Charles gazed, balefully, at Sophie's receding figure, his wrath and exasperation ebbing slightly as he allowed himself to enjoy the sight of her well fitting pellise clinging to her high bosom, and the way her skirts excentuated the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. As many debutantes and, more often, matrons in search of extra marital interest, had found, Charles Rivenhall was impervious to the use of feminine tricks to beguile him. But Charles had been uncomfortably aware, for some weeks now, that Sophie's direct footsteps awoke an interest in him that he had not thought any woman capable of firing.
A slight cough brought Charles back from his brief reverie as he realised, with increasing vexation, that he was still sat in the curricle, watched by the ostler and his own groom, both of whom were waiting, rather pointedly, for him to leave. He leapt down, pausing only to direct the ostler to prepare a chaise and four, rather than the pair Sophy had, rather parsimoniously, ordered, before walking into the inn.
He removed his beaver hat and stood, steaming slightly, as the rain fell off his voluminous driving coat, creating tiny rivulets along the uneven stone flags in the hallway. He glanced through the first of the two doors that opened at the end of the short entrance hall. This led, apparently, to the tap room, as the presence at the bar of a red faced, white bearded, old man, nursing a stone tankard, attested. This ancient raised his head from his private contemplation of his ale and fixed his rheumy stare upon Charles.
"If you be wanting the young lady, she be up in the parlour with Tommy," the old man mumbled, laconically. "A very determined young miss, that one, I never seen old Tom pressed into service so swift, like."
Charles stared, unsure whether to thank the man for his direction or suppress his impertinence. The ancient, observing the affront in Charles' stare, chuckled.
"And I dare say you shouldn't be lagging here bandying words with the likes o me. Not when there's a pretty miss be a wanting your company." The old man chuckled again and surveyed his ale once more, having exhausted his stock of conversation. Charles, hesitated a moment, then turned sharply through the second door and up a short staircase onto a half landing. Here, through the open door, her saw Sophy, engaged in issuing detailed instructions to a startled looking landlord. At the sound of Charles' footstep on the wooden floor, Sophy turned and cast a dazzling smile in his direction.
"Ahh Charles, there you are, I trust Hitchin is seeing the bays safely bestowed? I was just telling our host, Roberts, here what an excellent pair you have and how very reluctant we would be to over tax them. I have arranged for Hitchen to remain here tonight and we will resume our journey to London in a chaise that the excellent Roberts will provide us with once we have supper. Supper will be ready for us in what? Half an hour?" This last was directed at the bleary looking landlord, who at once snapped to attention and made haste to assure her that his wife would be able to set a dinner before them in half that time, should they require it.
Sophy dismissed this offer with a smile, "Oh no, I would not place such unreasonable demands on your kitchen. Half an hour will be swift enough. Thank you so much for your attention." Another bright smile robbed this obvious dismissal of any sting and the landlord bowed himself out of the room importantly, hastening to the kitchen where he proceeded to seriously impair his wife's progress in making a dinner suitable for her unexpected fine guests.
"Sophie how dare you issue orders to my groom!" Expostulated Mr Rivenhall, angrily. "And as for stopping here, when we should be hastening back to London?"
Sophy smiled as Charles continued to pace and bluster. "Why, Charles, dear?" She interlocuted, sweetly, "Why should we be hastening back to London?"
Charles glared at her, "because... your father will expecting you?" He finished, weakly.
"Sir Horace will expect me when I arrive." Sophy replied, briskly. "Both my note and Celia's explanation, once she and Charbury arrive back at Berkeley Square, will assure Aunt Lizzie of my whereabouts and my well being. If we were to dash back to London as you suggest, then all that would happen is that we would be wet and hungry, your greys would be broken down and Sir Horace, will have left for his club hours ago in the happy assumption that I would be staying at Lacey Manor, under Sancia's excellent chaperonage, and he will no doubt see me in the morning."
"But I need to see Sir Horace." Charles muttered, with pained urgency.
"But why?" Sophy enquires, with genuinely perplexity.
"Because I ought, of course, request you father's permission to pay you my addresses!" Charles retorted, "you must see that Sophy."
"Well," mused Sophy, consideringly, "I can understand that you would want to behave correctly and with the utmost proprietary." She moved a little closer, removing his hat from his unprotesting fingers and laying it on the table. "But have you considered, dear Charles, how your petition might appear? You deliver Sir Horace's daughter to him, late at night, soaked to the skin, and very hungry." Sophie laid a tantalising emphasis on this last point, as she gently unbuttoned Charles' driving cape. "You are, in the eyes of the world, engaged to be married to Eugenia Wraxton and, until this engagement is formally and publicly repudiated, are in no position to be offering for another woman. Moreover," Sophy moved closer to Charles, her face inches from his as she delivered her closing argument, "Sir Horace will notice that his daughter is looking like a woman who has been thoroughly, recently and enjoyably, kissed."
"Sophy, you devil," said Charles, with a smile, shrugging off his great coat and throwing it over the nearest chair, "what on earth do you expect me to say in response to that sort of argument?"
Sophie's hands rested lightly on Charles chest as she looked up at him, invitingly. "But Charles, I don't expect you to say anything at all." She murmured innocently and lifted her lips to meet his, inevitable, rejoinder.
