Deb Marlowe - Regency Rebels - Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

‘No,’ he said harshly.

‘“We’ll think of the others, but live for ourselves.” That’s a wondrous piece of wisdom for a mere boy. Too bad the man’s forgotten it.’

Her voice was heavy with disdain, and Charles shocked himself by welcoming it. Yes, he deserved nothing but her contempt, however misdirected its focus might be.

Sophie turned away from him and gripped the faded curtain. ‘That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it? Living the life that others expect of you?’

She would never understand. He felt a sudden, insane urge to blurt out the truth, all of it. But he couldn’t bear to see her reaction.

She’d grown tired of waiting for one. ‘It’s just a title, Charles. It may define your station in life, but naught else. You’ve hidden from yourself for so long, I think you’ve forgotten who you are. You’re more like Phillip now than I ever thought you could be.’ She paused a moment, as if digesting her own words, then realisation dawned on her face. ‘It’s Phillip,’ she breathed.

This time, Charles knew, his flinch was noticeable. He’d known she was dangerous. Now he struggled to gain control, to throw the mask back up before it was too late.

It already was too late.

‘My God, Charles! Is that what this is all about? Phillip was a serious man, a good and studious man. But it was his nature; the title didn’t make him that way. Do you think to turn yourself into your brother?’

Charles’s heart was pounding, his breath coming fast. ‘We’re not children anymore, Sophie. You don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

‘I know you well enough. Don’t throw yourself away in such a marriage. Phillip would not approve. He would want you to be happy.’

Charles almost choked on the conflicting emotions within, all trying to fight their way out. She was beautiful in her passion, terrifying in her perception. He wanted to run, back to London, if necessary, where he could bury himself in work and never hear his brother’s name again. He wanted to drop the mask and let the warmth of her affection and acceptance flow over him, absolving him of his sins. He wanted to shout the terrible truth at her: I can’t be happy. I don’t deserve to ever be happy again.

He couldn’t do any of those things. So he buried his hands in her already dishevelled hair and kissed her instead.

For a moment, a shocked Sophie could only stand frozen, stunned. It was a short moment. Then she came alive under his hot and insistent mouth.

She couldn’t push her mind past the miracle of it: Charles kissing her. She was overwhelmed by the taste and scent of him, the wonder of the dark need curling through her.

Through the long, lonely years, when Charles had been a companion only in her mind, he had represented safety, acceptance, and warmth. Then she had found him again, and he wasn’t her best friend anymore, just a stranger who had shown her mostly arrogance and disapproval. Now, with his mouth slanting hotly over hers, he radiated something else entirely: risk, danger, molten excitement that welled deep in her belly.

She welcomed it, thrilled to it, reached for him so she could demand more. He groaned as her arms went around him, and the sound made the throbbing deep within her that much stronger.

He was barely in control of himself. She didn’t care. He drove her head back with his hard, brazen kiss. She yielded to the assault and met him kiss for kiss. He backed her against the wall as his hands crept up to crush the curves he’d admired so boldly. She clung to him as if her life depended on it.

She had cracked his armour, touched the man underneath. His passion served in part as a stalling technique, a way to avoid dealing with the emotions that frightened him. But it was true, and it was hers. She accepted it and while the wind gusted through the open window, draping the faded curtains over them and enclosing them in a cocoon of desire, she gave him back all the fervent warmth in her heart.

He wasn’t ready to accept it.

With a despairing moan he tore his mouth from hers and slid his hands up to grasp her shoulders. His chest heaved as his eyes closed and he rested his forehead on hers.

‘I remember it all, Sophie,’ he gasped, ‘even the part you didn’t wish to hear. I asked you that day why the rooms you drew were always empty. You said they were waiting for the happy people who would come to live in them.’

Sophie closed her own eyes in pain. She’d pushed him too far. She deserved this, she knew.

‘Don’t do it here,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t create rooms for my happy family. They don’t exist. They never will.’

He loosed her abruptly and strode out of the room. He didn’t look back.

This was the last in a high stack of forms. Resolutely, Sophie dipped her pen again and signed. She paused, staring at the bold scrawl of her signature, contemplating everything that this step meant, then she pushed the papers over to her guest. ‘Here you are, Mr Fowler.’

‘Thank you, Miss Westby.’ The man ran a practised eye over the contracts before putting them away in his case. Only then, Sophie noticed, did he visibly relax, take a sip of tea, and smile. ‘I admit this is far more pleasant than my usual business meetings, but then, everything about this venture is unusual.’

Sophie sighed. There was that word again. Unusual. In the fortnight since that fateful day at Sevenoaks, it had echoed repeatedly in her head. Always in Miss Ashford’s ever-so-slightly condescending tone. She took a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to make unusual work for her, rather than against her.

She raised her cup and an ironic brow. ‘Then let us drink to the unusual success of our enterprise, sir,’ she said.

‘Hear, hear.’ Mr Fowler drained his glass and began to gather his things. ‘I have no doubts on that score, however. Your work is delightful. It is sure to make us both a success.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Sophie said, standing to bid him farewell.

He took her hand, but paused. ‘I feel I have to ask again. Are you certain you wish your portion of the proceeds to be paid to this … gentleman?’

‘Mr Darvey, yes.’ Sophie fixed her guest with a penetrating look. ‘He may not be a gentleman, as you have obviously discovered, but he is a good and worthy man, and he will see that the money goes where it is needed most.’

‘He’s a lucky man, to have attracted a patroness like you, miss.’

‘As I am a lucky woman to have found a friend like him.’ She smiled. ‘Nor am I unaware of my good fortune in securing a publisher of your calibre, Mr Fowler.’

He grinned and picked up his case. ‘I’ll send you round a copy of the book as soon as it is ready. It has indeed been a pleasure.’

Sophie watched from the window as Mr Fowler descended to the hired coach that had brought him. His cheerful whistle and jaunty step only served to frustrate her further. Her temple rested against the cool and soothing glass long after he had gone.

It was disheartening, really. She had accomplished so much. She’d found friends who felt more like family as each day passed. She was in London, with a major design project coming along relatively smoothly, and now this. A design guide of her own. It was a victory, a culmination of a dream that she had worked towards for years. More importantly, it was a means of helping those who might otherwise have no chance of a future.

Fate had surely had a hand in her meeting with Mr Darvey, all those months ago, for it had come at a time when they had both been in desperate need of some hope. The combination of her vision and his talent had resulted in some lovely pieces, such as little Edward Lowder’s cradle. But that had only been the beginning. With a bit of Sophie’s money, Mr Darvey’s good sense, and a few members of his former regiment, they had created more than beautiful furniture, they had manufactured opportunity. They had given hope to others as well as themselves. This book could lead to more of the same.