To think her bright, lively friend had suffered so made Sophie’s heart ache.
Charlie reached out and squeezed Sophie’s hand. “Please don’t be sad for me. It hasn’t been so bad,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Despite my notoriety, Aunt Tabitha and Father managed to arrange for my debut at court last year. And Aunt Tabitha endeavors to keep me busy when she is in town. She belongs to a wonderful society of bluestockings, and the ladies who are members do not seem to mind that I have a scurrilous past. Through them, I have taken up archery and fencing, and have been involved with some of their charity work in St. Giles and Whitechapel. And on the odd occasion when Arabella has visited from up north, I’ve accompanied her to various charitable institutions too.”
“I’m glad then,” Sophie said. A faint breeze lifted the loose strands of hair about her face, and a few rose petals that had fallen from the arrangement of flowers upon the table drifted toward the scattered letters and invitations lying among the teacups and plates. “Have you had any letters from your brothers lately?”
While they’d breakfasted, she and Charlie looked through a small pile of correspondence. Sophie had received a short letter from her mother and one from her half sister Alice; both did little more than assert everyone was well before fishing for details about her first week in London. Although it had only been five days since her story was submitted to Minerva Press, she was also relieved that it hadn’t been rejected outright.
Charlie shook her head. “No. They are not ones to correspond. Jonathon sends Father a brief letter once a month because he is obliged to by the school, but that’s all.”
She flipped through the correspondence once again and sighed. “Aside from the invitation to Lady Reading’s dinner party—I’m sure Aunt Tabitha had a hand in arranging that—there really isn’t much of interest here. Lady Kilbride—she’s one of Aunt Tabitha’s bluestocking friends—is holding a musicale that is sure to go on for hours and hours, and then there’s this invitation to a decidedly dull-sounding card party. I’m afraid the only bachelors we will encounter are long-suffering gents who’ve had no luck at Almack’s and whose mamas badgered them into going.” She sighed again and picked up the last remaining cinnamon and raisin bun before taking a small bite. “I shouldn’t sound so ungrateful,” she said after she’d finished chewing. “They are invitations after all. Last year I didn’t receive a single one.”
Sophie pushed the crumbs of her half-eaten bun around her plate. “I know the feeling,” she said. “But the future is looking brighter.”
Charlie smiled. “Yes, it is. I really hope Aunt Tabitha can procure an invitation to Lord and Lady Penrith’s annual spring ball. It’s sure to be a spectacular event.” She sent Sophie a sly smile. “Especially if a certain viscount is there.”
“I’m sure you mean me, don’t you, sweet sister?”
Sophie’s attention swung to the nearby French doors where Lord Malverne had appeared, and her breath hitched. The morning sunlight highlighted the red and gold strands in his thick chestnut hair, and as Nate strode toward them, she couldn’t help but slide her gaze to the glorious vision of his muscular legs encased in formfitting buckskin riding breeches and gleaming top boots. In one hand he carried black leather gloves, and tucked beneath his other arm was a riding crop.
Nate cast aside his gloves and crop onto a chair, and his eyes danced with mischief as he plucked a fat juicy strawberry from the crystal fruit bowl and popped it in his mouth.
Sophie promptly blushed and dropped her gaze to her teacup as he chewed with relish. Had Lord Malverne picked up that strawberry on purpose to tease her? After his behavior in the park yesterday, she wouldn’t put it past him.
Charlie rolled her eyes. “You know very well I’m referring to Lord Claremont.” She gestured to a small pile of letters near the fruit bowl. “Those are for you, by the way.”
Lord Malverne picked them up, flicked through them quickly, and then tossed them onto the table again. “I’ll deal with them later.”
“There are several that probably should be sent on to your steward at Deerhurst Park.” At Sophie’s curious look, Charlie added, “Father gifted Nate an estate in Gloucestershire when he came of age. It’s quite lovely. Right on the banks of the River Severn. Just like Elmstone Hall, our country home.”
“Do you enjoy country life, my lord?” asked Sophie. Lord Malverne always seemed a little restless beneath his urbane demeanor, as if he was always seeking something to entertain him. Something to excite him. She couldn’t imagine he would enjoy rusticating at his country estate for too long.
He shrugged and plucked another strawberry from the bowl, then placed his booted foot on the chair closest to her. “Some aspects of it. I particularly love riding. In fact, I was about to head out to Hyde Park to put my new gelding through his paces.” His brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “Do you like to ride, Miss Brightwell?” He bit into the strawberry with his perfect white teeth.
Sophie swallowed. Why did it seem as though he were asking her something else entirely? Something that bordered on improper, perhaps even sexual. Forcing herself to hold his gaze even though she feared her face was the color of the strawberry, she replied, “Although I cannot claim to be a skilled horsewoman, yes, I do like to ride. Very much.”
“When your riding habit is ready, we should go out to the park with Nate,” Charlie said. “Perhaps we might catch the attention of some other ‘eligible gentlemen.’”
Lord Malverne frowned at that. “I still want to know who is on that list of yours, Charlie.”
“What, so you can warn them to stay away from us?” Her golden brown eyes flashed with annoyance.
“Yes. If I deem them unsuitable.”
“You probably think everyone is unsuitable.”
“When it comes to my little sister, why yes, they probably are. Especially my friends.”
“Well”—Charlie folded her arms and lifted her chin in a belligerent fashion—“you still have to help Sophie.”
“I will. A promise is a promise.” Lord Malverne pulled on his gloves and collected his riding crop. “I will do whatever I can to help you in your hunt for the perfect match, Miss Brightwell.”
Sophie inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”
He flashed her a dazzling smile. “You’re very welcome.”
“As I’ve said before, you mustn’t mind his flirting. I don’t think he can help himself,” observed Charlie as they watched the viscount trot down the stairs to the gravel path that led to a garden gate, to the mews where the family kept their horses, Sophie assumed.
“Yes, I know he doesn’t mean it. In fact, I suspect he was giving me a lesson. Yesterday when we were at the park, he suggested I must practice because men like it when women flirt.”
Charlie nodded. “That’s one thing I can agree with at least. Come.” She rose and gathered up the pile of correspondence. “Let’s get dressed and go for a stroll. I think it would be rather nice to call on Olivia to see how she is faring.”
“I have just finished volume one of a certain set of memoirs,” murmured Sophie as she picked up her own letters from home and followed her friend toward the doors into the morning room.
Charlie grinned. “Excellent. We shall have something to take to her then. And perhaps I’ll purchase a box of something delicious at Gunter’s to give her too. Something sweet to temper all that wicked spice.”
Sophie dared not add that when it came to Lord Malverne, that particular principle didn’t seem to apply.
* * *
* * *
Nate kicked his new gelding, Invictus, into a brisk canter once he reached Rotten Row. Given that it was midmorning, it was fairly quiet in the park. Most bucks of the ton chose to ride earlier in the day, and as the fashionable hour for promenading wasn’t until the late afternoon, not many were out and about.
&n
bsp; Spying a wide expanse of grass that was practically deserted, Nate decided to give Invictus his head. The black gelding exploded into a gallop, and in no time, they’d reached a shady copse of oaks on the other side. Nate wheeled Invictus around and they bolted across the heath again. He needed this hard ride. He needed to feel the wind in his hair and hear the solid beat of the horse’s hooves. Feel his muscles strain and flex and his own heart pound, the race of his blood.
But most of all he needed to put Sophie Brightwell out of his mind because his mad infatuation with her was threatening to unman him.
He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he liked the girl more than he should. He liked her smile, he liked the way she blushed when he flirted with her. He especially liked the way she looked at him, as though desire warred with shyness whenever her gaze traveled over his body. When her eyes touched his mouth and she was clearly recalling what he’d done.
In the darkness of the night, in his bed, he couldn’t seem to get out of his head how her satiny skin had tasted. The feel of her breast in his hand. Although he’d been drunk that night, the memory of their brief bedroom encounter had somehow seared itself into his brain.
And then, of course, he couldn’t deny the uncharacteristic surge of other strong emotions over the past week: a wave of protectiveness when that odious baron had accosted her, and the stab of jealousy when Claremont had hinted at his interest.
All of these things implied he was beginning to like her too much.
Yes, he didn’t like it one little bit.
As he drew Invictus up near the gravel bridle path, the sound of clapping and the call of bravo caught his attention.
Matthew Ellis, Lord Claremont, waited by a low hedgerow. His fine bay gelding tossed its head as he drew close.
Shit.
“That’s a nice piece of horseflesh you have there, my friend,” Claremont said by way of greeting.
Friend my arse. Nate had known Claremont in his university days at Oxford, and they were both members of White’s, but he wouldn’t have classed the other viscount as a friend. Nevertheless, he forced himself to don a nonchalant smile. “Thank you. I could say the same about yours.”
Talk fell to their mounts and the respective horse studs they preferred and an upcoming race meet before Claremont turned the conversation in the direction he’d clearly wanted to steer it in from the start. “Your sister’s friend, Miss Brightwell, she’s quite a charming young woman.”
Nate willed his features to retain a pleasant neutrality even as his fingers tightened about the reins. “Yes. She is.”
Claremont nodded. “Although she mentioned there is no connection between you and her, other than that of ‘family friend,’ I just wanted to make certain it was indeed the case. I wouldn’t want to encroach on another man’s territory, so to speak.”
Damn. Nate supposed his unexpected fit of jealousy had shown. He needed to rid the useless, aggravating emotion from his body without delay, and what better way was there to do that than by relinquishing all claim to Sophie, perceived or otherwise? Unclenching his jaw, he said smoothly, “Miss Brightwell’s assessment of our relationship is accurate. She is my sister’s friend, nothing more.”
Claremont’s mouth lifted into a self-satisfied smile, and Nate wondered if Sophie found the man attractive. She’d blushed and stammered yesterday, so perhaps she did.
She could do worse.
Indeed, even though the idea rankled, she’d be better off with someone like Claremont. He was decent enough. And the word about town was he genuinely was in the market for a wife.
Unlike himself.
Claremont patted his horse’s neck. “I’m pleased to hear it. If you could pass on my regards to Miss Brightwell, I’d be most grateful.”
Nate inclined his head. “Of course.” Not bloody likely. He wouldn’t stand in Claremont’s way, but he wouldn’t court Sophie for him.
“Until next time then.” Nudging his mount’s withers, Claremont moved off down Rotten Row.
It’s better this way, Nathaniel Hastings. No good can come of this ridiculous infatuation you have, and you know it.
Kicking Invictus into another frenzied gallop, Nate decided he’d best spend the rest of the day engaged in as much vigorous activity as he possibly could. He’d fence, he’d box, and then later tonight, he’d visit the Pandora Club and swive himself stupid.
Then perhaps, when he fell asleep, he wouldn’t dream of Sophie Brightwell.
CHAPTER 12
A pair of Disreputable Debutantes make their debut at the spring ball of the Season!
One wonders how on earth they procured invitations . . . and why a certain viscount paid particular attention to a young lady of no consequence with clearly no sense of decorum.
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Penrith House, St. James’s Square, London
April 14, 1818
I’m so nervous, I think I’m going to be ill.”
As the Hastings carriage drew to a halt outside of Penrith House’s brightly lit facade with its enormous portico and grand steps flanked by ornate Doric columns, Sophie’s stomach churned so wildly, she felt as though she was being tossed about on a boat in a stormy sea.
Charlie reached out and gave her clenched hands a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be fine. Just smile and nod until you feel a little better. I’m sure everyone will be so dazzled by your loveliness, they’ll be rendered speechless. Wouldn’t you agree, Nate? Madame Boucher has outdone herself with this gown.”
Even though the light in the carriage was dim, Sophie discerned the slight movement of Nate’s head and the flash of his white teeth as he transferred his gaze from the window to her. “Yes. I would. Miss Brightwell, you are the epitome of style and grace. Fairer than a princess.”
“Thank you.” Sophie did indeed feel a little like a fairy-tale princess in her new turquoise silk gown. Molly, Charlie’s maid, had also gone to a great deal of trouble to dress her hair. While small ringlets framed her face, the rest of her locks had been pulled up to her crown and cascaded in long, glossy sausage curls toward her nape. Silver combs adorned with tiny seed pearls helped keep the curls in check and completed the elegant Grecian style. In her gloved hands she clutched a matching reticule and fan, and on her feet she wore a brand-new pair of silver slippers.
Lady Chelmsford, resplendent in dark green velvet, added her compliments as well. “My dear Miss Brightwell, both you and Charlie will be the prettiest debutantes here tonight. You mark my words. You’re sure to make a splash.”
Let’s hope it’s for the right reasons, thought Sophie as the footman threw open the carriage door and let down the steps. And not because we’re those “wicked girls who were expelled.”
Thankfully, the receiving line was relatively short, so Sophie didn’t have to wait in nervous agony for too long before she was introduced to the ball’s hosts, the Earl and Countess of Penrith.
But she needn’t have worried. Lady Chelmsford presented her and Charlie with the effortless aplomb expected of a seasoned society noblewoman. And then of course Lord Malverne smoothed the way. With his urbane manner and charming smile, he brought a glow to Lady Penrith’s cheeks, and after exchanging a private word with their host, he left the earl quietly chuckling.
“So far so good,” Sophie whispered as they passed out of earshot.
“Yes,” murmured Charlie. “It would be embarrassing indeed if the hosts gave us the cut direct at the door.”
Beyond an ornate marble arch lay the massive ballroom. Sophie’s breath caught as she took in the enormous crystal chandelier and the high domed ceiling painted with a fresco of cherubs, half-naked nymphs, and other mythical creatures cavorting in the clouds. In keeping with the spring theme of the ball, the window embrasures were festooned with garlands of bright blooms. The room was fit to burst with guests, and between the swel
ling strains of the orchestra, the buzz of incessant chatter, and the peals of laughter, Sophie wondered how she would be heard by anyone tonight unless she all but shouted at them.
Despite the crush, Lord Malverne expertly steered them through tight knots of guests and between towering arrangements of flowers and leafy ferns to a slightly less crowded section where his aunt could take a seat upon a plush settee that would also give her a relatively unobstructed view of the ballroom floor. The supper room wasn’t too far away either.
Lord Malverne bent toward the marchioness. “Can I get you anything, dearest aunt?”
Lady Chelmsford murmured something into his ear, and then he wove his way through the throng, heading for the supper room. Sophie didn’t fail to notice at least half a dozen pairs of female eyes following his wide shoulders encased in a perfectly cut midnight blue superfine evening coat. Her chest swelled with a deep sigh. She really must stop thinking about Lord Malverne in a romantic way. He might have attempted to seduce her when he was foxed, he might tease her and flirt with her, but he wasn’t interested in her. Not really.
He was Charlie’s brother and a hardened rake who didn’t wish to wed.
He’s not for you, Sophie Brightwell, so stop pining for the moon.
Find another who will love you as you should be loved. You deserve nothing less.
Sophie turned her attention to the dance floor, where a lively quadrille was taking place. The swirl of colors, the bob of feathers, the flashes of jewels and bright smiles were entrancing. Charlie passed her a glass of champagne that she’d taken from the tray of a passing footman. “Here’s to a wonderful evening filled with fun and laughter and perhaps even a little romance,” she said, touching the edge of her glass to Sophie’s in a toast.
Sophie smiled back. “And here’s to you, Charlotte Hastings, for making this happen. I wouldn’t be here in this beautiful gown if it weren’t for you.”
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 13
