An Ideal Husband?. Michelle Styles

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ