The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (2 page)

May 24, 1813
C
ARRINGTON
H
OUSE
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND

“I loathe weddings.”

Lady Sophia Afton smiled wryly in response to Langdon Bourne’s drawling statement.
“Do you think it wise to share such views with the woman you intend to marry? At a
wedding, no less?”

“Tell me you feel otherwise,” the Earl of Stonecliffe petitioned with easy confidence.

Sophia arched one feathered brow and acquiesced. “I would be lying if I did.”

“And you, my dear Sophia, never lie,” Langdon softly answered. “One of your most remarkable
traits, that.”

Sophia tipped her head in recognition of the compliment before turning to watch the
newly wed Viscountess Carrington as she accepted a warm embrace from her husband,
Dashiell Matthews, Viscount Carrington.

The newlyweds remained in each other’s arms slightly longer than was acceptable, Elena’s
chaste yet lingering kiss upon Dash’s cheek at their eventual parting prompting onlookers
to sigh with approval. A decidedly besotted grin had settled on the viscount’s face
as he gazed at his bride.

“That may be. Still, I’ll not ruin Dash’s wedding day—
nor will you. He is, after all, one of our dearest friends. Now, look as if you’re
bowled over by sentiment. Or filled with happiness, at the very least.”

Langdon reached out and captured Sophia’s hand in his, giving her a conspiratorial
wink. “In that case, all I need do is gaze upon your enchanting face.”

Sophia squeezed his hand and smiled brightly, attempting to infuse her response with
the depth of emotion she
should
feel for her betrothed.

But as Langdon had just mentioned, lying would never be considered a special talent
of hers.

At that moment, Lady Whitcomb and her daughter Mariah walked by the couple, nodding
graciously in greeting though they looked reluctant to interrupt the intimate moment.

Sophia and Langdon returned the salutation in unison, his strong, square chin dropping
at precisely the moment hers dipped, as if both were controlled by the same strings.

They were perfectly suited for each other, Sophia thought. Everyone within the swirl
of society that surrounded them agreed upon this fact. Their parents had begun planning
on the very day Sophia was born; the impending marriage written into the detailed
schedule of Sophia’s life, sometime after perfecting the pianoforte and well before
the birth of her first child.

But then her mother had been brutally murdered at the Afton country estate and neither
the killer nor his motive was ever found. Many wondered why Sophia had not taken comfort
in Langdon’s arms the moment she was old enough to marry. Even more whispered today,
many years since a trip down the aisle had been expected.

Sophia wondered, too. She leaned into Langdon’s bulk, the feel of his arm against
hers familiar and pleasing. Theirs was a perpetual state of suspension. Neither
unwanted nor deeply desired, the interminable engagement was just
there
, much like Sophia’s love for Langdon. There was no need to question their regard
for each other. They would marry, someday.

Perhaps they would not embrace with passion at their own wedding celebration. Nor,
Sophia suspected, would Langdon wear an unguarded grin that betrayed his feelings
for the entire world to see. But they would be happy and settled, married and the
best of friends. What more could there be?

Unbidden, the swift image of Nicholas Bourne, second son of the late earl and brother
to Langdon, flashed before her. He stared hard at her, his eyes so deep a brown that
they seemed to hold the darkness of night when he was angered—a constant state of
being for him whenever Sophia was present.

She frowned, eyes narrowing. Why was she allowing Nicholas to occupy her thoughts?
She shook her head slightly, determinedly banishing the mental image of the man that
both irritated and ignited her mind.

“Ah, there’s Carmichael,” Langdon announced in his steady tone, releasing Sophia’s
hand. “I’ll go say hello—unless you would like to accompany me?”

Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, was a dear family friend to both Sophia and Langdon.
A high-ranking official within the Young Corinthians, a covert governmental spy organization,
he’d been instrumental in the search for Lady Afton’s killer. Sophia shouldn’t have
known about the spy syndicate that Langdon and Dash belonged to, but the ever charitable
Carmichael took pity on the young girl who’d lost her mother and let her in on their
secret, promising to do everything he could to capture the killer.

Sophia would always be indebted to Carmichael for all of his efforts. Still, she found
it difficult to be near
the man, the gnawing sorrow of her mother’s fate only magnified when she looked in
his eyes.

“No, no,” Sophia replied politely. “Go on. I believe I shall indulge in a glass of
champagne.”

Langdon nodded approvingly, then courteously waded into the fray of family and friends
that stood between him and his superior.

Sophia daintily waved down a passing footman carrying a silver tray laden with champagne
flutes. “Thank you,” she told the man, taking up a slim glass and smiling appreciatively.

A sturdy finger tapped a tattoo on her shoulder, followed by Dash’s familiar voice
in her ear. “You look lovely, Sophia.”

She turned to face him, schooling her features into abject surprise. “Really? I should
go searching about the rag bin more often.”

Her elegant pale green gown, made especially for the occasion, was banded at the hem
and waist in a narrow strip of cream and darker green embroidery. The toes of her
matching slippers peeped from beneath the hem. Emerald drop earrings echoed the larger,
single-drop jewel of her necklace, and a dark green silk shawl was draped artfully
over her arms.

“I am attempting to behave myself, Sophia,” Dash countered with mock ruefulness. “The
old me would have likened your green dress to a hearty cucumber. Or perhaps a head
of spring lettuce.”

“Vegetables? Ah, there is the Dash I know,” Sophia murmured with pleasure, brushing
a stray thread from her dear friend’s dark blue coat.

Dash mirrored her efforts and reached out to pluck playfully at her shawl. “But I
am a husband now. And will be a father one day. It is time for me to grow up. To embrace
my future—that is what they say, isn’t it?”

There was a certain obligation to agree upon such sentiment
at weddings. Talk of plans and fairy-tale endings were meant to roll off the tongue
as one would welcome a stray ray of sunlight after an English winter—without thought
or effort.

Why then did Sophia feel as if she balanced on the dizzying and wholly unwelcome brink
of crying? She loved Dash as if his blood ran in her veins, and believed most fervently
that he completely and without reservation deserved absolute happiness.

“Are you ready, then?” she asked, the words sticking like treacle in her throat. “To
grow up?”

“More than ready, Sophia,” Dash replied, bending his knees until he was eye to eye
with her. “Elena saved me. Let Langdon do the same for you—as he did at the frog pond.”

Sophia had been nine. Nicholas had enticed her down to the frog pond with the promise
of seeing the largest frog to have ever graced all of Sussex. She could not refuse,
such a creature was surely far too abominable to ignore.

The monstrous beast, not surprisingly, turned out to be wholly fictitious. Nicholas
had only craved the opportunity to shove Sophia into the pond. Which he’d done the
moment she’d knelt on the muddy banks.

And Langdon had jumped in after her, nearly killing the both of them with his enthusiastic,
albeit unskilled, efforts. Nevertheless, she’d proclaimed him her hero.

“I am not drowning, Dash,” Sophia assured her friend, turning to take in Langdon as
he conversed with Lord Carmichael across the room.

She did not lie. Drowning was surely a startling occurrence, full of fear and desperation.
In contrast, Sophia’s life continued on in predictable fashion as she held tight to
the belief that one day she would find her mother’s killer, then move on to secure
her own happiness with Langdon.

“Treading water, then?” Dash suggested bleakly.

“Stop,” Sophia warned, tears pressing at the back of her eyes, “or you will make me
cry, which I know for a fact you cannot abide. Besides, it is normally Nicholas’s
responsibility to upset me.”

Her mind wandered toward the man for the second time that day. Sophia searched the
crowd for him. “And do you know, I don’t believe I saw him at the church.”

Dash brought his glass to his lips and drained the last of the champagne before turning
to set the empty flute on a nearby mahogany table. “Didn’t you?”

His evasive answer sent a warning prickling over Sophia’s skin. “No, I am sure of
it.”

“That seems rather strange,” Dash answered, staring at Sophia with what seemed to
be abject honesty.

Only he was lying. The pupils of his eyes were dramatically dilated, something Sophia
knew happened when an individual was not telling the truth.

“Has he disappeared somewhere to drink again?” she pressed, unease settling between
her shoulders. “There is no need to protect me, Dash. We might not be particularly
close, but I am well aware of Nicholas’s lamentable habit.”

“Interrogating me at my own wedding?” Dash chided affably, looking over her head to
the guests milling about. “Perhaps the Runners have trained you
too
well.”

He referred to the Bow Street Runners, of course, though “training” was a rather overblown
description. Sophia’s interest in criminal behavior had taken root following the death
of her mother. Once of age, she had cajoled her way into a limited apprenticeship
of sorts. There was not a file she did not know forward and back, the details of every
captured criminal in London available for her perusal. Through her highly controversial
access to the Bow Street Offices, Sophia had witnessed a number of interrogations
as well. The Runners had widened
her knowledge exponentially; her own personal research into criminal behavior shoring
up any area that might have been found lacking in her unique education.

Much to her surprise, Sophia had discovered that unearthing lies, deceits, and unnatural
inclinations was her talent and her passion. Still, it did not give her permission
to upset a dear friend.

“I am sorry, Dash,” Sophia apologized. “Please forgive me.”

Dash patted her on the head as he’d done since they were four and three, respectively.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, my dear Sophia.”

Sophia attempted to ignore the slow, steady intake of breath that gave away Dash’s
relief.

And failed. “Though Nicholas’s proclivity for troublesome behavior would make anyone
wary.” Sophia caught the telling flare of Dash’s nostrils with dread. “Please, go
and find your wife. Ply her with champagne and allow her to repay you in kind. Forget
all about this regrettable conversation. Langdon and I will deal with Nicholas—”

“Bourne has taken himself off to the Primrose Inn. Again. Which is hardly cause for
concern,” Dash interrupted. Only mild annoyance colored his tone but emotion darkened
his eyes—and gave him away. “There is no need to bother Stonecliffe with such uneventful
news.”

Sophia smoothed her gloved fingers over the silk skirt of her gown nervously. “You
are lying, Dash. To
me
. Why?”

“Let it go, Sophia.”

She turned toward the crowd with every intention of joining Langdon and Carmichael.
“We are not children any longer, Dash—you admitted it yourself only moments ago. There’s
no need to protect me from the truth, whatever it may be.”

Dash’s hand closed over her forearm before she took one step. “It concerns your mother’s
killer,” Dash warned in a low voice.

Sophia could not have been more shocked by Dash’s words. Her vision narrowed, her
mind rejecting all other thoughts until its only focus was Dash’s sentence. The buzz
from the chattering members of the ton gathered in the salon blurred into incomprehensible
syllables. She leaned into Dash’s grasp for support as the room swayed precariously.

And then everything went black.

A sharply medicinal scent filled Sophia’s nostrils and her eyes flew open in response.
“Dash?” she cried out, bracing her palms against the soft cushions of a settee and
pushing herself upright.

“Calm yourself, Lady Sophia. You fainted,” Dash’s wife explained from where she sat
on the Aubusson carpet at Sophia’s side. “My husband told me you had an aversion to
weddings. Not that I would blame you. It is my
own
wedding and I find myself in need of a quiet room and a good book. But fainting?
Stroke of genius, if you ask me,” she said dryly.

“It does appear rather drastic, doesn’t it?” Sophia answered hesitantly. She glanced
about the room, recognizing the graceful lines of the Adams fireplace surround, the
delicate curves of a feminine writing desk, and a beautifully rendered portrait of
Dash’s grandmother that hung over the mantel. “I see I’ve been spirited away to the
viscountess’s quarters, no less. My, I do know how to draw attention. I must apologize,
Lady Carrington. I had no intention of ruining your wedding celebration.”