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

These reflections left him in a mood of grim determination. He would prevail, would sacrifice anything to ensure his success. His resolution lasted across Mayfair, through all of his mother’s chatter, and right up until he entered the Lowders’ family drawing room. It might have lasted through the entire Season and seen him through the tedious weeks ahead, had it not encountered the pair of ankles.

A very fetching pair of ankles, framed by a scalloped flounce and situated right at eye level. Grim determination stood not a chance; it melted under a combined onslaught of shock and pure male appreciation.

‘Have the guests arrived, Thomas?’ asked a voice situated somewhat above the ankles and the stepladder they were perched upon. Charles couldn’t see how far above because his gaze remained locked where it did not belong. ‘Hold a moment and let me hand down my things. I wouldn’t wish to be caught at work.’

‘Too late, my dear,’ his mother chirped. ‘Come down, please, you frighten me out of my wits on that thing.’

But the unexpected reply had disturbed the girl’s balance, both mental and physical. A surprised ‘Oh!’ came from above and then the ankles and the stepladder began to sway.

The footman who had admitted them—the recalcitrant Thomas, no doubt—lunged for the ladder, but it was Charles who, without conscious thought, reached out and plucked the girl from the air.

‘Charles, dear, I did particularly wish for you to meet Miss Westby today,’ his mother said, her voice wry.

But Charles was staring at the woman he held in his arms. She was a beauty indeed, and she’d had quite a fright. Large dark eyes stared apprehensively into his, her arms were locked tight about his neck and her soft, full bosom was pressed quite delightfully into his chest. But pleasure faded as realisation dawned, and then it turned to growing outrage. ‘You!’ he gasped.

Sophie’s heart was beating so fast—partly from fear, partly from exasperation at the absurdity of the situation, and partly from sheer feminine appreciation—that she was sure Charles could feel it. To view Charles from a few feet’s perspective was a delight; the prospect from a few inches was awe-inspiring.

It was as if he had been designed to be pleasing to every eye. His hair was the colour of chestnuts, thick and luxuriant, his eyes a deep brown that clearly signalled his shock—and his interest. Strong cheekbones, stubborn chin, every inch of him solid, authoritative, and somehow English. It was enough to tempt one to sing in praise of a nation that could produce such a specimen.

She’d forgotten that smug English superiority. Ever so slowly the astonishment faded from his face, only to be replaced once more by haughty disdain. What was it? she wondered. What had happened in the intervening years to turn her laughing boy into this proud, imposing man?

This proud man who still held her tight in the incongruous safety of his arms. Sophie took encouragement where she could find it, and forged ahead.

‘Well, my lord, you have caught me—literally—at a disadvantage once again.’ She peeked over his shoulder, ‘Really, Thomas, it was too bad of you to neglect to warn me. I’m sure we have embarrassed Lord Dayle past all bearing.’ She handed the footman her wet paintbrush and cut off his apologies. ‘No, it’s fine, really, just remove my equipment, please, and we shall muddle through, shan’t we, my lord?’

Charles did not reply, although the stark lines of his face tightened, and so did his grip.

‘Do put her down, Charles, for heaven’s sake,’ Lady Dayle commanded.

He flushed and immediately set her down, with a bit more force than was necessary, Sophie thought. She flashed him an unrepentant smile, and wiped her paint-stained fingers. She would break through his stone-sober demeanour, she thought, if she had to take up a chisel and hammer to do it.

‘I’m fine, truly,’ she said as Lady Dayle fussed over her. ‘I should have known not to ask Thomas to warn me, he’s started up a flirtation with the parlor maid and was bound to forget.’

‘Mother,’ Charles said tightly, ‘you seem to have some idea just what the dev—deuce is going on here. Perhaps you will enlighten me?’

‘It is what I have been trying to do, my dear, indeed, it is why you were invited today.’ Beaming, she took Sophie’s hand. ‘Allow me to reacquaint the two of you. I do not say introduce, for, if I recall, the two of you did bump into each other in Dorsetshire in years past.’

‘We have indeed bumped into one another,’ Charles began in an acid tone, ‘and only too recently—’ He stopped. ‘In Dorsetshire?’

‘Yes, dear. May I present Miss Westby? Sophie, surely you remember my son?’

Sophie could only nod. Her heart was, unexpectedly, in her throat and she could not tear her eyes from him as she waited for the truth to strike. She could almost see his mind spinning behind the dark and masculine beauty of his eyes. ‘Westby,’ he repeated. And there it was, at last, shining in his gaze, knowledge, and a flash of pure, unfettered joy. ‘Sophie?’

A weight of uncertainty dropped from Sophie’s soul. He knew her. He was glad. She felt as if she could have floated off with the slightest breeze.

He stepped forward and took her hands. His grip was warm and calloused, and so longed for, it almost felt familiar. ‘Sophie! I can scarce believe it! It’s been so long.’

‘Indeed.’ She smiled. ‘So long that you did not know me—twice over! If I weren’t so pleased to see you again, I should feel slighted.’

‘It was you in the street that day, and you did not reveal yourself—minx. I do not know how I failed to realise. I should have known that only you would back-talk me so outrageously!’

‘Back-talk? I only gave back what you deserved. You were so high in the instep I barely knew it was you at all.’

The door swung open and in swept Emily. ‘Oh, do forgive me,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘I should have been home an age ago, but you’ll never believe it.’

‘Emily, are you well?’ Sophie turned as Charles dropped her hands. ‘What is it?’

‘We have been caught up in a riot!’ Her hand shook a little as she returned Sophie’s embrace.

‘A riot?’ gasped Lady Dayle. ‘My goodness, are you unharmed?’

‘Perfectly well, do not fear.’ Emily removed her bonnet and moved to a chair. ‘Perhaps riot is too strong a word, though it was unsettling!’ She tried to rally a reassuring smile. ‘It was only a group of mourners who had come from that poor Mr Cashman’s funeral. They were quite well behaved, but there were ever so many of them! It was a little frightening to find ourselves in their midst.’

‘No weapons, no looting?’ asked Charles. His voice had gone cold and harsh, so different from just a moment ago that Sophie could scarcely credit it. His smile was gone. All traces of warmth had vanished and he stood, shoulders squared, solid and unmoving. Sophie instinctively took a step towards him. He looked as if the weight of the world had descended upon him.

‘No, thank the heavens.’ Emily sighed. ‘I own that the man was used rather badly, but I have no wish to be drawn into the situation.’

‘Used indeed!’ said Sophie, still eyeing Charles uneasily. ‘And then cheated, robbed, and made a terrible example of by the very government he risked his life to protect.’ She allowed Lady Dayle to pull her to a chair. ‘I wish I might have paid my respects.’

The man’s story was tragic, and all too common. A navy man, the ‘gallant tar’ had faithfully served his country for years. The war at last over, he’d been discharged, but unable to collect his arrears in pay and prize money. He’d pursued his claim, but had been insulted and ignored. The same day as his last curt dismissal by the Admiralty Board, spurred by drink and anger, he’d become caught up in an angry crowd bent on riot, and he’d been caught and arrested for stealing arms from a gunsmith’s shop. Tried, convicted, and publicly hanged, he’d become a symbol for thousands of the discontented across the nation.