Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss. Deb Marlowe

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      He saw the danger and grasped her arm to steady her. She looked again into his face and saw that it was true. His face was not quite the same, the handsome promise of youth having hardened into a more angular and masculine beauty.

      His eyes were different as well, so cold and hard as he scowled down at her, but it was undeniably, without a doubt, her Charles Alden.

      Sophie was so happy to see him, despite the awkwardness of the moment, that she just beamed up at him. All the joyful anticipation she’d felt for this moment simply flooded out of her and she knew that her delight shone all over her face.

      It was not a shared emotion. In fact, he dropped her arm as if he’d suddenly found her diseased.

      Sophie’s smile only deepened. He didn’t know her! Oh, heavens, she was going to have some fun with him now.

      ‘I don’t know what you are smiling at. That was the worst example of unfeminine effrontery I have ever witnessed, and in the street, no less.’ He raked the length of her with a hard gaze. ‘You look the part of a lady, but it appears to end there. Where is your escort?’

      ‘My maid will be along in a minute,’ she replied almost absentmindedly. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. It was no wonder he’d had such a reputation as a rake; he had grown almost sinfully handsome. She would bet that women threw themselves in his path on a regular basis.

      ‘Please, stop that infernal smiling,’ he ordered. ‘If you need a good reason, impudent miss, just look at my boots!’

      She obediently arranged her face into a more sombre mien. ‘Please, do forgive me, sir.’ She smoothed the chalked design that had indeed smudged the high polish off one of his Hessians. ‘Let me assure you that I do not usually behave in so reckless a fashion. But I had to have my papers back, you see.’

      ‘No, I do not see.’ He stopped suddenly, an arrested look upon his face. He glanced back at the building he had just exited; with a closer look it appeared to be a publisher’s office. ‘Are you a writer, a reporter, by chance?’ he asked.

      ‘No, sir. I—’ She was not allowed to finish.

      ‘Damn. I could do with someone from the press in my court.’ With a sudden motion, before she could protest, he had reached out and smoothly snatched the paper from her grasp. ‘But please, enlighten me as to just what is worth making a spectacle of yourself.’

      Sophie looked as well and saw that it was a design of a chaise-lounge she had specifically drawn for his mother, complete with a complementary colour palette and notes on specific fabrics and trims.

      ‘Furniture,’ Charles said with a deprecating snort.

      ‘Décor,’ she corrected as she just as smoothly retrieved the design and tucked it with her others.

      ‘Pray, do excuse me.’ he drawled in exaggerated tones. For a moment he reminded her forcefully of his younger self, and her reaction was instantaneous and purely physical. And yet, something distracted her and slowed the melting of her insides. She’d heard that mocking tone before, but never with so hard an edge. He wasn’t taking her seriously, true, but he wasn’t being nice about it either.

      She narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I don’t believe I will,’ she replied.

      His eyes widened in mock dismay. ‘Was that meant as a mortal blow to my pride? Unforgiven and despondent, the gentleman prostrates himself and begs for mercy. You have read one too many novels, my dear,’ he said.

      ‘Just look about you,’ he continued with an encompassing wave of his hand. ‘There are a good many things in this world in need of attention, even some worth making oneself a fool over. But let me assure you—’ his voice was getting louder now ‘—that furniture is not one of them.’

      Sophie raised her brow in the very arrogant manner that he himself had taught her. ‘Perhaps not to you, sir, but our circumstances are quite different. You haven’t a notion of my concerns. To me, this is very important.’

      ‘Important, of course.’ he said, the sarcasm growing heavy again. ‘You will forgive me if I don’t raise décor to the same level as perhaps, the plight of the English farmer, or the suspension of Habeas Corpus.’

      ‘And you will forgive me if I place it a little higher than the shine on your boots.’

      Charles stopped in the act of replacing his hat, clearly taken aback. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He jammed the beaver on to his head. ‘I concede you the point.’

      Suddenly his shoulders slumped. He tore the hat off again and bowed his head. ‘What on earth am I doing?’ He heaved a sigh and the tense lines of his neck and shoulders relaxed.

      When he looked up at Sophie again, it was as if a layer of cold stone had fallen from him. ‘Listen, I do apologise.’ He scrubbed a rough hand through his hair and flashed her a half-grin that was awkward and thoroughly familiar.

      ‘It’s not my usual habit to go about berating young women in the street, but then nothing has been usual in my life for—well, it feels like for ever. It has been so long since I had a normal conversation,’ he continued, ‘I scarcely recall how to go about it.’

      The indefinable pull that emanated from him had doubled in its intensity. Sophie could not make herself respond, could not tear her gaze from his. There they were at last, warm in their regard, Charles’s eyes. Her Charles.

      He didn’t seem to notice her lapse. ‘Allow me to help you.’

      With brisk efficiency he soon had her designs in order and her portfolio securely fastened. Another awkward silence followed her thanks. Sophie desperately tried to gather her wits. She knew she should either take her leave of him or reveal her identity.

      He spoke before she could choose either option. ‘You seem to have a great many ideas. It must be a very large project you have undertaken.’

      Sophie flushed. How to answer that without making a fool of herself? She should have told him who she was at the start. ‘Yes, at least I believe so. The truth is, I do not really know yet.’

      He shifted and she could almost feel his restlessness, his need to escape. But she was not ready to see him go yet, nor was she quite sure she had forgiven him his harsh manner. She curved her lips into a smile and cocked a brow at him. ‘If not normal, then what sort do you usually have?’

      He was puzzled. ‘Pardon?’

      ‘Conversations. You say you are unused to the normal variety. I am perishing to know what kind of conversations you usually have.’

      ‘Oh.’ He paused and she thought that he might not answer, that he would put an end to this improper tête à tête and go about his business, but instead he glanced carefully about, then flashed her a wicked smile. ‘Do you wish for the truth or for a properly polite answer?’

      Sophie tossed her head, her chin up. ‘Always the truth, please, sir.’ ‘Very well, then. The truth is that for most of my days my conversations tended on the coarse and bawdy side. More like the seasonal bawling of young bucks and the bleating of…available females than true human exchange—’

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