Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss. Deb Marlowe

be accomplished if her designs were well received.

      Second, and somehow more importantly, Lady Dayle had placed Sophie squarely in a position where she might see Charles again. Her pulse leaped at the thought.

      She wondered what Lady Dayle knew of their relationship—but perhaps relationship was the wrong word. Friendship, then, because he had indeed been her friend. Her friend, her companion, her confidante, the knight of her youth.

      Anticipation brought a secret smile to her face when she thought of the paper hidden in Nell’s bag. How she loved to read of his exploits. Through the years she had followed his nefarious career with the same glee that she had felt hearing of his schoolboy stunts. She could scarcely wait to tease every scandalous detail from him. It was her favourite fantasy; the pair of them, reunited, sharing laughter and dreams just as they had used to do.

      Sophie had always known that some day they would meet again. But now that the distant promise had become a near certainty, she found that it had gained new significance.

      How had he changed? What would he have to say to her? Sophie knew she stood at a crossroads in her life, a rare point filled with promise and possibilities ahead. Yet she also knew that she would not be able to settle to any one of them until she had the answers to those questions.

      ‘Miss!’ came a gasp from behind her. ‘Is it very much farther, miss?’ Nell sounded breathless. Apparently Sophie’s pace had quickened along with her thoughts.

      ‘Not much farther, I don’t believe.’

      For Nell’s sake she slowed her steps and resolved to keep her mind off of the distant past and the uncertain future, and firmly on the task in the present.

      It proved easier than she might have imagined, for Cheapside was a treat for the senses, populated as it was with all manner of shops and craftsmen. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the hot smell at the silversmiths, and again at the raw scent of fresh dye at the cloth weavers. She marvelled at the crowded windows of the engravers, but it wasn’t until she reached the tea merchant’s shop that she came to a delighted stop.

      The merchant had at one time been blessed with a bowed shop window, but the area had been converted, or inverted, and now held a charming little protected alcove. Like a miniature Parisian café, it held a small table, meant, she supposed, for customers to sit and experience some exotic new flavour before they parted with their coin. It was the seating, in fact, which had so caught Sophie’s attention.

      ‘Nell, just look at those chairs. If I’m not mistaken, those are true Restoration pieces, sitting right out in the street! Yes,’ she said, rushing forward to stroke one lovingly. ‘The Portuguese arch. Oh, and look, Nell, you must hold my portfolio while I examine the pé de pincel.’

      She could never truly say, afterward, just what went wrong. Perhaps the clasp had already been loose, or perhaps she herself accidentally triggered it. In any case, one second she was absentmindedly passing her portfolio back to Nell, and the next it was dropping wide open. Another gust of wind hit just then and all of her sketches and designs were sent skyward in a veritable cyclone of papers.

      For a moment Sophie stood frozen in panic and watched as her life’s work scattered about the busy street. Then she sprang into action. First she sent Nell after those that had skipped back down the way they had just come. Then an enterprising street sweeper approached and offered to help retrieve the papers that had fluttered into the street. Sophie gave him a coin, entreated him not to place himself in any danger and sent him off.

      She herself set after the bulk of the lot, which had gone swirling ahead of them. She was not heedless of the sight she must present, chasing, stooping, even jumping up to snatch at one desk design that had impaled itself on the pike of an iron railing, but she was beyond caring. These designs were her hopes for the future; she could no more abandon them than she could go quietly back to Blackford Chase.

      At last, after much effort, there was only one paper left in sight. It led her a merry chase as it danced mere inches from her fingertips more than once. But each time she drew near another mischievous breeze would send it bounding ahead. Sophie’s back ached and her gown grew more filthy by the minute, but she refused to give up.

      And she finally had a stroke of fortune. Just ahead a gentleman stalked out of a printer’s shop, right into the path of the wicked thing. It fetched up against a pair of well-formed legs, then flattened itself around one shining Hessian.

      With a triumphant whoop Sophie swept down and snatched the paper up. Oh my, she thought as she caught sight of her own distorted grin, you truly can see your reflection in a gentleman’s boots.

      ‘Of course. It only wanted this.’ The voice above her was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I can now officially brand this day one of the worst I have ever endured. Now my valet shall berate me as soundly as the rest of London.’

      Sophie fought the urge to grin as she slowly straightened up, her gaze travelling the unusual—and unusually pleasurable—path up the form of a well-formed gentleman. A well-heeled gentleman too, judging by the quality of the small clothes, which were buff, and the morning coat, which was, of course, blue, and the scowling face, which was…

      Charles’s.

      The shock was so great that her stomach fell all the way to the pavement and the rest of her nearly followed.

      He saw the danger and grasped her arm to steady her. She looked again into his face and saw that it was true. His face was not quite the same, the handsome promise of youth having hardened into a more angular and masculine beauty.

      His eyes were different as well, so cold and hard as he scowled down at her, but it was undeniably, without a doubt, her Charles Alden.

      Sophie was so happy to see him, despite the awkwardness of the moment, that she just beamed up at him. All the joyful anticipation she’d felt for this moment simply flooded out of her and she knew that her delight shone all over her face.

      It was not a shared emotion. In fact, he dropped her arm as if he’d suddenly found her diseased.

      Sophie’s smile only deepened. He didn’t know her! Oh, heavens, she was going to have some fun with him now.

      ‘I don’t know what you are smiling at. That was the worst example of unfeminine effrontery I have ever witnessed, and in the street, no less.’ He raked the length of her with a hard gaze. ‘You look the part of a lady, but it appears to end there. Where is your escort?’

      ‘My maid will be along in a minute,’ she replied almost absentmindedly. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. It was no wonder he’d had such a reputation as a rake; he had grown almost sinfully handsome. She would bet that women threw themselves in his path on a regular basis.

      ‘Please, stop that infernal smiling,’ he ordered. ‘If you need a good reason, impudent miss, just look at my boots!’

      She obediently arranged her face into a more sombre mien. ‘Please, do forgive me, sir.’ She smoothed the chalked design that had indeed smudged the high polish off one of his Hessians. ‘Let me assure you that I do not usually behave in so reckless a fashion. But I had to have my papers back, you see.’

      ‘No, I do not see.’ He stopped suddenly, an arrested look upon his face. He glanced back at the building he had just exited; with a closer look it appeared to be a publisher’s office. ‘Are you a writer, a reporter, by chance?’ he asked.

      ‘No, sir. I—’ She was not allowed to finish.

      ‘Damn. I could do with someone from the press in my court.’ With a sudden motion, before she could protest, he had reached out and smoothly snatched the paper from her grasp. ‘But please, enlighten me as to just what is worth making a spectacle of yourself.’

      Sophie looked as well and saw that it was a design of a chaise-lounge she had specifically drawn for his mother, complete with a complementary colour palette and notes on specific fabrics and trims.

      ‘Furniture,’ Charles said with a deprecating snort.

      ‘Décor,’