“I’d like my mount readied.”
The gray-haired servant nodded and rushed off. As Christopher made his way to the foyer, he considered his father’s latest threat.
“My lord, your horse is ready.” The butler’s monotone voice cut into his ponderings.
Christopher accepted his hat and fled his father’s lair. As he set out on horseback, he went over his exchange with the marquess. Initially, he’d wanted to avoid marriage to Sophie because she was…hell, she was Sophie, the bane of his existence. She was no mystery Athena in Lord Thomas’s library who’d made him feel a lightness and desire for whimsy that had never before plagued him. Yet at some point, that had shifted. Changed. His desire to avoid marriage now stemmed from a need to protect her from his father’s machinations.
From atop his black mare, Christopher ignored the passing greetings, wholly focused on his morning meeting. Redbrooke’s familiar white townhouse came into focus, and a sense of purpose propelled Christopher forward. He leapt down and adjusted the brim of his hat. “Hullo, you there.”
A young boy with black grime coating his cheeks jabbed himself in the chest. “Ye mean me, yer lordship?”
Christopher nodded. Then, reaching into his jacket front, he pulled out a sovereign and tossed it to the lad. The young boy’s eyes went wide in his face, as though he’d received a king’s fortune. He handed the reins over to the lad. “Wait for me and there’ll be another.”
“Aye, yer lordship.” The child nodded with such enthusiasm he dislodged the cap atop his oily black hair.
With determined steps, Christopher approached the front of Viscount Redbrooke’s townhouse and wrapped on the front door. He was greeted by the stoic butler.
“The Earl Waxham to see Miss Winters.”
The older servant studied the card. He wrinkled his nose and for a long moment, Christopher thought the older man intended to turn him away, but then with a flick of his chin, he motioned him forward. “If you’ll follow me, my lord? I’ll see if Miss Winters is receiving guests.”
The other man moved with infinite slowness up the winding staircase, his path intercepted by Viscount Redbrooke. Redbrooke glanced down the stairs at Christopher. The lines of his face settled into a momentary frown before he masked it with a forced grin. “Waxham. Good to see you.” Though his tone said it was anything but a pleasure.
Christopher suspected the other man’s palpable disappointment stemmed from the fact that Christopher had come calling and not the more distinguished Duke of Mallen. Christopher frowned. He might disapprove of the manner of courtship Mallen had launched, but it would appear Mallen’s plan had worked brilliantly. He thought he should feel a greater sense of success and not this knot-like pressure deep in his gut. He bowed. “Hello, Redbrooke.”
The viscount waved off the butler. “Ralston, I’ll escort His Lordship to my sister.”
Ralston bowed. “Very well, my lord.”
Christopher doffed his hat and handed the article over to the butler.
Redbrooke clapped Christopher on the back. “I’m sure Sophie will be delighted to see you.”
The viscount clearly didn’t know his sister at all. It was more likely that Phi would send Christopher to the devil with a wave and a smile.
He fell into step alongside Redbrooke, who prattled on about the latest addition to his stables; a Spanish mustang he’d purchased from Lord Robertson.
“He’s a stubborn creature,” Redbrooke groused. “Not the docile, obedient horse Robertson promised.”
If Redbrooke had only delved a little deeper before making his purchase he would have learned if not properly trained, the Spanish mustang was in fact quite hard-headed. “With the right trainer, he can be a splendid horse,” Christopher assured him. “It’s one of the more intelligent breeds.”
“Is it?” Redbrooke asked, his tone hopeful.
At any other time, Christopher would eagerly embrace a discussion on horseflesh. It was a topic he was comfortable with and an interest he’d found great success in over the years. He’d turned his and Father’s stables into the most well-stocked, distinguished ones in all of England.
Instead, as they walked, Christopher could only focus on how neatly his plan had fallen into place. If he had his way, and with Mallen’s help, Christopher would be free of Sophie and thwart his father’s loathsome efforts.
He froze as the haunting strains of an unfamiliar melody drifted from behind the open door. The melody, achingly poignant and sad, reached deep within Christopher and wrenched around his heart.
Redbrooke paused at the doorway to the room, seeming to just realize that Christopher did not follow. He looked over his shoulder. “Sophie is quite accomplished on the pianoforte.”
Quite accomplished?
Redbrooke waved his hand. “You’re thinking about that whole business of her performance following dinner. Sophie has always had something of a wild spirit.”
Truer words were never spoken. It would appear, however, that Sophie Winters also possessed a musical ability to rival the heavenly symphonies. Christopher closed his eyes a moment and allowed Sophie’s playing to carry him off to a far distant place where reality merged with fantasy.
The pianoforte reached a passionate crescendo and then the melody ended on a discordant note. It forced Christopher’s eyes open. He tugged at his cravat, a flush heated his neck at having reacted so to Sophie’s performance, in front of her brother no less.
There was a pause.
Then, jaunty, light notes of the pianoforte drifted out of the parlor.
Redbrooke motioned him forward, and they entered the room.
***
“You have a visitor, Sophie.”
Sophie’s fingers froze above the keys.
She scrambled to her feet so quickly, the backs of her legs bumped the piano bench. The delicate piece of furniture scraped the floor.
Christopher stood in the doorway, alongside her brother. A victorious grin tipped Geoffrey’s lips and she didn’t know if it stemmed from the fact that Christopher had paid her a visit or whether he felt victorious over having violated her wishes from the dinner party with the Marquess of Milford and his son. In the end, her brother had managed to have his way.
Sophie bit the inside of her cheek. Then, that was the way of their world. A woman’s wishes meant very little when coupled with the desires of a man. She looked to Christopher expecting to see a mocking glint in his familiar eyes.
As he bowed, his blank expression gave very little indication as to his thoughts.
She could only imagine his humor at her efforts on the pianoforte. Even if it was a skill she possessed, Christopher would never do something as gracious as to acknowledge her talent.
Her friend Emmaline, however, had indicated Christopher was a gracious, attentive suitor.
Sophie’s lips twisted with wry humor. Not that Sophie considered Christopher a suitor.
“Sophie?” Her brother shot her a pointed look.
Sophie dipped a curtsy. “My lord.”
“Miss Winters.”
Geoffrey slapped Waxham on the back. “Oh, come. There’s no need to stand on ceremony. We’ve known each other most of our lives.” He looked to the corner of the room where Sophie’s maid, Lucy, stood. “I have business to attend. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your visit.”
Christopher didn’t speak until Geoffrey had taken his leave. “You do play pianoforte.”
Unsure how to respond to his statement, Sophie said nothing.
He appeared unwilling to allow the matter to rest. “That is why you spend so much time in this garish parlor. Because of the pianoforte.” He sounded like a man of science who’d just discovered some unexplained bit of information. His gaze scanned the room, and then settled once again on her cheeks, which she imagined were flaming red to match the crimson upholstery. “It is hard to imagine the same young girl I sent fleeing this very room is now an accomplished songstress.”
“I’m hardly an accomplished…�
� Her words trailed off. A strand of hair tumbled over her brow and she brushed it back. All these years she didn’t believe he’d remembered his unkindness toward her. The stubborn curl fell back across her eye, yet again.
Christopher took a step toward her. He brushed the lock back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Your parents insisted you play.”
Her breath caught and held in her breast at the feel of his fingers against her skin. Sophie thought back to that long ago day. Mother, with her pursed lips, and commanding stare, had ordered Sophie to perform. “I didn’t want to play,” she said softly. “I wanted to…”
“Play with Penelope,” he finished for her.
With its golden ringlets and blue eyes, Father had always said her doll, Penelope, resembled Sophie.
A swell of emotion clogged her throat. Christopher could have only been fifteen or so years of age, and yet he remembered something as mundane as the name of her doll?
He continued, as though he’d heard Sophie’s unspoken question. “Your hair was like spun gold. I’d never seen a color that vibrant—until I saw you traipsing around, hand in hand with Penelope. She reminded me of you.”
Sophie tried, without success to swallow past that blasted lump in her throat.
Christopher captured one of her gold curls between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed the lock back and forth between his fingers. “Even pleading with your mother, you were so remarkably composed.” His eyes fell to her mouth. She trailed the tip of her tongue along her lips. “Your mother tolerated your pleading but she never stood for your show of tears in the presence of company.” Sophie opened her eyes just as he raised the strand of hair to his nose, and inhaled. “I felt so bloody awful reducing you to tears that day.” The corners of his lips twitched. “Your screams could have shattered the windowpanes. The way I saw it, you’d be fine once you were off playing with Penelope.”
She blinked. “What?” Her mind spun as she tried to make sense of his words. Christopher had deliberately insulted her pianoforte skills…all to spare her from being paraded about?
It challenged everything she knew to be true of him.
Christopher released the golden curl. It bounced alongside her cheek.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You believed I was deliberately cruel, didn’t you?” Shocked hurt underlined his question.
“I…” She closed her mouth. Because she had believed it. “I didn’t know, Christopher,” she said, when he took a step away from her.
If she’d been so very wrong about that day, long ago, what else had she been wrong about?
All along she’d thought him no better than the fanged monsters of the Red Parlor. In actuality, he’d been a kind of Lancelot, intending to slay her demons.
Christopher passed an assessing glance over her face. “Why didn’t you wish to play after the dinner party?”
She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, feeling suddenly very foolish over her childish showing for him and his father. “I don’t prefer to play on command,” she said, not willing to admit just how affected she’d been by his insults some fourteen years ago. “It is enough that every other aspect of my life is dictated for me.” There, that wasn’t an untruth. Her love of music was the sole aspect of her life not subject to the whim and fancy of her mother and brother’s wishes and desires.
“I understand that,” Christopher said, quietly.
Sophie started at the admission.
He held his palms up. “When Society places stringent expectations upon you, it becomes very important to hold onto some aspect of one’s life.”
Her breath caught in her chest. Christopher understands. It was hard to fathom that they could connect on this score, especially considering the history of animosity between them.
“Are we the only ones to question Society’s norms?” she wondered aloud.
Christopher glanced to a point beyond her shoulder. “I believe your friend, Lady Emmaline, was not unlike either of us in that regard.”
Sophie tried to detect whether there was any trace of hurt or resentment to his statement. When Emmaline had severed her betrothal with the Marquess of Drake, Christopher had courted the Duke of Mallen’s only sister. At the time, Sophie had suspected Christopher’s interest had stemmed from his connection with the duke and the advantageous match Emmaline represented. Now, Sophie wondered if there had been more to Christopher’s pursuit of Emmaline.
“Did you love her?”
Her words seemed to jolt him. Her cheeks flamed with heat at the boldness of her question. She wanted to call the words back.
Yet she found, more than that, she wanted an answer.
His shoulders stiffened and he returned his gaze to Sophie’s. “I deeply admire Lady Emmaline. I always have.”
Sophie’s heart clenched at his honest admission. It shouldn’t hurt that Christopher held Emmaline in high-esteem when he’d always looked so unfavorably upon Sophie…and yet, it caused a sharp pang. It would be one thing if the young earl had tormented her and Emmaline over the years, but quite another if only Sophie had been the victim of his ill-regard. Never before had Sophie felt jealous of her only friend in the world. Just then, however, an overwhelming surge of hideous, green envy consumed Sophie.
“You’re quiet, Phi. That isn’t like you.”
Her toes curled in her slippers. No, she’d always been far too garrulous, saying all the wrong things. “I…I’m sorry you were hurt by Emmaline.” Surprisingly, she meant it.
Christopher’s expression grew pensive. “I care for Emmaline. I believe in part of that is because of my connection to Mallen, but part of that is who she is. I know my pride was hurt when she wed Drake. Beyond that, I do not believe there was any grand passion.”
Sophie’s heart lifted in the oddest way. “I am glad.”
He froze.
She felt heat slap her cheeks. “Uh, I mean, that is, I am glad you were not hurt by her marriage to Lord Drake,” she lied.
Christopher began to pace. She studied his long legged stride as he marched a back and forth path over the wood floor. He spun back to face her. “I didn’t want to court you, Phi.”
Her heart plummeted down somewhere around her toes. She dug deep for indignation but couldn’t battle past the humiliated pain. Even her three long years as a wallflower and being featured with regularity in Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet couldn’t come close to the sting of Christopher’s words.
I didn’t want to court you, Phi.
She wrinkled her brow.
Didn’t.
Not— I don’t want to court you.
But rather, didn’t.
Only a handful of letters, and yet they greatly changed the meaning of his words. It implied he wished to court her, now.
Her silence must have registered because Christopher approached her. His fingers brushed her jawline and he tipped her chin up. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
Christopher stroked her cheek with the tip of his index finger.
A strand of midnight black hair fell across his eye. “For what?”
“For being honest with me.”
“Honesty is so important to you?” There was an earnestness to his tone.
“Of course. Isn’t it important to everyone?” Sophie reached up and shoved the lock back. Her finger brushed against his aquiline cheek and a jolt of heat slammed into her. His gaze fell to her lips. Christopher appeared transfixed. A man under some kind of spell and God help her…she felt the very same way.
“Miss Winters, you have a caller.”
She jerked her fingers back. In unison, Sophie and Christopher’s heads swung toward the doorway where the butler stood with a remote look on his wrinkled face.
Sophie placed several steps between herself and Christopher. “Uh,-thank you, Ralston.”
The Duke of Mallen entered the room. He bowed. “Miss Winters. I’ve come to claim you for our walk.”
Lady Ackerly’
s Tattle Sheet
In a great showing of disrespect to the distinguished hostesses of Almack’s, Miss S.W. arrived twenty minutes late to Almack’s Assembly Rooms and was turned away from the hall.
~12~
If one had told Sophie a mere fortnight ago that the Duke of Mallen would be escorting her along one of the many walking trails of St. James Park, she’d have accused them of madness.
Her glance strayed from the Duke of Mallen’s chiseled features to the gardens of flowers off in the distance. She expected she should feel elated at having garnered attention from the much sought after, very eligible, young duke. Why, every last lady from ten to one hundred and ten clamored for Mallen’s notice and here it was, bestowed, oddly enough upon her—plump, garrulous, incorrigible Sophie Winters.
All she could think of, however, was Christopher’s odd, yet honest visit. For days she’d believed his courtship had stemmed from his sense of familial obligation. Now, however, she wasn’t altogether sure.
“How very odd to see horses flying through Hyde Park.”
A gentle spring breeze kissed her skin and freed a lone curl from the intricate coif arranged by her maid. She tucked the strand back behind her ear.
“Hm-mm,” Sophie murmured. The strand came loose yet again and fell across her eye. The Duke of Mallen shot her a sideways glance. A half-grin tugged at his lips.
“And my, if that isn’t Lady Jersey dueling with Lord Applesbey in the middle of the walking path,” he said.
The duke was amicable. Abundantly charming. So why, at this moment, was she thinking about Christopher?
“Is she?”
Mallen gave a solemn nod. “Oh, yes. And if that isn’t Lady Caro cheering on Lord Applesbey.”
His words, finally registered. Sophie came up short and looked around.
“Ahh, I see I’ve at last secured your attention.”
Sophie winced. “My apologies, Your Grace. I’m afraid my mind wandered.”
“Did it?” he drawled.
“It did,” she confessed, until she realized he was being glib.
Sophie sighed. This wasn’t going well at all. Oh, if her mother and Geoffrey learned she’d insulted the duke on an outing, well then they’d probably see her wed old, lecherous Carmichael as penance for her ill-behavior.
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed Page 12