“Superbe,” exclaimed Madame Boucher from behind her. “Merveilleux.” She adjusted a seam and plucked at the puffed sleeves, then declared, “Come, you must show the marchioness and Lady Charlotte how beautiful you are.”
Drawing a steadying breath, Sophie returned to the salon and was greeted by exclamations of delight from both Charlie and Lady Chelmsford.
“Spin around, Sophie darling,” urged Charlie. “I want to see the ribbon work at the back and how the skirt flares when you turn.”
Sophie smiled and complied with her friend’s request. It seemed she was destined to be dizzy and light-headed all day.
“The color suits you perfectly, Miss Brightwell,” declared Lady Chelmsford.
“Yes, it certainly does.”
Sophie froze and her gaze snapped to the doorway. She knew that deep male voice.
Lord Malverne had arrived.
Dear God, what on earth was he doing here?
“Thank you, my lord,” she said in a voice that somehow sounded relatively normal. Her cheeks grew warmer, but as they were already flushed with excitement, perhaps no one would notice that the viscount’s appearance had affected her so much.
Well, perhaps no one except Charlie. But at least she knew why.
She glanced at Lady Chelmsford, but she was too busy crowing over the unexpected arrival of her nephew.
“Nathaniel. Fancy seeing you here. It’s been an age, dear boy.”
Lord Malverne crossed to his aunt and placed a brief kiss on the powdered apple of her cheek. “It has been too long, Aunt Tabitha. I hope you don’t mind that I dropped by.”
“Of course not. But how did you know we were here?”
“Charlotte mentioned she would be here with you and Miss Brightwell. And as I was nearby making some purchases on Bond Street, I thought I would take the opportunity to pay my respects to my favorite aunt.”
“Well, I’m so glad that you did. Please, take a seat,” she said, gesturing at a nearby bergère. “I’m organizing a new wardrobe for Miss Brightwell and she’s modeling some of the choices available. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you stayed to offer your opinion.” The marchioness glanced at Sophie as she added, “Would you, Miss Brightwell?”
Oh, no. Lord Malverne is going to stay for the entire consultation? Sophie could think of nothing worse, but nevertheless she said, “No, of course not.” Because what else could she say?
Lord Malverne’s mouth tilted into an appealing smile, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment of her concession, such that it was, before claiming the seat his aunt had indicated. He folded his large frame into the elegant chair, his long, muscular legs negligently sprawled out before him. The figure-hugging fawn pantaloons he wore left little to the imagination, and Sophie caught herself blushing again. Had that wonderfully athletic body really been pressed against hers last night? Had that wide mouth really kissed her so intimately? And uttered such wicked words?
So fucking sweet. Like strawberries.
Lord Malverne’s eyes met hers, and the heat she saw in their dark brown depths made her nipples tighten to hard, aching points. Made her belly flip. Was he recalling what had happened last night too? And their secret bargain?
She wanted to escape his hypnotic stare, but Madame Boucher’s assistants began fussing around the hem of the gown, pinning up the fabric, thus preventing her retreat to the changing room.
Good Lord, how was she to survive the next few weeks, perhaps months, as Lord Malverne complied with his sister’s request to help her find a husband? As they engaged in in-depth discussions about the merits of one man over another? When he discreetly coached her in the art of flirting. With her embarrassing tendency to blush bright red at the slightest provocation, she’d look like a beet for the entire Season.
How was she to endure it? Even now, anticipation and tension vibrated through her entire body, making her muscles tighten. Indeed, she had to consciously will her fingers to loosen their crushing grip on the skirts of the haute couture gown lest Madame Boucher rebuke her for ruining the exquisite silk.
One thing Sophie was certain of, she needed to become inured to Lord Malverne’s presence, and quickly. She must bury the memory of what had happened last night. And somehow, some way, she needed to crush her silly infatuation altogether, because how could she possibly consider any other men when her heart only seemed to want Lord Malverne?
* * *
* * *
Nate accepted the cup of tea and a petit four from Aunt Tabitha, then settled back in his chair to enjoy the delightful show.
Good God, he was a cad. After his unforgivable behavior last night, he really shouldn’t be ogling the poor girl. But then, how could he not?
Attired in an exquisite couture gown that highlighted her narrow torso and exposed a good deal of her creamy, pert breasts—breasts he’d fondled and had attempted to taste—Miss Sophie Brightwell practically took his breath away. He’d always thought her a pretty girl, but right at this moment, she was more than pretty. She was utterly delectable. Dangerously so.
So fucking sweet. Had he really whispered that into her ear as he’d mauled her neck? Did she remember?
Jesus Christ, he should be horsewhipped for what he’d said and done. In his defense—a defense he acknowledged was weak—he’d barely been awake. Indeed, he’d had no idea it was Sophie Brightwell sharing the bed he mistakenly believed was his. He thought she was simply the siren appearing in his very vivid, very erotic dream. A dream similar to the one he’d had after he first encountered Sophie in Hastings House’s library. All things considered, he was getting off quite lightly given that he really should be on his way to visit the Archbishop of Canterbury to procure a special marriage license.
He took a large sip of the hot, sweet tea and grimaced as it scalded the roof of his mouth. Sweet. He wasn’t wrong about how sweet Miss Brightwell had smelled and tasted. Even though he’d been drunk, that was one detail he did remember clearly. That and the fact that she hadn’t protested when he began to kiss her. Which was interesting indeed.
When he eventually returned to his own bed last night, as he tried to go to sleep, he was initially terrified by the idea that he might have forced himself on Sophie—not that he’d ever behaved that way before, but he had been rip-roaringly drunk. The thought of a man taking a woman by force was abhorrent to him.
Sophie would have been well within her rights to take a candlestick or a poker to him last night, but she hadn’t. When he’d kissed her, she released a small throaty moan of desire and curled one of her small hands over his naked hip.
She’d rolled closer.
Sweet, prim and proper Miss Sophie Brightwell had been aroused.
Nate’s cock stirred at the thought, and he crossed one ankle over his other knee in the hope of hiding his wayward physical responses from everyone in the room. The last thing he needed was to grow an erection in front of his aunt and sister. Or Miss Brightwell, no matter how receptive she’d been last night.
Sophie disappeared—probably to change into another gown—and Nate permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He really should focus on the guilt that lurked beneath his lust. Yes, hopefully guilt over his appalling conduct last night would dampen his wholly inappropriate and damnably inconvenient desire for his sister’s friend.
No, it was more than that—it was a dangerous desire.
Of course it would be much easier to rein in his fierce attraction if he could also maintain his distance. But that would be well nigh impossible now that he was compelled to squire Sophie about town. Damn Charlie and her wicked bargain—
“. . . don’t you think that would be best, Nathaniel?”
Nate blinked. “Yes. Of course. I trust your judgment implicitly, Aunt Tabitha.” What the hell had his aunt and Charlie been talking about? He took another sip of tea and glanced at Charlie over the rim of his cup. S
he quirked an eyebrow at him, her eyes gleaming with amusement, and he scowled back. She must know he was frightfully hungover—his head ached and his stomach was delicate—so her instruction to attend the appointment at the modiste’s this afternoon was clearly part of his punishment for almost ruining her friend. The meddling minx.
She really was too good at this blackmailing caper.
As Nate reached for another petit four, his attention was claimed by Sophie’s reemergence from the changing room.
Good Lord she was divine. This time she wore a gown of sky blue satin, and he could see even more of her lovely décolletage. With her looking like that, he had no doubt that it wouldn’t be long before half the ton’s bachelors would be chasing after her; hopefully one of the more suitable bucks would sweep her off her feet just as she dreamed before the end of the Season.
Yes, with any luck, this trial would soon be over and he could return to his carefree bachelor existence, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with whomever he wanted—and that “whomever” wasn’t his father’s choice of a prospective bride, Lady Penelope Purcell, or Miss Brightwell, no matter how delicious she was.
Popping the petit four into his mouth, Nate tried not to think about how sweet it or anything else in the room tasted.
* * *
* * *
After an hour and a half, Sophie was exhausted and entirely overwhelmed by emotion. Lady Chelmsford, aided and abetted by Charlie and Lord Malverne, had insisted on purchasing so many clothes for her, she rather thought she could change her attire several times a day for a whole week and there would still be unworn garments in her wardrobe.
Madame Boucher and her seamstresses would create five ball gowns especially for her, seven morning dresses with matching spencers, three promenade gowns, two carriage gowns, a blue velvet riding habit, several pelisses, and a smart wool redingote, as well as several fine evening gowns suitable for wearing to dinner parties and soirees.
In addition to these garments, three day dresses and a promenade gown had been carefully wrapped up so that she might take them with her straightaway. It was enough to make Sophie’s head spin.
“Lady Chelmsford, words can simply not express how grateful I am,” began Sophie as they prepared to quit Madame Boucher’s salon.
“Think nothing of it, my dear gel,” replied the marchioness, touching her cheek with a gnarled hand. “Besides, we’ve only just begun.”
Sophie frowned in confusion as she accepted her worn red spencer from one of the salon’s assistants. “I don’t quite take your meaning, my lady.”
“Well, we have suitable gowns aplenty for you now,” replied Lady Chelmsford as Nate helped her into her black velvet redingote. “But what of bonnets, shoes, fans, reticules, and gloves, et cetera?”
Oh, my goodness. “I’m sure all those things are not necessary, my lady.”
“Of course they are,” said Charlie as she tied the emerald green ribbon of her poke bonnet beneath her chin. “Matching accessories are an absolute necessity. Don’t you think so, brother dear?”
Lord Malverne cocked an eyebrow. “You’re asking me to comment on women’s fashions, Charlie? I know nothing about them.”
“Well, that’s funny,” murmured Charlie as they headed toward the salon’s vestibule, “because you seemed to have quite an opinion on whatever Miss Brightwell was modeling this afternoon. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
Color rose along Lord Malverne’s high cheekbones, and Sophie blinked in surprise. Was the viscount actually blushing?
Rather than respond to his sister’s gibe, Lord Malverne offered his arm to his aunt and escorted her out of the salon’s door onto Conduit Street.
“I don’t think your brother actually was all that interested in what I was wearing,” Sophie remarked as she and Charlie followed Lord Malverne and Lady Chelmsford out into the street. One of the marchioness’s footmen, laden with packages, trailed behind them. Charlie’s brother might have appeared to be staring at her with avid attention throughout the appointment, but surely he was just being polite.
“Oh, believe me, he was most interested in your appearance,” her friend replied with a grin. “And his reaction to what you were modeling was an excellent way to gauge how other rakes might respond when they see you all dressed up in your new finery. Also”—Charlie leaned closer to murmur in her ear—“I couldn’t resist torturing him a bit, to punish him for his atrocious behavior last night. I knew he’d feel frightful today and wouldn’t want to get out of bed unless I insisted he help you in your quest straightaway. Aside from that, I wanted to let him know I’m watching him. He is not to misbehave around you.”
Sophie bit her lip. What Charlie didn’t know was that it wasn’t only her brother who was guilty of misbehaving last night. If she learned the truth of the matter, what would she think?
The footman piled the packages into Lady Chelmsford’s waiting carriage, but the marchioness decided that they should continue on foot to her favorite milliner’s shop as it was on Mill Street, only a little farther along in the direction of Savile Row.
Charlie threaded her arm through Sophie’s as they followed her aunt and brother. “When we return home,” she began, “I’ll have the servants prepare you a warm bath so that you can have a nice long soak. After last night, you must be exhaust—”
“Miss Brightwell? My word, is that you?”
Sophie froze and grimaced. Oh, no. She knew that gruff voice that reminded her of something being dragged over gravel.
Plastering an amiable smile on her face, she turned around to find Wilbur, Lord Buxton, but a few feet away. Damn and blast! How unlucky could she be?
“Lord Buxton, I had not expected to see you here in London,” she said with forced politeness. As usual, the portly baron was wearing an ill-fitting coat and waistcoat that stretched in a most disconcerting way across his middle, and his ivory pantaloons appeared to be padded around the thigh area as though he was attempting to make his spindly legs look more muscular than they actually were.
Lord Buxton’s lascivious gaze traveled over Charlie, who was regarding the baron with a look that could only be described as chilly.
Even though she didn’t want to, Sophie offered the required introductions. “Lady Charlotte, may I introduce Baron Buxton? Lord Buxton, this is Lady Charlotte Hastings, daughter of the Earl of Westhampton.”
Lord Buxton looked as though he’d like to kiss Charlie’s hand, but Charlie kept it firmly tucked behind Sophie’s elbow; in her other gloved hand, she gripped her reticule.
When the baron realized that Charlie’s hand wouldn’t be forthcoming, he simply bowed. “Lady Charlotte, it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His gaze transferred to Sophie again. “Your father did inform me you would be in London, but I really hadn’t expected to run into you either. How fortuitous.”
“Yes,” said Sophie. “Quite.”
Lord Buxton’s gaze moved past her, and the light in his small blue eyes dimmed.
“And who might this be?” inquired a deep male voice from behind Sophie’s left shoulder.
Lord Malverne. Sophie was suddenly grateful for his large, solid presence.
Lord Buxton looked a trifle uncomfortable as Sophie introduced him to Lady Chelmsford and the viscount. Indeed, perhaps she would be intimidated, too, if she were subjected to such a cool, almost disdainful perusal by a veritable Corinthian who wore his title as well and as easily as his perfectly tailored clothes.
Lady Chelmsford didn’t look overly impressed by the baron either. Peering through her lorgnette, she gave him a thorough inspection as though he were a stray dog, or some other creature she didn’t quite like the look of. “Lord Buxton, pray tell us how you know Miss Brightwell.”
“Ah, Miss Brightwell and I are country neighbors,” said the baron with a sly grin. “You might say I’m an old family fr
iend.” He winked at this last pronouncement.
“An old family friend?” repeated Lord Malverne with the quirk of an eyebrow, his expression sardonic as though he clearly doubted the veracity of the statement.
“Yes. Sophie’s—I mean, Miss Brightwell’s—stepfather and I have been close acquaintances for many years.” Lord Buxton’s gaze slid to Sophie again. “Indeed, I hope I might make a similar claim about our relationship, Miss Brightwell.”
Sophie wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted to laugh or cringe in horror. How was she supposed to respond to a statement like that? The man must be truly mad. He must know she barely tolerated his presence.
As she stood there gaping, trying to formulate a response that wasn’t an obvious snub, Lord Buxton took the opportunity to press his suit. “Perhaps I might call on you, Miss Brightwell, while you are in town?”
Oh, dear Lord. Sophie’s stomach turned. She could think of nothing worse than being courted by the baron. “Well . . . I . . .” How on earth could she say no without appearing rude?
To her relief, Lord Malverne came to her rescue. “Miss Brightwell’s social calendar is quite full I’m afraid,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. His usual charming smile was replaced with a stony, forbidding expression that Sophie had never seen before.
Lord Buxton produced a small forced smile. “Well . . . no doubt I shall see you when you return home to Monkton Green, Miss Brightwell,” he said in a scrupulously polite tone.
Lord Malverne answered for her again. “No doubt.”
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 10