Married to a Stranger (9 page)

Jealous,
she decided and stopped on the landing to consider that. She would have been jealous because, frankly, Callum Chatterton was a very attractive man. Or would she have felt that way if her imaginary sister … ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she muttered under her breath. Men did not have the same sensibilities over such matters as women, she was certain. Callum was a man, and she was a woman, so he wanted to sleep with her. And he wanted an heir. For the rest, she was sure he regarded her, at best, tolerantly and, at worst as a constant reminder of his twin.

Which probably explained his coolness most of the time.
It isn’t my fault,
she thought resentfully as she pushed open her bedroom door.
I never expected him to marry me. I did not ask him to. But men know best. Or they think they do …

‘Ma’am?’ Chivers looked up from the trunk she was bending over, her expression wary.

Sophia realised she must have been frowning and smiled. ‘I came up so we could discuss what needs unpacking first.’

‘It is all done, ma’am.’

And so it was. The pretty lawn nightgown with the roses around the neckline was laid out on the bed, her brushes and jars were arranged on the dressing table and a glimpse through the open door into the dressing room showed open drawers and presses. The trunk that Chivers was emptying was the last of the luggage.

‘You are very efficient,’ Sophia said, sensing that the maid was a trifle put out to be supervised.

‘I hope to give satisfaction, ma’am. I thought the black silk with the beading for this evening? I have it downstairs in the washhouse to steam out the creases.’

‘That will be perfect, thank you, Chivers.’ It was her only suitable evening gown so the maid was being tactful by implying there was a choice. ‘I need to shop for just about everything,’ she admitted. ‘Mr Chatterton will be entertaining a great deal, so I will need a number of evening gowns.’

‘And morning and walking dresses and lingerie, ma’am. And hats, pelisses, spencers, shawls, shoes, gloves, reticules …’

‘Oh dear. Is all of my wardrobe that unsuitable for town, Chivers?’

‘It is very suitable for an unmarried lady who has been in mourning, ma’am,’ she said with tact. ‘But not for a married one. Will you be shopping soon?’

‘We will start tomorrow and I hope you will be able to tell me where we should go.’

‘Me, ma’am?’ Chivers closed the lid of the trunk and stared at Sophia. ‘Surely the ladies of your family and your friends …’

‘I have none. Not in London. And I have never been to town before; I have no idea where to go.’

The maid’s face showed a hint of pity and Sophia realised just how lonely she felt. Mama, her friends and acquaintances, were all miles away and here she was with no one to confide in and a husband who was virtually a stranger.
Husband. Oh dear, I wish I had a married friend I could talk to.

‘My last lady was very fashionable, ma’am. I know the fashionable shops and the best
modistes
, never fear.’ Chivers was all practicality again as she bustled into the dressing room and began to tidy up in there. ‘Will you be having a lie down before dinner, ma’am? And then a bath before I dress your hair?’ The answer required was, she made clear,
Yes.

Of course, Sophia realized; the maid knew it was her wedding night and was expecting her to be devoting the time before dinner to resting and then primping. Probably she should be in a flutter of romantic and maidenly excitement, not torn between unladylike desire, resentment, excitement and downright nerves. ‘Yes, Chivers,’ she said with every outward sign of confidence. ‘That is exactly what I shall be doing.’

Chapter Nine

T
he clock struck eight and Cal laid down the newspaper he had been reading. It was pointless; he was not absorbing a word of it. It was beginning to dawn on him that marriage was going to turn his life upside down. The shock of the shipwreck, the grief of losing Daniel, the strangeness of life in England after so long away, had been a huge upheaval. He had got through that, largely by sheer hard work and a refusal to wallow in self-pity. Dan had gone and with him boyhood dreams and illusions about love. He did not think himself a coward, but he knew with a deep certainty that he was never again going to lay himself open to the pain of loss such as he had just experienced.

He loved Will, his other brother. If anything happened to him, he would mourn and grieve deeply, but he would not lose a part of himself, part of his heart and soul, as he had with the death of his twin. It was good that he had married Sophia out of duty and not out of love because he did not think he could risk making himself so vulnerable ever again.

But marriage, even a marriage of convenience, was an intimate thing. For better or worse he was tied to Sophia now. He had been tied to Dan by love and affection and the mental link that others found so uncanny but which, for a twin, was perfectly normal. Now he must live with a woman with whom he did not share any kind of mental closeness.

The door opened and Sophia entered. For a moment he was still, so lost in his thoughts that he just stared at her. Then, as she came further into the room, he got to his feet with a murmur of apology and pleasure. His wife—he really must get used to that word—was glowing.

‘Sophia.’ He took her hand and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘You look lovely. And you like the roses, I think?’

‘Pink roses in my hair and corsage with a black gown is unconventional, I know,’ she murmured, but he could see he had pleased her. She was wearing a modest string of pearls at her throat and studs in her ears and pale pink long kid gloves, and the effect with the sheen of the black silk gown was surprisingly sophisticated and dashing. ‘It was a lovely surprise. I came out of the dressing room after my bath and there they were.’

Cal’s imagination seized on the image of Sophia, flushed pink from her bath, emerging into a room full of pink roses. ‘I find I can take pleasure in pleasing my bride, even if I was not very good at it as an engaged man,’ he admitted. She glanced up at him and blushed and he could tell she knew what he was thinking about. Not all of it, he hoped, not an innocent like Sophia. She could have absolutely no idea what he would like to do with her, to her.

Neither of them seemed to know what to say next. What did he converse about with a wife who had no idea about his life? They had nothing in common except Dan, and that was not something they could talk about; it would be too painful for her, he was sure. Should he risk boring her by talking about the Company? Or life in India?

As though she read his mind she asked, ‘Will you be attending the East India Company offices tomorrow?’ Sophia sat down in the exact middle of the chaise and spread her skirts elegantly around her. Was that deliberate to stop him sitting next to her? She had recovered her poise faster than he had, it seemed.

‘I am afraid so.’ Callum took the chair opposite.

‘Afraid? Is something wrong?’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. ‘I am sorry, I do not mean to pry into your business.’

‘Not at all, you have every reason to ask. I can always tell you if something is confidential. No, I meant I was sorry I could not be with you.’

‘Oh, I will not need you—you know I must be shopping for clothes.’ Sophia laughed. ‘It would be worse than the things for the house; I am sure you would be bored to tears. Chivers knows just where to go. But I must ask you to tell me what my dress allowance will be before I catch a glimpse of all the temptations in the shops.’

Callum relaxed. She seemed happy at the prospect of shopping. He had feared sulks because he was leaving her alone, but this was excellent; the maid was obviously competent and shopping appeared to keep females occupied for hours on end. He was not going to have to dance attendance on her all day.

‘I had given that some thought and I have jotted down these figures,’ he said and reached into the breast of his coat for his notebook. He extracted a slip of paper and passed it to her. ‘That is what I thought for your dress allowance, your pin money and the housekeeping.’

Sophia stared at it. ‘For the year?’ she asked after a moment.

‘No, quarterly. The redecorations will be extra. I suggest you take notes of what you think would be suitable and we can discuss it. Sophia?’

She stared at him. ‘This is very generous. I had no wish to be such an expense to you. You paid off our debts.’

He shrugged. ‘Any wife would cost as much. I cannot expect to be married on a bachelor’s budget.’

‘No, of course,’ she agreed, once more the polite lady, all the animation she had shown at the prospect of a shopping expedition banished.

Once she had found her feet she would be an excellent hostess, he thought. Her natural grace, good breeding and restraint easily outweighed the sheltered country life she had lived. It was a pity that those flashes of vivacity were so few and far between.

‘Dinner is served, madam.’ Hawksley stood by the open door.

‘My dear.’ Cal rose, extended a hand and escorted his wife into the dining room to sit at the foot of the table. She seemed rather distant when he took his own place, but perhaps that was the length of the table, the exuberant display of flowers halfway down—he really must remember to thank the footman—and her reserve in front of the servants.

As the meal progressed it was obvious that his anxiety about finding topics of conversation was misplaced. Sophia progressed smoothly through remarks on the weather, speculation about the latest news on the royal family, some amusing anecdotes about their country neighbours and solicitous enquiries about the hour at which he preferred to take breakfast.

It was pleasant, easy and just a trifle dull. He rather suspected that he was being managed. Cal dragged his thoughts away from their uncomfortably jumbled wanderings between Company business and erotic fantasies, and exerted himself to take an active part.

When the merits of the almond tartlets had been adequately discussed Sophia nodded to Andrew to assist with her chair and rose. ‘I will leave you to your port, Mr Chatterton.’

‘I will be with you directly, Mrs Chatterton,’ Cal countered, getting to his feet as she left the room. One glass, that was all. A man’s wedding night was no time to be lingering over the port.

But he did linger, twisting the stem of the glass round and round as he watched the candlelight shine through the blood-red liquid and the wine sloshed against the sides like waves on a miniature sea. Blood-red waves. Chance and the power of nature meant he was alive and here and Dan was gone. And the woman in the room beyond who was behaving with such impeccable good manners had lost the man she loved and had got him in his place.

Cal tossed back the wine and reached for the decanter. His wedding night. Well, at least he felt confident about that aspect of this marriage. When he had kissed her at Long Welling Sophia had trembled in his arms—and it had been with desire, not fear. But she was an innocent and a sheltered one at that. He would just have one more glass while he considered how best to go about it.

Sophia decided that Callum’s idea of ‘directly’ was not hers. She sat and waited in the elegant, dull drawing room for half an hour, then allowed herself to feel annoyed. That did have the benefit of giving her something to think about beyond her nerves and wondering if she was going to enjoy Callum’s lovemaking.

It was all well and good if she did, but he would not be
expecting
her to enjoy it, would he? She had been, he believed, in love with his brother. She could hardly confess to a man mourning Daniel that until she had seen Callum she had had to look at his brother’s portrait to remind herself what he had looked like and that she had fallen out of love with him years ago. To experience raptures in Callum’s arms would make her seem either improperly wanton or lacking in respect to his brother. He would know she had married him under false pretences.

The clock chimed. Not that she would be experiencing anything at all, let alone rapture, if he did not emerge from the dining room soon. Was it normal for a new husband to sit alone drinking port at such a time? Sophia got to her feet, crossed the hallway to the dining-room door and applied her ear to the panel. There was the distinct
ching
of a decanter stopper being carelessly replaced.

Sophia lifted one hand, touched the door handle and then withdrew it. No, she would not go in and ask when he was joining her, she was going to bed. That would demonstrate either a suitable reticence or her irritation at being kept waiting, however he chose to take it.

She did not have to ring for Chivers. She was in the bedchamber when she reached it. Sophia thought the maid was exhibiting considerably more excitement about the occasion than the mistress, judging by the young woman’s smile and the way she fussed around undressing Sophia. She submitted to a spray of scent, to a fetching ribbon in her hair and to having the bowls of roses set either side of the bed because it would have seemed strange not to expect the attention, tonight of all nights. She had no desire to start rumours about her marriage in the Servants’ Hall.

‘Such a pretty nightgown,’ Chivers murmured, giving the sleeves a final tweak as Sophia settled back against the heaped pillows. ‘I’ll wait until you ring in the morning, ma’am, before I bring up your chocolate. Goodnight, ma’am.’

Presumably she was now expected to recline here, every ringlet in place, a shy smile on her lips, until her husband deigned to arrive. That paled after ten minutes. Defiantly Sophia picked up a novel from the bedside table and began to read.

‘My dear?’ Callum stood in the doorway clad in a red robe. Something about his stance warned her that he had been there some time.

‘Callum.’ Her breathing was suddenly all over the place. Sophia wriggled back up from her comfortable huddle and pulled off the dangling ribbon that had slid down to the end of its lock of hair. She made rather a business of re-tying it. ‘Have you been there long?’

‘Long enough to see you are engrossed. What are you reading?’ He closed the door and began to snuff out the candles on the dressing table and mantelshelf, leaving the branches on either side of the bed burning. The shadows flickered and the darkness closed around them, stranding the bed in an intimate island of light, cut off from the rest of the world.

‘A novel.’ Sophia put it back on the table and dropped a handkerchief over it. ‘Just nonsense.’

Callum sat on the edge of the bed, right against her hip, and picked it up the book. His robe gaped at the neck to reveal bare skin and dark hair. Sophia swallowed. Her apprehension flooded back.

‘
The Husband and Wife, or, the Matrimonial Martyr
by Mrs Bridget Bluemantle,’ he read out. ‘Engrossing nonsense, apparently—you are halfway through volume three.’

‘You object to novel reading?’ Sophia sat up straighter, prepared to do battle to defend her books.

‘Not at all, and I am not the kind of husband who insists on regulating his wife’s reading. But the title does not argue much optimism about the married state, which is lowering, considering why I am here.’ She could not decide whether he was serious or teasing her. His profile as he looked down at the book gave nothing away.

‘I had decided you were not coming,’ she retorted, remembering her grievance.

‘And that was a relief?’ Callum stood up and shrugged off the robe with his back towards her. She had been right: he was wearing nothing beneath it. Her gaze slid over broad shoulders, narrow waist, smooth skin marked by small scars on his left shoulder and a sickle-shaped mole on his right hip. She had never seen a naked adult male before. The classical statues at the Hall looked like this, but they were not moving, nor did their muscles shift intriguingly under skin that was a pale gold in the candlelight. Sophia clenched her hands on the edge of the coverlet to stop herself reaching out and caressing the taut curve of his buttocks. He would think her beyond all modesty if she did that.

Then he began to turn and she shut her eyes as well. There was only so much she could cope with, she thought, biting her lip against a gasp of nervous laughter. And the statues had fig leaves.

The edge of the bed dipped. She moved over to the right-hand side to give him room and took the bedspread with her before she remembered to loosen her grip on the edge. She had to say something; he had asked her a question. ‘A relief? No, of course not. After all, the worst is soon over, isn’t it?’ Perhaps that was not the most tactful way to put it.

There was silence from the other side of the bed, then Callum said drily, ‘I would hope so. I have never slept with a virgin before.’

‘Good. I mean, I am sure you have not.’

There was the sound of breathing, close to her ear. How had Callum moved without her realising? Sophia opened her eyes just in time to see the heat and intent in his eyes as he bent to kiss her and then she was swept up in the kiss, just as she had been at Long Welling.

He expects me to enjoy his lovemaking,
she told herself.
It is hopeless to pretend I do not wish to.
Her arms went around Callum’s neck and she found herself shifting to cradle his weight over her. Through the thin silk his aroused body was explicit against hers.

‘This delightful nightgown is very much in the way,’ he murmured in her ear, accompanying the words with tiny flicks of his tongue.

Sophia stifled a moan. ‘I’ll take it off if you’ll just …’ Move … Stop that … She must open her eyes and sit up.

Callum rolled off and lay there on his side watching her, his head propped on one hand, while she wriggled and finally emerged, the nightgown clutched to her front. They stared at each other for a while. Sophia felt herself grow pinker and the curve of Callum’s lips grew more pronounced. ‘You are laughing at me,’ she accused.