His feet refused to move. Instead he lifted his hand and traced the outline of her jaw. Her skin quivered underneath the tips of his fingers and her lips parted, inviting him.
‘Dear Richard, imagine! You should be in the ballroom, rather than in the garden,’ a heart-sinkingly familiar woman’s voice said. ‘I shall have to tell your father that we met. He was asking after you at lunch last week. I had understood you were in London. Does he know you journeyed to Newcastle?’
Richard knew that things had suddenly become much worse. The most fearsome of his aunts had arrived.
He gave Miss Ravel an apologetic look and swung around.
‘Aunt Parthenope, what an unexpected pleasure.’ Richard made a slight bow. ‘I would have called on you earlier today if I’d known you, too, were in Newcastle. I would have thought you’d be in London for the start of the Season.’
‘The Season does not properly begin until after Queen Charlotte’s ball. Plenty of time remains to sort out the hanger-ons and no hopers from the cream of this year’s débutantes.’ His aunt gave a loud sniff. ‘You should have known that I always come to Newcastle at this time of year. I have done for years—to visit your grandmother’s grave on the anniversary of her death. In any case, the train makes travel so convenient these days. It takes less than a day. Imagine—when I was a girl, it took more than a week by post carriage.’
‘We truly do live in an age of miracles, Aunt,’ Richard murmured, wondering if his mother was aware of his aunt’s habit and why she hadn’t warned him of the possibility.
‘Why are you out in the garden, Richard?’
‘Crowded ballrooms can cause claustrophobia. I wanted a breath of fresh air.’ He moved towards his aunt and started to lead her away from where Miss Ravel stood, hidden in the shadows, touching his fingers to his lips before he turned away. Immediately Miss Ravel shrank back against the hedge.
‘You know how it is, Aunt,’ he said in an expansive tone. ‘One minute, one is waltzing and the next, one needs to be away from the crowd. You have often remarked on how crowded these balls are, not like the days when you were a young girl.’
Sophie hardly dared to breathe. She could see what Lord Bingfield was about to do—lead his aunt and her party away and leave her to make her own way back to the house. It was far too late for regrets. She had to hope that Lord Bingfield’s scheme would work.
‘And this is why you were out in the garden, Nephew? A sudden and inexplicable need for fresh air? Do not seek to flannel me. Your father did explain about his ultimatum to you at luncheon. While I might not agree with it on principle, I should remind you, he is a man of his word.’
Sophie pursed her lips and wondered what ultimatum Lord Bingfield’s father had issued. One of two things—women or gambling debts. Possibly both. Why would the man she begged for help have to turn out to be a dishonourable rake, rather than the honourable person she’d hoped? Her luck was truly out tonight.
‘My father has no bearing on this matter, Aunt.’ Lord Bingfield waved an impatient hand. ‘I know what he said and he must do as he sees fit. I make my own way in the world.’
‘You were always a reckless youth, Richard.’
‘We should return to the ballroom, Aunt,’ Lord Bingfield said, starting forwards and grasping his aunt’s elbow so that she was turned away from Sophie. ‘I find I am quite refreshed after a short turn. You must tell me all the news. How does my father fare? Does his latest pig show promise?’
Sophie flattened her back against the hedge. The prickles dug into her bodice. Silently she bid them to go.
‘And your charming companion? Or do you wish to continue blathering fustian nonsense, thinking I would overlook her?’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt gave her nephew a rap on the sleeve with her fan. ‘You do not fool me one little bit, Richard. I know how this game is played.’
‘Charming companion?’
‘You do know her name, I hope, Nephew. You were standing far too close to her to be complete strangers. However, with you, nothing surprises me.’
Sophie’s heart sank as Lord Bingfield’s aunt confirmed her growing fear. Lord Bingfield was not safe in carriages or indeed anywhere.
‘Aunt, you wrong me dreadfully,’ Lord Bingfield protested. ‘Name one instance where I have behaved dishonourably.’
‘I do declare it’s Miss Ravel.’ Sir Vincent loomed out of the darkness. In the gloom, Sophie could make out his smug grin. Her misery was complete. He intended to cause mischief, serious mischief, and she had inadvertently given him the opportunity, wrapped and tied up with a bow like a parcel. ‘I am surprised that a woman such as yourself is out here in the night air, Miss Ravel, with a man such as the notorious Lord Bingfield. What will your guardian say?’
‘My stepmother is aware of where I am and who I am with.’ Sophie kept her chin up. It was the truth. Her stepmother knew Sophie was at the ball, not her precise location and she had approved of the company. Her stepmother trusted her. She refused to allow Sir Vincent to imply that something untoward had happened. But it was poor luck that Lord Bingfield seemed to have a less-than-illustrious reputation himself.
‘You’re Miss Ravel? Sophie Ravel? The heiress who came out over four years ago?’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt squawked. ‘It would appear, Richard, that you have taken your father’s words to heart after all. Impressive.’
‘Everything, I assure you, is quite appropriate, Aunt,’ Lord Bingfield said. ‘It would be wrong of me to allow a lady such as Miss Ravel to wander about the garden on her own. Who knows the sort of ruffian she might encounter?’
He gave Sir Vincent a hard look. Sophie’s heart did a little flip. Unsuitable or not, Lord Bingfield shared her opinion of Sir Vincent. He was the only person standing between her and utter ruin.
‘It was your chivalry coming to the fore, Nephew,’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt pronounced. ‘All is now clear. I had feared you had decided to take after your mother’s side of the family.’
A muscle jumped in Lord Bingfield’s cheek and his hand clenched in a fist.
‘I believe Miss Ravel wishes to return to the ball, now that this little misunderstanding has been cleared up,’ he said in glacial tones.
‘Has it?’ Sir Vincent asked in a weasel-like tone. ‘You were in a close embrace! Did you see it, Lady Parthenope? It was quite clear from where I stood. And I know what a stickler you are for propriety and how everyone at Almack’s looks to your judgement.’
‘You were standing rather close to my nephew, Miss Ravel,’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt pronounced. ‘Young ladies need to be wary of their reputations at all times.’
‘Your attire is a little more dishevelled than a simple turn about the garden would suggest. How did you manage to tear your dress?’ Sir Vincent continued with a smirk.
Sophie winced. Lord Bingfield’s aunt would be someone of importance. Seeds of doubt and suspicions, that was what Sir Vincent intended. Little by little until she had no reputation left.
Her stomach churned. There was no way she could explain the current state of her attire away. She gave Lord Bingfield a pleading look as she searched her brain for a good excuse.
‘I do take offence at having Miss Ravel’s attire discussed in such intimate terms, Putney,’ Lord Bingfield said, stepping between her and Sir Vincent. His stance looked more like a pugilist preparing to enter the ring than a man at a ball.
Sophie released a breath. Despite her earlier fear, Lord Bingfield had kept his promise. He was protecting her.
‘Why?’ Sir Vincent stuck out his chest.