Two Shades of Seduction (28 page)

“You were dreaming of
me
?” she sneered with disbelief.

“Yes,” he said fiercely. “Is it so hard to believe I would dream about my wife?”

A raw fury she’d never experienced in the whole of her life took root in her limbs. It made her long to leap forward and scratch his eyes. To make him bleed the same way her own heart was bleeding. She wanted him to feel the same humiliation she was feeling right now. Sharp fingernails dug into her palm as she eyed him with a bitterness that was growing by the second.

§  §  §

The vicious scorn on Sophie’s face made Quentin flinch. Christ Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why didn’t he just tell her how much he loved her? The thought almost made him laugh. She wouldn’t believe him. In fact, he wasn’t sure she’d ever believe anything he ever had to say again. Rage welled up inside him as he realized what revenge was costing him. He’d been so focused on destroying Townsend, he’d not been paying attention to the fact that he’d been falling in love with his wife. Now he was about to lose her, and he didn’t know how to stop the inevitable.

“You’re a fool if you expect me to believe anything you say, Devlyn.”

From the beginning of their argument, she’d addressed him formally, but it was the first time she’d referred to him solely by his titled name. She’d never done it before, and the single word held the sting of contempt that stabbed its way into every muscle of his body.

“Then I’m a fool, because I’m telling you the truth,” he said quietly. She stared at him for a long moment, her expression cold and unapproachable before she shook her head.

“Get out, Devlyn, and don’t ever come back into my bedchamber. I have no wish to be soiled by your touch ever again.”

“
Fuck
,” Quentin rasped as her words slammed into him like a battering ram. The last thread of his restraint broke, and he lunged forward to pull her into his arms. She gasped in shock before her palms pushed against his chest.

“Let. Me. Go.” She enunciated each word in a frigid voice. The bitterness he saw in her hazel eyes twisted his stomach until he wasn’t sure he could hold down the liquor he’d imbibed.

Quentin ignored her demand. Instead, he brushed the back of his hand along her cheek memorizing the silky softness of her skin against his. She trembled at the touch, and a knot swelled in his throat. God, how he loved her. His fingertips caressed her brow before tracing a line down the bridge of her nose to her lips.

“
Leave
. Now,” she said in a flat voice.

“Is my touch that abhorrent to you, Sophie?” At the question, he saw her throat bob as if she were struggled not to answer him. Quentin ran his thumb across her mouth. “Tell me, sweetheart. Can you honestly say you feel nothing when I touch you?”

“I feel…nothing.”

“Now it’s my turn not to believe,” he said gently. “Don’t try to deny the inevitable, Sophie. You’re mine. You always will be.”

“No,” she said in a hoarse voice. “My body might betray me, but know this. I despise you. You’re a callous, soulless bastard who isn’t fit to touch me.”

Quentin jerked away from her as each brutal word pounded its way into his midsection. The harsh reality of the situation crashed through his brain like a river slowly rising until it became a raging flood. A vise wrapped its way around his chest making it difficult to breathe as he met her icy gaze.

God help him. He’d lost.

Defeated, he offered her a stilted bow then headed toward the passage that connected their bedrooms. Every step leading away from her sent pain ripping through him until his only outlet for his agony was to close her chamber door behind him with a violent slam. The sound reverberated like an explosion in the small passage between their rooms. He closed his own bedroom door in the same vicious manner, but the crashing of wood against wood, did nothing to ease his grief. The only thing that would alleviate his sorrow was Sophie’s love.

T
he quiet rattle of china penetrated Sophie’s sleep, and she stirred beneath her covers. She ached everywhere. It was as if her father had beaten her for some minor transgression. She almost would have preferred that pain. At least it would have gone away eventually. The pain of losing Quentin would never go away.

She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory of last night. The soft clink of china forced Sophie to sit up as Rose moved toward the bed with her breakfast tray. Her stomach roiled. The last thing she wanted was food. She trembled as the events of the night before rolled over her. The heartache was still there, but it was mercifully buried beneath a numbness that insulated her from the pain.

“Good morning, my lady.” Rose settled the morning tray in front of Sophie. “Did you enjoy the opera last night?”

The innocent question made the numbness engulfing her body give way slightly until her body protested at the physical agony. Determinedly, she pushed the pain down deep to where it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Without answering the maid’s question, Sophie reached for her hot chocolate.

The beverage was hot on her tongue, and she sipped it gingerly. The sight of the newspaper on her tray made her stomach lurch. She couldn’t bear to read another word of gossip. Determined to avoid all mention of last night, she picked up the folded newsprint and handed it to her maid.

“Rose, please dispose of this right away,” she said quietly. “And don’t bring me the paper again, until I tell you it’s all right to do so.”

“Of course, my lady.” Rose quickly accepted the paper with a curtsey then left the room. Alone with her thoughts, Sophie stared down at the envelopes the newspaper had covered. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she recognized the crest on the letter on top of the stack. Mechanically, she picked up the letter and flipped it over. Emblazoned across the white parchment in Quentin’s bold, arrogant handwriting were the words Countess of Devlyn. Sophie pulled in a deep breath then set aside her chocolate to open the envelope. The parchment was smooth against her fingers.

Sophie,

I have made arrangements to stay at my club until we settle the discord between us. I have no wish to make you uncomfortable in your own home. Last night, I reminded you that my honor means everything to me. That is not completely true. There is something that means even more to me, and that is your good opinion of me.

When I left the theater last night, it was for the sole purpose of drinking myself into a stupor because of a revelation I’d had. An insight that would terrify even the bravest of men. It was easy to achieve my drunken state, but if I had realized my actions would cost me so dearly, I would not have allowed a drop of brandy to pass my lips.

Instead of awaking from my drunken stupor at the mercy of your sweet touch, I found myself tried and convicted by your sister’s thirst for revenge. No matter how damning the evidence may appear, I never laid a hand on Eleanor. I finished with her long ago. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I have no reason to lie.

A desire for vengeance brought us together, but I have realized that revenge serves no purpose except to steal one’s soul. Something I have no wish to lose when I have only just discovered the reason for my soul to exist.

Quentin

The letter slid from Sophie’s fingers as she closed her eyes. Tears slipped out from behind her eyelids to stream down her cheeks. There was something so heartfelt in his written words that it melted a small portion of the ice surrounding her heart. God help her, but the man could sway her just as easily with the written word as he could with his lips.

Even last night, despite the agony of seeing him with Eleanor, a small part of her had wanted to believe he was telling her the truth. Now this letter. She brushed away her tears and set aside the morning tray to get out of bed. Pulling her wrapper around her, Sophie paced the floor as she forced herself to relive the memory of what she’d witnessed in library last night. The images were as crisp and clear now as they’d been then.

Quentin reclined in a chair by the fire with Eleanor on her knees in front of him. She flinched against the memory. What purpose did any of this serve? The answer was a simple one. Self-preservation. Fingertips rubbing against her brow, Sophie forced herself to remember. An image of Eleanor fluttered in her head.

Although her stepsister’s hair had appeared slightly in disarray, she’d been fully clothed. Even her gown had seemed quite circumspect with the exception of the cap sleeve of her gown having fallen off one shoulder. Eleanor had certainly not portrayed the appearance of a woman engaged in a heated romantic encounter. Sophie shook her head. She had interrupted them. That was why her stepsister hadn’t appeared more disheveled.

An image of Quentin suddenly filled her head. Over the course of their marriage, she’d memorized hundreds of his expressions. There was the way his green eyes crinkled at the corners when he was teasing her or the way he looked at her when he was eager to get her alone in their bedroom. He’d had that same look on his face before he’d left her alone at the opera house.

It had led her to believe he would be waiting to take her to bed when she arrived home. She winced as she remembered how her happiness and excitement had evaporated in the space of one second. As she remembered the scene she’d stumbled upon, it was the range of expressions on Quentin’s face that she found the most troubling.

He’d clearly been bewildered by what was happening. Although his appearance had been tousled, it had been more in keeping with a man who’d been drinking just as he’d said. Disgusted with her efforts to make his protestations of innocence fit her memory of last night, Sophie blew out a harsh puff of air. She was a fool to think he was innocent.

Another image flitted through her head, and she bit down on her lip as she remembered how his confusion had given way to another emotion altogether. There had been a look of pained helplessness in his gaze. Almost as if he’d lost a treasured item and realized there was little he could do to find it again.

It had been a look of intense vulnerability. One she’d never seen on Quentin’s face before. Then there had been the strong scent of brandy on his breath when he’d pulled her close in his effort to convince her of his innocence. She bit her lip. She’d be a fool to believe such an outrageous story. But oh God how she wanted to believe.

Sophie picked up the letter to read it again, and her gaze kept returning to the sentence about the importance of his honor, but that her opinion of him meant even more than his honor. Why would her opinion mean anything to him if he intended to take Eleanor or any woman as his mistress? And what reason would he have for lying to her about it. None of it made any sense. But it was the last two sentences of his letter that made her heart ache with more pain than she ever thought possible. They were a fervent plea for her to believe him, and his words hinted at something so inconceivable she had no choice but to discount them.

With a sharp shake of her head, she scoffed at her nonsensical imaginings. Last night was not an illusion, and Quentin’s letter could not convince her otherwise. She didn’t know what he hoped to achieve by maintaining his innocence, but whatever it was, she refused to help him accomplish it.

L
eaning against a pillar in the Manchester ballroom, Quentin watched with increasing fury as one more male swelled the ranks surrounding his wife. In the three weeks since he’d moved into his club, Sophie had acquired more suitors than he had fingers.

His hand touched his breast pocket where the papers he carried with him everywhere rustled softly inside his jacket. If Sophie had read the scandal sheets the morning after that night at the opera, they’d done nothing to soften her heart where he was concerned. Quentin winced. He knew each of the snippets by heart.

Last night at the Alhambra, Lord Devil and his engAging wife were seen flirting with an exuberance that rivals that of last month’s lovebirds, Lord Foxed and Lady Vain. For a man who is said to despise the opera, Lord Devil was recently seen at the Alhambra completely bewitched by his wife, a remarkable state given the extraordinary age of Lady Devil. If one did not fathom the ridiculous nature of the question, one might swear the Lord Devil is in love with his wife.