Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

‘No, no.’ He let loose a little bark of laughter. ‘No more than any other gentleman forced to listen to a pack of ladies fussing over décor. ‘

It was Sophie who was in pain. He was being deliberately cruel. But why?

‘Well, pull yourself together, dear,’ his mother was saying, ‘for you are in for more than a little fussing.’

‘Yes, for we have saved the best surprises for last,’ Emily said.

‘I think he has already discerned one of them,’ said the viscountess shrewdly. ‘And you are correct, my son, it was indeed Sophie who envisioned the design of this room. She has done a magnificent job, both here and at Mrs Lowder’s home in Dorsetshire.’

‘I congratulate you on your fine work, Miss Westby,’ he said, his voice coldly formal. ‘I wish you equal success in your début.’

Sophie was growing tired of Charles’s swaying moods. What on earth was wrong with the man? None of this was going as she had planned. ‘I am a designer, my lord, not a débutante,’ she said firmly.

He cocked his head as if he had heard her incorrectly. ‘Nonsense. You are an earl’s niece. You are of good birth and good connections.’ He nodded at the others in the room. ‘Why else come to London at the start of the Season?’

‘She has come at my invitation, Charles,’ his mother intervened. ‘Both to be introduced to society and to aid me with your birthday present.’

His look was so frigid that Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised if the viscountess had sprouted icicles. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Lady Dayle was a warm-hearted and giving woman. She was also still Charles’s mother. ‘Do not practise your high-handed ways with me, sir.’ She softened her voice a bit and continued. ‘The Sevenoaks house, dear. A politician needs a place to get away, to invite his cronies and plan strategies, to entertain. The place is run-down and shabby. For your birthday, I would like to ask Miss Westby to help me with the redecorating of it.’

Sophie could have cheerfully kissed Lady Dayle’s hem. A house. A nobleman’s house. It was exactly what she hoped for.

‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mother, but such a large undertaking is unnecessary. I would not wish you to tax yourself. Nor would I wish to be responsible for taking so much of Miss Westby’s time away from her first Season.’

Sophie could have cheerfully punched Lord Dayle’s nose. Was he insane or merely trying to make her so? Who was he? Haughty aristocrat or charming gentleman? She was beginning not to care.

‘Nonsense,’ returned his mother. ‘I shall see to it that we both divide our time favourably. And with Emily’s help as well, we shall have a grand time with it all. You will,’ she added her pièce de résistance, ‘be in no way discommoded.’

‘But, Mother,’ he returned gently, ‘perhaps this sort of project should be undertaken by my bride?’

‘I should place a great deal more weight with that argument if such a person existed.’ The viscountess sniffed. ‘You haven’t won the hand of a dyed-in-the-wool puritan yet, my boy.’

Emily spoke up. ‘I dare say that your mama should derive more enjoyment from such a project, in any case, my lord,’ she said with a significant look.

This argument did indeed appear to sway him. ‘Oh, very well,’ he capitulated with bad grace. He turned, his eyes narrowed, to Sophie, ‘But I beg you both, here and now, to leave me out of it. It is entirely in your hands. I do not wish to be conferred with, consulted with, or called on. In fact, I would be mightily pleased if I hear not another word on the matter until it is finished.’

Even before he had finished his sentence Sophie was swallowing her disappointment, pushing away a deep sense of betrayal. She had been so humiliatingly wrong. The Charles Alden she had longed for was nothing more than a foolish girl’s fantasy. A ghost of a man who might have grown from a good-hearted boy.

The real Charles Alden, she was forced to conclude, was this hard-eyed monument, more marble than flesh. He had no inclination to renew their friendship, and she—well, she was long past the time she should be indulging in daydreams.

She met his stony gaze and nodded her agreement as Lady Dayle and Emily chattered, full of excitement and plans. Sophie would easily—gladly—meet his terms. She would do her very best for the viscountess and she would make the viscount’s home a place of beauty and harmony. But another ten years would be too soon for her to ever see Lord Dayle again.

He stood. ‘I shall leave you ladies to your fairies, furniture, and furbelows.’ He bowed and took his leave, never quite looking Sophie’s way. She watched him go, felt her dreams dragging out behind him, and took some small satisfaction in the cheerful green handprint showing clearly on his left shoulder.

Charles clutched his hat with shaking fingers as the door closed firmly behind him. For several long moments he stood, shoulders hunched to ward off the pain. Sophie.

When he had first realised who she was—for the briefest moment—he had forgotten. Elation and an odd possessiveness had surged through his veins. At last fate had smiled upon him and sent the one person who in some elemental, deeply satisfying way, understood him completely.

The flash of joy and relief had been overwhelming. His ally, his friend, his very own Sophie.

Then Mrs Lowder had come in talking of riots, and he had remembered. Realised. She didn’t know, could never understand. They couldn’t ever go back. The thought hurt on a nearly physical level.

She had grown up, his childhood friend. She was all vibrant energy and exotic beauty, as passionate and unconventional as ever. Still, he had longed for her company. He wanted to tell her everything and hear everything she had done over the years.

He could not. Judging from their two unconventional encounters, she had not changed. She was impetuous, opinionated, and always in trouble. A friendship with her would be dangerous. Poison to Viscount Dayle, the only part of him still living. He had realised it at once; he could not have her. Ever.

So he had acted like the juvenile she had known and he had flailed at her in anger. Now she would despise him, and it was better that way. Easier.

Charles straightened and dragged himself off. He would go home and examine this situation in the way that it deserved—through the bottom of a bottle of blue ruin. Then he would live the rest of his life the way he deserved. Alone.

Chapter Four

‘Sophie, you are not attending me.’ Lady Dayle’s words barely penetrated the mist in Sophie’s head.

‘What?’ She blinked her eyes and focused on the jumble of fabric swatches and wallpaper patterns spread before her. ‘Oh, yes, that combination is lovely, but I don’t know how much more we can accomplish until I have seen the house.’

It was a true statement, but what she left unsaid was that though this was the chance of a lifetime, she could scarcely concentrate on plans for the house without succumbing to a barrage of conflicting thoughts about its owner. One minute she was wishing him to perdition where she would never have to lay eyes on him again. The next she wanted to knock him to the floor, sit on him, and flick his ear until he confessed just what it was that forced him to act like an ass, just as she had done when she was twelve and he had hidden her favourite box of coloured chalks.

‘I know, dear, but it will not be long before we see it. I’ve already sent word to the staff to remove all the covers and shine the place up, so you’ll see exactly what you have to work with. In a day or two we can visit and—Oh, I’ve had the most fabulous idea! Let us make a party of it!’

‘Party? But we will have much work to be done if we are to be there for only a day.’

‘True, but we can at least make a picnic of it. Emily, and her dear little one, will enjoy it. Jack can come, he needs to get away from his books occasionally. And Charles can escort us. How refreshing it will be to get away together!’

A little frisson of panic travelled up Sophie’s spine at the mention of his name. ‘I do not think we should bother Lord Dayle. I promised he should not be troubled by this project, if you will remember.’

‘Don’t be such a widget! We are his family. It is his house, for heaven’s sake. In any case, we’ll invite that dreadfully prosy Miss Ashford along and he can feel as if he is putting his time to good use.’

A different kind of twinge struck Sophie. ‘Miss Ashford?’

‘The leading candidate for dullest débutante in London, and therefore the main focus of Charles’s attention. He has a notion that marriage to a strait-laced girl of impeccable family and no two thoughts to rub together will settle all his troubles in one fell swoop.’ Lady Dayle paused. ‘Although he could not have picked a more unlikely miracle worker, should you ask me.’

‘Miracle worker?’

‘Indeed. An alliance with such as her, he expects, will reassure the party, restore his standing in the ton, and stop the papers’ infernal fascination with his old exploits.’

Surely it was a sudden onset of the putrid fever that had Sophie’s throat closing and her eyes watering, not the tight fist of jealousy or the realisation that if that was the sort of girl Charles was looking for, it was no wonder he wanted nothing to do with her.

‘In any case, we’ll ask him tonight at Lady Edgeware’s ball,’ continued the viscountess, unaware of her protégée’s distress.

‘I know you went to a deal of trouble to have me invited, my lady, but I am of a mind to stay quietly at home tonight. You know that going about in society is not my true reason for being here, and, indeed, I am not feeling all that well.’

‘Nonsense. All work and no play, and all those other adages, my dear. In any case, I think we are avoiding the real issue.’ She stroked the back of Sophie’s hand. ‘You must face him some time, you know. Emily and I will be with you, there will be nothing to fear.’

Indignant, Sophie sat up straighter. ‘I am not afraid of Lord Dayle.’ She might not have the pedigree or propriety of a Miss Ashford, but she was no coward.

‘Good Lord, why should you be? I was not speaking of my addlepated son. I meant Lord Cranbourne, your uncle.’

Her uncle. A man for whom she had given up all feeling, confused or otherwise. Would that she could do the same for Lord Dayle. ‘I’m not afraid of him, either, but neither do I wish to rush a confrontation.’

‘There will be no confrontation, of that I can assure you. Just a polite, long-overdue meeting.’ Dismissing the subject, she forged ahead. ‘We’ve been so busy lately with plans for the house that we have quite neglected our social obligations, and this will be just the thing to liven you up a bit. And in any case you must come tonight and see Lady E’s Egyptian room. It is quite famous, and you will not want to miss it.’

‘Oh, very well …’ Sophie paused. ‘Did you wish me to bring my notebook? Are you thinking of something similar for the Sevenoaks house?’

‘Heavens, no! She has taken Mr Hope’s ideas and run wild. It is a dreadfully vulgar display.’

Sophie thought longingly of her own bed and her previous plans for the night: a quiet meal in her room, a nice long soak, the pages of portraits she would like to draw of Lord Dayle before she shredded each one and consigned it to the fire. Then she thought of him dancing with the faultlessly lineaged Miss Ashford, or perhaps taking her for a stroll in the garden, where he would kiss her eminently respectable lips.

‘In that case, how can I resist?’

Miss Ashford, Charles thought as he led the lady out for their set, was everything he was looking for in a bride. She did everything proper and said everything prudent. She even danced in an upright manner, perfectly erect and composed, with no expression, of enjoyment or otherwise, on her face.

Why, then, was he trying so hard to discover some chink in her flawless façade? He had spent the evening trying to uncover something—addiction to fashion, a sweet tooth, a secret obsession for nude statuary, anything.

He had failed. The lady seemed to be everything reputable and nothing else. No flaw, no interests or passions or pursuits. And no warmth for him, either. She accepted his attentions with calm dignity and with no sign of reciprocal regard or even disfavour. He felt as if he was courting a pillar. Lord, it was a depressing thought.

Their set finished, he led her back across the ballroom, exchanged all the correct pleasantries with her equally bland mama, and took his leave, trying not to yawn.

A slap on the back from his brother brought him awake.

‘Evening, Charles,’ Jack said, ‘you look like a man who could do with a drink.’ He signalled the footman and when they both had a glass of champagne, said, ‘Just thought you might want to celebrate a bit—your name hasn’t been in the papers for a week, but it has shown up in the betting book at White’s.’ He swept his glass across, indicating the crowded ballroom. ‘They’re betting which of these dull-as-ditchwater debs will have the chance to tame you.’ He drank deep again.

Charles grinned, feeling more than a little satisfaction. Things were finally progressing according to his own plans. He still had much political ground to make up, and, ridiculous though it might be, his social success would help him cover it quickly.

‘I am happy to report that Miss Ashford is the filly out in front,’ said Jack. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if your attention to her tonight makes it into the respectable social columns tomorrow.’

Charles’s good humor deflated a little. He glanced over at Miss Ashford, who stood in unsmiling, serious conversation with some matron or other. This marriage-of-convenience business was a bitter brew to swallow. But swallow it he would, and be thankful for it, he thought. The bitterness he undoubtedly deserved, and some stubborn, wilful part of him welcomed the challenge.

‘Good.’ That same stubborn part of him yearned to find the person responsible for stirring up this hornet’s nest of scandal broth. ‘Unfortunately I haven’t had the same luck finding the editor of the Augur.’

‘Someone’s tipped him off,’ said Jack.

‘It is a convenient time for the man to have developed a far-flung sick relative. I doubt I’ll get anywhere with him if he’s anything like the one at the Oracle. He makes Lord Avery’s talk of a peasant revolution look quite sane. Hates the nobility, took a satanic glee in rubbing my nose in my own misdeeds.’

‘He certainly did his research.’ Jack grinned. ‘Honestly, Charles, even I did not know that you were the one who painted old King Alfred’s statue such a heavenly shade of blue. There’s a certain justice in it that you must pass the old boy every day on the way in to the Lords.’

Charles firmly suppressed his answering smile. ‘Somebody’s feeding them information, and being bloody clever about it. My man hasn’t found a scrap of a clue.’

‘So what shall we do now?’

‘I meant to ask you to take over the search for the missing editor.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, old man, I know it means time away from your research.’

‘It’s no matter, I find I quite enjoy this sleuthing. It’s not so different from scholarly research, except for the venue. And I never had to buy so many rounds in the university library.’

‘I appreciate it, Jack. In the meantime I have taken a lesson from this tricky cove and decided to fight him with his own weapons.’

‘Do tell!’

‘One of my footmen has been “bribed” by the press.’

Jack laughed. ‘Damn me if you aren’t brighter than you look, big brother. Brilliant idea. Now you can leak the information you wish to hit the streets.’

Charles smiled. ‘Before long there will be an entirely different view of the “Wicked Lord Dayle” circulating.’

‘I’d drink to it, but my glass is empty. Ah, well. Perhaps I will dance, since I am all rigged out and actually made it to one of these intellect-forsaken functions.’ He surveyed the room, then nodded his head and raised a brow. ‘And there is just the creature to make me willing to dredge up the memories of those nightmarish dancing lessons—Mother’s protégée. Take a look, Charles, she cleans up excellently well.’

Charles did not turn. He had spent the evening purposefully trying not to notice Sophie. And yet he knew how incredible she looked in her exquisitely embroidered ivory gown. He knew how the scarlet of her overdress contrasted so richly and set off the lustrous sheen of her ebony tresses, and he could probably calculate to the smallest measurement just how much of her smoothly glowing skin was displayed.

He did not look, for every time he did he found himself mocked by his own thoughts. He would prevail, would sacrifice anything to ensure his success.

He’d had no idea just how much he would be asked to sacrifice.

Jack was leaning in closer. ‘Tell me, what do you think of that whole situation? There’s been a bit of gossip there as well. None of it malicious, so far, just curious, what with the estranged uncle and the unflagging interest in design.’ He nodded again towards the corner where their mother stood with Sophie and a group of friends. ‘Although I did hear a few catty whispers from the younger set, something about the girl having trouble with society at home.’

Charles unclenched his teeth. ‘I think that her presence makes Mother happy, and for that we owe her much.’

‘Without a doubt. I haven’t seen Mother so animated since … well, in a long time. But I confess, at first I thought that Mother was matchmaking.’

This time Charles could not stop the grin that came at his brother’s words. ‘It occurred to me as well. In fact, I scrubbed up the courage to confront her, thinking to forestall any hopes in that direction, only to be unequivocally warned off.’

‘I was read the same lecture.’ Jack rolled his eyes and imitated his mother’s stern tone. ‘“The dear girl has suffered enough at society’s hands. I mean to ease her way, not subject her to the wayward attentions of a man too busy with his nose in a book to treat her properly.”’

Charles laughed. ‘It was my boorish moods and general crankiness.’

‘Well, she’s right, old boy. You are a cranky boor and I am in no way ready to acquire a leg shackle, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dance with the little beauty.’

Charles watched him go. Watched him receive a smile from Sophie and a warning look from their mother. Watched the other men watching her as she gracefully took the dance floor, smiling her evident enjoyment. Then he turned, heading for the card room, where one of the members of the Board of Trade was reportedly diminishing his own cash flow.

Sophie watched him leave the ballroom as the dance began. She had been surreptitiously watching him all evening, all the while painfully aware that he was nearly the only person present not watching her.

The beau monde did not know what to make of her. Her birth was good, her fortune respectable, though it had a slightly mercantile taint. But she was undeniably not one of them. At three and twenty she was a bit long in the tooth to be entering society. Worse, her manner was too direct, her looks too exotic, her passions too strongly expressed. She was too much of everything, she felt, for them to be comfortable with her.

They studied her like a rare insect, some with fascination, some with revulsion, and Sophie wouldn’t have cared a whit, yet she knew Lady Dayle would be distressed should she be found wanting.

Not to mention that she was absolutely determined, even more so as she pretended to ignore Charles ignoring her, that he would not find her alone and friendless today as he had so many years ago. Especially not when his own social standing appeared to be so fully restored. The ‘Wicked Lord Dayle’ might not play well in Whitehall, but since the rumours began of his search for a viscountess, he was a hit in Mayfair.

So she had smiled. She had sparkled. She had danced and talked with a great many boring gentlemen, and she had secretly studied Charles the way the rest of the room studied her, trying to fathom his mysteries.

He was incredibly handsome tonight, in deep blue and creamy white. Someone had tamed his wayward hair; like him, it was shining and gorgeous and contained.

When, she wondered, had he donned this mask of control? She knew he must be relieved at his restoration, but there was no sign of it. No sign of any emotion, except for a few moments of obvious camaraderie with his brother. He remained calm and cool, receiving attention from every woman in the room as if it were his due. He spent a good deal of time in corners with other gentlemen of a political bent, danced only a few dances, and twice only with Miss Ashford.

She could not like the man he had become. But though she wavered between hurt and disdain, she had to admit also her fascination. How and when had he changed so completely? She was not ready to give up on her questions, to give up on him.

Let him bask in the admiration of the silly women of this world. Sophie knew her man, and with the old Charles a little disdain went a long way. Perhaps, with this stranger, it would as well.

So she thanked his brother prettily for the dance and bided her time. When she grew tired of feeling like a new species of insect at a naturalists’ gathering, she retreated to the ladies’ retiring room. She dawdled for a bit in front of the mirror, gathering her determination. She was no stranger to disapproval. At the tender age of seven she had been orphaned, uprooted from her home in Philadelphia, and unceremoniously shipped to England. She’d dreamed of a warm welcome and a loving uncle. Instead she’d been shuffled off to a lesser estate, hidden away along with her eccentric aunt, who sometimes thought that she was seven years old as well.

The people of Blackford Chase had taken their cue from the earl and done their best to forget her existence. She’d been so lonely until she found Charles, and again after he left. Still, she had managed well enough for herself and eventually found a way to be useful. She could do the same here. And here she still had a chance at unravelling the mystery that was Charles Alden.

Still lost in thought, she headed back, but was surprised when she heard a step close behind her and felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Good evening,’ a strangely familiar voice greeted her.

Sophie froze. It wasn’t her chance. It was her uncle.

She forced herself to breathe deeply and turned. She’d known she must face him some time, but still she found herself unprepared for the pain. ‘Hello, Uncle.’

He had grown older. The broad shoulders she remembered were a little stooped, the dark hair shot with grey.

‘It has been a long time,’ he said.

She inclined her head. There was no polite reply to that.

‘You are doing well for yourself. You’ve shown initiative getting yourself to London.’ He smiled for the first time and looked her over like a horse at Tattersalls. The smile did not reach his eyes; they glittered, reminding her of a hungry spider. ‘Quite a change from the snivelling chit that landed on my doorstep.’

He would find her no easy prey. ‘Indeed,’ she politely agreed. ‘Many changes take place over the course of so many years. The most important one is that I no longer need, or desire, your approval.’

Her rudeness didn’t faze him. ‘You’ve got your mother’s spirit as well as her looks.’

‘Enough of it to tell you that you may go to the devil, which is exactly what she said to you, is it not?’

‘Clever, too. Young lady, you have far more potential than I have given you credit for.’

‘Lord Cranbourne,’ a clear voice rang out, and Lady Dayle materialised behind Sophie. ‘We so hoped to see you tonight. How nice to see that Sophie has at last tracked you down.’

‘She has indeed, and I see how wrong I have been not to search her out sooner. But I shall make amends and call on you soon, my dear.’ He made his bow and departed.

Lady Dayle turned and stroked Sophie’s face, her own dark with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘I am sorry I was not here sooner.’

‘Do not worry.’ Sophie made herself smile for her friend. ‘The worst is over. It will only get easier from here.’

‘I hope you are right.’ She sighed. ‘But he did not seem upset in the least, did he? I had worried that he would resent my interference. Well! Everyone is still at supper. If you have finished, then perhaps we should take a look at the Egyptian Room?’

‘Lead on, my lady.’ But Sophie drew her shawl closer to her for warmth, and tried to ignore the fact that her hands were shaking.

She forgot her discomfort once they entered the Egyptian Room. Sophie’s shawl fell along with her jaw as the door closed quietly behind them. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She had expected something cold and sterile. Instead her senses were under attack. The vibrant warmth of the vivid blues and oranges contrasted strongly with the antique red and black. It was astonishingly busy, yet the lines were straight and clean. It was alien, spectacular, and oddly compelling.

‘Dreadful, isn’t it?’ asked Lady Dayle. ‘I don’t think this was what Mr Hope meant at all.’

‘In fact, I believe this is quite close to the spirit of some his work,’ came a voice from deep within a lionskin chair. ‘Except for all the odd animal parts. I believe that little touch is all Lady Edgeware’s.’

Charles stood and Sophie’s heart dropped. She was shaken still, and edgy from her encounter with her uncle. Not at all up to dealing with him, or the way he made her feel.

‘Charles! What are you doing in here?’ Lady Dayle’s tone was sharp.

‘I’ve come to see Lady E.’s latest acquisition.’ He gestured and Sophie swept around a sofa with legs fashioned after an elephant’s.

‘Oh!’ she gasped. It was a monstrosity of a stuffed crocodile, frozen for ever in a snarling pose of attack.

‘Good heavens,’ complained Lady Dayle, ‘the woman has gone too far. Charles, you shouldn’t be hiding away in here. Some baron from the north has stolen a march on you and taken Miss Ashford in to supper.’

‘I make it a point to come in here every year. It helps to distract myself from my own folly when I contemplate someone else’s.’

‘Yes, well, perhaps you should not encourage Lady Edgeware. I don’t find this place at all comfortable, but there is an appealing piece here and there. This, for instance,’ and she swept toward the heavily adorned marble mantel.

‘Hold, Mother,’ Charles warned, but it was too late. The short, pearl-encrusted train of her gown had caught in the jaws of the stuffed crocodile. The tear of fabric sounded loud in the room, along with the pinging dance of scattered pearls.

‘Oh, the horrid thing,’ huffed the viscountess. ‘Do untangle me, Sophie, and tell me how bad it is.’

Sophie knelt to examine the hem. ‘I’m afraid it is quite a long tear, my lady. Let me help you to the retiring room and we’ll find a maid to stitch you back up.’

‘No, no, dear. You stay and finish your look around. If you find any of my seed pearls, do be so good as to tuck them into your reticule. No, Charles, you go on to the dining room. I shall be back in a trice to fetch Sophie.’

She was gone from the room before either of them could protest. Neither of the pair left behind would have been comfortable had they seen the crafty smile she wore as she went.

Sophie, who felt that her current mood could rival any of Charles’s most cranky moments, bent again and began to gather the pearls. ‘You should go, my lord. I doubt Miss Ashford would be happy to know you were alone in here with another woman.’

He stood, silent and cold, for a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right.’ He turned to go.

Perverse disappointment bit into Sophie. ‘Incomprehensible.’ She said it just loud enough for him to hear.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Defiant, Sophie lifted her chin. ‘I was remarking to myself that I find you incomprehensible.’ She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘But upon reflection I find that I don’t even want to try to understand it.’

‘Understand what?’ he demanded.

‘How the boy who faced down Otto, the village bully twice his size, the same boy who climbed the maypole just to win a bet, the man who swam naked in the Serpentine with two of the city’s most famous high flyers—how that person somehow metamorphosed into the pluck-less specimen before me.’

Charles just blinked for several seconds. ‘Did you say pluck-less?’

‘Yes, but I could have substituted faint-hearted, mean-spirited, dandified, or, let us not forget, hen-pecked.’

For a moment he looked as if he might explode. Then he laughed. And laughed. Then he sat down in the lion chair and laughed some more.

‘Damn you, Sophie,’ he said when he had recovered, ‘you always did bully me out of a bad mood. I should have remembered.’

He met her gaze as he smiled in remembrance and Sophie’s breath caught. Here it was, the look, the feeling of friendship and something indefinable, but more. This was what she had been looking for when she found him again. It was sweet to discover it at last, but also painful, because she knew it was fleeting.

‘I? Bully?’ she asked. ‘You are the one who has yelled at, insulted, and ignored me. A little name calling is the least you deserve.’

He grinned. ‘How did you hear about the Serpentine?’

‘The same way the rest of England did—in the papers. I dare say I’ve heard of every scrape you’ve been in since you were fifteen.’

‘Good Lord, I hope not. Some of them were never meant for ladies’ ears.’

‘No one has ever had cause to call me faint-hearted,’ she said with pride. ‘You know I’ve never cared for what people say of me. You never did either.’