Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (20 page)

His tongue caressed the tip of hers and with a woman’s intuition she followed the age-old seductive dance. Her tongue met his with a wanton boldness.

Christopher hardened against the soft flesh of her belly.

Sophie gasped.

The breathless sound penetrated the madness that consumed him. He made to pull away but Sophie reached up and tangled her long fingers in the strands of hair that had escaped the queue at the base of his neck.

She tugged the band free and twisted her hands through his hair.

Christopher groaned. There was something so sweetly erotic about her bold innocence.

A gasp at the doorway jerked them apart, effectively killing his ardor.

Sophie’s maid stood, eying her mistress with stern disapproval.

He looked down at Sophie.

Sophie blinked and took a hasty step away from Christopher. “Lucy. Uh…” Her words trailed off as she sank back into her seat and folded her trembling hands upon her violet skirts. “Geoffrey is going to be livid,” she whispered.

“At worst, he’d insist we wed.”

He started, even as her eyes flew to his, unsure as to where those words had come from. Mere weeks ago, he couldn’t have imagined a more outlandish, disturbing prospect than marriage to Sophie. In a short time, something had changed. Something he didn’t understand. Something he couldn’t explain.

She looked away. “You don’t want to wed me.”

Sophie flinched, when he didn’t immediately respond.

“Phi…”

She waved her hand. “You don’t have to say anything, Christopher. I know you are only here at your father’s edict.” That had once been true. “What is it? A sense of obligation to my father? A sense of guilt?”

The lie between them burned like bile in his throat. What would she say to the truth? In his own twisted attempt at self-preservation, he’d allow his father to turn him into a fortune-hunter for a dowry she didn’t even know she possessed.

“You don’t understand,” he said. Nor could she understand since he couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth.

Sophie’s lips scrunched up as though she attempted to solve a trying riddle. At last, she nodded. She gestured for him to sit.

He hesitated but took his seat, with Sophie following suit. She bent down and retrieved an item from the floor, placing a book upon the table.

His heart sped up. His mouth went dry.

He stood so suddenly he once again bumped into the table, sending the book falling to the floor.

“Christopher?”

“I have to go,” he said, his voice gruff to his own ears

God, how he loathed the written word. The constant reminder of his failings; a secret shame he carried.

He sketched a hasty bow and took his leave.

Sophie was too good for him or his father.

Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

While attending the Countess of H’s house party, Miss S.W. was observed to be riding astride her mount in the early morning hours.

~15~

From where she sat amidst the other wallflowers, Sophie surveyed Lord and Lady Brackenridge’s ballroom. Lady Ackerly and the rest of the
ton
would believe she was searching out the Duke of Mallen.

Her gaze rested upon the dashing, young duke at the corner of the room. He lounged against a white marble pillar, a flute of champagne dangled between his long, elegant fingers. From where he stood, he caught her eye and grinned.

She returned his smile and then continued her search.

Lady Ackerly, like the rest of the
ton,
would be wrong.

Sophie had it on good authority from a kitchen maid who’d heard from Lady Brackenridge’s groom, who’d heard from the Marquess of Milford’s scullery maid that Christopher would be in attendance. Except she’d been counting the minutes and the minutes had become hours and he remained absent.

“I wonder who it is you’re searching for, Miss Winters?” The Duke of Mallen drawled.

Sophie shrieked, earning disapproving glances from the row of ladies at her side. That is until they noted the gentleman who stood before them. Then, they sat forward in their chairs, desperation and hope warring within their wide-eyed stares. Sophie hoped she’d conducted herself with a good deal more pride over the years than the other young ladies she now kept company with, though she wasn’t altogether sure of it.

She jumped to her feet and curtsied to the duke. “Your Grace.”

He leaned down. “You know, it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve ignored my question.”

“I was looking for my mother,” she lied.

The duke used his glass to motion toward the corner of the room. “Over by Lady Tisdale,” he said. “Directly across from you.”

“Humph. Imagine that. I didn’t even notice.”

“Apparently not.”

Sophie groaned. Mother studied Sophie and the duke with a rabid intensity. She wanted the ballroom floor to open up and swallow her whole.

“Should we wave to her?” he whispered close to her ear.

A snort of laughter escaped Sophie. She stifled it behind her hand. “She’s a bit obvious, no?”

“To say so would be ungentlemanly.”

“But truthful.”

The duke took another sip of champagne. “You value sincerity.”

Sophie wrinkled her brow. “Doesn’t everyone, Your Grace?”

“No. I rather think they do not. It isn’t the way of our world.”

Sophie looked around the crowded ballroom. Cynical though it was, there was merit to the duke’s statement. Their world was one of thinly veiled innuendos and craftily woven stories. Having become a victim of Lady Ackerly’s acerbic wit, Sophie had developed a greater sense of appreciation for honesty. “It matters to me, Your Grace. It matters a great deal.”

The usual glint in the duke’s eyes seemed to darken, though Sophie suspected it was merely the candlelight playing off their host and hostess’s chandelier responsible for the uncharacteristic response.

“Could you forgive a lie?”

She angled her head and studied him. “That’s a very cryptic question.” He continued to study her with that impenetrable look. “That would depend upon the lie,” she said.

“What about the reason for the lie?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t believe there are grounds that ever merit dishonesty, Your Grace.”

“That is very naïve of you, Miss Winters.”

She smiled. “I prefer to think of it as possessing integrity.” And because she’d had enough of this too serious conversation, she said, “How is your sister?” Emmaline remained in Kent where she and Lord Drake awaited the birth of their first child.

Mallen’s body jerked at the mention of his sister. Sophie wrinkled her brow at the odd reaction.

He schooled his features. “She is well,” the duke said, his voice as garbled as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of pebbles. Then, he bowed and took a handful of steps backwards. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Winters?” With a last, hasty bow, he left Sophie staring after him, and her empty dance card dangling from her wrist.

Sophie turned over in her mind what she might have done or said to have merited such a swift retreat by the duke. She stole a sideways peek from the corner of her eye. Based on the wistful expressions on the row of ladies alongside her, they wondered the very same thing.

Goodness, it was moments such as this when she missed her friend, Emmaline, all the more. Sophie would never begrudge Emmaline the much deserved happiness she’d found with Lord Drake. She’d after all had to go to great lengths to bring the marquess up to scratch. As happy as she was for Emmaline, it had been a very long, lonely Season without her.

Only, Sophie had discovered that joy could come in the most unexpected places…or in this case, from the most unexpected people.

Her gaze moved throughout the ballroom, and finally found Christopher as he made his entrance.

Sophie told herself to look away but it was as though a spell had been cast over her and she stared transfixed at Christopher as he moved easily through the crowd. It was hard not to admire the effortless charm he exuded. He wore an easy grin for those he passed; a crowd of people who all seemed eager for a word with the dashing young earl. Sophie sat back in her chair and studied him, marveling at his seeming ability to make whoever he passed feel like the most important person in the room. No one had ever craved her presence in that way.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Prior to her come out, Sophie had always thought she’d prefer to be one of Society’s Incomparables. Since she’d become the victim of
Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet,
however, Sophie found she preferred anonymity. How very different she and Christopher were in that regard.

His hazel stare wandered around the room, as though he were searching for someone.

Her heart kicked up a beat. Foolishness. He wouldn’t be seeking her out.

Then his gaze collided with hers. He grinned and discreetly tipped his head in the corner of the hall.

She cocked her head.

Christopher gave one last pointed look and then continued on.

This time her heart sped to triple time. His meaning, lost to everyone else, had been quite clear to her. He wished for her to follow him.

If she were to do so, she would be flirting with ruin. Her absence would surely be noted. As would his. Then, no one would ever assume they’d gone off together. Why, it was more likely that Sophie would be off in a retiring room than meeting with one of Society’s favorite young lords.

She looked over at her mother, who stood conversing with their hostess, Lady Brackenridge. Careful not to raise undue attention to herself, Sophie stood and skirted the edge of the ballroom, all the while casting glances about the room. Alas, after hours of waiting for something to happen, mayhap a scene between Christopher and the duke, the
ton
had apparently grown tired of studying her.

She wound her way through their host’s impressive home, wondering all the while if she’d imagined Christopher’s signal. After all, what could he possibly have to say to her that couldn’t be said in polite company? Or worse…what if it were another woman whose attention he’d intended to attract?

That insidious thought invaded her mind like a fast-spreading poison. Her fingers clenched into tight fists at her side as she imagined Christopher with some other, nameless woman. At one time she wouldn’t have cared if he’d gone to the devil let alone carried on with some scandalous widow. Now, thinking of him with another burned at her insides as Sophie confronted the staggering truth of her jealousy.

The soft tread of her silken slippers echoed along the empty marble halls. Sophie turned the corner just as Christopher entered one of the rooms. She hurried to the door, and pushed it open.

She peered in and then stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Christopher?”

“Were you expecting someone else, Phi?” he teased.

A little sigh slipped past her lips and she leaned against the door, embracing the blessed silence.

The rows of leather bound books caught her attention.

The library.

Her eyes slid closed as she remembered back to a different library. A masked gentleman. And wicked spirits. How much had changed in so little time. Her Odysseus had been a fantasy; a dream of a man. Christopher, however, was real.

“What are you thinking, Phi?”

Sophie opened her eyes and walked over to where he stood at their host’s sideboard. “I was thinking of someone.”

His eyes narrowed into thin, impenetrable slits and it occurred to her that he didn’t appear to like the idea of her ruminating over another any more than she liked thinking of him with another woman. It was a rather heady sensation this feeling of inspiring jealousy in him.

“Who is this someone?” The words came out smoother than the silken edge of a blade.

Sophie lifted her shoulder. “Emmaline,” she lied.

“That is hardly flattering to a man’s ego.”

She giggled.

He held his glass of brandy up.

Sophie pressed her fingers to her temples; the moment merged into that night not very long ago.

He angled his head. “What is it?”

Foolishness.

She shook her head, the slight gesture rattled the wood panel. “’Tis nothing,” she said at last.

He proffered his glass. “No thank you,” she murmured. Since her meeting with the mysterious Odysseus at the masquerade, she’d forever sworn off spirits.

“Never tell me you’re afraid to try a sip of brandy?”

Sophie wasn’t afraid to try it. She was afraid to try it,
again
. “I’ve drunk brandy before, Christopher.”

His eyes widened. Good, she liked that she’d shocked him.

“And?”

And she’d paid with a wicked megrim the next day. “I don’t care for it.”

“I’d wager there is a story behind that furrowed brow.”

She smiled. “You’d win that wager.”

She should turn on her heel and leave. If they were discovered, she would be ruined. They’d be forced to wed. Instead, Sophie wandered deeper into the room.

He jerked his chin to the spot beside him. Sophie hesitated, and then sat. The scent of him; a rich combination of sandalwood and brandy wove about her senses, more intoxicating than any fine liquor.

Christopher’s arm came to rest along the back of their seat. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin along the tops of her shoulders. She swallowed, and looked up at him to determine whether he was affected by her nearness the way she was by his.

His gaze was fixed upon the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Before this moment she’d always been ashamed of her plump décolletage. With the heated gleam in Christopher’s hazel eyes, it was hard to feel anything other than this heady sensation of a woman who’d captivated a man.

He captured a golden ringlet between his fingers and studied the strand. “Is it truly possible we’ve known each other this long and never felt this pull?”

She swallowed around a lump in her throat. With trembling fingers, she reached up to caress the firm line of his square jaw. The tip of her finger rested upon the faint cleft there. “We were quite awful to each other as children.”

Christopher released the lock. It bounced back into a tight curl against her lip. “We were.”