Sophy stood up. She took an agitated step around the room. “But why did I never hear of this?” she demanded.
“Well, I don’t suppose it was something your mother wanted to talk about, and I am sure it was not a common subject between your parents and their friends. Why should you have known? After all, it happened before you were even born.”
“But that fact did not, apparently, matter to Ives,” Sophy replied tightly, her hands clasped in front of her. Good gad! she thought despairingly. Had she become so completely mesmerized by Ives that she had forgotten the lessons in deceit that she had learned from Simon? What other secrets, she wondered bitterly, had Ives kept from her? And why? Why had he never mentioned what had happened between his brother and her mother? He should have told her, she thought stubbornly, especially the part her mother had played ... unless there was some sinister reason he had not done so?
She took a shaky breath, not liking the path of her thoughts, hardly aware of Lady Beckworth’s concerned gaze resting on her pale face. She did not want to believe ill of her husband, but she could not help believing that she had been utterly misled by his many thoughtful acts. It seemed likely, she admitted bitterly, that she had been deliberately charmed and seduced by him. It was more than possible that there had been a dark and ugly reason behind his determined pursuit of her, his inexplicable rescue of her the night Edward had died. Painfully, reluctantly, she came to the conclusion that Ives could have been plotting some sort of twisted revenge against her right from the very beginning. She did not want to think it, but the notion would not go away.
She had almost come to believe that Ives could be trusted, begun to accept the idea that perhaps their marriage was not a bad thing, but now ... She swallowed convulsively, finally admitting that she had been unconsciously waiting for his dark side to be exposed. That there had been a part of her that had suspected all along that things were not as they seemed, that it was only a matter of time before he revealed that the black heart of a cad lay beneath his supposedly considerate exterior.
Her mouth twisted. Oh, but he had done his work well. And it had all been for one ugly purpose—to disarm her, to have her trust him and to make her fall in love with him—so that when he finally revealed the truth, that he despised her and her family, that he would never love her, it would be all the more shattering.
Her marriage to Simon had not imbued Sophy with any strong feelings of high esteem, and since there was not a vain bone in her body, she had always been suspicious of the reasons behind Ives’s bold pursuit of her.
In fact, she had never quite understood the fascination she seemed to hold for men in general—Simon, Grimshaw, Dewhurst, and the others. It was incomprehensible to her that she was beautiful, and that her beauty might evoke powerful yearnings and strong emotions in the male breast. The notion that her spirit, loyalty, and determination might cause admiration and respect was equally foreign to her.
The circumstances surrounding her marriage to Ives had been unusual and she had been mistrustful of his motives right from the beginning, and she had—foolishly, it now appeared—allowed herself to be swept along by him. He had not wanted to marry her. It had not been chivalry that had prompted his drastic actions, it had been revenge!
Why shouldn’t she believe this? Simon had certainly shown her that men were cruel, hateful beasts. Her uncle had been little better. Ives’s apparent predilection for the company of men like Grimshaw, Coleman, and Marquette only added to the evidence against him.
And now, to learn that her mother had been the cause of his adored brother’s death, to hear that Ives had sworn vengeance against the woman who had spurned his beloved older brother... Jane was beyond his reach, but her daughter was not.
She gave a mirthless little laugh. Oh, it was all so clear now. She had no doubt that he intended to spurn her, just as her mother had done to his brother.
Aware that Lady Beckworth was looking at her with alarm, Sophy sent her a taut smile, her eyes glittering like molten gold. “This has been a most instructive morning, has it not?” she said with false calm. “I had wondered why your nephew chose to marry me. Now I know—revenge.”
“Oh, my dear,” exclaimed Lady Beckworth, appalled, “I am sure that you are mistaken. Why, one has only to see the pair of you together to realize that he is utterly smitten with you. I am positive that he has forgotten all about those immature rantings. He cannot blame you for what Robert did.”
“We shall just have to see about that, won’t we?” Sophy murmured, the expression in her eyes not at all reassuring.
Ives had forgotten all about his fleeting notion of using Sophy to satisfy his once-savage thirst to avenge Robert’s death. In fact, in the days since he had first thought of it, he came to realize that it was folly and downright foolish to blame Sophy for something her mother had done. If he had been asked about it, he would have burst out laughing at the nonsensical idea.
Unfortunately, returning home in a jovial frame of mind that afternoon, he discovered that Sophy thought precisely that. Her request for an immediate interview in her bedchamber brought a frankly carnal glow to his eyes, and he had been anticipating a lazy afternoon spent making love to his wife when he entered her room. One look at her stony features made it obvious that he was not going to be spending any time in her bed in the near future.
In growing dismay and unease he listened to her measured words, his heart clenching into a painful knot. Finished with her recital of the ugly facts she had just learned and her conclusions, Sophy stood in the middle of the room, regal as a queen, and coldly regarded him. “Do you deny it?” she demanded, her face set and hard.
“By Jove! Sophy, you cannot believe that I married you to wreak some sort of belated revenge. You cannot!” he exclaimed, half-furious, half-appalled. “Sweetheart, you must believe me. Such a thought never entered my—” He stopped, uncomfortably remembering that he had considered such an idea, the very first time he laid eyes on her.
“Never?” she asked grimly, having noted with a sinking heart his fatal hesitation. “I find that hard to believe. Why should I believe you?”
His own temper sparking, Ives snapped, “Why should you not? When have I ever given you reason to mistrust me?”
Sophy opened her lips to hurl back a stinging retort, only to close them abruptly. When had he proven himself unworthy of her trust? Desperately, she sought for some event which proved her point. Surely there was something he had done that revealed his perfidious nature? Almost gratefully she remembered his cool abandonment of her immediately upon their return to the city. “You left me to spend the evening with your friends on our very first night back in London.”
“Good gad! What does that have to do with anything?” Ives growled, angry hurt building within him. He did not know when he had been more furious, or wounded. Scowling at her, he added coldly, “Am I to be chained to you like a felon to an iron ball?”
His words were knives in her flesh, and her chin lifted, her fists clenching at her sides. “No, m’lord, you are not! In fact, I’d lief as not have you at my side at all!”
Fighting an urge to shake her, he snarled softly, “Well, that suits me just fine! Good day, madam! Be assured that I shall take care not to inflict my presence upon you in the future!” Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the room, the door violently slamming shut behind him.
Shaken and trembling, Sophy stared miserably at the door. She should be satisfied. She had confronted him. And he had not denied the truth of her words; he had actually tried to turn them against her.
So now she knew. All of his tender caresses, all of those teasing smiles and thoughtful considerations had been an act. She was married to a man every bit as vile and underhanded as Simon had been.
Furiously, she wiped aside a tear that dared to fall. It was better this way. Let there be nothing but indifferent politeness between them. Let them go their separate ways. She had survived one such marriage; surely, she could survive another? Exce
pt. Except, I love him!
Biting down hard on her lower lip, she kept the tears at bay, wondering how they had come to this dismal state so suddenly. Only yesterday, he had returned her pistol to her. And she had been warmed by his offer to Agnes Weatherby, beginning to believe that there was some rational explanation for his desire for the company of Grimshaw and Meade. And last night ...
Her lips softened and her heart beat faster. Last night, there had not been a cloud on the horizon as she had lain in his arms and he made love to her, her body responding wildly to him, ecstasy such as she had never dreamed flooding her. And now. Now, everything was gone. Gone like fallen leaves before the winter gales.
It was not to be expected that their estrangement would go unnoticed. Whenever they were in the same room together, despite their polite words and manners, the air seemed noticeably cooler to anyone in the vicinity. Lady Beckworth’s departure that very afternoon left a void, the lack of her amiable chatter making the icy aloofness between the newlyweds all the more apparent. By that evening, almost everyone in the house took to swiftly sidling out of any room occupied by both Lord and Lady Harrington.
After an interminable dinner where Ives and Sophy exchanged only the coolest of conversation, the three younger members of the family were grateful when Ives, abandoning the usual after-dinner brandy with Marcus, immediately departed to join his companions. Sophy watched him leave the dining room with dead eyes and, a second later, without explanation, sailed out of the room, leaving Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne to stare at each other in bewilderment.
“What has happened between them?” Phoebe asked Marcus as they made their way from the dining room a few minutes later. “I thought they were happy together. But now!”
“Is Sophy angry because you and Lord Harrington went to Tattersall’s this morning?” inquired Anne timidly. “Could that be the cause?”
Marcus shook his head. “No, Sophy would not cut up rough over something like that! And I know that Ives was in great humor this morning, looking forward to spending the afternoon with Sophy.”
“And Sophy was so very cheerful, even after enduring the scrutiny of all those scandal-sipping old cats who came to call this morning.” Phoebe stopped and looked thoughtful. “At least she was when Anne and I were excused just after Lady Greenwood arrived. I wonder if Lady Greenwood said something ... Oh, if only Lady Beckworth had not left!” Phoebe exclaimed despondently. “She would know what the problem was, and how best to solve it!”
Marcus made a face. “I would not start meddling if I were you,” he warned. “This is between Sophy and Ives. I doubt that either one of them would thank you for interfering.”
Both girls sent him a disgusted glance. “Oh, pooh! You simply do not want to be bothered,” Phoebe said.
“It ain’t that. Sophy and Ives are married, and only a fool puts his head between a warring husband and wife. I ain’t a fool!”
Having delivered that pithy statement, he turned on his heel and went in search of his own entertainment.
That Ives was in a foul mood did not escape the notice of his companions. A malicious smile on his face, Grimshaw murmured, “Trouble at home, dear fellow? Finding the parson’s mousetrap a bit too confining?”
Ives sent him a look that would have felled a lesser man. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you do seem a trifle, ah, bad-tempered this evening,” interposed Dewhurst smoothly, his blue eyes fixed on Ives’s face. “Only natural to assume it might be trouble with your wife.”
“It’s not,” Ives snapped, and finished off his glass of hock, motioning impatiently for another.
The gentlemen around him—Grimshaw, Dewhurst, Meade, Coleman, and Caldwell—exchanged glances. “Just so,” said Meade, already half-foxed. “Whatever you say, dear fellow.”
With a rare show of tact, the conversation shifted, and Ives tried to make himself agreeable.
The evening passed slowly for Ives. He really did try to throw himself into the spirit of things by drinking heavily and gambling feverishly. He lost a rather large sum to Meade, and even went so far as to encourage the advances of a shapely ladybird who had been hanging over his shoulder all evening.
Ignoring the sly glances of the others, he let her sit in his lap and lean intimately against him as he played hand after hand of cards. However, he was not so far gone as to carry it further; when her fingers began to teasingly explore his hard frame, and she nibbled on his ear, he gently removed her from his lap. “Not tonight, I am afraid,” he said with a polite smile, and tossed her a gold coin.
“Can it be,” Coleman asked in astonished accents, “that you actually plan on remaining faithful to your wife?”
Grimshaw and Meade and the others snickered. Grimshaw even wagged an admonishing finger at him. “This will not do at all! It is clear,” he said, “that your bride is playing her old tricks on you. Often did I see Simon wear that same look of baffled fury.” He smiled. Not nicely. “Has she thrown you from her bed and held you at bay with her pistol?”
Ives’s jaw tightened. “That is not,” he said dangerously, “any of your business.”
Something glittered in Grimshaw’s eye. “Suppose,” he drawled, “that I were to make it my business?”
Ives stilled. His gaze locked with Grimshaw’s, he spoke in low tones. “That might be a rather hazardous thing to do, my friend. Unless, of course, you think that you may best me with either the sword or the pistol.”
Hastily, Meade said, “Oh, come now. None of that. We are all friends here, are we not?” He smiled with drunken affection from one set face to the other.
It was Grimshaw who broke first. “Of course,” he said. “Naturally, we are all friends.”
Ives nodded curtly, aware of a stab of disappointment. In the mood he was in tonight he really would have looked forward to meeting Grimshaw on the dueling field. Which was as foolish as it was dangerous. The last thing Roxbury needed was for him to face possible death at Grimshaw’s hands.
It was Meade who was the first to rise from the table that evening, which was unusual and made Ives look at him carefully. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Meade all night, but Ives had put it down to his unexpected luck with the cards. Yet discreetly studying the other man, it dawned on him that Meade was not quite as drunk as he pretended and that there was a feverish glow in his eyes.
Following Meade’s lead, the party broke up, and, with ever-sharpening interest, Ives watched Meade toddle off with Grimshaw at his side. Coleman and Caldwell followed behind them.
Henry Dewhurst, still sprawled at their table, yawned delicately, and said, “Well, I am for my bed. It appears the others have other plans for the remainder of the evening. Probably Flora’s. Although, Meade did seem a bit eager for just a night of ...” Henry chuckled. “Ah, but then Meade prides himself on being quite a man with the ladies.” Smiling at Ives, he said, “Since we seem to be deserted by our friends, shall we walk together part of the way home?”
“You know Meade rather well, don’t you?” asked Ives idly.
Henry shrugged. “Yes, but probably not as well as I know Grimshaw. Grimshaw and I have always been very close.” He smiled sleepily. “And, of course, to a remarkable degree, we do seem to share the same vices.”
“And the same taste in women,” Ives commented dryly, well aware that Henry had hoped to marry Sophy—which was more than he suspected Grimshaw of wanting to do.
Henry laughed uneasily. “Does it bother you that I wanted to marry Sophy? I did, you know. I courted her for a long time, and I was not happy when you stole the march on me and married her out of hand.”
Suddenly liking Dewhurst for his honesty, Ives said slowly, “That was a handsome admission. And, no, it does not bother me that you wanted to marry her.” Ives grinned at him. “I wanted to marry her myself, and I cannot blame you for feeling the same. She is an extraordinary woman.”
“And not very happy with you, if your expression earlier tonight
was anything to go by,” Henry observed tartly.
Ives grimaced. “Let us talk of more pleasant things, shall we?”
Dewhurst followed his lead, and they walked together amiably for several more minutes, Henry happily prattling on about the latest on-dits while Ives wondered how soon he could decently part from him. Meade’s whole demeanor tonight had taken on enormous significance to him, and he wanted to assure himself that Sanderson, or whoever had been assigned to watch Meade that night, was especially diligent.
Parting from Henry a few minutes later, Ives suddenly grinned to himself. The devil! He didn’t want to assure himself that Sanderson was doing his job; he wanted to be the one trailing Meade tonight. His grin faded. And there sure as hell was no reason for him to hurry home.
Meade had made enough allusions to Flora’s throughout the evening for Ives to decide to begin his quest to find the other man there. Swiftly, he made his way through the murky London streets to Flora’s. Intent upon his objective, he nearly stumbled across the man lurking in a darkened alleyway just across from the whorehouse.
They grappled for a second, Ives striking a powerful blow that sent his assailant reeling. He was on him instantly, his fingers closing around the other man’s throat.
“M’lord!” the fellow gasped. “Is that you?”
“Williams!” Ives exclaimed, loosening his savage grip with a feeling of chagrin and relief. Of course. One of his own men would be trailing Meade.
In the darkness Williams grinned, his teeth a pale flash. “Thought I recognized your handiwork.”
Helping his head groom to his feet, Ives asked, “So which one of our suspects were you watching tonight?”
“The colonel. Sanderson is on Coleman, and Ogden is following Grimshaw.” Brushing off his clothes, he continued, “Good thing they went their separate ways tonight, else the three of us would have been falling all over each other. Which,” he added wearily, “is what we are generally doing. They are all such boon companions that it seems to me you could have had just one of us watch all three. They generally end up at the same places at the same time.”
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