Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss. Deb Marlowe

a little. He glanced over at Miss Ashford, who stood in unsmiling, serious conversation with some matron or other. This marriage-of-convenience business was a bitter brew to swallow. But swallow it he would, and be thankful for it, he thought. The bitterness he undoubtedly deserved, and some stubborn, wilful part of him welcomed the challenge.

      ‘Good.’ That same stubborn part of him yearned to find the person responsible for stirring up this hornet’s nest of scandalbroth. ‘Unfortunately I haven’t had the same luck finding the editor of the Augur.’

      ‘Someone’s tipped him off,’ said Jack.

      ‘It is a convenient time for the man to have developed a far-flung sick relative. I doubt I’ll get anywhere with him if he’s anything like the one at the Oracle. He makes Lord Avery’s talk of a peasant revolution look quite sane. Hates the nobility, took a satanic glee in rubbing my nose in my own misdeeds.’

      ‘He certainly did his research.’ Jack grinned. ‘Honestly, Charles, even I did not know that you were the one who painted old King Alfred’s statue such a heavenly shade of blue. There’s a certain justice in it that you must pass the old boy every day on the way in to the Lords.’

      Charles firmly suppressed his answering smile. ‘Somebody’s feeding them information, and being bloody clever about it. My man hasn’t found a scrap of a clue.’

      ‘So what shall we do now?’

      ‘I meant to ask you to take over the search for the missing editor.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, old man, I know it means time away from your research.’

      ‘It’s no matter, I find I quite enjoy this sleuthing. It’s not so different from scholarly research, except for the venue. And I never had to buy so many rounds in the university library.’

      ‘I appreciate it, Jack. In the meantime I have taken a lesson from this tricky cove and decided to fight him with his own weapons.’

      ‘Do tell!’

      ‘One of my footmen has been “bribed” by the press.’

      Jack laughed. ‘Damn me if you aren’t brighter than you look, big brother. Brilliant idea. Now you can leak the information you wish to hit the streets.’

      Charles smiled. ‘Before long there will be an entirely different view of the “Wicked Lord Dayle” circulating.’

      ‘I’d drink to it, but my glass is empty. Ah, well. Perhaps I will dance, since I am all rigged out and actually made it to one of these intellect-forsaken functions.’ He surveyed the room, then nodded his head and raised a brow. ‘And there is just the creature to make me willing to dredge up the memories of those nightmarish dancing lessons—Mother’s protégée. Take a look, Charles, she cleans up excellently well.’

      Charles did not turn. He had spent the evening purposefully trying not to notice Sophie. And yet he knew how incredible she looked in her exquisitely embroidered ivory gown. He knew how the scarlet of her overdress contrasted so richly and set off the lustrous sheen of her ebony tresses, and he could probably calculate to the smallest measurement just how much of her smoothly glowing skin was displayed.

      He did not look, for every time he did he found himself mocked by his own thoughts. He would prevail, would sacrifice anything to ensure his success.

      He’d had no idea just how much he would be asked to sacrifice.

      Jack was leaning in closer. ‘Tell me, what do you think of that whole situation? There’s been a bit of gossip there as well. None of it malicious, so far, just curious, what with the estranged uncle and the unflagging interest in design.’ He nodded again towards the corner where their mother stood with Sophie and a group of friends. ‘Although I did hear a few catty whispers from the younger set, something about the girl having trouble with society at home.’

      Charles unclenched his teeth. ‘I think that her presence makes Mother happy, and for that we owe her much.’

      ‘Without a doubt. I haven’t seen Mother so animated since…well, in a long time. But I confess, at first I thought that Mother was matchmaking.’

      This time Charles could not stop the grin that came at his brother’s words. ‘It occurred to me as well. In fact, I scrubbed up the courage to confront her, thinking to forestall any hopes in that direction, only to be unequivocally warned off.’

      ‘I was read the same lecture.’ Jack rolled his eyes and imitated his mother’s stern tone. ‘“The dear girl has suffered enough at society’s hands. I mean to ease her way, not subject her to the wayward attentions of a man too busy with his nose in a book to treat her properly.”’

      Charles laughed. ‘It was my boorish moods and general crankiness.’

      ‘Well, she’s right, old boy. You are a cranky boor and I am in no way ready to acquire a leg shackle, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dance with the little beauty.’

      Charles watched him go. Watched him receive a smile from Sophie and a warning look from their mother. Watched the other men watching her as she gracefully took the dance floor, smiling her evident enjoyment. Then he turned, heading for the card room, where one of the members of the Board of Trade was reportedly diminishing his own cash flow.

      

      Sophie watched him leave the ballroom as the dance began. She had been surreptitiously watching him all evening, all the while painfully aware that he was nearly the only person present not watching her.

      The beau monde did not know what to make of her. Her birth was good, her fortune respectable, though it had a slightly mercantile taint. But she was undeniably not one of them. At three and twenty she was a bit long in the tooth to be entering society. Worse, her manner was too direct, her looks too exotic, her passions too strongly expressed. She was too much of everything, she felt, for them to be comfortable with her.

      They studied her like a rare insect, some with fascination, some with revulsion, and Sophie wouldn’t have cared a whit, yet she knew Lady Dayle would be distressed should she be found wanting.

      Not to mention that she was absolutely determined, even more so as she pretended to ignore Charles ignoring her, that he would not find her alone and friendless today as he had so many years ago. Especially not when his own social standing appeared to be so fully restored. The ‘Wicked Lord Dayle’ might not play well in Whitehall, but since the rumours began of his search for a 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,