Married to a Stranger (17 page)

‘He made you want him? Callum’s tactical skills are just what one would expect,’ Lady Iwerne said with a wry smile as the butler brought in the tea tray. ‘How very clever of him,’ she added as the door closed again and Averil began to pour. ‘He is most attractive,’ she added slyly.

‘And now, here I am, indeed, Lady Iwerne,’ Sophia said, trying to pretend she had not heard that last remark. ‘I only hope I can make Callum a good wife.’

‘Call me Dita, please. We will be friends, I know it.’ And looking into her intelligent, vivid face, Sophia believed it. Dita smiled. ‘I, being far less dutiful than you, can only hope Callum will make
you
happy. You are very modest, but it is not as though he gains nothing from this marriage—an attractive, intelligent wife, support at home as he starts his career in England, someone who knows and understands his family. Do you love him?’

‘Yes—oh!’ With a hand that shook, Sophia took the tea cup Averil was offering. ‘I did not mean to say that. He doesn’t know how I feel.’

‘And it is such a difficult thing to say, isn’t it? Only three words, but when one has no idea what the reply will be, they just seem to freeze on your lips,’ Averil said with a smile. ‘And men are even worse than we are—sometimes it takes them a while to understand how they feel.’

Dita rolled her eyes. ‘Quite. Well, you have us now. How can we help? Let me think. Is everything all right in the bedroom? Does he need seducing?’

Averil gave a snort of laughter. ‘No!’ Sophia knew she had gone crimson. ‘Everything is just wond—I mean, that is not the problem.’ As she recovered her composure she realised that Dita’s assured manner of speaking of such things probably meant that she and the marquess had been lovers, just as Averil and Luc had been before their marriage. It was shocking, but it was also reassuring to know that feeling about lovemaking as she did was not something unusual or wicked. She had wished for married friends her own age to confide in, and here they were.

‘Callum is very cool,’ she added with some haste. Dita’s exquisitely groomed eyebrows rose. ‘I mean, out of the bedchamber. Very pleasant, very kind and amiable. Sometimes it is like living with a man who is on the other side of a sheet of glass. Sometimes I think that making … er … the bedroom, is the only thing that really warms him.’

‘He was always the controlled one, the ambitious, hard- working twin,’ Averil said, frowning. ‘But I would never have called him cool or distant. He was witty and a good friend.’

Dita nodded in agreement. ‘I’ve seen him in fits of laughter and engaging with other people’s enjoyments.’

‘He still misses Daniel dreadfully, I think. It has hurt him very much to lose him,’ Sophia said. ‘They were in each other’s heads, somehow. I can remember that. It must be like losing part of yourself. I don’t know how to fill that void for him, or even if I should try. I had fallen out of love with Daniel, you see. Callum knows that. I felt, I
still
feel, so guilty about it—but how could I feel the same? We had grown up. I was different, he must have been too.’

The words seemed to spill from her mouth and the relief at saying it, at being honest with friends, and not just with Callum, was intense. The other women were silent as her impulsive words died away into silence. Were they shocked? Disgusted? She braced herself for their reaction.

‘I can quite see that. Ten years apart—of course you had changed,’ Dita stated. There was a sympathetic silence, then she added, ‘Well, at least you are out of mourning, by the look of things. That will help both of you.’

‘We have begun to go out in society now. In fact, we are having our first dinner party tonight.’ A thought struck her. ‘I know it is dreadfully short notice, but would you—?’

‘Come to dinner? We would love to—I was hoping you would ask. Now I know I am forgiven. We must have another cup of tea, and then we will catch up on all the news.’

Chapter Seventeen

S
ophia returned home at seven in the evening fizzing with excitement. She swept through the front door just as Callum came down the stairs, suavely elegant in evening dress, his golden skin and dark hair the perfect foil for white linen and deep blue cloth. ‘My dear, I was about to send out a search party.’

‘Oh, Callum, I am late, I am so sorry—and after I was so cross when you were late the other day, too! Did you have a good day at the docks?’

‘Thank you, yes.’ He eyed her portfolio and the brown paper parcel. ‘You have been shopping at this time in the evening?’

‘Oh, no. I mean … yes, I went shopping and then I called on Averil and Lady Iwerne was there so I have invited her and Lord Iwerne for dinner tonight as well. They’ve just got back to town from their honeymoon, too, just like Averil and Luc. I do like her, very much. Only, we fell to talking and I quite forgot the time. But I remembered to send a message to the staff about the two extra guests, and the wedding presents have been unpacked,’ she finished, breathless.

‘I shall be delighted to see both the presents and our guests.’ And he did look pleased, Sophia thought with relief. She had not been sure it was quite the thing to invite a marquess to dinner at such short notice.

‘I must run and get changed.’

Callum stood aside courteously to allow her to mount the stairs. ‘Perhaps I can look through your drawings while I am waiting.’ He reached for the portfolio.

‘No!’ Sophia whirled round and snatched it back. ‘Not those dreadful scrawls, I would be mortified to have them looked at. I’ll … I’ll find something better than these to show you.’

She whisked upstairs and into her sitting room. Her old folder was on the side and she shuffled some of her better drawings into it, then, with a guilty pang, pushed the portfolio with Mr Ackermann’s card and notes and the caricatures she had bought in it under the sofa. Sooner or later she must confess what she had done, but not quite yet. She wanted to savour the triumph of actually selling her work before she had to defend her actions.

Andrew came at the tug of the bell pull. ‘Please give this to Mr Chatterton.’ She handed him the folder and ran up to her room to dress for her first dinner party as a married lady.

Cal checked with Hawksley that all was ready for the evening, then settled himself in the drawing room with Sophia’s folder of drawings. He had no very great expectations after her reluctance to show them to him. Just because she had been drawing for many years did not mean she had any talent; he only hoped he did not have to struggle to find some kind words to say. It was strange how living with Sophia had made him so sensitive to her feelings. Or perhaps that would have happened with any woman: he was just not used to domestic closeness.

The drawing that lay on top was of a woman, her head bent over sewing. She was obviously utterly focused on her work and yet the pose was one of tranquillity and grace. He stared at it, recognising Chivers despite the fact that her face was not visible. He turned the sheet over and found a minutely detailed flower study, then a sweeping sketch of Green Park followed by another portrait, this time of a small child staring solemnly at a cow. Green Park again, he thought, arrested by the way Sophia had caught the mixture of fear and curiosity on the toddler’s face.

She wanted children, he recalled. So did he, of course. An heir and, he supposed, the proverbial spare. That was unpleasantly close to the bone—life was dangerous and unpredictable and the thought of losing a child made his blood run cold. It would be even worse than losing Daniel. As bad as losing Sophia. He pushed the idea away and thought of a little girl. Yes, that was ideal, three children. At least. As he looked at the sketch in his hand Callum found the abstract wish for children had become something else, a definite desire to have children with Sophia.

Where had that come from? The realisation that she would make a good mother, he supposed, although it was more than that, somehow.

He was still sitting there, daydreaming, the folder open on his knee, when Sophia came down, a trifle pink from hurrying.

‘You look very fine, my dear,’ Cal remarked. She had gained a little weight, a little colour in her cheeks, since they had married. It was hard to remember why he had ever thought her plain.

‘I do?’ She patted at her piled curls, frowning into the overmantel mirror.

‘Indeed. The pink in your cheeks suits you and running down the stairs has produced a most alluring effect around the neckline.’

Sophia looked down at the rapid rise and fall of her bosom and became pinker. ‘Wretch!’

‘Which reminds me, I have a present for you.’

‘For me?’

How intriguing, he thought. Her reaction was a polite query, not an instant demand to know what it was. But then, this was his wife, not his mistress. And, although Sophia had married him for security and position, she was not at all grasping. In fact, he rather wished she would ask him for something, anything. ‘It occurred to me that I had bought you no jewellery and that we are entertaining formally for the first time tonight.’

‘You gave me my wedding ring and your grandmother’s lovely sapphire.’ Sophia held up her hand, the gems winking in the candlelight.

‘And now this.’ He picked up the long dark-blue leather case from the table beside him as he got to his feet.

‘Oh.’ She seemed reluctant to take it and then, when she did, she held it, unopened, in her hand. ‘I have done nothing to deserve it.’

‘You are my wife. You do not have to earn such things—it is my pleasure to give them to you.’

Sophia shook her head. ‘I cannot help but feel this is an unequal relationship.’

‘It is marriage.’ Cal took the box and opened it, wondering what made him such an expert on the subject. Marriage to Sophia was not proving to be quite what he had imagined, a polite, harmonious domestic arrangement with privacy and restraint on both sides and no need for any awkward emotion.

White fire flashed along the length of the case, a line of brilliance against the dark velvet lining. He lifted the necklace and put it around Sophia’s neck, lingering a little as he fastened it, letting his fingers stir the dark tendrils of hair her maid had so cunningly left to caress her skin. ‘And I do not think that marriage is a matter of an accountant’s books, a debit-and-credit balance. It is, I hope, a matter of trust and partnership.’

It was a pleasure to touch her, a pleasure to adorn her with what was, ultimately, the fruits of his hard work. These were not inherited gems. But one day, perhaps they would be. One day Sophia might give them to their daughter on her wedding day. Something swelled in his chest, a mixture of pride and apprehension and a tenderness that made him catch his breath.

Sophia stood and looked at their reflections in the glass, the diamonds pulsing with the rhythm of her breathing, his hands lying possessively on her shoulders. ‘It is
lovely
. Trust and partnership. I hope that, too,’ she said slowly and then, with sudden vehemence, she turned and caught his hands in hers. ‘I want that. I want to share my thoughts with you and to have you share yours with me. To be part of your life, even though you never wanted me there.’

‘I never saw you there, but now you are here, my wife, I am glad of it,’ Cal said, surprised to find he meant it. ‘Trust, then, and understanding and sharing?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were clear and dark and happy as she looked into his and Cal felt a jolt of some emotion he hardly recognised displace the sensation of apprehension in his heart. Happiness. Such a perilous emotion. ‘Yes, please, Callum. And the necklace is beautiful, thank you. I am sorry if I seemed ungrateful.’

‘I do not want gratitude,’ he said, meaning it and wondering as he spoke what he did want. ‘But a kiss would be very acceptable.’

Her arms went around his neck and she smiled up at him. ‘But that is as much a pleasure for me as for you, Mr Chatterton,’ she said as he lowered his mouth slowly to hers, savouring the anticipation.

‘The Marquess and Marchioness of Iwerne, Captain the Count d’Aunay, Lady d’Aunay, ma’am,’ Hawksley pronounced with the air of a butler who felt he was loftily above such circumstances as discovering his master and mistress locked in a passionate embrace in the middle of their drawing room.

* * *

Callum took absolutely no notice of the butler, or of the four guests who entered on his words, until he had finished the kiss, apparently to his satisfaction.

Sophia emerged blushing and laughing to meet the sardonic amber gaze of a tall, black-haired stranger. Instinct alone would have told her that this was not Callum’s bachelor colleague from East India House, even if he did not have Perdita at his side: he had a tangible air of confidence and privilege that warned her that this was the Marquess of Iwerne.
Warned
was the apt word, too, she was certain. A good man to have on your side, a dangerous enemy.

‘My lord.’ She was not certain how low one had to curtsy to a marquess—he was one step below a duke, after all—but she had hardly begun to bend her knees when he stepped forwards and took her hand.

‘Alistair,’ he said and smiled. Really, if she was not already in love with Callum, Sophia thought, managing somehow to keep her composure, she would not know where to look, his friends were such attractive men.

He released her hand and held his out to Callum, pulling him into a hard, rapid embrace that seemed to communicate more than words would have done. It hit Sophia suddenly that perhaps the last time Callum had sat down to eat with three of the people here Daniel had been with them too. Had she been extraordinarily insensitive to invite the Lyndons?

Then she saw that Callum had relaxed and was smiling and realised that she had not understood. He did not have to explain anything to his friends, they did not have to say anything out loud for him to know he had their support. It was only she, his wife, who was uncertain and who risked blundering with everything she said, or left unsaid.

‘The Honourable Mr George Pettigrew, ma’am.’ Mr Pettigrew’s arrival released some of the tension she was feeling; he had never known Daniel, presumably had no idea of the circumstances of his colleague’s marriage and his presence forced everyone to talk of more general subjects.

Dinner had gone well, Sophia decided two hours later, looking down the length of the table with some satisfaction as the guests finished sampling the selection of sweet fritters that flanked the orange-cream cups. Callum met her gaze and she took a breath to ask the ladies to retire. Instead he said, ‘Would you like to own a ship, my dear?’

‘A
ship
? You mean a yacht?’

‘No, an East Indiaman. That is where we have been today, looking at one for sale in the docks.’

‘A whole ship?’ She managed not to gulp. One could not ask one’s husband if he could afford to buy something vastly expensive, not in the middle of a dinner party.

Callum grinned. ‘A share. Pettigrew and d’Aunay and Lyndon are joining me. Together we will own one quarter.’

‘It sounds wonderful. What is she called?’

‘The
Morning Star,
’ Mr Pettigrew said. ‘I think it ought to be changed, there are at least three others of that name that I can think of.’

‘Wouldn’t the other owners object?’

‘I cannot see why, not if we can suggest something acceptable and unique,’ Alistair said.

‘I know.’ Callum looked round the table, then his gaze came back to fix on Sophia. ‘There is inspiration enough sitting here.’ He raised his glass. ‘Gentlemen, I give you
The Three Belles.
’

‘Three—? Ah, a pun.’ Luc smiled. ‘It will make a marvellous figurehead.’ He lifted his glass to his own wife and then to Averil and Sophia. ‘Three belles, indeed.’

Sophia waited until the laughter and toasts had subsided, then nodded to Andrew who came to pull back her chair. ‘Ladies. Shall we?’ As they left the room the men resumed their seats and she heard George Pettigrew say, ‘I reckon she’ll do us proud.’

‘Perhaps we should start our own shipping—’ Luc’s voice was cut off by the door closing.

‘This is delicious,’ Averil said happily. ‘A ship named after us.’

‘If the other owners will allow the change.’ Sophia still could not quite take it in.

‘I don’t know who they are, but we do have the fact that Alistair is a marquess on our side,’ Dita pointed out. ‘I would guess he outranks most of them.’

‘And the fact that we have our Mr Chatterton,’ Averil put in. ‘Luc tells me that the rumours are that he is
very
well thought of at Leadenhall Street.’

‘He is?’ Of course, she had every confidence in Callum’s ability and hard work, but it was early days yet, surely?

‘Apparently he is spoken of as likely to be the young-est-ever member of the Court of Directors in a few years,’ Averil said. ‘Luc picks up all the Company gossip along with the naval talk.’

‘Oh.’ How wonderful. And how like him that he had not boasted to her of his successes. Or perhaps he thought she would not be interested. That was lowering, although not as bad as the worry that he simply did not think it necessary to confide in his wife. She pulled herself together to find the other two were discussing Dita and Alistair’s travels after the wedding.

‘Well, Alistair has inherited a very small castle in the Scottish Highlands so we went there first. Then we travelled back by way of all the relatives who needed visiting,’ Dita said. ‘Between us we have dozens—or so it seemed!’

‘I heard it always rains in Scotland,’ India-bred Averil said with a shiver. ‘And it is cold, isn’t it?’

‘It was, I am glad to say,’ Dita retorted with a wicked grin. ‘It was a horrid draughty castle, the rain kept pouring down and there was nothing to do but keep warm in bed in the intervals of inspecting the state of the place and resolving to sell it at the first opportunity.’

Averil giggled. ‘We had a wonderful time in Herefordshire and it hardly rained at all. Now we will be here until Luc’s ship is ready to leave: the Admiralty require him.’

‘What will you do when he is at sea?’