The Duke of Haywood was wealthy but rumored to have the pox, and resembled a withered toadstool.
“If I lured her, and I’m not saying I did,” Alexander sputtered,trying to sound ducal and failing. “She allowed me to do so, did she not? Does Lady Saffron—”
“Sophia,” Canterbell corrected him.
“Fine. Does she not share some of the blame?” Alexander looked at the girl standing before him. Hostility rolled off her in waves. “I’m a duke, after all. And she is—”
“How dare you,” Canterbell growled. “Libertine.”
“My lord.” Damon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your Grace. Please. Let us discuss things rationally without resorting to insults. Lord Canterbell, your opinion of the Duke of Roxboro is duly noted, and further disparagement is not necessary.”
“My daughter smelled of champagne as I hurried her to our carriage. You likely plied her with glasses of the stuff, intent on taking liberties,” Canterbell accused.
Frankly, thatdidsound like something Alexander would do. But he hadn’t. Because he wasn’t there.
He was…somewhat certain.
“I did not lure Lady Susan—”
“Sophia.” The girl scowled back at him. “Have the courtesy to address me correctly.” She paused, evidently waiting for him to noticeshedidn’t bother to addresshimproperly.
Alexander and Damon observed her blunt outburst with a great deal of shock.
Canterbell, with resignation.
One did not speak to a duke in such a manner.Ever. Her lack of manners was appalling. He would have expected better from Canterbell’s daughter. Lowered eyes. Perhaps a softer manner. Good lord, where were her tears at the supposed damage to her reputation?
His fingers drummed against one thigh.
Which made her far more interesting than her appearance would suggest.
Chapter Three
Surveying the handsomesot of a duke sitting as if he didn’t have a bloody care in the world when he’d destroyed her very existence filled Sophia with impotent rage. She’d never been so bloody angry in her life. Or so mortified. Suffering from an overindulgence in drink and lord knew what else, Roxboro clearly didn’t recall their—
Meeting? Ruination? Tepid kiss?
—from the night before.
How absolutely humiliating.
Granted, Sophia didn’t appeal to a great many gentlemen in London, not like her sister. Or Horrid Hortensia. But one man or two had found her…challenging. The kindest word used in reference to her manner. Opinionated was typically the other.
One of Mara’s ardent suitors had declared Sophia…tart.
I am not a bloody lemon.
She’d told the gentleman as much, in possibly a less than polite way, which didn’t exactly endear Sophia to anyone. Mama, as usual, had been disappointed.
At any rate, this detestable incident was entirely the fault of her sister. Had Mara not begged Lord Wilde to dance with Sophia, leaving her with no dignity whatsoever, she wouldn’t have wandered off to drink champagne behind a potted fern.
Nor would she have conversed with Roxboro. She certainly wouldn’t have allowed this—dissolute libertine—to lead her into thePerswick gardens.
Why did I call out his name? Loud enough for Papa to hear?
Sophia had not been considering the ramifications of doing so, nor anything at all beyond her foolishness in believing Roxboro’s words.
Admired her in the park.
