Chapter Three
Surveying the handsome sot of a duke sitting as if he didn’t have a bloody care in the world when he’d destroyed her very existence filled Sophia with impotent rage.
She’d never been so bloody angry in her life.
Or so mortified. Suffering from an overindulgence in drink and lord knew what else, Roxboro clearly didn’t recall their—
Meeting? Ruination? Tepid kiss?
—from the night before.
How absolutely humiliating.
Granted, Sophia didn’t appeal to a great many gentlemen in London, not like her sister. Or Horrid Hortensia. But one man or two had found her…challenging. The kindest word used in reference to her manner. Opinionated was typically the other.
One of Mara’s ardent suitors had declared Sophia…tart.
I am not a bloody lemon.
She’d told the gentleman as much, in possibly a less than polite way, which didn’t exactly endear Sophia to anyone. Mama, as usual, had been disappointed.
At any rate, this detestable incident was entirely the fault of her sister. Had Mara not begged Lord Wilde to dance with Sophia, leaving her with no dignity whatsoever, she wouldn’t have wandered off to drink champagne behind a potted fern.
Nor would she have conversed with Roxboro. She certainly wouldn’t have allowed this—dissolute libertine—to lead her into the Perswick gardens.
Why did I call out his name? Loud enough for Papa to hear?
Sophia had not been considering the ramifications of doing so, nor anything at all beyond her foolishness in believing Roxboro’s words.
Admired her in the park.
Ha!
Saw her walking.
Laughable.
Sophia had been so enamored of his attention. So enthralled with his presence, she’d failed to note that not only did he not refer to her father by name, but Roxboro never once said her name. This feckless sot with his head lolling about before her thought she was called Saffron. Or Susan.
Considering him now, Sophia questioned her sanity, if not her intelligence, at being so taken with Roxboro.
But the one thing Sophia was absolutely certain, besides the previously mentioned stupidity, was that it had been Roxboro last night.
The duke was blindingly handsome in a way few other men could claim.
Completely unfair given his character. And no other man in London possessed those shimmering green eyes with their streaks of silver.
Sophia recalled every inch of Roxboro’s appearance that night, right down to the wine stain on his coat and the sandalwood on his skin.
Lady Brokeburst had curtsied to him. Other guests bowed when he passed and softly whispered, “Your Grace.”
Vile cad.
A bit of flirtation was acceptable. Even a kiss wasn’t entirely improper.
Mara had kisses stolen all the time. But Roxboro leading Sophia to believe he admired and wished to court her was nothing short of cruelty.
He was just another jaded rake using a stupid young girl for his own amusement, only this time, he’d been caught.
Filthy libertine.
“I swear, upon my honor—”
Sophia snorted in derision. Roxboro had no honor. Papa would insist on marriage, despite her protests. She had no desire to be wed to this…this…sot.
“I have never seen you before.” Scorn flashed in those beautiful eyes. Eyes that had looked at her with such longing in the moonlight of the Perswick gardens. Whispered such lovely things in her ear. And Sophia had felt…desired. Wanted. For the first time in her life.
Now, all she felt was mortification.
Everyone in London was already whispering that the Duke of Roxboro had been so foxed, so completely intoxicated, he’d unintentionally compromised Lord Canterbell’s daughter. And not the pretty one.
If I could vanish this instant, I would.
Sophia took a step towards him, the brandy fumes tickling her nostrils, thinking how Papa had grabbed Sophia’s hand, pulling her through the crowd at Lady Perswick’s even as dozens of eyes turned in her direction.
Good lord, but Lady Brokeburst worked quickly.
Mama, leading Mara, had appeared, her rounded features contorted into panic. “My lord,” she’d whispered. “There is a rumor circulating.”
“Hortensia.” Mara gulped. “She said…well, it cannot be true.”
Papa dragged them all, especially Sophia, in his wake. “We must leave. Now. Do not say a word until we are inside the carriage.”
Mama’s eyes had filled with tears. “Oh, no.”
Mara had regarded Sophia with disbelief. “Sophia?”
“Hurry,” Papa had said, ushering them all out. “Lady Brokeburst is a bigger gossip than I suspected. I had hoped for a modicum of discretion given I am friends with her husband. I regret to say I’m disappointed.”
The escape from the Perswick ball had been filled with Mama’s torrential weeping. Mara just stared at Sophia in shock; likely put out she hadn’t been ruined by a drunken duke.
Lord Damon cleared his throat, dispelling the events of the previous night from Sophia’s thoughts and bringing her back to this overly lavish drawing room full of gilt and finely carved furniture.
There was a hideous collection of porcelain dogs on one table and a portrait of a gentleman who vaguely resembled Roxboro above the fireplace. A relative, she assumed.
“You will address the duke politely or not at all, Lady Sophia.” Lord Damon regarded her with the sort of contempt one reserves for a lesion-covered beggar in the street.
“I choose not at all,” she whispered under her breath, which thankfully, no one seemed to hear.
Papa cleared his throat. He had excellent hearing.
“Lady Brokeburst,” Papa started. “Has already spread the word. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t mentioned the incident to enough of the other guests that an item will appear in the gossip column of the newspaper.”
Sophia looked down at Roxboro’s finely crafted Oriental rug beneath her feet, wishing to disappear into the swirls of blue and gold.
“That is…unfortunate,” Lord Damon agreed. “Lady Brokeburst is one of the worst gossips in London.” He shot a look in his nephew’s direction. “You might have acted with more prudence.”
“Or acted not at all,” Papa huffed. “There is only one solution to the damage that has been done to my daughter’s reputation, Your Grace.”
Sophia bit her lip. This was entirely unfair.
Roxboro looked askance at both Lord Damon and Papa. “No.”
She wholeheartedly returned the duke’s sentiment, even though not wedding her would make Sophia a pariah in society.
Roxboro was beyond magnificent, even reeking of brandy, but he was otherwise…
unacceptable. Dishonest and cruel. An unscrupulous rake who’d teased her affections so that he might take advantage.
And I believed him. Every word.
An error in judgement. One Sophia did not wish to compound by marrying Roxboro.
“Your Grace,” Lord Damon said to his nephew. “The situation is unfortunate.”
Sophia bristled. She was the injured party. “For me, especially.”
Lord Damon regarded her with thinly veiled contempt. He’d barely acknowledged her presence in the drawing room, probably faulting her for this entire situation instead of putting the blame where it was due, on Roxboro.
She returned his scathing assessment.
Damon Viceroy had political aspirations.
Papa had mentioned him once or twice before now, but Sophia hadn’t paid much attention.
Prime Minister, that was Lord Damon’s goal according to Papa, and if he wanted to achieve such an office, he could not make an enemy of Lord Canterbell.
Papa was not only Lord Speaker, but he also held Her Majesty’s ear.
Honor had not forced Lord Damon to open the door when Papa called on him this morning, but ambition.
“We cannot allow Lady Sophia’s reputation to be damaged. Or her honor,” Lord Damon intoned, sounding as arrogant as his nephew. She highly doubted he gave a fig for her reputation.
Sophia wanted to scream out that she had barely been compromised.
Dozens of other young ladies throughout the Season had a kiss stolen by an attractive gentleman.
No liberties had been taken. And on the whole, Roxboro’s kiss was…
adequate but rather bland. Not one spark.
No passion. No grand seduction. She shouldn’t have to suffer marriage to him because of it.
Or because Lady Brokeburst couldn’t keep her mouth firmly shut.
Sophia might have…been able to convince everyone—
Don’t be ridiculous. He is a degenerate of the highest order. And you were in his company.
Sophia studied the rug once more.
Adding to the tragedy of last evening, Mama’s sapphire bracelet had been lost. Fallen off while she was busy receiving a disappointing kiss from Roxboro.
Mama would ask after it eventually, not now of course, Sophia’s scandal was too great.
She hadn’t even noticed the loss until the entire family was in the carriage headed home last night, hiding her wrist as Mama wept and castigated her.
Which meant that the bracelet was somewhere beneath Lady Perswick’s willow tree along with what was left of Sophia’s reputation.
She peered at the drunken lout in distaste. The loss of the bracelet was his fault. As if another reason was necessary to dislike Roxboro.
“Unfortunate, indeed.” Roxboro looked her up and down, like some horse he didn’t wish to buy. Or a bit of spoiled pudding on his plate.
Her fingers twitched in the direction of one of the hideous porcelain dogs. A spaniel, she thought, though the artist was terrible. She could knock it to the floor, just to annoy him. Or better, toss it at his arrogant, brandy-smelling head.
“I’ve no desire to wed her,” Roxboro drawled in his self-important manner. “I refuse. This entire scene, this display, is complete tripe. She’s lying and took advantage of me while I was not clear-headed.”
“Soaked in brandy,” Sophia muttered.
Roxboro shot her a look before turning to his uncle. “I am the injured party in this situation.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Damon whispered.