Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss. Deb Marlowe

grown up, his childhood friend. She was all vibrant energy and exotic beauty, as passionate and unconventional as ever. Still, he had longed for her company. He wanted to tell her everything and hear everything she had done over the years.

      He could not. Judging from their two unconventional encounters, she had not changed. She was impetuous, opinionated, and always in trouble. A friendship with her would be dangerous. Poison to Viscount Dayle, the only part of him still living. He had realised it at once; he could not have her. Ever.

      So he had acted like the juvenile she had known and he had flailed at her in anger. Now she would despise him, and it was better that way. Easier.

      Charles straightened and dragged himself off. He would go home and examine this situation in the way that it deserved—through the bottom of a bottle of blue ruin. Then he would live the rest of his life the way he deserved. Alone.

      Chapter Four

      ‘Sophie, you are not attending me.’ Lady Dayle’s words barely penetrated the mist in Sophie’s head.

      ‘What?’ She blinked her eyes and focused on the jumble of fabric swatches and wallpaper patterns spread before her. ‘Oh, yes, that combination is lovely, but I don’t know how much more we can accomplish until I have seen the house.’

      It was a true statement, but what she left unsaid was that though this was the chance of a lifetime, she could scarcely concentrate on plans for the house without succumbing to a barrage of conflicting thoughts about its owner. One minute she was wishing him to perdition where she would never have to lay eyes on him again. The next she wanted to knock him to the floor, sit on him, and flick his ear until he confessed just what it was that forced him to act like an ass, just as she had done when she was twelve and he had hidden her favourite box of coloured chalks.

      ‘I know, dear, but it will not be long before we see it. I’ve already sent word to the staff to remove all the covers and shine the place up, so you’ll see exactly what you have to work with. In a day or two we can visit and—Oh, I’ve had the most fabulous idea! Let us make a party of it!’

      ‘Party? But we will have much work to be done if we are to be there for only a day.’

      ‘True, but we can at least make a picnic of it. Emily, and her dear little one, will enjoy it. Jack can come, he needs to get away from his books occasionally. And Charles can escort us. How refreshing it will be to get away together!’

      A little frisson of panic travelled up Sophie’s spine at the mention of his name. ‘I do not think we should bother Lord Dayle. I promised he should not be troubled by this project, if you will remember.’

      ‘Don’t be such a widget! We are his family. It is his house, for heaven’s sake. In any case, we’ll invite that dreadfully prosy Miss Ashford along and he can feel as if he is putting his time to good use.’

      A different kind of twinge struck Sophie. ‘Miss Ashford?’

      ‘The leading candidate for dullest débutante in London, and therefore the main focus of Charles’s attention. He has a notion that marriage to a strait-laced girl of impeccable family and no two thoughts to rub together will settle all his troubles in one fell swoop.’ Lady Dayle paused. ‘Although he could not have picked a more unlikely miracle worker, should you ask me.’

      ‘Miracle worker?’

      ‘Indeed. An alliance with such as her, he expects, will reassure the party, restore his standing in the ton, and stop the papers’ infernal fascination with his old exploits.’

      Surely it was a sudden onset of the putrid fever that had Sophie’s throat closing and her eyes watering, not the tight fist of jealousy or the realisation that if that was the sort of girl Charles was looking for, it was no wonder he wanted nothing to do with her.

      ‘In any case, we’ll ask him tonight at Lady Edgeware’s ball,’ continued the viscountess, unaware of her protégée’s distress.

      ‘I know you went to a deal of trouble to have me invited, my lady, but I am of a mind to stay quietly at home tonight. You know that going about in society is not my true reason for being here, and, indeed, I am not feeling all that well.’

      ‘Nonsense. All work and no play, and all those other adages, my dear. In any case, I think we are avoiding the real issue.’ She stroked the back of Sophie’s hand. ‘You must face him some time, you know. Emily and I will be with you, there will be nothing to fear.’

      Indignant, Sophie sat up straighter. ‘I am not afraid of Lord Dayle.’ She might not have the pedigree or propriety of a Miss Ashford, but she was no coward.

      ‘Good Lord, why should you be? I was not speaking of my addlepated son. I meant Lord Cranbourne, your uncle.’

      Her uncle. A man for whom she had given up all feeling, confused or otherwise. Would that she could do the same for Lord Dayle. ‘I’m not afraid of him, either, but neither do I wish to rush a confrontation.’

      ‘There will be no confrontation, of that I can assure you. Just a polite, long-overdue meeting.’ Dismissing the subject, she forged ahead. ‘We’ve been so busy lately with plans for the house that we have quite neglected our social obligations, and this will be just the thing to liven you up a bit. And in any case you must come tonight and see Lady E’s Egyptian room. It is quite famous, and you will not want to miss it.’

      ‘Oh, very well…’ Sophie paused. ‘Did you wish me to bring my notebook? Are you thinking of something similar for the Sevenoaks house?’

      ‘Heavens, no! She has taken Mr Hope’s ideas and run wild. It is a dreadfully vulgar display.’

      Sophie thought longingly of her own bed and her previous plans for the night: a quiet meal in her room, a nice long soak, the pages of portraits she would like to draw of Lord Dayle before she shredded each one and consigned it to the fire. Then she thought of him dancing with the faultlessly lineaged Miss Ashford, or perhaps taking her for a stroll in the garden, where he would kiss her eminently respectable lips.

      ‘In that case, how can I resist?’

      

      Miss Ashford, Charles thought as he led the lady out for their set, was everything he was looking for in a bride. She did everything proper and said everything prudent. She even danced in an upright manner, perfectly erect and composed, with no expression, of enjoyment or otherwise, on her face.

      Why, then, was he trying so hard to discover some chink in her flawless façade? He had spent the evening trying to uncover something—addiction to fashion, a sweet tooth, a secret obsession for nude statuary, anything.

      He had failed. The lady seemed to be everything reputable and nothing else. No flaw, no interests or passions or pursuits. And no warmth for him, either. She accepted his attentions with calm dignity and with no sign of reciprocal regard or even disfavour. He felt as if he was courting a pillar. Lord, it was a depressing thought.

      Their set finished, he led her back across the ballroom, exchanged all the correct pleasantries with her equally bland mama, and took his leave, trying not to yawn.

      A slap on the back from his brother brought him awake.

      ‘Evening, Charles,’ Jack said, ‘you look like a man who could do with a drink.’ He signalled the footman and when they both had a glass of champagne, said, ‘Just thought you might want to celebrate a bit—your name hasn’t been in the papers for a week, but it has shown up in the betting book at White’s.’ He swept his glass across, indicating the crowded ballroom. ‘They’re betting which of these dull-as-ditchwater debs will have the chance to tame you.’ He drank deep again.

      Charles grinned, feeling more than a little satisfaction. Things were finally progressing according to his own plans. He still had much political ground to make up, and, ridiculous though it might be, his social success would help him cover it quickly.

      ‘I am happy to report that Miss Ashford is the filly out in front,’ said Jack. ‘Wouldn’t