Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

by Christi Caldwell

  He shifted as the wave of guilt grew. He couldn’t bring himself to respond to the question. Sophie deserved more than Christopher gossiping about her to Mallen.

  Mallen stormed across the room. He dragged Christopher up by the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll ask you one more time. Did. You. Kiss. Her?”

  Christopher held his hard stare. “You seem very concerned about Miss Winters.”

  His friend tightened his hold on him, his black glower darkening. “This is not any young lady, Waxham. This is Sophie Winters. She is my sister’s dearest friend.”

  Christopher inclined his head, as his friend’s reaction began to make more sense. “So this late visit stems from your sister’s relationship with Miss Winters?” He didn’t allow Mallen to respond. “Rest assured, Mallen, I intend to do right by the young lady. I plan to visit Redbrooke first thing in the morning and offer marriage.”

  Mallen released him with such lightning speed that Christopher stumbled against the desk. The young duke spun away from Christopher, presenting him with his back. “Why did you invite me into your scheme? Why, if you intended to offer for the lady anyway? Why, Waxham?” There was an aged weariness to Mallen’s tone; of the like Christopher had never before heard from the other man.

  Christopher cleared his throat. The rest of Society could go to hell…but Mallen’s opinion mattered a great deal to him. “It wasn’t intentional. It was…” His words died on a breath of air. “Christ.”

  His friend turned back to face him, a frown on his lips. “What?”

  The realization sank like a stone in Christopher’s belly. It churned and twisted until he thought he might be ill. This was incomprehensible. Inconceivable.

  “You’ve grown to care for her.” He wanted Mallen to deny it; wanted him to laugh at the preposterousness of it all. According to Lady Ackerly’s reporting on Sophie, she’d had only a handful of dances, two walks in Hyde Park, and several visits from the distinguished peer.

  Then, with Sophie, it didn’t take much more than that.

  Mallen looked away.

  And Christopher had his answer. He raked a hand through his hair. “Mallen—”

  “Shut the hell up,” Mallen snapped.

  “I didn’t intend for this to happen.”

  Mallen’s upper lip pulled back in a sneer. “Come now. You’ve never thought this all through. I warned you that you played a dangerous game with the young lady.”

  Only neither of them had considered that Sophie’s heart wasn’t the only organ to be endangered by Christopher’s scheming.

  “You needn’t have agreed to help me,” Christopher said.

  The left-handed jab spun Christopher around and knocked him to the floor. A momentary black haze clouded his vision. Christ, Gentleman Jackson would have been proud of such a punch. He pressed a hand to his bleeding nose and peered up at Mallen. “I deserved that,” he said around blood-smattered fingers.

  Mallen towered over him, chest heaving. “Miss Winters is entirely too good for you. She’s entirely too good for either of us.”

  “You are right,” Christopher said. Christopher had thought the very same thing more times than he could count on his two hands. “Regardless, I’ve come to care for her.”

  His friend passed a hard, probing stare over Christopher’s face. “Do you love her?”

  Christopher started. Did he love Sophie? He’d come to care for her in the past weeks. He desired her. He enjoyed her company. But love? “Love isn’t required.”

  Mallen’s upper lip pulled back in a sneer. “Why don’t you tell that to Miss Winters?”

  “I’m sorry you’ve been hurt, Mallen. That was never my intention. Will you stand up with me when I marry her?”

  His friend made a crude gesture with his hand. “Go to hell, Waxham.”

  With a final, black look he stepped over Christopher’s prostate form and left him alone to confront the reality of what he’d done.

  His friend had been closer to the mark than he possibly knew. There was a special place in hell reserved for Christopher and his father.

  “I’m proud of you, Christopher.” As if the devil himself had summoned him, the Marquess of Milford stood framed in the doorway. An uncharacteristic smile formed on the old bastard’s hard, unyielding lips.

  Christopher climbed to his feet. “How long have you been there?”

  His father arched a white brow. “Long enough to see Mallen knock you to the floor.” He waved his hand about. “Doesn’t matter.” A rusty laugh squeezed out of the marquess’ throat. “I imagine the duke isn’t accustomed to not getting his way. In the end, Miss Winters chose you. Did you tup the girl?”

  Christopher’s hands balled into tight fists at his side. It was all he could do to keep from storming across the room and beating his father bloody. He looked past his sire’s shoulder and the fight went out of him. In the end, Christopher had no one to hate except himself. The marquess hadn’t ruined Sophie…those actions belonged to Christopher alone.

  He dropped his chin to his chest.

  “Not that it matters,” his father went on, either oblivious or uncaring about the internal battle that raged within Christopher. “She’s ruined and has no choice but to accept you. Still, it would be better if she was sullied for anyone else. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about Redbrooke trying to pass her off to a better chap.”

  The viscount would be wise to do just that. Any number of lords would be more deserving of Sophie’s hand. Mallen’s visage came to mind. Christopher gritted his teeth. He was truly a bastard because even now, even if it meant Sophie’s happiness, he didn’t want to see her wed to anyone other than himself.

  “Be sure you are at Redbrooke’s first thing in the morning. The last thing we need to provide the viscount is time to realize you’re hardly the gentleman Society believes you to be.”

  He dropped his head into his hands, as his father took his leave, a maniacal laugh Christopher’s only company as he was forced to confront the ugly truth of what he’d done.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  It is been purported that Miss S.W. was seen at Mary Somerville’s lecture on her understanding of the night sky at the Royal Astronomical Society. As this individual who looked markedly like Miss S.W was wearing breeches and a hat, the identity cannot be wholly confirmed and shall therefore, remain wholly speculative.

  ~17~

  Christopher handed his beaver hat to Viscount Redbrooke’s butler.

  The servant wrinkled his nose as though he found Christopher’s company distasteful. He appeared to be a good judge of character. “If you’ll follow me, my lord.” He didn’t wait to see if Christopher followed but made the long climb up the winding staircase to the main floor of the house.

  With each step he took, Christopher’s guilt grew and grew until it was a living, breathing force that threatened to choke off his air supply.

  He could not in good conscience enter into a union with Sophie unless he confessed all; his father’s ultimatum, Christopher’s efforts to thwart his father, Mallen’s role in helping him.

  Yet, he knew with an intuition that had protected him from public shame all these years that the moment Sophie learned the truth, the gentle lightness that had grown between them would be shattered. She could never look at him the same.

  Nor would he be able to blame her.

  The butler stopped outside Redbrooke’s office. He glanced over his shoulder and then opened the door to announce Christopher.

  Christopher paused at the entrance and took a long, slow breath.

  “Enter,” Redbrooke called out.

  Perhaps Sophie needn’t know the truth after all. Perhaps they would both be best served by her ignorance of Christopher’s sins.

  Redbrooke didn’t pick up his head from the documents in front of him. “Waxham.”

  The butler took his leave and Christopher moved into the room. He stopped at the foot of Redbrooke’s desk, and waited for the other man to finish reading
the papers that occupied his attention.

  As he stood there, all the age old insecurities that had haunted Christopher reared their ugly head as he was forced to confront the reality; Redbrooke would require him to read and sign off on legal documents. His eyes closed and he counted his shallow breaths until they slowed.

  When he opened his eyes, Redbrooke’s gaze was trained on him. “Sit.” His command was no polite offer.

  Christopher slid into the seat across from Redbrooke. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to begin by apologizing for…”

  “For?” Redbrooke interrupted. He arched a single brow.

  The viscount apparently intended to make this exchange as uncomfortable as possible for Christopher which was no less than he deserved. Christopher didn’t have any siblings but he tried to imagine if he was in the other man’s position and some undeserving gent had compromised his sister. He was confident that he wouldn’t do something as polite as offer the man a seat across from him to discuss a marital contract, but would instead greet the bastard across a dueling field at dawn.

  “I’m sorry for the shame I’ve caused Sophie.”

  Redbrooke tossed his pen down. Black ink smattered the documents atop his otherwise orderly desk. “Sophie caused her own shame. She’s been the bane of my existence for two, now three years.”

  Christopher gripped the arms of his chair in an unrelenting grip. It was all he could do to keep from dragging Sophie’s pompous brother across the desk and punching him in the face. “This wasn’t her fault, Redbrooke.”

  “No, it wasn’t. And I’d wager it was all quite intentional on your part.” Christopher started. “Oh, come now, do you take me for a fool?” Redbrooke pressed. “Your father owed my father quite a significant debt.”

  “I didn’t know,” Christopher said, his voice hoarse with shame. “That is, I didn’t know until only just recently.” There were enough lies between him and Redbrooke.

  The viscount sat back in his chair. “Tell me what else you only just recently learned about.” He folded his arms across his chest and studied Christopher like he was a piece of grime at the bottom of his boots.

  The dowry.

  The word dangled in the air between them, unspoken but no less real for it.

  When it became clear that Christopher didn’t intend to speak, Redbrooke’s lips curled in a sneer. “I assume you know Sophie is worth a fortune.”

  Christopher’s gaze slid to the floor. It didn’t matter that he’d decided not to go forward with his father’s demands and deliberately compromise Sophie—because in the end, he’d ruined her reputation all the same. He imagined that it would be a waste of energy to dispute that with Redbrooke. Nothing about Christopher’s actions in the past twenty-four hours seemed at all honest. “I’m not marrying your sister for her dowry.”

  “No, you’re marrying her because you ruined her.”

  He flinched.

  Redbrooke apparently grew tired of bating Christopher. He turned his attention to the leather folio in front of him, opened it, and scanned the top page. “Here,” he said, and jerked his chin toward the pen.

  Christopher hesitated.

  “Go on. Take it. Read it.”

  Christopher reached for the legal document with damp palms, fighting to steady his fingers. Mayhap this time the words would make sense. Mayhap this time they wouldn’t dance upon the page.

  He looked at the sheet.

  Alas, this day wasn’t one for miracles. A painful pressure built behind his eyes as he ever slowly picked through the sentences.

  “I’ll spare you the time reading it,” Redbrooke said, seeming unaware of the silent battle being waged inside Christopher. “You’ll of course receive Sophie’s 100,000 pounds. I ask that Sophie receive no less than 1,000 pounds in pin money annually.”

  “Of course,” Christopher said with a nod. Hell, she could have all the money. It meant nothing to him.

  Redbrooke continued. “In the event of your death, I want half the sum to revert back to Sophie.”

  Christopher nodded. “That is fine.”

  Redbrooke’s lips turned down at the corner and Christopher suspected the other man had anticipated more of a fight in terms of the marital contract.

  Christopher made quick work of signing the formal documents.

  More than thirty minutes later, all the documents had been signed.

  Redbrooke blew on the top sheet and then stuck it inside the leather folio. “It is done.”

  A chill filled him at those ominous three words. “Does she know?” He forced out the question.

  Sophie’s brother leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Know what? That you ruined her reputation for her dowry?”

  Redbrooke had made up his mind about Christopher’s intentions and the truth of it was that Christopher’s actions, from the outside, looked quite black. Self-loathing warred with hatred for his father who’d forced Christopher into the role of fortune-hunter.

  No, he had no one to blame but himself. Christopher could have told his father to go to hell and hoped the threat of Bedlam was just that, a threat.

  “My mother will insist on an elaborate wedding.”

  “No. I’ve come from Doctor’s Common.” Christopher reached inside the front of his jacket. “I obtained a special license from the Archbishop,” he said, displaying the document in hand. “We’ll wed within the week.”

  Again, the other man sneered at him. “Do you fear her dowry will slip from your greedy clutches if the bans are read for three consecutive Sundays?”

  Christopher didn’t want to wait any longer than need be to make Sophie his wife. Again, it had nothing to do with her dowry and everything to do with protecting her and her already tarnished name.

  The fight seemed to leave Redbrooke on a lengthy sigh. “Very well.” The weariness in his tone belonged to a man who knew he was largely powerless.

  “I ask that you please not say anything about her dowry.” When the time came to discuss the truth, he wanted to do so without interference from the viscount.

  “I really don’t care what the hell you want,” Redbrooke spat. He clasped the front of his jacket and gave a tug. “Get the hell out of my sight, Waxham. Your presence sickens me.”

  Christopher understood that. He didn’t much like himself in that moment. He stood.

  Redbrooke called out, and Christopher froze. “For a long time, despite Sophie’s protestations, I had encouraged my sister to accept your suit. How ironic that Sophie was a good deal more perceptive than Mother and I.”

  Christopher clenched his jaw. “Good day, Redbrooke,” he said with a bow, not giving Redbrooke the fight he was clearly spoiling for.

  As he wound his way back through the viscount’s house, Christopher considered the other man’s words. For years, Christopher had gone to great pains to avoid Sophie. How could her brother therefore, believe there was anything honorable in Christopher’s intentions?

  He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered if Sophie ever really needed to know the truth. He feared the enormity of his sins were ones she could never forgive.

  When he reached the foyer, the butler handed his hat over to him.

  “Are you leaving, Christopher?”

  He spun around.

  Sophie stood at the bottom step, head tipped to the side. Light radiated from the fathomless depths of her blue irises and put him in mind of a clear, summer sky in the country.

  “Uh, I…” Another wall of guilt slammed into him. He’d arrived here without even a bouquet of flowers for the young lady. In all her imaginings, she’d probably had greater dreams for the man who would offer for her hand. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?” She continued walking over, and stopped in front of him.

  He held his palms up. “I didn’t bring you anything.” What a lout.

  She waved her hand. “I don’t need anything.”

  She might not need for anything, b
ut it was a simple kindness he could have shown to the woman who would be his wife. Christopher took her fingers in his and raised them to his mouth. He brushed his lips over the tops of her knuckles. “I don’t deserve you.”

  Sophie snorted, and pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “You’ve never been dramatic before, Christopher.”

  He managed his first real smile since his world had crumbled down upon him. “Most ladies would call it romantic.”

  “I suppose they would. However, I’m not most ladies.”

  No, no she wasn’t.

  “Will you allow me to escort you on a walk?”

  She grimaced and it dawned on Christopher that the last thing Sophie cared for was to be seen in public following their scandal at Lady Brackenridge’s. “Would you care to take a turn about my mother’s garden?”

  He nodded and waved off the butler who came over with his cloak. Christopher returned his hat to the servant.

  “Lord Waxham will not be leaving just yet,” Sophie said and then with little regard for propriety, took him by the hand and led him through house toward the gardens. She cast a glance back up at him. “As a fallen woman, I’m afforded certain luxuries now.”

  “I’d hardly call you a fallen woman,” he drawled.

  “Regardless, of what you call it, I am afforded certain luxuries.”

  “Like holding your betrothed’s hand?”

  She tripped and he stumbled against her back. His arms came up to right her.

  “Sophie?”

  “Is that what we are? Betrothed?”

  Christopher nodded. “I spoke to your brother. The formal arrangements have been made.”

  A small, wistful smile played on her lips. “Imagine that. I’ve gone from never courted to suddenly betrothed.” She seemed to remember he was there for she gave her head a clearing shake, and then continued tugging him along.

  They entered the impressive gardens, moving past the rows of well-pruned English boxwoods, interspersed with pale pink roses. He froze alongside one of the bushes, which forced Sophie to a halt.