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

‘Stop it, Sophie, can we not talk seriously for a moment?’

She took a calming breath and threw back her shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t—it strained both her neckline and his control. ‘You’ve ignored my existence for a full fortnight, but you are compelled to talk now, in the middle of your dinner party?’

‘My mother’s dinner party, but yes.’

She waited; he stared, trying to gather his thoughts. What was there to say? There were at least a thousand thoughts crowding his brain, he had to tread carefully and choose just the right one.

‘You’d been kissed before,’ he said.

Her jaw dropped. He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair. That had not been the right one.

Her décolletage was heaving now, in perfect time with his gut. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she gasped. ‘That’s what you dragged me in here to discuss? That’s what you took away from our—encounter?’

Lord help him, but it was true. Though he hadn’t articulated the thought to himself, it had been nagging at him, poking and prodding, making him squirm perhaps even more than his other troubles. ‘You knew how to kiss. Someone had to teach you.’

True to form, Sophie laughed, but it was a desolate sound. Despairing. She turned and walked away.

Well, what did he expect? She would be well within her rights to leave the room and never speak to him again, but he couldn’t stop himself, he had to know.

‘Was it Sean Hill?’

‘The blacksmith’s boy?’ Anger brought her back, and Sophie was angry indeed. Her dark eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed, and she advanced on him like Ney and d’Erlon into Wellington’s centre line.

‘You were gone, Charles. You left for school and never looked back. I didn’t blame you. I knew how things were with your father.’ She stopped before him, magnificent in her fury. ‘But I was still there. I might be there still if not for Emily and your mother.’

She turned away again, and retreated to the far side of the room. ‘Did you think because their mamas disapproved of me, the boys would steer clear of me? Foolish—don’t you know that that made me even more interesting?’ Her voice fell away to a whisper. ‘I was alone, Charles.’

She rallied and shot him a look of defiance. ‘Thank God for Emily. If we hadn’t struck up a friendship, I might have done far worse than allow a boy to kiss me.’ She gave an ironic snort. ‘I might have run off to Gretna with the first man old enough to ask me, just for the conversation on the way. Had any of them paid me any serious attention, I think I might have done almost anything.’

Charles found himself barely able to respond. The picture she painted was devastating. ‘I didn’t know—I never thought …’

Undaunted by her own admission, she faced him squarely. ‘You judge me if you wish, Charles Alden. But you remember that I never judged you. I cheered when the rest of the world reviled your exploits, and wished I could be kicking up rows right along with you. Nor did I judge you when you stayed away all those years, with never a word or a letter. You returned home for what—a mere two days—for Phillip’s funeral? Less than that for your father’s, but you never came to see me.’

Her anger seemed to have fled. It was disappointment he read in her eyes now. ‘I didn’t judge you, Charles. Even when you forgot me.’

Her skirt flared as she turned her back on him. This time she was the one to sweep out of the room without looking back.

Had he forgotten her? Charles sat through dinner ignoring his food, nodding as Miss Ashford talked—she had decided her ball must be a masquerade—and trying to answer that question.

He remembered the brash youth he had been, daring anything, risking everything, determined to force his father’s displeasure, since nothing had ever earned his respect. He had indeed left for school, but he had always looked back—back to be sure his father was watching.

No, he hadn’t forgotten Sophie. Unconsciously, he had held her memory close, sure as he raised every kind of hell he could imagine, that there was one person in the world who would forgive him. But he had held her static in his mind, never considering her growing older, becoming a young woman. She had always been his pig-tailed, adventurous partner in crime.

He hadn’t forgotten her, but he had failed her.

That truth gnawed at him throughout the evening as he watched her. Another sin to shoulder responsibility for, another person who had suffered while he exercised his fertile imagination and frittered away his life. He wasn’t sure his soul could bear another such burden.

Oddly enough, though, he found a measure of peace while he watched her. She had been hurt—perhaps only he knew how much—yet she had risen above it. Sophie had grown up, and Lord knew she had turned out to be unconventional, but she was also good natured, amusing, and intelligent. She was a beacon of light in the room, smiling and animated, and the people around her responded. She charmed her partners through dinner and was kept happily occupied in the drawing room afterwards. He noticed Mr Huxley was often at her side.

Watching her gave him hope. And that was only the top reason on a long list of them to stop.

Nevertheless, he was achingly aware of her as he circulated through the guests after dinner. There was excited talk of costumes for Miss Ashford’s masquerade, and much animated gossip over the state of Prinny’s health. The knot of young people about Sophie all seemed to be embroiled in a discussion on fashion, and of course, there was a good deal of political debate going on in pockets about the room.

At his request, his mother had invited a few members of the Board of Trade. Charles knew he should be courting them, but he was more worried about the young men courting Sophie. Was this the sort of attention she had craved? The thought had him contemplating mayhem, not party platforms.

But he knew his duty. Resolutely he turned his back and joined the men plotting the course of the nation.

He found his own situation to be nearly as dire as England’s. Though the men here tonight supported him, there were others, they reported, who felt that his character was not steady. Charles sighed. Before all this he’d been at the top of the list to chair their new committee; now he’d be fortunate to be invited as a committee member.

Sir Harold commiserated with him, but advised him to be patient. ‘Now is perhaps not your time, Dayle,’ he said. ‘Wait until this gossip dies down. There will be other committees, other paths to the ministry.’ He sympathised with him on the simmering scandal broth as well. ‘Still no idea who your enemy might be?’

‘No.’ Charles did not go into detail. ‘Jack seems convinced that it is not Avery, however.’

‘Hmm. His antipathy doesn’t help your situation, for certain, but I tend to agree. Avery’s style is to confront you directly, just as he has been doing. He’s not the sort to sneak behind a man’s back.’

Sir Harold was quiet a moment. ‘I have the feeling that whoever is behind this is more powerful than we suspect. It won’t be easy rooting him out.’

‘I begin to wonder if the struggle is worth it,’ Charles said. This setback disheartened him. He was tired, tired of fighting, tired of trying to prove himself to a world determined to see only the worst in him.

‘Don’t give up, Dayle. You’ve a great future ahead of you. Find the man behind all this and give him back a taste of his own misery. Once you’ve done that, take a little time for yourself. Concentrate on choosing one of these fine young ladies. Set up your nursery. Show the doubters that your judgment is sound, that you’ve finishing sowing oats and are ready to reap a more steady crop.’ He gestured to the others, still energetically debating the latest Poor Relief Bill. ‘We’ll still be here for you.’

His mood low, Charles shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his kindness. He stood alone a moment, wishing all his guests back to their own homes, himself to his favourite brooding chair, and his unseen enemy to the devil. He sighed. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. The way Charles’s luck was running, he’d likely be trampled instead. He would do better to seek out his brother.

He’d just spotted Jack in animated conversation with a crowd of young bucks when the sound of Sophie’s name, spoken with derision, drew him up short. He glanced quickly around and saw a cluster of dandified gentlemen just off to his right.

‘Impudent chit. I don’t care if she is an earl’s niece; she has spent her life buried in the country. What does she presume to know of fashion?’

Charles stared. Was that his cousin Theo rigged out in that hideous get-up of turquoise and buttercup yellow? Yes, he rather believed it was.

‘Didn’t like your waistcoat, old boy?’ sniggered one of Theo’s companions while gesturing to the elaborately embroidered disaster.

‘Don’t you dare laugh—this is the height of fashion, and cost me ten guineas! No, the chit betrayed her own ignorance when she said that not only should I not wear this colour combination, but no one in all England could pull it off.’

‘Except for a jockey on the back of a deep chestnut bay!’

Peals of laughter rang out from the group, heightening Theo’s colour, along with his temper, Charles surmised.

‘Theo’s right,’ interjected a gentleman arrayed in silver and puce, ‘the girl has no business giving fashion advice.’

‘Well, you cannot deny her success, and certainly I’ve never seen her look anything less than smashingly gorgeous,’ someone argued.

‘True enough!’ came a chorus of agreement.

‘I wonder what her dowry is like?’ someone wondered out loud. ‘I think I shall ask her to partner me in whist.’

‘You shan’t get a jump on the rest of us,’ someone cried and as a group they moved off to seek out the lady’s attention, leaving only Theo and the other malcontent still grumbling.

Moving forward, Charles decided to nip that little bud before it could bloom into a larger flower of disgruntlement.

‘Good evening, Theo. It has been a while, has it not?’

‘Dayle,’ returned Theo, still in a pout over the attack on his sartorial splendour.

‘My mother must be pleased to have you tonight, I know she wants all the family to meet her particular friend, Miss Westby.’ As a warning it was not much, but it was all that was required. Mumbling his agreement, Theo and his friend took themselves off.

Charles watched them go. He was annoyed with Theo, but, oddly enough, the bulk of his irritation lay on Sophie’s shoulders. Just once he wished she would hold her tongue and not say the first thing that leapt to mind. Yes, Theo was ridiculous, but must she point it out in such a public forum?

Who was he to conjure criticisms? His life was unravelling faster by the minute. He left in search of a drink.

He found one, but his mother also found him.

‘Charles, dear,’ she fussed, drawing him aside. ‘Do you think you could influence Sophie and persuade her to allow me to make an announcement about her book?’

He lifted a questioning brow. ‘Her book?’

‘Yes, her book.’ His mother sounded exasperated, but when she saw his puzzlement she relented. ‘Do you mean she hasn’t even told you? Oh, she must indeed be serious about keeping it quiet.’

‘Explain, please, Mother.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s too late now, and I’m sure she doesn’t mean to keep it from you. And at least I can break the news to you, if to no one else.’

‘Mother.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, isn’t it the most wonderful thing?’ She leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘Sophie has written her very own design guide! And a very reputable publisher has agreed to take it on. The proceeds, of course, will be donated, but I know you can appreciate what such validation means to her.’

Indeed he could. Charles was sure that the accomplishment left Sophie feeling deeply satisfied. Unfortunately it left him feeling frustrated and strangely upset. He shook his head. Why should Sophie’s good news make him furious? He murmured something to his mother about finding a drink and wandered off, quite forgetting the one he held in his hand.

The party broke up soon after, but far too late for Charles’s peace of mind. He caught Sophie alone as her party was preparing to leave. In the dark corner of the hall he caught up her hand and held it, searching for something, anything, he could say to express the myriad of emotions that swamped him. It was all too much. He’d schooled himself to feel nothing save ambition for so many long months, and now Sophie had him twisted in ten different knots in one evening.

He couldn’t just stand here, dumb as a doorknob. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. Her hand lingered in his, however, and they stood together, silent, connected in a way that went beyond touch. The moment stretched on, but Sophie never looked up. Instead she kept her gaze locked on their clasped hands, until Emily Lowder cleared her throat, then Sophie recalled herself and her hand and swept away.

Somehow Charles got through the next hour. He bid goodbye to all the guests, kissed his mother goodnight, bade the servants to go on to bed and leave the mess for the morning. He took himself to the book room and shut the door. He poured a brandy, but didn’t drink it. He stared long at the fire, without seeing it. He sat down in his favourite chair and slowly descended the slippery slope into insanity.

It must be what this was, insanity—or as close as he’d ever come to it. His mind was whirling, events and voices from the past weeks were haunting him. Sacrifice anything … decide what you want … you forgot me.

They were all slipping away, all the reasons that had given him purpose, allowed him to go on. If Viscount Dayle faltered, would there be enough left of Charles Alden to survive?

All of his hard work had been for naught. The progress he’d made in redefining his character, his potential—wiped clean. His committee position—gone. Even his social standing stood in jeopardy. He was a joke again, Wicked Lord Dayle who had played the greatest prank of his career on his peers.

He stood and leaned into the mantelpiece. It had been so hard, and now he must start again. But damn it, he would. He would. Just as soon as he could focus his thoughts, just as soon as he could deal with Sophie.

His heart began to pound, his hand, still holding a drink, to shake. He regarded the trembling amber liquid in a vague, detached way for a moment, wishing it contained the solace he needed. His goals were ripped out of his reach, his life was falling apart, and all he could think about was Sophie.

He stood abruptly and flung the glass into the fireplace, where it erupted into a flash of blue flame. He left the book room, grabbed a walking stick from the urn in the entry hall and strode past his startled footman into the night.

Damn her. Damn her for coming back into his life at the worst possible time and wreaking her own special brand of havoc. Damn her for being beautiful, and funny, and irresistible. Damn her for waking him up, making him laugh, making him want.

He walked far and long, but he could not escape his thoughts. The past had often haunted him, but now the future loomed troublesome as well. He didn’t know which terrified him more—possibilities he feared might be closing to him, or the ones that he sensed might open.

Decide what you want. Perhaps Jack was right, perhaps it was time he faced the truth. It was simple and frightening at once. He wanted Sophie, passionate, beautiful, impossible Sophie.

She was intoxicating in a way that spoke directly to his soul. She comforted his battered spirit, captivated his wary mind, and tempted him with her exotic beauty.

For a dangerous moment he allowed himself to imagine what life might have been like if Phillip had never come to him on that fateful day. He might have reunited with Sophie a free man, unencumbered by grief and guilt. They could have met by chance in Dorsetshire or here in London—No, down that path lay madness. The nightmares were real. He would never be free.

Not even for her could he abandon the vows he’d made. There it was, plain and simple, the festering truth that had tormented him. He’d wanted her since she’d nearly knocked him down in the street. He’d known, almost since then, that to choose her would be to forsake everything he owed to his dead brother and father.

He’d told himself many times that Charles Alden had died right along with his brother. Viscount Dayle had sprung from the ashes of his former life, a shell of a man whose only purpose was payment of dark and deep debts.

Sophie had changed all that when she fell back into his life. Suddenly Charles Alden was alive again, resurrected by the laughter in her eyes, and torn between heart and mind, want and need.

He’d become a living cliché. A stone bench sat up ahead—he sank on to it and buried his head in his hands. It was an age-old dilemma. He supposed he was no worse off than a thousand poor devils before him. But who would have thought it would hurt so much?

A book. Charles could hardly believe she’d done it. He had given her her first design guide himself, to help her fill the imaginary rooms she created. His mother was right; he did know how much this meant to her, not just the book, but everything.

He felt a twinge of guilt. After a lifetime of censure, Sophie was finally enjoying what she longed for: welcome, acceptance. He should be happy for her, not begrudge her this first real triumph. But begrudge it he did, because her unconventional, meteoric success pushed her beyond his reach.

He was afraid for her too. Fickle society loved to force people on to pedestals, if only to watch them fall. Look at what had happened to Byron. Look at what had happened to him.

A cool breeze swept by, ruffling his hair and just possibly, bringing the idea with it. Look at what had happened to him. He lifted his head. It seemed so simple. Was it possible? Could both Charles Alden and Viscount Dayle have what they wished?

He looked about and found himself near the gates of the garden in Hanover Square. How long, he wondered, had he been here, across from the house where Sophie slept? A light came on in one of the upper windows, and Charles laughed softly. Perhaps Fate had finally taken pity on him and come to intervene on his behalf. There could be no other explanation. It must be Sophie up there, stirring long before anyone else would dream of doing so.

One way to find out. He searched out a few small stones, and, stifling a strong sense of déjà vu, launched them at the window.

Sophie had spent a restless night, but to no avail. Finally, just before first light, she gave it up as a bad business. She hadn’t slept a wink, and still her thoughts were in a worse tangle than her sheets.

She had spent half the night fuming over Charles’s perfidy. ‘You’d been kissed’ indeed! How dare he? When he’d spent years wenching his way through the female half of the population? He was no better than a child; he didn’t want her, but he didn’t want her playing with anyone else either.

Never would Sophie have imagined Charles indulging in such hypocrisy. She shook her head. But then, neither had she predicted the change in his temperament. And now his vacillation between hot and cold had taken on new and frightening dimensions.

She’d been so naïve! She had longed for the connection she’d felt with him so long ago, and had allowed her fantasies to run away with her. The understanding and intimacy that they had enjoyed had been so strong, so vital to her, that she’d assumed they would survive the years apart.

She sighed. There had been too many changes. He’d been correct, she didn’t know the new Charles, but she was beginning to suspect that he didn’t know himself either.

The thought led her back to Nell’s attempt with the family’s servants last night. Though Nell had enjoyed the idea of intrigue, she hadn’t been very successful. The only thing of interest she’d heard was that old Lord Dayle had been furious when Phillip had accepted Lord Castlereagh’s mission, and travelled with important papers to Wellington in Brussels. Sophie still wasn’t sure just how he’d ended up at the battle at Waterloo, but she supposed it made no difference. Phillip had died, just as many thousands of other good and gallant men had.

Could she be making too much of the situation? Perhaps there was no mystery, only her own desires and the wish to fuel her own fantasies. There could be a simple explanation that she didn’t wish to see. People changed. Or perhaps Charles’s wish to mould himself into his brother’s likeness had simply been the desire to impress his hard-to-please father?

Something kept her from embracing such an idea. She hoped it wasn’t her own self-indulgence, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Charles was hiding something. There was a desperation about him that she could not explain. He seemed driven to succeed in politics, to impress the men in government with his solidity and responsibility. It must go deeper. Also, she thought, why wouldn’t he have eased off after his father’s death? And why the strange talk about old Lord Dayle’s death? No, there was something more here she couldn’t yet see.

Sophie shook her head and rang for Nell. She might suffocate if she stayed in this room any longer. She needed to get out, to breathe fresh air, to walk and clear her mind.

A small clattering sound, quite nearby, had her suddenly jumping back into her bed. Heart pounding, feet tucked safe away under her night rail, she inspected the floor. The noise came again, there by the window, but she could see no sign of a rodent invader. Once more, louder this time, and Sophie recognised the sound for what it was. Laughing despite herself, she climbed down, threw back the curtains and looked below.

Charles. He stood there on the pavement, wearing a grin and last night’s clothes.

‘Are you insane?’ she called in a loud whisper. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Come down!’

‘Now? Can’t you pay a morning call like all the other gentlemen?’

‘Where would be the excitement in that?’ He gestured to the burgeoning light in the east. ‘It’s morning. Come! We have to talk.’

Behind her a drowsy Nell scratched on the door and let herself in. She came wide-awake, however, when she took in the situation. ‘Miss!’ she gasped.

‘I’ll be down presently,’ Sophie called to Charles. She turned to the maid. ‘I know, Nell. Pray, don’t look at me like that! Just fetch my wrapper, quickly.’

Oh, Lord, but she was a fool. She couldn’t help it. This smacked of older, better times, and was nigh irresistible. She hurried into a heavy robe, allowed Nell to put her hair up loosely, and crept quickly down the stairs.

The night footman dozed in his chair. Nell put her mouth to Sophie’s ear. ‘It is Richard. He sleeps like a stone.’

Sophie held a silencing finger to her lips and slowly turned the lock on the front doors. With a sigh of relief she stepped out into the cool, early morning air. The street was deserted except for Charles, beckoning her from the gate to the square. Leaving Nell to quietly close the door again, Sophie ran lightly across the street.

‘You imbecile! I thought it was your wish to stay out of the papers!’ she scolded.

‘I had to chance it. In any case, I knew it must be you waking. Anyone else would have been too cruel.’

Sophie drew back. ‘Are you drunk, Charles?’

He grasped her hands tight in his. ‘No, I’m just. Oh, I don’t know. I feel as if I am waking from a long and terrible dream.’

She looked him over carefully and tried to calm the pounding of her heart. Her mind was racing almost as fast. What could it mean? She didn’t know whether to dread what he had to say, or to long for it. The only thing she knew was that a rumpled and unshaven Charles was devilishly more handsome than the usually immaculate Charles. The image of her tangled sheets came to mind before Sophie could curb her wayward imagination. Blushing, she reined it in. ‘Where is your coat, your hat? Heavens, but you are a mess!’ She laughed. ‘I’ve spent too much time with your mother. Never mind! What is it that you must say, that couldn’t wait until a decent hour?’