“Splendid.”
“I can hardly wait,” his bride murmured, so low only he could hear as Alexander took her hand. “I shan’t sleep a wink.”
Chapter Seven
The only goodthing about this entire day would be that it would end with an ice from Gunter’s.
Sophia liked ices. Lemon. Lavender. Pistachio. Really, any flavor but parmesan. She’d have to suffer Roxboro’s company in order to have her ice, but nothing good was gained without a bit of suffering.
Roxboro’s carriage, as one would expect, was lavish and well-sprung. The vehicle glided through Hyde Park with barely a jolt. The day was cloudy, but warm and Roxboro had instructed that the carriage top be rolled down. Better to be seen by all of London, which was the entire purpose of this outing.
Lady Brokeburst could barely show her face after trumpeting Sophia’s non-ruination. She looked foolish. Just as Mama had said she would.
Sophia turned from the passing view of the Serpentine to take in Roxboro, who was more glorious than the bloody flowers dotting the trail. How could a man be so bereft of character but blessed with such masculine beauty? He should resemble something more in line with his personality. A toadstool, perhaps. Or a rotted potato.
Instead, his hair, the color of coffee, batted against the shimmering green of his eyes with their slashes of dark silver gray, making him appear more than ever like the hero of Sophia’s last beloved romantic novel,The Lord of the Castle. She was aware that, given her personality, it seemed odd that she gravitated to such literature, but truthfully, shepossessed a romantic heart. Perhaps if she hadn’t, Sophia wouldn’t have been so taken with Roxboro at the Perswick ball.
He’d said little as they rolled through the park, only doffing his hat as they passed an acquaintance, though Roxboro didn’t have his driver stop. No introductions were made, which wasn’t surprising. Every so often, his hand would sneak into the pocket of his coat, withdraw a small flask, and take a sip.
Brandy, Sophia surmised. The scent, mixing with his bergamot shaving soap, permeated the carriage. He wasn’t foxed, or at least he didn’t appear to be. Roxboro didn’t slur his words or stutter. He had tripped getting into the carriage, but from the blush crawling up his neck below his ears, Sophia didn’t think his clumsiness was a result of the brandy.
Being known as something of a sot was probably vastly preferable than having society mock a blundering duke.
“It’s rude to stare, Lady Sally.”
“You are aware of my name,” Sophia replied crisply. “Start using it.”
“Your Grace.” The side of his mouth twitched. “Address me properly, Lady Sabrina.”
Thus far today he’d called her Sadie, Sage, Sable, and Samantha. He’d tried Cerebellum, but then Sophia pointed out that it was not spelled with an S but a C, though secretly, she gave Roxboro points for his creativity.
He deliberately avoided using her name, just as she’d decided, sometime during their last encounter, to be intentionally disrespectful of his lofty title. A battle of sorts, likely the first of many, given neither wanted to wed the other. Today though, their little war had felt more like…teasing.
“You aren’t even trying,” she said lightly. “You’ve already used Sabrina. Perhaps consult Debrett’s for a broader assortment of names, Your Grace.”
Elegant fingers drummed on one knee, causing Sophia to lower her gaze.
Roxboro might have a propensity for tumbling from a horse, but it certainly wasn’t due to a lack of muscle in his thighs, all of which was outlined to perfection given the cut of his trousers was incredibly…sharp.
Scowling at her, he said, “I suppose it is time to end this torture and retire to Gunter’s.” He rapped on the side of the carriage, instructing the driver to leave the park. “I think enough of thetonhas seen us.”
Torture?Sophia wouldn’t have said they were having a lovely time, but her presence could hardly be called torture. It wasn’t as if she were having him disemboweled.
“Do they have brandy flavored ice at Gunter’s, Your Grace?” Sophia asked politely. “I can’t imagine you’d want to visit otherwise. Or will you simply dabble your flask over the top of your ice?”
“Shrew,” he tossed at her.
“Feckless sot.”
“It wasn’t me at Lady Perswick’s,” he bit out. “You should…admit your mistake. Acknowledge you are in the wrong.”
Why did he continue to debate this point? Sophia wasn’t blind. Neither was Lady Brokeburst. Lord Lacton. Her own father. Roxboro’s stubborn refusal to admit he’d just been so intoxicated he couldn’t recall anything, including her—especially her—bordered on absurdity.
A small, awkward pinch dug into her chest, as it often did in knowing that simple truth. Roxboro wasn’t even the first to find Sophia so disinteresting. But his disregard bothered her the most. “I realize I am forgettable, Your Grace.”
He smacked the leather seat, the bits of gray in his eyes darkening. “That isn’t what I am inferring.”
“Yes, it is,” she shot back. “I am so unremarkable that according to society, you had to be nearlyblindwith brandy to want to lead me intothe Perswick gardens. Lord Canterbell’s intolerable daughter. Did you mistake me for my sister? She is the willowy, beautiful one.”
