He shook her slightly. “You little fool! I am your only hope to brush through this ugly affair with a minimum of scandal. Marry me, and I can protect you. Refuse me, and you leave yourself vulnerable to the worst sort of ignominy.”
Gently he added, “People might speculate that I lied and claimed you as my lover to protect you, but no one is going to believe that I married you for that reason.”
Sophy looked away. Everything he said was true. Her reputation was in shreds, had already suffered simply by being in this very house, and there was no possibility that the inhabitants would keep their mouths shut about Ives’s declaration that they were lovers. All of London would know. She shuddered.
It was not for herself that she dreaded the gossip and innuendo, but she knew her reputation would reflect on both Marcus and Phoebe. They had weathered the storm of Simon’s death, but could they weather this one as well?
No matter what she did, marry Ives or not, there was going to be rampant speculation and gossip about Edward’s death. But if she were to marry Ives, there was no denying that much of the scandal would be blunted. She would be the wife of an aristocrat with powerful connections, the bride of a man respected and liked by others of high rank and standing. Few people would be willing to risk offending Harrington. As his wife, that mantle of protection would extend to her and also to Marcus and Phoebe. They would be safe from the majority of the stigma.
But if she and Ives parted, it would open the door for even more ugly gossip and scandal. And not just for herself. Marcus and Phoebe would share in the shame.
Indecision churning in her breast, she glanced up at him. “Why are you willing to marry me?” she asked quietly, her lovely eyes fixed intently on his face.
His mouth twisted. “Because I need a wife. An heir.” He drew her nearer. “And quite frankly, my dear, because I find you utterly irresistible.”
He kissed her. A long, lingering kiss, his lips warm and compelling, his hunger kept fiercely leashed.
Sophy’s mouth quivered beneath his. Uncertainty, fear, and another stronger, more elemental emotion sprang cautiously to life within her. His embrace awakened all her old demons, Simon’s brutal kisses never far from her mind. And yet with Ives she was aware of a vast difference, a difference she could not explain or understand, but it was there and it comforted her.
Conscious of the fragile ground on which he trod, Ives did not force the pace, but with great reluctance, eventually broke the embrace and set her slightly away from him. “Well?” he inquired coolly. “Are you going to marry me?”
Sophy stared blindly at the open V of his robe, trying to sort through all the contradictory emotions roiling within her. “Yes,” she said finally. “I do not see that I have any choice in the matter.”
“I could have wished for a trifle more enthusiasm,” Ives said dryly, “but I see that I shall have to content myself with simply the knowledge that you have agreed to be my wife.”
Turning away from her, he added briskly, “And now I suppose we should dress and see about meeting with the others.”
In a daze, Sophy allowed Ives to escort her to her room and handed the note over to him. What had happened seemed almost incomprehensible to her, and for several minutes after he had left, she stood in the center of the room unable to think clearly. Edward was dead. Murdered! And she was going to marry Ives Harrington!
His expression thoughtful, the Fox climbed the stairs with everyone else. His plan had not gone as he envisioned, and he was furious. Murderously so. The look he flashed Ives before he continued on down the hall to his own room was not kind.
In the safety of his room, he shed his robe and quickly dressed, his mind on the events of the evening. Everything had gone just as he had planned until that bastard Harrington had shown up. Now, because of Harrington’s unwarranted intervention, there was going to be a lot of speculation about who had murdered Edward. And why.
With Sophy out of the picture, he was still certain that there was nothing to point to him; but he was anxious—anxious and infuriated as he had not been since he had sent Harrington’s relatives to the bottom of the sea. Though he had been scrupulously careful tonight, there was always the possibility that he had overlooked some tiny element, that someone had seen some trifling event, remembered something that would tie him to Edward’s murder. His face darkened. Damn Harrington to hell!
Even now he experienced a thrill of fright as he remembered his shock at the sight of Ives’s broad form appearing so unexpectedly out of the darkness. A few seconds earlier and he might have been caught. As it was, he had barely stepped out of the room and into the concealing shadows when Ives had come striding down the hall. He frowned. The fellow was proving to be quite meddlesome.
In the meantime, however, he had other things to think about. Such as providing another convenient scapegoat, even if only temporarily. Frowning, he paced his room seeking some way to find an additional measure of safety from tonight’s debacle. Recalling that someone had mentioned robbery, a glimmer of an idea occurred to him. A robbery. He smiled. Of course. But his satisfaction vanished almost immediately and his smile faded as another thought came to him. A robbery would solve one difficulty, he admitted sourly, but there was still the infuriating problem of Harrington.
Harrington’s coming onto the scene troubled him in many ways. He was suspicious of the man already and for him to have thwarted a perfect solution to a vexing problem . . .
Did the man know something? Suspect something? Had it just been luck that Harrington had followed Sophy? From his concealment in the shadows, it was obvious that Harrington had been trailing Sophy without her knowledge. Why? The obvious conclusion occurred to him, and his lips thinned.
To think he had nearly been caught because of another man’s lust for a woman. Not that Sophy was not worthy of such lust, but the Fox, while having all the normal appetites of the flesh in abundance, never let his carnal inclinations interfere with business. Taking care of Edward and framing Sophy had been strictly business.
Hearing the sounds of the others gathering in the hall, he put the problem from him for the time being and went out to join everybody else. It was several hours later before he had time to consider the problem of Ives Harrington and the possible implications of his marriage to Sophy.
Sir John Matthews had been and gone after pronouncing his shock at the murder of Baron Scoville and promising to notify the proper authorities. While he said nothing himself, the Fox had seen to it that robbery was touted as a motive for the shameful deed. Edward’s body had been removed.
The ladies, of course, now knew of the murder and were frightened by the news of such a terrible event occurring while they had slept such a short distance away. Lady Allenton had been aghast. Agnes Weatherby had fainted when the news of her lover’s murder had been broken to her.
But none of that bothered the Fox. Beyond his concern about Ives Harrington, the whereabouts of Edward’s note had taken on paramount importance in his mind, and he cursed Harrington again. If all had gone well, he had planned during the ensuing furor to nip up to Sophy’s room and retrieve Edward’s note, but now . . . His lips thinned into a rigid, ugly line. Now that damned note might prove dangerous to him.
A thought occurred to him, and he relaxed slightly. The existence of the note, he suddenly realized, was probably not going to come to light. Because of Harrington, Sophy was safely out of it and it was highly unlikely that she would admit to having a reason to meet Edward in the library. But Sophy knew of the note. And no doubt, Harrington.
All his problems, he thought grimly, seemed to go back to Harrington. He did not trust the man, did not trust his sudden and inexplicable conversion to vice-prone pursuits, did not trust his instant friendship with Meade; and especially did not trust him since Meade seemed to have conveniently come across such interesting news, if Meade’s drunken hints could be believed. In the meantime, the Fox had much to consider and plan.
Ives, too, had much to plan and c
onsider, not the least of which was his nuptials. After Sir John had given his pronouncements and departed, Ives climbed the stairs and knocked on Sophy’s door.
When he entered her room, Sophy was dressed and packed, her valise resting on the bed. Her features pale and set, she asked, “May we leave?”
Ives nodded. “Yes. I have given Sir John our direction and he saw no point in our remaining here. I believe that several other of the guests are going to be leaving shortly also.”
Sophy glanced away. “And our marriage. You are still determined upon it?”
He approached her and, taking one of her cold little hands in his, dropped a warm kiss upon it. “I was never more determined about anything in my life, sweetheart.”
She flashed him a look. “You may come to regret it,” she warned. “I am not a malleable creature, nor one noted for her docility.”
Ives grinned, his devil green eyes dancing. “Which should only make our life together most interesting, don’t you agree?”
Chapter Ten
Ives moved with military precision and a little more than twenty-four hours later on that Monday, May 22, 1809, at one o’clock in the afternoon, with only her siblings and Anne Richmond to support her, Sophy found herself becoming his wife.
Ives’s guests were equally sparse. His godfather, the Duke of Roxbury, and Percival Forrest had been in attendance at the brief ceremony, as well as Lady Beckworth, a pleasant-looking woman some sixty years of age whom Ives introduced as his aunt.
Sophy moved through the ceremony in a fog, aware and yet not aware of what was going on around her. As she entered the small, private chapel Ives had chosen for their wedding, she was vaguely conscious of the fact that someone had seen to it that there were two enormous baskets of yellow roses and white lilies flanking the area where they would say their vows. At the last moment, just before she had gone down the aisle to stand by Ives, a laughing Phoebe had thrust a small bouquet of rosebuds into her hands. And then she was aware of nothing but Ives himself. Ives, the tall stranger with the brigand’s smile who would become her husband.
As she joined him in front of the official who would marry them, her eyes met his and she could not look away from that intent green gaze. They stared at each other, something fierce and powerful springing to life in Ives’s green eyes that sent a shudder of half panic, half delight through her. She might have run then, but as if sensing her intentions, Ives reached out and possessively covered her hands with one of his. Glancing down at his strong hand lying on hers, a bubble of hysterical laughter rose up through her. There was no need of marriage vows—he had already laid claim to her.
And then it was over, and Ives was taking her into his arms and kissing her. His mouth, warm and mesmerizing, lingered for a long, sweet moment on hers; then he was lifting his head and smiling down at her dazed, flushed features. Lightly caressing her bottom lip with one finger, he said for her ears alone, “I think, madame wife, that we shall deal very well together. Very well, indeed.”
Almost immediately, everyone retired to the Grayson town house, where a small buffet was laid out for the delectation of the wedding party. Sophy was certain the food was delicious, but she was too stunned and, quite frankly, too nervous to eat. She was Ives’s wife!
Uneasily she looked across the room to where Ives stood surrounded by the gentlemen, laughing at something Marcus had said. She was pleased that Marcus and Phoebe had taken the stunning news of Edward’s death and her immediate marriage to Ives so well. Anne had taken the news with almost as much aplomb as the others, for she no longer had to fear Edward’s advances.
Lady Beckworth bustled up to her just then, diverting her attention. Forcing a smile, Sophy murmured, “This must all seem very strange to you.”
Barbara Beckworth smiled and shook her head. “No, my dear, it does not. Ives was never one to do the expected.”
Sophy nodded, trying to think of something else to say. She knew little of the Beckworths, had not even known that Ives had any other relatives until this afternoon. Only this morning, Ives had explained that his aunt was a respectable widow, a doting grandmother, who did not go out in society very much anymore.
Fortunately for him, he had said with a twinkle, his aunt had been visiting in London with an old friend and had been quite thrilled to be invited to their wedding. She had also agreed, he had gone on smoothly, to stay at the Grayson house and chaperone the younger members of the family while he and Sophy enjoyed a few days of privacy at his country estate, Harrington Chase, before returning to London. Having cut the ground away beneath her feet and left her with no room in which to argue, Sophy had been forced to agree with his plans. Sophy had met Lady Beckworth and discovered for herself that she was as practical as she was kindhearted and grudgingly concluded that the lady was indeed capable of overseeing the household at Berkeley Square for a few days.
Apparently not expecting any reply, Lady Beckworth went on comfortably, “I thought that I was quite used to his fits and starts, but I must confess that this sudden marriage to you has surprised me.”
Sophy stiffened. “My reputation, you mean?” she asked in a tight little voice.
Lady Beckworth looked shocked. “Oh, no! Of course, I have heard the gossip ... and there is no denying that Lord Marlowe was a well-known—But that was not what I was referring to,” she added hastily. She hesitated, an uncertain expression crossing her plump features. “It probably is not important,” she finally said, “but you do know about his older brother, Robert?”
“His brother?” Sophy exclaimed, startled. “I never even knew about you until today.”
“Oh, dear! Me and my prattling tongue. Ives will be most vexed with me,” Lady Beckworth said, looking guilty.
“Why should he be? I am married to him. As his wife, it is only right that I know about his family,” Sophy returned reasonably, despite the sudden knot in her chest. “What is there about the mention of his brother that should make him angry?”
Lady Beckworth sighed heavily. “I am not surprised that he has said nothing to you. It was so very tragic. Robert committed suicide. Years ago,” she said confidingly, “before you were even born. He was much older than Ives, and Ives simply idolized him. He took Robert’s death hard. He swore to be avenged on the woman who had caused it. The family was quite distressed by his thirst for revenge. After all,” she added artlessly, “it was not her fault that Robert took her rejection of him so tragically. Who could have guessed that he would hang himself on her wedding day?” She gave a delicate shudder. “So terrible for Ives. He found him, you know. Absolutely shattered the boy.”
Sophy’s heart ached for Ives’s tragedy, but she was puzzled why he would be angry with his aunt for mentioning his brother’s suicide. Was he ashamed of the manner of Robert’s death?
“I see,” murmured Sophy, not really seeing at all. “It must have been quite painful for him.”
Lady Beckworth nodded vigorously. “Oh, it was. After his mother had deserted the family—she ran away with a military man—when Ives was a mere boy,” she said candidly, apparently seeing nothing wrong in revealing the family skeletons to a new bride. “Left on their own, the three of them—Ives, Robert, and his father—were very close. My dear brother never looked at another woman. His heart was quite broken. In their own way each one of them was very bitter and wounded by Joan’s desertion. Quite frankly, I was surprised when Robert fell for—”
She stopped and laughed deprecatingly. “My wretched tongue! My children are always pleading with me to think before I speak, but I am afraid that their pleas are useless. I am,” she admitted, almost with pride, “perfectly incapable of minding my tongue. I always have been.”
Taken aback by Lady Beckworth’s indiscreet volubility, Sophy could only smile weakly. She was fascinated by this glimpse into Ives’s early life, but she suspected that her new husband would prefer to reveal any family scandal to her himself.
Sophy would have given much to have heard more, but even if
his aunt was not conscious of treading carelessly over sensitive subjects, she was. Somewhat hastily, she said, “Will you excuse me? I simply must speak to the butler.”
Lady Beckworth smiled complacently. “You run along, my dear. I am sure that you are quite rushed. Now that we are family, we shall have other times for cozy conversations.”
“Yes, of course,” Sophy muttered as she hurried off, telling herself that cozy conversation with Lady Beckworth was a fate to be avoided at all costs.
Ives had watched Sophy’s conversing with his aunt, and her hurried exit. A little frown creased his forehead. Introducing Sophy to his aunt had been a calculated risk but one he felt he had no choice in running. He needed a respectable woman to stay with Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne at the Grayson town house during the first few days of his marriage.
He was not an unreasonable man. He was quite fond of Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne, and had every intention of keeping Sophy’s little family together. But dash it all! He was not going to start his married life with Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne underfoot! Things were fragile enough between him and Sophy as it was and he had decided that a few days spent, just the two of them, at Harrington Chase would allow them a little breathing room before they plunged into the complications of merging their two households. He wanted, nay, needed some time alone with his reluctant bride.
Roxbury murmured something to him at that moment and he had no time to speculate further on what embarrassing facts his aunt might have cheerfully dropped into Sophy’s ear. By the time they had bidden their wedding guests good-bye, installed Lady Beckworth in the Grayson town house, and were finally on their way to Harrington Chase, Ives had completely forgotten the incident.
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