‘Quick—Sir Vincent is coming. He plans to destroy my reputation. If he sees me here he will find a way to ruin me.’

Richard reacted instinctively. He swung her back into the shadows, up against the hedge, and stood between Miss Ravel and the light.

‘Follow my lead and keep silent,’ he murmured against her lavender-scented hair.

‘Your lead?’ she asked, attempting to peer around him. Her skirts brushed his leg. ‘Should I trust you?’

‘Do you have a choice?’ He took a glimpse down at Miss Ravel, seeing her clearly for the first time.

Her lips hovered a tantalisingly few inches beneath his. Her deep blue eyes looked up into his, trusting him to get this right and protect her. Truly Cinderella after the ball, missing a slipper and in need of a prince.

Richard resisted the urge to crush her to him. Another time and in another place he would have given in to temptation, but this closeness was far from a prelude to seduction—it was instead a means to prevent Miss Ravel’s ruin. He had to hope that whoever it was would observe the niceties and simply walk on past.

AUTHOR NOTE

In the beginning there was Sophie. I wrote the first scene of this book and then thought, Hold on—what happened before? The ‘what happened before?’ thoughts led to me writing TO MARRY A MATCHMAKER, and after I’d finished writing it I considered that I could leave Sophie and concentrate on other stories. My editor agreed and thought it would be a good idea to give Sophie a chance to grow up.

Sophie had other ideas. She enlisted my daughter. My daughter was instrumental in my writing AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE, and every so often Katharine would ask, ‘So when are you going to write Sophie? It is all very well and good saying that she had a happy ending, Mom, but how did she get there? You must know.’

My daughter went away to university, and when we talked she’d keep on about Sophie and how she needed a proper story. Finally I asked my editor—who agreed! Sophie, of course, decided to become rather aloof because I had ignored her, and I feared I would have to write something else. Then, quite suddenly, Sophie decided she had better show up or she would not have a story!

The result is this book. I did adore writing it once Sophie and Richard decided to speak to me. I hope you will enjoy reading it.

As ever, I love hearing from readers. You can contact me through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, my blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, or through my publisher. I also have a page on Facebook—Michelle Styles Romance Author—where I regularly post my news.

About the Author

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives.

An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school.

Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog: www.michellestyles.blogspot.com. She would be delighted to hear from you.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight)

VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE

AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE

COMPROMISING MISS MILTON* THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS BREAKING THE GOVERNESS’S RULES* TO MARRY A MATCHMAKER HIS UNSUITABLE VISCOUNTESS HATTIE WILKINSON MEETS HER MATCH

*linked by character

And in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE PERFECT CONCUBINE

Did you know that some of the novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

An Ideal
Husband?
Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Katharine,

who asked, begged and otherwise pleaded.

Being an author’s daughter can have its advantages …

even if you still die of embarrassment

when I go looking for my books in a bookshop.

Chapter One

May 1852—Newcastle upon Tyne

Why was it that some men only understood the application of a frying pan to the head? And why was it that one often met such men at balls when all one could carry in one’s reticule was a hair pin?

Sophie Ravel glared at Sir Vincent Putney and took a step backwards, narrowly avoiding his outstretched hand. Perhaps this contrived confrontation of Sir Vincent Putney in a deserted conservatory was not one of her better ideas, but Sophie knew it was the only way to help one of her oldest friends avoid a fate worse than death. Tonight was the final opportunity to carry out her scheme and prevent Cynthia from being sacrificed on the altar of her parents’ ambition.

‘Not one step further, Sir Vincent.’ Sophie raised her reticule, ready to swat his hand away.

‘I have no desire to see you fall, Miss Ravel.’ The oily voice grated over her nerves. ‘I know how precious you are to my dear Miss Johnson. She sang your praises for weeks before we journeyed to Newcastle. Will Miss Johnson be joining us in the conservatory? Is that what she meant by a surprise?’

Sophie’s eyes flew to the door. She’d been meticulous in her planning. Every eventuality covered, every solitary one except the one actually unfolding.

She should know the answer to the question, but her mind was a blank. She hated lying; avoiding the full truth was a necessity in certain circumstances.

‘Miss Johnson has another matter to attend to before she can come to any conservatory.’ Sophie straightened the skirt of her ball gown so that the cascades of blonde lace fell neatly once again. The tiny gesture restored her confidence. Precise planning would once again triumph and produce the perfect outcome. ‘I’m sure she will appear when circumstances permit it.’

‘Said with such a disdainful look.’ Sir Vincent hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘Despite your airs and graces, Miss Ravel, you have nothing to be proud about. I know all about your parentage and how your father acquired his considerable fortune.’

Sophie fought against the inclination to laugh. The man’s accent was so entirely ridiculous, proclaiming about her parentage as if she was some brood mare.

She backed up so that her bottom touched one of the shelves. A particularly large fern nodded over her left shoulder.

‘I suspect you have heard lies and half-truths.’ She feinted to the left, only to be stopped when he placed his paw on the railing. ‘Now, will you listen to what I have to say? Or are we going to have to play “Here we go round the mulberry bush” all night?’

He waggled his eyebrows, but did not remove his hand.

In the distance she could hear the faint strains of the orchestra as they struck up a polka. All she had to do was to calmly return to the ballroom after delivering her message. As long as she refused to panic, she was the mistress of the situation. Icy calm and a well-tilted chin. Poise.

‘I regret to inform you, Sir Vincent, that Miss Johnson has other plans for this evening.’ She ducked under his arm and wished she had chosen somewhere else besides the deserted conservatory to impart the news. Good ideas had a way of turning bad if not properly thought through. She should know that by now. ‘Indeed, she has other plans for the rest of her life.’

‘Other plans?’ Sir Vincent cocked his head and Sophie could almost see the slow clogs of his brain moving. ‘Miss Johnson arrived with her parents and me only a short while ago in my carriage. I know what her plans are. Her father has accepted my suit. They are watching her to ensure her reputation remains unsoiled. We are to be married come a week Saturday.’

‘Her note. Miss Johnson asked me to give it to you once we were in the conservatory.’

He shook his ponderous head. ‘Mr Johnson and I have come to an arrangement. He knows what is good for him. His wealth will go a long way towards restoring my family home. He saw sense in the match in the end.’

Sophie’s stomach revolted. What she had considered Cynthia’s fevered imaginings were utterly correct. Sir Vincent had used blackmail and threats to achieve his ends.

Since Cynthia’s father had agreed to the marriage, Sir Vincent or her parents had hung about Cynthia like limpets. It was only at this ball that Cynthia stood any chance of escape. Sophie had brought the valise in her carriage. Hopefully Cynthia and her true love were now using the carriage to go straight to the railway station. The last train for Carlisle left in a half-hour. Then, at Carlisle, they would change trains and go to Liverpool, catching a boat to America leaving on tomorrow afternoon’s tide. She’d left nothing to chance.

‘Read the note, Sir Vincent, before you say anything we both might regret.’

He froze and his pig-like eyes narrowed, before snatching the note from her fingers. His lips formed the words as he read the note. The colour drained from his face.

‘You’re serious. Miss Johnson has jilted me.’

‘She intends to marry someone else, someone far more congenial.’

He screwed up the note. ‘We shall see about that! Her father has agreed to the match. He wants my name and status.’

Sophie rolled her eyes. What did he expect after the way he had behaved, cavorting with all manner of loose women, being insufferably rude to Cynthia and, worst of all, boasting about it to members of his club? ‘I believe it is Miss Johnson’s wishes that are paramount here. It is her life, rather than her father’s or her mother’s.’

She only hoped some day she’d meet a man who would make her want to forget her life and responsibility, but who would also be her friend. Why wasn’t she deserving of a Great Romance? All of her friends had and all she’d discovered was alternative uses for hatpins and frying pans!

‘You gambled and you have lost, Sir Vincent. Here is where I say goodbye.’

‘We shall see about that!’ He threw the crumpled note down on the ground.

‘You are too late. Miss Johnson has eloped.’

‘Scotland, it will be Scotland. Her father should never have come to Newcastle.’

‘You will look like a fool if you go after her. Do you wish to be taken for a fool, Sir Vincent?’

Sir Vincent froze.

Sophie breathed easier. Nothing would happen to her now, but she could buy Cynthia a few more precious minutes.

‘I’m no fool, Miss Ravel.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Sophie cleared her throat. ‘A notice will appear in The Times and a number of local papers in the morning, stating that your engagement is off. You will have to find another bride, Sir Vincent.’ Sophie started towards the door. ‘It is time I returned to the dance. I have a full dance card this evening.’

‘This is all your fault!’ He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. ‘You will have to pay, Miss Ravel. You have done me out of a fortune. Nobody does that to me!’

‘My fault? I’m merely the messenger.’ An uneasy feeling crept down Sophie’s spine. He still stood between her and the door to the ballroom. She needed to get away from this situation as quickly as possible before something untoward happened. Carefully she measured the distance to the outside door of the conservatory with her eyes. It was possible, but only as a last resort. She’d much prefer to walk back into the ballroom rather than going through the French doors. ‘And having delivered my message, I shall get back to the ball. I doubt we need ever acknowledge each other again.’

‘You are in it up to your pretty neck.’ Sir Vincent turned a bright puce colour and shook his fist in her face. ‘You will be sorry you ever crossed me, Miss Ravel. I will not rest until I’ve ruined your life.’

Sophie tapped her foot. ‘Cease to threaten me this instant. You have no hold over me. Let me pass.’

His hand shot out, capturing her arm. ‘I am not through with you.’

‘Unhand me, sir. You overstep the mark!’ Sophie struggled against his hold.

‘Can you afford a scandal, Miss Ravel, despite your wealth? You may wear your ice-cold hauteur like armour, but do you truly think that will save you?’ His vice-like hand tightened on her upper arm.

‘I am well aware of what society requires. My reputation is spotless. You cannot touch me.’ Sophie twisted her wrist first one way and then the next. She had been naïve in the extreme when she had consented to elope with Sebastian Cawburn several years ago. Luckily, her guardian Robert Montemorcy and the woman who became his wife had intervened and had the matter successfully suppressed. Every night she said an extra prayer of thanks that Henrietta Montemorcy had entered her life.

‘Yet you allowed yourself to be alone with a man in a conservatory. Tsk, tsk, Miss Ravel.’

Thinking about Henri redoubled Sophie’s determination. She brought her arm sharply downwards, broke free and pulled the French doors to the garden open. ‘This is where we part.’

As she stepped down, she heard the distinct sound of ripping lace. One more reason to loathe Sir Vincent—she had really loved her new gown, particularly the blonde lace. She didn’t stop to examine the extent of the tear, but picked up her skirts and scurried out into the garden. The cool evening air enveloped her and she moved away from the light and into the velvet darkness.

Sophie pressed her hands to her eyes and tried to think. What next? She’d circle around the house and go back into the house through the terrace. Easy enough. With a bit of luck, no one would notice. She could make her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, do the necessary repairs and then plead a headache and have a carriage called. Thankfully, her stepmother had been unwell tonight and so it would be all the explanation required.

Her foot squelched in a muddy pool and cold seeped through into her foot. Another pair of dancing slippers ruined and these ones were her favourite blue-satin ones.

Behind her, she heard footsteps. Sir Vincent called her name. He was closer to the house than she. He was going to head her off before the ballroom, Sophie realised, and a cold fist closed around her insides.

She could imagine the scandal if she suddenly appeared dishevelled and escorted by Sir Vincent. She knew precisely what happened in these sorts of situations and Sir Vincent was not in any mood to be a gentleman. The whispers would reverberate through Newcastle society before morning—the proud Miss Ravel has slipped.

It wouldn’t stop there—the rumours would spread throughout society within a fortnight. She faced the very real prospect of ruin. Despite her earlier brave words, could she be sure of her stepmother’s support? Being part of society meant everything to her stepmother. Unfortunately the Montemorcys were out of the country. She was truly on her own … this time.

She turned sharply and headed out into the dark of the garden. Two could play a waiting game.

‘You can be a fool, Sophia Ravel,’ she muttered to herself, stepping into another puddle. Her intricate hairstyle of small looped braids combined with curls tumbled down about her shoulders. ‘Would Cynthia have done this for you? Or would she have found an excuse at the last moment? How could you have forgotten the pencil incident at school!’

Sophie gritted her teeth. It was too late to worry about what-might-have-been.

Behind her, she heard the sound of Sir Vincent’s heavy breathing. ‘I will find you. I know you are in the garden. I do so like games of hide and go seek, Miss Ravel.’

In the gloom of a May evening in Newcastle, she could see his black outline. She was going to lose, and lose badly.

She pivoted and ran blindly back towards the house and bumped straight into a well-muscled chest.

‘Where are you going?’ a deep rich baritone said as strong arms put her away from the unyielding chest. ‘Are you running away from the ball? Has midnight struck already?’

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. All might not be lost. Silently she offered up a prayer that this man would be a friend rather than a foe.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘You must help me. For the love of God, you must save me or else I shall be ruined.’

Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield, regarded the dishevelled blonde woman in his arms. The last thing he wanted or needed was to save some Cinderella-in-distress. But what choice did he have? He could hardly turn his back on her, not after he’d heard her ragged plea.

‘If it is in my power, I will help.’

Her trembling stopped. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘I do. Are you some escaping Cinderella, fearful of missing her fairy godmother’s deadline?’

‘Hardly that.’ Her hand tried to pin one of her braids up, but only succeeded in loosening more of the blonde curls. ‘I’m not running away from the ball. I am running towards it.’

‘Towards the ball? That dress?’ Even in the gloom, Richard could see the rips and tears. A twig stuck to the top frill of her blouse. He pointed and hoped she was aware of the scandal which she was about to be engulfed in.

‘I loved this dress.’ Her hand brushed away the twig. ‘Really loved and adored it. It is irreparable.’

Her lavender scent rose around him. All his instincts told him to crush her to him and hold her until her shaking stopped, but that would be less than wise. The last thing he needed was to be engulfed in a scandal and for his father to realise he was in Newcastle rather than in London. His father, the Marquess of Hallington, was in ill health. In fact, he had only now begun to recover from the last fit at the end of April. With each passing week, his father seemed to slip more and more into a jealous rage against his mother and the scandal in which she had engulfed the family, even though those events had occurred many years ago.

Richard knew he shouldn’t have come to Newcastle, but equally he knew he had to vet the man who had captured his half-sister’s affections. His mother was untrustworthy on this matter and he had also taken the opportunity to once again sort out his mother’s finances.

He forced his arms to let the young woman go and put her from him. ‘Tell me quietly and quickly what you need and I will see what I can do about it.’

‘I need to go back to the ball.’

‘Looking like that? Brushing away one twig won’t mend the ripped lace. You must know what will happen to you. Shall I call a carriage?’

Her hand instinctively tried to smooth her rumpled ball dress. ‘Very well, then. I need to get back into the house and go to the ladies’ withdrawing room where I can repair the damage. I do have my leaving arrangements in order.’

‘It should be simple a matter to walk straight back.’

‘Not so simple.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Someone is after me. He is determined to ruin me.’

Richard regarded the woman. The back of his neck pricked. He should walk away now. ‘It is hard to ruin someone who does not wish to be ruined. Practically impossible.’

She gave a half-shrug. ‘I was foolish and failed to consider the possibility. I fear we have not been introduced, but you must accept my assurance that I am normally considered to be extremely reliable and sensible in such matters.’

‘Viscount Bingfield.’ He inclined his head. ‘And I am most definitely received everywhere.’

‘I will take your word for it.’ Her voice dripped with ice cold.

‘Miss Ravel. Miss Ravel. Where are you? I will find you. You can’t hide for ever. And then you will see what happens to women who try to cross me!’

Richard’s jaw clenched. There was no mistaking the grating voice of Putney! The man was a bounder and a cad of the first order. He’d detested the man ever since that first term at Eton where Putney had put his hand up the maid’s skirt and lied about it, causing the poor girl to be dismissed. Richard had sneaked out to see if she was all right and then the newspaper stories started. Then there was Oxford and the tragedy of Mary. Again he could not prove Putney had a hand in it, but he had encountered Putney in the street the day before he’d been called in front of the Master. Even now he could remember the furtive smile Putney gave.

‘Are you trying to hide from Sir Vincent Putney, Miss Ravel?’

She gave a quick nod of her head. ‘I wish to return to the ball and avoid a scandal. I’ve done nothing wrong. That is all, Lord Bingfield. Once back under the chandeliers, all this will cease to be anything but a bad dream.’

‘In that state? Scandal will reverberate throughout the land. Your name will be on everyone’s lips as they attempt to work out how this happened and believe the worst.’

She glanced down and fluffed out her skirt. ‘A few repairs need to be made. I slipped in the dark. Twice. I barely know the man. I was helping a friend out and matters failed to go as planned.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I was helping a friend elope.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘My friend was engaged to Sir Vincent, but desired to end the relationship against her father’s wishes. She loved an American. I merely facilitated the elopement. It went like clockwork except …’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Quick, Sir Vincent is coming. I need to get away from him.’

Richard reacted instinctively. He swung her back into the shadows, up against the hedge and stood between Miss Ravel and the light.

‘Follow my lead and keep silent,’ he murmured against her lavender-scented hair. ‘We don’t have time.’

‘Your lead?’ she asked, attempting to peer around him. Her skirts brushed his leg. ‘Should I trust you?’

‘Do you have a choice?’ He took a glimpse down at Miss Ravel, seeing her clearly for the first time.

Her lips hovered tantalisingly few inches beneath his. Her worried eyes looked up into his, trusting him to get this right and protect her. Truly Cinderella after the ball, missing a slipper and in need of a prince.

Richard resisted the urge to crush her to him. Another time and another place he would have given in to temptation, but this closeness was far from a prelude to seduction, it was instead a means to prevent Miss Ravel’s ruin.

‘With any luck Putney will walk on without even noticing anything beyond a man and a woman in the shadows. He will expect to find you alone. Foolproof.’

Footsteps resounded behind them. Every nerve went on alert. Silently he prayed this action would be enough.

Miss Ravel stiffened and shrank back further against the hedge. The heavy footsteps went on past. The nervous energy drained out of Richard’s shoulders. They had done it! Miss Ravel would be safe. All that was needed was for him to step back.

His feet refused to move. Instead he lifted his hand and traced the outline of her jaw. Her skin quivered underneath the tips of his fingers and her lips parted, inviting him.

‘Dear Richard, imagine! You should be in the ballroom, rather than in the garden,’ a heart-sinkingly familiar woman’s voice said. ‘I shall have to tell your father that we met. He was asking after you at lunch last week. I had understood you were in London. Does he know you journeyed to Newcastle?’

Richard knew that things had suddenly become much worse. The most fearsome of his aunts had arrived.

He gave Miss Ravel an apologetic look and swung around.

‘Aunt Parthenope, what an unexpected pleasure.’ Richard made a slight bow. ‘I would have called on you earlier today if I’d known you, too, were in Newcastle. I would have thought you’d be in London for the start of the Season.’

‘The Season does not properly begin until after Queen Charlotte’s ball. Plenty of time remains to sort out the hanger-ons and no hopers from the cream of this year’s débutantes.’ His aunt gave a loud sniff. ‘You should have known that I always come to Newcastle at this time of year. I have done for years—to visit your grandmother’s grave on the anniversary of her death. In any case, the train makes travel so convenient these days. It takes less than a day. Imagine—when I was a girl, it took more than a week by post carriage.’

‘We truly do live in an age of miracles, Aunt,’ Richard murmured, wondering if his mother was aware of his aunt’s habit and why she hadn’t warned him of the possibility.

‘Why are you out in the garden, Richard?’

‘Crowded ballrooms can cause claustrophobia. I wanted a breath of fresh air.’ He moved towards his aunt and started to lead her away from where Miss Ravel stood, hidden in the shadows, touching his fingers to his lips before he turned away. Immediately Miss Ravel shrank back against the hedge.

‘You know how it is, Aunt,’ he said in an expansive tone. ‘One minute, one is waltzing and the next, one needs to be away from the crowd. You have often remarked on how crowded these balls are, not like the days when you were a young girl.’

Sophie hardly dared to breathe. She could see what Lord Bingfield was about to do—lead his aunt and her party away and leave her to make her own way back to the house. It was far too late for regrets. She had to hope that Lord Bingfield’s scheme would work.

‘And this is why you were out in the garden, Nephew? A sudden and inexplicable need for fresh air? Do not seek to flannel me. Your father did explain about his ultimatum to you at luncheon. While I might not agree with it on principle, I should remind you, he is a man of his word.’

Sophie pursed her lips and wondered what ultimatum Lord Bingfield’s father had issued. One of two things—women or gambling debts. Possibly both. Why would the man she begged for help have to turn out to be a dishonourable rake, rather than the honourable person she’d hoped? Her luck was truly out tonight.

‘My father has no bearing on this matter, Aunt.’ Lord Bingfield waved an impatient hand. ‘I know what he said and he must do as he sees fit. I make my own way in the world.’

‘You were always a reckless youth, Richard.’

‘We should return to the ballroom, Aunt,’ Lord Bingfield said, starting forwards and grasping his aunt’s elbow so that she was turned away from Sophie. ‘I find I am quite refreshed after a short turn. You must tell me all the news. How does my father fare? Does his latest pig show promise?’

Sophie flattened her back against the hedge. The prickles dug into her bodice. Silently she bid them to go.

‘And your charming companion? Or do you wish to continue blathering fustian nonsense, thinking I would overlook her?’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt gave her nephew a rap on the sleeve with her fan. ‘You do not fool me one little bit, Richard. I know how this game is played.’

‘Charming companion?’

‘You do know her name, I hope, Nephew. You were standing far too close to her to be complete strangers. However, with you, nothing surprises me.’

Sophie’s heart sank as Lord Bingfield’s aunt confirmed her growing fear. Lord Bingfield was not safe in carriages or indeed anywhere.

‘Aunt, you wrong me dreadfully,’ Lord Bingfield protested. ‘Name one instance where I have behaved dishonourably.’

‘I do declare it’s Miss Ravel.’ Sir Vincent loomed out of the darkness. In the gloom, Sophie could make out his smug grin. Her misery was complete. He intended to cause mischief, serious mischief, and she had inadvertently given him the opportunity, wrapped and tied up with a bow like a parcel. ‘I am surprised that a woman such as yourself is out here in the night air, Miss Ravel, with a man such as the notorious Lord Bingfield. What will your guardian say?’

‘My stepmother is aware of where I am and who I am with.’ Sophie kept her chin up. It was the truth. Her stepmother knew Sophie was at the ball, not her precise location and she had approved of the company. Her stepmother trusted her. She refused to allow Sir Vincent to imply that something untoward had happened. But it was poor luck that Lord Bingfield seemed to have a less-than-illustrious reputation himself.

‘You’re Miss Ravel? Sophie Ravel? The heiress who came out over four years ago?’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt squawked. ‘It would appear, Richard, that you have taken your father’s words to heart after all. Impressive.’

‘Everything, I assure you, is quite appropriate, Aunt,’ Lord Bingfield said. ‘It would be wrong of me to allow a lady such as Miss Ravel to wander about the garden on her own. Who knows the sort of ruffian she might encounter?’

He gave Sir Vincent a hard look. Sophie’s heart did a little flip. Unsuitable or not, Lord Bingfield shared her opinion of Sir Vincent. He was the only person standing between her and utter ruin.

‘It was your chivalry coming to the fore, Nephew,’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt pronounced. ‘All is now clear. I had feared you had decided to take after your mother’s side of the family.’

A muscle jumped in Lord Bingfield’s cheek and his hand clenched in a fist.

‘I believe Miss Ravel wishes to return to the ball, now that this little misunderstanding has been cleared up,’ he said in glacial tones.

‘Has it?’ Sir Vincent asked in a weasel-like tone. ‘You were in a close embrace! Did you see it, Lady Parthenope? It was quite clear from where I stood. And I know what a stickler you are for propriety and how everyone at Almack’s looks to your judgement.’

‘You were standing rather close to my nephew, Miss Ravel,’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt pronounced. ‘Young ladies need to be wary of their reputations at all times.’

‘Your attire is a little more dishevelled than a simple turn about the garden would suggest. How did you manage to tear your dress?’ Sir Vincent continued with a smirk.

Sophie winced. Lord Bingfield’s aunt would be someone of importance. Seeds of doubt and suspicions, that was what Sir Vincent intended. Little by little until she had no reputation left.

Her stomach churned. There was no way she could explain the current state of her attire away. She gave Lord Bingfield a pleading look as she searched her brain for a good excuse.

‘I do take offence at having Miss Ravel’s attire discussed in such intimate terms, Putney,’ Lord Bingfield said, stepping between her and Sir Vincent. His stance looked more like a pugilist preparing to enter the ring than a man at a ball.

Sophie released a breath. Despite her earlier fear, Lord Bingfield had kept his promise. He was protecting her.

‘Why?’ Sir Vincent stuck out his chest. ‘I merely state what everyone will be thinking when they spot Miss Ravel.’

Lord Bingfield cleared his throat. ‘Miss Ravel is doing me the honour of considering my proposal and, until she has time, discretion is the best option. You did not see anything untoward and I would refrain from mentioning something you might live to regret.’

Chapter Two

Lord Bingfield’s words circled through her brain. A proposal! What sort of proposal did Lord Bingfield have in mind? Sophie’s reticule slipped from her grasp and she made a last-second lunge to rescue it before it tumbled to the ground. At the same instant, Lord Bingfield reached down and caught it. Their fingers touched and a faint tremor went through her. He gave a slight nod and she remembered his earlier words—whatever happens, follow my lead.

She stood up and clutched the reticule to her chest. She had little choice. It was either go along with Lord Bingfield’s scheme or face certain ruin at Sir Vincent’s hands. She had to go against her hard-learnt habit and trust an acknowledged rake. All she had to do was ensure she refrained from making any rash promises to him. Easy if she maintained her poise and dignity.

‘A proposal? Do tell, Nephew.’ His formidable aunt rapped her fan against her hand. ‘I am all ears.’

‘It was the sort of proposal that I have longed to hear ever since I first encountered your nephew,’ Sophie said in a loud voice. ‘You do not know how happy it made me to hear his words. Perhaps it was a little rushed, but the location was so romantic. My heart simply soared.’

She glanced over at Lord Bingfield and saw that his eyes were dancing. They were as one on this plan. Her heart thudded.

‘Are you going to give him your answer?’

‘I think such a proposal merits careful consideration. Often a young woman has been led into folly by making too hasty a judgement one way or the other,’ Sophie retorted. A sense of thrilling excitement swept through her. For the first time in a long time, she felt as though she was living rather than merely existing, trying to be good and attempting to maintain a poised cold dignity in all her dealings with men. The realisation shocked her.

‘I am grateful that you are giving my proposal any consideration in light of my past,’ Lord Bingfield said.

Sophie tilted her chin upwards. ‘I have learnt that one’s past is never a guarantee of one’s future.’

‘You appear to be a highly sensible young lady, Miss Ravel, despite being out in the garden alone with my nephew,’ Lady Parthenope pronounced. ‘A word to the wise—even if you are overcome with heat, it is always best to keep your chaperon in sight. To do otherwise is to invoke comment. However, on this happy occasion I must forgive the tiniest lapse of judgement.’

Relief swept through Sophie. Lady Parthenope was practically purring her approval. Her reputation might survive.

‘I know your nephew has honourable intentions, your ladyship,’ Sophie said firmly, fixing Lord Bingfield with her eye.

‘I was unaware you were acquainted with my nephew. That is all, Miss Ravel. I must do more to further our acquaintance,’ Lady Parthenope said.

‘Come, come, Aunt.’ Lord Bingfield put his hand on his aunt’s sleeve. ‘Do I need to send you a note every time I meet a suitable unmarried lady? Every time I wish to make a proposal of a sensitive nature to said lady? If that is to be the way of the world, I want no part of it.’

‘It would be helpful, Richard.’ The elderly woman gave a sniff. ‘Your father was very tedious at our luncheon.’

‘Nor was I aware that you shared a close friendship with Lord Bingfield, Miss Ravel,’ Sir Vincent said. ‘The things one learns at balls. It puts our earlier conversation in a very different light. I do hope you remember every word of our previous encounter.’

A faint prickle of alarm ran down Sophie’s back, but she forced her lungs to fill with air. Sir Vincent’s threat was hollow. She was safe. Lady Parthenope had pronounced judgement. Despite the slight hiccup of Lord Bingfield being notorious, he had behaved impeccably.

‘Where did you think I was going to, Sir Vincent, after I delivered Miss Johnson’s note? I do hate being late.’ She made a curtsy which bordered on the discourteous. ‘I did say that I had a prior engagement. I failed to mention Lord Bingfield before because, quite frankly, it is none of your business.’

Sir Vincent’s mouth opened and closed several times.

Lady Parthenope suddenly developed a cough and Sophie struggled not to laugh after she caught Lord Bingfield’s eye. Her heart suddenly seemed much lighter. Tonight’s events were not going to be a catastrophe after all.

After tonight, she would not push her luck. She had to remember that adventures only became exciting in memory. During an adventure, one was often out of sorts and uncomfortable. Adventure should happen to other people, not to her if she wished to keep her reputation. Ice-cold calm and dignity while she waited to meet the man whom she could love. Friends first, but only after he’d proved himself worthy—it was the only way to have a great and lasting romance. She had seen the formula work with Robert and Henrietta and now Cynthia.

‘Sir Vincent may escort me in,’ Lady Parthenope said after she recovered from her coughing fit. ‘His mother and I were at school together. And, dear Miss Ravel, you may take your time as long as you come to the right decision quickly. It is blindingly obvious to me that nothing untoward happened here. You must not presume the worst, Sir Vincent. There again, your mother possessed that unfortunate habit. It obviously runs in the family.’

Lady Parthenope swept towards the house with a bleating Sir Vincent on her arm and the rest of her party trailing in her wake. Sophie waited until the noise had abated, feeling the cool night air on her face. She had survived.

Lord Bingfield held out his arm. ‘Shall we go, Miss Ravel? I take it you have had time to consider my proposal. My nerves shall be a-quiver until I hear your answer.’

‘I doubt your nerves ever quiver, Lord Bingfield.’

‘You wrong me.’ He put his hand to his forehead. ‘I may be the type to weep at dead daffodils.’

‘Are you?’

He stood up straighter. ‘Thankfully, no. I can’t remember the last time I wept at anything. Shall we go in before we invoke more comment?’

Sophie placed her hand on his arm. Her body became instantly aware of him and his nearness. His proximity to her was doing strange things to her insides and her sensibilities. Had she learnt nothing in the past four years? Rakes oozed charm and women forgot propriety when they were near them. The best defence was to be calmly aloof.

A tiny prickle coursed down her spine. Even when she had considered an elopement in her youth, she had not felt as though she wanted Sebastian Cawburn to kiss her, not in the desperate deep-down way that she wanted Lord Bingfield to kiss her when they had stood so close earlier.

‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ she said, trying for the poised voice she’d perfected after the Sebastian débâcle. Failed miserably as it came out too breathless for her liking. ‘Your idea of an unnamed proposal was particularly inspired. I hope … It doesn’t matter what I thought. It is finished now and my reputation is safe. From what Sir Vincent said earlier, I believe Cynthia will be safely married soon to the man she has chosen. It is important to choose a congenial life’s partner rather than have one chosen for you.’

‘I agree entirely,’ he said, helping her around a muddy puddle. ‘A close call, but I feel it was easily accomplished in the end. There should be no repercussions. Who would dare gainsay Lady Parthenope’s pronouncement of innocence?’

‘Will your aunt be cross when she discovers we have no intention of marrying each other?’ Sophie asked in an undertone. Her body was immediately aware of the way his gloved hand curled about hers. He frowned and let go of her hand.

‘She will get over it. Being a disappointment to my aunt appeals. Someone has to be and my cousins have thus far all proved to be sterling examples of moral rectitude and sobriety.’

Sophie forced a smile, but her heart gave a little pang. Lord Bingfield was by far the most interesting man she had met in years and the most unsuitable. A poised demeanour had to be her armour. Never again would she return to that frightened girl, cowering behind a door. ‘You were truly a shining knight.’

‘I’ve no love for Putney and a soft spot for beautiful ladies in distress. It was no trouble. Think no more about it.’

They reached the doorway to the house and in the sudden light, she saw Lord Bingfield clearly for the first time. His dark-brown hair curled slightly at his temples, framing his burnished gold eyes. His mouth was a bit large, but hinted at passion. It was the sort of face to make a woman go weak at the knees and forget her solemn vows.

Sophie fought against an inclination to prolong the encounter. There was no future for her and Lord Bingfield. She had given up on notorious men years ago. The adventure had finished and she and her reputation were safe.

She stopped beside the ladies’ withdrawing room. ‘The adventure has ended.’

‘Should you ever require a knight again, fair lady, let me know.’ He raised her hand to his lips.

The light touch sent a throb of warmth coursing through her. It would be easy to believe in romance, rather than chemistry. Against her better judgement, she wanted to believe he could be a shining knight and protect her from harm, rather than destroy her utterly.

‘You see, I did accept your proposal of protection from Sir Vincent. It was a truly honourable proposal.’

‘My pleasure and you understood the proposal.’ He gave a half-smile and inclined his head. ‘You do know I have no intention of marrying despite what my aunt might believe or my father might dictate.’

‘And you do know I have no intention of behaving badly,’ Sophie said, clutching her reticule close to her chest. Her earlier instincts had been correct. Lord Bingfield was the sort of man who was not safe in carriages. He had saved her reputation, but she knew how that particular game was played. Some day she hoped she’d meet someone who would make her heart soar and fulfilled all the criteria she had agreed with Henri on that fateful day. A friend before a lover. Someone of honour and whom she could love with the right pedigree for her stepmother. Other people had found love—why shouldn’t she?

A small dimple showed in the corner of his mouth. ‘Have I asked you to?’

‘No, but I suspect you entertain hopes. It falls to me to quash them.’ She pinned him with her best I-am-a-formidable-person look. ‘It is always best to be perfectly clear about such things.’

He threw back his head and laughed a deep rich laugh, utterly real and inviting rather than the arched one he’d used as he confronted Sir Vincent earlier. It warmed her all the way to her toes. Sophie started, surprised that the sound could affect her in that way. ‘The day I lose hope is the day I die.’

She concentrated on the flickering light of the chandelier in the entrance hallway, rather than the dimple in the corner of his mouth. She had to keep her wits about her and not indulge in some flight of romantic fantasy. He had given her an explicit warning about his intention to avoid marriage.

Naïve women chose to ignore such words of warning, believing that they were special or unique. It was what a rake traded on. Soon without meaning to, the woman had crossed all manner of bridges and boundaries. That was when a rake struck, showing his true colours. Sophie had learnt this lesson the hard way. A rake meant what he said all the times, and most definitely when it was said in a light-hearted or jesting fashion. And when things didn’t go as they wished …

‘We are at an impasse,’ she said, inclining her head. ‘For my determination is every bit as strong as your hope.’

‘Shall we risk a polka? Surely you can spare a dance for me?’ He held out his hands and his smile became even more beguiling. ‘I did save your reputation and I never ask a second time.’

Sophie swiftly shook her head, banishing the image of them swirling to the music together. It would be very easy to give in to the temptation and dance in his arms. And from there? Each little step would lead her further down a path she’d sworn never to go on again.

‘Here we part. I shall bid you goodbye. We part as friends.’ She held out her hand and allowed a frosty smile past her lips.

He ignored her hand. ‘Until we meet again, Miss Ravel.’

He paused and his gaze travelled slowly down her, making Sophie aware of the way her hair tumbled about her shoulders and her torn dress. Perhaps not quite the ice-maiden look she had hoped to achieve. He gave a long slow smile. ‘As we are no longer strangers.’

‘How could you do it, Richard? You are insupportable. I declare you get that from your father!’

Richard shaded his eyes with his hand. His head throbbed slightly and he reluctantly bid the dream of Sophie Ravel, naked in his arms, goodbye.

After he’d left last night’s ball, he’d spent time at the Northern Counties Club, playing cards and trying not to think about Miss Ravel and ways to meet her rather than returning to the house he rented for his mother and half-sister.

As his aunt had pointed out yesterday and the gossip in club confirmed, Sophie Ravel was a highly eligible heiress, rather than a young widow in need of money or the neglected wife of an aged and jaded aristocrat in search of an afternoon’s amusement. But he also knew the gossip was wrong on one important point. Miss Ravel had the reputation of a fearsome ice maiden—beautiful to look at, but brimming with virtue and utterly lacking in passion. The woman he’d nearly kissed last night had simmered with passion under her frosty exterior.

Only if he wanted to stick his head in the parson’s noose should he be having anything to do with her. Several of his dalliances had reached the scandal sheets in recent years—more for the women’s indiscretions after they parted than his actions, but it was enough to make him wary. He refused to be the instrument of any woman’s ruin.

The certain knowledge of his past notoriety had caused him to drink more than was good for him last night. How his father would laugh. He’d always predicted that his son would one day regret being in the gossip columnists’ sights and the day of reckoning had arrived.

He winced. He might not have deserved the scandal sheet’s attention when he was at Eton, but he’d certainly deserved it a few years ago when he’d attempted to forget his part in Mary’s fall from grace, her forced marriage to a man she loathed and her untimely death. Then, after that, he’d run through a number of bored wives and widows, ending each affair on his terms and walking away without a backward glance. And he did make it a point of honour never to ask a woman twice for something.

It was only a chance encounter with his half-sister eighteen months ago which had led him from the path of self-destruction.

‘Richard, are you going to speak to me? I know you are awake.’ A tall woman stood silhouetted in the doorway. His man lurked behind her.

Richard shook his head. Myers had always been a soft touch where women were concerned. He focused on his mother instead of his valet. The sooner this contretemps in a teacup was sorted, the sooner he would get back to his dream.

‘Mother, what are you doing waking me up so early?’ Richard sat up and stretched. He glanced at the small ormolu clock on the bedside table. ‘I thought you would find this time of day exceedingly early for civilised people.’

He waited for her to make her excuses and withdraw.

‘I left you to sleep for as long as I dared,’ his mother said, straightening her cap. ‘Luckily your sister remains in ignorance of last night’s events. I only pray we can keep it that way. Her head cold last night turned out to be a blessing in disguise after all. I dread to think what would have happened if Hannah had been at the ball.’

Richard’s heart sank. His mother had obviously heard the wrong sort of gossip. Silently he bid goodbye to a morning’s rest. He would have to sort out whichever mess.

‘What promise have I broken?’ Richard retained a leash on his temper. His mother enjoyed her dramatics. ‘At least do me the courtesy of hearing the full accusation.’

‘You obviously haven’t seen the morning papers. It is in all of the local ones. It is sure to be in the London ones by nightfall. Your father will know you are here! He is far from stupid and he will know your reason for coming to Newcastle.’

‘I’m a grown man, Mother. My father doesn’t dictate or control my movements. There are numerous reasons why I might have travelled to Newcastle, none of which involved yourself or Hannah.’

‘He will ruin any chance of Hannah’s happiness out of sheer spite. You know what he is like when he is in one of his rages. How could you involve yourself in scandal at this juncture?’

Richard pressed his palms against his eyes. He did know what his father was capable of and how, each time, the fits of anger appeared to last longer. Most of all he feared the gentle father he loved would remain a raging mad man, incapable of coherent thought. The doctors told him that there was nothing they could do except lock him up, and Richard was not prepared for that to happen.

‘Mother, as I went to bed in the not-so-early hours of the morning, I have not seen the papers. Whatever you are seeking to blame me for, I am innocent.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pinch me. See, I am here in my bed, alone.’

‘At least tell me that the woman in question is an heiress, this redoubtable woman of yours. Your father might understand your need to chase her up here if she was eligible. Your being single must be a worry. I know how relieved he was when I produced you as the heir. All your father has ever cared about was having the line continue and those blasted pigs of his.’

He pressed his lips together, considering the first part of his mother’s statement. He could explain away Newcastle on chasing an heiress. His father would accept that, rather than going into some apoplectic rage over the fact that his son had regular contact with the one woman he hated more than life itself. His father’s mental state and health were far too fragile to risk that. He loved both parents and refused to bow to his father’s insistence that he choose a side. Once his father’s health improved, he would explain properly. For now, a small amount of subterfuge had to be used. Two parts of his life kept separate.

‘What do the papers have to do with it?’ he asked.

‘Myers, the Newcastle Courant for your master, if you please.’

Richard nodded to his valet, who gave a bow.

His manservant brought the Newcastle Courant as well as one of the more popular scandal sheets, freshly ironed. He turned to the gossip page of the scandal sheet and pointed. Richard gave him a curious look.

‘It has the best wording, my lord. The Courant used a bit more veiled language. I thought it best to take the precaution of examining all the papers. I like to be prepared for all mention of my gentlemen.’

Richard scanned the paper and winced. Has the scandal-prone Lord B—been captured at last by the redoubtable Miss R—? Turtledoves were cooing last night. A wedding is devotedly hoped for but, given Lord B—’s form, not expected.

Scandal-prone indeed! The last crim. con. trial had not been his fault at all. His name should never have been mentioned. The Duke of Blanchland admitted that later. He’d been the innocent party, attempting to assist a woman, driven to distraction by her errant husband. The Duchess had never been his mistress. He had already bedded her sister. He had his code.

He folded the offending paper in half and glared at his mother.

‘Preposterous nonsense, Mother. You shouldn’t believe things that you read in the papers. Surely you learnt that long ago!’

His mother slapped her gloves together. ‘I won’t have it, Richard. Not when Hannah is about to be married. They will drag up the whole contretemps between your father and myself … and the issue of Hannah’s parentage. And if your father comes up here, there is no telling what he’d do. He swore revenge. I won’t have my innocent child suffer!’

‘And this has nothing to do with Hannah. In any case, your late husband adopted his daughter. It was all sorted in the end. My father did behave well on that.’

‘He never paid back my dowry and he ensured I had to lead a life of economies.’

‘It was your father who negotiated the settlement. The money was spent in part on refurbishments that you ordered.’

‘Do you know this redoubtable Miss R?’ His mother slapped her hand down on the paper. ‘For the life of me I can’t think of any acquaintances with the last name of R who would warrant the sobriquet of “redoubtable”. There is Petronella Roberts, but she has spots, and Sarah Richards fills out her ball dress in all the wrong places.’

‘Sophie Ravel—yes, I know her. I would have used the word ravishing rather than redoubtable.’ Richard put his hands behind his head and conjured up Miss Ravel’s delicate features. Her generous mouth had held the promise of passion, if a man could find a way to unlock it. ‘Even Aunt Parthenope declared there was nothing scandalous in our behaviour.’

His mother went white. ‘Parthenope was there?’

‘My aunt attended the ball last night. Apparently my grandmother is buried in Jesmond. She visits the grave every year.’ He glared at his mother. ‘You never said.’

‘She is sure to write to your father, giving a report. Even if he misses the papers, he will know you have been in Newcastle. Parthenope is like that—full of spite disguised as doing good. When she is at her most charming, she is also at her most deadly.’

‘You overreact, Mother.’

‘Richard, this is important. It is your sister’s future. Hannah has an excellent chance to have a glittering marriage. Could you use this Miss Ravel as an excuse to stay, rather than dashing off to London this afternoon?’

Richard tapped his finger against the scandal sheet, the beginnings of an idea forming. Pursuing Miss Ravel without interference from either parent and seeing if there was passion underneath the ice she presented to the world was tempting, but…

Richard folded the paper in half again. ‘What puzzles me is how quickly the papers have acquired the story.’

‘Someone is always willing to sell a good story.’ His mother gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Poor girl. It is the women I feel sorry for. The men can survive, but a woman, well, she always has the whiff of a scandal hanging about her skirts.’

‘I will sort it out before it becomes an inferno, Mother.’

‘I trust you to do the right thing, Richard.’

‘I am surprised you even need to say that, Mother. I know my duty. The necessity of doing it has been beaten into me since childhood.’

‘Did you have a pleasant time at the ball, Sophie? You said very little about it last night. You were back far earlier than I expected.’

Sophie’s hand froze in the act of buttering her toast. It made no sense for her stepmother to be asking further questions about last night. She’d given an account when she came, an account in which Lord Bingfield did not feature as there was no point in alarming her. Her stepmother seemed well satisfied then, but now she regarded Sophie with razor-sharp eyes. Her stepmother waved a newspaper in Sophie’s direction. ‘I do read the papers. Every item.’

‘The papers? Why should they say anything about me?’ Sophie asked, genuinely perplexed. Lady Parthenope had declared that the little incident was entirely innocent. She’d left it to Lord Bingfield to explain to his aunt that they would … alas … not be marrying.

‘It is what I want to know.’ Tears shimmered in her stepmother’s eyes. ‘I trusted you, Sophie, last evening and allowed you to go to the ball without a chaperon. When you were younger, you used to be involved in harum-scarum affairs and I despaired. After Corbridge, you changed. Perhaps you became a bit too stand-offish, but I retained hopes of you fulfilling your father’s dying wish and marrying into society.’

Sophie attempted to ignore the nasty prickle at the back of her neck. ‘Do what? What have I done? I behaved perfectly properly all evening. You knew about Cynthia’s elopement and approved.’ Sophie carefully kept her mind away from how she’d nearly kissed Lord Bingfield in the dark. Wanting to kiss him and actually kissing him were two separate things. She had behaved properly and they would never encounter each other again. ‘Show me the papers. I need to know what I have been accused of.’

Her stepmother held out one of the worst scandal sheets. Sophie’s eyes widened. ‘The redoubtable Miss R? Do I look redoubtable to you? I am the least formidable person I know. Really, Stepmother, I’m surprised you read such things! All they print are lies and tittle-tattle.’

‘How else can I find out what is going on in Newcastle, let alone in the rest of the country?’ Her stepmother dabbed her eyes. ‘Who is this Lord B who has captured your attention? Were you too ashamed of me to introduce us? I know I used to be in service, but that was long ago before your father fell in love with me.’

‘Ashamed of you?’ Sophie stared at her stepmother in astonishment. ‘I love you and whomever I marry had best love you as well or he will not be the man for me. Now that we have cleared that up, I want to know about your plans for your new bonnet.’

‘Sophie, stop confusing the issue with bonnets. The item in the papers. I shall not be deterred.’

‘You know it is a pack of lies, don’t you?’ She put her hand over her stepmother’s. ‘As if I would consider marrying without consulting you first. Honestly, Stepmother, sometimes you read too many penny-dreadfuls. When have I ever kept any of my friends from you? And I would never marry anyone who was not a friend first. I learnt a painful lesson three years ago.’

‘But there is a kernel of truth.’ Her stepmother’s cap trembled. ‘I know how to read your face, Sophie. You can never hide things from me, not things which truly matter. Who is this Lord B? Would Robert and Henri approve?’

‘Lord Bingfield,’ Sophie supplied. Her stepmother conveniently forgot the times when Sophie had kept things from her, including the precise truth about Sebastian. ‘He assisted me after Cynthia’s elopement. I doubt the entire proceedings would have gone as smoothly if not for his assistance. I was introduced to his aunt, Lady Parthenope, who is great friends with three of the Lady Patronesses at Almack’s. However, that is as far as it went. Someone has an overblown imagination and is making mischief.’

Sophie waited for her stepmother to ask about Lady Parthenope’s dress or what she had said.

‘Almack’s is far from the power it used to be and I won’t be distracted.’ Her stepmother frowned and Sophie’s heart sank. Her stepmother was worse than a dog with a bone about this snippet of gossip. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Lord Bingfield immediately?’

‘Because you would have jumped to the wrong conclusion like you are doing now, and I was tired.’ Sophie crumpled the toast between her fingers. The last thing she needed after her broken sleep was to be quizzed about Lord Bingfield. Every time she closed her eyes last night it seemed she remembered how his breath had fanned her cheek or how he had nearly kissed her. The encounter was nothing to him, but she couldn’t forget it. About three o’clock, she had decided that she’d been foolish and arrogant to reject his offer of an innocent dance. She should have danced with him and been done with it. She never dreamt about any of the men she danced with. The knowledge did not make her any happier.

‘You were thinking about me and my health.’ The ribbons of her stepmother’s cap swayed their indignation. ‘Sophie! Do you think I was born yesterday?’

‘Given how you are reacting now, is it any wonder? You are seeking a romance where there is none.’ Sophie was unsure who she was trying to convince—her stepmother or that little place inside her which kept whispering about Lord Bingfield’s fine eyes. ‘Besides, I doubt Lord Bingfield’s ultimate intentions towards me were honourable. He inhabits the scandal sheets, after all. Remember The Incident and why I had to hurry up to Corbridge? I’ve sworn off men like that.’

Her stepmother’s eyes narrowed. ‘You had better hope it is a proper proposal from Lord Bingfield. People have long memories, Sophie. Your name will now be tainted from the mere association with his. Did you think about that last night when you were so busy accepting his trifling assistance? You know what your father wanted for you—a marriage into the higher echelons of society—and you have jeopardised that.’

‘You are talking fustian nonsense.’ Sophie tapped her finger on the scandal sheet. ‘How many papers?’

‘I have sent the butler to check. I should think most of them. Lady Parthenope sent me a note. She has invited us to take tea with her.’ Her stepmother’s hand trembled with excitement as she reached for the letter. ‘She wants to vet us. That’s what this is. You know what they say about her door-keeping at Almack’s. I shall need a new bonnet!’

Sophie bit her lip. ‘You can always refuse.’

‘One does not refuse Lady Parthenope, Sophie, and stay within the bounds of polite society.’ Her stepmother folded her hands in her lap and gave a smug smile. ‘I’ve been after an invitation for years. You will pass muster without a problem. My stepdaughter will become a member of the aristocracy, even if she will forget me.’

‘Stop spinning fantasies and nothing is finalised.’ Sophie slumped back against the chair. She would have to tell her stepmother the full unedifying story. It was the only option. ‘But there are, and will be, no impending nuptials to Lord Bingfield. I’m quite decided on that point. It happened—’

‘There is a gentleman to see you, Miss Ravel.’ The footman came in, carrying a silver platter with a single card, interrupting Sophie’s story.

With a trembling hand, Sophie picked it up. Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield.

She stood up and absurdly wished that she was dressed in something more up to the minute than her old blue gown. She ruthlessly quashed the notion. Lord Bingfield and last night’s escapade needed to be consigned to the past. The papers this morning proved it. Scandal dogged his footsteps.

‘I will see Lord Bingfield in the drawing room.’

‘I shall come with you, my dear.’ Her stepmother started to rise, but Sophie put a hand on her stepmother’s shoulder.

‘That is far from necessary, Stepmother. If I need assistance, I will shout. I have access to a poker and am not afraid to use it.’

‘Sophie!’

‘The truth, Stepmother.’ Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘Allow me to do this or I shall write to Lady Parthenope, explaining that I have rejected her nephew’s suit and therefore neither of us will be able to take tea with her.’

Her stepmother covered her eyes. ‘I shudder to think what Robert—or Henri, for that matter—would say, but very well, my dear, you may see him on your own. On pain of death, do not close that door and I will be in earshot. Your father wanted the best for you and I am determined you shall have it, even if I have to beg Lady Parthenope on bended knee for a voucher to Almack’s.’

‘My father would expect me to sort out this mess. Despite what you or Henri or Robert might think, I am perfectly capable of sorting this tempest in a teacup out. I am an adult and, according to the papers, redoubtable.’ Sophie raised her chin. ‘I will simply tell him no.’

Chapter Three

Richard stood in the middle of the Ravels’ overly ornamented and chintz-hung drawing room, trying not to knock over any of the porcelain shepherds, china ladies or vases filled with wax flowers of every hue imaginable. The entire drawing room was a riot of pink tassels, lace doilies and small tables strewn with knickknacks, all in the most fashionable but horrendous taste. His frock-coat had narrowly missed one china pig and a precariously balanced bowl of waxen fruit already as he paced, waiting for Miss Ravel to put in an appearance.

What sort of woman was the redoubtable Miss Ravel? The woman he rescued last night had not seemed in any way formidable, but badly in need of protection. The gossip from the club said that she was aloof, an ice maiden, but he kept remembering the way her eyes had flashed when she rejected his offer of a polka.

His head pounded worse than ever. All the way here, he kept going over in his mind the possible scenarios and becoming angrier. Who else could have linked their names and informed the papers? He also knew that he had to make Miss Ravel understand that he had never made a proposal of that sort.

He had expected more from Miss Ravel. He regarded a particularly nauseating shepherdess who was more strangling a lamb than cuddling it. He knew next to nothing about her except that her ball gown had fetching sophistication and she had been in trouble. Hardly the stuff to build a relationship on. It was far better to get his painful interview over and get back to leading his life.

The lady in question strode into the drawing room. The simplicity of her blue dress contrasted sharply with the overly fussiness of the room. Richard drew in his breath sharply. His dreams had not done her features justice. A certain forthrightness about her jaw warred with the frankly sensuous curve of her bottom lip. Her waist appeared no bigger than his handspan.

Her quick backward glance at the door to ensure it remained wide open, rather than shut, was telling. She appeared determined to observe proprieties, even if no one else was in the room with them.

‘Lord Bingfield,’ she said, dropping a perfunctory curtsy and her lips curving up into a smile, but she failed to hold out her hand to be kissed. Truly redoubtable this morning. ‘An unexpected development.’

‘You have seen the papers?’ he asked, surprised. ‘I could hardly avoid calling on you after such item was printed. It would mean neglecting my duty. I may be many things, Miss Ravel, but I have never been a cad.’

‘We both made our positions quite clear last evening.’

‘I understand the item in question may have made some of the later London editions. My father—’

‘This would be the father who doesn’t know you are in Newcastle?’ She gave a superior smile. ‘I can remember what your aunt said. I’m far from stupid, Lord Bingfield. However, if your being in Newcastle was going to cause problems with your parent, you should have been open and honest about it.’

‘My reasons for being in Newcastle are private.’

She raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘I will allow you to keep your reasons private. I merely mentioned this as plans have a way of going awry.’

‘Have you seen the item?’

‘My stepmother informed me of it.’ She gave a small cough. ‘Apparently your aunt has written to her, inviting her to tea. My stepmother is transported with excitement at the thought of taking tea with the great Lady Parthenope.’

‘How charming.’

Her eyes flashed blue fire. ‘I won’t have my stepmother mocked, Lord Bingfield.’

He inclined his head. ‘I was referring to my aunt, rather than your stepmother. I had not anticipated this development.’

‘Your aunt began it.’

‘Aunts are a law unto themselves, Miss Ravel, particularly my aunts. They can be wildly unpredictable. It is part of their charm.’ Aunts were a law unto themselves, but he’d never expect his aunt to take it this far, making contact with Miss Ravel’s relations before any nuptials were publically announced. There again, his aunt prided herself on her ability to ferret out people’s most discreet indiscretion and remembering snippets of gossips. It was why she proved such an effective gatekeeper for Almack’s. Currently slow torture would be too good for her, in Richard’s opinion. He’d suggest it to one of his cousins. ‘I hope your stepmother will not be too disappointed when you explain why she must not accept this invitation.’

‘My stepmother has longed for such an invitation ever since she first married my late father. She wishes to mingle with the truly genteel.’ Her neat white teeth worried her bottom lip, turning it the colour of ripe cherries. There was something innocent about her. Despite her age and reputation of being formidable, she seemed soft and gentle and in definite need of protection. ‘It was one of the reasons I was sent away to school for a time.’

‘My aunt is haughty rather than genteel. Her rudeness and sense of entitlement can be shocking at times.’

‘No matter how I explain that it doesn’t matter, my stepmother persists.’ Miss Ravel shrugged a shoulder. ‘My stepmother must do as she pleases, but I have disabused her of any notion that we are considering an alliance. I leave it to you to inform your aunt.’

‘Did you have anything to do with the item in papers? Are you responsible for it?’

‘The appearance of the item is a mystery and most vexing.’ Her eyes flared. ‘Why on earth would I want to endanger my reputation by linking my name with yours? I am well aware of what happens to women who become entangled with men like you.’

‘A simple yes or no to the original question will suffice.’ Richard fought to control his temper. Miss Ravel made it sound as though he was some sort of affliction to be avoided at all costs. He had never knowingly ruined a woman. ‘We shall go at it another way. Do you know your enemy, Miss Ravel?’

Her blue eyes met his. ‘Then, no, if you must know, I did not contact the papers. And until today, I didn’t consider that I had an enemy. Sir Vincent must be more persistent than I thought. He has ignored your aunt’s pronouncement of total innocence. Why would he do such a thing, except that he knows the merest hint of your name will soil my reputation?’

The tension rushed out of Richard’s shoulders. Her assessment was the same as his. ‘Thank you. I believe you. Forgive me for doubting you, but I had to know.’

The fire went out of her eyes. ‘You are apologising.’

‘Sir Vincent and I have previous history. He is a formidable enemy.’

‘Indeed.’ She passed a hand over her eyes and sank down on to the pink-damask sofa. ‘I have made an enemy who intends to use underhanded means to win.’

‘He has succeeded before. I am determined to stop him. This time.’ Without bidding, the image of Mary’s face floated in front of his eyes. He would have done the decent thing and married Mary before he was sent down from Oxford, despite the pain it would have caused his father. If he’d done that, she’d never have been forced into that marriage, would have never run away and met her death in that canal accident. He forced his mind away. He had to concentrate on the now and saving Miss Ravel. He knew what she was up against. Miss Ravel was an innocent.

‘Putney means to ruin you, Miss Ravel. I’ve seen him do it to other women years ago and this time I will stop him.’

‘Ruin me? How?’ she said with a hiccupping laugh. ‘We have witnesses that you made an honourable proposal. Sir Vincent can’t harm me.’

‘There are several scandal-mongers lurking outside your house.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘When you have been notorious, you learn to know their type. I sent them on their way.’

‘They are watching the house? Still?’

‘It is entirely possible,’ Richard admitted.

Miss Ravel walked over to the drawing-room window and closed the shutters with a bang.

‘You should have told me about them before you started accusing me of informing the papers. My stepmother will be beside herself. My former guardian will have apoplexy. I would never have allowed you in if I’d known.’

‘I went to my club after I left the ball. I hadn’t seen the papers or I would have been here earlier…’

‘But they will know you were here.’ She put her hands to her head. Her face had gone pale. ‘Don’t you see? The scandal will be all the greater. The scandalous Lord B has called on the redoubtable Miss R … or possibly the not-so-fearsome Miss R…but wilful and headstrong.’

She clasped her hands together as if she was trying to keep them from trembling. Richard fought against the inclination to take her in his arms and hold her until the trembling stopped. She was right. His coming here had made matters worse, but he could not have just left her to face the coming storm alone. It was not in his nature.

‘It had to be done. Your post could be watched. The gutter press is called that for a reason.’

‘I shall have to quit society.’ Miss Ravel began to pace the room. ‘My stepmother will be displeased, but it will have to be done. She still harbours hopes of a glittering marriage for me. I’ll leave for Corbridge in the morning.’

‘The scandal hounds will follow you. Putney will ensure it. Running will only encourage them.’

She put a hand out to steady herself. ‘This is positively the last time I assist in anyone’s elopement. The consequences are far too grave.’

‘Listen to me, Miss Ravel, before you panic utterly.’

‘I never panic.’ she shouted. ‘This is my life you have ruined. All you have to do is leave this room. No one has any expectations of you.’

He raised an eyebrow and her cheeks infused with colour. He quickly calculated the odds and knew the risk was worth taking. He would have done everything possible and he could leave her with a clear conscience. He would also have fulfilled the vow that he made at Mary’s graveside. Putney would never use him to ruin another woman. ‘I have expectations of my behaviour. It is my expectations which are important here, not someone else’s.’

‘What do you suggest?’ she whispered, clasping her hands together so tightly the knuckles shone white.

‘It is nothing that either of us wanted, but I can see no other practical solution, one which allows us both some measure of honour.’ He went down on one knee. ‘Will you marry me, Sophie Ravel?’

Sophie stared at Lord Bingfield in astonishment. He had gone down on one knee with one hand clasped to his breast and was looking up at her with an intent expression.

Her mouth went dry. It was a proper proposal. He was truly proposing. Lord Bingfield, despite his scandalous reputation and his vowed intent never to marry, was doing the decent thing and properly proposing marriage. Her stepmother’s drawing room filled with its waxen fruit, china dogs and vases full of wax flowers had a distinct air of unreality.

‘You are silent for once, Miss Ravel. Have you been struck dumb?’

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. She refused to believe in fairy tales or instant love. He was doing this for his own purposes and not to save her.

She had learnt her lesson the hard way years ago. Some day she would find a man whom she could love and whom she wanted to share the remainder of her life with, but until then she kept her head. Bingfield expected her to refuse. Of course he did. Then he could say that he’d done the decent thing, but alas, the lady had been unwilling. She gave a small smile. She understood the game now. She fought against the temptation to whisper ‘yes’, simply because he must expect a ‘no’.

‘Am I supposed to give this serious consideration?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side and allowing her lashes to sweep down. ‘Or am I supposed to refuse outright, send you on your way with a clear conscience that you have behaved with propriety? It might solve your problem with your code of honour, but it will not solve mine.’

His eyes hardened to stones. ‘That is not for me to say. I merely asked the question in the proper manner. It is for you to answer when you have considered it. Simply know I will not ask the question twice. Being coy will get you nowhere.’

‘You do not know me well enough to feel any finer feelings.’

‘I never pretended any finer feelings, Miss Ravel. I asked you to marry me. You would hardly want me to be dishonest. The proposal suits my purposes for the moment. I will abide by your answer.’

The words served to puncture her entirely. Sophie frowned at the unexpected disappointment. It shouldn’t matter what Lord Bingfield thought of her, but it did. A tiny piece of her had hoped that somehow she’d been wrong and he’d fallen instantly in love with her. She had thought that the romantic part of her had died in that inn on the road to Scotland along with the rest of her girlish dreams, but apparently it hadn’t.

‘Is this some sort of a joke, Lord Bingfield?’

He slowly rose to his full height. Sophie was aware of the power in his shoulders and the way they narrowed down to his slim hips. Her body remembered how close they had stood last night. Her cheeks grew hot. He might not have any finer feelings for her, but she knew she wanted him to kiss her and that was not going to happen.

‘I would hardly go down on one knee unless I was serious.’ His lips turned down and his eyes became shadowed. ‘In light of today’s papers, do you think Putney will stop?’

‘He needs to be exposed.’

‘Others have tried and failed. I refuse to be used as an instrument of your ruin by the likes of him. Equally I refuse to be labelled a cad and have it whispered that I ruin eligible women for sport. Years ago, I made a vow that I would not be used by him to ruin any woman.’ He gave her a resolute look. ‘Marriage is the right and proper thing to do in these circumstances. If I had not asked, it would have weighed on my conscience. It is now up to you to make a decision. I will abide by your choice.’

Sophie stared at the ceiling. The proposal might be real, but he didn’t expect her to accept it. Not truly, not given in such a manner and after last night’s exchange. But did she need the protection of a marriage to save her reputation from Sir Vincent? All she needed was an engagement. Her heart thudded.

‘You suggest a fake engagement until the newspapers lose interest and I can jilt you? Putney is sure to move on when he realises that I am no soft target.’ She pursed her lips, considering. It made complete and utter sense. It would buy her time until the Montemorcys returned and she could get proper advice. She turned around and faced Lord Bingfield, adopting her best social smile. ‘A false engagement should stop comment. Whoever is doing this expects you to run and to leave me ruined, but this way Sir Vincent Putney will be left exposed. Marriage is not the answer, an engagement is.’

His brows knitted together and he seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘A false engagement? One is either engaged to be married or one is not, Miss Ravel. I don’t deal in fakes and deceptions of that nature. Attempting to cozen society is fraught with difficulty.’

‘It is in the novels my stepmother likes to read. They are all the rage.’ Sophie gave him a breezy assurance, but her insides twisted. He made it seem as though she dealt in deception regularly. She didn’t. Sometimes it was easier to give an impression of a certain behaviour for the greater good, that was all. ‘We don’t actually have to marry. Once the furore has died down and Putney is unmasked or quits the neighbourhood, we can part…amicably. Legitimate engagements are ended for all sorts of reasons.’

‘I meant a marriage if it came to it. I knew the risks when I asked. And if you had refused, I would have told the various journalists that my heart was broken by the redoubtable Miss Ravel.’ He inclined his head. ‘I will not pretend instant undying love. I have seen enough of love to know it leads two people who are wholly unsuited to each other to do stupid things. Love has little place in marriage. We might have suited if you had desired it.’

‘We obviously have different views on the subject. I would never have such a cold-blooded thing as an arranged marriage. A happy marriage needs a firm foundation of love.’

A half-smile flickered across his face. ‘Despite your formidable reputation, Miss Ravel, you are a secret romantic. Love only complicates things and makes people profoundly unhappy in my experience.’

‘I demand certain standards from any prospective bridegroom.’ Sophie drew herself up to her full height. ‘Standards which you sadly lack.’

‘However, I will consider your wish of a fake engagement and evaluate the risks. We might be able to play Sir Vincent at his own game.’

His mouth twisted as he spat the word fake. Deep-seated anger at the injustice of the whole situation flooded through her. She was trapped in a situation not of her making and had found the perfect solution if only he’d agree. She was being honest and forthright, whereas if she’d accepted his offer he would have found a way to make her jilt him. And his idea of telling the press she’d rejected him would make them more interested in her, rather than less.

‘Consider!’ Sophie put her hands on her hips. ‘It is the perfect solution. Surely you must see it. There will be no need for further scandal. We will quietly part at the end. There will be no hurt feelings or accusations as we both know from the outset that the marriage will never happen. Honesty on both our parts from the start.’

‘You know nothing about me!’

Sophie crossed her arms. He was like any other rake, solely interested in himself. ‘I know enough.’

‘I had not considered a limited engagement, but it would serve the same purpose, I suppose.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘My father will be disappointed when the longed-for engagement ends, but he generally is with me these days.’

‘You are a fortune hunter. It was why your aunt was so pleased to see you with me.’

Sophie backed away from the window. Her stomach knotted. She should have guessed. And she had handed him the perfect opportunity. Just once she wanted to be wanted for herself rather than for the fortune her father had amassed. The walls seemed to close in on her and she wished her corset wasn’t as tight. Here when she walked into the drawing room, she’d been so pleased with the way the slenderness of her waist contrasted with her new crinoline. It was always the way—either look good or be able to breathe. Next time she’d remember that breathing was important when dealing with people like Lord Bingfield, particularly Lord Bingfield.

‘Miss Ravel, jumping to conclusions is never good.’ His ice-cold voice filled the room and cut through her panic. ‘My fortune is quite secure. The estate is well funded thanks to my mother’s dowry and eventually it will be mine. My father cannot change that. Do you wish to see the accounts? He merely wishes me to marry and provide an heir.’

Sophie pinched the top of her nose. She could hardly confess about her past mistake with Sebastian. Just thinking about that made her feel unclean. ‘I have met fortune hunters in the past. They are a known hazard for heiresses. One has to be cautious. You can be left without any fortune at all.’

‘So I understand.’ His mouth twisted. ‘There are ways to protect women if one acts before marriage. You must take your time and get the right settlement. It saves heartache, as my mother found out to her cost.’

‘Your mother is still alive?’

‘My parents are divorced. The settlement was not in her favour. They were in a unique situation, as I am sure you are aware. It was all in the papers at the time. My mother was for ever banished from polite society.’

Sophie hung her head. She had done it again—jumping to a conclusion when the truth was precisely the opposite. It made sense now why he had acted so quickly to protect her. ‘I didn’t know. I have no idea who your parents are.’

‘Truly?’ He raised an eyebrow and his features seemed carved from stone. ‘You surprise me, Miss Ravel. My parents’ divorce was the subject of great scandal. The account of the crim. con. trial went into several editions. A best seller, or so Putney informed me when we were at Eton.’

‘It happened a long time ago. The world moves on,’ Sophie replied evenly. Her stomach clenched and she knew that she had to get this right. If she said the wrong words, he could decide not to help her. ‘Scandal is not branded on people’s foreheads. A person’s true character is of far more relevance than any perceived scandal.’

‘Other people may beg to differ. Ever since I was at Eton, the press have been interested in my doings. First because of my parents and then …’

She fixed him with her eye. It was obvious the sort of reputation he must have. He probably made Sebastian Cawburn look like an angelic choirboy. ‘Because you decided to give them what they wanted.’

‘I was determined to live my life as I pleased rather than looking over my shoulder for their approval. They have printed lies in the past and continue to twist my life so they can sell more papers. Once I had my head around that fact, I found it much easier to accept. Regardless of what the papers might say, there are certain lines I do not cross. Once I make a vow, I do my utmost to keep it. You must remember that, Miss Ravel.’

‘I am not interested in other people’s opinions and I am interested in how a person behaves.’

A light flared in his eyes. ‘You are a unique individual, Miss Ravel.’

‘I like to think so. Do you agree to my scheme?’ Sophie held out her hand and willed him to take it, sealing their pact. ‘Once I jilt you, you can nurse a broken heart for ages. The papers will be sympathetic. Your father will have to give you time to grieve. We are simply being honest with each other at the start, rather than playing games. Neither of us will get hurt. We have much to gain.’

He gathered her hands in his and she noticed how good it felt to touch him. Her body went rigid. She did not have to act on the attraction. Desire burnt itself out quickly. Desire was not the same as lasting love. ‘We could have made a great team, Miss Ravel.’

‘Sophie!’ Her stepmother’s outraged tones came from the open door. ‘What is going on here? You are holding hands with a strange man! Where has your sense of propriety gone, my girl?’

Sophie slipped her hands from Lord Bingfield’s. Her stepmother would have to choose this moment to come into the drawing room. Nothing had been settled. ‘Going on, Stepmother? Everything is utterly innocent.’

‘Hornswoggle! I have seen that look in your eye before, young lady. You had better not think to twist me around your little finger.’

‘Allow me to introduce myself, Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield. My father is the Marquess of Hallington, Mrs Ravel.’ Lord Bingfield recaptured her hand. Sophie gave a little tug, but he didn’t let go. ‘Your stepdaughter has done me the honour of becoming my fiancée in light of the news reported in today’s papers.’

Sophie struggled to fill her lungs. He had done it, despite his misgivings. They were embarked on the deception.

‘Sophie!’ Her stepmother went white and then red.

‘You had best sit down, Stepmother.’ Sophie let go of Lord Bingfield’s hand and led her stepmother to the pink-damask sofa. ‘You have had a shock.’

‘Then it is true, my dear child? Not some nonsense?’ Her stepmother fumbled for her reticule and her smelling salts. ‘You are going to marry this stranger? You could have told me that was the reason why you needed to meet him alone.’

‘I had no idea he would offer, Stepmother.’ Sophie took the reticule, retrieved the vial and waved it under her stepmother’s nose. ‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up. An engagement is the best solution in the circumstances. The gutter press appear determined that we court.’

‘I regret that subterfuge was necessary, but we didn’t wish for the press to become interested with regards to your stepdaughter’s innocence.’ Lord Bingfield bowed his head. ‘Alas …’

‘I completely understand,’ her stepmother said, her face alight with eagerness. ‘The press must be such a bother for you, dogging your footsteps. You seem to be a great favourite of theirs.’

‘Most of the stories they print about me have no bearing on reality, my dear Mrs Ravel. I do have my code of honour.’

Her stepmother gave a long sigh.

Sophie rolled her eyes. A few well-chosen words and her stepmother melted. She regretted the necessity of keeping her stepmother ignorant of the true arrangement, but her stepmother had never been able to keep a secret. And it was necessary to stop Sir Vincent once and for all time. But the sooner this deception was over, the better.

‘I had never considered what the people in the scandal sheets must feel and how cautious they have to be.’

‘You read the scandal sheets?’

Her stepmother put her hand to the side of her mouth and leant forwards. ‘Sophie disapproves.’

‘Does she?’

‘What a truly noble thing you have done. They were all wrong about you and how you break women’s hearts. I never believed the story about you, that Russian countess and her husband, the one who committed suicide rather than compete with you.’

‘I am grateful.’ Lord Bingfield inclined his head. ‘The situation was not how the press portrayed it. I met the countess after her husband died, and introduced her to her new husband. We remain friends.’

Sophie stared at him. Precisely how much of a favourite with the gutter press was he?

‘Lord Bingfield, you must partake of some tea or perhaps something stronger.’ Her stepmother straightened her cap. ‘I know how fond you gentlemen are of something a little more potent. I am dying to learn the truth behind some of the latest scandals.’

Sophie attempted to signal over her stepmother’s head, but Lord Bingfield simply gave a superior smile. ‘I would be delighted to spend time with you, Mrs Ravel, but I never discuss the latest tittle-tattle for obvious reasons.’

‘I shall leave you two now,’ her stepmother said at the end of a very long cup of tea. ‘Sophie has been glowering at me ever since the teapot arrived. I, too, remember what it is like to be young. I am so pleased you decided to do the decent thing, Lord Bingfield. I do worry about Sophie. Her future happiness has been a source of sleepless nights and now it is all settled. The late Mr Ravel must be beaming down from heaven. His Sophie will be a marchioness. He’d never thought his daughter would climb so high, but I knew she would.’

‘I am sure he is, Mrs Ravel.’

Her stepmother turned a bright pink and hurried off. Lord Bingfield closed the door firmly behind her. He loomed larger than ever. Sophie retreated a step.

‘The die is cast and the deception has begun,’ she said, adopting an ice-cold tone. ‘There was no need to close the door. We can take our leave in full view of any passing servant.’

‘There is every need.’ The gold in his eyes deepened. ‘I want to know why you believe you have only your fortune to offer in a marriage.’

‘What I have to offer is none of your business!’ Sophie crossed her arms. Her stomach tightened. In suggesting the false engagement, she’d just given Lord Bingfield an iron-clad opportunity for a seduction! She’d simply have to insist that certain boundaries weren’t crossed. ‘I was merely seeking to understand why you were insistent we have a real engagement. You have no regard for me.’

He took a step closer. ‘Are you saying that you are indifferent to me?’

‘Yes.’ Sophie stuck her chin in the air. ‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Liar.’

She went still. Her heart raced and her mouth became parched. She wet her lips. ‘I do not make a habit of lying, Lord Bingfield.’

‘Richard.’ He reached her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I am your fiancé now. You need to think of me as your true betrothed or Putney will create an even bigger scandal. Remember that. This might help you. Think of it as an aide-mémoire.’

She was aware of him in the same heart-thumping way she’d been aware of him the night before. She concentrated on the chintz curtains behind his left shoulder, rather than on his mouth. ‘What are you intending on doing?’

‘Demonstrating … Sophie.’

Her name sounded like a soft caress, sliding over her jangled nerves and soothing her. A warm pulse went down her spine. No one had ever used her name in quite that fashion before.

His hand tilted her chin so she looked into his eyes of pure gold.

She had only time to blink before his mouth descended, slowly, like a tiny fluttering of a breeze and then increasing intensity. Sophie told herself that she should keep her body still or scream. She should do something besides enjoying the kiss, but she discovered she was powerless to do anything else.

She closed her eyes, savoured the sensation and swayed towards him.

He let her go and stepped back. ‘Point proved … Sophie.’

This time her name was anything but a caress. Her cheeks grew hot and she rubbed her aching lips furiously. ‘It proves nothing except you, like any self-respecting rake, know how to kiss.’

He picked up his hat. ‘I will pick you up tonight.’

‘What is happening tonight?’ Sophie asked, her hand freezing in mid-air. The hard part of this engagement was not going to be pretending to be attracted to him, but keeping the attraction at bay. After insisting on the fake engagement, she could hardly back down now. When it was all over, she wanted to walk away with her head held high, knowing she had withstood the cynical seduction of a rake.

‘You and I will go to the Assembly Rooms tonight. You will demonstrate your waltzing skills to me. We want people to talk.’

‘Are we announcing the engagement?’

‘Not yet.’ He leant forwards and his breath caressed her cheek. ‘Everyone needs to see how besotted we are with each other. You can do besotted, Sophie, can’t you?’

Chapter Four

Sometimes it was better to know than not to know, Sophie decided as she fastened her earrings, the final detail in tonight’s dress. In the grand scheme of things she would have liked to ask Richard Crawford more about himself and to have set the precise boundaries for their relationship, but she didn’t have time.

She glanced at her stepmother, who was already dressed in her evening finery and hovering behind her, making comments. ‘You will tell me what you know about Lord Bingfield from the scandal sheets.’

‘You should ask your intended about what the scandal sheets have printed over the years, if you want to know. If you had read them before now, you wouldn’t have to ask me. You must do the decent thing and wait for Lord Bingfield to tell you.’

‘Stepmother!’ Sophie turned on the stool and motioned for her maid to leave the room. ‘You may tell me what is bothering you.’

‘It is difficult to understand why you have kept your cards so close to your chest. How well do you know this Lord Bingfield? He does have a reputation for sweeping married women off their feet. There was that Russian countess with the dead husband and a duchess more recently. Possibly there have been more.’

Sophie stood up and fluffed out the upper tier of her skirt. Married women. Women of experience. Not unmarried heiresses. He had not lied about that. He had his code. ‘It is what an engagement is for. A chance to get to know the gentleman in question. I have not married him … yet. If I decide we will not suit, then I have the chance of changing my mind. The item in the newspaper left me few alternatives, Stepmother. Once the gutter press get hold of you, they keep hold. You can remember what Robert said after The Incident.’

‘Sometimes I feel like you are keeping secrets from me. We used to share everything, Sophie, when I first married your father.’

‘You are the one keeping secrets now, Stepmother. You love gossip. Generally I have to block my ears. Tell me something about Lord Bingfield and his family, please. Help me to understand why the press are so interested in him.’

Sophie waited as a variety of emotions warred on her stepmother’s face. If her stepmother would not supply the information, she would go to the Lit and the Phil and spend time looking at old papers to see if she could discover the scandal.

‘Very well, I shall tell you about his parents,’ her stepmother said when Sophie had given up hope. ‘Lord Bingfield’s parents were involved in a massive scandal about twenty years ago. The marchioness ran away with her lover and there was a huge crim. con. case. It was absolutely fascinating and a best seller. Of course they say the marquess never recovered from it. And the marchioness … well … she was never received in polite society again. When Lord Bingfield entered society, everyone was naturally curious, and he didn’t disappoint.’

‘It must have been awful for Lord Bingfield,’ Sophie said. ‘He was a child, the innocent victim of two people’s complicated lives.’

‘He certainly hasn’t been shy about courting scandal in his adult life,’ her stepmother remarked tartly. ‘He must have a list of mistresses as long as your arm. Women seem to forget the sense they were born with around him. There are things which have to come from the other person, my dear, rather than from reading a newspaper.’

‘You know the newspapers do print lies. Robert has told you enough times.’ Sophie tilted her chin upwards. Her stepmother’s revelations were proof enough that she needed to be cautious.

‘Sophie, are you sure you want to marry this man?’ her stepmother asked in a rush. ‘With Robert and Henri out of the country, I feel I must say something. Refuse to be rushed. You can have a long engagement. You don’t need a special licence, an ordinary one will do.’

‘I thought you always wanted me to marry by special licence.’

‘Only if the man is suitable for you.’ Her stepmother gave a long sigh. ‘I don’t know what is wrong with me. This morning when Lord Bingfield was here, I was transported with happiness for you, but I have spent all afternoon staring at Mr Ravel’s portrait and wondering—is this the sort of man your father would have approved of? Is being in the aristocracy worth your ultimate happiness?’

Sophie concentrated on her bare hands, rather than looking at her stepmother’s face. Her stepmother only ever spent time talking to her father’s portrait when she felt overwhelmed. It was tempting to confide in her, but the arrangement would only make her more agitated. And could she trust her stepmother to keep it a secret? Her stepmother had the habit of gossiping with friends. It was far more important to catch Sir Vincent and destroy him. She’d confess later. Her stepmother would understand. Far better to beg forgiveness, than request permission in this case.

Sophie glanced at her stepmother’s kindly face and swallowed. Or at least she hoped her stepmother would understand.

‘I know what I am doing. And it was in all the papers, Stepmother. You know what happened to the Neville girl. She was banned from court and that was fifteen years ago. Once the gutter press get hold of you, they do not let go.’

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