by Sara Bennett
Had the doubt in his heart started as far back as the night Sophy and he lay together in the heart of Pendleton and she had stepped down from the pedestal he had always kept her on? His Sophy might have been an innocent but she was curious and not shy at all when it came to touching him, showing him that she wanted him. For some reason he had expected her to weep and break into pieces when he had her, and instead she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the experience. If that was the case then he was more of a fool than he had thought.
What man would not want the woman of his dreams to desire him as much as he did her? He wanted to blame his mistake on his unhappy childhood, the skewed vision he had of women that came from his father, but in the end, Harry could only blame himself.
Sophy’s breath warmed his throat, and he held her tight. When she fell asleep at last he settled her against his chest, wrapping a blanket tightly around them, and stared at the window and the passing countryside. The confrontation to come was one he should have had years ago.
His father had always been a towering figure in his life. Someone he loathed and loved, admired and despised, all at the same time. They were alike in many ways but he would never do the things that had been done to him. His children would be treated very differently, and loved … God, yes, he would love them so much.
You are not your father, Harry.
Harry smiled as Sophy stirred in his arms, stroking a fingertip across her cheek. That was all he really needed to hear. He was not his father, and whatever happened at Pendleton, he reminded himself that he would still have her. He would still have the greatest prize of all and this time nothing his father did or said could take her away from him.
Chapter 31
SOPHY
Pendleton Manor, Oxfordshire, England
Harry strode straight through the door, ignoring the surprised greetings of the servants, his face closed and focused.
Sophy lingered behind, thinking to let him have his time with Sir Arbuthnot alone, but he stopped and turned.
“Come.” He reached out his hand in that imperious manner.
Sophy took it and the next thing she knew he was pulling her along behind him, up the stairs towards his father’s bedroom.
“Harry, perhaps it would be best to wait. Harry?”
He didn’t answer her, other than to tighten his grip on her hand. Pendleton was a mishmash of old and new, and this was one of the oldest parts of the manor. The narrow corridor went up and down stairs, and turned a corner before it stopped. Harry’s fingers clenched and then he closed them around the handle and flung the door open without even knocking.
Sir Arbuthnot was sitting up in bed, a bowl of soup on a tray beside him, a napkin tucked into his nightshirt. The room smelt of sickness and long occupation, and although the drapes were drawn the windows were closed.
Sophy hadn’t seen this man for years. Some part of her noted he was thinner, his face aged and lined with pain and frustration. For a man like Sir Arbuthnot his current circumstances must be hard to bear. She was glad. She hated him for what he had done to her and her father, to her and Harry. There had been times during the past three years when she had wished him dead. He had destroyed her life because Harry would not put her aside, or use her as his father used women he deemed less worthy.
She had imagined confronting him like this, raging at him … and yet now she saw him, so different to the ogre in her memory, she felt her desire for revenge falter.
“Harry?” he said, his voice slightly slurred. One half of his face was drawn down, part of the consequence of his turn. For an instant joy lit up his eyes, so like his son’s, and then he spotted her.
Harry barely paused. Sophy could see his face was flushed with anger and determination. He let her hand go and strode across the room to the bedside, which had documents spread over it. Papers from the running of the estate she assumed. Sir Arbuthnot might be bedridden but he remained in charge. She reminded herself that he might still find a way to destroy her newly found happiness and her vengeful heart rallied again.
She came forward and stood beside Harry.
“I know what you did,” Harry said, his voice was low with raw emotion. Sophy felt his arm tremble as she leaned in close to him, resting her body against his.
Sir Arbuthnot’s dark eyes were back on his son’s face, taking him in. Then they moved to Sophy, and narrowed. She saw all that he was at that moment, and it frightened her.
“What did I do?” he said seemingly without concern, but his gaze was watchful. His hair stood up as if it needed a good comb, but otherwise he was shaven and cared for. No neglect here, she knew Harry wouldn’t have stood for it. Despite everything his father had done he was still the dutiful son.
“I know what you did to George Harcourt. He never stole from you. You loaned him money and then you accused him of stealing it so you could get rid of him. You waited until I was at Langley Hall and then you destroyed that man’s life, all so you could get rid of the girl I loved.”
His father’s face showed no emotion. “Poppycock,” he said. “She’s been filling your head with nonsense. You always believed every word that came out of her mouth. What is she doing here anyway? Why aren’t you in town with Evelyn? I know where I’d rather be if I was you.”
Harry stepped closer to the bed. “Sophy and I are married,” he said.
For just for a moment she saw what Sir Arbuthnot was truly feeling. Rage because his son hadn’t done what he wanted him to, disgust that he had wed a woman like Sophy, and a burning determination to force him into obedience.
“You fool,” he growled. “You let all that money go? Without it, Pendleton will fall into ruin!”
“I’ll modernise,” Harry retorted. “I’ve wanted to do it for years. And if that doesn’t work I will economise.”
“I’m not changing the way we’ve done things for generations!”
“This isn’t up to you!” Harry roared. “Pendleton is mine and you still won’t let go. Here you are,” and he waved his hand at the bed, “and you still won’t let go! It’s my time, father. Sophy’s and my time.”
“Never!” his father hissed. “You think you’re ready to run Pendleton? You’ve thrown away Evelyn for a nothing girl. You’re not remotely ready.”
Harry stared down at him for what seemed ages. The emotion in the room simmered like a pot about to boil. He turned toward her, taking in her white face, and then he looked back to his father.
“I’m giving you two days,” he said. “Two days to think about the future of our family, and of Pendleton. I know what’s going on here. I’ve had letters from our tenants. They aren’t happy. You’ve made some poor decisions over the past years. Is that why you really needed Evelyn’s money? To cover up your mistakes? I want to run the estate my way, without interference from you, and I want to live here with Sophy. If you can’t agree to that, then I will leave.”
His father laughed in disbelief. “Leave Pendleton! You’re the heir! You’d never leave.”
Harry’s jaw went rigid. “I will, and you can do what you like here. Rule from your bed and hire another manager, try to bully Adam into coming home—I assure you he will not.” He leaned closer, the chords in his neck standing out. “But you and I know that no one will ever love Pendleton like I do. No one will care enough to make sure it carries on for another six hundred years.”
Sir Arbuthnot’s voice turned wary. “What will you do? Where would you go?”
Harry shrugged. “Find somewhere else. Make my own Pendleton. Sophy has taught me that it is possible to find new meaning in life despite misfortune.” He closed his eyes and swallowed, and when he opened them his face was resolute. “I have her, and as long as I have her I can be happy wherever I am.”
His father scoffed. “You won’t be able to leave. I know you. Pendleton is in your blood.”
“Two days,” Harry repeated quietly. “Think hard, Father, because you won’t get another chance after that. Do you really want to be t
he last Baillieu at Pendleton? The one who lost us our heritage? Two days or I leave you here to rot and you will never see me again.”
Sir Arbuthnot stared back at him, mouth a white line, eyes burning. They looked so much alike that Sophy was disorientated, though just for a moment. Then Harry turned to her and gave her a smile. There wasn’t much humour in it but there was love.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s go.”
HARRY
Harry felt strangely elated. He had every expectation that Sir Arbuthnot would refuse his terms, and yet he felt light hearted. Just as he had when he married Sophy.
“Harry?” Sophy tugged at his arm and he realised he had been walking like a madman, so eager was he to get out into the fresh air and away from his father’s sick bed.
He looked around him and found they were already in the white garden. Sophy gazed at him with a worried look.
He bent down and kissed her, a brush of his lips on hers. He had meant it to be only a comfort, but as soon as he tasted her he had to go back for more.
Her arms clung around his neck, her fingers sliding through his hair, and she stretched up on her toes so that she could deepen their kiss. He needed her so much. He had waited until he could confront his father before he rewarded himself like this, and now he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Come, wife,” he said, leaning back, noting the blush in her cheeks. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked about her, and no doubt she was feeling as if she was home at last. He didn’t want to take her away again, but he knew he might have no choice. He would not live under his father’s rule and he would not let Sophy go.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against her ear, and felt her shiver. “I want you,” he whispered.
She looked up at him through her lashes.
“I’ve dreamt of you every night since you left me. Some nights I begged for you not to visit, but you did. Every night, Sophy.”
She smoothed his neckcloth, trying not to tremble. “I dreamed of you too.”
Harry kissed the tip of her nose. “I think I need to make those dreams real,” he said. “Are you ready, Sophy?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
Together they made their way down the wide walk between the white flowers and green foliage. So many memories were here but he refused to let them weigh him down. He caught the way she glanced at him from time to time, and knew what was going through her head. She thought he would change his mind about leaving, or hate her for his decision, but she was wrong and he would show her soon how wrong she was.
As they came back into the house, he discovered the servants were waiting to give him a belated greeting. They seemed to have missed him, which was gratifying. At least someone had.
As they returned to the coach there were several dozen people gathered to see them off. He recognised them all, people he had known his entire life, who had worked his land and looked up to the Baillieus. His father’s poor decisions had become more evident to him as he had been given a little more control over the estate, but there was only so much he could do without full control. Recently he had been the one who made certain their cottages were in good order and they had enough food on their tables. His father might argue that the Christmas celebrations every year were more than enough to keep everyone happy, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t enough. Now they were showing their gratitude, and he was sorry matters had come to this. He could see they were sorry too.
As they drove away, he took Sophy’s hand in his and brought it to his lips. He could tell she wanted to ask him whether he thought his father would give in, but right now he didn’t want to talk about his father. That would come later. This was their time together, and he meant to make the most of it.
Chapter 32
SOPHY
They were outside the border of Baillieu land. Harry said the house they were in was owned by a friend who was currently in town, and his housekeeper had agreed to open it up and share it with Harry and his new bride.
It wasn’t Pendleton but it was quiet and peaceful, and she was with Harry, and she told herself that was all that mattered.
She was still reeling from the scene in Sir Arbuthnot’s bedroom. She had never seen Harry like that, he had always been deferential with his father, even if he didn’t agree with him, but today he had stood up and demanded to be heard.
He would make a good baron and a good master. He cared about the land and the people who lived on it, and she had seen that they loved him. If Sir Arbuthnot did not value his son and accede to his wishes then he would die a lonely and despised old man.
“You’re deep in thought.”
She smiled at him from her place on the window seat. Harry had come into their bedroom without her noticing. Outside the sky was deepening to gold and crimson, and flocks of birds were making their way home before dark. The journey from London and the meeting at Pendleton had made Sophy sleepy, but seeing Harry standing before her in their bedroom woke her up.
He was barefoot, his breeches hanging low on his slim hips, his shirt open. He had bathed after her, and now his hair was damp and tousled, and she itched to run her fingers through those dark locks. By the way he was looking at her he was thinking the same thing.
“Come here,” he said.
Had Harry always been this masterful? She couldn’t remember, and thought that maybe as he’d grown up that side of him had become more prominent. She liked it, especially when he didn’t wait for her to do as he told her, but came to take her hands in his and bring her to her feet. His arms curled around her, pulling her against him. They fit together as perfectly as ever.
She tilted her head back, aware of his scent and the warm skin just waiting for exploration. His eyes roamed over her face and down to the laces of her robe, the swell of her breasts hidden beneath the silky material.
He leaned in to take her mouth, but he wasn’t being gentle. He wanted her. His tongue smoothed her lips and dove into her mouth, and he cupped her cheeks, slanting her head so that he could kiss her deeply.
Her hands rested on his waist, and she swayed, dizzy with wanting him. Harry lifted his head and she could see the heat of desire in his eyes, matching hers. He undid her ties with a flick of his fingers, and reached beneath the concealing robe, knuckles brushing the plump flesh. Before she could even gasp, his hand closed over her fully, firmly, and his thumb pressed down on her aching nipple.
Her breath caught. “Oh.”
He let his gaze wash over her face again, and then, with a smile, he lowered his head and took her nipple in his mouth.
The sensation was exquisite. Her head fell back and only his hold on her kept her upright.
Her robe slid from her shoulders and now she was dressed only in a thin nightgown. From the flare in his eyes she knew he could see the shape of her body beneath it.
He stroked her breasts again, enjoying the full curves. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “More beautiful than I remember.”
His hands slid down over her sides, finding her trim waist and the swell of her belly, and then he was on his knees, lifting her hem. Sophy felt his warm breath, and then his mouth, between her thighs. She clung to his shoulders, not sure she could stay on her feet, as his tongue dove into her.
His fingers gripped her thighs, and then cupped the globes of her bottom. He was everywhere, touching, licking, kissing. He was a tempest of passion and she stood there and let him devastate her. Pleasure rippled through her belly so hard that she called out his name, suddenly mindless with bliss.
Her nightgown was tugged upwards and then it was gone, the cool air of the bedchamber causing her flesh to prickle. He was kissing her mouth again. She could taste herself and somehow that was even more erotic.
He lifted her and carried her to the bed. Still languid, she lay there and watched as he stripped off his shirt and threw it aside. He reached down and unbuttoned his breeches and she saw the bulge beneath them. Last time
she had touched him, held him in her hands, made him groan and writhe. She wanted to do that again, but Harry had other ideas.
His breeches held a moment, but he pushed them down over his thighs, and his manhood rose up against his stomach, as thick and eager as she remembered. The swollen flesh between her thighs instantly began to ache for him again.
Harry’s eyes heated, and it occurred to her how much he enjoyed this. There was a strong sensual streak in his nature, and he liked the way she admired his body, and how she moved restlessly on the bedcovers, wanting him. He stroked himself slowly, and her breath caught. Harry smiled, and moved to kneel on the bed at her feet, and then he began to crawl toward her. Finally, his body settled over hers and she could feel every inch of him, the peaks of her breasts brushing against his hard chest, the muscles in his arms as he rested his elbows either side of her head, and the rough hair on his thighs as they pushed between hers.
He reached down and once again his fingers explored her, making her rise up against him, her back bowing, her legs trembling.
An unwelcome thought jumped into her head: How many other women had he lay with? He was a great deal more experienced than Sophy. He had to be. While she had been languishing and longing, Harry had been out sowing his wild oats. Would he eventually tire of his wife and look elsewhere?
She pushed aside her doubts. She did not want to think of them now. They were together, he was her husband, and he had just told his father he would give up everything for her. And yet one niggling doubt would not go away. Would she be enough?