Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (13 page)

Christopher sat there, as the minutes ticked by on the ormolu clock, waiting for Mallen to tire of his visit or his voice to grow hoarse, whichever came first, it didn’t really matter. Christopher used the time to study Sophie. When had this fulsome woman replaced the vexing child of his rememberings? Her sweetly rounded form could rival Botticelli’s Venus, and Christopher possessed the sudden urge to fill his palms with her plump breasts…

He toppled backwards in his seat and crashed to the floor.

Sophie gasped. She came to lean over him. “My goodness, Christopher,” she said, seeming to forget herself. “Have you been hurt?”

Mallen pulled into focus; a half-grin on his arrogant face. He extended a palm. “Yes. Are you all right, Waxham?”

Go to hell, Mallen.

Christopher managed a smile and accepted Mallen’s offer of help. He climbed to his feet, his pride smarting just as much as the back of his head did from the fall.

Christ, what was wrong with him, though?! He’d been ruminating about Sophie Winters’ breasts? Surely he’d descended into madness.

“You know you shouldn’t tilt back in your seat,” Mallen continued like he was a too stern tutor reprimanding his student.

A somber expression settled into the graceful lines of Sophie’s face. “Absolutely. If you remember from Lady Ackerly’s column, it is in quite bad form to tilt in your seat, Chris…my lord.”

The duke looked back to Sophie. “Who is this Lady Ackerly?”

Sophie waved her hand about. “She is the gossip who reports quite frequently about my goings-on.”

Christopher dusted his palms over the front of his breeches. “Yes. Sophie was guilty of tilting back on the legs of a chair at Lady Tarrington’s ball.”

“It wasn’t Lady Tarrington’s ball. It was Lady Kavanaugh’s recital.”

“Regardless, Phi…Miss Winters toppled over and…”

“Society should have learned from my experience not to tip in one’s seat. Especially those who pay such particular attention to Lady Ackerly’s reporting,” she said with pointed censure for Christopher.

Mallen frowned. “Never heard of this Lady Ackerly. Sounds like an atrocious bit of baggage.”

Sophie cornflower blue eyes went all wide and soft, as if the Duke of Mallen had slain a dragon on her behalf.

Oh, I’ve had about all I can take of this nauseating exchange.
“Are we done here?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

A dull heat crept up Christopher’s neck. He cleared his throat. “I said it’s quite sunny in here.”

Mallen folded his arms across his chest. “Odd, it sounded remarkably like you said…”

Christopher glared him into silence.

“Are you certain you’re all right, Christopher?” Again, Sophie’s use of his Christian name indicated her momentary lapse in propriety. If anyone had ever said that Sophie would look at him with this gentle concern and not the typical annoyance he’d come to expect from her, he’d have said they were one carriage ride away from a trip to Bedlam.

“I’m fine, Phi,” he assured her.

Her full lips settled into a smile…

That she redirected Mallen’s way. “I didn’t know you cared for poetry, Your Grace.”

Great, so we’re back to this.

Mallen inclined his head. “I can’t imagine anyone dislikes poetry.”

His friend would be wise not to settle a sum on that wager. Christopher loathed every single written word that reminded him of his flaws.

Sophie caught her lip between her teeth. “I’d thought Em said you gave her quite a hard time about her poetry selection.”

Christopher hid a grin behind his hand. There was no other lady in the entire British Empire who would challenge the Duke of Mallen, even inadvertently—except Sophie. He’d imagine that Mallen wouldn’t care for such insolence in young ladies.

It appeared he was wrong.

Mallen tossed his head back on a loud guffaw. “I do say, Miss Winters, you have me there.” He leaned close, blocking Christopher’s view of Sophie. When he spoke, his voice came out as a low, mellifluous whisper. “Then, you inspire a man to acquire a taste for poetry.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake
. Christopher had about all he could stand of this display. “The duke has an appointment and must be going now,” Christopher snapped.

The adoring gleam that had glazed Sophie’s eyes lifted. She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”

“Not as sorry as I’m sure the duke is. If you’ll excuse him, Mallen has matters of business to attend to.”

Mallen straightened his shoulders. “No, I don’t. Lord Waxham misspoke.”

Sophie and Christopher spoken in unison.

“I did?”

“He did?”

Mallen nodded. “Oh, yes. What Waxham intended to say was that
he
has an appointment.” He looked over the top of Sophie’s head and grinned at Christopher. “Good day, Waxham.”

Christopher clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. He beat a hasty bow for Sophie. “Miss Winters,” he snapped and then stormed from the room.

Christopher didn’t know what game Mallen played, but he intended to find out.

Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

Madame LeCompe, the esteemed French modiste, has avowed to no longer design for Miss S.W. after the young lady questioned the authenticity of the woman’s French accent.

~10~

“Good day, Waxham.” Christopher muttered under his breath as he stomped up the steps of the Duke of Mallen’s townhouse. “He says, ‘good day, Waxham.’”

Christopher lifted the knocker and pounded the wood panel hard enough to rouse the neighboring residents. The Duke of Mallen’s old butler threw open the door. His bushy gray brows flared in what Christopher suspected was surprise. No one would expect the calm, easy-mannered earl to do anything remotely shocking. Suddenly, the image he’d established for himself grated.

“My lord,” the servant greeted.

Waxham sailed past him, through the front door, and into the foyer. “I’m here to see His Grace.”

The servant’s eyebrows knitted into a single line. “I’ll see if he’s receiving guests.”

He didn’t need the butler to point out that it was hardly the thing to storm another man’s home at nearly two o’clock in the morning. Christopher folded his arms behind his back and paced the white, Italian marble floor.

He supposed he should have spoken with Mallen many hours ago. Only, earlier that evening Christopher had gone to White’s and convinced himself that he hadn’t cared about Mallen’s unexpected visit with Sophie. Somewhere around eight o’clock that evening he’d begun to think about the duke reading to her from that ridiculous book of sonnets. And around nine o’clock he’d considered Sophie’s infatuated response to the young duke. By 11 o’clock he’d convinced himself yet again that it didn’t matter to him if Mallen courted Sophie with more vigor than Christopher had required. Two minutes after 11 o’clock he’d realized he was a bloody liar.

Upon that staggering realization, he’d continued to drink until…he pulled out his watch fob, and squinted to bring the numbers into focus. He stuffed it back inside his jacket.

It really didn’t matter.

He was bloody soused.

“Waxham,” a voice drawled.

Christopher spun around. His gaze climbed up the staircase, where Mallen stood looking bloody impeccable in his black evening attire.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected late evening visit?” There was a faint hint of censure in Mallen’s words.

Christopher started up the stairs. “I’m here to speak with you, Mallen,” he said, when he reached Mallen.

The duke wrinkled his nose. “Have you been drinking?”

“A little.”
A lot
.

Mallen motioned for Christopher to accompany him. He didn’t wait to see if Christopher followed suit but then, when one was a duke, people did as you bid.

They entered the duke’s office. Mallen closed the door behind them and walked over to his desk. He folded his arms across his chest. “What is this about?”

“Not what, but who, Mallen. I’m here regarding Miss Winters.”

The duke’s arms fell to his side. His brow furrowed. “Miss Winters?”

Christopher tapped a hand alongside his thigh. “I wanted to speak to you about your visit this afternoon.”

Mallen propped a hip on the edge of his desk. He tipped his chin in the direction of the leather winged-back chair closest to him. “Why don’t you sit, Waxham? Can I offer you a brandy? Though,” he arched a single brow, “with the amount of spirits you’ve consumed thus far today, you probably could do without further drink.”

Christopher blamed the sudden urge to bloody Mallen’s nose on his inebriated state. He shook his head. “I don’t want to sit. I came to address your visit with Miss Winters.”

Mallen looked down the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Oh? Is there a problem?”

As Christopher saw it, there were any number of problems. In fact, since that afternoon, he’d compiled quite a list. Only now, all those reasons, with the exception of one, seemed to escape him. “I asked you to court her.”

His friend crossed his legs at the ankles. “And that is what I am doing.”

“You did it with too much…too much…”

Mallen’s brows lowered. “Too much?”

“Seriousness!” The word exploded from Christopher’s chest. He spun on his heel and began to pace the floor. “Sophie is too impressionable. If you insist on reading poetry and bringing flowers,” he shook his head, “well, there is no saying the damaging effects it could have.” He spun back around to face his friend.

Mallen said nothing for a long while. Then, he shoved himself from the desk and walked over to the decanters of spirits in the corner of the room. He poured himself a glass of brandy, took a long swallow, and cradled the glass in his hand. “Do you want to wed the lady?” he asked bluntly.

Christopher stumbled to a halt. “God no.”

“Your ultimate goal is thwarting your father’s plans for you and Miss Winters, correct?”

Yes, that was the case. His head throbbed. Or, Christopher thought it had been…until today. Today, he’d detected the infatuated gleam in Sophie’s eyes, her unspoken yearning for a real courtship, and the tendrils of guilt in his belly had fanned out and filled him.

There had also been a niggling of something deep and dark that he didn’t recognize. Something green and ugly that had festered inside him the moment Sophie’s bow-shaped lips had tipped up in a smile for Mallen. An emotion that felt like…jealousy.

Christopher shook his head.
Foolish thoughts
.

“Waxham?”

“I’m fine,” Christopher said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

It wasn’t
?

“Oh.” He blinked. “What then?”

“I had asked whether your goal was to thwart your father’s plans for you and Miss Winters.”

“Yes.”

“Then, a thank you shall suffice.” Mallen took another sip and then set his glass down. “Trust I know what I’m doing.”

Christopher had been forced to defer to his father’s judgment and decisions since he was a young boy. He’d not cede control over to Mallen. There was a difference in enlisting the duke’s support and quite another to turn the scheme blindly over to him.

He pointed a finger in Mallen’s direction. “I think this would be a good time for us to discuss in more detail the plans for Miss Winters.”

A vein pulsed in Mallen’s neck, the only outward indication of his annoyance with Christopher’s high-handedness. “Out with it, Waxham,” he said in clipped tones.

Christopher nodded and proceeded to tick his orders off upon his fingers. “There is to be no flowers. No poems. No clandestine meetings.”

“Clandestine meetings?”

Christopher continued as though Mallen hadn’t spoken. “No making the lady laugh. No…reading to her.” He stumbled over that part.

“Have you finished?”

Christopher went through the list he’d compiled throughout the day in his mind. He frowned. It had seemed far more comprehensive several hours ago. He blamed alcohol for his muddled thoughts. “No pastries or treats.” Sophie loved pastries. If Mallen courted her with confectionaries, well her heart would probably forever belong to the other man.

“I suppose escorting the young lady to Sunday sermons would be acceptable?” Mallen drawled.

“Lovely idea.” Christopher agreed with an empathic nod.

Mallen’s gaze narrowed. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh.”

“
Now
have you finished?” Mallen settled his palms upon his desk. “Do you know what I think, Waxham?”

“No.” Nor did Christopher care.

“I believe you crafted this scheme to maintain your freedom but are now questioning your way in going about it. I believe you care a good deal about Miss Winters,” he held up a hand when Christopher opened his mouth to speak, “whether you’ll admit it to yourself or not. After all, you’ve known the young lady since she was practically in the nursery.”

Actually, she
had
been in the nursery. He’d been quite put out at having to pay the Viscount Redbrooke’s newborn daughter a visit and still remembered studying the plump, red-faced baby held in her mother’s arms. She’d had the most god-awful caterwaul of a cry which oddly had stopped when her glassy, baby-gaze had landed upon him.

Mallen continued, not detecting the path Christopher’s thoughts had wandered down. “You feel protective of her, Waxham. It is clear you have a sense of obligation toward her. So my suggestion to you is end this mad scheme, do your familial duty by the girl and wed her…and for the love of God, leave me out of any foolish plot where you and Miss Winters are concerned.”

Christopher raked a hand through his hair. “No.”

Mallen sighed. “I suspected you would say that. Very well, then I’ll continue to court Miss Winters as I deem appropriate. Now if you’ll excuse me. It is late and I am taking Miss Winters for a walk in Hyde Park later this morning.”

A haze of red blinded Christopher. His nostrils flared. Then, the knowing grin on Mallen’s face registered. Well, bugger him. His friend merely sought to get a rise out of him.

Christopher forced a smile. “Splendid.” After all, a walk in Hyde Park had not been on Christopher’s list of outings Mallen was to avoid with Sophie. Yet, it didn’t feel like any kind of victory. Quite the opposite. “Good evening, Mallen.”