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Sophie waited for her stepmother to ask about Lady Parthenope’s dress or what she had said.
‘Almack’s is far from the power it used to be and I won’t be distracted.’ Her stepmother frowned and Sophie’s heart sank. Her stepmother was worse than a dog with a bone about this snippet of gossip. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Lord Bingfield immediately?’
‘Because you would have jumped to the wrong conclusion like you are doing now, and I was tired.’ Sophie crumpled the toast between her fingers. The last thing she needed after her broken sleep was to be quizzed about Lord Bingfield. Every time she closed her eyes last night it seemed she remembered how his breath had fanned her cheek or how he had nearly kissed her. The encounter was nothing to him, but she couldn’t forget it. About three o’clock, she had decided that she’d been foolish and arrogant to reject his offer of an innocent dance. She should have danced with him and been done with it. She never dreamt about any of the men she danced with. The knowledge did not make her any happier.
‘You were thinking about me and my health.’ The ribbons of her stepmother’s cap swayed their indignation. ‘Sophie! Do you think I was born yesterday?’
‘Given how you are reacting now, is it any wonder? You are seeking a romance where there is none.’ Sophie was unsure who she was trying to convince—her stepmother or that little place inside her which kept whispering about Lord Bingfield’s fine eyes. ‘Besides, I doubt Lord Bingfield’s ultimate intentions towards me were honourable. He inhabits the scandal sheets, after all. Remember The Incident and why I had to hurry up to Corbridge? I’ve sworn off men like that.’
Her stepmother’s eyes narrowed. ‘You had better hope it is a proper proposal from Lord Bingfield. People have long memories, Sophie. Your name will now be tainted from the mere association with his. Did you think about that last night when you were so busy accepting his trifling assistance? You know what your father wanted for you—a marriage into the higher echelons of society—and you have jeopardised that.’
‘You are talking fustian nonsense.’ Sophie tapped her finger on the scandal sheet. ‘How many papers?’
‘I have sent the butler to check. I should think most of them. Lady Parthenope sent me a note. She has invited us to take tea with her.’ Her stepmother’s hand trembled with excitement as she reached for the letter. ‘She wants to vet us. That’s what this is. You know what they say about her door-keeping at Almack’s. I shall need a new bonnet!’
Sophie bit her lip. ‘You can always refuse.’
‘One does not refuse Lady Parthenope, Sophie, and stay within the bounds of polite society.’ Her stepmother folded her hands in her lap and gave a smug smile. ‘I’ve been after an invitation for years. You will pass muster without a problem. My stepdaughter will become a member of the aristocracy, even if she will forget me.’
‘Stop spinning fantasies and nothing is finalised.’ Sophie slumped back against the chair. She would have to tell her stepmother the full unedifying story. It was the only option. ‘But there are, and will be, no impending nuptials to Lord Bingfield. I’m quite decided on that point. It happened—’
‘There is a gentleman to see you, Miss Ravel.’ The footman came in, carrying a silver platter with a single card, interrupting Sophie’s story.
With a trembling hand, Sophie picked it up. Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield.
She stood up and absurdly wished that she was dressed in something more up to the minute than her old blue gown. She ruthlessly quashed the notion. Lord Bingfield and last night’s escapade needed to be consigned to the past. The papers this morning proved it. Scandal dogged his footsteps.
‘I will see Lord Bingfield in the drawing room.’
‘I shall come with you, my dear.’ Her stepmother started to rise, but Sophie put a hand on her stepmother’s shoulder.
‘That is far from necessary, Stepmother. If I need assistance, I will shout. I have access to a poker and am not afraid to use it.’
‘Sophie!’
‘The truth, Stepmother.’ Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘Allow me to do this or I shall write to Lady Parthenope, explaining that I have rejected her nephew’s suit and therefore neither of us will be able to take tea with her.’
Her stepmother covered her eyes. ‘I shudder to think what Robert—or Henri, for that matter—would say, but very well, my dear, you may see him on your own. On pain of death, do not close that door and I will be in earshot. Your father wanted the best for you and I am determined you shall have it, even if I have to beg Lady Parthenope on bended knee for a voucher to Almack’s.’
‘My father would expect me to sort out this mess. Despite what you or Henri or Robert might think, I am perfectly capable of sorting this tempest in a teacup out. I am an adult and, according to the papers, redoubtable.’ Sophie raised her chin. ‘I will simply tell him no.’
Chapter Three
Richard stood in the middle of the Ravels’ overly ornamented and chintz-hung drawing room, trying not to knock over any of the porcelain shepherds, china ladies or vases filled with wax flowers of every hue imaginable. The entire drawing room was a riot of pink tassels, lace doilies and small tables strewn with knickknacks, all in the most fashionable but horrendous taste. His frock-coat had narrowly missed one china pig and a precariously balanced bowl of waxen fruit already as he paced, waiting for Miss Ravel to put in an appearance.
What sort of woman was the redoubtable Miss Ravel? The woman he rescued last night had not seemed in any way formidable, but badly in need of protection. The gossip from the club said that she was aloof, an ice maiden, but he kept remembering the way her eyes had flashed when she rejected his offer of a polka.
His head pounded worse than ever. All the way here, he kept going over in his mind the possible scenarios and becoming angrier. Who else could have linked their names and informed the papers? He also knew that he had to make Miss Ravel understand that he had never made a proposal of that sort.
He had expected more from Miss Ravel. He regarded a particularly nauseating shepherdess who was more strangling a lamb than cuddling it. He knew next to nothing about her except that her ball gown had fetching sophistication and she had been in trouble. Hardly the stuff to build a relationship on. It was far better to get his painful interview over and get back to leading his life.
The lady in question strode into the drawing room. The simplicity of her blue dress contrasted sharply with the overly fussiness of the room. Richard drew in his breath sharply. His dreams had not done her features justice. A certain forthrightness about her jaw warred with the frankly sensuous curve of her bottom lip. Her waist appeared no bigger than his handspan.
Her quick backward glance at the door to ensure it remained wide open, rather than shut, was telling. She appeared determined to observe proprieties, even if no one else was in the room with them.
‘Lord Bingfield,’ she said, dropping a perfunctory curtsy and her lips curving up into a smile, but she failed to hold out her hand to be kissed. Truly redoubtable this morning. ‘An unexpected development.’
‘You have seen the papers?’ he asked, surprised. ‘I could hardly avoid calling on you after such item was printed. It would mean neglecting my duty. I may be many things, Miss Ravel, but I have never been a cad.’
‘We both made our positions quite clear last evening.’
‘I understand the item in question may have made some of the later London editions. My father—’
‘This would be the father who doesn’t know you are in Newcastle?’ She gave a superior smile. ‘I can remember what your aunt said. I’m far from stupid, Lord Bingfield. However, if your being in Newcastle was going to cause problems with your parent, you should have been open and honest about it.’
‘My reasons for being in Newcastle are private.’
She raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘I will allow you to keep your reasons private. I merely mentioned this as plans have a way of going awry.’
‘Have you seen the item?’
‘My stepmother informed me of it.’ She gave a small cough. ‘Apparently your aunt has written to her, inviting her to tea. My stepmother is transported with excitement at the thought of taking tea with the great Lady Parthenope.’
‘How charming.’
Her eyes flashed blue fire. ‘I won’t have my stepmother mocked, Lord Bingfield.’
He inclined his head. ‘I was referring to my aunt, rather than your stepmother. I had not anticipated this development.’
‘Your aunt began it.’
‘Aunts are a law unto themselves, Miss Ravel, particularly my aunts. They can be wildly unpredictable. It is part of their charm.’ Aunts were a law unto themselves, but he’d never expect his aunt to take it this far, making contact with Miss Ravel’s relations before any nuptials were publically announced. There again, his aunt prided herself on her ability to ferret out people’s most discreet indiscretion and remembering snippets of gossips. It was why she proved such an effective gatekeeper for Almack’s. Currently slow torture would be too good for her, in Richard’s opinion. He’d suggest it to one of his cousins. ‘I hope your stepmother will not be too disappointed when you explain why she must not accept this invitation.’
‘My stepmother has longed for such an invitation ever since she first married my late father. She wishes to mingle with the truly genteel.’ Her neat white teeth worried her bottom lip, turning it the colour of ripe cherries. There was something innocent about her. Despite her age and reputation of being formidable, she seemed soft and gentle and in definite need of protection. ‘It was one of the reasons I was sent away to school for a time.’
‘My aunt is haughty rather than genteel. Her rudeness and sense of entitlement can be shocking at times.’
‘No matter how I explain that it doesn’t matter, my stepmother persists.’ Miss Ravel shrugged a shoulder. ‘My stepmother must do as she pleases, but I have disabused her of any notion that we are considering an alliance. I leave it to you to inform your aunt.’
‘Did you have anything to do with the item in papers? Are you responsible for it?’
‘The appearance of the item is a mystery and most vexing.’ Her eyes flared. ‘Why on earth would I want to endanger my reputation by linking my name with yours? I am well aware of what happens to women who become entangled with men like you.’
‘A simple yes or no to the original question will suffice.’ Richard fought to control his temper. Miss Ravel made it sound as though he was some sort of affliction to be avoided at all costs. He had never knowingly ruined a woman. ‘We shall go at it another way. Do you know your enemy, Miss Ravel?’
Her blue eyes met his. ‘Then, no, if you must know, I did not contact the papers. And until today, I didn’t consider that I had an enemy. Sir Vincent must be more persistent than I thought. He has ignored your aunt’s pronouncement of total innocence. Why would he do such a thing, except that he knows the merest hint of your name will soil my reputation?’
The tension rushed out of Richard’s shoulders. Her assessment was the same as his. ‘Thank you. I believe you. Forgive me for doubting you, but I had to know.’
The fire went out of her eyes. ‘You are apologising.’
‘Sir Vincent and I have previous history. He is a formidable enemy.’
‘Indeed.’ She passed a hand over her eyes and sank down on to the pink-damask sofa. ‘I have made an enemy who intends to use underhanded means to win.’
‘He has succeeded before. I am determined to stop him. This time.’ Without bidding, the image of Mary’s face floated in front of his eyes. He would have done the decent thing and married Mary before he was sent down from Oxford, despite the pain it would have caused his father. If he’d done that, she’d never have been forced into that marriage, would have never run away and met her death in that canal accident. He forced his mind away. He had to concentrate on the now and saving Miss Ravel. He knew what she was up against. Miss Ravel was an innocent.
‘Putney means to ruin you, Miss Ravel. I’ve seen him do it to other women years ago and this time I will stop him.’
‘Ruin me? How?’ she said with a hiccupping laugh. ‘We have witnesses that you made an honourable proposal. Sir Vincent can’t harm me.’
‘There are several scandal-mongers lurking outside your house.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘When you have been notorious, you learn to know their type. I sent them on their way.’
‘They are watching the house? Still?’
‘It is entirely possible,’ Richard admitted.
Miss Ravel walked over to the drawing-room window and closed the shutters with a bang.
‘You should have told me about them before you started accusing me of informing the papers. My stepmother will be beside herself. My former guardian will have apoplexy. I would never have allowed you in if I’d known.’
‘I went to my club after I left the ball. I hadn’t seen the papers or I would have been here earlier…’
‘But they will know you were here.’ She put her hands to her head. Her face had gone pale. ‘Don’t you see? The scandal will be all the greater. The scandalous Lord B has called on the redoubtable Miss R … or possibly the not-so-fearsome Miss R…but wilful and headstrong.’
She clasped her hands together as if she was trying to keep them from trembling. Richard fought against the inclination to take her in his arms and hold her until the trembling stopped. She was right. His coming here had made matters worse, but he could not have just left her to face the coming storm alone. It was not in his nature.
‘It had to be done. Your post could be watched. The gutter press is called that for a reason.’
‘I shall have to quit society.’ Miss Ravel began to pace the room. ‘My stepmother will be displeased, but it will have to be done. She still harbours hopes of a glittering marriage for me. I’ll leave for Corbridge in the morning.’
‘The scandal hounds will follow you. Putney will ensure it. Running will only encourage them.’
She put a hand out to steady herself. ‘This is positively the last time I assist in anyone’s elopement. The consequences are far too grave.’
‘Listen to me, Miss Ravel, before you panic utterly.’
‘I never panic.’ she shouted. ‘This is my life you have ruined. All you have to do is leave this room. No one has any expectations of you.’
He raised an eyebrow and her cheeks infused with colour. He quickly calculated the odds and knew the risk was worth taking. He would have done everything possible and he could leave her with a clear conscience. He would also have fulfilled the vow that he made at Mary’s graveside. Putney would never use him to ruin another woman. ‘I have expectations of my behaviour. It is my expectations which are important here, not someone else’s.’
‘What do you suggest?’ she whispered, clasping her hands together so tightly the knuckles shone white.
‘It is nothing that either of us wanted, but I can see no other practical solution, one which allows us both some measure of honour.’ He went down on one knee. ‘Will you marry me, Sophie Ravel?’
Sophie stared at Lord Bingfield in astonishment. He had gone down on one knee with one hand clasped to his breast and was looking up at her with an intent expression.
Her mouth went dry. It was a proper proposal. He was truly proposing. Lord Bingfield, despite his scandalous reputation and his vowed intent never to marry, was doing the decent thing and properly proposing marriage. Her stepmother’s drawing room filled with its waxen fruit, china dogs and vases full of wax flowers had a distinct air of unreality.
‘You are silent for once, Miss Ravel. Have you been struck dumb?’
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. She refused to believe in fairy tales or instant love. He was doing this for his own purposes and not to save her.
She had learnt her lesson the hard way years ago. Some day she would find a man whom she could love and whom she wanted to share the remainder of her life with, but until then she kept her head. Bingfield expected her to refuse. Of course he did. Then he could say that he’d done the decent thing, but alas, the lady had been unwilling. She gave a small smile. She understood the game now. She fought against the temptation to whisper ‘yes’, simply because he must expect a ‘no’.
‘Am I supposed to give this serious consideration?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side and allowing her lashes to sweep down. ‘Or am I supposed to refuse outright, send you on your way with a clear conscience that you have behaved with propriety? It might solve your problem with your code of honour, but it will not solve mine.’
His eyes hardened to stones. ‘That is not for me to say. I merely asked the question in the proper manner. It is for you to answer when you have considered it. Simply know I will not ask the question twice. Being coy will get you nowhere.’
‘You do not know me well enough to feel any finer feelings.’
‘I never pretended any finer feelings, Miss Ravel. I asked you to marry me. You would hardly want me to be dishonest. The proposal suits my purposes for the moment. I will abide by your answer.’
The words served to puncture her entirely. Sophie frowned at the unexpected disappointment. It shouldn’t matter what Lord Bingfield thought of her, but it did. A tiny piece of her had hoped that somehow she’d been wrong and he’d fallen instantly in love with her. She had thought that the romantic part of her had died in that inn on the road to Scotland along with the rest of her girlish dreams, but apparently it hadn’t.
‘Is this some sort of a joke, Lord Bingfield?’
He slowly rose to his full height. Sophie was aware of the power in his shoulders and the way they narrowed down to his slim hips. Her body remembered how close they had stood last night. Her cheeks grew hot. He might not have any finer feelings for her, but she knew she wanted him to kiss her and that was not going to happen.
‘I would hardly go down on one knee unless I was serious.’ His lips turned down and his eyes became shadowed. ‘In light of today’s papers, do you think Putney will stop?’
‘He needs to be exposed.’
‘Others have tried and failed. I refuse to be used as an instrument of your ruin by the likes of him. Equally I refuse to be labelled a cad and have it whispered that I ruin eligible women for sport. Years ago, I made a vow that I would not be used by him to ruin any woman.’ He gave her a resolute look. ‘Marriage is the right and proper thing to do in these circumstances. If I had not asked, it would have weighed on my conscience. It is now up to you to make a decision. I will abide by your choice.’
Sophie stared at the ceiling. The proposal might be real, but he didn’t expect her to accept it. Not truly, not given in such a manner and after last night’s exchange. But did she need the protection of a marriage to save her reputation from Sir Vincent? All she needed was an engagement. Her heart thudded.
‘You suggest a fake engagement until the newspapers lose interest and I can jilt you? Putney is sure to move on when he realises that I am no soft target.’ She pursed her lips, considering. It made complete and utter sense. It would buy her time until the Montemorcys returned and she could get proper advice. She turned around and faced Lord Bingfield, adopting her best social smile. ‘A false engagement should stop comment. Whoever is doing this expects you to run and to leave me ruined, but this way Sir Vincent Putney will be left exposed. Marriage is not the answer, an engagement is.’
His brows knitted together and he seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘A false engagement? One is either engaged to be married or one is not, Miss Ravel. I don’t deal in fakes and deceptions of that nature. Attempting to cozen society is fraught with difficulty.’
‘It is in the novels my stepmother likes to read. They are all the rage.’ Sophie gave him a breezy assurance, but her insides twisted. He made it seem as though she dealt in deception regularly. She didn’t. Sometimes it was easier to give an impression of a certain behaviour for the greater good, that was all. ‘We don’t actually have to marry. Once the furore has died down and Putney is unmasked or quits the neighbourhood, we can part…amicably. Legitimate engagements are ended for all sorts of reasons.’
‘I meant a marriage if it came to it. I knew the risks when I asked. And if you had refused, I would have told the various journalists that my heart was broken by the redoubtable Miss Ravel.’ He inclined his head. ‘I will not pretend instant undying love. I have seen enough of love to know it leads two people who are wholly unsuited to each other to do stupid things. Love has little place in marriage. We might have suited if you had desired it.’
‘We obviously have different views on the subject. I would never have such a cold-blooded thing as an arranged marriage. A happy marriage needs a firm foundation of love.’
A half-smile flickered across his face. ‘Despite your formidable reputation, Miss Ravel, you are a secret romantic. Love only complicates things and makes people profoundly unhappy in my experience.’
‘I demand certain standards from any prospective bridegroom.’ Sophie drew herself up to her full height. ‘Standards which you sadly lack.’
‘However, I will consider your wish of a fake engagement and evaluate the risks. We might be able to play Sir Vincent at his own game.’
His mouth twisted as he spat the word fake. Deep-seated anger at the injustice of the whole situation flooded through her. She was trapped in a situation not of her making and had found the perfect solution if only he’d agree. She was being honest and forthright, whereas if she’d accepted his offer he would have found a way to make her jilt him. And his idea of telling the press she’d rejected him would make them more interested in her, rather than less.
‘Consider!’ Sophie put her hands on her hips. ‘It is the perfect solution. Surely you must see it. There will be no need for further scandal. We will quietly part at the end. There will be no hurt feelings or accusations as we both know from the outset that the marriage will never happen. Honesty on both our parts from the start.’
‘You know nothing about me!’
