Page 6 of The Scandal of the Season (Fairfax Sisters #2)

Chapter Six

AUNT HIGGLESTONE’S RESPECTABLE, BOURGEOIS LODGINGS

Three days later

Suffice to say, I will not be seeking a career amongst the Royal Company of Archers, and it is not an exaggeration in the slightest when I say you might have been visiting me in Newgate had Lord Rotherby not seen?—

Sophie broke off her letter to Phoebe, consumed by conflicting thoughts. That Lord Rotherby nettled her was beyond all doubt, that she was more determined than ever to win the wager was also very clear, but the fact that he intrigued her beyond anyone she’d ever known was much harder to convey.

He was, at times, the most charming and chivalrous of gentlemen and yet, at others, so abrasive and cold too. There were certainly moments when he seemed congenial– kindly almost– but he’d also dismissed the importance of love in a marriage before declaring he had no heart at all.

All of which made him a most confusing gentleman she shouldn’t spare a second thought, and yet somehow, despite all her protestations, he’d managed to get under her skin. Absentmindedly, she sketched out a new pelisse design she’d been thinking about on a torn piece of blotting paper. It had Phoebe’s fur-lined wedding sleeves, and a diamante clasp she’d glimpsed on a society matron at Almack’s, together with a graduated hemline. She paused to admire the glamorous combination awhile, before sighing.

She could hardly understand herself. She’d always been proud and determined, especially when it came to things she cared about, but never at risk to her own plans before. It was how she differed from her sisters: she never allowed herself to be distracted from her course. Mama always maintained she was the one most likely to make a good match because of the way she looked, but Sophie knew better. It was her common sense that made the difference, her determination to use what she’d been given to improve her position in the world– and that began with avoiding risky situations. Yet Lord Rotherby appeared to be risk personified.

She conjured the moment he’d adjusted her grip on the bow, and the way the briefest touch of his fingers had prompted a wave of… something across her skin. A faint flush reached up her neck and across her cheeks. She could only ever recall one other person making her feel remotely similar, and he’d almost eloped with her sister. She shook her head as she dipped her quill in the inkpot. She really could be quite a fool sometimes.

Anyway, you were right to warn me, dearest, for I suspect he has the most duplicitous character, and I do believe Lady Aurelia might yet be labouring under the illusion that he might?—

She broke off again, chewing the end of her quill. Quite what Aurelia believed was a mystery, and her chances of winning a respectable husband this season were slim enough already. Yet she’d made it quite clear she nursed ambitions in the notorious Lord’s direction, despite his insistence that he never dallied with debutantes, let alone intended to marry.

She returned to her letter gloomily, wondering if it was the height of selfishness to write of such things while her sister was radiating pure marital bliss.

—like her well enough to make an offer. He has been more than clear that he intends no such thing which only seems to encourage her further, and reinforce my present thinking that Lord Rotherby should be avoided at all costs.

Then she concluded her letter with an account of a recent outing to a travelling circus, omitting the part where Duke Wellington emptied an entire row of paying customers, and focusing on Matilda’s ambition to become the first Fairfax fire-breather instead.

It was only when she was sealing the letter with Uncle Higglestone’s most sensible brown wax seal that her mind wandered back to the Exhibit of Ladies’ Fashion at The British Institution. She did so wish to go, and even more so now Lord Rotherby had taken it upon himself to echo the ton’s view.

She bit her lip and scowled.

If only she were married and free to do as she pleased; if only Phoebe hadn’t chosen such an inconvenient time for her honeymoon; if only the haute ton didn’t impose such unreasonable rules on debutantes.

Then an idea struck that ran counter to every sensible thought she’d ever had. She swallowed, acknowledging the risks, admitting Phoebe would disapprove– though it was the type of thing she might have done herself once– and yet still relishing the prospect of something entirely different to think about, other than Lord Rotherby’s infuriating person, for a few precious days.

‘I’m sure I only have to be told once that something is unsuitable for me to want to see it– whatever is on display.’

Aurelia’s words rang in her head as she drew another sheet of writing paper from her drawer, and dashed off a much shorter letter before she could change her mind.

Lady Aurelia,

I wonder if I might count on the pleasure of your company on a visit to The British Institution in the next few days?

I have been much persuaded by your recent comments regarding the exhibition, and believe an interest in fashion far outweighs any outdated notion of respectability. I am further mindful of the fact that a pair of companionable young ladies attending together, at a discreet hour, will be far less remarkable than one alone.

Do let me know if you are agreeable, so we may arrange a suitable day,

Yours in confidence,

Miss Sophie Fairfax

Sophie exhaled as she signed and sealed the second letter, certain Aurelia would need little encouragement to join her. And while she was aware of some distinct unease, it was swiftly replaced with the intoxicating thought of all Parisian fashion under one roof for her to peruse.

After all, why should she ignore an exhibition of modern ladies’ fashion when she’d been sketching it for as long as she could remember?

A small flush of satisfaction crept across her face. Let Lord Rotherby think what he liked. She was a Fairfax, and more than capable of making an advantageous love match and attending a fashion exhibition and winning a wager, and no one– least of all a heartless rake– was going to stop her.

Then, much pleased with her morning’s work, she delivered her letters to Aunt Higglestone’s housekeeper, before ensuring she’d removed every last candle from Matilda’s bedchamber.