Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Does it hurt terribly?” Alice asked anxiously.

  “No, not really,” she lied. “Though I must look a fright.”

  The young woman hesitated, and then shook her head. “It isn’t so bad. Is it true his lordship and the doctor saved you from some depraved cutthroat while you were down in Whitechapel doing God’s work?”

  Goodness, it appeared Hayden had not only told them she was an heiress, but an angel of mercy.

  Someone knocked lightly on the adjoining door, and Alice jumped and scurried back to the hearth.

  Sophia’s heart raced in her chest. “Yes?”

  The door opened and Hayden entered. As always, the sight of him made her stomach flutter. “Ah, you are awake. How are . . .” He paused and glanced at Alice, who frantically filled the grate.

  The maid stood, bobbed a quick curtsey, and made her way to the door.

  “Thank you,” Sophia called out as the young woman fled.

  Hayden moved to the bed. “You look well.”

  “I fear you are myopic,” she replied, cupping her sore cheek, knowing it must be discolored.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Is the pain excruciating? Should I send for a physician?”

  “No, I shall be fine.”

  “Sophia, I have obtained a special license.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  One slashing eyebrow rose, and his large palm slid over her abdomen. “Do you carry my child?”

  She briefly lowered her lashes, momentarily avoiding his direct gaze. “Yes.”

  A nerve in his jaw twitched. “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  Anger filled his eyes. “You are mistaken. Tell me, Sophia. Would you have accepted a marriage proposal from me, if I’d asked before you heard me and Lord Adler talking?”

  Yes. Perhaps. She wasn’t sure anymore. “I don’t know.”

  The weight of his hand on her abdomen grew, reaffirming possessiveness. “Well, now we have no choice. We will marry tomorrow. If we wait there will be no way to escape the gossip. As it is, the tabbies will feast on our infant’s early arrival.”

  “If we marry by special license they will gossip anyway.”

  He intertwined his fingers with hers. “Perhaps they will say we were so taken with each other we couldn’t wait to be wed.”

  Love hadn’t bound them, but if she didn’t marry, she’d be cast out of polite society.

  “It’s irrelevant at this point,” he continued. The warmth of his touch slipped away. “If you believe I’ll allow Trimble to raise my child, dear, you are mistaken.” There was a hard, ruthless edge to his voice and shards of steel in his blue eyes.

  “I wasn’t going to marry Thomas.”

  His eyes widened. “You said you love him.”

  “I do. Just not the way a wife should. He is my closest friend.”

  “Just friends?”

  “Yes.”

  A brief grin touched his lips before his dark expression returned. “I will not allow my child to be born out of wedlock.”

  She didn’t want that either, but she needed to ask. “So we are to marry, even though there is no love? To forget what brought us to this cusp?” Several beats of her heart passed as she awaited his reply.

  He slid his thumb over her lower lip. “Many marriages are based on less than what we share.”

  The seductive timbre of his low voice made her stomach tumble. Her cheeks grew hot, yet it was not the answer she hoped for. “But that is not love, is it?”

  “Love can grow. Hopefully, for both of us. For now we must consider the child.” He stood. “Tomorrow, Sophia.” His voice held a note of finality.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following afternoon, Hayden held back a groan as Edith sat next to Sophia on the settee in his drawing room. His new wife looked exhausted. Were his sister and Henry ever going to leave?

  It had been thoughtless of him to insist they wed today. Though in his defense, he’d not realized Reverend Moseley would try to compensate for all the years Hayden had not attended services by reciting every psalm and prayer the vicar knew. Or that his crazy French chef would serve twelve courses. Even now, the recollection boiled his blood. During the ninth, he’d contemplated going to the kitchen to strangle the man.

  To Sophia’s credit, she’d not complained, though she’d looked ready to flee throughout the near endless ceremony. By the time the reverend pronounced them man and wife, her face was deathly pale, even with the cosmetics she’d worn to hide her discolored skin. She’d looked no better during the wedding breakfast.

  Understandable, after she’d overheard his conversation with Simon. And most likely her housekeeper and Trimble had given Sophia a list of all the reasons she shouldn’t wed him. Marrying a man with a reputation as a heartless husband and philanderer would unsettle even the most hardened woman.

  The sound of his brother-in-law clearing his throat interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Henry staring at him.

  “Ah, distracted by your beautiful bride.” Henry smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I was just saying that Huntington, Cartel, and I are to breakfast at the Reform Club tomorrow morning to discuss the railway system, though I doubt you will attend.”

  Hayden made a noncommittal noise and motioned to his sister. “Doesn’t Edith look tired?”

  Henry glanced at his wife. “No, she looks love . . .” His voice trailed off and he grinned. “Ah, yes, quite wan.” He peered about. “Where is Celia? I’m sure Edith would love to have her visit for a few days?”

  At that moment, a smiling Celia entered the room with Mrs. Beecham trailing behind her. The child held several small cake boxes decorated with ribbons. She rushed over to him. “Papa, Mrs. Beecham says I’m to give these to Aunt Edith and Uncle Henry.”

  “More cake?” Henry patted his rounded belly. “I shall be too fat to fit through my front door.”

  Giggling, Celia handed him a box. “It’s not to eat now, Uncle Henry. You are to take it home.”

  “Thank you, dear. Aunt Edith and I would be pleased if you would stay with us for a bit.”

  Celia’s shoulders drooped. She glanced at Sophia. Yesterday, the news of the impending nuptials had set Celia’s spirits high, and she’d asked to visit with Sophia. Afterward the child asked what caused the bruises on Sophia’s face. Not wishing to frighten her, he’d told her Sophia had fallen while descending a carriage.

  “Sophia does appear tired, Papa. I think I should go so she can rest.”

  Hayden ran his hand down Celia’s long brown hair. Such an astute child, too wise for her years. Experiencing a pang of guilt over the life he’d led, for the things she’d seen, he squatted and took her small hands in his. “Have I told you how lucky I am to have you in my life?”

  She smiled, causing two dimples to appear on her face. “Yes, Papa. Many times.”

  * * *

  From where Hayden stood in the shadows, he surveyed Sophia’s supine form nestled in her bed. She looked so peaceful and innocent in sleep.

  He hadn’t intended on visiting her bedchamber tonight. He was not so callous or unaware she was not only physically exhausted, but also mentally drained. Yet here he stood like some forlorn lover. Did he hope an epiphany would enlighten him as to why he’d wished to marry Sophia even before he’d learned about the baby?

  Eyes still closed, she made a soft, feminine mewl, stretched her arm above her head, and rolled onto her side. She now faced him. The tips of her fingers traced her collarbone just above the neckline of her chemise.

  Hayden swallowed. Such a simple movement shouldn’t cause a base reaction, yet his manhood thickened. He took a deep, silent breath and pushed away from the wall. He glanced at the open doorway that joined their bedchambers, and though his mind told him to move toward it, his legs brought him to the edge of the bed.

  He reached out and softly cupped the turn of her warm cheek. Her skin was now absent the cosmetics tha
t had made her bruising almost invisible during the ceremony. Now the bluish shadow on her face was a blatant reminder of what had transpired.

  Did all women contend with the violent depravity of men? Or just those whom he . . . What? Loved? The word reverberated in his head. His stomach knotted. Could a man find such an emotion twice? He’d not thought it possible.

  The feelings that blossomed between him and Laura had been borne over time. They’d known each other since childhood. Emotions between them had grown until he could call it nothing less than love. Yet with Sophia, he felt caught in a maelstrom—something he couldn’t fully grasp or possibly didn’t wish to acknowledge.

  Sophia gave a slight smile and turned her face into his palm as if she sought his warmth and comfort. His turbulent thoughts scattered. Would she have done so if she were awake? What did she think of him? He’d asked himself that exact question throughout their wedding ceremony.

  One thing he knew, whether she wished to admit it or not, she’d found pleasure and release in his arms. They had that, if nothing else. He pulled back his hand.

  Will I be a better husband this time? Will I be able to protect her?

  As if he’d spoken his tumultuous questions aloud, her dark lashes fluttered open. She peered at him, her gaze unfocused and confused in the gloom lessened by only the orange glow radiating from the hearth and a low-burning lamp.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

  “Sleep?” She lifted her head. “Oh,” she uttered, seeming to recall her surroundings and the events of the day. Bracing herself on an elbow, she peered at the mantel where a Meissen clock decorated with pastel flowers and cherubs stood. After rubbing her eyes, she stared at it again. “What time is it?”

  Like her, he was unable to discern the time from this distance. He reached for his fob watch. His fingers brushed against velvet. He’d forgotten he’d removed not only his watch, but his morning coat, waistcoat, and tie. He wore a navy velvet robe atop his open-collared shirt and trousers. He stepped toward the clock. “A little past nine,” he replied, returning to the bedside.

  Pink colored her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to nap so long.”

  Did she think him a tyrant, here to demand his conjugal rights? He opened his mouth, wishing to alleviate her fears, but the warmth of her touch on his hand halted his words.

  “Have you dined?” she asked.

  She’d eaten little during their wedding breakfast. “Not yet, but Chef has already prepared dinner. I’ll have your meal sent up to your room.”

  “Will you join me?” She sat up. She wore only a white chemise, and her dusky nipples pressed against the material.

  The blasted appendage south of his navel took note. “I shall be honored. Do you wish Chef to include something special?”

  She tucked a loose raven tendril behind her ear. “Some toast and a bit of fresh fruit, if that would be fine.”

  “Of course.”

  Poor Laurent would be disappointed. Mathews had informed Hayden the Frenchman was ecstatic there was to be someone in the household who would appreciate his mastery of high art. Yet here Sophia asked for nothing more than toast and fruit, while his kitchen overflowed with every herb and French sauce known to humanity.

  After tugging on the bellpull, Hayden set a gateleg table between the yellow-and-white-striped chairs that graced the fireplace, turned up the two gas lamps on the mantel, and stirred the coals. It resembled a cozy dining nook in a quaint country inn. He smiled to himself.

  Someone tapped on the door and Hayden opened it.

  Uttering a startled squeak, Alice curtsied.

  “Please inform Hawthorne her ladyship and I will dine in her bedchamber tonight. Make sure he is aware we wish for a light dinner that includes fruit and toast.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She curtsied, once, twice, then raced down the corridor.

  Within an astoundingly short time, an inundating flux of female servants, led by Mrs. Beecham, entered the room. They paraded through the door with a bevy of rolling carts, loaded with domed dishes and platters that clanked and clattered as they made the transition from the wooden floors to the thick Aubusson carpet.

  The maids, many of whom were awkward at best—having been hired from his sister’s various charities—appeared to have found their footings. They avoided any mishaps and filed out until only Mrs. Beecham remained. The housekeeper snapped a starched cloth above the table. It floated downward, a pristine cloud of white that obliterated the dark wood. Then she quickly set the table, placed a vase of roses in its center, and inquired whether they wished a footman to serve.

  “We shall be fine, Mrs. Beecham. That will be all.”

  The door clicked closed. Sophia sported two bright spots of color on her cheeks, while she clutched the counterpane to a point just below her chin.

  “I wish I had been dressed,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  With her tousled hair, she looked tumbled senseless. “You look lovely.” They were not false words. She looked not only ravished, but also ravishing.

  She flashed a dubious expression and slipped from the bed. “I should get dressed.”

  Hayden noticed her shiver as the cold air in the room touched her warm body. He removed his robe and draped it over her shoulders. “That should do.”

  Dark, exotic eyes peered up at him.

  “Thank you.” She slipped her arms through the sleeves.

  They were so long they swallowed up her small hands. He reached down and folded the material up. “Warmer?”

  She nodded.

  He pulled the chair out for her, and she sat. One by one, he lifted the silver domes off the serving dishes. His chef had suffocated nearly every morsel with some elaborate sauce. Hayden frowned at a bowl of creamed spinach, a platter of asparagus with orange puree, and a dish of stuffed mushrooms with béchamel. He removed another lid to reveal several slices of toasted baguette accompanied by a bowl of raspberry preserves.

  At the sound of Sophia’s small sigh, he glanced at her.

  “Laurent must have thought simple toast a sacrilege to his French fare.” He placed the platter next to her, then surveying the assortment of dishes, he extracted a compotier and placed it adjacent to the platter of baguettes. He lifted its lid, revealing a mélange of sliced fruit, whole berries, and a large dollop of crème suffocating it. With a deep breath, he tried to regulate his anger.

  “He’s an extraordinary chef,” Sophia said as if trying to defuse his displeasure. “I’m sure he would impress even the most discriminating. Do you entertain a great deal?”

  Though not adverse to small gatherings attended by his closest friends and business acquaintances, lately he’d grown tired of crowded balls where the air became thick and cloying with heavily perfumed men and women. Hopefully, Sophia held little fondness for such social gatherings. She probably didn’t care for them; otherwise, she wouldn’t have hidden her identity.

  “Not often,” he replied. “Though sometimes my business dealings require small dinner parties. I prefer simple, intimate gatherings.”

  An expression of relief flashed across her face.

  “I asked since you do not appear overly enamored with Monsieur Laurent’s culinary skills. I thought you might have employed him because you favor entertaining.”

  Sophia was correct on one count—he was a man of simple taste when it came to food. A thick slice of beef with lightly salted potatoes and braised vegetables suited him fine, especially when accompanied by a superb glass of wine. In truth, Laurent’s culinary skill had little to do with the reason he’d employed the chef. No, he’d hired Laurent away from Lord Hamby after hearing the pig had forced himself on one of his defenseless maids again—who like the others had run back to her family in the country. Angered, Hayden had offered the chef an exorbitant salary.

  Nevertheless, after learning that Hamby, the lecher, had nearly suffered a coronary thrombosis upon hearing of his prized chef’s defection, Hayden thought the salary of littl
e consequence. “Perhaps I hired him so I could be the envy of others.”

  She laughed—a light tinkling sound that infused the air with warmth. Smiling, she tipped her head to the side and studied him. “I do not believe you give a fig what others think. No, you hired him for some other reason, though I am baffled as to what that reason could be.”

  “You are astute, Sophia.” He returned his attention to the serving dishes, and tried not to scowl at the béarnaise sauce drizzled over the châteaubriand. He took a piece and some sautéed potatoes garnished with fresh parsley.

  “Are you going to divulge the truth or shall I start guessing?” Her voice sounded light, playful.

  “His last employer, Lord Hamby, thought Laurent his greatest acquisition. I hired him because it gave me immeasurable pleasure to deprive him of Laurent’s services.”

  Her smile and the sparkle in her eyes faded. “I see.”

  His admission of vindictiveness seemed to cast a pall over them, and they ate in silence. Sophia ladled a few pieces of fruit into her patterned bowl. She spooned a couple raspberries into her mouth, but her appetite appeared diminished.

  He drew in a deep breath. Over the last eight years, the good opinion of others had mattered little to him, but he didn’t wish Sophia to think it merely an act of spite. Leaning against the back of his chair, he set his utensils down. “I stole Hamby’s beloved chef because the man uses his wealth and power in a way no man should. He’s a lecher who takes pleasure in abusing the women employed in his household.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “Oh!” she repeated, grasping his meaning. “How horrid.”

  He picked up his wineglass.

  “Hayden?”

  He didn’t believe she’d used his given name more than a handful of times since he’d brought her here. The sound of it on her lips, in such an intimate place, pleased him, brought him back to that night in her bed. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” She glanced down at the table, ran her hand over the tablecloth. “Not only for hiring Monsieur Laurent out from Lord Hamby but for confiding in me.” She picked up the serving spoon and filled her bowl with fruit.