Kane, Samantha - Brothers In Arms 4 (2 page)

Today’s mantra was different. Today it went something like,
please let him marry me
,

please let him marry me
. It was a shorter version of the prayer she’d been sending to God every day for the last twelve years. She knew nothing about him. As a matter of fact she hardly remembered what he looked like she’d been so frightened that day he and his father had come to sign the papers for the betrothal. She’d assumed then that he was like her father and her brother Harold—crude, mean and vicious. She’d thought he was going to take her away that day and she was scared. She knew how to deal with her father and Harold, where to hide from them and what to say to avoid the worst when hiding wasn’t possible. She didn’t know how to protect herself from Mr. Witherspoon or his father.

But they had left her there that day. Before leaving he’d spoken directly to her, the first and only time. She remembered his words quite clearly, she’d repeated them to herself so often since.

“Well, little girl,” he had drawled with a smile, “so we’re to be married, hmm? I daresay it won’t be that bad. I’m not such an awful character, after all. I shall try to make you happy and treat you very well, I suppose. But first we both need to grow up.

When you are grown, Miss Middleton, I will come for you and you shall be my wife.”

In the years after he left her there, Sophie’s life in her father’s house grew worse and worse. The only thing that had kept her sane all these years was the memory of his words and the promise he had made. She knew she was no bargain. Harold had told her often enough that she was not attractive. She was too plain, too thin, too intelligent to be thought of as pretty. Harold had told her Mr. Witherspoon was never coming.

That he would never want a girl like Sophie for a wife. Harold tortured her with his taunting, his threats to tell Mr. Witherspoon all about her, and then surely he would never come. Sophie couldn’t help but think it was a good thing she hadn’t remembered that he was beautiful. Tall, with golden hair, classically chiseled features and kind blue eyes the color of the summer sky. If she had remembered she would have had no hope to sustain her through her long wait.

Then two months ago his letter came. Harold had been gone for almost a year, the most wonderful year of Sophie’s life. He was on the Continent gaining polish, as Sir Middleton put it. Personally Sophie didn’t think there was any amount of polish that would shine up Harold’s tarnished soul. When her father had come to tell her that Mr.

Witherspoon had finally decided to marry her after all, she was numb with shock, 8

At Love’s Command

sitting in the small solar she claimed for herself for hours, unable to believe it was true.

That night at dinner Sir Middleton had informed her they were to go to London in two months time to visit with Mr. Witherspoon and plan the wedding. Sophie had been forced to excuse herself early and barely made it to her room before she broke down.

She’d cried until she had no more tears, until her chest and her throat ached. She was leaving her father’s house. She was getting
out
.

The last two months had been harder than the previous twelve years. She now

knew that freedom awaited her and it made her chains that much harder to bear. Each morning she woke up wondering if that was the day that Harold would return and ruin everything. But Harold never came, and finally, finally the day arrived when they could leave for London. Sophie had very carefully not spoken more than a dozen words to her father since Mr. Witherspoon’s letter arrived. She gave him no reason to postpone the trip or, God forbid, cancel it.

And then they were here, in his house. But Sophie’s wait was not over; he hadn’t been here. A whole week he’d left her wondering if he was going to go through with it.

The footfall of a servant in the hallway made her flinch, prepared for a letter from him saying he’d changed his mind. Her father had settled into the townhouse as if he owned it, conducting business out of Mr. Witherspoon’s library and drinking his spirits and berating his servants. And Sophie had waited quietly, just as she had for the last twelve years.
Please let him marry me
,
please let him marry me
. And now here he was.

“Miss Middleton?” Mr. Witherspoon was speaking to her, and she realized he

expected an answer from her. He wasn’t going to just accept her father’s words as her own. He wanted to hear
her
. It was a heady experience.

“I…” She had to stop to clear her throat. She wasn’t expected to talk very often. “I do not require an explanation, sir. I am glad you are well and finally arrived.” There, that ought to do all right. There was nothing in her statement to take offense at, surely.

It was polite and noncommittal.

“I hope your wait was not unpleasant?” Mr. Witherspoon inquired as politely. “You have been made comfortable by my servants, have you not?”

“Ignore her, sir!” Sir Middleton angrily replied. “‘Finally arrived’, indeed! Are you complaining, girl?” He stalked across the room to grab her arm, and Sophie stiffened her back in preparation. She didn’t move away, that always made it worse. Before he could touch her, Mr. Witherspoon intercepted him, deftly leading him over to the settee.

“Could I interest you in a drink, Sir Middleton? I have quite an impressive

collection of scotch. A friend in the Highlands sends it to me, you know. It is early, but finally seeing this marriage through is cause for celebration, is it not?” He smoothly rang for a servant while he spoke. The butler materialized in the doorway.

“Scotch, please, Montague,” Mr. Witherspoon told him, and the servant turned

away without another word.

9

Samantha Kane

“A drink would be welcome, Witherspoon. Your butler kindly let me sample some

of that scotch in your absence. Excellent stuff, excellent.”

Mr. Witherspoon beamed at him. “Thank you, Sir Middleton. It is quite my favorite beverage as well.”

Almost immediately Montague reappeared with two glasses and a bottle on a tray.

“Tea, miss?” he asked Sophie quietly as he poured the scotch.

Montague had been unfailingly polite to her, even almost kind, and Sophie secretly liked him. She didn’t let it show of course—he was a servant and her father got very upset if she was too familiar with the servants. She didn’t want her father to tell Mr.

Witherspoon and get Montague sacked. When she replied, she kept her tone

impersonal. “No thank you.”

Mr. Witherspoon looked at her oddly when she answered Montague. Her features

remained neutral, but inside she was panicking. Oh God, what had she done? Should she have taken tea? Ignored Montague? What?

Mr. Witherspoon looked back at her father without speaking to her. “Here is your scotch, Sir Middleton. Do enjoy it while I discuss some ideas about the wedding with Miss Middleton. Boring stuff, really. I shall return her after we’ve made some

decisions.”

While he’d been talking, he kept in constant motion. He handed her father his drink and glided over to take Sophie’s elbow and urged her toward the door. She was stiff and clumsy next to him, surprised at his ability to manipulate her father, shocked at the heat and strength of his hand on her arm. She was prepared for his grip to get tighter, to bruise as he pulled her in his wake, but it remained gentle yet firm.

Sophie’s father was frowning. “Plan what you like, Witherspoon. Sophia doesn’t

need a large wedding—too old for that. I’ve not a lot of time or blunt to waste on her, anyhow. Spent all I’m going to spend in that department on her sister’s wedding.

Corrina, now, she did well. Married to Lord Applesmith, she is,” he said crassly.

Mr. Witherspoon stopped in the drawing room doorway and smiled politely at her

father, clearly refusing to take offense. “Applesmith, you say? Good man, good man.

Excellent. Well, Miss Middleton may have what she likes, I daresay.”

Before her father could answer, the footman closed the door behind them. Sophie expected to hear him bellow after them, but silence greeted their departure. She demurely followed Mr. Witherspoon, but inside she was rejoicing. Her father let her go.

He was already giving up the irksome responsibility of her to Mr. Witherspoon. Now if only she could be sure that was a good thing.

Ian kept a gentle grip on Sophia’s arm as he led her to his study, but inside he was seething. Wasn’t she even allowed to have tea, for Christ’s sake? What an utterly graceless baboon her father was. He had no recollection of that. If he’d had any idea he certainly would have rescued poor Sophia by now.

10

At Love’s Command

If she wanted rescuing, that was. He was as unsure of her thoughts and feelings now as he had been when he walked into the salon. She gave nothing away, other than her obvious dislike of her father, who was oblivious to it. Ian couldn’t really blame her there, anyway. No, what she failed to reveal was how she felt about him and this marriage. That was what he intended to find out once he got her alone in his study.

Hopefully she would talk more there. He’d actually counted her words this morning.

She had spoken less than twenty in the entire conversation.

He led Sophia to a comfortable chair directly across from a deep burgundy velvet chaise. Ian and Derek had spent many an hour ensconced in the study reading in those two chairs. After seating her, Ian returned and closed the door to ensure their privacy.

When he turned back around Sophia looked a little frightened. Marvelous, his bride-to-be was scared to be in the same room with him. This just got better and better.

She had not said a word, nothing. If she were frightened she apparently wasn’t

going to talk about it. Sighing inwardly, Ian carefully walked over and sat down on the chaise facing her.

“Miss Middleton…” he began and then paused. “Do you mind if I call you

Sophia?”

She nodded. Well, it was a response anyway. “Is that a yes you mind or yes I may call you Sophia?” Ian asked teasingly, trying to draw her out.

“You may call me whatever pleases you, Mr. Witherspoon,” she answered quietly.

Her voice was low and husky, probably from lack of use, Ian thought wryly.

Nevertheless, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he liked it. It raised the hairs on the nape of his neck in a sure sign of desire. How odd to actually want her, Ian mused.

Amber eyes, copper hair, velvet voice—little Sophia Middleton was turning out to be not at all what he had expected, in both positive and negative ways. He frowned at the thought.

In an absentminded way he watched Sophia’s mouth tighten. He looked up into her eyes and she quickly looked down. Damn, she must have seen him frowning and

assumed he was angry at her.

“Sophia, I wanted to get you alone to ask if this is all right with you.” Ian kept his tone gentle and schooled his features into a pleasant mask.

Sophia just looked confused. “If…if what is all right with me?”

Ian waved a hand vaguely in the air. “All this, the wedding, the marriage, me. Do you want to marry me? You needn’t go through with it if you don’t want to, you know.

I won’t make you.”

When you are grown
,
Miss Middleton
,
I shall come for you and you shall be my wife
. He didn’t want to marry her, Sophie thought, horrified. It was a promise made by a young boy who was forced into a situation he had no control over. Now that he was a man, he didn’t want to marry her. Oh, she’d known it all along, really. Harold had tried to warn her but she hadn’t wanted to believe him. She’d convinced herself it was more of his 11

Samantha Kane

emotional torture, but he’d been telling the truth. She supposed when Mr. Witherspoon waited four years past the specified date in the marriage contract to even contact them, she should have suspected as much. And now here it was—he was going to toss her off.

Sophie closed her eyes. After the first two or three times Harold had touched her, she’d stopped begging. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, no matter what he did.

But here she would beg if she had to. She had no pride left, nothing to lose. She would beg Mr. Witherspoon to marry her. Slowly Sophie sank down to her knees.

Derek had slipped out the French doors to the terrace when he heard Ian and his fiancée coming down the hall to the study. He’d been hiding in there trying to take comfort from one of his and Ian’s favorite rooms. Now it, too, was to be tainted by that bitch.

She sounded like an idiot. “You may call me whatever pleases you, Mr.

Witherspoon,” and, “if what is all right with me?” God, how could Ian stand it? Derek was tempted to peek and see what she looked like. He could picture her now with her perfect brown hair and vacant brown eyes, dolled up in the very latest, most expensive fashions. Her papa had bought her a noble connection. Bah! She was a slut fucking her way into the nobility.

When Ian asked her if she wanted to marry him, Derek held his breath. Perhaps she would say no. Ian wouldn’t make her, he was telling the truth. He’d set her free and play the blackguard to save her reputation. She was silent so long Derek leaned over to look through the door.

“What the hell?” Ian suddenly exclaimed from inside the study and Derek moved

faster to look through the glass. He didn’t know what to make of the scene that greeted him.

Ian was standing in front of the chaise and Miss Middleton was kneeling before

him. As Derek watched, she lowered her head to the floor at Ian’s feet, clasping her hands before her as if in prayer.

“Please, Mr. Witherspoon, if you have any charity in your soul, please, I beg you, marry me.” Her voice was low, muffled by the carpet, but Derek could hear the tremor in it, could almost feel her sincerity.
She isn
’
t perfect
, was all he could think.

“Sophia, Sophia, please, get up,” Ian implored her, reaching down and grabbing her shoulders to lift her. He managed to raise her head and torso though she remained kneeling. Derek jerked back at the sight of the tears on her face.