Chapter Nine
Roxboro was intoxicated.
He had to be.
Sophia cocked her head, studying her unwanted betrothed and the half glass of scotch at his elbow that Powell kept filled without Roxboro asking.
Under the circumstances, Sophia didn’t blame him for drinking endless amounts of scotch during this dinner; had she been able, she would have waved away the few glasses of wine Mama allotted her and gone right to something a bit stronger.
Fortitude and courage was required for this evening.
What did it matter if Sophia found it in a bottle?
But despite the amount of scotch Roxboro consumed while enjoying the roasted duck, he never once appeared drunk.
His hands, with their long, elegant fingers, never wavered.
Not a bit of sloppiness. No slurred word.
Didn’t miss his mouth and poke his eye out with a fork.
Cut his meat without slicing off a finger.
Both of which would have made things interesting.
Impressive.
Roxboro’s eyes, those glorious orbs that sent young ladies for the smelling salts, were the exact color of lichen where it clung to a rock in the forest, the striations of gray deepening as they passed over Sophia.
It would be impossible to mistake him for anyone else.
“He’s exceptionally handsome,” Mara pinched Sophia’s thigh. “I can see why Mercy Eldridge wrote a poem about his eyes.”
“That hurt. And Mercy is an idiot.”
“True,” her sister agreed. “Though she does have a way with words. There was much sighing and pressing a palm to her heart as she recited the poem to me.”
Ugh.
“His tolerance for drink is quite remarkable.”
Would Mara never shut up? “I don’t think that’s a compliment. Given his pursuits and the company the duke keeps, one would expect he enjoys spirits.”
“Not to mention,” Mara continued, undeterred. “His legion of conquests.” Her voice lowered further. “Of which you, dear sister, are the most recent.”
“Yes, I believe that has been established.” Sophia lowered her fork and pressed it into Mara’s knee.
Her sister’s leg jolted. “Poor Mama. Torn between disappointment at the scandal you created, utter disbelief it was Roxboro who conquered you and the thrill that she’ll soon be a duchess.”
“I was not conquered,” Sophia whispered back. “Nor am I a castle to be stormed. There was no grand seduction as you well know. It was barely a kiss. I’ve told you so repeatedly. Lord Wilde has taken more liberties. With you.”
Mara’s lips rippled. She smoothed her hair though not one strand was out of place. Two signs she was about to tell a lie.
“An exaggeration. Even so, at least I was wise enough to make sure Lady Brokeburst was nowhere in the vicinity. I heard her tell Mama, before Roxboro decided to be honorable, that you were clasped in a torrid embrace. Bent over his arm passionately.” Mara glanced at Roxboro. “How…stimulating.”
“Lady Brokeburst saw nothing of the kind, because it never happened. She’s beastly. I blame her for this entire affair. And then Papa with his ridiculous tale of Roxboro and I courting in secret. I think I would rather be a pariah.”
“You should thank Lady Brokeburst for making you a duchess.” Mara nodded.
“And as for Papa’s little tale, parroted by Lord Damon and even Roxboro himself, not one soul believes it, as my set down of Miss Newsome proves.
Most believe the duke was so in his cups he might have thought you one of his paramours and followed you to the gardens.
You, in a burst of ruthlessness because you are Lord Canterbell’s daughter, took advantage.
” Mara looked up to make sure Mama wasn’t listening.
“I don’t blame you,” she continued in a low tone.
“Nor do any of the ladies I’ve encountered, though they drip with jealousy.
He’s dreadfully good looking, a duke and wealthy.
The rumors of his…debauched nature have only titillated, not put off anyone.
” Mara turned to spear a piece of the duck.
“You saw an opportunity. Given your prospects on the marriage mart…” the words trailed off with a shrug of her sister’s shoulders.
“I did not.” Sophia sputtered, horrified that even Mara thought her capable of such treachery. “He’s a sot and an overindulged, arrogant cad. Hardly the catch of the Season.”
“There are many who would disagree. Not on the first part of your statement, but the last.”
Mama cleared her throat subtly, a signal that she’d seen their heads bent together and didn’t care for it.
“Even I would be tempted,” Mara picked at the duck. “Just look at him. Or,” she turned her sights on Roxboro’s uncle. “Lord Damon.”
“Mara.” Mama cautioned from her place at the table.
“I must confess,” Lord Damon drawled as he sat back in his chair. “This is the finest meal I’ve had in some time, Lady Canterbell. The duck was nothing short of extraordinary. I don’t suppose I could steal your cook?” he teased.
“My lord. You flatter me,” Mama stated humbly, but her cheeks pinked at his attention.
Damon Viceroy knew how to compliment a woman.
Mama had giggled like a schoolgirl at nearly everything he said during the meal, lowering her lashes with a soft, rosy flush creeping up her neck.
There was also the mild stammering when Lord Damon looked directly at her, as if Mama might call for smelling salts at any moment.
Papa wasn’t fooled. He laughed at every jest or humorous tale, but the calculating look directed at Roxboro’s uncle never wavered. Lord Canterbell wielded a great deal of influence in Parliament because he wasn’t stupid.
Lord Damon reminded Sophia of a crocodile, especially when he smiled.
The flat, flinty gaze. The perfect row of teeth ready to sink into his prey.
Not that she’d ever seen a crocodile, only an artist’s rendering in a book.
Lord Black and the Pirates of Ruin, one of her favorites.
She’d read it three times. The heroine is saved from a crocodile whose resemblance to Lord Damon was uncanny.
“I’ll relay your compliments to our cook, Mrs. Cotton,” Mama said, ever the ideal hostess. “She is responsible for the duck, my lord, not I.” Pressing a palm to the base of her throat, she said, “I merely wrote out the menu.”
“Then you are responsible for pairing such delicious potatoes with this exquisite sauce. I think you far too modest, my lady. You contributed as much to the meal as Mrs. Cotton.”
Sophia struggled keep from making a face.
“It is a shame that Lady Violet and Lady Rose could not join us this evening,” Mama said, so unsettled by Lord Damon’s compliments, she nearly dropped her fork. “And of course, Lady Falworth.”
“A pity. But Lady Falworth was most insistent that their plans could not be altered. I understand doing so would have played havoc with the seating charts at the Dunkirk house party.
“I can well understand,” Mama agreed.
“But Lady Falworth promises to return well before the wedding. Tomorrow evening, as it happens.” Lord Damon dabbed at his lips with a napkin, dark eyes glittering like black ice as they passed over Sophia.
“How delightful. We shall look forward to becoming better acquainted after, won’t we?” She nodded at both Sophia and Mara.
“Indeed,” Lord Damon said. “I hope you don’t mind I did add two last minute guests to the wedding, my lady.
The widow of a dear friend and her son who I hadn’t thought would be in London.
Lord Caster and Roxboro grew up together, and I’ve known the Dowager Marchioness for ages.
She’s close friends with Lady Falworth.”
“The Marquess of Caster?” Mama beamed at him. “Of course not.”
Mama had set her sights on Caster some time ago for Mara, deeming him eminently suitable for her daughter. Honestly, if Lord Damon had asked Mama to toss Papa in the Thames right now to gain more influence with Caster, she would have.
“You are too kind, my lady.” Lord Damon said. “And I am deeply,” he stressed the word, making Mama blush even further. “Appreciative. Especially on such short notice.”
“It would be our great pleasure,” Mama glanced at Papa. “And they must join us for the wedding breakfast as well, given that His Grace and Caster are so close.”
The wedding breakfast had been deemed for family only.
Papa made a grunt and took a sip of his wine. “Yes, we insist.”
Roxboro said nothing, neither confirming nor denying whether he and Caster were even acquainted, let alone great friends. Her future husband was most usually mentioned in the gossip columns in conjunction with Lord Oakhurst, along with a string of titled ladies. But never Caster.
Clever Lord Damon. He’d found a way to put Mama in his debt.
I find I dislike Roxboro’s uncle even more, though I admire his strategy.
“Lady Falworth will be so pleased,” Lord Damon continued. “As will Violet and Rose. I do wish my May was here to celebrate the occasion with us, but I think,” a mournful look crossed his features. “She will be there, watching over us all.”
“I met her once, my lord.” Mama’s features were contorted in sympathy. “A lovely woman of great modesty. Well-regarded by everyone in London.”
“Here, here, Uncle.” Roxboro lifted his glass. “To Aunt May.”
“She spoiled you.” The side of Damon’s mouth lifted to a half-smile as he addressed Roxboro. “May was a rare gem. Impossible to replace.”
“You’re still young, uncle.” Roxboro sipped from his glass.
“Indeed, my lord,” Papa intoned from the head of the table. “Given your aspirations, an astute woman versed in politics would be a great asset. I agree with the duke. I would never have gotten far without Lady Canterbell at my side.”
Mama glowed. As if lit from within by the sun. She’d been complimented by Lord Damon and Papa, then given the immense opportunity of ingratiating herself with not only Lady Falmouth, but also Lady Caster, whose son she wanted for Mara. She wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.