Moriah Densley

by Song For Sophia

  Just when she was about to scream, he muttered, “It appears we must revise our bargain. I shall give you the one thing you want most in exchange for the same. What do you want, Anne-Sophronia? More than anything?”

  She didn’t have to pause and think about it. “Freedom.”

  “Fair enough. I can grant it.”

  Vainglorious, impossible man. He would probably have answered the same if she had asked for Rome in a glass globe.

  His hand moved again, tracing the thin scars latticed over her wrist and forearm, from the glass shards. She could never quite relax when he did that, certain he wondered why her arms were covered in scars. What would he say if he saw the rest? The whip marks?

  “Now tell me, what conditions would settle you in favor of a marriage agreement?”

  Oh, perhaps if you did love me … . “This is ridiculous. Why, Wilhelm? This makes no sense.”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  Since Wilhelm had barged through the door, she had in turn been dizzy with despair, anger, fear, and now frustration. In another minute she would probably crawl under the bed and never come out. “Tell me why, or I refuse.”

  “Another day. Not now. I have a special license burning a hole in my pocket, since the first time you refused me. Can you just trust me now?” He shifted, turning her to lie more on her back to take the weight off her sore ribs. How did he know they bothered her?

  Wilhelm combed his fingers through her hair, drawing gentle lines down her back onto her hips. “What conditions, Sophia? A marriage in name only? Kept secret? I know you care little for money, but any luxury you desire is yours.”

  She blew out a breath suspiciously close to a snort at his mention of money. His clever fingers scattered the remainder of her resistance. Not his offer of wealth, but of comfort and security she found hopelessly seductive. “All right. For reasons beyond me, you want us to marry. Fine. I do want it kept private.”

  “Only the minister. And Philip as witness; it must be indisputably legal.”

  “You understand I cannot give you children.”

  “Yes. I do not even demand you submit to so-called husbandly rights. But I do ask you to share my bed, for sleeping.”

  “You are the strangest man I know.”

  “May I call you Lady Devon, or must I say Miss Rosalie?”

  “Lord Chauncey already knows I am here, so it hardly matters. If you can explain my transformation to everyone, do as you please.”

  He sat up, scooped her into his arms and stood. “Today, then. Now.”

  Why her? Why now, with her battered, wearing only a nightgown and robe? She could not convince herself to be happy about this. Either he was somehow taking advantage of her, or the opposite — he was martyring his happiness out of some misguided altruism.

  “One more agreement, Wilhelm. If we tire of each other or the arrangement becomes dangerous, I am free to leave, claiming the marriage annulled. And you will not dispute it. In fact, I demand the notarized declaration of annulment in my possession before the ceremony, for safekeeping.”

  The tiny muscle on the corner of his jaw rippled and his eyes narrowed. After a long breath in and out he grated, “As you say,” then carried her through the doorway.

  Chapter 16

  Concerning An Unusual Wedding Night

  What on earth am I doing here? She should be halfway to Spain. Instead, Sophia lay half asleep in Lord Devon’s bed. With Lord Devon.

  Yesterday, Wilhelm had carried her inside a Tudor-era stone church he admitted to having never set foot in before and Sophia had repeated vows, hating that she spoke them through swollen, cut lips.

  Then he offered her the pick of the wine cellar, and she vaguely remembered divulging the worst of her secrets. Somehow Wilhelm found it amusing that she had concocted her own brew of opium from the crop of Eastleigh hothouse poppies, drugged her father, and escaped in an unmarked service carriage wearing a dowager’s mourning costume and veil.

  Worse, after a few more glasses, she had told him what led to it all; every sickening detail of how Lowdry cornered her in the hothouse and attacked her, how her Fritz saved her in a rescue uncannily similar to the current one, and how her father flew into a rage when he found his plan thwarted. She recited his ugly words, how he degraded and punished her. Her memory was blurred, but Sophia recalled turning to lower her nightgown and letting Wilhelm examine her back.

  A riding crop? he half-shouted in disbelief. It was always whatever he had on hand, she answered, trying to sound unaffected. He had fallen silent for long minutes after that.

  Any worry that Wilhelm might have reneged on his promise of a name-only marriage was unfounded. Completely unamorous, he had simply fallen asleep. It had been she who crossed to the other side of the mattress to lie in his arms.

  For all her purported brazenness, she surprised herself by feeling rather prudish at the inevitability of lying with a man. Making love. Being bedded. Tumbled. Mercy, she could barely stand to even think the word. Sexual congress, Sophia. That is what married people do. Just the same, she was shamefully, abjectly frightened of Wilhelm as a husband.

  Warm, strong hands stroked over her rear, up and down with his thumbs dragging. How long had he been awake?

  “Good morning, Wilhelm.”

  He hummed in husky baritone. “Lady Devon.”

  Oh how strange!

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better.” Until she caused the next country scandal — she looked like a prize fighter.

  “You look better. How about a holiday in Cornwall while you recover?”

  “I think those are the most beautiful words you have ever spoken to me.”

  He raised one knee, sliding her to center over him from shoulder to knee. He stretched beneath her, turning her man-sized cushion into a wall of ropy steel muscle until he relaxed with a lazy rumbling sigh. “Chocolate-dipped raspberries?”

  “Even more inspiring.”

  “Pomegranate wine, silver moonlight, a hot breeze, and swimming naked in the ocean.”

  “Hmm. Your morning voice is very appealing. And I had no idea you were so romantic.” She slid away, easing the weight off her protesting ribs. “Are the girls coming along?”

  “Well yes, of course.”

  “Then you can forget the last part.”

  He rolled to rest on his elbows, staring at her intently, searching.

  “What? Am I so hideous in the morning?”

  One corner of his mouth pulled into a not-quite-smile. He cradled her jaw with his hand and gave her that eerie soul-searching look. “I suppose I am waiting … .”

  “For what?”

  “I feared Vorlay had broken you. I don’t think he has.” Wilhelm leaned in and kissed the top left side of her mouth, the only unblemished spot. “Beautiful, strong Sophia. Made of steel and fire — I knew it.”

  She lowered her head to the pillow and blinked, trying not to weep. She had done far too much of that lately. Moments like these Wilhelm truly shined, and if she didn’t know better, she might think he did love her … .

  “Wilhelm, you are not angry we are chaste?”

  “Angry? No.”

  “Then what?”

  “Sophia, if you ever repeat this I will deny it, but I have never bedded a woman. I am terrified at the prospect. You will probably have to bed me.”

  So he assumed she had experience? She scoffed, “Surely. Like the way you had never been kissed?”

  “That was a game, and you liked it. I am in earnest now.”

  “You, Wilhelm Montegue — a virgin?”

  He covered her mouth. “Hush! Not so loud. I have a seedy reputation to uphold. Perhaps you could appear sleepy and sated for my sake? A silly smile every now and then, so everyone thinks I worked you over?”

  She laughed, even though it hurt. “Better yet, I won’t come out of the bedroom today at all. Let them wonder.” There, finally — his rakish pirate smile.

  “I will call for breakfast.�
� He grimaced, “And now I want to clean my teeth. And I missed my morning walk and chess match with Martin. And I need to send a wire to Lancashire.”

  “Carry on. Don’t mind me.” Sophia arched her back, stretching on the bed. He watched, his eyes making slow progress from her ankles to neck. She couldn’t quite make out what he muttered. “What was that?”

  He still stared, making her self-conscious. Sophia closed her eyes and rested. At times she forgot about his condition, and other times she realized how it enslaved him.

  “Symmetry,” he said absently after several minutes. “One-point-six-three, only eight-tenths of a percentage point deviation from the Golden Ratio. Virtual aesthetic symmetry, as you probably know.” She opened her eyes from a light doze to find him looking apologetic. “Fibonacci, and all that. And I like your underwear.”

  Sophia furrowed her brows and a smile pulled her lips. Quoting a mathematician to poeticize her beauty? “Go clean your teeth, Wilhelm. And send my breakfast.”

  “You are beautiful. Lovely. Exotic like a flamenco dancer.”

  “Ah, thank you.”

  “You hardly care, don’t you?”

  “On the contrary, I am likely the most vain woman you will ever meet.”

  “I think you like it better when I flatter your mind. It is true you are the most clever woman I know.”

  “Then which man of your acquaintance is more clever?”

  “Touché,” he chuckled. “You are by far the cleverest creature I have ever met; man, woman, or animal.”

  “Then I shall concede, against my better judgment, that you are the most devilishly handsome and desirable man in all England.”

  He hummed. “And it pains you to do so?”

  “Exceedingly.”

  • • •

  “Martin, I believe I am capable of taking care of Wilhelm for two weeks.”

  “I thank you kindly, my lady, but my lord needs me.”

  Sophia reached for the stack of linen shirts the same time as the butler. She tugged the shirts out of his hands then wished she hadn’t as her ribs protested. “As his bride, it is in my best interest to keep him out of his clothes by turn, and properly dressed when warranted. I vow to guide him accordingly.”

  Martin appeared to debate whether or not he dared grab back, they glared a mutual challenge, then his mouth twitched in an almost-smile as he conceded. He packed Wilhelm’s shaving kit and blurted, “I know your mother.”

  “What you mean to say is, you recognized me months ago yet granted me a boon. Thank you, Martin.”

  “I served under Colonel Duncombe — before he was Lord Chauncey — in the Twenty-Third battalion.” Martin, the consummate domestic professional, betrayed no opinion of this.

  “I am sorry to hear it.”

  He twitched a ghost of a smile again.

  “You can say it, Martin. No one loathes my father more than I.”

  “I wouldn’t mind sending him to hell, ma’am.”

  “There is a long queue for that.”

  “Do have a care, my lady. Months ago we sent the investigators away with false information, but then Vorlay recognized you and betrayed us. A sly one, Chauncey is.”

  “I can outwit my father, I have done it before. What concerns me is Wilhelm.”

  “Aye, he will guard you with his life.” Martin chortled and stacked folded silk drawers in the trunk. “Iron Wil, we called him in the army — Puts his mind to it, good as done. That, and he has eyes for no woman, no matter how comely. Excepting my lady of course. Fond of you, in his own way, ma’am.”

  If only. “He is a good man, that is true.”

  “Do take good care of my lord, ma’am. Not the sort to suffer his displeasure in silence, and your diversion keeps the growling to a dull roar, if you catch my meaning, ma’am.”

  “I will do my best, but as you observed, Wilhelm does as he pleases.”

  Mrs. Abbott knocked on the door and brought Sophia a telegram, accompanied by a sour expression that showed exactly what the housekeeper thought of housemaids who made themselves countess. Sophia wanted to tell Mrs. Abbott she agreed it was atrocious, but she represented Lord Devon now, and such an apology would insult him.

  “That will be all, thank you Mrs. Abbott.” The housekeeper dropped in a curtsey far too low and formal, which Sophia ignored.

  She opened the telegram and read from Lady Lambrick, her co-conspirator writing from neighboring Somersetshire: Congratulations Lady Devon. Stop. I have your mother here safely. Stop. Chauncey is livid, suggest you go abroad. Stop. I will make the best of godmothers.

  Wilhelm came through the door, short of breath. “Good, you are dressed. Sophia, we must go. Are you ready?”

  She waved the telegram. “What have you done?”

  “What?” He appeared genuinely unaware.

  “A note of congratulations from Lady Lambrick. Oh, and she thinks she is godmother to our baby.”

  Infuriating man, his lips twitched in a smile. “Yes. Well, I needed a liaison, for information. Including your name — all five of them, now six — for the marriage license. And I thought you wanted your mother looked after.” His tone implied Lady Chauncey was not so bright, an unfortunate but fair assessment. Helena Duncombe would have made a better wood nymph than viscountess. “I may have encouraged your friend’s matronly ambitions in the process.”

  Her conscience nagged through her irritation, suggesting she should thank him for protecting her mother. Thoughtful of him. But making such a promise? “Superb, Wilhelm. We have my father, Aunt Louisa, and now Lady Lambrick, all fighting over a baby who will never exist.”

  The moment she complained, she wished her words forgotten. He had to know it was the truth, but her unkind phrasing struck him; she saw it. He flinched, and a crestfallen look came over him before he arranged his features in a neutral expression. Oh no. He wanted to be a father, secretly hoped for it. What had she done, marrying him?

  He said politely, with flinty eyes, “I will sort it out later, Sophia. I have asked for your trust, and that includes not questioning my judgment.”

  Riddled with guilt, she didn’t have to heart to start a quarrel. She fought the tears blurring her vision and swallowed hard, devastated by the memory of the hurt she had seen in his expression. It would haunt her tonight, perhaps for years to come. “I am so sorry, Wil.”

  Sorry for all of it.

  Chapter 17

  When The World Proves Far Too Small A Place

  “St. Agnes, here it is,” Wilhelm announced to no one. Even Sophia slept, her head cradled in his lap, which did little to cool his interest. If the fates were kind, she would have her way with him tonight, although if it went over so easily he’d eat his boots, because nothing ever came easily. Not for him.

  He had been watching her closely, scrutinizing her manner, trying to discern if the hint of innocence about her was genuine or the expert renditions of an actress who knew how to tempt. Now that he decided he wanted to go to bed with her, he could think of nothing else.

  Of course that only brought maddening speculation about the men she had taken to her bed before him. How many? What were her tastes, and how in hell could he please her when she was accustomed to sophistication and experience?

  Weighing on his mind was Roderick, his late older brother, a losing bettor in the game of roulette promiscuous people played. He paid for his indulgence with raging cases of syphilis and consumption. A gruesome combination, to slowly rot from both the outside and internally. The harrowing memory had kept Wilhelm chaste all these years; pleasure women all had the same empty vapidity in their eyes. But not his Sophia. She burned white hot, like a smelting fire.

  Foremost, Wilhelm wondered if Sophia had been violated by Lowdry or Vorlay or both. He didn’t think he could bear to hear the tale if she had. And since she had been illused by men, could she even manage bed sport with him, or would she panic? Flail and scratch, making him feel a rapist, no matter how gently he attempted? To fail at being her lov
er … .

  And I do not love you, her casual words echoed in his head, tormenting him. So if his attempt to bed her went poorly, he had what to fall back on? Her friendly regard? Hope that her need for protection would keep her at his side? That rang false, even to his subconscious. She had that legal document tucked away somewhere, the signed bill of annulment — his constant reminder that she expected him to muddle it up, that nothing tied her to him.

  Not that he had an aversion to steep odds, but this was uncharted territory for him.

  The dog gave a sharp bark, trotting along outside the carriage. Wilhelm saw Fritz pause and sniff the air, following a trail to the side of the road. He twitched and whined, waiting for permission to scout. Wilhelm whistled, ordering the dog to move along and follow the carriage. So he had gypsies in his woods again, according to Fritz.

  Sophia squirmed and groaned, likely discovering how impossible it is to sleep with damaged ribs. Another reason he should keep his hands off her. Boorish of him to expect her to be amorous when she still recovered from a violent attack. You idiot, Wilhelm. Calling her wife should satisfy him. And it would, even if it killed him.

  She woke stiffly and he helped her sit up. She watched out the window, and he waited for her reaction to the hedge-lined drive, ancient rosebushes in bright orange and fuchsia. Thousands of petals reflected the golden sunset, making them seem to glow with flames. She didn’t sigh in appreciation as he expected. Her face peaked, her brows furrowed, and when the cottage revealed its ivy-covered rustic splendor, the color drained from her face. He thought she mouthed, Oh no.

  “What is it, Sophia? Are you ill?”

  Her eyes darted to the others, still sleeping. She leaned to his ear and whispered, “I have a confession to make, Wil. You will be so angry … .”

  Angry? He was too busy preening — she had called him Wil again, and it would keep him afloat for hours. “I doubt it.”

  “I have been here, years ago. With my mother.” She seemed to expect a reaction from him. “Because she came with Roderick.” She added dutifully, “God rest his soul.”