Chapter Seven
The only good thing about this entire day would be that it would end with an ice from Gunter’s.
Sophia liked ices. Lemon. Lavender. Pistachio. Really, any flavor but parmesan. She’d have to suffer Roxboro’s company in order to have her ice, but nothing good was gained without a bit of suffering.
Roxboro’s carriage, as one would expect, was lavish and well-sprung.
The vehicle glided through Hyde Park with barely a jolt.
The day was cloudy, but warm and Roxboro had instructed that the carriage top be rolled down.
Better to be seen by all of London, which was the entire purpose of this outing.
Lady Brokeburst could barely show her face after trumpeting Sophia’s non-ruination. She looked foolish. Just as Mama had said she would.
Sophia turned from the passing view of the Serpentine to take in Roxboro, who was more glorious than the bloody flowers dotting the trail.
How could a man be so bereft of character but blessed with such masculine beauty?
He should resemble something more in line with his personality.
A toadstool, perhaps. Or a rotted potato.
Instead, his hair, the color of coffee, batted against the shimmering green of his eyes with their slashes of dark silver gray, making him appear more than ever like the hero of Sophia’s last beloved romantic novel, The Lord of the Castle.
She was aware that, given her personality, it seemed odd that she gravitated to such literature, but truthfully, she possessed a romantic heart.
Perhaps if she hadn’t, Sophia wouldn’t have been so taken with Roxboro at the Perswick ball.
He’d said little as they rolled through the park, only doffing his hat as they passed an acquaintance, though Roxboro didn’t have his driver stop.
No introductions were made, which wasn’t surprising.
Every so often, his hand would sneak into the pocket of his coat, withdraw a small flask, and take a sip.
Brandy, Sophia surmised. The scent, mixing with his bergamot shaving soap, permeated the carriage.
He wasn’t foxed, or at least he didn’t appear to be.
Roxboro didn’t slur his words or stutter.
He had tripped getting into the carriage, but from the blush crawling up his neck below his ears, Sophia didn’t think his clumsiness was a result of the brandy.
Being known as something of a sot was probably vastly preferable than having society mock a blundering duke.
“It’s rude to stare, Lady Sally.”
“You are aware of my name,” Sophia replied crisply. “Start using it.”
“Your Grace.” The side of his mouth twitched. “Address me properly, Lady Sabrina.”
Thus far today he’d called her Sadie, Sage, Sable, and Samantha. He’d tried Cerebellum, but then Sophia pointed out that it was not spelled with an S but a C, though secretly, she gave Roxboro points for his creativity.
He deliberately avoided using her name, just as she’d decided, sometime during their last encounter, to be intentionally disrespectful of his lofty title. A battle of sorts, likely the first of many, given neither wanted to wed the other. Today though, their little war had felt more like…teasing.
“You aren’t even trying,” she said lightly. “You’ve already used Sabrina. Perhaps consult Debrett’s for a broader assortment of names, Your Grace.”
Elegant fingers drummed on one knee, causing Sophia to lower her gaze.
Roxboro might have a propensity for tumbling from a horse, but it certainly wasn’t due to a lack of muscle in his thighs, all of which was outlined to perfection given the cut of his trousers was incredibly…sharp.
Scowling at her, he said, “I suppose it is time to end this torture and retire to Gunter’s.” He rapped on the side of the carriage, instructing the driver to leave the park. “I think enough of the ton has seen us.”
Torture? Sophia wouldn’t have said they were having a lovely time, but her presence could hardly be called torture. It wasn’t as if she were having him disemboweled.
“Do they have brandy flavored ice at Gunter’s, Your Grace?” Sophia asked politely. “I can’t imagine you’d want to visit otherwise. Or will you simply dabble your flask over the top of your ice?”
“Shrew,” he tossed at her.
“Feckless sot.”
“It wasn’t me at Lady Perswick’s,” he bit out. “You should…admit your mistake. Acknowledge you are in the wrong.”
Why did he continue to debate this point? Sophia wasn’t blind. Neither was Lady Brokeburst. Lord Lacton. Her own father. Roxboro’s stubborn refusal to admit he’d just been so intoxicated he couldn’t recall anything, including her—especially her—bordered on absurdity.
A small, awkward pinch dug into her chest, as it often did in knowing that simple truth. Roxboro wasn’t even the first to find Sophia so disinteresting. But his disregard bothered her the most. “I realize I am forgettable, Your Grace.”
He smacked the leather seat, the bits of gray in his eyes darkening. “That isn’t what I am inferring.”
“Yes, it is,” she shot back. “I am so unremarkable that according to society, you had to be nearly blind with brandy to want to lead me into the Perswick gardens. Lord Canterbell’s intolerable daughter. Did you mistake me for my sister? She is the willowy, beautiful one.”
“I’ve only seen your sister once.” Roxboro’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “It was not me because I do not lure well-bred misses into ruination.”
“I suppose you made an exception for me.”
“Or perhaps, you merely saw an opportunity. Lord Canterbell would enjoy having a duke in his pocket, wouldn’t he? At least I’m doing the honorable thing, which is more than I can say for a young lady who refuses to admit her mistake.”
“A duke in his pocket? You? A stumbling drunk who is known for his lack of character more than anything else?” An ugly laugh came from her.
“Poor Roxboro. London’s finest libertine brought low by the plain and opinionated daughter of Lord Canterbell.
And your honor at best is questionable. I think it more your uncle’s political aspirations. ”
Roxboro sucked in a breath, the line of his perfectly sculpted jaw grew taut.
“If it is easier for you to believe I orchestrated this entire incident, fabricated the tale and then somehow coerced Lady Brokeburst and the guests at Lady Perswick’s ball, then by all means, continue.
You are a sot, Your Grace. You fell off a pleasure barge and into the Thames and came out singing a bawdy tune, like some gin swilling mermaid.
Your degenerate behavior is fodder for the gossips.
Did Binson’s charge you for breaking their faro table when you tupped Lady Winston atop it?
Or did they merely add it to your other markers, which I’m told could fund the Royal Navy.
The most ducal thing you could possibly do would be to sit a horse properly, yet you cannot even claim that much. ”
“Stop the carriage,” he growled, practically swatting his driver. “Immediately.” Roxboro’s chest rose and fell as he took ragged, furious breaths.
“You’ve doubtless debauched dozens of women. Only now—”
He immediately hopped to the ground as the carriage rolled to a stop, landing on his feet with not so much as a wobble.
“Only now,” he snarled back at her. “I’ve been caught, by the most undesirable,” he accentuated every syllable, “of young ladies. Lady Scathing. A woman so devoid of anything remotely likeable in either manner or her appearance, that she must wait for a man to be numbed in both mind and spirit to entertain any thought of her company.”
Sophia fell back against the leather seats.
“If you’ll excuse me, my darling bride to be, I’ve decided not to enjoy an ice with you. Your presence would only ruin the taste. My driver will see you home.” Roxboro stalked off, back in the direction of the park.
“Good day, Your Grace,” she felt the need to say to his retreating back.
The broad shoulders did not turn back to her. Roxboro didn’t even care to return a parting shot.
As the carriage started towards the Canterbell home, Sophia blinked back the tears she refused to allow to fall.
*
“Termagant,” Alexander spit out as he walked away from his carriage and that…that viper…as quickly as possible. He’d never been so bloody furious in his life.
The Duke of Roxboro was known for drunken behavior.
His lechery, capable of seducing anything in skirts.
His love of amusements, mostly sexual in nature.
But never his temper. There was never any reason to become angry when the world bowed and scraped for you.
When you are a wealthy, attractive duke, your place of privilege secure in the world, you simply…
floated along the surface of life. Indulged yourself.
What a bloody selfish existence I lead.
He was angry at Sophia—yes, I know her damn name, but I enjoy annoying her—Alexander was far angrier with himself.
He reached into his pocket and drained every drop of brandy in the flask.
Today, he had wanted to rail at Sophia, and Alexander had never yelled at a woman in his entire life. Women were soft, lovely creatures. Worthy of protection. Great care. He adored them.
Yet, Sophia, his unwanted future duchess, made him want to—strangle her.
Or…fuck her senseless.
Alexander was rather torn on that point.
Bad enough he had to wed her, but his attraction to such an aggravating, shrewish, not even beautiful, woman was…
infuriating. Smelling of roses when she was nothing but thorns.
Her complete disregard for his title. A duke was nearly royalty.
Her opinion of his character. None of which he should have cared about, but yet he did.
He was back in the park, staring at the twist of the Serpentine once more.
I want to strip her naked. Thrust into all that antagonistic, plump flesh. Make her moan my name.
“Good lord,” he whispered. “What an unsettling thought. Lady Sophia is nothing more than a schemer. A liar.”
He reached for his flask again, remembered it was empty, then turned and walked out of the park once more to hail a hack.
“I don’t even like her,” he hissed. “Not at all.”