought as she caught sight of her own distorted grin, you truly can see your reflection in a gentleman’s boots.

‘Of course. It only wanted this.’ The voice above her was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I can now officially brand this day one of the worst I have ever endured. Now my valet shall berate me as soundly as the rest of London.’

Sophie fought the urge to grin as she slowly straightened up, her gaze travelling the unusual—and unusually pleasurable—path up the form of a well-formed gentleman. A well-heeled gentleman too, judging by the quality of the small clothes, which were buff, and the morning coat, which was, of course, blue, and the scowling face, which was …

Charles’s.

The shock was so great that her stomach fell all the way to the pavement and the rest of her nearly followed.

He saw the danger and grasped her arm to steady her. She looked again into his face and saw that it was true. His face was not quite the same, the handsome promise of youth having hardened into a more angular and masculine beauty. His eyes were different as well, so cold and hard as he scowled down at her, but it was undeniably, without a doubt, her Charles Alden.

Sophie was so happy to see him, despite the awkwardness of the moment, that she just beamed up at him. All the joyful anticipation she’d felt for this moment simply flooded out of her and she knew that her delight shone all over her face.

It was not a shared emotion. In fact, he dropped her arm as if he’d suddenly found her diseased.

Sophie’s smile only deepened. He didn’t know her! Oh, heavens, she was going to have some fun with him now.

‘I don’t know what you are smiling at. That was the worst example of unfeminine effrontery I have ever witnessed, and in the street, no less.’ He raked the length of her with a hard gaze. ‘You look the part of a lady, but it appears to end there. Where is your escort?’

‘My maid will be along in a minute,’ she replied almost absentmindedly. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. It was no wonder he’d had such a reputation as a rake; he had grown almost sinfully handsome. She would bet that women threw themselves in his path on a regular basis.

‘Please, stop that infernal smiling,’ he ordered. ‘If you need a good reason, impudent miss, just look at my boots!’

She obediently arranged her face into a more sombre mien. ‘Please, do forgive me, sir.’ She smoothed the chalked design that had indeed smudged the high polish off one of his Hessians. ‘Let me assure you that I do not usually behave in so reckless a fashion. But I had to have my papers back, you see.’

‘No, I do not see.’ He stopped suddenly, an arrested look upon his face. He glanced back at the building he had just exited; with a closer look it appeared to be a publisher’s office. ‘Are you a writer, a reporter, by chance?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. I—’ She was not allowed to finish.

‘Damn. I could do with someone from the press in my court.’ With a sudden motion, before she could protest, he had reached out and smoothly snatched the paper from her grasp. ‘But please, enlighten me as to just what is worth making a spectacle of yourself.’

Sophie looked as well and saw that it was a design of a chaise-lounge she had specifically drawn for his mother, complete with a complementary colour palette and notes on specific fabrics and trims.

‘Furniture,’ Charles said with a deprecating snort.

‘Décor,’ she corrected as she just as smoothly retrieved the design and tucked it with her others.

‘Pray, do excuse me,’ he drawled in exaggerated tones. For a moment he reminded her forcefully of his younger self, and her reaction was instantaneous and purely physical. And yet, something distracted her and slowed the melting of her insides. She’d heard that mocking tone before, but never with so hard an edge. He wasn’t taking her seriously, true, but he wasn’t being nice about it either.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I don’t believe I will,’ she replied.

His eyes widened in mock dismay. ‘Was that meant as a mortal blow to my pride? Unforgiven and despondent, the gentleman prostrates himself and begs for mercy. You have read one too many novels, my dear,’ he said.

‘Just look about you,’ he continued with an encompassing wave of his hand. ‘There are a good many things in this world in need of attention, even some worth making oneself a fool over. But let me assure you—’ his voice was getting louder now ‘—that furniture is not one of them.’

Sophie raised her brow in the very arrogant manner that he himself had taught her. ‘Perhaps not to you, sir, but our circumstances are quite different. You haven’t a notion of my concerns. To me, this is very important.’

‘Important, of course,’ he said, the sarcasm growing heavy again. ‘You will forgive me if I don’t raise décor to the same level as perhaps, the plight of the English farmer, or the suspension of Habeas Corpus.’

‘And you will forgive me if I place it a little higher than the shine on your boots.’

Charles stopped in the act of replacing his hat, clearly taken aback. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He jammed the beaver on to his head. ‘I concede you the point.’

Suddenly his shoulders slumped. He tore the hat off again and bowed his head. ‘What on earth am I doing?’ He heaved a sigh and the tense lines of his neck and shoulders relaxed.

When he looked up at Sophie again, it was as if a layer of cold stone had fallen from him. ‘Listen, I do apologise.’ He scrubbed a rough hand through his hair and flashed her a half-grin that was awkward and thoroughly familiar.

‘It’s not my usual habit to go about berating young women in the street, but then nothing has been usual in my life for—well, it feels like for ever. It has been so long since I had a normal conversation,’ he continued, ‘I scarcely recall how to go about it.’

The indefinable pull that emanated from him had doubled in its intensity. Sophie could not make herself respond, could not tear her gaze from his. There they were at last, warm in their regard, Charles’s eyes. Her Charles.

He didn’t seem to notice her lapse. ‘Allow me to help you.’

With brisk efficiency he soon had her designs in order and her portfolio securely fastened. Another awkward silence followed her thanks. Sophie desperately tried to gather her wits. She knew she should either take her leave of him or reveal her identity.

He spoke before she could choose either option. ‘You seem to have a great many ideas. It must be a very large project you have undertaken.’

Sophie flushed. How to answer that without making a fool of herself? She should have told him who she was at the start. ‘Yes, at least I believe so. The truth is, I do not really know yet.’

He shifted and she could almost feel his restlessness, his need to escape. But she was not ready to see him go yet, nor was she quite sure she had forgiven him his harsh manner. She curved her lips into a smile and cocked a brow at him. ‘If not normal, then what sort do you usually have?’

He was puzzled. ‘Pardon?’

‘Conversations. You say you are unused to the normal variety. I am perishing to know what kind of conversations you usually have.’

‘Oh.’ He paused and she thought that he might not answer, that he would put an end to this improper tête à tête and go about his business, but instead he glanced carefully about, then flashed her a wicked smile. ‘Do you wish for the truth or for a properly polite answer?’

Sophie tossed her head, her chin up. ‘Always the truth, please, sir.’

‘Very well, then. The truth is that for most of my days my conversations tended on the coarse and bawdy side. More like the seasonal bawling of young bucks and the bleating of … available females than true human exchange—’

Sophie interrupted him with a sigh. ‘You did warn me. I am sure I should be slapping your face, or stalking off in high dudgeon. Fortunately I am not so faint-hearted.’ She smiled. ‘Do go on.’

He shrugged. ‘Now I have political conversations. Long, relentless, occasionally monotonous, but in the end productive and worthwhile. Both sorts, I find, have their own drawbacks and pleasures.’

The playful gleam returned to his eye and he leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. ‘But I will let you in on a little secret. Sometimes, especially when the stakes are high, political debates are remarkably similar to primitive mating rituals. There is a little polite cooing, leading to an extravagant display of superiority, then a mad scramble as everyone pairs off. Occasionally there is a show of temper and brute strength. In the end someone wins, the victor takes the spoils and the next day we all ever so politely begin all over again.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Fascinating. It gives one a whole new perspective on Parliament, does it not?

‘It helps me get through some very long days in the Lords.’

‘It makes me wish I was indeed a reporter. Imagine the story I could write: “Wild Westminster, The Secret Life of Parliament.” Every paper in London would be at my feet. Alas, my talents lie in another direction altogether.’

Charles eyed her portfolio, then slid his gaze down her form. A swift, fierce heat swept through her, following its path. ‘I beg you won’t be insulted if I say that you decorate the city with your mere presence.’

Before she could gather herself enough to respond, his face suddenly contorted into a grimace of dismay that had her following his gaze. An elegant carriage pulled by an exquisite team passed them by. Very obviously staring was a pair of wide-eyed feminine faces. One even craned her neck to look back as the equipage moved on.

‘Oh, hell,’ he breathed before turning back to her. ‘As stimulating as this has been, I cannot afford any more gossip just now. Neither would I wish to harm your reputation with my tarnished presence.’ He sketched her the curtest of bows. ‘I wish you the best of luck with your endeavours.’

She returned with a curtsy just as brief. ‘Indeed, I understand, sir.’ She watched as he turned to go and called after him, ‘Off you go to save the world. I will content myself with dressing it up.’

He tossed a scornful glance over his shoulder at her. ‘Unworthy, my dear, and just when I had begun to judge you a promising opponent.’

Sophie watched, amused, as he stalked away. Let him have the last word for now, she thought. Oh, she was going to enjoy their next meeting even more than this one.

She became aware, suddenly, of a faint panting just behind her. She turned and found Nell, who handed over a sheaf of papers and wiped her brow. ‘Who was the gentleman you was talking with, miss? He looked a mite put out.’

‘That, dear Nell, was none other than the Wicked Lord Dayle.’

‘No!’ The maid’s gasp was more titillation than shock.

‘Indeed, although I recall him more fondly as my very own knight in shining armour.’

Nell had been pushed too far this morning to be discreet. ‘Happen that armour’s tarnished some.’

‘It does appear so,’ Sophie mused. ‘Though the polishing of it could be quite a bit of fun, indeed.’

Nell only shook her head. ‘If you say so, miss.’

Chapter Three

Miss Corinne Ashford’s hand was limp and cool as Charles bent over it. As was the expression on her face while he took his leave of her. Even so, Charles’s step was light when he stepped into Portman Street and set out for home.

He felt as if he could breathe again, as he hadn’t been free to since that cursed piece in the Oracle. He had been exonerated, of course, once it had leaked out that the dark-haired man sneaking out of Lady Avery’s window had been none other than Lord Avery’s valet. And society had quickly sunk their teeth into new and even more delicious gossip when the old girl had run off with the young fellow, the petty cash, and the family jewels.

Yet the damage had been done. The thinly veiled references were in every scandal sheet. Suddenly his old peccadilloes were fodder for gossip again.

Wild, reckless, restless—these were the epithets he had become accustomed to in his seven and twenty years, the labels a scandalised society had readily laid at his door. They were well and truly earned, too. He had misspent his youth in a frenzy of hard living, soft women, and outrageous pranks. He had, in short, enjoyed the hell out of himself.

But such carelessness belonged to another lifetime. Charles Alden might have spent his time in carefree pursuit of pleasure, but Viscount Dayle was not so lighthearted. Two years ago his brother had died, his father had shortly followed, and Charles’s life had been transformed.

It had begun as a penance he had embraced in a fury of remorse and determination, and, though it was true that grief and guilt still lay heavy on his shoulders, Charles could not deny that it was the work that had saved his sanity.

With fierce devotion he had immersed himself in the estates, the accounts and the politics. Somehow he had survived, had even reached a point where he could draw breath, enjoy the success he had wrought and begin to envision a future.

Until that ridiculous article. Now his name had once again been associated with scandal and vice, and his reception had significantly cooled, both in the corridors of Westminster and the parlors of Mayfair. He found the setback infuriating, and despite his best efforts, he still hadn’t a clue as to who was behind it.

So, he had temporarily abandoned his search for the villain, dragged out his original plan, and after careful deliberation decided that Miss Ashford might be just the thing to cure his ailing reputation. She was the daughter of a baron and a member of a notoriously staunch conservative family. Elegant and tall and proud to a fault, she wore respectability like an enveloping mantel. Charles just hoped that it was large enough to cover his own sins.

In truth, he had half-expected to be left standing in the street when he began to pay his addresses to the lady, but the past year’s good works—or his title and fortune—had proved credit enough to get him in the door. Whether he progressed any further remained to be seen.

He crossed his own portal now, satisfied for the moment, and more in charity with the world than he’d felt in weeks. He found his mother descending the stairs, straightening her gloves. ‘Going out, Mother?’ he asked.

‘Indeed, as are you. Please have the carriage sent around, dear. We won’t wish to be late.’

Charles nodded to a footman to deliver the message. ‘Late for what?’

Only a mother could fit so much meaning into a sigh of exasperation. ‘I knew you would forget. We are promised to call at Mrs Lowder’s, both of us. And do not even think of trying to wiggle out of it. You know that Edward Lowder is influential in some very important political circles. And in any case, Emily Lowder has something in particular at her house that I wish to show you.’

She had reached the bottom of the stairs. Charles smiled and offered her his arm. ‘Wiggle out? I wouldn’t dare. Not since the Aunt Eugenie incident.’

She laughed. ‘I would never have banished you to your room if I thought Phillip would do such a thing. I thought we were going to have to break the door down. Do you know, to this day we have never found that key?’

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.’