Chapter Eleven
Once the intolerable dinner was finally over, Papa escorted Roxboro and Lord Damon to his study to partake in a brandy and a cheroot, while the Canterbell ladies made their way to the drawing room to await them.
Sophia thought it a stupid custom, to separate the sexes after a meal.
She didn’t care if a cheroot was smoked before her, in truth, she’d tried a cheroot herself.
Sneaking one from her father’s study, Sophia had run to the very back of the gardens behind a flowering wisteria when Mama and Mara left to go shopping one day.
After a great deal of coughing, and having made so much noise Powell found her, she came to the conclusion that puffing on a cheroot wasn’t something she’d enjoy again in the future.
But one should always try new things.
Sophia had wanted to point out to the others in the dining room as they all came to their feet, that Roxboro didn’t require a brandy after imbibing so heavily of Father’s favorite scotch throughout the meal. She’d counted eight glasses while he enjoyed the duck.
Eight.
But she restrained herself.
“Stop frowning, Sophia. You’ll give yourself wrinkles,” Mama cautioned, taking a seat with a sigh.
“I don’t understand why you continue to be so averse to your future.
Things did not start well, that much is true, but the path has been set forward.
It does you no good to antagonize Roxboro or Lord Damon.
Why you continue to make things harder for yourself, I do not understand. ”
“I would embrace my marriage, Mama.” Sophia’s sister settled perfectly on the settee.
Like a bloody swan.
“Of course you would, dear.” Mama patted Mara’s hand before both regarded Sophia with twin looks of exasperation.
She expelled the air in her lungs slowly, primarily to keep from screaming at them both.
The assumption that she was always difficult, stubborn and more a challenge than was warranted wasn’t an incorrect one.
She’d been born that way. Perhaps something had happened to Mama when she carried Sophia, to account for her unpleasing personality. The idea was worth considering.
“Were you inordinately frightened or did you fall down the stairs before my birth, Mama? Or eat something far too spicy, that might have given you indigestion? Or were you cursed by a gypsy, perhaps, when—”
“Cursed by a gypsy? Good lord but you are fanciful. No, nothing untoward at all occurred when I was with child.” She looked between Mara and Sophia and raised one plucked brow.
Taking the glass of ratafia offered by Powell, she said, “But you were combative even in the womb. Kicking and moving about. As an infant, you had colic for months. Always fussy. Red-faced. Angry at all of us for having been born.”
“Oh.” Well, that explained a great deal.
“Sophia, if you cannot smile, at the very least, try not to appear as if you’ve something bitter in your mouth.
Attempt to be pleasant. I beg you. The duke behaved wonderfully at dinner despite drinking half the contents of the sideboard and dodging your insults.
Roxboro was lovely when he called upon you.
He took you for a carriage ride through the park and then to Gunter’s.
” She lifted the ratafia to her lips once more and paused.
“Roxboro is doing everything to make something of this…misstep. I do not understand why you cannot do the same.”
“I find him charming,” Mara piped up.
“As do I,” Mama said. “Despite his unwelcome reputation which I am inclined to believe might be exaggerated given what I’ve seen thus far.”
Sophia’s lips parted. Aghast. “You said yourself he was disgraceful, Mama. A terrible libertine. Goodness, you informed me I’d be a young widow as he’d likely trip and break his neck due to his love of drink.”
“I said no such thing,” her mother insisted.
Sophia’s fingers clasped together and twisted. “You did. You said—”
“I agree that the situation is unwelcome,” Mama interrupted, as usual. “I am not fond of scandal, nor your father. But I do not understand how you found yourself in the Perswick gardens if you dislike Roxboro to such a degree. If he is so disagreeable, why converse with him at all?”
Sophia looked down at her lap. Studied her fingers as they laced and locked.
Mama would never understand. She’d been a great beauty once, just like Mara.
Lauded for her modesty and ladylike manners.
Mara was very like her. How could Mama possibly comprehend how Sophia had to go through the world, always being compared to not only Mara, but the great Lady Canterbell?
Having Roxboro, arguably the most spectacular man in London, a jaded rake who could have any woman he wished, seek out Lady Sophia, the other Canterbell daughter had been…
intoxicating. Vindicating. Proof that possibly she wasn’t so unappealing.
For the first time in her life, Sophia had felt… seen.
Until Roxboro abandoned her in the garden and Sophia realized she wasn’t special. Or desirable. Only a source of amusement for a libertine who’d had too much wine. Any girl would’ve done just as well in his drunken state. He didn’t even have the decency to remember her.
“We mustn’t blame Sophia, Mama. What young lady in her position when encountering a gentleman like Roxboro,” Mara paused to position herself so that when Roxboro and Lord Damon came through the door, she would be the first thing they’d see.
Perfect. Modest. Lovely. “Wouldn’t be tempted to lure him out to the gardens to steal a kiss? ”
“I did not lure him.” Sophia threw a pillow at her sister.
Mara caught it with one hand before it could hit her in the head.
“Girls.” Mama clapped her hands. “You are young ladies, not children. Sophia and Roxboro have been courting in secret,” she ground out.
“Nothing improper occurred. They were only indiscreet and it is a splendid match. That is the truth.” She took another sip of ratafia.
“I do not wish to hear anything to the contrary.”
Sophia snorted and flopped into a chair.
“Things could be worse. Look who Miss Walton had to wed. Lord Dram has that unsightly mole on his cheek and a corpulent form.”
“Lord Dram is a lovely man.” Mama made a chuffing sound, trying not to hold back her amusement. “But I quite agree on the mole. Your sister makes an excellent point.”
“Roxboro lacks moral turpitude,” Sophia insisted, though the argument was pointless. “His character is corrupt. His wit is as practiced as is his charm and fueled by a great deal of spirits.”
“Perhaps your father and I should have sent you to that dreary convent in Scotland instead of allowing you to wed a handsome duke. What punishment,” Mama snapped back at her.
“We are all aware that your opinion of this match is not favorable, but have you given one thought to what our family has suffered? The scandal? If I must tolerate the whispers of Lady Stafford and Hortensia, I would rather do so as the mother of a duchess.” She took a deep breath.
“Frankly, Sophia, we are all exhausted with hearing of how terrible this must be for you.”
“It is quite awful. Because—”
“Because you went into the gardens with him willingly. According to Lady Brokeburst, you were practically skipping. Grinning like some deranged inmate of Bedlam. He did not drag you screaming out to the terrace.” Mama’s features hardened.
“You desired his attention. Allowed him to take liberties.” She let out a puff of frustration.
“Stop behaving as if he’s wronged you. You are to blame as well. ”
Sophia fell back against the cushions with a small gasp.
She turned away from her mother and sister as they proceeded to dissect the merits of tulle over damask.
Biting back a sob, one filled with a great deal of misery and self-realization, Sophia stared at a portrait of a bluebird on the wall without truly seeing it.
Mama was right, no matter how much Sophia didn’t want her to be.
*
Stop behaving as if he’s wronged you.
Alexander halted at the entrance to the drawing room, waving aside Powell who appeared like a shadow beside him. “No need to announce me. I thank you for your attention to my requests through dinner, Powell. And your discretion.”
Lady Canterbell’s little speech, no matter how correct, struck a sour note with him.
Alexander had ascertained that his future wife was not only annoyed that he didn’t recognize her, but believed a far graver injustice had been visited upon her.
Other than being compromised. That much was clear from the conversation he’d managed to overhear.
Well, that certainly explains the hostility.
What else had been done or said to her that night—and Alexander still wasn’t completely ready to admit it had been him—to distress Sophia to such a degree.
Did he insult Lord Canterbell? Invite her to join he and another woman—no, they were in the gardens.
Alexander preferred a bed for such activities. What could possibly have transpired?
Curious.
Damon was still in Canterbell’s study, crowing over some ancient map of Rome hanging on the wall.
But Alexander had wanted a private word with Lady Sophia, so he made an excuse to join the ladies in the drawing room.
He might have to accept he had been at the Perswick ball, because he couldn’t prove otherwise.
But not a bit of Sophia’s story made sense.
Besides the absolute dislike of Lady Perswick—he’d had Timmons find every invitation Alexander had received in the last two months and not one was from her—Alexander had never once attempted to seduce a young lady of good family.
Not even when they tossed themselves at him, which happened with great regularity.
Damon had warned him away from such women his entire life.
He would never have stepped out of…bounds, given what had happened to his father.
You don’t wish to end up like Charles, do you? Trapped and unhappily wed to a scheming skirt.
Lady Marianne, Alexander’s mother, had been a spoiled, well-bred young lady who set her sights on becoming a duchess from the moment she’d spied Charles across a ballroom.
Impropriety followed. Her ambitions and lack of any desire for her husband became clear in the first year of their marriage, with Marianne declaring that the moment she birthed an heir she would leave for the Continent.
But conceiving Alexander had not come easy. Marianne hadn’t wanted to ruin her lovely form, according to Damon. Her earlier pregnancies ended…rather abruptly. Charles found out she had an account at the local apothecary. And a lover. His greatest rival in Parliament. Cotswold.
Alexander longed to confront Cotswold. But he had died shortly after Marianne.
All of which was to say that he would never, under any circumstances, seduce some well-bred virgin.
He was intimately aware of what could transpire.
Nor did he want to end up like Charles. The young ladies of the ton were to a fault, ruthless and calculating, especially if you were a duke.
The fact that he was prone to every wicked excess in England didn’t put any of them off.
Especially not this young lady, who was far more intelligent than most.
And terrible.
“Lady Sophia,” Alexander said from the door, watching as she jumped at the sound of his voice, likely shocked he’d used her name. “I would love to see the gardens. Perhaps you could show them to me.” He made a quick bow to Lady Canterbell. “With your permission, my lady.”
“There are flying…insects,” Sophia grumbled. “And it is dark. You won’t see anything.” She turned from him. “And I’m rather full of duck.”
Good lord, she was sour.
“The servants have lit the torches along the path, and it is a perfectly lovely evening for a stroll,” Lady Canterbell said pointedly to her daughter. “I feel certain it will help the duck to settle. Please enjoy the night air, Your Grace.”
“But—” the little twit protested. “Fine.” Her lips pulled tight as she stood and waltzed past Alexander and into the hall without so much as taking his arm. “Come along.”
Alexander had to shrug off the sudden spike of arousal. What was wrong with him?
Lady Canterbell shot him a look of apology. “Your Grace—”
Alexander smiled. “I see Lady Sophia is impatient for our walk, my lady. I promise to return her shortly.”