Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (27 page)

Sophie preened. “It seems I did very well, then.”

Christopher grinned. “Do you think you can do better?”

She nodded with mock solemnity. “Oh, absolutely.”

And she proceeded to show him.

Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

Members of the ton were justifiably appalled by the sight of Miss S.W. sleeping quite soundly during Sarah Siddon’s farewell performance at Covent Garden. It is certain that when Miss Siddons appeared on stage to give a heartfelt speech to her adoring crowd, she most certainly was not addressing Miss S.W.

~21~

“Come along.” Sophie tugged at Christopher’s hand, urging him up the hill.

“Phi, it’s going to rain.”

She pushed her bonnet back and stole a glance up at the ominously darkening sky. Thick, gray clouds rolled across the horizon. “It is not going to rain.”

Her pronouncement was met by a distant rumble of thunder.

He arched a single black brow.

“Trust me,” she said.

Her words were punctuated by another loud roll. She smiled up at him. “See. No rain.”

Christopher sighed.

Sophie smiled and continued along. They’d spent the better part of the week at Milford House, alternating their time between making love and exploring the countryside. Sometimes both. Her smile dipped. The days were falling away and soon they would return to London.

They crested a small hill, and her family’s country house pulled into focus; the enormous Georgian structure framed by thick white and gray storm clouds.

Christopher’s brow wrinkled. “Are we visiting your brother’s home?”

She pointed her eyes skyward. “Don’t be silly. Come.” They picked their way through the high grass. She stopped at the soaring field maple and reached for the wood swing that hung from a thick, brown branch.

Sophie released Christopher’s hand and hopped upon the swing. The faint spring breeze caught her modest white skirts and the fabric fluttered.

Her husband’s frown deepened. “We’ve braved the storm for this swing?”

“I’ve missed this swing. And do not spoil the day; there is no storm.”

As if on cue, a single, fat raindrop landed on the tip of her nose. She brushed it back. “Now push me.”

Christopher bowed. “With pleasure, my lady.”

Sophie closed her eyes as her husband placed his palms along the back of the swing, and set her into forward motion. She pumped her legs much the way she had as a small child. As she soared higher and higher, her gaze wandered out over the lake that separated their families’ properties.

“Do you know when I was a small girl I would jump from this swing into the water.”

He dropped his hands from the back of the swing, as though he feared she intended to do just that.

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’d no longer jump from a swing.” She glanced over her shoulder at him and waggled her brows. “Well, not intentionally.”

“This is the lake your brother tossed you in as a girl.”

She started. “You remember that?” Until he’d raised that memory, she’d forgotten Christopher had been there. Now, her mind traveled back to that day long ago.

“You were so small.”

“Five,” she supplied. Which meant Christopher had been nearly fourteen years of age. Sophie had been traipsing around after her brother and Christopher, making a nuisance of herself as she’d been wont to do.

“He tossed you into the lake.”

All the familiar fear she’d thought long buried, surfaced, forcing Sophie to relive the terror of that day. The water had closed over her head and even as a small child, she’d felt the fingers of death threatening to pull her within their hold. Her eyes widened. “It was you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You saved me.”

That long ago time had been lost to a girl’s distant memories and gripping fears. Only now did she remember. Again, she looked back at him. “You plucked me from the water.” And he’d ceased to come around to visit Geoffrey. “You used to be friends.”

“Not after that.” His square jaw tightened. “Your brother was a pompous ass.”

Sophie slipped from the swing, and soared through the air, floating, falling, and landing with a solid thump into the ice cold water.

“Phi!” he shouted.

Sophie broke the surface. Her straw bonnet with its pink bow hung over her eyes. She shoved it back and waded toward Christopher. Her legs kicked at her skirts. “I’m f-fine,” she called. All the while, those words of his reminded her of another, a man she’d not thought of in the weeks she’d come to really know Christopher. Her mystery Odysseus had said the very same thing about Geoffrey. “I learned to swim, you know.” In spite of her mother’s protestations, her father had insisted Sophie learn to swim after her near drowning.

“No. I did not know,” Christopher called out. He scissored through the water with long, sure strokes until he reached her. She suspected she should miss the enigmatic pull she’d known in the stranger’s presence. Yet, as Christopher caught her to him, she realized Christopher was the only man she would ever want.

“I-I r-really am fine,” she said, even as her teeth chattered from the frigid temperatures. Somehow, the hard-muscled wall of his chest warmed her near-frozen body. “I-I i-imagined i-it would b-be a g-good deal warmer.”

“Oh,” he said when they reached the shore. “Why is that?” He continued to hold her close.

“The s-sun.”

A jagged bolt of lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. “That sun?” A faint note of teasing laced those two words.

“N-not today. The p-previous days of s-sun.”

Christopher tugged her bonnet free and tossed it to the ground. The wind caught the article and whipped it upon the lake, where it landed atop the water’s surface. He framed her face between his hands. His gaze studied her with a singular intensity. “Are you all right?”

“I s-slipped.”

His lips pulled at the corners. “I gathered as much.”

A little squeak escaped her lips when he swept her into his arms and started on the path home. His stoic strength gave not even a hint that he was affected by the chill from their swim in the lake or her plump form.

“P-put me d-down. I r-really can w-walk.” She shoved his chest when he still didn’t release her.

“I’m not putting you down, Phi, so you may as well rest against me.”

“I-I’m too large,” she said, and felt a wave of heat cascade over her cheeks.

He snorted. “Don’t be silly. You’re perfect.” His effortless strides, and unwavering hold leant truth to his words.

Her heart sped up and she fell in love with him all over again. She rested the side of her head along his chest. The rapid beat of his heart pounded a sure, steady rhythm under her ear. “I love you,” she whispered. An ominous rumble of thunder sounded again and Sophie tried to tamp down disappointment that Christopher still hadn’t returned those words.

She tugged at his damp sleeve, and gave it a hard tug when he didn’t respond. He slowed his steps and looked down at her. “Put me down,” she said.

He hesitated, and then with deliberate care, set her upon her feet.

Sophie settled her arms akimbo. “I said I love you.”

His gaze skittered to a point beyond her shoulder but he still didn’t speak.

“Did you hear me? I said it several times.”

He sighed. “I…thank you.”

Her eyes narrowed.
Had he thanked her? Oh, the lout!
Sophie knew she was being childish and desperate and all things petty, but she stomped away from him. He’d wed her, not because he’d been moved by overwhelming emotion for her, but out of a gentlemanly sense of obligation. After being discovered in Lord Brackenridge’s library, Sophie’s reputation had been in tatters. He’d merely been trying to put back the shattered pieces of her social status.

God help her, she’d not plead with him for a profession of love. She wanted him to feel what she felt and the fact that he didn’t caused her heart to crack and bleed like he’d ground it beneath his soaked Hessian boot.

He called after her. “Phi!”

She kept walking toward Milford House.

“Phi! Stop!” he barked. “Please.” That single, soft entreaty halted her in her tracks. She froze, until he’d caught up to her.

Christopher took her by the shoulders, and turned her to face him.

Her jaw hardened. “I don’t want your pity.” She only wanted his love.

“I’m not capable of love, Phi.” He held his palms up. “I…” Again, his gaze wandered a moment and then returned to hers. “My childhood was not a pleasant one but it was because I’m flawed. I’m not even certain I’m someone a person is capable of loving.”

“That’s silly. I love you.” She tried to infuse as much emotion into those words as possible. All the while she fought back the waves of sadness that lapped at her heart. She tried to imagine Christopher as a small child; motherless at a very young age, without siblings for friendship or companionship, the miserable marquess as his father. It was no wonder he doubted the emotion of love.

“I’m sorry.”

He started. “For what?”

“I was horrid to you.”

His eyes slid closed. “No, Phi. Don’t do that. Don’t…you were a child. We were both children. And I deserved it.”

She made a sound of protest. “No. You didn’t.” All the good in him, the kindness he’d shown her, she’d never allowed herself to see it. She’d only noted the ways in which he’d teased and tormented her as a girl. “I’ve only just realized the kind of man you are.”

He flinched. “Phi, you don’t truly know me. There are…” he hesitated, “things you don’t know about me. Things that brought shame to my father.”

“Your
father
is a pompous ass.” She borrowed his phrase.

She expected his lips to form a small smile, or perhaps that he should even chuckle, but the solemn, dark look remained in his hazel eyes, chilling her in ways that the frigid waters hadn’t been able to.

“There is more, Phi. I need to confess something to you.”

A streak of lightning lit the sky, followed by the rolling sound of thunder. Then, the skies opened up in a deluge that pounded down upon them. The sting of rain pelted her skin with a searing intensity. “What were you going to say?” she screamed into the sudden fury of the storm.

Water ran in rivulets down her eyes. It blurred her vision until she struggled to see the hard, angular planes of his face.

Christopher scooped her up yet again and all but sprinted the remaining distance home. By the time they’d reached the main drive, the rain had slowed to a steady, but slower patter. The butler, flung the doors open and Christopher sailed through.

“Lord Waxham,” Barker said.

“Have a hot bath prepared for Lady Waxham.”

Barker nodded. “Very well, my lord. But…”

“And have Cook prepare a tray of pastries and hot tea.”

“Yes, my lord. If you’ll allow me to…”

“What have we here?” That slow, condescending drawl cut into the butler’s words.

Christopher set Sophie down with such alacrity she fell against him.

Her heart plummeted as she faced the Marquess of Milford. The silver-haired peer stood at the bottom of the wide, spiral staircase. He ran a quick, assessing glance over her sopping frame. His lip curled back in a sneer.

“Father,” Christopher greeted.

Just like that, the magic of their wedding trip was shattered.

Christopher leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Why don’t you go abovestairs, Phi?”

Sophie nodded, grateful for the reprieve. She dipped a stiff, formal curtsy. “My lord.”

Her father-in-law inclined his head. Without a backward glance, Sophie hurried past him, and made her way to her chambers. Not for the first time, her heart breaking at the thought of Christopher growing up with such a miserable, cold man. How had her father ever considered that man a friend? The marquess was so very different than her father. The late viscount had been a sweet, affable man who’d bounced her upon a knee and visited the nursery for tea-parties with imaginary figures and dolls. She thought it more likely that Christopher’s father would delight in scaring small children.

Sophie entered her chambers and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the wood-panel, feeling like a thousand times the coward for abandoning her husband to the marquess.

***

Christopher stared after his wife. When she’d disappeared abovestairs, he turned to his father. “You couldn’t stay away? You had to come here, now?”

His father bristled. “I always spend my time at Milford House.”

“A fortnight, Father. That is all I’d intended to stay and then you were free to have your miserable, god-forsaken Milford House.”

The marquess’ eyes narrowed into small slits. “I needed to speak with you. Where are you going?”

Christopher paused on the third step. “I’m wet. Cold. And in desperate need of a change of attire. Whatever you came to speak with me about is going to have to wait.” His father’s impatient curse followed him up the stairs to his chambers.

His valet had apparently been notified of Christopher’s state of dishabille. He’d readied an immaculate pair of tan breeches and a sapphire waistcoat.

Christopher made quick work of changing into the dry garments. He didn’t bother with his soaked hair. Instead, he left the locks sopping wet. The ends of the strands brushed the collar of his shirt, and dampened the fabric.

He slipped his arms into the sleeves of jacket and tugged it closed, gritting his teeth. He should have expected his sire would do something as reprehensible as barging in on Christopher’s wedding trip. He’d never allowed him any happiness. It had always been about exhibiting a semblance of control over his son.

This past week, Christopher had been happier than he’d been in his entire life. Many times, he’d been on the cusp of confessing everything to Sophie. But none of the moments had seemed right. He and Phi had spent the days learning each other’s bodies, but more, they spent the time learning about each other. He learned her favorite sweet was in fact berries dipped in chocolate. He’d shared his love of the theatre. She’d entertained him with ribald ditties on the pianoforte.

He kept telling himself that he needed to tell her of his father’s plan and Christopher’s attempt to thwart those efforts. He intended to tell her. But something had always prevented him from doing so. Why, right before they’d been caught in the vicious storm, he’d been meaning to confess all.