Chapter Eight #2
Sophia had always assumed she would wed some moderately attractive gentleman, with wealth and name to match.
A scholarly viscount, perhaps, who if he didn’t set her aflame with any great passion—the books she loved always claimed searing fire and flame between the hero and heroine—there would be companionship. A liking for each other.
Not a duke known for his debauchery who couldn’t even recall compromising her.
“Rose and Violet are so elegant,” Mara enthused. “Their gowns are the envy of every lady in the ton. Lord Damon brings a modiste from Paris who designs for them exclusively. They are always dressed in the latest fashions well before anyone else in London.” Mara nodded. “Can you imagine?”
“No,” Sophia said. “I cannot.”
“Rose speaks five languages. Violet only three but she is a renowned equestrian.” Mara leaned in. “She sits a horse far better than her cousin.”
I mocked him for that. Which was unkind.
“Pinch your cheeks,” Mara shook her head. “You look like a corpse. It is rather unbecoming.”
Sophia ignored her. As soon as Mara turned to say something to Mama, she picked up the embroidery her sister had left tucked behind a cushion, discreetly pulling out two rows of stitches.
The basket of roses depicted on the cloth was now ruined.
She tossed the hoop behind one of the chairs, feeling much better.
“Perhaps a bit of sun on your cheeks prior to the ceremony would not be remiss.” Mama turned to study her. “You are much too pale. Sit in the sun for a bit tomorrow. Just enough for a hint of color. We don’t want anyone to think you’ve taken ill. The wedding is in two days, after all.”
I should be so fortunate as to contract the plague.
This family dinner was the only event leading up to her ill-fated nuptials. Mama had wanted to host a lavish ball and an even more extravagant dinner party leading up to the wedding. There had also been plans for a wedding breakfast with no less than fifty guests directly after the ceremony.
Roxboro had politely, but firmly, declined Mama’s suggestions as had Lord Damon. Papa, in a shocking display of defiance, agreed.
Sophia and the duke would be wed at St. Paul’s in front of a large assortment of important personages, and leave the church in an open carriage, so that all of London might share in their joyous occasion, but that was all Roxboro had agreed to.
Sophia was vastly relieved.
The ice blue gown, created out of a silk so sheer the fabric shimmered in the light, hung upstairs.
Mama always insisted Sophia dress in blue, claiming the color highlighted her hair.
She would carry a nosegay of lilies and Mama insisted on the sapphire bracelet.
The same bracelet lost the night of the Perswick ball.
A tense discussion followed when she’d had to admit to misplacing the bracelet.
Mama was not pleased.
What followed was a scouring of the house by the staff who of course, did not find the bracelet, possibly because Sophia was certain it was in hiding in the grass of Lady Perswick’s garden.
I’ll send a note once I’m…the Duchess of Roxboro. When Lady Perswick would be less likely to ignore her.
Papa walked into the room, pausing to look at the three of them with a pleased smile. “My lovely girls. Has ever a man been so blessed?” He came forward to kiss Mama’s cheek. “And you the fairest of them all.”
Mama playfully swatted him. “My lord, the things you say.”
Papa gave Mara a kiss before lightly touching the top of Sophia’s head. “It will all work out, moppet,” he whispered to her. “I’ll make sure of it.”
That was what she feared.
Powell, the Canterbell butler, appeared a few moments later. “My lord. His Grace, the Duke of Roxboro and Lord Damon Viceroy.” He stood aside, ushering the two men in.
Roxboro entered first, so bloody beautiful and elegant in appearance that it hurt Sophia’s eyes.
Her heart flapped about inside her chest at the sight of him, watching as all that controlled sensuality stalked towards the three Canterbell women.
When they’d driven through the park together, ladies walking together had halted to stare at him.
Even their maids grew flustered. There was a reason he was known as one of the worst rogues London had ever produced.
Perhaps that was why Roxboro had chosen to amuse himself with Sophia on that fateful night.
She’d been something of a lark for a jaded libertine.
But even a reminder that he’d been so cruel to her did nothing to dispel Roxboro’s allure.
Watching him now, Sophia didn’t wonder she’d followed him so blindly into the garden without a care for her reputation or whether he was deliberately leading her astray.
There wasn’t a woman in London who would object to his attentions.
Mara made a sound. One of appreciation. Her entire body bowed in Roxboro’s direction.
Oh, good grief.
The magnificent picture Roxboro presented ended a second later, however, when he stumbled, hit the edge of a table and nearly upended a vase of flowers.
There’s the Roxboro I know. Sot.
Sophia observed the tips of his ears, pink like the underside of a seashell, a sign he was embarrassed by his clumsiness. She’d observed the same reaction before and in neither instance, had she thought him foxed.
Was it more acceptable to stumble about as a duke in his cups than one who was merely…awkward at times? She thought it might be.
I will not feel sorry for him.
“Apologies, Lady Canterbell. Lord Canterbell.” Roxboro righted himself, grabbing the vase before it could fall to the floor. “My toe caught on the edge of the rug, which I must say, is uniquely lovely.”
Papa merely gave a small shake of his head, assuming Roxboro already full of brandy. “Your Grace.”
Mama rushed towards him. “I’ve never cared for that vase at any rate, Your Grace.
Had it broken, no one would mourn its loss.
Powell,” she said to the butler. “There is a loose bit of fringe on the rug. Make sure it is corrected before someone else harms themselves.” She presented her hand for Roxboro to take and dipped.
“We are so pleased you could dine with us, Your Grace.”
“I understand you set a fine table, my lady,” Roxboro returned. “I would never miss such an invitation.” A half-smile tilted his lips. A lovely one.
Mama fluttered her lashes, already taken in by his charm, just as she’d been when he’d called a few weeks ago at the beginning of this farce.
“My eldest daughter, Lady Mara,” Papa introduced Sophia’s sister.
Mara’s curtsey, as usual, was nothing short of spectacular.
Skirts pluming out around her like the unfurling of a rose bud.
Not a hair out of place, the golden strands sparkling in the light of the drawing room, giving the impression she glowed.
Or wore a halo. As she lowered her chin, one curl artfully glanced off her shoulder.
In short, Mara was utterly flawless in both appearance and manner.
Disgusting, really.
“Lord Damon Viceroy.” Roxboro’s uncle came forward to take Mama’s hand, lips grazing her knuckles. “Lady Canterbell.” The dark eyes lingered on Mara a tad too long. “Lady Mara.” Damon drew out each letter as if Mara’s name was the rarest of treasures. Which, of course, had the desired effect.
Mara swayed slightly as Lord Damon took her hand with a smile, nearly falling into a swoon.
Sophia didn’t even blame her sister or mother.
Roxboro was glorious, there wasn’t any doubt, as was his uncle.
The Viceroy looks were the stuff of legend.
Rose and Violet Viceroy were lauded for their beauty.
And Lord Damon, though far older, was widely regarded as one of the most handsome men in London, second only to his nephew.
The day at Roxboro’s home, when this entire arrangement had come about, Sophia hadn’t noticed how breathtaking they both were, standing side by side, like a pair of stunning bookends.
Pity, Roxboro is so devoid of any redeemable qualities.
Mama had some stupid theory that Lord Damon, a confirmed bachelor since the death of his wife, would be overjoyed to welcome Sophia into the family, no matter the circumstances.
Because he was his nephew’s heir and the only male Viceroy left.
Sophia would be saving Lord Damon from having to remarry, something, much to the dismay of a great many females in London, he showed little inclination to do.
Lord Damon’s smile faltered, finally disappearing entirely as his dark, brittle gaze landed on Sophia. Ice coated her immediately at that look.
No, he does not see me as beneficial, Mama.
Roxboro regarded Sophia with a great deal of wariness hovering in those shimmering eyes. As if she meant to attack him, here in the Canterbell drawing room.
Would that stop the marriage if she flew at him like an enraged hedgehog?
Did hedgehogs become enraged?
Perhaps a beaver, then. They seem vicious.
Anger towards Roxboro was justified, Sophia reminded herself.
It had been entirely unnecessary to lead her to believe he admired her at the ball, when he clearly did not.
Sophia had castigated herself dozens of times for believing Roxboro’s lecherous drivel.
She couldn’t seem to force the words away, no matter how she tried.
It was one thing to be compromised publicly—
Damn Lady Brokeburst.
—quite another to have the gentleman in question to be so drunk as to assume he was merely kissing a shrub. Or insisting he’d not been present at all.
It was humiliating. And cruel.
Roxboro’s gloved fingers curled around her own, warming the skin beneath her gloves. “My lady,” he said in a clipped tone.
Sophia dropped into the best curtsey she could muster under the circumstances, which wasn’t saying much. She not so discreetly sniffed the air between them for a hint of spirits.
He squeezed her fingers tighter, pulling Sophia forward. “I’m not foxed,” he murmured under his breath.