Sex and the Single Earl (26 page)

Sophie’s hands clenched into fists. “Who told you that?”

“That hardly matters. More to the point, my friend is quite a rattle. He came straight to me, and only when I begged him to hold his tongue—as a special favor to me, you understand—was I able to stem the tide of gossip. For now.”

Sophie had read many books about India, and about the snake charmers who mesmerized their captive prey with a transfixing gaze. She felt like one of those hapless creatures right now, trapped by one who held all the power. “What do you want?”

Lady Randolph tilted her head, inspecting her with an almost sympathetic gaze. “You’re not right for him, you know. He needs someone more sophisticated. A wife who is able to see to his comforts.”

She smiled that cream-pot smile of hers, and Sophie wanted nothing more than to strike her right across her perfect face.

“And be the kind of hostess a man of his prominence deserves. You’re little more than a chit, my dear, and an awkward one at that. You can’t seem to keep yourself out of trouble, either. Can you imagine the uproar in the ton if it were known that the granddaughter of General Stanton visited taverns with her footman?”

Sophie clenched her jaw, rage and despair warring for dominance in her heart. “No one would believe you,” she retorted. “And I may be an awkward chit, but you’re a bitch.”

Lady Randolph looked stunned, but then she laughed—a bitter sound that hurt the ears.

“You’re right, my dear. An adventuress, some would call me. I respect your courage in confronting me, Miss Stanton, but not enough to change my mind. The ton
will
believe the rumors or, at least, enough of them to cause a scandal. Your reputation is precarious as it is. It wouldn’t take much to sink it completely.” She paused delicately. “We both know how much Simon would hate that.”

She came gracefully to her feet in a rustle of silk. For a moment, she looked at her reflection in the pier glass on the writing table and seemed to preen.

“Really, my child,” she said, her tone oddly kind, “you know you’re not the wife for Simon. You will only bring unhappiness on him and your family if you persist in this foolish engagement.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Sophie blurted out. “But you’re not the wife for him, either. Simon’s a good man. He would come to despise you, if he doesn’t already.”

Something like anguish flickered in Lady Randolph’s eyes. Her tightly gloved hand fluttered up to cover her heart.

“No.” Her voice sounded high and thin. She cleared her throat and began again. “No. We understand each other. We’re alike, he and I. He’s simply forgotten that for a little while. I’ll make him remember.”

She moved quickly to the door, without her usual ease. “My friend will keep his counsel if I tell him to. You have one day, Miss Stanton, to make your decision. By tomorrow, I will expect a note informing me that you have broken your engagement. If you do not”—she gave a shrug—“I can’t answer for the consequences. But I can certainly imagine how Simon will feel about the gossip. And as for General Stanton, perhaps the less said the better.”

Sophie tried to swallow the ball of pain that had lodged itself in her throat. She watched in despair as Lady Randolph reached for the door.

“Why are you doing this to us?”

The countess froze, her hand suspended above the knob. She slowly turned to look at Sophie. Her eyes were strangely weary, and the skin over her delicate features seemed as brittle as dry parchment.

“Because I must.” Her voice sounded as hollow as an empty well. “I’m sorry, my dear. It’s for the best—for all of us. I understand Simon. I’ll make him happy, I promise.”

Sophie frowned, struggling to understand the change in the other woman’s manner.

But a moment later the hard mask fell back into place. A cynical smile once more tugged at the corners of Lady Randolph’s lush mouth. “Don’t bother to get up, Miss Stanton, or ring the bell. I’ll show myself out.”

The door closed quietly behind her.

Sophie had no idea how long she sat there, staring blindly down at her lap. Simon would never marry Lady Randolph. If only one fact could penetrate the buzzing in her head, it was that. But he would never marry Sophie, either. Or if he did, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

The countess would make good on her threat. Even though many would not believe the more salacious elements of the tale, there was enough that was true. And, apparently, there were enough witnesses to verify she had been seen at The Silver Oak in very compromising circumstances. The scandal would be the biggest the ton had seen in years.

Simon would never forgive her. That he blamed her already for last night’s debacle was clear, and this would prove his point beyond all doubt. She had been halfway to forgiving him for his behaviour toward her, but now there was no question of that. She must drive him away, and make sure he understood she meant it. Their marriage could never survive the fatal taint of such heinous gossip, and he was too proud to bear it without his honor suffering a tremendous blow. Obligation would dictate he wed her, but there would be little affection and, in time, resentment would take its place.

Simon might even come to hate her. She couldn’t bear that. Better to be alone, with her few tattered shreds of dignity, than to be trapped in the sterility of a loveless marriage.

She stood and went to the door. He would be coming soon, and she must get herself ready. Not that it really mattered how she looked, she thought blearily. After all, she had already lost him. Finally, and forever.

The bells of St. Michael’s tolled out the noon hour as Simon hurried along Brock Street, cursing the time he’d wasted in yet another drawn-out meeting with Russell. He’d fully intended to call on Sophie first thing this morning, but had been forced to spend the past two hours convincing his erstwhile business partner there would be no repercussions from last night’s debacle.

It hadn’t been easy. Russell had been mortally offended by the incident. Soames, however, had outdone himself, explaining to the irate businessman what he had done to squelch potential gossip. The resourceful secretary had managed to convince the constable—with a little help from Simon’s purse—that it was James, and only James, who had befriended Toby and Becky and tried to help them.

Now that Taylor and his female accomplice were in custody, and the children already gone to their aunt in London, Simon had good reason to believe a scandal could be avoided. No one else had seen Sophie at the tavern, and he had every intention of getting her the hell out of Bath as quickly as possible. Since Becky and Toby had been satisfactorily dealt with, she couldn’t possibly have any more objections to leaving this godforsaken town. At least he hoped not.

A shout brought him back to his surroundings. He leaped back as a coach rounded the corner at Upper Church Street, lumbering by just a few inches from his booted feet. The driver cursed and shook his hand as the vehicle drove past.

Simon grimaced, annoyed by his own carelessness. He was so distracted by Sophie’s troubles he could barely think straight, much less walk down the street without getting run over by a carriage.

Every minute in Russell’s company this morning had been torture. More than once Simon had been tempted to excuse himself. Bedeviled by worry for Puck, he had wanted nothing more than to see for himself she was truly unharmed. Only the knowledge the factory owner would have bolted if Simon abandoned the meeting had kept him in his chair and away from her.

And, he admitted ruefully, his impatience also stemmed from a nagging concern about how she might respond to him after last night. He had been a brute, lashing out at her with mindless anger. But when he saw her flat on her back on that storeroom floor, with Taylor’s filthy hands groping under her skirts, rage had extinguished all rational thought. Thinking about it still made his gut churn, and part of him wished Sophie hadn’t stopped him. He would gladly have killed Taylor for what he had done to her and never suffered a moment’s regret.

He halted in front of his aunts’ townhouse in St. James’s Square, forcing himself to take a slow, steadying breath.
Bloody hell.
His hands were shaking. How had he let events slip so thoroughly out of control? Ever since he proposed to Sophie his life had been a series of chaotic episodes, each one bringing him closer to disaster. The sooner he had her riveted to his side, the better.

He knocked, and Yates opened the door.

“How are things today, Yates?” he asked, handing the morose-looking butler his hat and gloves.

“As well as could be expected, my lord. Lady Eleanor and Lady Jane are at the baths, and Miss Stanton is in the drawing room.”

“I’ll show myself up.” Simon took the steps two at a time, then quietly let himself into the drawing room.

Sophie had curled up on the settee, wrapped in a heavy white shawl and fast asleep. He trod lightly over the thick carpet to her side.

Deep in slumber, she looked exhausted and pale, with dark circles standing out like smudges under her eyes. As he took in the purpling bruise on her right cheek, the muscles in his upper body clenched tight as a fist.

He must have made a noise, because she stirred in her sleep and rolled onto her back. Her topknot came undone, and her hair fell against the pillows in a stream of living amber. The gentle swell of her breasts—creamy above the lace trim of her bodice—rose and fell in a soft rhythm. He felt the familiar tightening in his loins, this time combined with an overpowering urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her away, never to let her out of his sight.

He sighed. She looked as fragile as a buttercup, yet her delicate exterior hid a strong will and a warrior’s temperament. Her actions last night had been foolish beyond measure, but he could never doubt her courage. Or the fact that she was no longer a child, despite his harsh accusations. What she had done displayed a selfless generosity that was beyond him—an active sympathy for two wretched, impoverished children who had no one to look to but a sheltered young woman. And she had not hesitated for an instant to help them.

He bowed his head and accepted his fate. Sophie would never change, and she would run him ragged, but last night had finally shown him that he couldn’t live without her.

Kneeling on the floor beside her, he brushed the hair away from her face.

“It’s time to wake up, sweetheart.” He dropped a kiss on her plush mouth.

“Simon,” she murmured, still half asleep. One small hand clasped the lapel of his coat as she returned his kiss.

He nuzzled her, enjoying the sweet, drowsy taste of her mouth, then pulled back. “Yes, love. I’m here.”

Her eyes flew open, wide and startled behind the lenses of her spectacles. She jerked away and scrambled to the other end of the settee, pulling herself into a sitting position. Her expression grew wary.

He smiled, trying to ease her concern. She likely thought he still was angry with her. He reached out to stroke her face, but she dodged his hand.

His smile began to feel forced. “I’m sorry to wake you, Puck. I’m sure you’re very tired. I had a meeting with Russell this morning, and couldn’t get away.”

“Now there’s a surprise.” She grimaced and rubbed her right temple.

“Do you have the headache?” He tried to touch her face again, but she pushed his hand away and stood up.

He sighed and rose to his feet. She obviously wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Might as well get it over with.

“Sophie, I owe you an apology. I said things to you in the heat of the moment last night that I deeply regret. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

She snorted. “That’s all you ever do, Simon. Apologize after you’ve ripped me to shreds. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to live my life never knowing when the next attack will occur.”

He tamped down his irritation. “Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?”

“No, I don’t. You’re always mad at me—”

“Always, Sophie? Even when we’re in bed together?”

She scowled as a blush crept over her delicate cheekbones. “Last night was a perfect example. I tried to explain, but you wouldn’t listen. After all I’d been through, your first response was to threaten to send me away—or lock me up. I won’t have it, I tell you. So you might as well take yourself off right now,
Lord Trask
, and leave me alone.”

She was flushed and breathless, her eyes bright with a combination of anger and unshed tears. And her hands shook as she gripped the fabric of her skirt. Every instinct he possessed suddenly tingled into awareness.

“I know, love. I’m sorry,” he said, watching her carefully. “I would never do such a thing. You surely must know that. The shock of seeing you like that…well, let’s just say it unhinged me.”

She gave a little pant, looking more distressed by the minute. What in blazes was wrong with her? Why would she find his apology so upsetting?

“Sophie, surely you understand the danger you put yourself in. Not to mention what would happen to your reputation if anyone—”

“Hang my reputation,” she snapped. “It’s not my reputation you’re worried about, it’s yours. You’re obsessed with your reputation and your business. You don’t care a whit about me.”

“Don’t be a nod-nock,” he retorted as his irritation flared. “Of course I care about you. I’d have to, to apologize after you acted so foolishly last night. Why can’t you behave like a sensible woman and be content with the life you have?”

He wanted to recall the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Sure enough, her eyes popped wide with outrage.

He sighed. “Sophie—”

“No! I’ve had enough, Simon. You’re not my father or my brother. You have no right to tell me how to lead my life. I don’t want to marry you. Now go away and leave me alone.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Puck. What’s the matter with you? I’ve apologized, haven’t I? Tell me what’s really bothering you.”

He took a step forward, looming over her. She scuttled around behind the settee, as wary as a hunted rabbit. Despite his anger, she looked so unhappy it was all he could do not to seize her and fold her securely into his arms.

“You don’t love me, that’s what the matter is,” she blurted out. “I won’t marry a man who doesn’t love me. Now please leave me alone.” Her voice had climbed into a shrill, unfamiliar register.

He stood nailed to the floor, shocked by the intensity of her emotions, stunned by her desperate desire to be rid of him. Surely she couldn’t mean it? Not Sophie.

“You don’t love me,” she repeated when he didn’t answer. “Not the way I need to be loved.”

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he seem to move or say a word? All he could manage was to gaze at her as she stood there, hugging her body as if she feared she would fly into a thousand pieces at any moment. He took in her slim figure, her elfin face—so alive with feeling—and tried to imagine life without Sophie. It would be calm and orderly, businesslike and productive. Devoid of feeling and empty as hell.

“I do love you.” His entire body vibrated with the impact of those four simple words. “I’ve always loved you. And I always will.”

He gave a dazed laugh. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to say or do next. It was as if someone had put him in a blazing forge, softened him up, and then pounded him back into shape. Except it was a new shape, and everything about his world had changed.

She stared back, her complexion bleached as white as her wool shawl, her full mouth quivering, as if she held back sobs.

“You do?” she finally managed to choke out.

He moved around the settee to stand before her. “As unbelievable as you may think it, I do.”

She tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes full of vulnerability and hope, her soft mouth parting in surprise. His body instinctively answered her fragile, utterly feminine response with a pulse of heat and a raw surge of something that felt like joy.

Then she blinked, and the emotion drained from her face. Her pupils seemed to contract until all the light went out of her eyes.

“Like your grandfather loved your grandmother, Simon? Not even shedding a tear when she died. Is that how you love me?”

He heard a low, ugly noise, and realized that it came from his throat. She ignored it and kept on in a harsh voice he no longer recognized.

“I don’t believe you. You’re just like your grandfather, Simon. Cold and unfeeling. You’ll say anything to get what you want. And what you want is my land, not me. The man I loved no longer exists. He died years ago. I’d rather spend the rest of my days as a lonely spinster than be married to you.”

She moved toward the door, her slender back a rigid line underneath the gauzy fabric of her dress. “You can stay and explain to your aunts, if you want,” she said, not bothering to turn around. “I’m going to my room.”

As he watched her walk away, anger sliced through his gut and boiled in his chest. How dare she compare him to his grandfather? She, who knew better than anyone what the old man had been like. What the hell had gotten into her?

As for walking away…Sophie belonged to him, and no one could ever change that. Not even her. And she was naïve to think she could ever escape him.

Sophie could barely breathe as she walked to the door. She had accused him of the worst thing she could think of. Watching the love in his eyes transform into shock, then anger had sliced her heart into ribbons. Her harsh words had levelled him, and Simon would never forgive her.

It was for the best.
Lady Randolph’s words popped into her head, making her want to scream with the injustice of it all. She had to get out of the drawing room. Before despair overtook her, and before Simon recovered from his stunned paralysis. His anger would surely erupt any moment.

As her fingers reached for the brass knob, she heard him move in a hard rush. He pushed her flat against the wall, his chest a granitelike barrier along her spine. The impact of that masculine heat and strength sent a throbbing pulse of fear and longing coursing through her veins.

He twisted the key in the lock, blocking her escape.

“Let me go,” she gasped, struggling in the hard cradle of his upper body.

He didn’t give an inch. His brawny arms encircled her in an unbreakable grip as he pressed his fully rampant erection into the swell of her bottom.

“You think me cold, Sophie?” His voice was a fierce growl against the nape of her neck.

She ground her teeth, unable to repress a shiver of excitement.

“The last thing I am around you is cold.” His tongue darted hot and wet into her ear. “As you’re about to find out.”

One big hand moved up to capture her breast. His long fingers delved beneath the edge of her bodice, finding a nipple, squeezing it into an aching point.

“Go to hell.” Her voice was more plea than taunt as she tried to repress the arousal surging through her body.

“I probably will, but we’re going to go up in flames together first.”

He sucked the tender skin of her neck, licking and biting his way down to the top of her shoulder. His fingers worked at her breast, bringing a release of moisture between her legs.

How could she let him do this? How could
she
do this? She should scream—tell him he was hurting her, do something to make him stop. Letting him love her would only make things worse when she had to reject him again.

Her heart beat frantically against her ribs. God, she wanted him so much. Every part of her body responded to him, yearned for him. Prepared itself for the sweet invasion that made her shake with anticipation.

His questing mouth slid back up her neck to her jaw, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake. He nuzzled her cheek with a tenderness that unravelled her resistance.