A wave of love swept her. The hostility in Diana's words spoke of her loyalty more than anything else could. "To be fair, it's the biggest ball of the season. I'd be surprised if he weren't here."
Diana scowled. "There is no fair about it." Her expression softened. "Sofie, are you well?"
Her smile turned bitter. "As well as can be. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I am only surprised it has not happened before now."
"I should scratch his eyes out."
Diana's fierce declaration startled a laugh from Sofie. "I should think you would have to join the queue."
"Well, point it out to me." Diana looked at her, her expression stricken. "He took you from me, Sof. You weren't even here for my wedding to Stephen. Why shouldn't I scratch his eyes out? Besides, he hurt you."
Sofie swallowed. He had hurt her. Ridiculous that she still felt the stab of it. "I survived, but I would not talk to him again, not for all the tea in China."
"You can't tell me you enjoyed the past ten years fully. You cannot tell me you didn't resent having to leave England under such a cloud."
"No, I don't, but I cannot regret those years either." It had started badly, it was true, but in the past ten years, she'd had more adventure and seen more wonders than she'd ever thought possible. "Where is Stephen?"
Diana waved her hand. "Somewhere. He can do well enough without me. I'm more concerned about you." Her eyes lit. "No, I will get him. It's time someone thrashed that man for what he did. Don't worry; Stephen will set things right."
Sofie concealed her smile as Diana hurried off, scowling at those daft enough to get in her way. Diana seemed to think Stephen could do anything, which was sweet in his context as Diana's husband but vastly disturbing when he was one's brother. She remembered quite clearly frogs in beds, dunkings in ponds, and roof-raising fights over who would get the blue croquet mallet.
The earl still stared at her. Smile dying, she looked elsewhere. She didn't want to think about that time ten years ago, but she could think of nothing else.
She'd been so thrilled when the scandalous Viscount March had paid her attention. She'd heard all the whispers about him, about his dissolute reputation, the wild escapades, the daring wagers. She and Diana had debated endlessly what it meant when the viscount had met her gaze across a ballroom. When he'd finally approached her at the refreshment table, she'd just about expired on the spot. They exchanged words, and then he'd touched her. Nothing overt, a single brush of his smallest finger against hers as their hands rested on the refreshment table, but it had been enough to tumble her headlong into infatuation.
When he'd asked her to meet him in the garden, she'd rushed to say yes. It had been foolhardy, but she'd been seventeen and giddy with her first season. Their first meeting, she'd thought he would grab her, do wicked things, but instead, he'd simply ... talked.
Over the next months in the darkened gardens of society, she'd grown to know him. She'd discovered his wit and his humor, the emotion he hid under a mask. He shared himself with her, and she did the same with him. She told him of her desire to travel, her interest in architecture, how her mother drove her insane.
The whispers changed during those months, of how the scandalous Viscount March was suddenly not so scandalous, how he attended society functions and acted with, if not quite politeness, then at least civility. She'd been smug, knowing it was because of her, and she, foolish child that she'd been, had tumbled headlong into love.
Then had come the Silverton's ball, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
She hadn't meant to kiss him. They'd been in Silverton's garden, and he'd said something unbearably romantic about the stars. He'd been surprised at first, but then his hand tightened at her waist, he'd pulled her into him, and she'd melted. She had been kissed before, but never the way he had. Never with such passion, as if he'd die if he didn't taste her. As she'd die without him.
Of course, they were caught. For months they'd met without incident, but the one time, the one time they'd kissed, Lady Harrison, Lady Violat, and Mrs. Wilding, the worst gossips in society, had seen them.
It had spread like wildfire, that Viscount March and Miss Hargrove had been caught in a torrid embrace. She'd stubbornly clung to the hope that he would make everything right, that he loved her as she loved him, but when he hadn't arrived at her home, when he hadn't paid his addresses to her father, she'd realized she was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.
Six days after they'd been caught, she'd packed her trunk, taken her maid, and set sail for France. Stephen had been touring the Continent, wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting people of Paris. Her brother had been horrified at the arrival of his younger sister at his hotel, but once he'd finished his shouting, he'd taken her in. The fact that she'd promptly burst into tears upon the end of his tirade had probably gone a ways to convincing him. He'd been so flustered to see her upset he'd caved to any suggestion she made, including that she join him for the remainder of his tour.
At first, their parents had been furious she'd seen fit to decamp. They'd demanded she return home, but when weeks had stretched into months and then years, they'd relented. She'd stayed abroad longer than intended, well after Stephen had returned to England, but there'd been nothing for her in London. Those years on the Continent had been kind to her, and she couldn't regret it.
But she regretted him. The viscount. Bitterly.
"Miss Hargrove."
Her shoulders tensed. He wouldn't.
Slowly, with the fervent wish she'd misheard, she turned. Her stomach dropped, and her skin flushed as fury sped through her.
She hadn't misheard.
The Earl of Edgington stood before her. "Miss Hargrove," he said again, his rich, deep voice just as she remembered. "You have returned."
A wave of emotion hit her, so tangled she couldn't separate one from the hundreds. Did he truly expect her to respond?
No reaction crossed his features at her deliberately rude lack of response, but then he was an unfeeling automaton, wasn't he? She had been the imbecile who'd imagined emotion behind that impassive gaze. Well, no longer. She knew his measure now, and she had no desire to renew their acquaintance.