Sophie withdrew the cloth and stared into his pained eyes, which at this close vantage appeared to be the colour of a dusky spring evening at Knightswood. She closed her own eyes and silently berated herself. Lord Rotherby was a cad and a rogue– albeit one with the oddest sense of chivalry– but a cad and a rogue all the same. The sooner they docked and she was free of his company, the better it would be for both of them.
‘I have thought about my situation carefully,’ she replied, avoiding his searching gaze. ‘And while I am sensible of the offer you make, of its generosity, I am not willing to partake in a liaison that has come about so scandalously and which will undoubtedly bring us both great unhappiness in the end.’ She paused, and refreshed the cravat for want of something to do. ‘I have a plan, and I intend to put it into action once we reach Calais.’
‘A plan?’ Rotherby scoffed. ‘Write to your sister and demand Damerel put a bullet in me, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Actually no,’ Sophie countered, lifting her eyes and forcing herself to meet his distracting gaze. ‘I will put my family’s minds at rest of course, but given the fact I cannot return to London for some time, I intend to make my own way,’ she said, with much more confidence than she was feeling.
Inwardly, she shrank. Phoebe may have relished the idea of joining a band of travelling players, or riding bareback across clifftops at midnight, but she had never wanted anything more than her sketchpad and a love match. And now that her marital ambitions were all but shattered, she had no choice but to plough her energies into the former. She had no idea how hard it was to find work with a Parisian modiste, particularly as she had no references or designs with her, but it was all she could think to do. And, if she could make it work, she would be an independent working person; even Phoebe would have to respect her for that.
She lifted her chin.
‘Oh, well, that’s settled then,’ Rotherby threw scornfully. ‘I’ll just abandon a young debutante to the mercy of every miscreant and guttersnipe in Paris without a backward glance! I give you two days before you find yourself penniless and alone in the Rue Saint-Denis!’
‘Where?’ Sophie said, frowning.
‘Never mind,’ he muttered. ‘Come on then, Miss Fairfax, out with it. What is this famous plan that is so vastly better than shackling yourself to me?’
‘Why, I don’t see that it is any concern of yours,’ she returned haughtily, ‘but if you must know, I am a reasonable artist with some talent for…’ She tailed off, thinking about her scrapbooks of fashion designs back at Knightswood, and how useful they would be now. ‘For designing pelisses,’ she finished, colouring faintly.
‘Ah yes, the infamous fashion exhibition,’ he drawled, but his eyes sharpened.‘I’ve always believed fashion should be a blend of art and functionality…that there should be room for both,’ he paraphrased. ‘Have I got it right?’
Sophie flushed, recalling how he’d discovered her at the exhibition with Aurelia.
‘Itismy belief,’ she replied, bristling, ‘and I would thank you not to ridicule it. It is also my intention to offer my services to a French modiste. It’ll be respectable work, and once some time has passed, I might be able to return to Knightswood– if Thomas agrees.’
‘You mean, if he isn’t six feet under by then for trying to put a bullet in me?’ Rotherby muttered brusquely.
Sophie stared at his feverish face and wild eyes, and had the oddest desire to push back the damp hair that had fallen forward onto his forehead. He was opinionated, spoilt, and very stubborn, but there was something about him that was oddly endearing too.
She swallowed.
‘A letter will exonerate you, my lord,’ she replied quietly.
‘There is no gain to be had by adding a scandalous duel, so I will simply inform Thomas that I left of my own free will?—’
Sophie was stilled by a sudden, firm grasp of his fingers around her wrist, stealing the remainder of her thoughts.
‘Is the thought of a life with me so very repulsive that you’d prefer eking out yourlivresby the light of a guttering candle?’ Lord Rotherby asked intensely. ‘I would take care of you, you know, and you could try to… improve me? As well as sew as many damned pelisses as you want.’
Sophie smiled faintly, withdrawing her hand.
‘Do you recall our wager, my lord?’ she asked, steadfastly. ‘My desire has not changed, though my course is diverted for now. I will make a love match in the end– or none at all. And I find I am quite content with the prospect.’
‘Hell and damnation! Why can’t you see that what I am offering is safety? You are in the most precarious position, there is no guarantee your plan will work, and I never shirk my responsibilities!’
Sophie regarded Lord Rotherby’s flashing eyes. She’d seen him witty, provoking, stubborn and furious, but never concerned before. It seemed an odd emotion for a rake to possess, despite his regard for his reputation.
‘But why should you be forced to marry when, by your own admission, you have never sought it?’ she replied carefully.
There was a moment’s silence, during which Sophie was aware only of the drum of blood in her ears. Then she stood up and walked to the cabin door, feeling as though the waves were still rough beneath her feet.
‘I thank you for your consideration, my lord,’ she repeated, avoiding his intense scowl. ‘But the moment we reach Calais, and you are under the care of a doctor, I will consider myself free to go my own way.’
Then she closed the door behind her and returned to the safety of her own cabin, where she sank onto the bed, and tried not to give in to the whirl of fear inside. It was only when she was steadier, that she shook back her shoulders, blew her nose, and forced her mind to her plan. She might not be the most courageous Fairfax, but she had always been the most cunning.
An hour later she stared down at two letters, one addressed to Phoebe at her last address in Athens, and the other to her brother, Thomas. Each was crafted to reassure, without providing any specific details– Rotherby wasn’t entirely unrealistic about Thomas challenging him– and she had no desire to add murdered family members to her growing list of scandalous wrongdoings.
She was quietly confident her plan wasn’t so terrible either. Shewastalented, and had always dreamed of working as a real fashion modiste. It was just the thought of not finding respectable employment that sent her thoughts into a spiral. Would she end up on ruewherever-Rotherby-had-said? She’d heard rumours about opera girls offering more than musical entertainment but had never fully understood exactly what– only that it sent her aunt into a fluster if she enquired.
