For Love Alone (21 page)

She flashed him a look. “You may come to regret it,” she warned. “I am not a malleable creature, nor one noted for her docility.”

Ives grinned, his devil green eyes dancing. “Which should only make our life together most interesting, don't you agree?”

I
ves moved with military precision and a little more than twenty-four hours later on that Monday, May 22, 1809, at one o'clock in the afternoon, with only her siblings and Anne Richmond to support her, Sophy found herself becoming his wife.

Ives's guests were equally sparse. His godfather, the Duke of Roxbury, and Percival Forrest had been in attendance at the brief ceremony, as well as Lady Beckworth, a pleasant-looking woman some sixty years of age whom Ives introduced as his aunt.

Sophy moved through the ceremony in a fog, aware and yet not aware of what was going on around her. As she entered the small, private chapel Ives had chosen for their wedding, she was vaguely conscious of the fact that someone had seen to it that there were two enormous baskets of yellow roses and white lilies flanking the area where they would say their vows. At the last moment, just before she had gone down the aisle to stand by Ives, a laughing Phoebe had thrust a small bouquet of rosebuds into her hands. And then she was aware of nothing but Ives himself. Ives, the tall stranger with the brigand's smile who would become her husband.

As she joined him in front of the official who would marry them, her eyes met his and she could not look away from that intent green gaze. They stared at each other, something fierce and powerful springing to life in Ives's green eyes that sent a shudder of half panic, half delight through her. She might have run then, but as if sensing her intentions, Ives reached out and possessively covered her hands with one of his. Glancing down at his strong hand lying on hers, a bubble of hysterical laughter rose up through her. There was no need of marriage vows—he had already laid claim to her.

And then it was over, and Ives was taking her into his arms and kissing her. His mouth, warm and mesmerizing, lingered for a long, sweet moment on hers; then he was lifting his head and smiling down at her dazed, flushed features. Lightly caressing her bottom lip with one finger, he said for her ears alone, “I think, madame wife, that we shall deal very well together. Very well, indeed.”

Almost immediately, everyone retired to the Grayson town house, where a small buffet was laid out for the delectation of the wedding party. Sophy was certain the food was delicious, but she was too stunned and, quite frankly, too nervous to eat. She was Ives's wife!

Uneasily she looked across the room to where Ives stood surrounded by the gentlemen, laughing at something Marcus had said. She was pleased that Marcus and Phoebe had taken the stunning news of Edward's death and her immediate marriage to Ives so well. Anne had taken the news with almost as much aplomb as the others, for she no longer had to fear Edward's advances.

Lady Beckworth bustled up to her just then, diverting her attention. Forcing a smile, Sophy murmured, “This must all seem very strange to you.”

Barbara Beckworth smiled and shook her head. “No, my dear, it does not. Ives was never one to do the expected.”

Sophy nodded, trying to think of something else to say. She knew little of the Beckworths, had not even known that Ives had any other relatives until this afternoon. Only this morning, Ives had explained that his aunt was a respectable widow, a doting grandmother, who did not go out in society very much anymore.

Fortunately for him, he had said with a twinkle, his aunt had been visiting in London with an old friend and had been quite thrilled to be invited to their wedding. She had also agreed, he had gone on smoothly, to stay at the Grayson house and chaperone the younger members of the family while he and Sophy enjoyed a few days of privacy at his country estate, Harrington Chase, before returning to London. Having cut the ground away beneath her feet and left her with no room in which to argue, Sophy had been forced to agree with his plans. Sophy had met Lady Beckworth and discovered for herself that she was as practical as she was kindhearted and grudgingly concluded that the lady was indeed capable of overseeing the household at Berkeley Square for a few days.

Apparently not expecting any reply, Lady Beckworth went on comfortably, “I thought that I was quite used to his fits and starts, but I must confess that this sudden marriage to
you
has surprised me.”

Sophy stiffened. “My reputation, you mean?” she asked in a tight little voice.

Lady Beckworth looked shocked. “Oh, no! Of course, I have heard the gossip ... and there is no denying that Lord Marlowe was a well-known—But that was not what I was referring to,” she added hastily. She hesitated, an uncertain expression crossing her plump features. “It probably is not important,” she finally said, “but you
do
know about his older brother, Robert?”

“His brother?” Sophy exclaimed, startled. “I never even knew about
you
until today.”

“Oh, dear! Me and my prattling tongue. Ives will be most vexed with me,” Lady Beckworth said, looking guilty.

“Why should he be? I am married to him. As his wife, it is only right that I know about his family,” Sophy returned reasonably, despite the sudden knot in her chest. “What is there about the mention of his brother that should make him angry?”

Lady Beckworth sighed heavily. “I am not surprised that he has said nothing to you. It was so very tragic. Robert committed suicide. Years ago,” she said confidingly, “before you were even born. He was much older than Ives, and Ives simply idolized him. He took Robert's death hard. He swore to be avenged on the woman who had caused it. The family was quite distressed by his thirst for revenge. After all,” she added artlessly, “it was not
her
fault that Robert took her rejection of him so tragically. Who could have guessed that he would hang himself on her wedding day?” She gave a delicate shudder. “So terrible for Ives. He found him, you know. Absolutely shattered the boy.”

Sophy's heart ached for Ives's tragedy, but she was puzzled why he would be angry with his aunt for mentioning his brother's suicide. Was he ashamed of the manner of Robert's death?

“I see,” murmured Sophy, not really seeing at all. “It must have been quite painful for him.”

Lady Beckworth nodded vigorously. “Oh, it was. After his mother had deserted the family—she ran away with a military man—when Ives was a mere boy,” she said candidly, apparently seeing nothing wrong in revealing the family skeletons to a new bride. “Left on their own, the three of them—Ives, Robert, and his father—were very close. My dear brother never looked at another woman. His heart was quite broken. In their own way each one of them was very bitter and wounded by Joan's desertion. Quite frankly, I was surprised when Robert fell for—”

She stopped and laughed deprecatingly. “My wretched tongue! My children are always pleading with me to think before I speak, but I am afraid that their pleas are useless. I am,” she admitted, almost with pride, “perfectly incapable of minding my tongue. I always have been.”

Taken aback by Lady Beckworth's indiscreet volubility, Sophy could only smile weakly. She was fascinated by this glimpse into Ives's early life, but she suspected that her new husband would prefer to reveal any family scandal to her himself.

Sophy would have given much to have heard more, but even if his aunt was not conscious of treading carelessly over sensitive subjects, she was. Somewhat hastily, she said, “Will you excuse me? I simply
must
speak to the butler.”

Lady Beckworth smiled complacently. “You run along, my dear. I am sure that you are quite rushed. Now that we are family, we shall have other times for cozy conversations.”

“Yes, of course,” Sophy muttered as she hurried off, telling herself that cozy conversation with Lady Beckworth was a fate to be avoided at all costs.

Ives had watched Sophy's conversing with his aunt, and her hurried exit. A little frown creased his forehead. Introducing Sophy to his aunt had been a calculated risk but one he felt he had no choice in running. He needed a respectable woman to stay with Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne at the Grayson town house during the first few days of his marriage.

He was not an unreasonable man. He was quite fond of Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne, and had every intention of keeping Sophy's little family together. But dash it all! He was
not
going to start his married life with Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne underfoot! Things were fragile enough between him and Sophy as it was and he had decided that a few days spent, just the two of them, at Harrington Chase would allow them a little breathing room before they plunged into the complications of merging their two households. He wanted, nay,
needed
some time alone with his reluctant bride.

Roxbury murmured something to him at that moment and he had no time to speculate further on what embarrassing facts his aunt might have cheerfully dropped into Sophy's ear. By the time they had bidden their wedding guests good-bye, installed Lady Beckworth in the Grayson town house, and were finally on their way to Harrington Chase, Ives had completely forgotten the incident.

At present the newlyweds were comfortably settled in Ives's well-sprung coach and were bowling along the road several miles from London on their way to Harrington Chase situated near the county town of Chelmsford in Essex. Ashby and Sophy's personal maid, Peggy, along with a few trunks, had been sent ahead.

As they had left London, Sophy kept up a lively monologue, chattering gaily about the wedding and the guests and how kind it had been of Lady Beckworth to agree to stay at the Grayson town house for a few days. It was obvious that she was nervous and Ives decided to let her prattle on, leaning comfortably back against the maroon velvet squabs of the coach and adding a comment now and then when she seemed to run out of steam.

Sophy was nervous. Memories of Simon's brutal rape in a coach such as this one within hours of their marriage filled her mind with the most terrifying images. She sat bolt upright as far from Ives as she could get, her gaze flickering restlessly about and certainly never straying in the direction of her very new, very large husband. She wished desperately that she still had her pistol. What she said she had no idea, the compulsion to keep talking driving her to utter the most inane comments.

Ives let her run on for quite some time, thinking eventually she would wind down; but when it became apparent that was not going to happen, he leaned across the narrow space that separated them, and said quietly, “Sophy, stop it. I do not know what you fear, but let me reassure you I have no intention of falling upon you like a ravening beast.”

She jumped at his touch, but hearing his measured tones and seeing his expression, some of her nervousness disappeared. Risking a glance in his direction, she said softly, “You must think me very silly.”

In the fading light he smiled. “No. I think that you are adorable.”

Sophy blushed. Simon had never paid her any compliments, and she was not quite certain how to react. Casting about for a safe subject, she said, “Tell me about Harrington Chase.”

He shrugged. “There is not much to tell. It is an Elizabethan manor house that has been in my family for many generations. The park that surrounds it is noted for its beauty. I hope that you will like it.”

“Did you grow up there?” she asked curiously.

Ives shook his head. “No. My father was the second son, and I grew up at the vicarage.”

A teasing smile crossed Sophy's face. “Never tell me you are the son of a
vicar?”

Ives laughed and proceeded to change the subject, distracting her with stories of his days in the cavalry. It was not many hours later that the coach slowed and began to travel down the smooth carriageway leading to Harrington Chase.

Sophy had relaxed with Ives as the time had passed and he had made no overt moves toward her. At least, she told herself, she would not suffer the degrading experience of having her second marriage consummated on the seat of a coach! But as they neared their destination, she could feel her tension increase.

Simon's lovemaking had filled her with revulsion, and while there was little about Ives that bore a resemblance to her first husband, she could not help being uneasy about the coming hours. She swallowed painfully, aware of the dampness on her hands and the churning in her stomach. In a short time, Ives would come to her and make her his wife in the fullest sense of the word, and she was dreading it. Dear God, please, don't let it be
too
awful.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the house was ablaze with light, but Sophy had little time for first impressions. Ives hustled her out of the coach and escorted her up the broad steps and into the house. They were met by a smiling butler and an efficient-looking lady of indeterminate age who was introduced as the housekeeper, Mrs. Chandler. A moment later, Ives still at her elbow, Sophy was whisked up the stairs and into her suite of rooms.