They exchanged introductions, and, working together, Sophie and Tristan managed to converse about the upcoming social activities in London and Becky’s imminent arrival, and then Lady Ella brought up the weather. “Mama said we must take our walk early today, for it is certain to rain.”
“Indeed, I believe I do feel a wetness in the air,” Sophie said.
“Oh, yes. And to think not ten minutes ago the sun was shining,” one of the lady’s companions added.
A gust of wind whipped through the group, smattering them with dewdrops from a nearby tree and causing Tristan to grip his hat to keep it from sailing away.
“Perhaps we should all retreat to more agreeable surroundings. Ladies, may I offer my carriage?”
“Oh, no, sir, I have Papa’s. Thank you ever so much for the generous offer, Your… my lord.”
“Think nothing of it,” Tristan said gallantly.
They parted from the ladies, who rushed down the lane toward Hyde Park Corner where their carriage awaited.
Sophie smiled at Tristan. “We managed that rather well, I daresay.”
He grinned back at her, showing his dimple. “Excellently, I think.”
She wanted to kiss the little indentation in his cheek, then slide her lips over to his. She wanted to abandon herself to him as she had a week ago and every day before that for months. It would heal her, body and soul.
If only…
She tore her gaze from the heat flaring in his eyes. “We always do work well together.”
“Always,” he said softly.
“At the very least, that set won’t think I’ve been abused. But they won’t forget they saw us together at the park. Ella will tell the countess—”
“—who is a model of discretion, as both you and I well know,” Tristan interjected. Sophie remained silent. He spoke the truth, after all. The Countess of Harpsford was one of her best friends for that very reason.
He sighed. “One of the other ladies in that group will spread the word, no doubt. Either way, it is what we make of it, Soph.”
They changed direction to return to the children. The wind gusted randomly now, and the sky grew darker by the minute. In the distance, she could see Miss Dalworthy restraining Gary from retrieving a boat that had drifted into water too deep for it to be recovered. After a few moments, Tristan continued, “And all I make of it is you telling me in no uncertain terms that you’re in love with Garrett and refuse to leave him. I should think Garrett might be rather pleased to hear it.” The smile had bled from Tristan’s lips and a thin bitterness laced his voice.
“Tristan—” she began in despair.
He laughed hollowly. “Never worry, love. You know I’ve no plans to give up on you. Perhaps when you are legally returned to me, I shall change your mind.”
“I am constant to those I love, Tristan.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
“I merely wanted to remind you. I speak nothing but the truth with you. I’d never deceive you. Even though you think I am disloyal to you in my heart, someday you will realize I am not. I’ll do anything to keep you free from pain.”
He shook his head. “That’s not true, Soph. Not anything. You won’t leave Garrett. You won’t come away with me.”
She was silent.
“Would you?”
She couldn’t answer.
He merely shook his head in frustration. As they came upon the children, she whispered, “I love you,” and hoped to God it wasn’t the last time she’d have the opportunity to say those words to him.
Two mornings later, Sophie lay on her back and stared at the small, single window in her bedchamber. Pale dawn light seeped beneath the curtains, yet she’d tossed and turned again and hardly had a wink of sleep. She hated this little narrow room, with its low, slanted ceilings and small, hard bed. She’d be able to sleep so much better in her own familiar spacious room, in her own bed.
Garrett would welcome her there. She’d sensed his arousal when she’d comforted him after his nightmare. But what would it be like to lie with him now?
The spring before Waterloo he’d had to leave for a month on business for the army. She’d waited at the front window on the day he’d returned, and when she saw his carriage, she flew out the door straight into his open arms. He’d jumped out of the carriage, spun her around, then, with a rakish gleam in those blue eyes, carried her upstairs. Past the servants, past the questioning gaze of his aunt. When they reached their bedchamber, he laid her on the pillows at the head of their bed. For a long moment he just stared at her, and then he’d said, “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
“I’m the luckiest woman,” she’d replied.
They’d undressed each other, stripping the layers of clothes at a leisurely pace, contenting themselves with small touches, brushes of skin against skin. Her fingers grazing his cheek. His palm rounding over the curve of her hip. And then, when all their clothing was gone, they’d stood before each other in the nude, touching, exploring, rousing a simmering heat in each other. And then, he’d once again laid her on the bed, telling her he’d thought of her every second he was gone, counted every minute before he could see her again. He’d caressed her gently between the legs, and when she was trembling with need, he entered her. Slowly, they’d made love, staring into each other’s eyes. Beyond the rough, purely masculine arousal that enthralled her so much, she could see Garrett’s love for her, and in that moment, her heart had nearly burst.
Little did she know then that in just over a month, he’d be gone. Sophie flopped over onto her belly, pressing her face into the pillow. She was such a pathetic creature. Guilt was neither a valid nor a productive emotion, yet it crippled her. She couldn’t seem to overcome it. The guilt took root in her mind and spread like a weed, growing faster than her ability to squelch it.
She wanted Garrett.
She missed Tristan.
Lord, she wanted them both. What would it be like? What if Garrett had agreed to their returning to their childhood in terms of companionship and trust, but with the added concession of allowing her to accept them into her bed? Both of them. Both men made her feel loved, cherished, desired. Both of them together…
She groaned aloud. She was wicked. Utterly depraved.
In a way, though, she could hardly blame herself. As an adult, such desires naturally resulted from the level of love she felt for them. If only there was a way to make them accept each other.
The thought was preposterous. Absolutely mad. Even if they did eventually accept her love for both of them—and the idea was absurd—Garrett was a duke. She was a duchess, and Tristan was a viscount. They bore a great responsibility to society—to England itself. It would be impossible for them to disappear happily into obscurity. Whatever actions they took were placed under extreme scrutiny.
The truth was that her last night with Tristan a week ago just might be the last time she joined with either of the men she loved. If that were the case, she’d simply have to keep him—them—in her fantasies.
She closed her eyes, thinking of Garrett in the bath, relaxed and asleep, his lips parted as he took deep breaths. Would it be easy to bring him to full arousal? She had little doubt of it. The way he’d kissed her was clear evidence of how much he desired her. During the early days of their marriage, she’d teased him incessantly, stroking him covertly as they passed each other in crowded rooms or when they were alone, knowing a servant might interrupt any time. She’d torment him until, gritting his teeth, he’d carry her upstairs and bed her thoroughly. And she loved all of it, from the tease to the thrill of capture and the ultimate ecstasy as he lost himself within her. What might happen now if she stroked his sex as he lay in her lap after a nightmare? He’d be surprised at first. Then he’d lead her from the bed, stand her up, and turn her around. He’d unbutton her nightdress and slip it down over her shoulders, allowing his fingertips to skim the length of her body.
Skin against skin—his big, rough hand
s stroking down her arms, then up her bare waist…
He’d remove his drawers. The fabric would slide down his body, and she’d long to follow its path with her tongue.
He’d lift her and carry her back to the bed. Then he’d spread her legs and position himself at her entrance. Garrett’s big torso would loom over her, naked, heat resonating from it. A determined look would shine in his sky blue eyes, and his shaft would jut out, long and hard and heavy. On her back, she’d stare up at him, in awe of the strength of him, the sheer, powerful masculinity he exuded.
She remembered the last time she and Tristan had made love. His dark eyes glittering at her as he thrust into her, his jaw tight, the muscles in his arms straining. In her imagination, with Garrett’s big body still looming over her, Tristan appeared at the bedside.
Tristan was naked, also ready for her, and her heartbeat thumped against her breastbone at the sight of him, tall and strong and aroused.
“Take me in your mouth, Sophie.” He’d tangle his fingers in her hair, turning her face toward his erection.
And she would. Oh, how she loved Tristan’s taste, the feel of him in her mouth. But as soon as her lips touched him, Garrett pushed forward, and with one deep thrust, sheathed himself inside her.
Wicked. Wanton. Brazen.
She didn’t care. She wanted them both, in her and around her. In the dark recesses of her mind, both men took her, hard and deep, and she gloried in it. Both men stilled and stiffened, and then they came. Garrett’s shaft contracted deep within her womb. Tristan’s salty seed pumped into her throat as a great flush of pleasure rolled through her, starting between her legs and spreading in a powerful rush through her body, leaving every muscle quivering and spent in its wake.
Sophie lay still for a long moment, catching her breath, and then she rolled to her side and clasped her knees in her hands.
As lurid and wanton as the fantasy was, as much as she dreamed about it, such dreams would never come to fruition.
Some dark part of her had allowed that idea to enter and take root. It was something she could never tell another human being. Once she thought she’d share even her most intimate secrets with Garrett, and then she thought she’d share them with Tristan. But this fantasy—it was so perverse, so forbidden, she risked both men’s hatred if they ever learned of it. They would both consider the mere thought a betrayal of her love for them. It would be her secret. Tucked into a tiny chest in her heart and locked away forever. This was England, and she was a duchess. She might as well dream about walking on the moon. The fact was she would never be able to have them both. And she couldn’t choose either man over the other, even if she was legally married to one of them. The only reasonable solution was a life of quiet celibacy. But it didn’t mean she’d stop loving either of them.
Or dreaming about loving them.
Chapter Twelve
Miranda fascinated Garrett. She came to him in his study daily to inform him of the events of her life—what she had learned from Miss Dalworthy or her tutor that day, to whom she had written and what, and the overall status of the household. Oftentimes, he simply stopped what he was doing and watched her prattle on, her blonde curls bouncing, her cheeks flushed pink.One topic she never discussed in great detail was her mama’s state of mind. Though more than willing to mention Bitty the scullery maid’s infatuation with Connor, or how a chambermaid had chipped a vase but had glued it back together and turned it so nobody would notice, Miranda steered clear of the topic of her mother. Garrett never questioned her. He just allowed her to talk, and sometimes in the midst of her chatter, he would find his muscles relaxing or a smile curling his lips. When she had left his study yesterday, he had stared at the door long after she’d passed through it, wondering what about this little girl he found so healing. She was a salve to his soul.
Now, she stared at him over the breakfast table, her blue gaze too wise for her seven years. She ate quietly, but he knew by the intelligent look in her eyes that she paid attention to her surroundings and listened to every word the adults uttered. She intrigued him, there was no doubt of it. He saw so much of Sophie in her. At times he caught glimpses of himself in her, too, and that gave him a strange, tingling sensation somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.
Sophie was reading her correspondence, which she made a habit of doing at breakfast since he had allowed her access to her letters. She set down her coffee, studying a sheet of stationery with gilded edges. “Lady Torwood has invited Becky, you, and me to share her box at the opera Friday.”
“No,” Garrett said gruffly, looking away from his daughter and diving into his poached eggs. Why she did this to him was beyond his comprehension. Couldn’t she understand he had no interest in the falseness and affectations displayed at public gatherings? Someday he might go to the theater again, but he’d sit in his box with his wife alone at his side, and they’d watch the performances. He refused to put on airs and behave like a duke—he still wasn’t quite sure how, exactly, a duke should behave—and gossip and natter with others. The thought made his stomach turn sour.
Sophie set the invitation on the table, her expression neutral. “All right. But I will remind you once again that Becky will be expected to make appearances around Town, and I shall have to be by her side.”
“My aunt will be by her side as well.”
“Aunt Bertrice is growing older, Garrett. She will when she can, I am certain of it, but the greater part of the duty will fall upon you and me.”
Garrett sighed and set down his fork.
“I would very much like to attend the theater with you, Your Grace,” Fisk said. Garrett glanced up at him, raising a questioning eyebrow. Fisk gave him his Trust melook. Hell, Fisk was the only man in the world Garrett did trust. Shrugging, he returned his focus to his breakfast.
“I know I am not included in the invitation,” Fisk continued, “but perhaps another time.”
From the corner of his eye, Garrett saw Sophie’s frown slowly transform into a smile. Damnation. Sophie’s smile lit the whole room, even on a dreary morning such as this.
“Thank you, Mr. Fisk. I would enjoy accompanying you to the theater.”
Miranda gave her mama a curious look, no doubt questioning her halting tone. Garrett knew Sophie didn’t feel comfortable with Fisk and generally avoided his company, but perhaps if they spent more time together she’d become as fond of him as he was. Fisk beamed. “Indeed, I should enjoy attending with you, madam. Perhaps next week. I’ve heard there’s a new spectacle at Covent Garden called ‘The Vision of the Sun’—a ‘grand, splendid, melodramatic tale of enchantment,’ according to the playbill. Cal can retire to his study with his port the night long whilst we are thoroughly entertained.”
“That would be lovely. And we can bring Becky and Aunt Bertrice with us.” She gave Garrett an expectant look across the table.
Why would he say no? She would be with Fisk, whom he trusted implicitly. He raised his fork and waved it in the air. “Of course you may attend the theater with Fisk, whenever you please.” He tilted his lips at her in an attempt at a smile. “Better Fisk than me, no doubt.”
When she smiled back at him, the affection in her expression warmed him to his toes. After breakfast, Miranda and Sophie retired. Sophie was teaching Miranda embroidery, and as with everything, the child was a quick learner. Garrett saw Fisk off on one of his prowls about London, then followed the women into the austere drawing room where he sat in the most comfortable of the uncomfortable palm-print armchairs, opened The Times, and read the paper as Sophie directed their daughter on the proper way to hold her needle and how to achieve the perfect stitch.
Their feminine voices soothed him, made his mind drift toward pleasant matters. So this was domestic tranquility.
“Papa?”
Garrett didn’t respond at first. The word flowed through him like the rest of the females’
conversation, smooth as silk.
“Garrett?” Sophie said softly.
He raised his gaze over the top of the paper. “Yes?”
“Miranda wanted to ask you something.”
He jerked his gaze to the girl, belatedly realizing the “Papa” had been directed toward him. It always struck him as odd—and endearing—when she referred to him as her papa. He frowned at his daughter. “What is it, then?”
She frowned back at him, and Sophie chuckled softly behind her hand. They both turned their glares on her.
“May I ask what is so funny?” Garrett said.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Miranda, dearest, do ask him your question.”
Miranda sighed but kept her direct gaze on him. “I decided I wish to know more about how you occupied yourself in Belgium all that time.”
“Is that so?” he asked slowly. In the days that had passed since his return, Sophie had tried to pry more out of him about his time in Belgium. She had succeeded to some extent, but he wasn’t quite sure how to describe his time there to his daughter. She nodded soberly. “Yes. I have never been to the Continent. Well, I know I was there as a baby when Mama was searching for you—” Garrett and Sophie exchanged a glance. “—
but I don’t remember. What is it like?”
“Well.” How to explain the many differences between the Continent and England to this child? “The people in Belgium speak Dutch or French, for one.” His lips quirked. “I wasn’t overly popular amongst them for a long time. Later, once I adjusted to life there, they began to accept me as a Belgian rather than an Englishman.”
“You must speak French and Dutch quite well, then.”
“French better than Dutch.” At her wistful look, he added, “Don’t you speak French?”
Sophie laughed. “Garrett! She is only seven.”
“I am learning, Papa. Though I fear I am not yet fluent.”
He cleared his throat. “Well. I’ve no doubt you shall be soon.” He glanced down at his newspaper, unable to account for how strange this conversation was making him feel. The three of them, sitting together. As if it were… natural.
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