A Match Made In Duty

by Platt, Meara

  Her heart was now pounding so loudly, she was certain he could feel its thud, thud, thud against his chest.

  He eased up on his elbows and cast her an appealingly wicked grin as she continued to fumble with his belt. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get you out of your clothes.” She sighed. “I’ll need more practice.”

  “Indeed, you are delightfully inept at it.” But he didn’t assist her. Instead, he took her hands in one of his and held them over her head while he dipped his head and proceeded to place kisses about her.

  Fiery sparks shot through her body with explosive delight. “Goodness, James!”

  He showed her no mercy, kissing his way down her body and leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

  “Stop!” she laughingly cried, aching to do the same to him. “I’m sure it’s my turn, you wretched man.” James released her hands and chuckled softly as he watched her tug at his belt with renewed determination. “It isn’t funny. You’ve fastened a Gordian knot. How am I ever to get you out of your clothes?”

  His humor quickly faded and his expression turned serious. “It isn’t a pretty sight, Sophie.”

  Was he ashamed of the way he looked? She hadn’t considered that, for he had a strong, lean body and a handsome face despite those deep scars carved into his cheek and jaw. “James,” she said in a whisper filled with yearning, “it’s part of you. Don’t hide the bad from me. I want to know all of you.”

  He wasn’t pleased, but after a moment, he nodded and rolled off her to remove his dressing gown. “Tug it this way and it slips right off.”

  Very well, he made it look easy. “I’ll remember next time,” she grumbled, and then all thought fled as she studied him in all of his splendor. No, he wasn’t merely splendid. He was magnificent. Glorious. The flames glowing in the hearth cast a rich, golden sheen across his firm contours. She was able to make out the crisscross of scars along his back and several thin, red lines seemingly woven into the muscles of his arms. When he turned to face her, she saw more scars along his broad chest.

  Her gaze met his. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. She glanced lower and saw just how badly mangled his leg was. A jolt shot through her heart, realizing in that moment how much pain he was silently enduring. His stoic silence only enhanced the nobility of his character. If she hadn’t been in love with him yet, she certainly was now. She reached out her arms to invite him back to her, for she had an insatiable hunger for this man.

  He was the handsomest she’d ever met, clothed or unclothed, and although she’d never seen any other unclothed before, she had viewed paintings of Greek and Roman gods and knew how beautiful a man’s muscular form could be. James was that and more.

  She ran her hands along his taut, corded muscles and sighed. He was her husband, and while he might not be in love with her, in this moment he certainly made her feel loved.

  He kissed her on the lips and once more worked his way down her body, teasing and gently touching her everywhere, somehow knowing all her sensitive spots. These sensations were like nothing she’d ever felt before. Hot, exciting. Powerfully stirring to her heart.

  Every part of her ached for his touch.

  She began to soar amid the flames.

  “Sophie, don’t hold back,” he said in a husky murmur.

  Goodness, she was mindless and breathless and couldn’t hold anything back, for his touch was magical. An intense, hot magic. All of her was on fire now, and she felt like a glowing ember floating upward to the sky. Higher. Ever higher. Then she soared, suddenly overcome by volcanic waves of pleasure that shuddered and coursed, hot and thick as molten lava, through her blood. “I love you, James.”

  He kissed her deeply on the lips and joined with her, at first with slow and gentle care, but soon he was a part of her, the two of them moving as one, as husband and wife. She was still that floating ember soaring skyward, only now the pleasure was even more exquisite because they were together. “James,” she softly moaned, gripping his shoulders.

  “I’m here, my love.”

  She ran her hands up and down his hot, damp body, memorizing every taut curve, every hard muscle. Every jagged scar. “I never knew it could be like this.”

  She loved the strain of his body and was fascinated by his movements. He seemed to move with the powerful grace of a dolphin cutting through the water. Each glide brought her along with him, a slow build of pressure, a climb to loftier heights.

  Blissful.

  Endless.

  Timeless.

  She felt the quiet roar of his passion, and she clung to his hard, muscled body as though he were her solid anchor in an uncharted sea. She loved this man so deeply. How was it possible when they’d only met a few days ago?

  It seemed as though her heart had known him always.

  They said nothing for the longest time, there didn’t seem to be words necessary.

  His caresses spoke volumes, and with each gentle touch, each light stroke, Sophie understood what he wished to convey. He hadn’t said he loved her, but that was of no moment. The words would come in time.

  He was a cautious man and not about to hand his heart over to her… not yet. Perhaps she more readily admitted her feelings for him because she’d read and reread all of Harry’s letters dozens of times, letters that were full of mentions of James and his valor.

  Had James ever poured over the letters she’d written to Harry? She doubted it.

  James kissed her on the forehead to regain her attention, a quick, but exquisitely tender kiss. “Sophie, how do you feel?”

  She smiled up at him and nestled closer to his big, warm body. He still held her wrapped in his arms. “Splendid. And you?”

  “Humbled,” he said after a long moment. “I never thought I’d have this. I’m beginning to think my injuries were a blessing in disguise.”

  She turned in his arms so that she was now facing him, but said nothing.

  He ran his fingers through her hair, seeming to like the way it spilled over both of them in unbound waves. “Had I not been injured,” he continued, his manner pensive and a light frown now upon his brow, “I would have returned home as cold and arrogant as I left. I would have found an excuse not to marry Wilkinson’s little sister, probably found you a quaint, little cottage in the countryside and settled a goodly sum on you, then never given you another moment’s thought.”

  “Oh.”

  He caressed her cheek, grazing his knuckles along her skin. “You were nothing but Smidge to me, just some girl who had been given a silly pet name by her brother. Not this beautiful Sophie now resting in my arms.”

  He kissed her on the lips before sharing the rest of his thoughts. “I would have continued with the usual round of elegant parties, settled on ‘the right sort of girl,’ a cold, proud Society diamond from a wealthy and noble family. A girl who knew which spoon to use for her amuse-bouche, and which gown to wear for afternoon tea… and which people to snub.”

  She gazed at him in dismay, realizing she would have been one of those snubbed. “Goodness, I’m glad I didn’t know you back then. You must have been an insufferable clot.”

  He laughed as he caressed her cheek again. “The most insufferable in all of London. Everything changed for me after the war. I was angry and feeling awfully sorry for myself. I chose to honor my promise to your brother for all the wrong reasons. But being with you, well… you’re good for me. You’ve opened my eyes to what truly matters. What’s truly possible. I no longer want anyone else beside me.”

  No longer?

  “Was there someone important to you before you met me?” Someone he would have married before the war, before his injuries. Sophie closed her eyes and tried to imagine the young lady who had captured his heart.

  “I won’t lie to you, Sophie. There was. You’ll meet her at my aunt’s dinner party.”

  SOPHIE SPENT THE hours before Lady Miranda Grayfell’s party trying to shake off the impending sense of doom. Her gowns weren’t ready ye
t and she had nothing suitable to wear. She couldn’t borrow a gown from Lydia, for Lydia was too small, so her clothes would never fit. James’ sister was too big, and how could she possibly ask her when they’d only met three days ago?

  No, she had no choice but to wear the gown she’d worn to her wedding. It was the only one she owned that could pass for elegant. Madame de Bressard’s designs were far more beautiful, but the first of them wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow at the earliest.

  Everyone who had been in attendance at their wedding would notice that she was wearing the same gown, but it couldn’t be helped. Would Miranda or Agatha or Gabrielle pass a remark? They all seemed kind, however she hardly knew them. And what of Rom or the cousins? Assuming any of those men noticed. Still, it would take but an innocent slip of the tongue and all of London would know she was a fraud.

  James put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Sophie, you’re woolgathering.”

  She turned to him. “What?”

  He and Dr. Farthingale were now staring at her. The three of them were once more gathered in James’ bedchamber, Dr. Farthingale having brought those promised powders. He’d just finished examining James to make certain there was no new damage to his leg since yesterday. “Lady Exmoor, perhaps I had better write down these instructions.”

  Sophie’s eyes rounded in horror. He must have been giving her an explanation of the dosage to administer and she’d failed to listen to a word of it. Her face suffused with color, her cheeks burning in humiliation. “I’m so sorry. I was momentarily… distracted.”

  James regarded her with concern but said nothing.

  Sophie began to wring her hands. “Please repeat your instructions, doctor. You have my full attention now.”

  “Very well.” To her relief, Dr. Farthingale seemed not at all offended. The powders turned out to be more of a poultice that Sophie needed to prepare three times a day and very carefully spread wherever she noticed discoloration on James’ leg.

  “What do these powders contain?” she asked, watching intently as Dr. Farthingale prepared and then administered the poultice to show her how it was done. He then had her do the same under his watchful eye.

  “I’ve read a little on ancient Celtic herbal lore,” she said as she rubbed the foul-smelling concoction onto her husband’s leg. “In the olden days, healers used to rub mushroom-like molds upon an open wound to stave off infection. These molds were found on the bark of decaying trees.”

  The doctor appeared to be impressed. “This poultice is similar, Lady Exmoor. During the war, I couldn’t simply roam the forests in search of tree molds, for there were too many of Napoleon’s soldiers lurking about. So I tried using a bread mold extract.” He gave a short, wry laugh. “There was plenty of bad bread around. Stale, rotting with age, and dampened by the constant rain. Turns out, it worked remarkably well on the men injured on the battlefield.”

  “Brilliant,” she said with a smile, suddenly realizing how foolish and insignificant her worries about a suitable gown were. “No wonder you’re so well respected.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “You flatter me, Lady Exmoor. I wish I could work miracles and save everyone under my care, but it simply isn’t possible. Fortunately, your husband is young and strong. He’s likely to respond well to this treatment.”

  She wanted to ask him to please call her Sophie, but didn’t know enough yet about the proper etiquette to mention it. She’d ask James later. She also wished to invite the Farthingales over for tea, but that would also have to wait until she and James were alone to discuss the matter.

  Dr. Farthingale left soon after, but she remained in the bedchamber with James. He drew up his trousers and buttoned them while she busied herself washing the poultice off her hands. “Oh, dear. I still smell like old mold. I’ll have to dip my hands in lemon later to remove the odor.” She turned to James and rolled her eyes. “Your leg’s smeared with it, and yet you still smell divine. It isn’t fair.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure I reek. My aunt won’t be pleased by the unpleasant odor that will follow me into her elegant salon. It’ll put a damper on everyone’s appetite. Well, almost everyone. My cousins can devour an entire boar in one sitting. That’s just for starters. I doubt anything will interfere with their appetites.”

  He caught her up in his arms. “Speaking of food, you’re a most tempting morsel. I could devour you right now, Sophie.” He kissed her with a depth of feeling that surprised her.

  Her heart was leaping and pounding, and her legs were wobbling so that she could hardly stand on her own by the time he ended the kiss. “My, that was nice.”

  “Dr. Farthingale may be brilliant,” he said, his voice husky and filled with affection, “but you’re the one who deserves all the credit if this leg of mine is saved.”

  He kissed her again, but when he released her and eased back, he didn’t appear as cheerful as he had a moment earlier. “This poultice is to be applied to my leg at bedtime. I can’t very well… no sense both of us holding our noses through the night. You won’t be able to sleep with–”

  Her eyes rounded in alarm. “Are you saying that you don’t wish to share my bed?” She swallowed hard, struggling to tamp down her distress. “Didn’t you enjoy last night?”

  “Holy saints, yes! How could you think I didn’t? Once this leg is healed, you won’t be able to get me out of your bed.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m only thinking of your comfort.”

  Or was he thinking of the woman he truly wanted to marry. What would happen when he encountered his first love at Lady Miranda’s dinner party? “That’s it? No other reason than my comfort? Are you certain?”

  He studied her expression and sighed. “What’s wrong, Sophie? You’ve been distracted all day. Did you not enjoy last night?”

  “You know I did. I think I was quite vocal about it.” She blushed. “But James, I want to make a good impression on your friends and family, only… none of my new gowns are ready yet. All I have is the gown I made for our wedding.”

  “Blast,” he said softly. “I’ve done it again. Been thoughtless, haven’t I? But you’re a beautiful woman, Sophie. You’ll look perfect in any gown you wear.”

  “Everyone will know that it’s the same one.”

  “The women perhaps. The men will simply notice the spectacular way you fill it out. I’ll have to smash a few noses to keep the oglers in line, of course.” He studied her a moment longer. “You’re still fretting.”

  She nodded. “I don’t want them to think less of me.”

  “My aunts and sister will never do that. Did they say anything to you to make you think otherwise?”

  “No. They were the soul of kindness.” She slipped out of his arms. “I’ve never been to an elegant dinner party before. Even if the gown passes muster, what about everything else I say or do? I don’t wish to embarrass you. Especially in front of the woman you once loved.”

  Groaning, he arched a wicked eyebrow. “You’re jealous. Well, if that isn’t the topping on the cake. You think I’ll take one look at Bella and realize my mistake in marrying you.” He laughed heartily.

  Bella? Even her name meant beautiful.

  Sophie wasn’t jealous, so much as scared.

  Now that she’d fallen in love with James, she wasn’t keen on losing him.

  He tipped her chin up and forced her gaze to his. “Her name is Lady Bella Whitby and her father is the Duke of Weymouth. She’s as haughty and proud as she is beautiful, and the greatest favor she ever did me was to turn me down.”

  “You proposed to her?” Sophie’s heart sank into her toes. She hadn’t realized the extent of his affection for this Society paragon.

  “I did. The moment I returned from Waterloo.”

  “But that was only a few months ago.” Could her heart sink any lower? She didn’t think it was possible.

  “Two months ago, to be precise,” he said, and her heart sank through the floor.

  CHAPTER 7

>   JAMES GLANCED DOWN the dining table at Sophie, wishing Miranda had allowed them to be seated together, but it was never done that way at these fancy dinner parties. Husbands and wives were always separated. Sophie, in accordance with her rank, wound up seated beside his cousin, Tynan. He knew Ty would look out for her and subtly assist her through the intricacies of the silverware etiquette and any other frivolity that she had yet to master.

  He’d given Sophie the Exmoor pearls to wear and they looked perfect resting against her slender throat. Their luster paled in comparison to the brilliance of her soft smiles, the smiles she cast his way whenever she caught him looking at her.

  He did so quite often.

  “Grayfell seems to be enjoying your wife’s company,” Bella said, for she’d been seated next to him. His aunt had warned him about the awkward seating arrangements and apologized profusely. At first, he’d thought it was a hoax. But it wasn’t, and he was still quietly seething about the sordid twist of fate that had him placed by Bella’s side.

  Miranda should have ignored protocol this time and put him as far away from Bella as possible.

  He turned to the arrogant beauty who had once claimed his heart, no longer feeling lesser because of his scars or the fact that she’d rejected his offer of marriage. “Why shouldn’t Grayfell like her? She’s charming and engaging. Everyone enjoys her company.”

  “But do you?” Bella obviously believed he was saddled with an unwanted wife, and found his predicament most amusing. “Really, Exmoor. I know you’re making the best of a bad situation, but you needn’t keep up the pretense with me.”

  He hadn’t seen Bella since the day he’d proposed and she’d immediately rejected him. The look of horror as she’d gazed at his scarred face was not one he’d soon forget. She’d almost tossed up her morning’s kippers and eggs.

  “It isn’t a pretense.” He’d proposed to Bella the moment his regiment – or what remained of it – had landed in England. After receiving her scathing rejection, he’d limped home, determined to hide away and lick his wounds. He didn’t think his heart could ever ache worse. “I got the better part of the bargain.”