Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (23 page)

When he opened his eyes, Redbrooke’s gaze was trained on him. “Sit.” His command was no polite offer.

Christopher slid into the seat across from Redbrooke. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to begin by apologizing for…”

“For?” Redbrooke interrupted. He arched a single brow.

The viscount apparently intended to make this exchange as uncomfortable as possible for Christopher which was no less than he deserved. Christopher didn’t have any siblings but he tried to imagine if he was in the other man’s position and some undeserving gent had compromised his sister. He was confident that he wouldn’t do something as polite as offer the man a seat across from him to discuss a marital contract, but would instead greet the bastard across a dueling field at dawn.

“I’m sorry for the shame I’ve caused Sophie.”

Redbrooke tossed his pen down. Black ink smattered the documents atop his otherwise orderly desk. “Sophie caused her own shame. She’s been the bane of my existence for two, now three years.”

Christopher gripped the arms of his chair in an unrelenting grip. It was all he could do to keep from dragging Sophie’s pompous brother across the desk and punching him in the face. “This wasn’t her fault, Redbrooke.”

“No, it wasn’t. And I’d wager it was all quite intentional on your part.” Christopher started. “Oh, come now, do you take me for a fool?” Redbrooke pressed. “Your father owed my father quite a significant debt.”

“I didn’t know,” Christopher said, his voice hoarse with shame. “That is, I didn’t know until only just recently.” There were enough lies between him and Redbrooke.

The viscount sat back in his chair. “Tell me what else you only just recently learned about.” He folded his arms across his chest and studied Christopher like he was a piece of grime at the bottom of his boots.

The dowry.

The word dangled in the air between them, unspoken but no less real for it.

When it became clear that Christopher didn’t intend to speak, Redbrooke’s lips curled in a sneer. “I assume you know Sophie is worth a fortune.”

Christopher’s gaze slid to the floor. It didn’t matter that he’d decided not to go forward with his father’s demands and deliberately compromise Sophie—because in the end, he’d ruined her reputation all the same. He imagined that it would be a waste of energy to dispute that with Redbrooke. Nothing about Christopher’s actions in the past twenty-four hours seemed at all honest. “I’m not marrying your sister for her dowry.”

“No, you’re marrying her because you ruined her.”

He flinched.

Redbrooke apparently grew tired of bating Christopher. He turned his attention to the leather folio in front of him, opened it, and scanned the top page. “Here,” he said, and jerked his chin toward the pen.

Christopher hesitated.

“Go on. Take it. Read it.”

Christopher reached for the legal document with damp palms, fighting to steady his fingers. Mayhap this time the words would make sense. Mayhap this time they wouldn’t dance upon the page.

He looked at the sheet.

Alas, this day wasn’t one for miracles. A painful pressure built behind his eyes as he ever slowly picked through the sentences.

“I’ll spare you the time reading it,” Redbrooke said, seeming unaware of the silent battle being waged inside Christopher. “You’ll of course receive Sophie’s 100,000 pounds. I ask that Sophie receive no less than 1,000 pounds in pin money annually.”

“Of course,” Christopher said with a nod. Hell, she could have all the money. It meant nothing to him.

Redbrooke continued. “In the event of your death, I want half the sum to revert back to Sophie.”

Christopher nodded. “That is fine.”

Redbrooke’s lips turned down at the corner and Christopher suspected the other man had anticipated more of a fight in terms of the marital contract.

Christopher made quick work of signing the formal documents.

More than thirty minutes later, all the documents had been signed.

Redbrooke blew on the top sheet and then stuck it inside the leather folio. “It is done.”

A chill filled him at those ominous three words. “Does she know?” He forced out the question.

Sophie’s brother leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Know what? That you ruined her reputation for her dowry?”

Redbrooke had made up his mind about Christopher’s intentions and the truth of it was that Christopher’s actions, from the outside, looked quite black. Self-loathing warred with hatred for his father who’d forced Christopher into the role of fortune-hunter.

No, he had no one to blame but himself. Christopher could have told his father to go to hell and hoped the threat of Bedlam was just that, a threat.

“My mother will insist on an elaborate wedding.”

“No. I’ve come from Doctor’s Common.” Christopher reached inside the front of his jacket. “I obtained a special license from the Archbishop,” he said, displaying the document in hand. “We’ll wed within the week.”

Again, the other man sneered at him. “Do you fear her dowry will slip from your greedy clutches if the bans are read for three consecutive Sundays?”

Christopher didn’t want to wait any longer than need be to make Sophie his wife. Again, it had nothing to do with her dowry and everything to do with protecting her and her already tarnished name.

The fight seemed to leave Redbrooke on a lengthy sigh. “Very well.” The weariness in his tone belonged to a man who knew he was largely powerless.

“I ask that you please not say anything about her dowry.” When the time came to discuss the truth, he wanted to do so without interference from the viscount.

“I really don’t care what the hell you want,” Redbrooke spat. He clasped the front of his jacket and gave a tug. “Get the hell out of my sight, Waxham. Your presence sickens me.”

Christopher understood that. He didn’t much like himself in that moment. He stood.

Redbrooke called out, and Christopher froze. “For a long time, despite Sophie’s protestations, I had encouraged my sister to accept your suit. How ironic that Sophie was a good deal more perceptive than Mother and I.”

Christopher clenched his jaw. “Good day, Redbrooke,” he said with a bow, not giving Redbrooke the fight he was clearly spoiling for.

As he wound his way back through the viscount’s house, Christopher considered the other man’s words. For years, Christopher had gone to great pains to avoid Sophie. How could her brother therefore, believe there was anything honorable in Christopher’s intentions?

He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered if Sophie ever really needed to know the truth. He feared the enormity of his sins were ones she could never forgive.

When he reached the foyer, the butler handed his hat over to him.

“Are you leaving, Christopher?”

He spun around.

Sophie stood at the bottom step, head tipped to the side. Light radiated from the fathomless depths of her blue irises and put him in mind of a clear, summer sky in the country.

“Uh, I…” Another wall of guilt slammed into him. He’d arrived here without even a bouquet of flowers for the young lady. In all her imaginings, she’d probably had greater dreams for the man who would offer for her hand. “Forgive me.”

“For what?” She continued walking over, and stopped in front of him.

He held his palms up. “I didn’t bring you anything.”
What a lout.

She waved her hand. “I don’t need anything.”

She might not need for anything, but it was a simple kindness he could have shown to the woman who would be his wife. Christopher took her fingers in his and raised them to his mouth. He brushed his lips over the tops of her knuckles. “I don’t deserve you.”

Sophie snorted, and pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “You’ve never been dramatic before, Christopher.”

He managed his first real smile since his world had crumbled down upon him. “Most ladies would call it romantic.”

“I suppose they would. However, I’m not most ladies.”

No, no she wasn’t.

“Will you allow me to escort you on a walk?”

She grimaced and it dawned on Christopher that the last thing Sophie cared for was to be seen in public following their scandal at Lady Brackenridge’s. “Would you care to take a turn about my mother’s garden?”

He nodded and waved off the butler who came over with his cloak. Christopher returned his hat to the servant.

“Lord Waxham will not be leaving just yet,” Sophie said and then with little regard for propriety, took him by the hand and led him through house toward the gardens. She cast a glance back up at him. “As a fallen woman, I’m afforded certain luxuries now.”

“I’d hardly call you a fallen woman,” he drawled.

“Regardless, of what you call it, I
am
afforded certain luxuries.”

“Like holding your betrothed’s hand?”

She tripped and he stumbled against her back. His arms came up to right her.

“Sophie?”

“Is that what we are? Betrothed?”

Christopher nodded. “I spoke to your brother. The formal arrangements have been made.”

A small, wistful smile played on her lips. “Imagine that. I’ve gone from never courted to suddenly betrothed.” She seemed to remember he was there for she gave her head a clearing shake, and then continued tugging him along.

They entered the impressive gardens, moving past the rows of well-pruned English boxwoods, interspersed with pale pink roses. He froze alongside one of the bushes, which forced Sophie to a halt.

She looked up at him with a question in her eyes.

Christopher released her hand and reached for one of the branches. A thorn bit into the pads of his fingers, drawing blood. He dusted his fingers along the sides of his breeches and made one more grasp at the stubborn bud. He tugged it free and held it out to Sophie. “I should have brought flowers,” he said by way of apology.

A sheen of tears smarted behind Sophie’s eyes. The flower slipped from his fingers, and fell in a fluttery dance to their feet. “What is it?”

Sophie shook her head. She stooped down and rescued the flower, studying it overly long. “It’s utterly perfect.” He reached for the hand that held the pink rose. His fingers gave hers a gentle squeeze and she continued. “It’s perfect because it came from you.”

Oh Christ, this viselike pressure squeezing his heart was too much. Most young ladies dreamed of sonnets and hothouse flowers and yet his meager offering had driven this proud woman to tears. It made him wish that he’d been a much better man to her before this, made him wish that he’d come to her with strictly honorable intentions. Christopher brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “You deserve so much more, Phi.” In the very least, she deserved more than him.

“I don’t want more than this, Christopher.”

Christopher lowered his lips and claimed hers in a gentle kiss. Her lips parted on a breathy whisper and he used that as all the encouragement needed to slip his tongue inside and re-familiarize himself with the hot, moist contours of her mouth.

Sophie reached up, tugged free the queue at the base of his neck, and wrapped her fingers within the strands of his hair.

He groaned at the sweet seductiveness of her innocent gesture and deepened the kiss. His mouth slanted over hers again and again until she moaned with desire.

“Christopher,” she whispered against his lips.

His hands moved an exploratory path along the graceful flesh of her shoulder, down her forearms, and settled at last upon the generous curve of her hips. He tugged her closer, his aching hardness settled with a familiarity against the softness of her belly.

Her head arched back, and she cried out.

The throaty wantonness of that cry broke through the haze of desire that clouded his better judgment. He placed a kiss at her temple.

She blinked back the desire clouding her eyes. “Why did you stop?” she blurted, and then a becoming flush stained her cheeks.

God, he should be sainted for resisting what she so clearly offered. “When we are married, I’ll take the time to show you all the ways a man can love a woman. But I’ll not disrespect you, not any more than I already have, Phi.”

Sophie sighed. “What if I want…?”

“No.”

“But…”

“No, Sophie,” he said, gruffly. It was taking every ounce of strength he didn’t know he possessed to resist her arousing entreaty.

“Not even if I point out that I’m now a fallen woman?”

He grimaced. “You are not a fallen woman.”

“Very well.” She rested her cheek against the wall of his chest.

Christopher dropped his chin atop her crown of golden curls. He inhaled the citrusy scent of lemon that clung to her and wondered not for the first time if she bathed in the sweet fragrance.

“My brother suggested that there…was a reason for your interest in me, Christopher. Why is that?”

The magic of the moment couldn’t have ended more quickly than if Sophie had lifted her knee and slammed it into his groin.

“Christopher?” she asked, when he did not immediately respond.

He shook his head, turning over possible answers in his brain. In the end, he settled for the truth. “I’m marrying you because I want to,” he said at long last.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” he said, willing her to hear the veracity of his somber response. He took a steadying breath. Sophie deserved the truth. All of it. Their marriage could not be built off the lies between them. Christopher opened his mouth to confess that which had originally prompted his courtship.

“I knew he was wrong,” Sophie muttered.

Christopher pulled back. The truth died a swift death on his lips. He ran a gaze over her heart-shaped face; the slight cleft, so very familiar in her chin, the pale white of her satiny smooth skin. Lies may have fueled his earlier motives where Sophie was concerned…but that had all changed.

He dropped to a knee.

“Christopher?”

“You deserved to be courted, Phi. And you deserved a proper offer of marriage,” Not the scandal he’d brought upon her in front of the censuring eyes of Society members who delighted in her fall. “Will you marry me?”

A tremulous smile formed on her bow-shaped lips. “You know I have too, though,” she said, gently.