Never Courted, Suddenly Wed Page 21

Sophie inched away from him. She propped herself up with one elbow and stared down at him. Her eyes roved a path over his face.

  “What?” he asked, unable to read that indecipherable expression she wore.

  “I love you,” she said the words as though she were testing the way they rolled off her tongue.

  Her declaration filled him.

  Tomorrow. He’d tell Sophie everything.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  Miss S.W. was heard conversing with the distinguished hostess, Countess L at which point Miss. S.W. concurred with Tsar Alexander’s belief that the Countess would have made an excellent diplomat. Though the Countess demonstrated the proper outrage, some observers noted that she did not look wholly displeased by Miss S.W.’s words.

  ~20~

  Christopher yawned and reached over to pull Sophie close. His fingers met with cold, emptiness an indication his wife had taken her leave some time ago.

  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the mural painted upon the ceiling. Wide-eyed cherubs danced about fluffy, white clouds, while the robins-egg blue served as a tranquil background. A grin played on his lips, and he’d wager if he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he’d have the look of the jester who’d made off with the king’s crown.

  He’d spent the better part of the night making love to his wife. By the sunlight streaming through the window, he’d wager it was well past noon. Apparently his wife hadn’t been as sated as he’d expected.

  Christopher swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up his hopelessly rumpled clothing. He pulled it on and then set out in search of his wife.

  He’d reached the main foyer when Barker stepped in his path.

  “Christ,” he said, a hand to his heart.

  Barker bowed his head. “My apologies, my lord.”

  Christopher made to step around him but the old servant cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Barker?”

  “If you don’t mind me taking the liberty, my lord, of telling you that Lady Waxham can be found in the Yellow Drawing Room.”

  Christopher grinned. “I’m going to see that my father doubles your wages.”

  “Very well, my lord.” With a bow, Barker shuffled off.

  Whistling, he set out for the Yellow Drawing Room. As he neared the room, strains of the pianoforte spilled down the hall. The rapid, staccato rhythm echoed off the walls. He entered the room to find Sophie with her head bent low over the keys. Her fingers danced wildly upon the pianoforte and he stared on, marveling at her mastery of the instrument.

  Her head bobbed in time to music that built to a steady crescendo, until Christopher felt like he was soaring.

  And then she looked up.

  Her fingers struck a discordant note. She shoved back the bench and jumped to her feet. “Christopher!”

  A red blush stained her cheeks.

  He entered the room. “Phi.”

  “I was just…” Her words trailed off and she studied the tips of her slippers.

  “What were you playing?”

  Her head snapped up. “A piece by Beethoven. My mother and brother say it is nothing but noise. Mother is forever asking me to play Handel or Mozart, but there is something so powerful, so very different in Beethoven’s work. I like that his compositions are unlike the orderly arrangements Society expects.”

  Christopher stared, transfixed by the sight of her gesticulating wildly, a shimmering sparkle in her eyes. In that moment, he was almost jealous of the music that had roused such a passionate response in his wife. The music she loved was not unlike her personality; bold and colorful when Society was a dull palette of whites and pastels.

  “You play magnificently, Phi.”

  A smile wreathed her precious, heart-shaped face. “I’m no longer deplorable?”

  He cocked his head.

  “Deplorable. When I was a girl, you claimed my playing was deplorable.”

  Christopher rocked on his feet. “Did I?” He smoothed his palms over the lapels of his jacket, not for the first time, shamed by how he’d treated Sophie.

  She nodded. The rapid movement dislodged a golden strand of hair from the butterfly comb that held her silken locks in place.

  “I was a bloody fool, Phi.”

  Her smile expanded.

  “Will you continue?”

  She hesitated and then reclaimed her seat. “Would you like me to perform a particular piece?”

  “Anything will suffice.”

  A coy little smile played on her lips. “Anything?”

  Christopher imagined that was the smile that had gotten her into trouble with her mother and brother over the years. He settled into the yellow velvet sofa, and draped his arms along the back of the seat.

  Sophie tapped the tip of her finger over her lip, and then stopped. Her hands froze, poised over the keys and with a slow wink, she began to play.

  I met a young lass, as bold as brass

  With cheeky retorts and flashing eyes,

  She opened her mouth and sounded quite crass

  So I scolded the lass who then raised up her glass, and told me to kiss her…

  Christopher’s sharp bark of laughter cut across Sophie’s playing.

  “Hand, goodbye,” Sophie sang between her laughter.

  “Wherever did you learn such a song?”

  Sophie shrugged. “When I was a girl I spent a good deal of time in the stables. I made friends with one of the stable hands. He taught me all number of improper songs.”

  Thick, all-consuming jealousy filled him at the thought of Sophie and this unknown stable boy. It licked at his insides. Sophie continued talking, seeming unaware of the powerful emotion that gripped him. “His name was Robert. He also taught me how to skip stones upon the lake.”

  “Did he?” The question came out clipped and harsh.

  Sophie nodded. She whispered conspiratorially. “Mother forbid me from seeing Robert anymore when he…”

  A growl worked its way up his throat.

  “Allowed me to ride Geoffrey’s horse astride,” Sophie finished.

  He blinked. “Astride?”

  “All very scandalous. Said that girls of twelve must only ride sidesaddle.”

  That was all. Suddenly feeling very foolish at the irrational path his jealous mind had traveled, Christopher cleared his throat. “I thought I recalled Lady Ackerly reporting that you’d been seen riding through Regent Park astride.”

  “Well, Mother never elaborated upon ladies of eighteen.”

  He chuckled and climbed to his feet. “Oh, Sophie. Sweet, sweet Sophie.”

  ***

  Sophie turned on the bench, and rested her elbows upon the ivory keys. A discordant thrum filled the room as she faced Christopher. He stopped in front of her, and she craned her neck to look up at him.

  Her breath caught. Her husband possessed the kind of beauty captured in paintings and carved in stone. And he belonged to her.

  Christopher took her hands in his and guided her to her feet. “Should I be suspicious of that impish smile, Phi?”

  Her smile grew. “Not at all.”

  “I was disappointed this morning, sweet.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Was it my playing? Or…last night?” She felt her cheeks flame with heat at the boldness of that question. “Uh, that is…”

  Christopher lowered his lips so they were a hairsbreadth apart from hers. “Quite the opposite. I was disappointed to find you gone.”

  “I thought you needed to sleep.”

  “Sleep is never more important than making love to you.”

  “But—”

  “Never.” That one word came out as a silken whisper that washed over her.

  His mouth closed over hers and this exchange was not the gentle meeting of lips but a man laying claim to his woman. The possessiveness of his touch enflamed Sophie. She arched into him, angling her neck so he might avail himself to the sensitive flesh.

  He did not disappoint. His lips caressed the rapid b
eating pulse there.

  It was the kind of wickedness that had gotten many an innocent consigned to life in an abbey, but Sophie didn’t want to wait to feel his touch.

  Christopher fisted her skirts and slowly raised them. The air slapped her skin, as Sophie realized her husband had no intention of waiting. He sat down upon the piano bench and lifting her skirts, pulled her astride him.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she breathed.

  He responded by reaching between them and releasing his shaft from the confines of his breeches.

  Sophie gazed down at the impressive length, filled with a desire to please him the way he’d pleasured her the evening prior. She wrapped her fingers around his thick, solid length. His manhood throbbed in her hand.

  “Christ,” he hissed. His head fell back and he squeezed his eyes tight, as though in pain.

  Delighting in her newfound power over him, Sophie sank to her knees and stroked his shaft—slowly at first. Then, as he arched his hips upright, she grew bolder, squeezing him until moisture beaded on the tip. She stared, riveted by the sight of it and leaned down to taste the clear drop.

  Her husband nearly shot out of his seat. His hips arched. “Oh, god,” he groaned.

  Sophie raised her head to determine whether she’d caused him pain. His face contorted, and his eyes appeared tightly clenched. Her body heated at the response Christopher had to her ministrations. A pool of moisture settled between her thighs and she moaned.

  She returned her efforts to his manhood, trailing her tongue along the plum-shaped tip of him.

  “Sophie.” Her name emerged somewhere between a prayer and a plea.

  Christopher rested his hands upon the top of her head, encouraging her on. Sophie hesitated a moment and then took all of him into her mouth.

  “I can’t,” he rasped, and pulled back. He swept her into his arms.

  “Christopher?”

  But he was only carrying her to the sofa, lying her down so that her naked thighs were exposed to his heated stare. He slowly positioned her against the sofa pillows and then trailed whisper soft kisses down her body, touching each spot of bare skin until his breath hovered above the part of her that sought his attention more than anything.

  She studied him with heavy eyes. His breath tickled her womanhood. He put his mouth to her hot center and her hips lifted off the sofa. His tongue laved her hot womanhood, teasing, tasting, exploring. Sophie tangled her fingers in his sweat dampened black hair, and she held him there, encouraging him on. Her hips thrust upward as she neared her peak. She cried out when he cruelly stopped, and placed a lingering kiss upon her inner thigh.

  But then he was moving over her, his body covering hers as he braced himself on his elbows.

  His knee edged her thighs apart. He gritted his teeth, his shaft poised on the threshold of her womanhood.

  Sophie hissed when he dipped his shaft into her welcoming warmth. He thrust deep.

  She keened softly, as he moved between her legs, filled her. She’d never dreamed…never thought…her hips rose to meet his.

  “I love you, I love you,” she cried on a keening moan, and wrapped her thighs tightly about his waist. He sank his hands into the flesh of her hips and encouraged her on.

  Sophie met his wild thrusts. Her body seemed to climb higher and higher on the wings of desire until she feared she’d go mad at the sensation of his shaft filling her.

  Then, she stiffened, and wave after wave of pleasure flooded her.

  Her climax pushed him over the edge and his entire body stiffening, Christopher threw his head back, a guttural groan tore from his throat and he spilled his seed inside her.

  Christopher rolled sideways and promptly fell off the sofa, taking Sophie tumbling with him.

  He blinked back a haze of confusion. “I say, I forgot we were in the,” he glanced around. “Yellow Drawing Room, is it?”

  Sophie preened. “It seems I did very well, then.”

  Christopher grinned. “Do you think you can do better?”

  She nodded with mock solemnity. “Oh, absolutely.”

  And she proceeded to show him.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  Members of the ton were justifiably appalled by the sight of Miss S.W. sleeping quite soundly during Sarah Siddon’s farewell performance at Covent Garden. It is certain that when Miss Siddons appeared on stage to give a heartfelt speech to her adoring crowd, she most certainly was not addressing Miss S.W.

  ~21~

  “Come along.” Sophie tugged at Christopher’s hand, urging him up the hill.

  “Phi, it’s going to rain.”

  She pushed her bonnet back and stole a glance up at the ominously darkening sky. Thick, gray clouds rolled across the horizon. “It is not going to rain.”

  Her pronouncement was met by a distant rumble of thunder.

  He arched a single black brow.

  “Trust me,” she said.

  Her words were punctuated by another loud roll. She smiled up at him. “See. No rain.”

  Christopher sighed.

  Sophie smiled and continued along. They’d spent the better part of the week at Milford House, alternating their time between making love and exploring the countryside. Sometimes both. Her smile dipped. The days were falling away and soon they would return to London.

  They crested a small hill, and her family’s country house pulled into focus; the enormous Georgian structure framed by thick white and gray storm clouds.

  Christopher’s brow wrinkled. “Are we visiting your brother’s home?”

  She pointed her eyes skyward. “Don’t be silly. Come.” They picked their way through the high grass. She stopped at the soaring field maple and reached for the wood swing that hung from a thick, brown branch.

  Sophie released Christopher’s hand and hopped upon the swing. The faint spring breeze caught her modest white skirts and the fabric fluttered.

  Her husband’s frown deepened. “We’ve braved the storm for this swing?”

  “I’ve missed this swing. And do not spoil the day; there is no storm.”

  As if on cue, a single, fat raindrop landed on the tip of her nose. She brushed it back. “Now push me.”

  Christopher bowed. “With pleasure, my lady.”

  Sophie closed her eyes as her husband placed his palms along the back of the swing, and set her into forward motion. She pumped her legs much the way she had as a small child. As she soared higher and higher, her gaze wandered out over the lake that separated their families’ properties.

  “Do you know when I was a small girl I would jump from this swing into the water.”

  He dropped his hands from the back of the swing, as though he feared she intended to do just that.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I’d no longer jump from a swing.” She glanced over her shoulder at him and waggled her brows. “Well, not intentionally.”

  “This is the lake your brother tossed you in as a girl.”

  She started. “You remember that?” Until he’d raised that memory, she’d forgotten Christopher had been there. Now, her mind traveled back to that day long ago.

  “You were so small.”

  “Five,” she supplied. Which meant Christopher had been nearly fourteen years of age. Sophie had been traipsing around after her brother and Christopher, making a nuisance of herself as she’d been wont to do.

  “He tossed you into the lake.”

  All the familiar fear she’d thought long buried, surfaced, forcing Sophie to relive the terror of that day. The water had closed over her head and even as a small child, she’d felt the fingers of death threatening to pull her within their hold. Her eyes widened. “It was you.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You saved me.”

  That long ago time had been lost to a girl’s distant memories and gripping fears. Only now did she remember. Again, she looked back at him. “You plucked me from the water.” And he’d ceased to come around to visit Geoffrey. “You used to be fri
ends.”

  “Not after that.” His square jaw tightened. “Your brother was a pompous ass.”

  Sophie slipped from the swing, and soared through the air, floating, falling, and landing with a solid thump into the ice cold water.

  “Phi!” he shouted.

  Sophie broke the surface. Her straw bonnet with its pink bow hung over her eyes. She shoved it back and waded toward Christopher. Her legs kicked at her skirts. “I’m f-fine,” she called. All the while, those words of his reminded her of another, a man she’d not thought of in the weeks she’d come to really know Christopher. Her mystery Odysseus had said the very same thing about Geoffrey. “I learned to swim, you know.” In spite of her mother’s protestations, her father had insisted Sophie learn to swim after her near drowning.

  “No. I did not know,” Christopher called out. He scissored through the water with long, sure strokes until he reached her. She suspected she should miss the enigmatic pull she’d known in the stranger’s presence. Yet, as Christopher caught her to him, she realized Christopher was the only man she would ever want.

  “I-I r-really am fine,” she said, even as her teeth chattered from the frigid temperatures. Somehow, the hard-muscled wall of his chest warmed her near-frozen body. “I-I i-imagined i-it would b-be a g-good deal warmer.”

  “Oh,” he said when they reached the shore. “Why is that?” He continued to hold her close.

  “The s-sun.”

  A jagged bolt of lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. “That sun?” A faint note of teasing laced those two words.

  “N-not today. The p-previous days of s-sun.”

  Christopher tugged her bonnet free and tossed it to the ground. The wind caught the article and whipped it upon the lake, where it landed atop the water’s surface. He framed her face between his hands. His gaze studied her with a singular intensity. “Are you all right?”

  “I s-slipped.”

  His lips pulled at the corners. “I gathered as much.”

  A little squeak escaped her lips when he swept her into his arms and started on the path home. His stoic strength gave not even a hint that he was affected by the chill from their swim in the lake or her plump form.