Thomas never used profanity in front of her, and the vehemence in his voice startled her. “I wish to stay.”
Lines creased the smooth skin on his forehead. “Why?”
“Because Lady Prescott asked me to come here, and Westfield’s sister has been a great benefactress to many of the charities we both hold dear. Has she not promised to hold a ball to help garner more donations for the new hospital’s building fund?”
“Yes, but I do not believe it prudent for you to stay here, no matter how much she and Westfield donate.”
“Westfield? I was not aware his lordship had made a contribution.”
“Yes, a substantial amount. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have one of the maids pack your belongings so we can leave. Or we can have them sent over to your residence later.”
“Thomas,” she said in a firm voice, “I regard you as my dearest friend, but I stayed in London to gain my independence. To make my own decisions.”
“Of course. I do not wish to overstep. . . .” He raked his fingers through his brown hair. “But I feel responsible for you being here, especially if it is because you don’t wish to upset Lady Prescott.”
“I came here of my own accord. You most certainly didn’t force the position upon me. I feel well enough to get up and resume my job.”
“As your physician, I insist you stay in bed for the remainder of the day. I will inform Westfield that you must not return to duty until tomorrow. Can we at least agree on this?”
She saluted. “Yes, Thomas.”
He squeezed her hand. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to leave with me now?”
Westfield’s kiss flashed before her mind’s eye. “I wish to stay.”
* * *
In the gloom, Hayden leaned back against his headboard and took another sip of whisky. He stared at his bedchamber door. Throughout the day, he’d listened to members of his staff entering and departing Sophia’s room across the corridor. They’d trotted in and out as if she offered tea and biscuits and a Punch and Judy show. Even Celia had begged him to allow her to visit Sophia. “Only for a few minutes,” he’d said. “She needs to rest.”
Mathews had informed him that the household staff was fond of Sophia. During her stay here, she’d supplied Laurent with a salve to help heal a burn on the chef’s hand, a tincture to ease Alice’s toothache, and made a warm poultice for Mrs. Beecham’s sore back.
But now that darkness consumed the sky, they’d all taken to their beds, leaving the house still. Over the last several years, he’d come to despise the quiet quality of night when his mind was free to wander. Normally during the small hours, he avoided solitude, knowing his thoughts would center on Laura and all his deceased wife had endured. Yet, at this moment, his mind focused on Sophia.
He took another sip of whisky. An irate Dr. Trimble had confronted him this morning. The good doctor had slammed his medical bag down on a chair. The man was known for his imperturbable demeanor. Trimble’s actions spoke loud and clear. He carried a torch for his little pro-tégée. Hayden’s hand tightened against his glass. What was their relationship? Did she return the doctor’s sentiment?
Hayden reached under his pillow and pulled out Sophia’s cap. He’d found it in his bed. Bringing it to his nose, he drew in the scent of lavender and lemon.
With a derisive shake of his head, he shoved it under his pillow and glared at the half-empty bottle of whisky. He’d indulged in enough liquor to tranquilize a small elephant, yet surprisingly, and inexcusably, he found no respite from his guilt or his thoughts. The sound of Sophia’s head hitting the tub continued to replay itself in his mind. Utter terror had besieged him upon hearing it. Unease lingered in him still.
An inexplicable, burning need to confirm her well-being assailed him. He threw his bedding aside, swung his feet onto the floor, and cringed as a bolt of pain shot through his thigh. It hadn’t been wise to carry Sophia to her room. He’d known his stitches had ripped open when he’d lifted her from the tub, but the thought of Peter carrying her agitated him.
As he stood, he ran his palm over his thigh. Trimble had stitched the torn skin closed again. The sawbones had done a brilliant job. The stabbing pain was subsiding. He took a step and the room tilted. Apparently, he’d given the doctor too much credit and the liquor not enough.
He listed toward his dressing room. Inside, he turned up the gaslight. There, between two tall armoires, stood the brass stand that held his assortment of walking sticks. Bracing a stiff arm on the first armoire, he removed his gold-knobbed stick, a gift from Celia, given to him on his twenty-seventh birthday. Of course, he had Edith to thank for its simple elegance. Celia, if left to her own accord, would have wanted a handle much more ornate, possibly a bear’s head with sapphire eyes or a serpent. Both would be fine for a night at the theater, but for ambulatory needs, the gold-knobbed stick would serve him well.
He grabbed the handle firmly with his left hand, braced his weight on the walking stick, and hobbled out of his room. He tottered toward Sophia’s bedchamber door. Was she well? When was the last time someone checked on her?
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Chapter Ten
The coals in the grate and a low-burning lamp cast weak light over Sophia’s bedchamber. From the doorway, Hayden stared at her slight frame cocooned beneath the bedding.
As he moved closer, the thick carpet muffled his walking stick. He peered down at her slumbering form. Her countenance appeared serene. The taut breath held in his lungs eased out between his teeth as relief coursed through him.
“Sophia, I’m so dreadfully sorry,” he said under his breath.
For several heartbeats, he stared at the way her normally constrained hair flowed like dark waves of silk over the white pillowcase. He reached out to touch a lock, then yanked his hand back. This was so wrong.
She’s fine. Now get the hell out of here. He hobbled to the door. A few feet from it, the walking stick tangled with the leg of a chair. He tumbled to the floor and landed with a bang.
Bugger it! He rolled onto his back and braced himself on his forearms.
Sophia bolted upright, clutching her blankets to her bosom.
“Is-is someone in here?” she asked, her voice an uncertain whisper.
Ignoring the pain, Hayden froze. From where he lay, he watched her survey the room. Thankfully, her gaze didn’t dip to him sprawled on the floor. Sighing, she tossed the covers down and slid off the bed.
Hayden sucked in a breath. She wore a cream-colored nightgown of finely spun silk and lace. His gaze traveled down her lithe silhouette to survey how the fabric clung to every turn of her body before ending to expose the swell of shapely calves and finely turned ankles.
Well, he’d be damned. He’d envisioned Sophia, more than once, asleep in her bed, but she’d always donned a woolen nightgown with buttons nearly up to her nose, not some gossamer garment.
She padded toward the fire with her arms wrapped about her waist. At the hearth, she stirred the coals with a brass poker and inched her toes closer to the warmth.
The light from the fire and the lamp on the mantel cast a glow through the thin material revealing the shape of her long, slender legs and their juncture. His mouth grew dry. He should remain quiet, but his damnable conscience forced her name from his lips. “Sophia.”
With a gasp, she spun around and lifted the poker menacingly in the air.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t be frightened.”
“My lord, is that you?”
Indeed, are there any other restless souls in this residence besides me? “Yes.”
Hesitantly she moved toward him and without the glow of the fire directly behind her, the outline of her naked body beneath her nightgown faded.
“What are you doing in here?”
She must think him a lecher. “If I told you I sleepwalk would you believe me?”
A long moment passed. “No.”
“Would you believe when sleep evades me I com
e in here and lie in this very spot?” He tapped the carpet below him for emphasis while he inwardly chastised such a half-witted tale.
She uttered a short sound that imparted her disbelief in his inane explanation.
“You doubt me?” Forced indignation tinged the timbre of his voice.
“I do.”
He heaved a heavy breath. “Do you know, Sophia, intelligent women can be such a bother.”
Leaning forward she peered at him. “Are you drunk, my lord?”
Slightly sodden, but not inebriated enough not to know he shouldn’t be in here. However, he seized the excuse like a hawk upon a field mouse. “Yes, utterly soused.” For emphasis, he grinned like a buffoon.
“Ah, I see,” she said quietly.
“Sophia, unless you intend to skewer me, I would appreciate you lowering the poker.”
She glanced at the tool she held in the air and pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I should.”
“Skewer me or put it down?”
“Both.”
“Yes, I understand how you might conclude I have entered your room with some nefarious intent, but if that had been my plan, wouldn’t I have climbed into your bed instead of taken residence on the floor?”
Pressing her teeth into her bottom lip, she stared at him, then lowered the poker and walked back to the mantel. The closer she moved to the fire, the more her silken gown turned diaphanous.
“Sophia, will you please find something to cover yourself?”
She spun back toward him, her head tipped to the side. She glanced down at herself. Her sleepy eyes flashed wide. “Oh!” She cupped her hands over her breasts.
His cock hardened. He groaned. “Good God, woman, don’t stand there doing that.”
On quick feet, she padded to the bed and slipped on a cotton robe. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
She was right, but in his defense, he’d not expected her to be wearing little more than a veil. He shifted onto his knees and braced his weight on the chair.
Pulling the wrapper tightly about her, Sophia knelt next to him and picked up his walking stick. “At least you had enough sense not to gad about unassisted.”
The lemony scent of her hair along with the lavender on her skin filled his nose. He swallowed. Dangerous to be in here when he wanted to pull her close and breathe in her fragrance. He reached out to take the walking stick from her.
She tucked it behind her back. “I do not think you are thoroughly intoxicated, my lord.”
“If I say I’m in my cups, I am.”
“At the mission, I see many women and even children who are bitten by drink. You may have indulged, but you’re not exhibiting the symptoms of someone who is truly drunk. Your speech is not slurred and . . .” She looked pointedly at him balanced on his knees. “Your equilibrium seems intact, though obviously faulted.”
He thrust out his hand. “Give me my walking stick.”
“Perhaps you wished to assure yourself I was fine?”
He gave a derisive snort. “That conk to your head has scrambled your logic.”
“Has it?” She settled her bum onto the heels of her feet. The perceptive minx had the audacity to smile.
“What is so humorous?”
“I know the truth, my lord.”
“And what truth do you think you have happened upon?” he asked.
“That you are much more disposed to thoughtfulness than you wish most to believe.”
Thoughtfulness? He wanted to laugh, for at this moment he wished for nothing more than to press her onto her back, settle himself between her thighs, and take her right here on the rug. What would she bloody well think of that? “Do you really believe you’ve got me figured out?”
She nodded.
He inched closer and drew a finger slowly over the seam of her full lips. Her dark, long-lashed eyes grew round. “Tell me, Sophia, do you truly wish to know what is going through my mind?”
* * *
Sophia studied Westfield’s heated blue gaze. Desire warmed her skin. Obviously, she’d relinquished her sanity. She should be scrambling to her feet as any sensible woman would do. Yet she lingered as little jolts of electricity exploded within her stomach.
What was wrong with her? There was little time to ponder her own convoluted mind, for without further warning, Westfield seized her upper arms and dragged her body close to his. His face was taut, and for a moment, she was unsure of his intent. He slipped a hand to the small of her back and drew her mouth and body to his. The movement seemed almost violent, as if fueled by anger, but when his lips covered hers, they were gentle.
With a soft moan, she released the walking stick. It toppled to the floor, and its gold head hit the thick carpet with a muffled thump. She wrapped her arms around him, allowed her hands to glide over his white nightshirt and the corded muscles of his back.
Their bodies moved, shifted. Suddenly she lay on her back, and his tongue invaded her mouth. The sparks in her belly grew, traveled through her veins, leaving a nervous, yet exhilarating sensation in their path.
Threading her fingers through his hair, she cupped the back of his head and slid her tongue against his. He made a husky sound, while one of his large hands slid to her breast. She arched against the pressure—the heat of his palm. She couldn’t seem to get close enough to douse the fiery need within her.
Westfield released her mouth, trailed kisses over her cheek, and down her neck to the ridge of her collarbone. His mouth replaced his hand to capture her breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown, teasing her nipple until it turned pebble hard. With his eyes locked on hers, he breathed on the dampened cloth.
Her lips parted, and she arched up again, silently begging him to continue his wickedness. His lashes lowered and slowly, as if he wished to torment her, he drew his tongue over her other peaked tip.
He peered up at her. “I won’t do anything you don’t wish, Sophia. You have only to say the word no, and I shall stop.”
Though raspy, his voice possessed a soothing tone. It made her feel safe, but it was an illusion, a wistful dream, conjured in her own mind and solidified by his skilled touch.
She opened her mouth, intent on telling him they had gone too far, but before she uttered a word, he ran his tongue over the shell of her ear and whispered, “Ah, Sophia, how beautiful you are. Remarkable in every way.”
Did he realize what those words did to her? How they spoke to some deep craving within her—some need born from the echo of her great-uncle’s cruelty, his disdain. She turned her face and set her mouth to Westfield’s.
She wasn’t sure how long they kissed. Minutes were seconds. Seconds were hours. It seemed impossible to measure time. His hand slid over the swell of her hip to settle on her left thigh. His fingers flexed. Cool air danced across her lower legs as he drew her hem up, inch by inch, as though he realized the touch of the silky fabric, traveling up her skin, heightened her desire, adding another layer of intrinsic pleasure. His hand shifted to her inner thigh. His palm and the pads of his fingers danced lightly over her skin, a soft sway like the gentlest of breezes that scatters gooseflesh over one’s skin. His hand slid—cupped her most private spot where dampness grew.
The noise he made sounded almost feral in its rough tone. It should have frightened her, but she’d crossed a point where fear heightened pleasure, and pleasure seemed absolute. His touch felt good, better than any touch she’d experienced. An ache for more grew within her. She let her thighs relax—an invitation for him to increase his exploration. He drew his finger over the seam of her nether lips while his tongue filled her mouth. She felt wicked and lost in the tumultuous sensations, the maelstrom of desire.
Then the warmth evaporated. Dispersed like a flash of lightning in the sky. Cold air flowed over her dampened skin.
Her eyes fluttered open. Westfield stared at her, his chest heaving, his face shadowed. He jerked back. His taut expression turned the heat coursing through her to ice. She shivered.
With te
rse movements, he tugged her nightgown down over her legs and pulled her wrapper about her. He leaned on the small chair, grabbed his walking stick, and scrambled to his feet.
Dumbfounded, she watched him move to the door and set his hand on the knob. “Westfield?” The rasp of his name was barely audible to her own ears, but he turned and glanced down at her.
“You asked why I came into your bedchamber, Sophia. By now it should be exceedingly obvious. I wished to seduce you.” He took a heavy breath. “However, I am a man who is enormously fond of a challenge, and this seems all too easy.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, but it didn’t eradicate the sound of her gasp. She turned her face away and willed her tears not to flow.
The door opened, and then clicked shut.
His vile words spun in her head, and the more she absorbed them, the more her body trembled. A sob caught in her throat. He had played her for a fool, and she had let him. She curled into a tight ball on the floor and wrapped her arms about her knees. Tears blurred her vision, and then spilled forth with a nearly forgotten vengeance.
* * *
Hayden slammed the back of his head against his door. Had he ever wanted a woman so desperately? Yes, a long time ago, but he had turned his back on Laura and only added to her heartache.
Sophia deserved someone better. A man who would whisper words of love to her while he took her innocence. Someone who would cherish her forever and offer her fidelity and marriage. Someone who would protect her. Someone besides himself. Better to hurt her now. Better to show her what kind of man she dealt with.
He shouldn’t have touched her, but her scent had filled his nose and he’d forgotten propriety and almost let his desire ruin her.
“I am a man who is enormously fond of a challenge, and this seems all too easy.” His unforgivable words echoed in his head. Sophia would be gone in the morning. He was sure of it. Just as he was sure it was for the best.
His gaze settled on the bottle of whisky. He hobbled to the bed, picked it up, and took a long swig, hoping this time it would numb his brain. He sat on the edge of the bed and brought the bottle to his mouth again and again until it was dry. Then he fell back against the mattress and prayed sleep would overtake him.
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 10