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

viscountess, he was a hit in Mayfair.

      So she had smiled. She had sparkled. She had danced and talked with a great many boring gentlemen, and she had secretly studied Charles the way the rest of the room studied her, trying to fathom his mysteries.

      He was incredibly handsome tonight, in deep blue and creamy white. Someone had tamed his wayward hair; like him, it was shining and gorgeous and contained.

      When, she wondered, had he donned this mask of control? She knew he must be relieved at his restoration, but there was no sign of it. No sign of any emotion, except for a few moments of obvious camaraderie with his brother. He remained calm and cool, receiving attention from every woman in the room as if it were his due. He spent a good deal of time in corners with other gentlemen of a political bent, danced only a few dances, and twice only with Miss Ashford.

      She could not like the man he had become. But though she wavered between hurt and disdain, she had to admit also her fascination. How and when had he changed so completely? She was not ready to give up on her questions, to give up on him.

      Let him bask in the admiration of the silly women of this world. Sophie knew her man, and with the old Charles a little disdain went a long way. Perhaps, with this stranger, it would as well.

      So she thanked his brother prettily for the dance and bided her time. When she grew tired of feeling like a new species of insect at a naturalists’ gathering, she retreated to the ladies’ retiring room. She dawdled for a bit in front of the mirror, gathering her determination. She was no stranger to disapproval. At the tender age of seven she had been orphaned, uprooted from her home in Philadelphia, and unceremoniously shipped to England. She’d dreamed of a warm welcome and a loving uncle. Instead she’d been shuffled off to a lesser estate, hidden away along with her eccentric aunt, who sometimes thought that she was seven years old as well.

      The people of Blackford Chase had taken their cue from the earl and done their best to forget her existence. She’d been so lonely until she found Charles, and again after he left. Still, she had managed well enough for herself and eventually found a way to be useful. She could do the same here. And here she still had a chance at unravelling the mystery that was Charles Alden.

      Still lost in thought, she headed back, but was surprised when she heard a step close behind her and felt a hand on her shoulder.

      ‘Good evening,’ a strangely familiar voice greeted her.

      Sophie froze. It wasn’t her chance. It was her uncle.

      She forced herself to breathe deeply and turned. She’d known she must face him some time, but still she found herself unprepared for the pain. ‘Hello, Uncle.’

      He had grown older. The broad shoulders she remembered were a little stooped, the dark hair shot with grey.

      ‘It has been a long time,’ he said.

      She inclined her head. There was no polite reply to that.

      ‘You are doing well for yourself. You’ve shown initiative getting yourself to London.’ He smiled for the first time and looked her over like a horse at Tattersalls. The smile did not reach his eyes; they glittered, reminding her of a hungry spider. ‘Quite a change from the snivelling chit that landed on my doorstep.’

      He would find her no easy prey. ‘Indeed,’ she politely agreed. ‘Many changes take place over the course of so many years. The most important one is that I no longer need, or desire, your approval.’

      Her rudeness didn’t faze him. ‘You’ve got your mother’s spirit as well as her looks.’

      ‘Enough of it to tell you that you may go to the devil, which is exactly what she said to you, is it not?’

      ‘Clever, too. Young lady, you have far more potential than I have given you credit for.’

      ‘Lord Cranbourne,’ a clear voice rang out, and Lady Dayle materialised behind Sophie. ‘We so hoped to see you tonight. How nice to see that Sophie has at last tracked you down.’

      ‘She has indeed, and I see how wrong I have been not to search her out sooner. But I shall make amends and call on you soon, my dear.’ He made his bow and departed.

      Lady Dayle turned and stroked Sophie’s face, her own dark with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Perfectly.’

      ‘I am sorry I was not here sooner.’

      ‘Do not worry.’ Sophie made herself smile for her friend. ‘The worst is over. It will only get easier from here.’

      ‘I hope you are right.’ She sighed. ‘But he did not seem upset in the least, did he? I had worried that he would resent my interference. Well! Everyone is still at supper. If you have finished, then perhaps we should take a look at the Egyptian Room?’

      ‘Lead on, my lady.’ But Sophie drew her shawl closer to her for warmth, and tried to ignore the fact that her hands were shaking.

      She forgot her discomfort once they entered the Egyptian Room. Sophie’s shawl fell along with her jaw as the door closed quietly behind them. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She had expected something cold and sterile. Instead her senses were under attack. The vibrant warmth of the vivid blues and oranges contrasted strongly with the antique red and black. It was astonishingly busy, yet the lines were straight and clean. It was alien, spectacular, and oddly compelling.

      ‘Dreadful, isn’t it?’ asked Lady Dayle. ‘I don’t think this was what Mr Hope meant at all.’

      ‘In fact, I believe this is quite close to the spirit of some his work,’ came a voice from deep within a lionskin chair. ‘Except for all the odd animal parts. I believe that little touch is all Lady Edgeware’s.’

      Charles stood and Sophie’s heart dropped. She was shaken still, and edgy from her encounter with her uncle. Not at all up to dealing with him, or the way he made her feel.

      ‘Charles! What are you doing in here?’ Lady Dayle’s tone was sharp.

      ‘I’ve come to see Lady E.’s latest acquisition.’ He gestured and Sophie swept around a sofa with legs fashioned after an elephant’s.

      ‘Oh!’ she gasped. It was a monstrosity of a stuffed crocodile, frozen for ever in a snarling pose of attack.

      ‘Good heavens,’ complained Lady Dayle, ‘the woman has gone too far. Charles, you shouldn’t be hiding away in here. Some baron from the north has stolen a march on you and taken Miss Ashford in to supper.’

      ‘I make it a point to come in here every year. It helps to distract myself from my own folly when I contemplate someone else’s.’

      ‘Yes, well, perhaps you should not encourage Lady Edgeware. I don’t find this place at all comfortable, but there is an appealing piece here and there. This, for instance,’ and she swept toward the heavily adorned marble mantel.

      ‘Hold, Mother,’ Charles warned, but it was too late. The short, pearl-encrusted train of her gown had caught in the jaws of the stuffed crocodile. The tear of fabric sounded loud in the room, along with the pinging dance of scattered pearls.

      ‘Oh, the horrid thing,’ huffed the viscountess. ‘Do untangle me, Sophie, and tell me how bad it is.’

      Sophie knelt to examine the hem. ‘I’m afraid it is quite a long tear, my lady. Let me help you to the retiring room and we’ll find a maid to stitch you back up.’

      ‘No, no, dear. You stay and finish your look around. If you find any of my seed pearls, do be so good as to tuck them into your reticule. No, Charles, you go on to the dining room. I shall be back in a trice to fetch Sophie.’

      She was gone from the room before either of them could protest. Neither of the pair left behind would have been comfortable had they seen the crafty smile she wore as she went.

      Sophie, who felt that her current mood could rival any of Charles’s most cranky moments, bent again and began to gather