Married to a Stranger (12 page)

She knew she had blushed and that her smile had frozen on her lips. She could tell he understood why she was so suddenly out of countenance; the wretched man seemed to read her like a book. Sophia subsided into embarrassed silence.

‘Very little, beyond admiring them at social events. And, of course, society fashions in India are always a good season or two behind the mode here. If you are enquiring if I bought my mistresses fashionable gowns, no, I did not.’ He waited a beat, then added, ‘They always preferred silks.’

The image of Callum reclining on heaped cushions like an Eastern potentate surrounded by exquisite golden-skinned beauties with long black hair and dark eyes swam vividly into her mind. She recalled the robe and slippers in his room and how she had found the idea of him wearing them unsettling. She had heard that the East India Company encouraged liaisons, and marriages, between their officers and Indian women, but somehow she had never related that to Daniel or Callum.

Pride came to her rescue. ‘I can well believe it,’ Sophia said with a smile that felt tight on her lips. ‘Why should they want to be enveloped in tight lacing and layers of petticoats and silly frills in that heat when there are those beautiful fabrics and flowing costumes?’

Callum narrowed his eyes at her response. So, he had been trying to shock her, had he? ‘Did you bring her with you?’ she asked. ‘Your current mistress at the time? Was the poor soul drowned?’ Even as she said it she winced inwardly at how her temper had betrayed her into cruelty—he would have felt affection for the woman at the very least.

‘No, I did not. We should not be discussing such things.’ He strode into the room and poured wine into a glass.

‘Why not? I am not a sheltered little virgin any more and you brought the subject up.’ Callum lifted the glass to his lips, his profile turned to her, revealing nothing except a complete absence of humour. ‘And I would like a glass of wine, if you please.’

He put down his glass and poured another. ‘I paid off my mistress when I returned to Calcutta. And I have not taken one since. Are you satisfied? May we drop the subject now?’

‘Certainly, if it makes you uncomfortable.’ She took the proffered glass and pointedly avoided touching his hand as she did so. ‘Thank you.’

‘It does not make me uncomfortable,’ he snapped, ‘if by that you mean I have a guilty conscience. It is simply not a suitable subject for discussion with one’s wife.’ Sophia merely arched one eyebrow in what she hoped was elegant disbelief. ‘Do you think Daniel and I were living like monks?’

‘Of course I do not! I suppose I always knew that is how men behave, whilst unmarried women must maintain an aura of virgin purity and wait for them to decide to stop their raking and come home.’

But that was a lie. She had never once thought about Daniel and other women because the truth was, by the time she had come to understand about such matters, she must have fallen out of love with him and it did not matter to her. But whether Callum kept a mistress did matter somehow, even though she knew many married men thought nothing of it. ‘Not that coming home and marrying is any guarantee of fidelity, I quite understand that, too.’

‘Indeed?’ Callum demanded. He had taken up position before the empty fireplace beneath a large mirror that reflected his back to her. The rigid set of his shoulders appeared as furious as his front view. Sophia quaked inwardly and took a gulp of wine. ‘You expect me to set up a mistress in London, do you?’

‘Well … not immediately. You have a lot to deal with just now and I expect it is not a matter of impulse. It must be like choosing a quality horse, I suppose—an investment.’

‘Let us be clear, Mrs Chatterton. I am married to you. I took vows. That means I am faithful to you. If I had made arrangements before, then those are now over. Is there anything in that statement that is open to misinterpretation? Because if so, let us deal with any further questions you might have about my morals here and now.’

She had made him very, very angry, she realised. What on earth had made her think she could tease him? It must have been that grin, that sudden flash of humour. Sophia said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I am sincerely glad that I am not one of your clerks, or some poor soul up before you as magistrate.’ His expression of cold displeasure darkened and she added, ‘That was very clear, thank you.’

‘Excellent. And I hope the same goes for you. I will not tolerate unfaithfulness.’

‘How dare you! If you think for one moment that I would take a lover—’

‘Dinner is served, madam,’ Hawksley said behind her.

Chapter Twelve

C
allum would not come to her tonight, not after that ghastly scene in the drawing room. Sophia sat bolt upright in bed, her hands knotted in the sheet. How much had Hawksley heard? She had not been aware of the door opening behind her—had it been ajar? The entire staff could have overheard.

She felt sick. Callum was obviously furious—how could he be anything else? Her foolish teasing had turned into a display that he could characterise as vulgar or jealous or immodest, or all three. And she could not blame him. Why had she reacted so badly to the thought that he might take a mistress? It was what men did. And she could hardly delude herself that hers was a love match.

He had been so polite throughout dinner afterwards that it had cut like a knife. Of course he was well bred and so much in control that he could preserve a perfect front before the servants. From somewhere she had conjured up equally polite responses with the result that they must have sounded like complete strangers who did not take to each other very much, gamely making conversation during some interminable dinner party.

Hawksley had looked as though he was stuffed. So had Michael and Andrew. But then good servants always did when they were trying to be inconspicuous during meals.

He won’t come tonight. He won’t come until he forgives me—and how am I ever going to make him do that when I dare not mention the subject to apologise?

The door opened and the candles flickered wildly. ‘Callum?’ It came out as a squeak.

‘Who else were you expecting, pray?’ There was an edge to the question that she supposed she deserved. Her husband was still in evening breeches and tailcoat. As she watched, wide-eyed with apprehension, he began to undress, each garment placed on the chair with a deliberation that only tightened her trepidation, notch by notch.

‘No one, of course. I was not expecting you. I thought after we had quarrelled that you would not want to come to me.’

‘That was not a quarrel,’ Callum said as he sat down and rolled off his stockings. ‘That was a clarification of expectations.’

He stood up and draped his shirt over the back of the chair. Sophia’s eyes followed his hands to the waistband of his breeches. The thin silk hid nothing, which was something that young ladies were expected to ignore. One averted one’s eyes from this insight into male anatomy, although as one outrageous dowager had said within Sophia’s hearing at a party, it was interesting to see what the young men were thinking about.

Callum was not, apparently, thinking about making love to her. Then why had he come? Perhaps she was going to get another lecture about her behaviour, although she could not think of anything else she had done wrong. Not yet. A sin of omission, then. Sophia swallowed a sigh.

He stood there, hands at his waist for a moment, then turned and began to systematically snuff out the candles, as he had done the night before, only this time he did not stop when he reached the bedside table, but extended a hand to the wicks of those too.

‘Would you prefer it if the room was dark?’

Perhaps he wanted it? Uncertain, she nodded and the final flames vanished, leaving only the smell of hot wax.

Wide-eyed in the gloom, Sophia heard the whisper of falling material and then the covers were moved as Callum slid into bed beside her. He turned and pressed her back against the pillows and she became aware that he did, after all, want to make love. Had she been forgiven, or had he blown out the candles because he preferred not to look at her while he was still angry over her tactlessness?

His hands were not unkind as they moved on her body, nor was his kiss careless, but then she had never feared that he was a man who would hurt her physically. Sophia tried to recapture the sensual feelings she had experienced the previous night and found, although exactly the same things appeared to be happening, there was none of the pleasure as his hands cupped and caressed her breast, teased her nipples, stroked down her hip.

Was it the darkness? But the strong body over hers was the same to touch, to smell, as it had been before: she felt no fear of him. His hands were as skilful, as bold, as they had been before. But something was missing, some magic that had been there on their wedding night, despite the discomfort and all her fears.

Sophia made herself relax, tried to recall what she had done with her own hands, how she had held Callum, encouraged him, caressed him, but her body seemed as numb as her mind. He was pushing her thighs apart now and she opened to him, obedient and passive.

She felt him lift his head as he braced himself over her. ‘Sophia.’

‘Callum,’ she whispered. ‘Callum.’ And he thrust and filled her and began to move and still she felt nothing at all except the strength of the man possessing her and a kind of desperate loneliness.

Had it taken so long before? He seemed to be waiting for something else to happen. She clung to him, moved with him as best she could and bit back the sigh of relief when Callum shuddered and went limp in her arms.

His heart thudded against her breast. After a moment he turned his head on her shoulder and she felt his breath on her cheek. ‘You … That was not good for you.’

‘Yes, yes, it was,’ she lied, forcing a smile because she knew he would hear it in her voice and believe her satisfied. ‘It was just … I am a little tired and perhaps upset because of our … The discussion before dinner.’

‘I will help you.’ Callum shifted and she felt his hand between her thighs, parting the slick swollen folds.

‘No, no, really, it is all right.’ She did not understand what he meant to do, but she did not think she could cope with the embarrassment of finding out. She tightened her muscles to hold her legs together and after a moment he withdrew his hand.

‘I will let you sleep, then.’ He got out of bed, pulled the covers back over her and she heard him moving about in the darkness, gathering up his clothes.

‘Goodnight, Callum,’ she said as the door opened and she saw him silhouetted against the landing candle-glow.

‘Goodnight.’ The door closed and left her in the darkness, confused and uncomfortable and bitterly disappointed.

She had hoped to spend the next day quietly drawing, which never failed to calm and cheer her, but instead, at two in the afternoon, she found herself sitting stiffly in a hired carriage, her new calling cards in her reticule and Chivers in her best outfit perched opposite.

‘I forgot to tell you, I had callers yesterday when I was out,’ she had said at breakfast. ‘Five cards—and none of them people I have heard of.’ She patted the oblongs of stiff pasteboard with their gilt edges and black printing into a pile and passed them to Callum as he pushed back his breakfast plate.

‘Mrs Sommerson, Lady Archbold, Lady Randolph,

Mrs Hickson and the Dowager Countess of Milverley,’ Callum read. ‘An impressive haul, and all in person too.’ He indicated the turned-down corners. ‘You had best pay some return visits speedily—and let it be known on which days you will be at home for morning calls yourself. Sommerson, Archbold and Randolph are Directors of the Company, Mrs Hickson is a distant cousin of mine and Lady Milverley was a friend of my mother. I let it be known at the office that we were receiving and doubtless the family have been writing to all their acquaintances in town and mentioning that we were coming up.’

‘You will come with me this afternoon?’ It was a plea, not a question, and she felt ashamed of her cowardice. ‘I did not think we would receive calls, not at this time of year. Why are they all in London? It is almost October.’

‘Not everyone flees to the country during the summer and, in any case, people are drifting back now. We will receive some invitations, too. It is good,’ Callum added encouragingly. ‘There won’t be too many people—no great crushes. You will be up to snuff by the time the Season starts.

‘The ladies called on you by themselves.’ Callum turned over the little pile of cards. ‘It will be expected that you return the call without me. I’ll have a carriage sent round from the stables this afternoon, you won’t want to use a hackney.’

‘No,’ Sophia agreed. ‘Thank you.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘What a good thing my new afternoon gown has been delivered.’

The knowledge that her gown was in the mode was a help now. At least she did not feel dowdy. And even if the ladies were at home, it would only be half an hour at most with each of them. It would be just as it had been in the country, only this time she was not with Mama and the ladies would be total strangers. Callum had said nothing about the need to make a good impression, but he had not needed to; she was acutely aware that four of them would be reporting back to men who held great sway in the Company. If they told their husbands that Callum Chatterton had made a mistake and married a gauche, socially inept young woman, it would damage his career.

‘Lady Randolph’s house, ma’am.’ Andrew, who had been riding with the coachman, opened the door, took the card she handed him and went up the steps to give an impressive ‘London knock’ on the dark green door. It opened, Sophia crossed her fingers in the hope that no one was in, but Andrew was coming back and the door stayed open. In she must go.

‘Mrs Chatterton, my lady.’

‘My dear Mrs Chatterton.’ A willowy lady rose and came forwards. ‘How kind of you to call.’

‘Lady Randolph.’ Sophia managed the slight curtsy that was required. There were three other women, all middle aged, all regarding her from the circle of chairs around the tea tray. ‘I am so sorry I was away from home yesterday.’

‘Not at all. You young things are all so busy these days,’ she said languidly. ‘Let me introduce you. Mrs Sommerson.’ Plump with a tight, mean mouth that seemed reluctant to smile. ‘Lady Archbold.’ Grey hair, grey eyes, large teeth. ‘Mrs Hickson.’ Snapping black eyes, a small terrier of a woman.

Sophia shook hands, slightly overwhelmed, but also grateful that this was the first house she had come to. It had cut the calls she needed to make to two. ‘Ladies, I had intended to call upon all of you. Thank you for calling yesterday.’

‘Not at all.’ Lady Archbold fixed her with a beady stare while her hostess poured tea. ‘We naturally wanted to make sure that Mr Chatterton’s new bride had every attention. Such a promising young man.’ It sounded like a threat or a warning of what she must live up to.

Sophia cast around for a neutral topic of conversation, then saw the picture that hung over the fireplace, a portrait of two young girls sitting on a bench in a flowery garden, a basket of puppies at their feet. The paint looked fresh and glistening and very new.

‘What a delightful double portrait, Lady Randolph.’

It was obviously the right thing to say. Her hostess beamed. ‘My granddaughters by Joshua Robertson.’

‘He must be very talented. He has caught their personalities, it seems. There are so many artists to select from, it must have been hard to choose.’

‘Well, we picked a coming man,’ Lady Randolph said. ‘I wished not to simply follow the fashion. These celebrity artists get above themselves, one feels.’

And charge so much more, too,
Sophia thought wickedly. ‘And they are all men, I suppose?’ she said. ‘There are no Angelica Kauffmanns to be found in London these days?’

‘Certainly not! One could not patronise such a female even if there was.’

‘But she was very good—a fine artist?’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ Mrs Hickson said with a sniff. ‘These famous men might pretend otherwise, but it is a
trade
, after all. A woman might as well take up cabinet making! And, of course, the environment is hardly decent—all those unclad models and
hours
spent in studios. One knows what goes on! Wild parties, louche behaviour—no female artist could be anything but one step from being a common harlot.’

‘She might as well go on the stage,’ Sophia said with a smile and gritted teeth. She had suspected that would be the attitude, but she had hoped that in the sophisticated climate of the capital the conservative attitudes of a country town would not prevail. She had been wrong.

Two hours later Sophia emerged from Lady Milverley’s Mayfair house, feeling she had spent the afternoon being pummelled and rung out in a box mangle. She had done her duty, she thought she had made a good impression and not let Callum down, but this collection of new acquaintances made her feel lonelier than ever. Certainly none of them was of an age to become a friend and all of them seemed to have been inspecting and assessing her. She only hoped she had passed muster.

As soon as she reached home she ran up to her sitting room and found her sketch book.

* * *

By the time Callum came home the five ladies had been consigned to paper along with the host of other portraits she scribbled down, almost compulsively. But it only partly soothed the knowledge that her work must remain unseen outside her circle of acquaintances, a mere genteel pastime.

There on the page were all the servants, the guests at the dinner party when Masterton had kissed her, people seen on their journey to London, shoppers and shop assistants. The likenesses seemed to flow from her pencil, taking with them all the little jabs at her nerves, her irritation over the curiosity, her fears about making the right impression, even her loneliness.

‘There were more calls this afternoon.’ She made a mental note to speak to Cook—the soup had too much pepper. ‘Two more ladies with Company connections, a Mrs Hooper with her daughters—she tells me she is a connection of Papa’s, although I cannot quite work it out—and Lady Constable, who says she was Daniel’s godmother.’

‘Excellent.’ Callum seemed to find the soup acceptable. ‘You see, I said you would manage perfectly well. We will be receiving invitations soon. The ladies have taken to you. Tell me, what have you done for the rest of the time?’

Every evening he would take an interest in the mild excitements of her day—what she had read, where she had shopped, the problems with the kitchen maid and the discovery of mice in the drawing-room skirting. Sophia felt she was being judged, kindly, against an unspoken standard of Suitable Wife and, on the whole, being found acceptable. But she did not mention her drawings, or tell Callum about them;
that
, she sensed, would not be considered acceptable. Still lives and landscapes, yes. Sharp, unflattering little portraits of his acquaintance, no.