“I’ll take the next set,” Christopher snapped.
Sophie and Mallen’s gazes swiveled toward him.
Christopher dug his fingers into the palms of his hands to keep from tugging at his suddenly too-tight cravat.
Mallen inclined his head toward Sophie. “Very well. The next waltz, then, Miss Winters?”
Sophie frowned. “Lord Waxham is merely being polite. Aren’t you, Christopher. He doesn’t want to dance with me.” She shook her head. “You know you really needn’t partner with me.”
He frowned. “I don’t do anything because I don’t want to.” He reached for the pencil on her wrist and scribbled his name upon the card. There. It was settled.
He looked over at Mallen who studied him with no small trace of amusement. If Sophie and the other row of wallflowers weren’t present, Christopher would have explained to Mallen that his offer to dance with Sophie merely stemmed from a need to appease his father.
Christopher was saved from saying anything further by the smattering of applause as the strings for the quadrille came to a rest. The orchestra thrummed the opening strands of a waltz.
“Really, Christopher.” Sophie’s words ended on a squeak when he ushered her out to the dance floor.
He settled his hand upon her waist while he placed hers upon his shoulder.
“You really…”
“I heard you quite clearly, Phi,” he bit out. She hadn’t protested Mallen’s offer. God if it wasn’t a childish thought but still, it chafed.
Her mouth snapped closed. Christopher relaxed his hold upon her and guided her in the steps.
Unbidden, his mind returned to a time she’d begun sessions with her dance tutor. Christopher and his father had been visiting her family’s country estate, and Sophie had rushed outside to greet him and inform him about her dance lessons. She’d asked to dance with him so she might practice. He’d laughed at her and in response, she’d ground the heel of her slipper upon his foot and raced away.
He started at the memory. What had possessed him to be such a bastard?
“Has it really been two years since I danced with you?”
She gave a firm nod. “Lord and Lady Tisdale’s ball was the last time.”
How very odd that she should recall the last time he’d partnered with her for a set. He wondered what it was she remembered about that exact night. Had he been a bastard to her? Guilt roiled in his belly.
“I don’t recall dancing with you,” he said, truthfully. It seemed the greatest tragedy that he should have ever forgotten the satiny feel of her skin.
A wry smile played on her lips.
“I shouldn’t have laughed at you,” he said, startling the both of them.
Sophie’s eyes went wide in her face, giving her the look of a night-owl startled out of concealment. “You laughed at me?” she said, when she seemed to find her voice.
“When you were a girl,” he clarified. “You’d just begun taking lessons. You asked me to dance with you and I laughed.”
Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Oh.”
He wished he’d been a better person, wished he hadn’t hurt her. Mayhap things might have been different between them. Mayhap the incident in Father’s stables would never have taken place. “Forgive me. I was boorish.”
She lifted her shoulder in a slight shrug. “It was a long time ago, Christopher.”
“That doesn’t pardon what I did.”
Her gaze fell to his cravat. “I…I wasn’t always pleasant to you, either.”
The day of the fire crept into his thoughts. The stables had been his place of refuge from Father’s disappointment and abuse. The mockery she’d made of his efforts to read aloud, had forever shattered that sanctuary. Unable to forgive her, she’d come to represent an extension of his father’s cruelty. “Perhaps we should pledge to be kinder to one another.”
Sophie dipped her head at an endearing little angle. The sudden movement released a single, golden strand from her artfully arranged coif. Christopher’s fingers itched to tuck that lock behind her ear. There was something so very familiar about the sight of it; a tempting image that danced just beyond the wisp of a memory.
“Why are you being so nice to me, Christopher?” Her question pulled him back to the moment.
He frowned and guilt stirred to life in his breast. What would Sophie say if she were to learn of his plan with Mallen? He shoved aside the unwelcome emotions. She wouldn’t discover anything. In fact, he suspected she’d feel quite kindly toward him if he unveiled his attempt to thwart his father’s efforts and preserve her inheritance.
“Your silence only deepens my suspicions, Christopher,” she said, tapping him upon the arm.
“I only want to help you, Phi.” Christopher was struck by the absolute truth of those words. “Have you always had such a low opinion of me?”
A wave of guilt slammed into him at the contrite look that flooded her eyes.
She sighed. “Forgive me. It just makes so little sense. You haven’t spoken to me in years.”
“It hasn’t been years.”
Her full, bow-shaped lips twitched. “Good-day, hello, and good-bye, do not count.”
He stared transfixed at those luscious lips. These were not the lips of a young woman who’d tormented him, but rather the lips a man dreamed about—lips capable of a different kind of torture.
“Christopher?” she said, with a trace of hesitancy.
He gave his head a clearing shake. “Come, never tell me you desired more from me than that?”
“Oh, never,” she concurred with a little laugh. “I still marvel at the façade you manage to present to Polite Society.”
A wave of cold slammed into him and just like that, the gentle, teasing camaraderie between them lifted. He schooled his expression. “Oh?” he said, coolly.
Her seductive red lips tipped down in the corners.
Fortunately, at that moment, the strains of the waltz came to an end.
Christopher clapped, offered a hasty bow, and then abandoned her on the dance floor.
He’d maintained a lie for more than twenty years of his life. It was only a matter of time before Society learned that his whole life had been a carefully crafted ruse— but he’d be damned if either Sophie Winters or his father would expose him.
***
Sophie chewed at her lip, staring after Christopher’s retreating figure. He’d dropped her hand and stormed off like his heels had been set afire. Her mind spun as she tried to piece together exactly what she’d said or done to elicit such a reaction. Feeling eyes boring holes into her skin, she peered around at the curious onlookers. Oh, she could only imagine Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet the next morning.
Miss S.W. was abandoned on the dance floor by the distinguished Earl of W. One can only wonder what the young lady did to so offend…
“I say, you look to be in need of an escort.”
Sophie jumped, slapping a hand to her breast. She spun to face the Duke of Mallen. Her eyes traveled the length of his more than six-foot frame. His golden halo of hair gave him the look of an avenging archangel, which in that moment, he may as well have been.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she murmured and accepted his proffered arm.
He leaned close and whispered into her ear. “That makes a gentleman feel rather good about himself.”
“And it makes a young lady feel rather good to be rescued from sure embarrassment,” she said in hushed tones. On the heel of her honest admission, heat flooded her cheeks. “I, ah-that is, uh…”
Mallen winked. There for all to see. He winked! Sophie glanced around. The crowd of onlookers murmured and eyed her and the Duke of Mallen with dogged intensity.
“It’s not like Waxham to be so rude.”
“It depends on who you are,” she muttered.
Mallen arched a brow. “Oh?”
She clamped her lips tight. If she were to prattle on, then she’d be no different than that horrid Lady Ackerly.
Sophie eyed the row of chairs occupied by the other wallflowers. It seemed so very far away and she couldn’t very well say nothing to the Duke of Mallen’s pointed ‘Oh.’ Fortunately, he saved her from responding.
“Might I fetch you a glass of ratafia?”
She stumbled against him. The duke tightened his hold to keep her from falling. “That would be lovely,” she said.
“Now, Miss Winters, tell me what it was that Waxham did to offend you.”
Both his tone and request belonged to a man in possession of one of the oldest, most distinguished titles; a man accustomed to having his commands obeyed. She stole a sideways glance up at the duke. “Is this a test, Your Grace?”
He looked down at her, blankly.
“If I do not respond to your inquiry, well then I’m surely rude. If I do reply, then I’m no different than Lady Ackerly.”
His brow wrinkled. “Who?”
“Never mind,” she said. Making reference to the gossip column that highlighted her social failings would be the height of foolishness—especially in front of the Duke of Mallen.
“It doesn’t escape my notice that you’ve failed to answer my question about Waxham.”
Sophie tapped his arm with the tip of her fan. “Nor does it escape my notice that you are in fact searching for gossip about Waxham.”
His tall, muscular frame went ramrod straight. Sophie bit the inside of her cheek. Drat. She always managed to say the absolute worst thing. Nay, all the wrong things. Her mother’s niggling voice pierced her silent thoughts. Sophie we do not insult peers of the realm.
“Forgive me,” Sophie said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean…”
Mallen tossed his head back and barked with laughter, effectively cutting into her apology.
Sophie started. The ton wouldn’t know what to make of this; a waltz with the Earl of Waxham, laughter and ratafia from the Duke of Mallen. “If you aren’t careful, Your Grace, you’re going to give me the reputation as an engaging miss.”
He looked down at her. A smile glinted in his eyes.
Sophie angled her head. Funny, she’d never known eyes could smile.
“I see why my sister enjoys your company, Miss Winters.”
A wave of longing for Emmaline’s company filled Sophie. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Sophie said, tamping down any melancholy.
They reached the row of wallflowers. Sophie curtsied and claimed her familiar seat.
“I’ll return momentarily,” he promised. He paused and yet again, winked. “And then there’ll be no more evading my question about Waxham.”
Sophie watched him walk off. Well, if that wasn’t a ducal order. Unfortunately for the duke, Sophie had long ago perfected the art of defying orders.
Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet
Miss S.W. spilled wine upon Brummel’s immaculate, satin breeches. Fortunate for Brummell, the shade of the spirits matched the fabric of his trousers.
~9~
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in the Red Parlor. The sun’s rays beamed from the crystal chandelier, and shot prisms of light around the room. Sophie’s eyes struggled to adjust to the brightness. She set down her copy of Lord Byron’s sonnets. Her gaze wandered over to Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet as she considered the events of last evening. As expected the scandal page had noted the manner in which the Earl of Waxham had stormed off following their set.
This time, however, the paper made mention of the Duke of M’s peculiar interest in Sophie. Lady Ackerly had managed to somehow turn the duke’s attention into an insult.
Regardless, it had come quite close to a compliment, and Sophie would have to accept such praise where she could from the nasty scandal sheet.
She picked up the book, and returned her attention to Byron’s work.
“You have a caller, Miss Winters.”
Sophie glanced up at the servant in the doorway. “A caller?” she repeated in unison with her maid, Lucy, who sat in the far corner of the room.
Sophie frowned at Lucy, who had the good sense to drop her eyes to the embroidery on her lap.
With the exception of her friend, Emmaline, there had been a dearth of callers for Sophie these past three years.
“The Earl of Waxham to see you.”
The book fell from her hands and landed on the floor with a loud thump. Christopher? If the servant had announced the king himself had shown up for tea and biscuits, she couldn’t have been more surprised. First, there had been Christopher’s very gentlemanly request to dance last evening. Then had come his apology for past wrongs he’d committed. Considering how he’d abandoned her in the middle of the dance floor last evening, she couldn’t imagine this was a social visit.
The butler cleared his throat. “Miss Winters? Shall I tell him you are receiving visitors?”
Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth. There had to be some motive behind Christopher’s sudden attention.
“Miss Winters?”
“Uh-yes, that would be fine.”
The servant inclined his head and hurried off.
Sophie jumped to her feet. Her book lay forgotten on the floor as she recalled her mother and Geoffrey’s wishes—their desire to see her and Christopher wed. Sophie had been so convinced that Christopher would sooner see her to the devil than court her, that she’d not taken Geoffrey’s demands at all seriously.
Nor did Sophie believe for one moment that Christopher truly wanted to court her, let alone wed her. Not that either of their wishes were of singular importance in their status-driven Society. Most unions were forged on a good deal less than the connection shared by her and Christopher’s families.
She sighed. Mother had said she could do a good deal worse and Sophie knew most of the ton would be in agreement. After all, to Society, Sophie was nothing more than the plump, unwed, and unsought after sister to Viscount Redbrooke. She’d rather not spend the rest of her life amidst Christopher’s perfection, being reminded daily of all her many inadequacies.
She paced the Aubusson carpet. “What could he possibly want?” she muttered to herself. “He can’t possibly want to court me.”
“Who couldn’t possibly want to court you?”
Sophie shrieked and spun around.
Christopher stood in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, a knowing half-grin on his sculpted lips.
She pressed a hand to her racing heart. Had his mouth always been so very wickedly seductive? Sophie forcefully shoved aside such silly ponderings. “How do you manage to do that?”
Christopher advanced in the room as bold as if he owned the garish Red Parlor. “Do what?”
Sophie gave her head a shake. He’d always possessed a remarkable sense of hearing. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He came to a stop several feet from her and arched a single, black brow. “Aren’t you going to offer me a seat? Refreshments?”
She cocked her head. “Is that why you’ve come? For a social visit?”
He chuckled and without standing on gentlemanly ceremony, settled into the nearest sofa with his long legs, sprawled out in front of him. “What if I say I’d come for your company?”
Sophie snorted and crossed over to him. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Then I’d say you’d surely developed a fever, my lord.”
She gasped when he caught her hand in his. He raised her palm and studied the intersecting lines upon it with a singular intensity. “Wh-what are you d-doing?” she squeaked.
“Courting you?”
At the flinty edge to his words, she frowned and jerked her hand away. Yes, it was as she’d suspected. There was more to Christopher’s visit than any real desire for her company. The thought settled like a stone in her belly.
Sophie gave a flounce of her curls. “La, you’ll turn my head with such a sweet tone. If you used such charm with Emmaline then it’s no wonder she chose Lord Drake.”
His lips snapped into a firm, hard line but he said nothing.
&nb
sp; A tendril of guilt snaked around her stomach. Taunting Christopher over Emmaline’s rejection of his suit was unpardonable. Even if he was an ill-mannered lout, he still didn’t deserve to be the victim of meanness.
To escape his frigid stare, she spun away and marched over to the window. She pulled back the brocaded curtains and peered down into the streets below. “I assume you are here at your father’s urging?”
His silence served as confirmation.
She dropped her brow against the sun-warmed windowpane. “You needn’t court me out of any sense of obligation.” She winced at thinking of his courtship that way. Sophie might not desire a match with him but it still chafed to admit that her one and only suitor was motivated by pity.
From the glass pane, Sophie observed the way Christopher drummed his fingers along the sides of his chair. “I came to apologize for last night, Phi.”
Sophie dropped the curtain back into place and spun back around to face him. Her mother and brother would hardly believe it…but Christopher had managed to render her speechless. Suddenly, she felt shamed by her earlier unkindness. “I…for what?” she blurted.
He met and held her gaze, penetrating her with the hot intensity of his eyes. “I abandoned you on the dance floor. It was unpardonable.” His frown grew. A dark look filled his eyes, then lifted so quickly, she wondered if she’d imagined it.
Sophie walked back over to him and claimed the vacant King Louis chair nearest his seat. She folded her hands in her lap and studied the interlocked digits. “The next thing you’ll have me believe is that you’d consider marriage to me.”
She suspected that if he hadn’t been sitting, her statement would have knocked him over. He grimaced. “Egads, no.”
Her brows dipped. Oh, the lout. “Say what you’ve come to say and be done with it, Christopher.”
“I came to see if you were the same girl I remembered.”
“And?” Her breath caught as she awaited his response. It shouldn’t matter what Christopher thought of her, and yet, oddly, she wanted him to approve of the woman she’d grown into.
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