by Lyn Stone
He spun on his heel and glanced toward the pile of furs—the place of Sophia’s ruin. There was no trace of that act but for the impression of their bodies on the soft pelts. He threw his sherry across the room, taking savage satisfaction in the shatter of glass. He paused to see if he could hear the gods laughing and fancied they were.
Sophia. Sweet, dear Sophia. So misunderstood by her family, and so taken for granted. She deserved better than she’d received—from her family, from the duke, from him. And through it all, she’d behaved with such grace and courage that it left him humbled. Indeed, she had not seemed in the least bit angry or disturbed. No hysterics. No demands.
He took a few deep breaths and cleared his mind of self-loathing to deal with the problem at hand. There appeared to be no solution but that he would marry her. Of course he would marry her. The matter was out of his hands now and he must deal with the consequences. He, who had regarded marriage as an anathema, was about to step into the parson’s mousetrap willingly, and all because he could not control his lust for a sultry dark-eyed enchantress. An innocent enchantress.
Sophia sat quietly, alternately torn between horror and happiness, so that Janie could put the finishing touches on her coiffure. When she faced Selwick again, she wanted to be as self-possessed and nonchalant as possible. She prayed he would not betray their earlier indiscretion in some way. And that she would not blush too vividly.
Selwick. Not at all the sort of man who ordinarily attracted her, though she seemed to have fallen rather seriously in love with him. He was more commanding, more confident than her usual sort. And very much less in need of her.
And, alas, he was a gentleman so he would possibly offer her marriage. Of course, she would refuse. As much as she admired Selwick for his integrity, she could not commit herself to a marriage built on obligation. She could never go through life loving him and knowing he had married her for the sake of a moment’s indiscretion any more than she could have married the duke.
“Ye look so lovely, miss,” Janie said when Sophia stood and faced the tall looking glass.
“I think my gown is somber enough to satisfy Marjory’s requirements,” she allowed. “And I really do not want to give Thomas cause for complaint.”
“Prig,” Janie muttered under her breath. “Ye look as beautiful as any queen, Miss Sophia. That was the duke’s favorite gown.”
The duke aside, Sophia was well aware the cut was flattering by the number of heads she’d turned that season. She looked toward the door and smoothed the drape of the heavy green silk as Janie arranged the sweep of her small train.
She took a deep breath and headed downstairs even as her chest tightened with anxiety. She would simply do as she’d always done. She’d be as bright and cheerful as possible and behave as if nothing untoward had happened. If Selwick feared she would be like his stepsisters, he would be pleasantly surprised. It was the least she could do for him, considering what he’d done for her.
She heard the sound of conversation as she approached the dining room and hoped the family had not been seated yet. Jonathan would sigh and Thomas would make some comment about punctuality, no doubt.
Selwick noticed her first, a look of appreciation crossing his features, and stood to give her a polite bow before rounding the table to get her chair. Jonathan followed suit, and even Thomas grudgingly got to his feet.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” she said as Selwick held her chair. His hand brushed her shoulder as he moved to return to his own place across the table from her. She was certain her expression did not change at that veiled intimacy, though her heartbeat accelerated.
She tried to dismiss him from her mind as she turned her attention to her family. “I trust everyone is well? And you, Master Georgie, have been making snowmen in the garden, have you not? I saw them from my window.”
“Potter helped me. We are going to make a whole family, Cousin Sophia.”
Sophia smiled at Potter, who was standing by the servants’ door awaiting the next course. Selwick glanced at him, too, as if he could not believe Potter might have a bit of fun in him. She turned back to Georgie. “Then you shall be quite busy.”
The boy grinned. “Mama says I must have as much fun as possible since we will be going home soon.”
Thomas snorted and she was certain he was about to comment on the inappropriateness of “fun” under the circumstances. A diversion was in order. “Then you are right to make the most of the time you have, Georgie. I am certain Uncle Oliver would have approved.”
He nodded and went back to eating his pudding.
“That is very kind of you to say, Sophia,” Emma said. “He has so little joy at home in Wiltshire. If only his father were still here to—”
“Now, Emma, we should not dwell on the past,” Jonathan soothed. “You know it just makes you sad.”
“See here,” Thomas interrupted. “We should respect the sobriety of the occasion instead of treating it as as opportunity for frivolity. One could excuse a snowman from a child, but this business with holly and evergreens is absurd.”
Anger and embarrassment nearly provoked Sophia to a sharp retort. She glanced at Selwick over the rim of her wineglass to see if he had noticed. He had. The hint of a scowl hovered in the frown lines between his eyes and in the thin line of his lips.
“I rather like the evergreens,” Jonathan said. “Puts a freshness in the air, don’t y’know. Old manors tend to go musty in winter, eh?”
“Nevertheless,” Thomas persisted. “You ought to cease with the merriment, Cousin Sophia. Surely you can give up one Christmas for the sake of your deceased uncle.”
She sighed. How could she make them understand that the little Christmas she’d been making was for their uncle? Even if she explained, they’d find fault with it. Perhaps she was never going to win their approval. Would never gain their acceptance. She remained silent, trying to salvage what remained of her dignity. A gulp of the deep red wine eased the knot in her stomach.
Selwick saved the moment. “Miss Sophia is not being frivolous,” he said. “She alone has stepped forward to assist me in inventorying your uncle’s belongings. There are still crates upon crates in the attic. ’Tis like a maze up there.”
Thomas lowered his brow, his expression ominous. “I say! Is that not what you are paid for?”
“I am acting without compensation,” Selwick said, his lip curling slightly as he met Thomas’s gaze. “As a favor to your family and in recognition of my father’s relationship with your uncle.”
Georgie’s eyes grew wide and he looked from one family member to another as if he feared his uncle and Selwick would come to blows.
Again, Sophia took a gulp of wine. Oh, Selwick was sure to turn and run as far from her family as possible and as soon as he could.
“Easy, old girl,” Jonathan warned. “We wouldn’t want the servants to have to carry you to bed.”
Another glance at Selwick warned her to action before he could interfere. She laughed and winked at Jonathan. “Ah, cousin. That would be a first for me, but how many times have you made that particular assent?”
Jonathan chortled. “I own it. Boredom does not sit well with me. When all else fails, drink brings some relief from tedium.” He turned toward the butler. “Potter, more wine.”
She cringed and looked about. Only Selwick looked as if he had recognized the insult. He must be thinking that his own family was a pattern of decorum measured against her own. Oh, she could not wait to excuse herself.
As the library clock struck the hour of midnight, Sebastian sat before the fireplace, warming his brandy glass between his hands. The soothing action helped him think. He’d waited until the family was abed, then rang for Potter several minutes ago, and anticipated his imminent arrival.
If what he believed was true, everything would change for the Pettibone and Arbuthnot families. The implications were astounding, and his rational mind could not accept the possibility. Still, all the signs were there, subtle
but undeniable.
Potter arrived in his nightshirt and robe, his silvered hair mussed and sleep clouding his eyes. “My lord?”
Sebastian waved at a chair facing his own. “Sit, Potter,” he said as he stood to pour a brandy for the man.
A look akin to panic passed over Potter’s face, but he did as he was asked, accepted the brandy Sebastian offered and took a quick drink. Fortification? “Is something amiss?” he asked when the liquid settled.
“You tell me, Potter,” he said, sinking into his own chair again. “Or should I say, Pettibone?” The man blanched and coughed. A myriad of emotions passed over his face, and Sebastian knew he was considering denial. He shook his head. “Unless your plan is to impoverish yourself when everything is turned over to your heirs, I wouldn’t bother to refute my conclusion, sir.”
Pettibone heaved a long sigh. “How did you know?”
“There was not a single thing that gave you away, sir, but a collection of small things. Your distress when Miss Sophia took your journal to read, your readiness to be her accomplice in making a bit of Christmas, taking over the inventory in the cellar, building snowmen with Master Georgie. And your melancholy way of watching the family—half proud, half distressed. What were you thinking when you concocted this charade, sir?”
Pettibone’s eyes welled with tears, quickly blinked back. “That they did not know me and likely wouldn’t rouse themselves to attend me here. Not that they’d have reason to. I’ve been an indifferent uncle at best. But I wanted to see what sort of people they were before my money clouded their vision and bought me a superficial acceptance. Aye, I wanted just one Christmas at Windsong Hall before I was alone again.”
Something of Pettibone’s longing reached Sebastian—something he’d not felt for a very long time, and that surprised him. Pettibone, sad and pathetic man that he was, and Sebastian himself, were very alike in a fundamental way. They’d both made their own way from a very young age. Both had shied away from family and familial obligations. Both were essentially alone. But that had been Sebastian’s choice, and that knowledge made him uncomfortable.
“You could have gone to them, Pettibone. Asked their forgiveness for your long absence.”
“I was afraid they would not be natural with me. Money buys kindness, but lacks sincerity. I wanted to meet them as a common stranger. To see them as they are, not as they would be with a wealthy uncle. I have never been at ease with people, nor have I the gift of conversation. I do not know how to be an uncle, how to talk to family. It seemed easier to pose as my butler.”
“And what do you think?”
“For all their peculiarities, I like them. Jonathan could benefit from a bit of hard work, but he is a good lad. Marjory and Emma try to do what is right, but are a bit too rigid regarding propriety. Georgie and Sophia, though, have won my heart. Both are so honest and natural, so bright and kind. And vulnerable.” Pettibone turned a stern eye on Sebastian. “I would take it amiss if any of them were hurt.”
If he’d meant to intimidate Sebastian, he failed. To his everlasting chagrin, Sebastian would ten times rather face Pettibone’s disapproval than Sophia’s. He took a long drink from his glass and sighed. “What do you propose now?”
“I would prefer you keep your silence. I shall tell them when the casket arrives.”
“There’s actually a casket?”
Pettibone betrayed a slight smile. “Carrying my favorite books. It should arrive in another day. Two at most.”
Sebastian did not like deceiving the family, especially Sophia, who had grown attached to the man in the journals, but Pettibone’s dilemma touched him. “Only till then,” he agreed.
Pettibone stood, nodded his gratitude and left the library, closing the door softly behind him.
Sebastian sat back in his chair and sighed. How in the name of God had he gotten into this mess? And he still had to deal with Miss Sophia—that daunting bit of muslin who’d given him her virginity and then behaved as if nothing untoward had happened. Her conduct over dinner had been so blithely casual that he’d wondered for a moment if he’d imagined the events of the afternoon. Oh, no, little Miss Pettibone was not going to get away with that.
Chapter Ten
On his way upstairs, Sebastian glimpsed the faint flicker of candles burning in the windows facing the road. Sophia? His smile died quickly when he recalled that, in her own way, she was mourning a man who was not dead. Blast and be damned!
He disliked keeping such a secret from her and the family, but he had to respect Pettibone’s wishes. At least until the coffin arrived. He could only hope Sophia would forgive him when she learned the truth. The thought that she might be angry troubled him more than it should.
A muffled sound stopped him as he passed the room that should have been Pettibone’s. The door was ajar and he nudged it wider, expecting to see Pettibone fetching some belonging. Instead he saw Sophia—barefoot, wrapped in a soft woolen robe, her hair falling down her back like a dark river—lighting a candle in the window. Keeping faith. Loving a man she never knew. Honoring him as if he’d belonged to her.
She sniffled and he knew he could not let her grieve a single moment longer—promise to Pettibone be damned. He crossed the room to her, his footsteps silent on the plush Oriental carpet. “Sophia,” he said as he touched her shoulder.
She spun and he thought she would either swoon or scream. She did neither. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his cravat. “Here now, Sophia. There is no need to cry. Your uncle—”
“Make love to me, Selwick. Make me feel as if I belong, if just for a moment.”
The rawness of her voice twisted his gut and he forgot everything but the need to give her whatever she wanted. What he wanted. When she lifted her face to him, he met her lips like the unknown gift he’d longed for all his life. He placed her on the massive bed and came down beside her.
By the soft glow of the candle, he removed her robe and nightgown slowly, marveling at her lush curves and kissing each part of her as he laid her bare. No hasty, half-clothed coupling this time, but a long and lazy tribute to her perfection.
He undressed himself, divesting his clothes as he worshipped her with his mouth, paying homage to her lips, the curve of her ear, her throat, her breasts. Her sighs and little gasps guided him, and her dark hair tangled on the pristine pillow like strands of fluid silk as she twisted with passion unfulfilled.
By the time she reached for him and stroked his shaft, his need was as deep as hers. He’d never been so lost in a woman, so gone to passion. Sophia was consuming him, changing him into a man he barely knew with her sweet demanding body. He wanted to linger and savor the journey, but Sophia demanded the destination. She nearly pulled him atop her, her thighs tense against his hips.
“Please,” she begged with a breathless sob. “Please…please.”
Her pleading was an aphrodisiac to him and he needed nothing more to do the very thing he wanted most to do. Mindful of her inexperience, he eased himself downward even as she rose to meet him. Her inner muscles were a tight, heated grip around him, creating the most exquisite friction he’d ever experienced. She was made for him—a perfect fit.
She found his rhythm and matched him thrust for thrust, robbing him of his cherished self-control. Thinking ceased and only the need to find the end of this remained. Her completion was as swift, blinding and intense as a lightning strike and he followed quickly, unable to delay when her muscles rippled and contracted, pulling him inward, commanding him, draining him.
He watched her in the throes of la petite mort. Her lids were closed, and translucent tears slipped slowly from the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with the residue of passion. Her lips were swollen from his kisses and parted in a deep sigh. Here was another split second in time that he would remember always and, if luck was with him, that vision would be the last thing he’d remember as he slipped from this life. Dear God…he never wanted to leave the snug haven of her body. Never
wanted to be a moment without Sophia.
How had this disaster occurred within the space of mere days?
“Gor! I’ve half a mind to give his lordship a piece of my mind. Just look at you,” Janie muttered the next morning when she put the finishing touches on Sophia’s hair.
Sophia looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Was there something that betrayed her activities of last night? Perhaps the blush that was creeping into her cheeks? “Whatever do you mean?”
“Why, look at the shadows under your eyes. Is he workin’ you that late, miss?”
So late she’d barely gotten three hours’ sleep, though it had not been work but pleasure. But she could not tell her maid such a thing. She managed a shrug. “We both want to finish quickly, Janie. There are so many crates. We’ve managed to empty most of them, but—”
“I’ve heard Mr. and Mrs. Evans talkin’ and they want to be home by Christmas. So do Mr. Jonathan an’ Mrs. Grant. Seems the only one enjoyin’ his self is Master Georgie.”
Sophia looked down to hide her disappointment. She had hoped they would all stay and spend the holiday together. And the thought of never seeing Selwick again was weighing on her. “I suppose it all depends upon when the coffin arrives,” she said.
“An’ it’s overdue, at that,” Janie said over her shoulder as she went to answer a soft knock at the door.
Sophia watched the reflection of the door in her vanity mirror, hoping it was Potter or Mrs. Cavendish bringing a pot of tea. Alas, it was not.
“I would like to have a few words alone with Miss Sophia, please,” Selwick said to the maid.
Janie turned and waited for Sophia’s nod before exiting and closing the door behind her.
He was so terribly handsome this morning, she thought. As if he’d slept an entire night, had risen early to bathe and shave and dress in impeccable black. She remained motionless as he came to stand behind her, watching her reflection in the mirror. He placed his hands on her shoulders with an intimate little smile that made her heart skip a beat.