Married to a Stranger

by Louise Allen

  ‘Miss Langley.’ Callum swung down from his horse and threw the reins over a spike in the picket fence before opening the gate into the small front garden. He removed his hat and his face was serious as he took her proffered hand. ‘I hope I find you well?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ She smiled brightly as though the brilliance of it might distract him from her limp and much-washed gown. ‘You look … I mean since I last saw you …’

  He had lost some of the colour that India and a sea voyage had given him, but the lines of strain and grief had gone from his face, leaving him, she was almost startled to find, a remarkably good-looking man. She should have expected it—she had seen him six months ago, after all—but now, with his full attention on her, the effect was disconcerting. Her pulse fluttered, her tongue was twisting itself into knots and Sophia knew she was blushing. Obviously she did not mix with gentlemen enough.

  Callum must think her a complete ninny, but if he did, he did not let it show on his face. ‘It was a difficult time,’ he acknowledged. ‘I think it is behind me now. I find I can look back with gratitude for the memories and even forward to the future.’

  She found her hand was still in his and that she had no desire to remove it. ‘I am glad the pain is healing. I can imagine that, dreadful as it must be to lose a brother, the loss of a twin is even harder to bear.’

  ‘Yes. That is perceptive of you. Not everyone realises.’ He shifted her hand to the crook of his arm. ‘Is the summer house still standing?’

  ‘The summer house? Why, yes.’ Startled by the change of subject, she turned and let him lead her around the side of the small villa. ‘How strange that you recall it. Daniel and I used to hide in there and talk and talk and imagine that my parents had no idea where we had got to. It is just the same as it used to be, just rather more rickety.’ There had been tiny yellow roses around the wide doors again this summer, roses she had thought to pick for her bridal flowers.

  The doors were unlocked and she opened them, went inside and turned as he followed her slowly into the small, rather dusty space. ‘It is not quite the romantic bower we thought it then; you must excuse the spiders and earwigs.’

  ‘I am still surprised how small insects are in England,’ Callum said, and his mouth curved into the first smile she had seen from him since his return. ‘Might we sit here and talk?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Shall I ask the maid to bring out some refreshments? Perhaps I ought to call Mama.’

  ‘Thank you, no refreshments.’ Callum set two chairs near the doorway, dusted off the seats with his handkerchief, put down his hat gloves and whip and waited for her to sit. ‘Do you feel you need a chaperone?’

  ‘Not at all. Why ever should I? I have known you for years. You were almost my brother.’

  Callum raised one eyebrow. ‘I can assure you, Sophia, my feelings for you were never brotherly.’

  Flustered, Sophia took the left-hand seat. Now he had put the idea of danger into her head he seemed altogether too male and too close in the tiny structure. ‘Is the earl well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I gather it is a while since he has seen you.’

  She had been avoiding Will and his kindness, afraid that she would humiliate herself and ask him for help, knowing that once he realised in what straits the Langleys found themselves he would feel honour-bound to bail them out.

  ‘He has been very kind,’ she murmured. ‘You have been in London since—’

  ‘Since the funeral. Yes. I was offered a senior post with the Company, one that is based at East India House in Leadenhall Street. The hard work helped at first. Since then I have found it fascinating.’

  ‘I am delighted for you,’ Sophia said politely, wondering what this had to do with her, but glad that he was recovering from the tragedy. ‘How gratifying that your talents have been recognised.’ This was not the gangling youth she remembered hitting a cricket ball all round the lawns of the Hall, nor the intense young man setting out to seek his fortune in India.

  ‘Thank you. I have taken a house in Half Moon Street—a fashionable area by St James’s Park.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘And now I have concluded that there is one thing missing from my new life.’ He was looking out over the tangled shrubbery, but she sensed his mind was not on horticulture or even on the unkempt surroundings.

  ‘Hmm?’ she prompted as encouragingly as she knew how.

  ‘A wife.’ Callum Chatterton swivelled round and faced her, his air of abstraction quite gone.

  ‘A wife?’ Sophia found herself caught by his eyes, eyes that seemed now to see nothing but her.

  ‘A wife. I wondered if you would do me the honour, Sophia?’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Me?’ Sophia’s surprise was almost comical. For a moment she gaped at him and Cal wondered whether he had made a mistake and she was not the intelligent and poised young woman he had thought six months ago. Then she shut her mouth—her wide and generous mouth—thought for a moment and asked, ‘Why should you wish to marry me, Mr Chatterton?’

  Ah, yes, the intelligence was there, and the courage. Her chin had come up; she was taken aback, almost alarmed by his unexpected proposal, but she was not going to allow him to fluster her. He recalled the first time he had seen her after he had returned home. He had been half-drowned, battered, bruised, hoarse with shouting through the long, desperate night for the brother whom the sea had taken, and he had been in no state to be gentle with her.

  Sophia had fainted when he’d told her the news, but when she had recovered her senses she had been calm, undemanding and firm with her mother who was indulging in hysterics. From the depths of his own misery Cal had found himself unable to care very much about Sophia and her feelings, only to be grateful for her restraint and the way she retreated behind the mask of the civilised things that one says and does to somehow hold the wild expressions of grief at bay.

  He told her a little of what had happened and he had been unprepared for the generosity of her response when she could well be blaming him for failing to save her betrothed.

  ‘I was on the deck, Daniel was in one of the boats, helping the women down,’ he had explained. ‘A great wave took it. I could not find him.’

  ‘You went in? You tried to save him?’ she had asked in horror. In her wide eyes he saw again images of tumultuous seas, of darkness and rocks, and heard rending timber and screams.

  ‘Of course.’ Cal recalled staring at her blankly. ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Please.’ She had reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers burning hot against the chill of his skin. ‘You must get warm or you will take a fever.’ Weeks later, as the deep cold inside him had begun to thaw, he had recalled that touch, her instinct to comfort and nurture instead of demanding comfort herself.

  Other memories had come back as he learned to live with his loss and to remember Dan. He had nagged his brother to remake his will when he was putting his own affairs in order and Dan had been evasive. He would get round to it, he promised. Nothing was going to happen to him, after all. He had shrugged off all the illnesses that India could throw at a man, had missed being bitten, stung, eaten or mauled by the assorted lethal wildlife—what was Cal worrying about? Besides, if anything did happen, his twin would look after Sophia, he knew that.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Cal had agreed. ‘I would care for her as though she were my own, I swear it. But even so—’ But Dan had not done anything about his will and then, when it had come to it, Cal had done nothing to help Sophia. He had been sunk in grief and shock and with a black hole where the consciousness of his twin had been for his entire life. As he recovered that promise came back, niggling at his conscience.

  He pulled himself back to the present and the young woman in her drab gown who watched him from behind wary blue eyes. She had grown and filled out from the scrap of a girl he remembered almost ten years ago, but she was still too slender, too pale.

  ‘I found myself looking forward for the fir
st time in months and I thought it time I married. I am almost twenty-eight, I have estates now to consider as well as a career that involves entertaining. A wife seemed … logical.’ Dull, perhaps, after the high-fliers who had been warming his bed and helping fill the long night hours when he would prefer not to sleep, and certainly not to dream.

  ‘I can see that,’ Sophia said, a trifle tartly. ‘But why me? You are the brother of an earl, you are in London where you may meet any number of eligible young ladies who, if you will pardon my frankness, will have several more childbearing years ahead of them than I have. I assume an heir is one of your considerations when you talk about estates?’

  He liked the sharpness, her honesty, and answered in kind. ‘I had not thought of a long engagement. We could, as it were, make up some lost time.’ She caught his meaning, blushed, but her mouth twitched. Sophia possessed a sense of humour, then.

  ‘I repeat,’ she persisted with a frown of reproof, ‘why should you want to marry me? The Season might be over, but I cannot believe you could not find a wife in London if you are minded to marry soon.’

  ‘I think you would be very suitable. And I feel it my duty,’ he stated. ‘Daniel would expect it. I promised to look after you and I have neglected that in my own grief.’ This was the woman Dan had once loved, however carelessly.

  ‘What?’ Sophia interjected. ‘No! It was a tragedy and an accident and no one owes me anything. And I do not expect anything either—least of all to marry you, Callum Chatterton. You never showed the slightest interest in me when we were younger.’

  Sophia got to her feet, her cheeks flaming, a martial glint in her eye. Cal stood too, but made no move to touch her. She was mortified, he could see, and hurt pride was making her angry. Animation improved her looks, he thought, even as he tried to repair the damage of his bald statement.

  ‘I am proposing a … shall we call it a marriage of convenience?’

  ‘It is very noble of you,’ she said. And he felt a momentary flicker of admiration for the way she controlled herself. She had dignity as well as courage, he thought and then saw her expression waver into uncertainty. ‘Let me understand. Do you mean that you would not want to … I mean, that you would not expect to share my bed?’

  ‘Why, certainly I would want to share your bed and make love to you in it, Sophia.’ The blue eyes widened. Was she completely unaroused, completely innocent? How very interesting. And stimulating. He had so far been seeking the company of the skilled and the sophisticated, but an innocent wife would be just as distracting provided the essential sensuality was there.

  She recovered her composure with visible effort. ‘Forgive me if I cannot find it in myself to accept such a flattering offer.’

  ‘I think you have more common sense than to accept some romantic flummery from me,’ he said drily. ‘I could protest feelings that we both know I do not have, any more than I expect them from you. But let us be frank. I assume you have not taken some vow of chastity.’ The haughty look became a frown. ‘So who will you marry now? Some country squire? The curate? Instead you could be the sister-in-law of an earl and have the comfortable life I will give you.’

  ‘Let us leave aside what I might gain from such a match,’ Sophia said, her back turned to him as she stared out over the untidy garden. ‘What possible benefit could it be to you to marry a woman of my age without influence or wealth, other than to salve your conscience? Any wife will warm your bed as well as I.’

  He should stop teasing her. ‘I would gain a wife with elegance of manner, intelligence, courage and poise,’ Cal said. Her cheek, all he could see of her face, became peony pink. He was laying it on rather thick—she hardly looked elegant in that gown. ‘I would have the satisfaction of knowing I have done as my twin would have wished.’ He hesitated, then decided that he owed her frankness, if nothing else.

  ‘I do not look for a love match. If I am to be honest, I do not think myself capable of that kind of total emotional commitment any longer. I feel, since the wreck, that part of me has been ripped away. You knew us both once, you showed some understanding of how a twin must feel—I wonder if you can comprehend that now I do not think I will ever be able to love anyone wholeheartedly again. Not my brother, and not a woman.’

  Sophia moved away, her movements jerky, and came to rest with one hand grasping the frame of the door. She did not speak.

  ‘With you, with your maturity and our shared loss, I can hope for some acceptance of that. I am not sure I can ask it of some young girl looking for first love.’ Still she did not reply. How much was he wounding her by speaking of Dan and her lost dreams?

  He thought of her faint when she had heard the news. For nine years she had clung to the promises she had made. She had been faithful and loyal, just as she had sworn that day in 1799 when he had tried so clumsily to put a stop to the betrothal that had seemed premature and ill founded. He had not sensed then any deep emotional involvement from his twin and the passing years had proved him right.

  Dan should have come back and married Sophia years ago, even if he hadn’t wanted to risk her health out in India. She’d have had status, the estate, probably children by now, if he had only come home when he had had the opportunity. There was no excuse, not really. There had only been Dan’s desire to have his freedom and his total lack of responsibility towards anyone but Callum. And Cal could have made him come back and do his duty, and he knew he had not because it was good to have his brother beside him and not to have to share him with a wife and children.

  He would marry Sophia if she would have him, because that was the right thing to do and it was convenient for him, but he did not want to have to agonise over her feelings. It had been hard enough dealing with his own grief and the aching void where Dan should have been.

  But soon he must find a wife and settle down. Besides anything else there were two estates to consider, the one that was in trust for him until he married or reached thirty and the one that had been Dan’s on the same terms and which was now his, too. He felt depressed and weary at the thought of setting out to find a wife, courting a woman, pretending to love a woman. So much simpler to marry Sophia and solve all their problems.

  It would help if he could feel any positive emotions, but they seemed to have deserted him, leaving only a black, aching hole even now, six months later. And so had empathy. He felt his brother Will’s pain at a distance; Sophia’s, hardly at all. And yet in all other ways he was back to normal. He worked hard, his brain was as sharp as ever, he had ambition, he planned for the future, he welcomed the company of friends and colleagues. He was eating properly, looking after himself and creating a home, not lurking in bachelor lodgings.

  Sophia moved again, as though she checked herself from flight, and the sunlight caught the shine of her hair, outlined her figure vaguely through her thin skirts. She turned and looked at him and he saw a speculation and awareness that had not been there before. Cal felt a sudden heaviness in his groin, a stirring in his blood.

  ‘Well, Sophia?’ He moved closer to her until the hem of her skirts brushed the toes of his boots. ‘Shall we fix a date?’

  ‘Mr Chatterton—Callum—I cannot marry you.’ Sophia realised there was nothing else she could think of to say. She could not argue with his sense of duty, with his desire to fulfil a promise to his twin. But how could she accept him when it was her own folly that had allowed the betrothal to endure? Daniel could not have broken it off, not as a gentleman.

  ‘I realise that your feelings for Daniel might make this somewhat awkward,’ Callum continued, as dispassionately as though he was discussing the price of tea. ‘However, I will endeavour to make you a good husband. I am certain now that I will be remaining in England, which will relieve your mind on the score of either the unhealthy climate or the likelihood of long separations.’

  In love with Daniel? She blinked at Callum, distracted from his ruthlessly practical catalogue. Of course, how could he know how inconstant I had been? I swore to him, so lo
ng ago, that I would always love Daniel. What else is he to assume? Appalled, Sophia realised that she could hardly disabuse him of the notion now; it would be dreadful to announce that she did not love her betrothed when Callum’s loss was still so raw.

  He was saying something else. She pulled her attention back with an effort. ‘… a sensible and amiable wife and you require a husband. We could marry quietly by licence.’

  ‘You appear to have thought it all through very thoroughly,’ Sophia said, her mouth dry. ‘How efficient. I must confess I do not feel much inclined to be sensible, let alone amiable, just now. As for what the intelligent thing to do might be, I have no idea.’

  Screaming seemed tempting. You require a husband, indeed! Certainly she did; she lay awake in the panicky small hours thinking just that thing and wondering how they would manage when their creditors woke up to the fact that there was no well-connected male in her future to pay the bills. It would be a long while before the pittance she could earn as a governess or a put-upon companion would pay off the debts. But to marry a man who was proposing out of a chilly sense of duty …

  ‘I cannot marry you simply because you have a kindly im pulse.’

  ‘I do not commit to matters of importance, of honour, on an impulse.’ His mouth curved into something that was almost a smile.

  ‘Certainly not a kindly one,’ she tossed back at him.

  ‘I am not much given to impulse,’ Callum confessed, and she became aware of his eyes on her body, assessing her.

  He was so certain that she would do what he said. Sophia bit the inside of her lip to stop herself flaring up. It was ungrateful, but she was the only one who would decide what she was going to do. ‘My feelings for your brother do not concern you?’

  ‘No.’ He did not appear willing to expand on that. Perhaps, because he felt nothing for her, he did not care if she still loved another man. It argued that he did not see marriage as involving any exchange of deep feeling, of passion beyond the physical.