Every word he’d spoken had been a lie. There would be no courting. There was no admiration of her person.
Sophia’s stomach pitched violently.
Oh, good lord, I’m foolish. Worse than Hortensia even if I do know who Lamb is.
“Roxboro?” Papa stomped forward, fists clenched at his sides, features contorted into absolute fury. “Flagrant rake. Debauched duke. Where is he?”
“No. I mean…yes. A gentleman was here, but not with me. Only…enjoying a cheroot.” Sophia stammered. “Definitely not Roxboro.” She cleared her throat. “I said I was relaxing. Here.” One shaky hand trembled as she pointed out the bench. “You misunderstood me.”
Oh. God.Sophia looked up to see the small cluster of guests lingering near the edge of the terrace.
“I saw the duke, though he hid in the shadows like a coward,” Papa thundered. “As did Lady Brokeburst.” Papa jerked his chin in the direction of the terrace. “Lying to me won’t change the circumstances.”
“No,” Sophia shook her head so hard she wobbled and had to grasp at the trunk of the willow tree for support. She’d been…taken in by one of the biggest rakes in London. A walking vice. That’s what the gossips called Roxboro. “You are wrong. Why on earth would I be here with a duke?”
Oh God. How could I have been so stupid?
Papa stared down at her with such disappointment. “You’ve been compromised, to my everlasting shame, by the Duke of Roxboro. What were you thinking coming out here with him?” He took her arm.
“I—” Everyone on the terrace was staring. More guests spilledthrough the doors. All coming to witness the ruination and abandonment of Lord Canterbell’s unappealing daughter by the Duke of Roxboro.
“Don’t worry,” Papa’s voice was gruff as he led her back towards the house. “He won’t get away with this.”
Sophia lowered her head. Papa was far too important for this incident to be brushed aside. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Lady Brokeburst.
“I’ll fix everything,” Papa said to her.
That’s what I’m worried about.
Chapter Two
“Christ, my headaches. Bring me one of those powders, Timmons. And a glass of brandy to wash it down. Oakhurst was at his most outlandish last night.”
Alexander Viceroy, Duke of Roxboro, sat back in his favorite chair with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Feeling poorly after a night carousing with Oakhurst wasn’t unusual. His closest friend and drinking companion was an unrepentant libertine. Worse than even Alexander himself. But last night had been wild even for Oakhurst. Binson’s first, for hazard and cards, of course. Then an opium den. And finally, a brothel near The Devil’s Acre where the women catered to all manner of depraved sexual tastes.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler bowed and rushed off to find something for his employer’s pounding head.
Usually, Alexander enjoyed a great deal of depravity, but nearly having his throat slit by a naked prostitute who spoke nothing but French was more than even he’d bargained for. Oakhurst claimed the girl did the most interesting things with her tongue, so Alexander had followed her to a back room without a second thought, completely foxed and barely aware of his surroundings given the opium. When she’d tried to murder Alexander, for his purse he suspected, he’d fallen from the bed, hit the table beside it—thank god he was prone to running into things, stubbing his toe and the like because it probably saved his life—and rolledunder the bed.
His would-be assailant let out a scream of frustration. Which alerted the burly gentleman standing guard at the top of the staircase. He rushed in and disarmed the murderous little trollop, hauling her away while Alexander struggled to get out from under the bed which was quite taxing given his intoxicated state. He flailed about like a fish until Oakhurst found him.
He debated on whether or not to tell the tale to his uncle. Damon Viceroy worried excessively over Alexander’s well being, which, given his nephew’s propensity to attract misfortune, was no surprise.
Oakhurst liked to say Alexander was theDuke of Misadventure.
He thought the nickname amusing, but Uncle Damon didn’t care for it. Dukes were supposed to be…ducal. At any rate, Alexander’s uncle didn’t like Oakhurst and thought him a poor influence.
“Good lord, Timmons,” Alexander said as the door opened. “I thought you’d never return. My temples ache so bad my ears might bleed.”
A throat cleared. “You have callers, Your Grace.”
Alexander opened one eye. “It isn’t Freeman again, is it? I’ve signed everything he put before me yesterday.”
Freeman was his secretary, a man so incredibly annoying, so lacking in humor, that Alexander often forgot he was in the room. Like a potted palm. Or a pasty colored vase. Freeman arrived, without warning, this morning, banging on the front door while Alexander was still in bed. Only Freeman would arrive before noon. Terribly uncouth. At any rate, Damon handled all of Alexander’s personal affairs as well as those of the vast Viceroy empire. Estate matters and the like didn’t interest Alexander one whit. Freeman should have known better.
“You refused him entry earlier. Send him away again, Timmons.”
Timmons lowered his gaze to the rug. “It was not Mr. Freeman, earlier, Your Grace.”
