Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

by Christi Caldwell

  “P-put me d-down. I r-really can w-walk.” She shoved his chest when he still didn’t release her.

  “I’m not putting you down, Phi, so you may as well rest against me.”

  “I-I’m too large,” she said, and felt a wave of heat cascade over her cheeks.

  He snorted. “Don’t be silly. You’re perfect.” His effortless strides, and unwavering hold leant truth to his words.

  Her heart sped up and she fell in love with him all over again. She rested the side of her head along his chest. The rapid beat of his heart pounded a sure, steady rhythm under her ear. “I love you,” she whispered. An ominous rumble of thunder sounded again and Sophie tried to tamp down disappointment that Christopher still hadn’t returned those words.

  She tugged at his damp sleeve, and gave it a hard tug when he didn’t respond. He slowed his steps and looked down at her. “Put me down,” she said.

  He hesitated, and then with deliberate care, set her upon her feet.

  Sophie settled her arms akimbo. “I said I love you.”

  His gaze skittered to a point beyond her shoulder but he still didn’t speak.

  “Did you hear me? I said it several times.”

  He sighed. “I…thank you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Had he thanked her? Oh, the lout! Sophie knew she was being childish and desperate and all things petty, but she stomped away from him. He’d wed her, not because he’d been moved by overwhelming emotion for her, but out of a gentlemanly sense of obligation. After being discovered in Lord Brackenridge’s library, Sophie’s reputation had been in tatters. He’d merely been trying to put back the shattered pieces of her social status.

  God help her, she’d not plead with him for a profession of love. She wanted him to feel what she felt and the fact that he didn’t caused her heart to crack and bleed like he’d ground it beneath his soaked Hessian boot.

  He called after her. “Phi!”

  She kept walking toward Milford House.

  “Phi! Stop!” he barked. “Please.” That single, soft entreaty halted her in her tracks. She froze, until he’d caught up to her.

  Christopher took her by the shoulders, and turned her to face him.

  Her jaw hardened. “I don’t want your pity.” She only wanted his love.

  “I’m not capable of love, Phi.” He held his palms up. “I…” Again, his gaze wandered a moment and then returned to hers. “My childhood was not a pleasant one but it was because I’m flawed. I’m not even certain I’m someone a person is capable of loving.”

  “That’s silly. I love you.” She tried to infuse as much emotion into those words as possible. All the while she fought back the waves of sadness that lapped at her heart. She tried to imagine Christopher as a small child; motherless at a very young age, without siblings for friendship or companionship, the miserable marquess as his father. It was no wonder he doubted the emotion of love.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He started. “For what?”

  “I was horrid to you.”

  His eyes slid closed. “No, Phi. Don’t do that. Don’t…you were a child. We were both children. And I deserved it.”

  She made a sound of protest. “No. You didn’t.” All the good in him, the kindness he’d shown her, she’d never allowed herself to see it. She’d only noted the ways in which he’d teased and tormented her as a girl. “I’ve only just realized the kind of man you are.”

  He flinched. “Phi, you don’t truly know me. There are…” he hesitated, “things you don’t know about me. Things that brought shame to my father.”

  “Your father is a pompous ass.” She borrowed his phrase.

  She expected his lips to form a small smile, or perhaps that he should even chuckle, but the solemn, dark look remained in his hazel eyes, chilling her in ways that the frigid waters hadn’t been able to.

  “There is more, Phi. I need to confess something to you.”

  A streak of lightning lit the sky, followed by the rolling sound of thunder. Then, the skies opened up in a deluge that pounded down upon them. The sting of rain pelted her skin with a searing intensity. “What were you going to say?” she screamed into the sudden fury of the storm.

  Water ran in rivulets down her eyes. It blurred her vision until she struggled to see the hard, angular planes of his face.

  Christopher scooped her up yet again and all but sprinted the remaining distance home. By the time they’d reached the main drive, the rain had slowed to a steady, but slower patter. The butler, flung the doors open and Christopher sailed through.

  “Lord Waxham,” Barker said.

  “Have a hot bath prepared for Lady Waxham.”

  Barker nodded. “Very well, my lord. But…”

  “And have Cook prepare a tray of pastries and hot tea.”

  “Yes, my lord. If you’ll allow me to…”

  “What have we here?” That slow, condescending drawl cut into the butler’s words.

  Christopher set Sophie down with such alacrity she fell against him.

  Her heart plummeted as she faced the Marquess of Milford. The silver-haired peer stood at the bottom of the wide, spiral staircase. He ran a quick, assessing glance over her sopping frame. His lip curled back in a sneer.

  “Father,” Christopher greeted.

  Just like that, the magic of their wedding trip was shattered.

  Christopher leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Why don’t you go abovestairs, Phi?”

  Sophie nodded, grateful for the reprieve. She dipped a stiff, formal curtsy. “My lord.”

  Her father-in-law inclined his head. Without a backward glance, Sophie hurried past him, and made her way to her chambers. Not for the first time, her heart breaking at the thought of Christopher growing up with such a miserable, cold man. How had her father ever considered that man a friend? The marquess was so very different than her father. The late viscount had been a sweet, affable man who’d bounced her upon a knee and visited the nursery for tea-parties with imaginary figures and dolls. She thought it more likely that Christopher’s father would delight in scaring small children.

  Sophie entered her chambers and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the wood-panel, feeling like a thousand times the coward for abandoning her husband to the marquess.

  ***

  Christopher stared after his wife. When she’d disappeared abovestairs, he turned to his father. “You couldn’t stay away? You had to come here, now?”

  His father bristled. “I always spend my time at Milford House.”

  “A fortnight, Father. That is all I’d intended to stay and then you were free to have your miserable, god-forsaken Milford House.”

  The marquess’ eyes narrowed into small slits. “I needed to speak with you. Where are you going?”

  Christopher paused on the third step. “I’m wet. Cold. And in desperate need of a change of attire. Whatever you came to speak with me about is going to have to wait.” His father’s impatient curse followed him up the stairs to his chambers.

  His valet had apparently been notified of Christopher’s state of dishabille. He’d readied an immaculate pair of tan breeches and a sapphire waistcoat.

  Christopher made quick work of changing into the dry garments. He didn’t bother with his soaked hair. Instead, he left the locks sopping wet. The ends of the strands brushed the collar of his shirt, and dampened the fabric.

  He slipped his arms into the sleeves of jacket and tugged it closed, gritting his teeth. He should have expected his sire would do something as reprehensible as barging in on Christopher’s wedding trip. He’d never allowed him any happiness. It had always been about exhibiting a semblance of control over his son.

  This past week, Christopher had been happier than he’d been in his entire life. Many times, he’d been on the cusp of confessing everything to Sophie. But none of the moments had seemed right. He and Phi had spent the days learning each other’s bodies, but more, they spent the time learning about each other. He learned
her favorite sweet was in fact berries dipped in chocolate. He’d shared his love of the theatre. She’d entertained him with ribald ditties on the pianoforte.

  He kept telling himself that he needed to tell her of his father’s plan and Christopher’s attempt to thwart those efforts. He intended to tell her. But something had always prevented him from doing so. Why, right before they’d been caught in the vicious storm, he’d been meaning to confess all.

  Now, he could admit that he’d merely made excuses. He’d been so bloody contented and hadn’t wanted to risk losing that happiness. As a result, he’d not given Sophie that which she deserved—the truth.

  Well, no more. After he met with his father, he’d seek out his wife and tell her all. Every last, shameful bit.

  His palms grew damp and he wiped them along the sides of his breeches. She’d understand. She had to. The alternative was not to be countenanced.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter,” Christopher called out.

  “My lord, the Marquess of Milford has requested your presence in his office.”

  Christopher gritted his teeth. Bloody, commanding bastard. He gave a curt nod. As much as he longed to defy his father’s orders, he was more inclined to meet with him and be done with their exchange. The sooner he met with his father, the sooner he’d be able to return to his wife’s side.

  He imagined her smooth, naked body under the hot, fragrant waters of her bath. A heaviness settled in his loins. God, what he wouldn’t give to join her.

  With a regretful look over in the direction of the door that separated their rooms, Christopher started for his meeting.

  When he arrived at his father’s office, he didn’t knock, but instead shoved the door open.

  His father sat behind the mahogany desk, his head bent over a ledger. “I’ve been waiting, Christopher.” A thick dose of annoyance underlined the marquess’ words.

  “What do you want?” Christopher asked, his hands balled into tight fists at his side.

  His father reached for his pen, dipped it into the ink, and scribbled something onto the page. He studied the words, and then set the pen down. Then, he sat back in his leather chair.

  “Sit down, Christopher.”

  “Get on with it, Father.”

  The marquess’ frown deepened. He folded his arms across his chest. “I wanted to tell you I’m proud of you.”

  Christopher blinked. If a choir of heavenly angels had come down and planted a halo upon the old bastard’s head, he wouldn’t have been more shocked. He eyed his sire with a leeriness befitting the old marquess.

  “You didn’t want to but you wed the girl, anyway.” He tipped his head. “I know you and I have not gotten on over the years but you sacrificed your happiness for our estates.”

  Bile worked its way up Christopher’s throat. “This is what you’ve come for?” he said, his voice coming out garbled. “To thank me for wedding Sophie?” He made to leave but his father held up a staying hand.

  “Here me out, Christopher. And then you can leave.” He motioned yet again to the chair at the foot of his desk.

  Christopher hesitated and then sat to hear what the old bastard had to say.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  While in attendance at the Cotswold Olimpik Games, Miss S.W. took umbrage with the cock-fighting and released the caged creatures. Her efforts went unappreciated by the fowl that chased her from the tent.

  ~22~

  Sophie chewed at her lower lip, her gaze trained on the door. She’d bathed and changed into suitable attire. As much as she longed to remain closeted away in the safety of her chambers, Sophie was no coward. As an earl’s wife, she had an obligation to properly greet and welcome her father-in-law— even if he were an odious cur.

  “My lady, you rang?” Lucy entered the room, interrupting her musings.

  Duke hopped off the bed and ran over to the maid. He sniffed at her skirts. When he’d ascertained that she had no treats with which to share, he returned to the edge of the bed.

  Sophie scooped him up, and placed him back on the coverlet. With his two front legs, he dug at the fabric, and then settled down into the little nest he’d made for himself.

  “Do you know where my husband is?”

  “I believe he is meeting in the Marquess of Milford’s office. Is there anything else you require?”

  Sophie shook her head. “No, that will be all.”

  Lucy curtsied and closed the door behind her.

  With a sigh, Sophie stroked the black stripe down Duke’s back. He flipped over in response, presenting his belly for Sophie’s attention. “You do know I can’t stay here all afternoon?”

  His tongue hung out the side of his mouth.

  “I’d like to,” she went on.

  Duke’s wide chocolate eyes grew heavy.

  “It’s rude to fall asleep when someone is speaking to you.”

  A loud, sputtering snore was her only response.

  Sophie pat him on his head and abandoned her chambers. She wound her way through Milford House, toward the Marquess of Milford’s office. Her steps slowed to a halt outside the room. She bit the inside of her cheek.

  Mayhap she shouldn’t interrupt. She could arrange for refreshments. Why, it didn’t seem proper to intrude on Christopher’s meeting with his father. Her reservations had nothing to do with the cowardice that filled her.

  Sophie turned on her heel, and…

  “I wanted to tell you, I’m proud of you.”

  The marquess’ rumbling pronouncement brought her to a halt. Her heart warmed for Christopher. His childhood with the marquess had been a turbulent one. Sophie found she could even forgive the marquess his many sins, including interrupting her wedding trip to Milford House, for coming out to praise Christopher.

  She smiled and again made to take her leave, not wanting to be an interloper on the father and son’s private exchange, when the marquess’ next words penetrated the thick wood panel of the door. “You didn’t want to, but you ruined the girl, anyway. You’ve done very well, Christopher. I know you and I have not gotten on over the years but you sacrificed your happiness for our estates.”

  Sophie stared at the door, unblinking. Her heart froze, suspended in her chest. She reached out, her hands searching for purchase, and found it against the wall. A dull, humming filled her ears. She’d misheard the marquess. There was no other logical explanation.

  “I know you fancied yourself in love with that woman but you put aside your desires for the girl’s dowry.”

  Christopher’s response was lost to the thick plaster that separated them and her own shallow breathing.

  She borrowed support from the wall. Christopher was in love with another…suddenly, his laconic response to her profession of love made sense. A bitter, pained laugh worked its way up from deep inside her and lodged in her throat. It threatened to choke her. What a fool she’d been. She’d looked to him adoringly, all but pleading for him to return her feelings, when all along there had been another.

  Leave, Sophie. Run as far and as fast as your legs will carry you, so that you do not have to hear every other vile thing from your husband and father-in-law’s lips.

  Instead, she remained rooted to the spot, flagellating herself with the agony of their next words.

  “I know you had enlisted Mallen’s help to avoid marriage to the girl... I know the only reason he courted her was…” She pressed her ear to the Chinese wall-paper, and struggled to hear the remainder of that statement.

  Tears popped up behind her lashes, but she blinked them back. What a bloody fool she’d been. Mallen’s sudden interest now made sense. He’d merely been courting her because Christopher had asked it of him. The humiliation of that realization was nothing compared to the shattering truth of the lengths Christopher had gone to avoid marriage to her.

  In the end, he’d craved her dowry more than he craved his freedom. A single tear streaked a path down her cheek. She swiped it away, but it was me
t by another.

  Every kind word from Christopher, every seductive smile had been a carefully crafted lie. She’d never mattered to him; not as a young girl and not as the woman he’d married.

  The marquess continued speaking, his words slashed through the haze of despair that gripped her. “As I said, now that you ruined her, you can carry on with whomever you want. Society wouldn’t expect anything different.”

  All the life seemed to drain out of her legs. Sophie slid in an empty heap outside the marquess’ office. Since she’d made her come out three years ago, Christopher hadn’t offered her anything more than a polite greeting—and only then, in passing. Not one dance had he requested.

  Her brother’s words, spoken the night of Lady Brackenridge’s ball, filled her memory.

  Waxham, who’s ignored you for years, of a sudden is paying you court, perhaps luring you away from Polite Society. Surely you must have wondered at his sudden interest?

  She forced herself to confront the hideous reality of Christopher’s deception.

  Her insides churned until she thought she might cast up the accounts of her stomach right there in the midst of the hall.

  Geoffrey had known. As had Mother.

  Then, there she was. Poor, pathetic Sophie, too blinded by her love of Christopher to see the ugly truth even as it had been staring right at her. She’d given up her good reputation, all that a young lady possessed, for him, and in the end, all that had mattered to Christopher was her dowry.

  She rocked her head against the wall. “Foolish, foolish, foolish,” she whispered the litany over and over.

  “Do you intend to leave her here?” The marquess’ question jerked her out of her misery.

  Gooseflesh dotted her skin. Her husband intended to abandon her. A hard, brittle smile formed on her lips. Oh, she could just imagine Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet.

  Lord W, has quickly tired of the plump, incorrigible Lady W, and wisely abandoned the woman in the countryside…

  A sob wrenched from deep inside and filled the quiet of the hall.

  Christopher had stolen her reputation, her dowry, and worst of all, her heart.