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

Charles had been thrilled at the reassurance. His instincts had been correct, his gambit had worked. He had, in fact, felt completely vindicated in his course of action.

Until he had almost kissed Sophie.

‘What do you think, my lord?’

Even her interruptions were timed perfectly, Charles thought, mentally noting the addition of another ‘Reason to Marry Miss Ashford’. More than happy to be distracted, he fixed his attention on the young lady. ‘I beg your pardon, my attention was drawn elsewhere for a moment.’

‘I asked,’ she said again, allowing the smallest hint of exasperation to colour her question, ‘how you think I might best approach Miss Westby. You seem to know her well, so I thought you could advise me.’

‘Approach Miss Westby?’

‘I think she might benefit from my influence. I shall take her under my wing, as they say. With my help I dare say she shall go on very well here in town.’

Charles shrugged. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I think she’s doing well enough on her own. I can see no need for you to so trouble yourself.’

Miss Ashford threw Charles a significant glance and favoured him with a very small, tight smile. ‘Naturally a busy gentleman such as yourself would not encounter the same sort of small talk that a lady would. Normally I would not deign to pass on such, well—let us call it what it is—petty gossip. But a few things have been brought to my attention, since I am known to also be an acquaintance of your family’s.’ She paused and this time her speaking look was even more pointed. Charles would have been amused if he hadn’t had a sudden chilling vision of the thousands of such arch glances the lady’s husband would be subjected to, day in and day out. Chalk one up for the ‘Reasons to Consider Someone Else’.

‘Fortunately there is nothing that cannot be overcome with my help. The incidents are mostly small and insignificant, in the manner of what we saw this morning, when Miss Westby engaged that beggar man in conversation.’

Charles knew, without a doubt, that he should be grateful to Miss Ashford. She only sought to please him. She only echoed his own doubts about Sophie’s behaviour. She only offered to help Sophie in exactly the manner that he wished for himself, if on a larger scale. There was no earthly reason for him to feel such indignation on Sophie’s behalf. Yet feel it he did. Indignation and irritation flashed through him at the thought of Miss Ashford’s forcing Sophie into a mould fashioned after herself.

‘That military man, and all his like, deserves our condescension and compassion, Miss Ashford. God knows they have obtained precious little from the government they risked all to defend.’

‘I agree. Yet for a lady to be seen in conversation with them in the street is not at all the thing. If Miss Westby has a charitable bent, I have a far better notion of how she may proceed.’

Charles’s interest was piqued. Perhaps Miss Ashford had more bottom than he had suspected. He hadn’t had an inkling that she participated in charity work. He couldn’t help but approve. ‘How so?’ he asked.

‘I, and a few of my peers, have organised our own charitable society. I mean to ask Miss Westby if she would like to join us.’

‘I dare say she would,’ Charles said warmly. ‘I’m very interested myself. Tell me about your works, perhaps I could help in some way.’

‘Oh, it is nothing you would be interested in. We are a small group, and new.’

‘Nonsense. I would be glad to help in any way I can. What have you accomplished so far? Have you a board? A charter? Perhaps I could serve as financial advisor and take that burden from you?’

Miss Ashford was looking more and more discomfited. ‘I am afraid you have surpassed me already, my lord. As I said, it is a group of ladies. We meet every week or so over tea to discuss society’s ills. We have not progressed so far as you imagine.’

Charles did his best to hide his disappointment. For a moment he had thought … but no, it was clear that Miss Ashford’s society would never progress as far as he imagined. Oh, she might throw a charity ball, but she would never truly interest herself in the plight of the less fortunate. The ‘Not Miss Ashford’ column was coming on rather stronger than he was comfortable with.

‘I fear I must warn you,’ he said, ‘Miss Westby was never a fan of discussion. If she sees a wrong being committed, she is far more likely to intervene herself than to sit and talk about it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Ashford, ‘and that is precisely the character flaw I hope to eradicate. Do you know what she said to the Duchess of Charmouth?’

Charles did not know, but he could well imagine. ‘No, but I would wager that she criticised that cold and draughty ballroom that her Grace is for ever entertaining in.’ The ton had suffered, silently shivering, through year after year of the popular event. He almost laughed at the picture of Sophie haranguing the old termagant.

‘Worse,’ Miss Ashford declared, ‘she pointed out everything architecturally wrong with the room, then she came right out and told her Grace that she knew of a builder who could repair it.’ and she lowered her voice to a dreadful whisper ‘at a good price!’

Unexpected laughter burst out at the mental image, but Charles tried hard to contain himself when he noticed Miss Ashford’s shocked countenance.

‘It is no laughing matter, my lord. Such pretension on Miss Westby’s part must not be encouraged.’

‘And was the duchess insulted?’ he asked.

‘No, she was not.’ Clearly Miss Ashford was puzzled by this. ‘But she very easily could have been.’

‘What, exactly, was her reply to Miss Westby’s advice?’

‘She said she was glad indeed to meet someone who would talk sense to her despite her title, and would be gladder still to hear of a man who would not cheat her because of it.’

Charles chuckled, but he could see Miss Ashford’s point. Yet even though his head conjured images of Sophie suffering a scathing set-down and social disgrace, urging him again to distance himself from the girl, he knew in his gut that he would not.

She very likely would get herself in some sort of trouble this Season. With Sophie, it just seemed inevitable. But she was the closest friend of his childhood. He would stand by her, come what may.

It is a shameful thing, some deeply buried part of himself whispered, that you won’t trust her enough to allow her to return the favour.

The party made good time on the roads and arrived in Sevenoaks just past mid-morning. Everyone welcomed a stop in the village centre to stretch weary limbs and to admire the stand of trees that bestowed on the little town its name.

After a brief respite they climbed back aboard and travelled the short distance to Lord Dayle’s dilapidated house. For a few moments chaos reigned as the house servants came out to greet them, the stable hands swarmed to take charge of horses and vehicles, and those servants who had accompanied them from town set about unloading and locating the best spot to set up the picnic.

For Sophie, their arrival came not a moment too soon. She had fidgeted her way through the entire journey, apologising to Mr Alden and explaining it away as anxiousness to begin her project. What she could not admit to him was how unnerving she found the sight of Charles and Miss Ashford together.

The ride had been bad—the thought of watching them strolling together in the gardens, rowing on the lake, or doing any of a thousand things that courting couples do, was insupportable. She made haste to befriend the housekeeper, therefore, and swept away with her and Lady Dayle, happy to bury her anxiety in her work.

Confused feelings were easy to ignore when one had an entire house to bury them under. Sophie had poured over plans of the estate; she had imagined the rooms as she concocted colour schemes and design themes, but nothing compared to this: walking into the house and knowing that the transformation of it belonged to her. Touching the walls, studying the light, draping fabrics across furniture, and mentally turning a musty, neglected old house into a place of warmth and life.

Sophie had measured, climbed, scraped, pulled, and scribbled page after page of notes and sketches for several blissful, uninterrupted hours. This, this was heaven, and she resisted when Lady Dayle and Emily finally came to insist that she come join the party and eat.

‘Do come now, dear,’ wheedled Lady Dayle, who had kept up with her for most of the morning. ‘You must feed your body as well as your soul. And as much as I enjoy seeing you so happily engaged, it’s past time we go and save Charles from Miss Ashford.’

‘Save him?’ Sophie asked. ‘I rather thought he was happy for the chance to continue his courtship.’

‘Yes, well, a few hours of the lady’s unrelenting company should have cured him of that notion,’ Lady Dayle answered with a wry twist of a grin. ‘Let’s go down.’

The viscountess marched out. Sophie shot a questioning glance at Emily, who only shrugged. Feeling intrigued and more than a little hopeful, Sophie took her friend’s arm and followed.

She was quickly happy that she had given in. Charles, she found, had directed the picnic to be spread out in a sun-dappled grove overlooking the lake. The air was soft and full of birdsong, the company was in high good humour and a bountiful feast of cold meats, cheeses and fruit lay spread before them.

‘Which is the tree in which you hid Cabot’s teeth, Charles?’ Jack Alden called.

Charles’s only response was to roll his eyes at his brother.

‘We had a litter of new puppies in the stables,’ Jack confided to the company. ‘The butler refused to allow them in the house. Charles had to exact his revenge somehow.’

‘It isn’t nice to tell tales on your brother, Mr Alden,’ Emily said with a meaningful glance in Miss Ashford’s direction.

Jack only laughed and they all went forth to the feast. True to her word, Lady Dayle enticed Miss Ashford into conversation and into a seat next to her. Sophie noted that Charles did look grateful as he took his plate and joined his brother. She carried her own and settled beside Emily and her family.

Emily was slicing fruit for her young son. ‘You must see my little Edward, Sophie,’ her friend said joyfully. ‘He’s walking so well!’

‘The springy turf and even ground have inspired him,’ chimed in Mr Lowder. ‘He’ll be running soon, though I think now he likes the falling down as much as the walking.’

‘Sophie, there is dust on your skirt, a cobweb in your hair, and a smudge on your cheek,’ Lady Dayle spoke up. ‘All sure signs that you are enjoying yourself rather well.’

‘I am enjoying myself immensely,’ Sophie said complacently. ‘Later today the builder arrives, and I predict that my appearance will suffer further, but my enjoyment will increase in proportion.’

‘Speaking of which, Lord Dayle,’ Sophie called. ‘Forgive me for interrupting, but I must ask if you’ve any objection to my tearing down the wall between the two parlours at the back of the first floor?’

She hesitated to ask, after his harshly declared intention to have nothing to do with the project, but did not feel comfortable undertaking such a large change without his approval. Fortunately he appeared amused instead of annoyed. ‘I give you full carte blanche, Miss Westby. The house is entirely in your hands.’ He looked directly at her, and she caught her breath. Breathtaking was how he looked, sitting relaxed, with the wind ruffling his hair and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘I only ask that you don’t attempt to bring the wall down yourself.’

Sophie gathered her composure and wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I appreciate your confidence, and promise to leave the demolition to the men.’

She smiled as little Edward, appetite assuaged, toddled over to her and patted her face with sticky hands. ‘I don’t know why you berate me for my untidiness, Lady Dayle. Just look at this little gentleman—covered in peaches and grass stains! You’ll never win the ladies’ hearts that way, my boy,’ she admonished him.

The boy laughed and plopped himself into her lap. ‘Well, perhaps you shall,’ Sophie said, gathering him close for a squeeze.

Emily smiled at her son’s antics. ‘Better grass stains than bruises, Sophie.’ She raised her face to the sun filtering through the new leaves and leaned back against her husband. ‘Oh, this was a marvellous idea.’

‘Yes, a lovely day,’ Miss Ashford agreed. ‘It is a shame that you may not relax and appreciate it as the rest of us have, Miss Westby.’

Sophie did not wish to think about how Miss Ashford had been spending her day. ‘I thank you, but beg you not to worry for me. I am more than content.’

‘It seems an odd sort of thing to gain such pleasure from,’ Miss Ashford remarked.

‘It is unusual, but there can be no doubt of your talent,’ Mr Alden intervened. ‘I wandered in earlier and caught a glimpse of some of your colour and fabric combinations. Won’t you please tell us how this project came about?’

Lady Dayle answered him. ‘Sophie is too modest to tell the story correctly, so we shall have to enlighten you. It started with the baby,’ she said, gesturing to the boy growing heavy-eyed in Sophie’s arms. ‘Tell them, Emily, dear.’

Emily rose to fetch her son. ‘It did indeed start with Edward,’ she said as she settled back with him. ‘Shortly before his arrival came the arrival of a very large packing crate at our home. I couldn’t imagine what was in it.’ She paused to adjust the baby’s weight in her arms.

‘Shall we guess, Mrs Lowder, or will you tell us?’ Mr Alden laughed.

‘I shall tell you, Mr Alden, if you will be patient.’ She smiled over at him. ‘It was a cradle. A marvellous cradle, with a mighty castle, and knights and horses, and even a princess in her tower carved right into the wood, like they had grown there. I confess, it took my breath away.’

‘Beautiful piece,’ Mr Lowder agreed. ‘Never seen anything like it.’

‘It was from Sophie, of course, and we asked her right away where she had found such a treasure, for we hoped to get some matching pieces.’

‘Was it Spanish?’ asked Miss Ashford. ‘I’ve seen some lovely pieces from Spain and they are a fanciful people.’

‘No indeed,’ replied Emily. ‘Sophie had designed it herself, and had a gifted friend of hers do the woodwork. We were amazed, of course.’

Everyone proclaimed their admiration. Sophie, blushing, tore her eyes from Charles, who had appeared very far away while Emily talked.

‘Due to some previous difficulties, the doctors had insisted I stay off of my feet,’ she continued. ‘I thought I would go out of my mind! So I struck upon the idea of redoing the entire nursery, to keep my thoughts occupied.’

‘She was the brains of the project,’ Sophie laughed. ‘I was only the hands and feet.’

‘That is not at all the truth,’ Emily protested. ‘But it turned out so well and we had such fun that, after little Edward was born, I decided to ask Sophie’s help in redoing some other rooms.’ She turned to Miss Ashford. ‘I assure you, they turned out beautifully. You’ve never seen anything so comfortable and elegant at the same time.’

‘How nice,’ murmured Miss Ashford.

‘And upon seeing their handiwork, I decided that a big redecorating project would be just the thing for me as well,’ interjected Lady Dayle. ‘I came up with the idea of doing this house for Charles’s birthday and enjoying the Season at the same time. And here we all are.’

‘Yes, here we are all, and here I am going to stay, at least for a bit,’ said Sophie, more than ready to change the focus of the conversation. She looked to Charles. ‘Your mother and I have packed a few things. We mean to stay for a day or two, to get the work started off in good fashion.’

‘Won’t you be missed in town, Mother?’ he asked.

‘No. We intend to stay only tonight and tomorrow night. We shall be back in time for Almack’s on Wednesday.’

‘Good. I would hate for Miss Westby to miss any of the excitement of her first Season.’

Irritation straightened Sophie’s spine. ‘I do not know why you must insist on thinking of me as an empty-headed débutante, intent on flirting my way through the Season and into some peer’s pocket.’

Charles cast a lazy eye over her. ‘That was not my meaning, but since you brought it up, I shall remind you that decorating as a hobby might make you an eccentric, but as a career it will place you out of consideration for nearly any gentleman of birth.’

‘That is just as well, then,’ she returned. ‘I have as much talent, vision, and will as any man, not to mention enough money of my own to gain me something that few other women possess: choice, free will, and independence.’ She raised her chin, more than ready to continue, but was forestalled by Miss Ashford.

‘I’m sorry to hear that you will not be returning with us, Miss Westby,’ the lady said smoothly. ‘I am hosting a gathering of young ladies tomorrow to discuss some charitable works, and I had intended you to join us.’

Sophie blinked. The woman sounded as if she fully expected a reversal of their plans. ‘I am most obliged, Miss Ashford, but I must stay. The plasterer cannot come until tomorrow. I must be sure everyone comprehends what I have in mind. The first stages of a project such as this are critical.’

‘Of course, I understand.’ Her tone said otherwise. She accepted a glass of lemonade from a servant and turned back to Sophie. ‘What I would like to hear is how you developed such a passionate interest in design, Miss Westby. It is a most unusual accomplishment for a young lady.’

Sophie fought back a grin. Clearly in Miss Ashford’s eyes, unusual was not a compliment. ‘Oh, it was born of necessity, I’m sure. My singing voice is not fit for public hearing, my needlework skills are mostly of the practical variety, and my musical ability, though competent, is nothing special.’

‘Her artistic talents, however, are unsurpassed,’ Charles broke in unexpectedly. ‘I don’t believe I have a single memory of Miss Westby without a sketchbook close at hand.’ He smiled at the company in general. ‘Unless, of course, I had squirrelled it away and hidden it. It was the greatest torture I could devise.’

Despite the tension that still crackled between them, Sophie was warmed by Charles’s defence of her. And by the brightness of that smile. It sparked a longing to see it more often.

She forced herself to laugh and keep her tone light. ‘I, on the other hand, devised any number of ways to torture you.’

‘Yes, and I still bear the scars of a few of them,’ he said with mock-severity.

‘I know Miss Ashford would love a hint on how to beat Charles into submission, Sophie dear …’ Lady Dayle spoke with the indulgence of a fond mother hen with a brood of wayward chicks ‘.but it will have to wait for later, for isn’t that the builder’s cart travelling up the drive?’

‘Oh, it must be,’ Sophie said, rising to her feet. ‘He is due to arrive some time this afternoon.’ Pausing, she flashed Charles her biggest smile, then stopped and bent down to Miss Ashford. Still holding Charles’s gaze, she said in a deliberately loud stage whisper, ‘Ear flicking, he hates that’, before striding off to the house.

Chapter Seven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How does he go on?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She still had not moved. ‘Yes.’

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

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