Never Courted, Suddenly Wed Page 10

  He passed an assessing gaze over her figure. His eyes lingered overly long on her embarrassingly plump décolletage. A flush heated her skin. Oh, why couldn’t she possess the trim, gentle figure favored by the ton?

  “No, you aren’t.” And when he said it in that husky whisper, her rounded curves didn’t seem like such a bad thing, after all. “But nonetheless…you seem to be the same, impertinent, cheeky chit who tormented me during my younger years. Lady Ackerly keeps quite a reporting on your escapades.”

  Sophie clenched her jaw so hard, her teeth rattled. She pressed her fingers along the line of her temple and rubbed. Bloody Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet. If Sophie found out the identity of the woman, why, she swore she’d do more than destroy the hem of her gown or set the unknown harridan’s table aflame. The scandal sheets had become the bane of Sophie’s existence. It had fueled Geoffrey and Mother’s impatience with her marital state and scandalous actions, as Lady Ackerly titled them.

  Christopher continued. “Lady Ackerly also indicated—”

  “Tsk, tsk. Never tell me you’ve come to rely on scandal rags as a reliable source of your information.”

  He sat up in his chair. “Hardly. Still, it is my understanding that there is in fact some truth to the information reported.”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s entirely true.”

  He grinned. “You didn’t shoot an arrow through Lord Avondale’s thigh?”

  She felt a sting of heat slap her cheeks. “It was hardly my fault that he ran out to inspect his arrow’s position when it was my turn to shoot.”

  Yes, that story had found its way into the scandal sheets. The gossips had devoured that tasty morsel much the way Duke did Cook’s hambone.

  Sophie was convinced that particular incident had been the final impetus her brother needed to see her wed to whomever he could manage to pass her off to.

  She looked to Christopher. Mother and Geoffrey believed him that man. That is, if she couldn’t snare the attention of a duke.

  Sophie sighed. “You are here to court me. Well, let’s get on with it, then.”

  Christopher blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Yes, a courtship by you should begin with an apology, but let’s get on with it.”

  “Get on with what?”

  Sophie dashed a hand across her eyes. When she removed it, she found him studying her with an inscrutable expression. “You indicated you were here to court me. My brother would be amiable to a union between us.” She motioned to the book she’d dropped earlier. “Will you read me sonnets?”

  Christopher’s cheeks went a ruddy shade of red. He tugged at his cravat. “Don’t be foolish.”

  Sophie wagged a finger at him. “You mustn’t call the young lady you are courting foolish. That will earn you no one’s affection. A walk in the park?” she asked, interrupting him before he could respond to her previous statement.

  “I’d say after you and your dog’s recent escapades at the park, we should avoid that particular location.”

  She bristled at the dry humor in his tone. “Well then, why don’t you tell me how you intend to court me?”

  He leveled himself upright in his chair. “I am visiting, aren’t I?”

  Sophie pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “That does not a courtship make.”

  “Oh, and why don’t you enlighten me, Phi?”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Sophie and Christopher’s gazes swung toward the front of the room. The butler stood framed in the entranceway with a silver tray.

  “You’ve a visitor, Miss Winters.”

  “I do?”

  “She does?”

  She glared at Christopher, resenting the shock in his question.

  As if on cue, the Duke of Mallen materialized behind the butler.

  “The Duke of Mallen to see you, Miss Winters.”

  Sophie’s mouth fell open. “Whatever are you doing here?” The words escaped before she could call them back. She clamped her fingers over her lips.

  The duke grinned and held out a bouquet of pink roses interspersed with yellow freesia and ivy. “I’ve brought flowers.”

  Her heart sped up. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d proffered a fistful of weeds or blooms from a hothouse. They would have been glorious for what they represented. No man had ever before brought her flowers.

  Christopher muttered something under his breath, diverting her attention away from the duke.

  She glanced over at Christopher with a small smile. “That is how you court a lady,” she whispered for his ears alone.

  ***

  Christopher frowned at the flowers Mallen held in his hand. What the hell was the meaning of this? He’d enlisted his friend’s aid to thwart his father. The duke had agreed to a pretend courtship of Sophie. The arrangement did not require Mallen do something as foolish as buying the young lady flowers.

  He glanced down at his own empty hands, feeling incredibly foolish for his less than impressive courtship. Even if he was only here at his father’s urging, no man liked to be thrown over for another chap.

  Last evening, he’d believed Mallen’s rescue of Sophie on the dance floor a flawless touch; a perfect deterrent to Christopher’s father’s plans.

  This morning call from the Duke of Mallen, however, was a bit too much.

  He settled back against his seat and studied the exchange between Sophie and Mallen.

  Mallen bent down and retrieved Sophie’s forgotten book. He thumbed through the pages. Suddenly, his fingers stilled. He didn’t remove his gaze from Sophie’s as he began to recite one of the poems.

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that's best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellowed to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies

  One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impaired the nameless grace

  Which waves in every raven tress,

  Or softly lightens o'er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express

  How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

  And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow…

  Of all the nonsensical drivel. A snort escaped him and cut into Mallen’s recitation.

  Sophie and Mallen looked to him.

  Sophie frowned at Christopher with disapproval to rival the tutors he’d tortured over the years.

  “Something the matter?” Mallen drawled. “You don’t care for Lord Byron’s work?”

  Christopher bit back an angry snarl, resisting the ungentlemanly urge to toss Sophie over his shoulder like he were some kind of barbarian and hide her away from Mallen’s appreciative eyes. He’d asked Mallen to take her for ices or for a walk, not this…this…romantic drivel that spouted from his mouth. Sophie would be no match for the duke’s full-charm. Hell, no lady would.

  “There is nothing the matter,” Christopher bit out. Now was neither the time nor place to challenge Mallen’s actions.

  “Where was I?” the duke murmured.

  “But tell of days in goodness spent,” Sophie supplied without even a glance at the page.

  Mallen inclined his head. “Ahh. Yes. But tell of days in goodness spent…”

  Christopher allowed his mind to wander down a path that involved him bloodying Mallen’s nose and he managed his first real smile that afternoon.

  Christopher might have perfected an image amongst Society as capable, sought after young lord…but his image had been as carefully constructed as a baker’s sugary treat; one hot sun away from destruction. Mallen, on the other hand, possessed a title, intelligence, and power to rival the king himself. He’d never begrudged Mallen those things. Until now.

  Watching him read out of that bloody book to Sophie did something to him. It made
Christopher want to throw his head back and rail at the unfairness of life. It reminded him of all his inadequacies. It reminded him that his father was right and he was a failure as a man.

  Mallen murmured something to Sophie; the words lost to the intimacy of his hushed whisper. Sophie giggled.

  “May I read another?” Mallen offered.

  “Oh, please…”

  “Please spare me,” Christopher muttered.

  Sophie and Mallen looked at him.

  Christopher hooked his ankles and propelled back on the legs of the Trafalgar chair he occupied. He sighed. “Very well, then. Another poem.”

  Sophie frowned. “You’re being most disagreeable, my lord.”

  Yes. Yes, he was. He didn’t give a jot about it, either.

  Mallen quirked a single brow in his direction and then proceeded to recite Solitude by Lord Byron.

  If Sophie weren’t present, Christopher would have extended his finger in a most ungentlemanly manner for his friend’s benefit.

  Christopher sat there, as the minutes ticked by on the ormolu clock, waiting for Mallen to tire of his visit or his voice to grow hoarse, whichever came first, it didn’t really matter. Christopher used the time to study Sophie. When had this fulsome woman replaced the vexing child of his rememberings? Her sweetly rounded form could rival Botticelli’s Venus, and Christopher possessed the sudden urge to fill his palms with her plump breasts…

  He toppled backwards in his seat and crashed to the floor.

  Sophie gasped. She came to lean over him. “My goodness, Christopher,” she said, seeming to forget herself. “Have you been hurt?”

  Mallen pulled into focus; a half-grin on his arrogant face. He extended a palm. “Yes. Are you all right, Waxham?”

  Go to hell, Mallen.

  Christopher managed a smile and accepted Mallen’s offer of help. He climbed to his feet, his pride smarting just as much as the back of his head did from the fall.

  Christ, what was wrong with him, though?! He’d been ruminating about Sophie Winters’ breasts? Surely he’d descended into madness.

  “You know you shouldn’t tilt back in your seat,” Mallen continued like he was a too stern tutor reprimanding his student.

  A somber expression settled into the graceful lines of Sophie’s face. “Absolutely. If you remember from Lady Ackerly’s column, it is in quite bad form to tilt in your seat, Chris…my lord.”

  The duke looked back to Sophie. “Who is this Lady Ackerly?”

  Sophie waved her hand about. “She is the gossip who reports quite frequently about my goings-on.”

  Christopher dusted his palms over the front of his breeches. “Yes. Sophie was guilty of tilting back on the legs of a chair at Lady Tarrington’s ball.”

  “It wasn’t Lady Tarrington’s ball. It was Lady Kavanaugh’s recital.”

  “Regardless, Phi…Miss Winters toppled over and…”

  “Society should have learned from my experience not to tip in one’s seat. Especially those who pay such particular attention to Lady Ackerly’s reporting,” she said with pointed censure for Christopher.

  Mallen frowned. “Never heard of this Lady Ackerly. Sounds like an atrocious bit of baggage.”

  Sophie cornflower blue eyes went all wide and soft, as if the Duke of Mallen had slain a dragon on her behalf.

  Oh, I’ve had about all I can take of this nauseating exchange. “Are we done here?”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  A dull heat crept up Christopher’s neck. He cleared his throat. “I said it’s quite sunny in here.”

  Mallen folded his arms across his chest. “Odd, it sounded remarkably like you said…”

  Christopher glared him into silence.

  “Are you certain you’re all right, Christopher?” Again, Sophie’s use of his Christian name indicated her momentary lapse in propriety. If anyone had ever said that Sophie would look at him with this gentle concern and not the typical annoyance he’d come to expect from her, he’d have said they were one carriage ride away from a trip to Bedlam.

  “I’m fine, Phi,” he assured her.

  Her full lips settled into a smile…

  That she redirected Mallen’s way. “I didn’t know you cared for poetry, Your Grace.”

  Great, so we’re back to this.

  Mallen inclined his head. “I can’t imagine anyone dislikes poetry.”

  His friend would be wise not to settle a sum on that wager. Christopher loathed every single written word that reminded him of his flaws.

  Sophie caught her lip between her teeth. “I’d thought Em said you gave her quite a hard time about her poetry selection.”

  Christopher hid a grin behind his hand. There was no other lady in the entire British Empire who would challenge the Duke of Mallen, even inadvertently—except Sophie. He’d imagine that Mallen wouldn’t care for such insolence in young ladies.

  It appeared he was wrong.

  Mallen tossed his head back on a loud guffaw. “I do say, Miss Winters, you have me there.” He leaned close, blocking Christopher’s view of Sophie. When he spoke, his voice came out as a low, mellifluous whisper. “Then, you inspire a man to acquire a taste for poetry.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. Christopher had about all he could stand of this display. “The duke has an appointment and must be going now,” Christopher snapped.

  The adoring gleam that had glazed Sophie’s eyes lifted. She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”

  “Not as sorry as I’m sure the duke is. If you’ll excuse him, Mallen has matters of business to attend to.”

  Mallen straightened his shoulders. “No, I don’t. Lord Waxham misspoke.”

  Sophie and Christopher spoken in unison.

  “I did?”

  “He did?”

  Mallen nodded. “Oh, yes. What Waxham intended to say was that he has an appointment.” He looked over the top of Sophie’s head and grinned at Christopher. “Good day, Waxham.”

  Christopher clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. He beat a hasty bow for Sophie. “Miss Winters,” he snapped and then stormed from the room.

  Christopher didn’t know what game Mallen played, but he intended to find out.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  Madame LeCompe, the esteemed French modiste, has avowed to no longer design for Miss S.W. after the young lady questioned the authenticity of the woman’s French accent.

  ~10~

  “Good day, Waxham.” Christopher muttered under his breath as he stomped up the steps of the Duke of Mallen’s townhouse. “He says, ‘good day, Waxham.’”

  Christopher lifted the knocker and pounded the wood panel hard enough to rouse the neighboring residents. The Duke of Mallen’s old butler threw open the door. His bushy gray brows flared in what Christopher suspected was surprise. No one would expect the calm, easy-mannered earl to do anything remotely shocking. Suddenly, the image he’d established for himself grated.

  “My lord,” the servant greeted.

  Waxham sailed past him, through the front door, and into the foyer. “I’m here to see His Grace.”

  The servant’s eyebrows knitted into a single line. “I’ll see if he’s receiving guests.”

  He didn’t need the butler to point out that it was hardly the thing to storm another man’s home at nearly two o’clock in the morning. Christopher folded his arms behind his back and paced the white, Italian marble floor.

  He supposed he should have spoken with Mallen many hours ago. Only, earlier that evening Christopher had gone to White’s and convinced himself that he hadn’t cared about Mallen’s unexpected visit with Sophie. Somewhere around eight o’clock that evening he’d begun to think about the duke reading to her from that ridiculous book of sonnets. And around nine o’clock he’d considered Sophie’s infatuated response to the young duke. By 11 o’clock he’d convinced himself yet again that it didn’t matter to him if Mallen courted Sophie with more vigor than Christopher had required. Two minutes af
ter 11 o’clock he’d realized he was a bloody liar.

  Upon that staggering realization, he’d continued to drink until…he pulled out his watch fob, and squinted to bring the numbers into focus. He stuffed it back inside his jacket.

  It really didn’t matter.

  He was bloody soused.

  “Waxham,” a voice drawled.

  Christopher spun around. His gaze climbed up the staircase, where Mallen stood looking bloody impeccable in his black evening attire.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected late evening visit?” There was a faint hint of censure in Mallen’s words.

  Christopher started up the stairs. “I’m here to speak with you, Mallen,” he said, when he reached Mallen.

  The duke wrinkled his nose. “Have you been drinking?”

  “A little.” A lot.

  Mallen motioned for Christopher to accompany him. He didn’t wait to see if Christopher followed suit but then, when one was a duke, people did as you bid.

  They entered the duke’s office. Mallen closed the door behind them and walked over to his desk. He folded his arms across his chest. “What is this about?”

  “Not what, but who, Mallen. I’m here regarding Miss Winters.”

  The duke’s arms fell to his side. His brow furrowed. “Miss Winters?”

  Christopher tapped a hand alongside his thigh. “I wanted to speak to you about your visit this afternoon.”

  Mallen propped a hip on the edge of his desk. He tipped his chin in the direction of the leather winged-back chair closest to him. “Why don’t you sit, Waxham? Can I offer you a brandy? Though,” he arched a single brow, “with the amount of spirits you’ve consumed thus far today, you probably could do without further drink.”

  Christopher blamed the sudden urge to bloody Mallen’s nose on his inebriated state. He shook his head. “I don’t want to sit. I came to address your visit with Miss Winters.”

  Mallen looked down the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Oh? Is there a problem?”

  As Christopher saw it, there were any number of problems. In fact, since that afternoon, he’d compiled quite a list. Only now, all those reasons, with the exception of one, seemed to escape him. “I asked you to court her.”