‘Well, I did assure her we would check for webbed fingers when next we saw you, but considering the light such a thing would cast upon Lady Dayle, I felt compelled to deny the charge. In any case, I told her, you most assuredly have your father’s nose.’
Charles just shook his head. He didn’t know which was more outrageous, the rumours or her method of dealing with them. ‘I must thank you for defending my family’s honour.’ His mother, he could see, stood in whispered consultation with the butler, and was turning to leave the room. He turned to Mrs Lowder. ‘I remember your skill on the pianoforte very well. I hope you will play for us all after dinner, but right now I must whisk Miss Westby away, as my mother has requested her assistance.’
‘Of course, I would be honoured,’ Emily answered with a smile.
‘Mr Huxley, grand to have met you,’ said Charles as he firmly grasped Sophie’s elbow, ushering her away before she had a chance to protest. He led her out the door his mother had just exited, and stood a moment in the hall, debating. Likely, his mother had been called to the kitchens. The dining room, he knew, would be swarming with servants. As he hesitated, Sophie pulled her arm from his grasp.
‘Where is your mother, Lord Dayle?’
‘Soothing the cook, I imagine.’
‘She doesn’t need my assistance.’
‘No, I do. We have to talk.’
Ah, the bookroom. He herded Sophie in and carefully left the door partially open. She looked around curiously, and then turned to him with a frown. ‘How disappointing. Nary a radical nor a ladybird in sight.’
‘Very amusing.’ Charles grimaced.
‘Well, I do have first-hand knowledge of what you get up to in empty rooms.’
‘Stop it, Sophie, can we not talk seriously for a moment?’
She took a calming breath and threw back her shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t—it strained both her neckline and his control. ‘You’ve ignored my existence for a full fortnight, but you are compelled to talk now, in the middle of your dinner party?’
‘My mother’s dinner party, but yes.’
She waited; he stared, trying to gather his thoughts. What was there to say? There were at least a thousand thoughts crowding his brain, he had to tread carefully and choose just the right one.
‘You’d been kissed before,’ he said.
Her jaw dropped. He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair. That had not been the right one.
Her décolletage was heaving now, in perfect time with his gut. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she gasped. ‘That’s what you dragged me in here to discuss? That’s what you took away from our—encounter?’
Lord help him, but it was true. Though he hadn’t articulated the thought to himself, it had been nagging at him, poking and prodding, making him squirm perhaps even more than his other troubles. ‘You knew how to kiss. Someone had to teach you.’
True to form, Sophie laughed, but it was a desolate sound. Despairing. She turned and walked away.
Well, what did he expect? She would be well within her rights to leave the room and never speak to him again, but he couldn’t stop himself, he had to know.
‘Was it Sean Hill?’
‘The blacksmith’s boy?’ Anger brought her back, and Sophie was angry indeed. Her dark eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed, and she advanced on him like Ney and d’Erlon into Wellington’s centre line.
‘You were gone, Charles. You left for school and never looked back. I didn’t blame you. I knew how things were with your father.’ She stopped before him, magnificent in her fury. ‘But I was still there. I might be there still if not for Emily and your mother.’
She turned away again, and retreated to the far side of the room. ‘Did you think because their mamas disapproved of me, the boys would steer clear of me? Foolish—don’t you know that that made me even more interesting?’ Her voice fell away to a whisper. ‘I was alone, Charles.’
She rallied and shot him a look of defiance. ‘Thank God for Emily. If we hadn’t struck up a friendship, I might have done far worse than allow a boy to kiss me.’ She gave an ironic snort. ‘I might have run off to Gretna with the first man old enough to ask me, just for the conversation on the way. Had any of them paid me any serious attention, I think I might have done almost anything.’
Charles found himself barely able to respond. The picture she painted was devastating. ‘I didn’t know—I never thought …’
Undaunted by her own admission, she faced him squarely. ‘You judge me if you wish, Charles Alden. But you remember that I never judged you. I cheered when the rest of the world reviled your exploits, and wished I could be kicking up rows right along with you. Nor did I judge you when you stayed away all those years, with never a word or a letter. You returned home for what—a mere two days—for Phillip’s funeral? Less than that for your father’s, but you never came to see me.’
Her anger seemed to have fled. It was disappointment he read in her eyes now. ‘I didn’t judge you, Charles. Even when you forgot me.’
Her skirt flared as she turned her back on him. This time she was the one to sweep out of the room without looking back.
Had he forgotten her? Charles sat through dinner ignoring his food, nodding as Miss Ashford talked—she had decided her ball must be a masquerade—and trying to answer that question.
He remembered the brash youth he had been, daring anything, risking everything, determined to force his father’s displeasure, since nothing had ever earned his respect. He had indeed left for school, but he had always looked back—back to be sure his father was watching.
No, he hadn’t forgotten Sophie. Unconsciously, he had held her memory close, sure as he raised every kind of hell he could imagine, that there was one person in the world who would forgive him. But he had held her static in his mind, never considering her growing older, becoming a young woman. She had always been his pig-tailed, adventurous partner in crime.
He hadn’t forgotten her, but he had failed her.
That truth gnawed at him throughout the evening as he watched her. Another sin to shoulder responsibility for, another person who had suffered while he exercised his fertile imagination and frittered away his life. He wasn’t sure his soul could bear another such burden.
Oddly enough, though, he found a measure of peace while he watched her. She had been hurt—perhaps only he knew how much—yet she had risen above it. Sophie had grown up, and Lord knew she had turned out to be unconventional, but she was also good natured, amusing, and intelligent. She was a beacon of light in the room, smiling and animated, and the people around her responded. She charmed her partners through dinner and was kept happily occupied in the drawing room afterwards. He noticed Mr Huxley was often at her side.
Watching her gave him hope. And that was only the top reason on a long list of them to stop.
Nevertheless, he was achingly aware of her as he circulated through the guests after dinner. There was excited talk of costumes for Miss Ashford’s masquerade, and much animated gossip over the state of Prinny’s health. The knot of young people about Sophie all seemed to be embroiled in a discussion on fashion, and of course, there was a good deal of political debate going on in pockets about the room.
At his request, his mother had invited a few members of the Board of Trade. Charles knew he should be courting them, but he was more worried about the young men courting Sophie. Was this the sort of attention she had craved? The thought had him contemplating mayhem, not party platforms.
But he knew his