The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Sophia looked into his eyes, watching as his pupils dilated to twice their normal size. Then she looked down at his hands where they rested at his sides. “Nicholas, you’re lying. You cannot go more than eight hours without a drink. If you do, you develop a tremor in your hands—which is absent at present. Also, your pupils are the size of saucers. This is the body’s natural response to the stress placed upon it by deceit.”

  Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “This is what you’ve learned? A bit of sly gypsy magic, then?”

  “Am I right?” Sophia pressed, gazing at his strong chin.

  A muscle flexed along his jawline. “Mr. Bean taught you how to detect such things?” he asked quietly.

  “No, he did not,” Sophia answered. “But he believes in my methods and will do whatever is within his considerable power to help. I would say that makes him a valuable partner, wouldn’t you?”

  Nicholas nodded, his broad shoulders shrugging in acceptance.

  Sophia nodded curtly and made to step around him, only to have Nicholas block her path.

  “I want to apologize,” he said grimly. “Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t want to. I need to. It is why I sought you out today. I’ve no good reason for the way I treated you at the ball—nor for the rude comments I just made. I don’t know why I tend to take my feelings out on those I care for; it is just what I’ve always done, I suppose. A ridiculous reason, really.”

  Sophia returned her gaze to the shop window and feigned a deep interest in the hats while absorbing the weight of Nicholas’s confession. “You never should have been as kind and understanding as you were to me in Mouse’s room. Do you know, you’d convinced me that there was some small measure of hope for you.”

  “God, Sophia, that was cruel—and wholly deserved,” Nicholas muttered as he looked to the ground.

  Sophia studied him from the corner of her eye, the raw quality of his response doing her in. “And now I must apologize. I’m afraid this was all so much more clear when your dislike for me was on permanent display. Why are you letting me in—and, rather more importantly, shutting me out all at once?”

  “Please, haven’t we talked about our feelings enough for one day?” he asked, flattening his palm against the brick exterior of the shop.

  Did Sophia, as she suspected, sense there was more? Or did she simply want there to be? “I knew you. For one brief moment, you revealed yourself to me when we kissed. And then you eviscerated me at the ball as though nothing had changed between us. Help me understand, Nicholas.”

  He returned his gaze to the window. “Stop, Sophia.”

  “All I want is the truth—”

  “The truth is that you are to be my brother’s wife,” Nicholas snapped. “A fact that has eaten away at my heart all of these years until there’s very little of it left. That is the truth, Sophia.”

  Sophia felt the very ground beneath her feet violently shift. In an attempt to maintain her questionable balance, she turned to face his profile, steadying herself against the window. “You disliked me …” Her tongue struggled to form an intelligent response. “You burned my dollhouse, attempted to drown me in the pond. Even fled for India because of me, if Dash is to be believed.”

  He continued to stare at the bonnets in the window, his jaw flexing with tension. “I was a stupid boy, Sophia—and I’ve grown up to be a stupid man,” he answered, a weariness in his voice. “It was far easier to pretend to hate you than to accept that you would never love me.”

  Sophia repeated the sentence in her head, turning it this way and that in an effort to draw out any facets she may have missed. “Why didn’t I understand?”

  “There was never a need on your part. You have Langdon.”

  You have Langdon.

  Sophia knew herself to be an intelligent woman. Still, she was struggling to absorb what Nicholas was telling her.

  “What if I do not—”

  “For the lady,” Mouse interrupted, suddenly shoving the posy into Sophia’s hand.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Sophia whispered, unaware she’d said anything at all.

  “You say ‘thank you,’ ” Nicholas answered, his mouth slanted into a small, sad smile. “And move on.”

  Dear Lady Fabersham,

  It is with profound gratitude that I write to you today.

  Sophia rested her quill on the mahogany writing desk in her bedroom and folded the unfinished missive in half. The Halcyon tea hosted by Lady Fabersham had been the single most successful event for the charity to date, no fewer than fourteen ladies pledging their support.

  The woman deserved more than “profound gratitude,” surely?

  Situating a fresh piece of paper in front of her, Sophia reclaimed the quill with determination and began again.

  Dear Lady Fabersham,

  On behalf of the Halcyon Society, I would like to extend a sincere thank you for hosting

  “Sincere?” Sophia complained out loud. She ran the feathered end of the quill back and forth across her forehead in an attempt to unearth some measure of inspiration. Perhaps Mrs. Mason would be better suited to writing the thank you letters?

  Sophia dismissed the idea immediately. Mrs. Mason had far more important matters to see to.

  Besides, wasn’t such a task meant to be something every lady of the ton performed without issue? Sophia realized with acute irritation that the revelation did little to help.

  Dear Lady Fabersham,

  I wonder, might you be able to help me? The man I’ve loved for lo these many years—the very man I am to marry—no longer holds my heart. Actually, I’m not sure he ever did. He is kind and responsible. An honorable man whom all admire. He possesses every last quality that a woman could ever possibly desire in a husband. And I do love him.

  Sophia looked up from the letter and stared out the window into the approaching night. She did love Langdon—it would be impossible not to love the man. Then why was she suddenly struggling to make sense of something she’d hardly ever considered before?

  But he does not challenge me. Quite the opposite, really. He does not encourage me to see the world from a different perspective, nor expect I will ever grow beyond the staid, solid environs of my existence.

  She scribbled mindlessly while rereading the list of complaints. A lady could do much worse than to suffer such, of course.

  And then there is his brother. He is reckless and unreliable. Not one measure of his heart is free from torment. Those who see him approach run the other way. He cannot rest until I am overwrought and undone. And yet …

  Sophia dropped the quill and savagely blew out one of the two candles lighting the room. She allowed the gloaming to settle about her and soothe her contradictory mind.

  And yet, one revelation on his part and I am sitting in the darkness of my room, writing a letter that I will most assuredly never send.

  He loves me. And always has. And I have to wonder, have I loved him all along as well? Was that what drew me to him time and time again? Or are my feelings for him entirely new, born from our shared experience and encouraged to grow by his dem

  I apologize, Lady … Blast, I cannot even remember your name now. I am thinking too much. Pondering the quality of love when greater minds than mine have failed to define it time and time again. I am overwrought, you see. Undone as well. I am promised to one man I do not love. And in love with another, whom I cannot marry.

  I am in love.

  I am in love.

  I am in love?

  Or am I simply frightened by the prospect of my future finally arriving?

  Or am I simply frightened?

  No matter my decision, love will be lost. By one or by two, but lost all the same.

  Your immediate and insightful response is requested.

  With the utmost sincerity,

  Lady Sophia Afton

  Sophia set down the quill and took up the letter, folding the paper until it was no bigger than a quail’s egg.

  “And yet,”
she repeated out loud, pulling open the small drawer of the desk that housed her unused quills and depositing the letter within.

  Such a silly turn of phrase—as if one could forget every truth that had been before in favor of newly unearthed findings.

  Sophia slowly closed the drawer, watching the letter disappear into the desk.

  Truths were far more complex. Hardly the sort of information to be sorted out according to one’s wishes.

  13

  “You cannot be serious.”

  Nicholas stopped just inside the door of his apartment and stared with stunned disbelief at the transformation before him.

  Mouse bumped into him. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bourne,” he apologized, circling around Nicholas’s still figure to stand next to him. “Whoa, looks like something from a story my mother used to tell me. ‘Arabian Nights’ it was.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Nicholas asked absentmindedly, distracted as he continued to stare at the changes to what was once his comfortably shabby home.

  “Singh,” he called out, a growing irritation adding to his already tense nerves.

  Mr. Singh appeared from behind a flowing orange silk drape that now divided the entryway from the rooms beyond, Langdon at his side. “Welcome home, sahib. And to you as well, young Mouse.”

  He was dressed in a deep umber tunic and loose breeches that were decidedly not British. His turban was snowy white and exactly matched the impressive teeth displayed in his ear-to-ear smile.

  “Perhaps you would tell me what the hell happened to my apartment,” Nicholas snarled, looking about at the elaborate paintings of Hindu gods that now adorned the walls before walking in the general direction of the drawing room. “Should I be wary of elephants? A monkey or two, perhaps? Did you have something to do with this, brother?”

  Nicholas realized he was only marginally joking about the animals and stepped lightly as he made his way to the drawing room. He tossed his hat on a new and overly bright settee before pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the side table.

  “I’m afraid I cannot take any of the credit,” Langdon replied, settling easily on one end of the settee.

  “Sahib, do not be foolish,” Singh answered as he and Mouse followed. “There are no monkeys to be found in London.”

  Nicholas considered asking Singh if he’d actually gone looking, but decided it was best not to know the answer. “All right, then, no monkeys—thank God. That leaves the rest of this.” He gestured at the room.

  “Surely it is obvious, sahib,” Singh replied, removing Nicholas’s discarded hat from the settee and crossing the room to place it on an ornate goddess hat rack. “If you would like, though, I would be most pleased to explain.”

  “Yes, I would like,” Nicholas said, carrying his drink to the settee and sitting down next to his brother. “Blast, Singh, this sofa is overstuffed. And it does not bear the imprint of my body as the other did.”

  “I believe you meant to say it is stuffed, as the previous sofa appeared to have been stripped of any padding necessary for it to be comfortable,” Langdon interjected, taking Nicholas’s glass from his hand and pouring the brandy into a potted plant near his end of the sofa.

  Singh crossed the room to join Mouse. The boy was apparently struck speechless. He stared wide-eyed at the colorful, sumptuous, exotic splendor of the room’s furnishings. “But you are correct, sahib. It is very unlike its predecessor.

  “Now, young Mouse,” Singh continued, turning his attention to the boy. “You may go downstairs and assist Mrs. Clark, the new cook, with preparations for the evening meal. And I believe you will find sweet sugar biscuits. Ask before taking one. Cook has a temper,” the man warned, then shooed the boy from the room.

  “Cook?” Nicholas wondered aloud, absentmindedly accepting the now empty glass from Langdon. “I have a cook?”

  Mr. Singh nodded pleasantly. “Ah yes, sahib. You see, when I asked whether the maid knew how to prepare curry, she became very offended and informed me that she neither knew how to cook curry nor anything else. I apologized profusely for the misunderstanding, upon which she was kind enough to explain the English servant system.”

  “Maid?” Nicholas snarled.

  “Oh yes, sahib. Her name is Molly,” Singh continued. “A very pleasant young woman—though I find it odd that your English servants appear to be rather limited in their abilities. Still, I did not think it wise to attempt any alterations of the current accepted practices. And so you have a cook.”

  “All because of curry?” Nicholas asked.

  “Precisely.”

  Nicholas held the glass out and waited for Singh to take it. “And does this cook know how to prepare the dish?”

  “No,” Singh admitted with patent disappointment. “Once she has settled in, I will teach her. As I mentioned, she has a temper …”

  “Most cooks do,” Langdon offered sotto voce, earning a brotherly punch to the arm.

  “And the redecorating? Was that done in the name of curry as well?”

  “Sahib, have you forgotten everything of your time in India?”

  “Yes, brother, tell us—”

  Nicholas held up a hand in warning to Langdon. “Singh, I have talked more in the last week than I did the whole of last year. Please, just explain all of this.”

  “Very well, sahib,” the man replied simply, then took a seat across from Nicholas and Langdon. “One cannot reside in a home that does not nurture the soul and revitalize the spirit.”

  “And my old furniture did not accomplish this nurturing business?”

  “No, sahib,” Singh answered, shaking his head slowly. “It was old and neglected. Sad and in ill-repair. Such things cannot feed the soul nor the body.”

  Nicholas could not shake the sense that Singh was drawing parallels between him and the shabby former contents of the apartment. “Well, there is little to be done about it now. Let us renew and revitalize—or whatever the hell this is meant to do. How did you pay for all …” he waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the room “… this?”

  “Oh, that was quite simple, sahib—more so than I thought it would be. The maid told me to procure the cook using your name. When that proved successful, I did the same at the shops where I found the wares you see before you.”

  Langdon chuckled.

  “Of course you did,” Nicholas answered dryly. “And my room? You left it untouched, yes?”

  “Oh yes, sahib,” Singh said, disappointment in his voice. “The finery for your chamber will not be delivered until the end of the week. I apologize, sahib, but we must be patient.”

  “That is one way of looking at things, Singh,” Nicholas replied. “Not necessarily what immediately comes to mind. Still, an option.”

  His friend smoothly rose from the sofa as if levitating by the power of goodness and well intentions alone. “Now I will go and see how our young Mouse is coming along.”

  Nicholas watched Singh float from the room, then turned his attention to his brother. “And you? Making a habit of dropping in, are we?”

  “Should I concoct an elaborate story,” Langdon asked, “or simply start with the truth?”

  Nicholas scrubbed at his jaw. “Do save me the time.”

  “It’s to do with Maplethorpe.”

  “Of course it is,” Nicholas groaned. It wasn’t enough that he’d poured out his bloody heart to Sophia on the street an hour before. Now he was expected to endure a tongue-lashing from Langdon.

  And one he rightly deserved.

  “I understand you were inebriated,” Langdon began with caution.

  “I believe I might save us both a bit of time,” Nicholas announced, standing and stalking to the side table. “Let me see, where were we … Ah yes, I was inebriated—bloody good and inebriated, in fact. I started the quarrel with Maplethorpe and he did everything within his power to end it peaceably.”

  Nicholas paused to pour himself a large glass from the decanter and took a drink. “I was
n’t having any of it, you see.”

  “And what was the quarrel about?” Langdon asked, settling back onto the comfortable cushions of the sofa.

  Nicholas took a second drink and thought for a moment. “Do you know, I’ve no idea. Doesn’t matter, really. There are times when a man simply needs to fight for no good reason.”

  Langdon furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

  “You would not understand, Langdon,” Nicholas replied, tossing back the rest of the brandy. “Because we’re not alike—not at all. And the sooner you stop trying to reform me, the better.”

  He’d relented earlier, on the street with Sophia. He’d given in and been honest because he wanted to think it would mean something to her.

  He poured himself another brandy and finished it in one swallow.

  “Is that what you’re doing now?” Langdon asked in a somber tone. “Are you in need of a fight?”

  Nicholas picked up his glass and the decanter, then moved to quit the room. “Stop being so damn insightful, brother. It makes the rest of us rather pale in comparison.”

  Sophia dreamed of her mother that night.

  She was a child once more at Petworth Manor.

  She skipped every other stair on her way to the nursery, buoyed by her excitement at having successfully avoided Mr. Reynolds. The butler would be outraged if he knew she’d managed to sneak into the house without his knowledge.

  Which only made the accomplishment that much more enjoyable.

  As did the boys’ loss of their race from the lake to the manor. Langdon, Dash, and Nicholas would be irate when they learned she’d reached the nursery before them.

  Sophia let out a giggle, clapping her hand over her mouth to hold back laughter as she gained the fourth floor and ran for the nursery.

  The summer heat made her skin sticky with sweat, but she continued her fast pace until she reached the nursery door. Glancing up and down the hall, she made sure the boys were nowhere in sight, then grasped the brass doorknob and turned it guardedly, pushing on the paneled oak and walking into the room.

  Her mother sat in a Sheridan chair placed in the center of the cheery rose-patterned rug. She beckoned Sophia to come closer, the faint scent of her rosewater eau de cologne drifting across the space between them.