An Earl In Wolf's Clothing by Emily Windsor

Author:Emily Windsor
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Emily Windsor
Published: 2017-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Of course, my custard tart.

“It’s… It’s…”

“I agree,” said Sophie, gazing around in wonder.

Previously, her parents had always considered Vauxhall Gardens to be most indecent for their virtuous daughter – a den of iniquity had been the actual words used – but an invitation to dine at the Duke of Rakecombe’s supper box was not one to ignore.

The evening felt warm with the air sweetly perfumed by the fragrant flowers that bloomed rampantly in the enclosed areas. After the bustle and dirt of town, it felt like a fairy-tale land, complete with music and sculptures. The Beckford household had arrived early in order to appreciate the gardens before joining the duke, and even Sophie’s father stood in wonder, having not visited for years.

“There’s no balloon flight this evening,” Aideen bemoaned. “They’ve burst it.”

“But there are fireworks,” Sophie consoled, clasping her cousin around the waist. “And music and the cascade and–”

“And the dark paths to get lost in.”

“Certainly not, girls,” came Mama’s imperious voice. “Stick together and to the lit walkways. There are always rogues about waiting to take advantage of wandering maidens.”

“I do hope so,” an Irish voice whispered.

Laughing, they followed her parents along the avenues and admired the many paintings that adorned the area. A woman in a low-cut red gown purred in delight as a town buck in a violet waistcoat presented her with flowers – the clientele as interesting as the entertainments.

Dusk hadn’t yet settled so they meandered down the Grand Walk, marvelling at the imposing elm trees that flanked the path. Slowly and with military precision, a brigade of men embarked upon lighting the many glass lanterns that hung amongst the branches, their tapers restless in the benign breeze.

Having convinced her father it was much more romantic to arrive via the river than by carriage, the whole evening had taken on a fantastical aura. At one corner, a juggler threw numerous pieces of fruit in the air, every so often taking a bite, and on another stood a burly fellow swallowing a sword.

Aideen tapped her shoulder as she gasped at this amazing feat. “Uncle Seamus makes those. The blade collapses into the hilt.”

“It’s not real?” Sophie said, disappointed, as the man spread his broad arms to receive the applause.

“No. But does it matter? ’Tis quite difficult to make. He designs all sorts of things like that.”

They strolled on, pausing again to listen to the musicians in the pavilion.

“Time for supper, girls,” Mama called, and Aideen’s fingers tightened their grip on Sophie’s arm.

“You’re not worried about seeing the duke, are you?”

“Of course not. And besides, I hear they serve the finest of puddings, so it would take more than a surly shabbaroon to put me off. I’ll think of custard tarts if he annoys me.”

As they neared the duke’s box, which appeared large enough to accommodate at least ten, Sophie could see two gentlemen and a lady already seated. Immediately, she discerned that one of them was Bram, who searched the crowds with an eager eye until his gaze lit upon their party.

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