Never Courted, Suddenly Wed Read online

  Christopher leaned close. “What is that?”

  She started, grateful that her back was to Christopher. Since she’d been a small girl she’d had a bothersome tendency of speaking to herself. “Uh, nothing.”

  They didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip until Christopher slowed his mare to a halt in front of her home. He leapt to the ground and then lifted her from the horse.

  “You really can just set me down. I can see to it from here.”

  “It’s a little late to avoid discovery, Phi.” He carried her up the steps.

  The front doors opened and the butler, Ralston, greeted her with a bored yawn. “Miss Winters,” he said as though it were entirely commonplace for the viscount’s sister to be carried through the front door, by a gentleman, sans chaperone.

  She sighed. “Hullo, Ralston.”

  Her heart fell somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. Geoffrey stood beside Mother in the foyer, arms folded across his chest. His black stare conveyed brotherly disapproval. Had she really expected anything else?

  Sophie chose to forget that the gentleman who held her was in fact her childhood nemesis. She wanted to bury her head in the front of Christopher’s jacket. “It’s not my fault, Geoffrey.”

  Geoffrey ignored her protestations of innocence. “Thank you so much for seeing to my sister, Waxham.”

  Her mother sighed. “Whatever have you done now, Sophie?”

  Geoffrey scooped her out of Christopher’s arms and set her on her feet. “We are indebted to you. I’m sorry she’s caused you trouble.”

  Christopher inclined his head. “It is not the lady’s fault. I’m afraid I was galloping where I shouldn’t have been and spooked her dog.” He caught and held Sophie’s gaze.

  Her eyes went wide at the lie. The boy she remembered would have delighted in telling Geoffrey of the trouble she’d managed to get herself into. She didn’t know what to do with this unexpected kindness. It shamed her. Made her wish she’d been more gracious when Christopher had merely wanted to help her. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  He gave the faintest nod.

  Mother rang her hands together. “Regardless, you have returned Sophie to us in a most gentlemanly manner.” She shared a look with Geoffrey. “May we extend an invitation to you and your father to dine with us?”

  The earl’s hesitation was a palpable force. All Sophie’s oldest insecurities, the feeling of being nothing more than a polite obligation resurfaced.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m certain Lord Waxham is busy. There’s really no need to burden him and the marquess.”

  “Mother didn’t even mention a specific evening,” Geoffrey said drolly.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. Drat.

  As if on cue, Mother spoke. “Tomorrow evening?”

  “Lord Waxham has plans tomorrow evening.” Sophie directed her attention toward Christopher. “Don’t you, my lord?”

  He dusted his hands together. “Actually, I do not.”

  “See, Mother. He…” What? Sophie’s words trailed off. “You do not?”

  “Splendid!” her mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  Christopher caught and held Sophie’s gaze. “In fact, I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend my evening than with your family.”

  Did she imagine the way he paused overlong on those last two words? She narrowed her eyes. What was this about? She’d learned when they’d been small children to be very cautious where Christopher was concerned. There was certainly more to his gentlemanly response.

  And Sophie didn’t trust it.

  Didn’t trust it one bit.

  She tried once more. “You are just being polite, my lord, but on the ride over you mentioned your plans for the evening.”

  Her mother’s face fell. “Oh, do say you’ll come another evening then?”

  Christopher folded his arms across his chest. “Your daughter is mistaken.” He looked to Sophie. “You are mistaken,” he said more emphatically.

  “I am?”

  “You are.”

  Three pairs of faintly accusing eyes landed on Sophie. A telltale flush of shame heated her cheeks. “Really? I’d thought…that is to say, I’d believed we’d spoken of your plans for tomorrow evening.” She discreetly crossed her fingers and stole an upward glance at her brother.

  Geoffrey’s black glower indicated that he knew Sophie wasn’t being altogether truthful.

  Or in this case, at all truthful.

  But really…why would Christopher want to join her family for supper? He’d made his feelings for her quite clear over the years. This gentlemanly side of him, his chivalrous attempt to shield her hoydenish behavior at Hyde Park from Geoffrey was so very uncharacteristic. Christopher had never been kind to her over the years just for kindness sake.

  Geoffrey’s words brought her back to the moment. “We really would be honored to have you and your father for company tomorrow evening, Waxham.”

  Christopher bowed. “The pleasure will be all ours. Miss Winters, I wish you a speedy recovery.” With a long, undecipherable look for Sophie, he took his leave.

  Sophie stared after him, frowning. Yes, there was more to Christopher’s actions this day…and she had every intention of getting to the heart of it.

  “Sophie…”

  Just as soon as she dealt with her mother and Geoffrey.

  Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

  While attending the Countess of L’s dinner party, Miss S.W. knocked over a candelabra and effectively doused the dining table in flames. Although there were no injuries, the dinner event ended prematurely.

  ~5~

  Christopher shifted on the bench of his father’s carriage. He glanced over at Father. With the hard, unyielding line of his mouth and stony expression, the old marquess might have been carved of marble. Christopher pulled back the black velvet curtain and peered out the window into the darkness.

  Being closeted away in the carriage with the heartless bastard and the steady clip clop of the horses hooves upon the London streets whipped up memories of his youth—memories better buried and forgotten.

  Except, he’d let them in, and they flooded through his consciousness. His hands balled into fists as he remembered back to the day the Head Master at Eton had summoned the Marquess of Milford. The two men had discussed Christopher’s dismal performance at the distinguished school.

  Christopher’s poor academic report had been met with a backhanded slap to the cheek. Mallen had borne witness to that little humiliation. Christopher had figured that any boy who could observe something so shameful and remain tight-lipped was one he’d like to call friend. From then on, they’d been fast friends.

  Father pulled out his gold, engraved watch fob and consulted the timepiece. He tucked it back into the front of his jacket just as the carriage rocked to a halt.

  Christopher returned his attention to the window. The thin sliver of a moon hung in the sky. It bathed the Viscount Redbrooke’s white townhouse in nightly shadows. Self-loathing burned like acid in his throat. He would infringe upon the other man’s hospitality with the most dishonorable of intentions. Christopher let the curtain fall back into place and looked to his father. “I’ll have you know I’m doing this to appease you, Father.”

  His father snorted. “If you were truly intent on appeasing me, you’d ruin the girl and be done with it.” A chuckle escaped the old marquess. “You’ll find yourself deep in the pockets with only me to thank.”

  Christopher spoke through gritted teeth. “Rest assured I have no intention of thanking you.” How had it come to this? He, the Earl of Waxham had been turned into a loathsome fortune-hunter preying upon an unsuspecting young lady. Even if Sophie had been the bane of his childhood existence, she still deserved more than this cold, sinister attention.

  The driver rapped on the door.

  “Just a moment,” Father bellowed. He frowned at Christopher. “I don’t understand you, boy. Arranged matches are the way of Society. And
it is not as though you have a more lucrative option.”

  Christopher’s mysterious goddess flitted through his mind. God, he should have allowed her to remove her mask that magical exchange three days ago. He should have revealed his identity to her, should have insisted she do the same.

  “There is another woman,” Christopher said, and reached for the door handle.

  The marquess slammed the tip of his cane against the door of the carriage, halting Christopher’s exit. “What do you mean there is another woman?”

  At one time, that silken hiss of a threat had made Christopher’s knees knock with terror. He was no longer a boy of ten. “There is another woman.”

  “I heard that part,” his father bit out. “Who the hell is she? So you won’t tell me?” His father snapped when Christopher failed to supply him with a name. “I don’t care if it is Helen of Troy resurrected from the grave. By God, you’ll not ruin this for us. Not for some nameless whore.”

  A growl worked its way up Christopher’s throat.

  The driver knocked again. “I’ll tell you when I’m bloody ready,” Father shouted. He tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “I understand you want more than the plump bit of goods who hasn’t managed to make a match in all these Seasons. All you need to do is wed her, get an heir or two off the girl, and then you are free to carry on with a string of mistresses if you so desire.”

  Christopher swiped the back of his hand over his eyes. With the exception of passing greetings, he’d taken great care to avoid Sophie. Following the incident in the stables, the girl who’d tormented him and the father who loathed him had become entwined, representing an amorphous figure that illuminated all Christopher’s failings.

  Christopher took a deep breath and opened the carriage door. He climbed down, not pausing to see if his father followed.

  The old bastard moved with a pace better suited to a man thirty years his junior. He fell into step alongside Christopher and spoke out the corner of his mouth. “It is time you start taking your responsibilities serious, Christopher. So wipe that dour expression from your face and smile. You might be lacking a brain in your head but you have a way of charming the ladies that will serve you well in this instance.”

  Again, Christopher was returned to those pained moments of his youth when Father had jeered him for his academic failings. “I’m here because you requested my presence. Now you require a smile? Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?”

  The door opened and Redbrooke’s butler greeted them. The gray-haired, lean older man smiled as they entered the townhouse. He assisted Christopher and his father out of their cloaks and passed them off to a waiting servant. “If you’ll follow me?”

  He ushered them into a garish red parlor, adorned in gold ornamentation from etchings along the fireplace mantle to the arms of the King Louis’ sofas. He winced and fought the urge to shield his eyes.

  “Lord Milford, how very good to see you!” The Viscountess Redbrooke rushed forward and with as little propriety as her daughter had exhibited growing up, took his father’s hands in her own and gave a squeeze.

  Proper greetings were exchanged by everyone, until Redbrooke cleared his throat. He gestured to his sister who stood off to the corner of the room. “My lord, you remember my sister, Sophie.”

  As if anyone could forget the little hellion.

  Sophie dipped a curtsy for his father. “Always a pleasure, my lord.”

  His father peered down his hawk-like nose at Sophie. His lip pulled back in a sneer, a clear indication that he’d found the young woman somehow wonting. “What a…lovely young woman you’ve grown into.”

  An overwhelming urge to place himself between Sophie and his father gripped him. He might lay blame at her feet for that fateful night of the fire in his father’s stables, but she didn’t deserve to be victim to the marquess’ vileness.

  “Really?” Sophie said under her breath. “That’s hardly convincing, my lord.”

  Christopher laughed. It appeared Sophie had developed a stiff spine over the years.

  His father’s brows dipped. “What was that, girl?”

  The viscountess giggled nervously into her hand. “They would make an excellent couple, wouldn’t they, Milford?”

  Sophie made a show of studying the tips of her slippers the way a scholar might study an exhibit at the Royal Museum. Christopher’s lips twitched with amusement.

  The marquess glowered in Christopher’s direction. “Isn’t she lovely, Christopher?”

  Christopher again looked to Sophie. She met his gaze with a bold intensity he appreciated. Her cornflower eyes snapped with humiliated rage. And he rocked back on his heels. Christ, if his father wasn’t right. The smooth expanse of creamy white breasts peeked from the daring décolletage of her yellow satin gown. Her gently flared hips were the kind of hips a man dreamed of.

  Her eyes narrowed to catlike slits and he suspected she’d interpreted his silence as an insult. He gave his head a clearing shake. “Ah, yes. Just lovely.”

  Her brows snapped together into an angry little line that said she resented this public humiliation their families had subjected her to. Sophie grew in his estimation.

  “It is always a pleasure, Sophie,” Christopher said.

  She inclined her head. “Yes. It is, always a pleasure. Just as it was a pleasure when you turned my boat in the lake adjoining our families’ properties?”

  The viscountess gasped.

  Christopher frowned. It appeared the little termagant was as much a hellfire as he remembered her to be. Still, it wouldn’t do to point out that he’d only tipped her vessel that day because she’d mocked him for the poor grades he’d received at Eton.

  “Or there was the time you dipped the strands of my hair in ink. That too, was quite, how did you phrase it?” She arched a brow. “A pleasure?”

  His father’s laugh broke the thick tension enveloping the room. “Christopher was something of a handful growing up.”

  “Christopher was nearly fifteen when he did those things.” Her voice was soft but he swore she muttered those words beneath her breath. It appeared the viscountess heard a like response, for she glared at Sophie until the young lady had the good sense to look away.

  Christopher’s eyes went to the gold clock atop the fireplace mantle. It was only a dinner. Soon it would all be over.

  That was, if his father didn’t manage to see him wed the vixen.

  ***

  Sophie stirred the carrot soup in front of her with the tip of her spoon. She stared down into the liquid contents of her bowl, wishing she were anywhere but at this table, sitting with these guests.

  Fortunately her mother and brother were engaged in a full conversation about the weather, she speculated. Or mayhap they were speaking of the Season’s events? Or…

  Christopher leaned close and whispered into her ear. “Your company is stimulating as usual.”

  A flush of color heated her neck and it was all she could do to keep from dumping the contents of her bowl onto his immaculate black trousers. “And you’re as rude as ever,” she said between her teeth. She didn’t expect someone who was so polished and sought after by the ton to understand how devilishly awkward it was for Sophie to attend social situations.

  She continued to direct her attention at the bowl in front of her. Oh, the smug, condescending beast! How he’d managed to garner the ton’s attention as one of the most sought after bachelors was well beyond her imaginings. He was nothing like—she shook her head and shoved thoughts of Odysseus from her mind.

  Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of a servant who cleared her soup bowl, replacing it with a plate of venison.

  She stole a peek from the corner of her eye.

  Christopher sat back; his expertly folded white cravat a stark contrast to the midnight black fabric of his coat. His broad shoulders filled the sabre leg dining chair and he studied her with an inscrutable expression. From the relaxed line of his square jaw, to the almost b
ored expression in his eyes, he maintained a remarkable composure. Drat the man! How she wished she could remain as cool and unaffected by the insufferable bounder.

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare, my lord?” she said for his ears alone.

  He drummed his fingertips along the arms of his chair. “Christopher will suffice.”

  “Very well, don’t you know it’s rude to stare, Christopher?”

  His brows dipped. “You’ve not changed at all.”

  She touched her palm to her breast. “Why, thank you.”

  Christopher’s jaw hardened. “That was not a compliment.”

  She smiled up at him. “Oh, I knew that.”

  “It’s no wonder…” His gaze fell to her décolletage and the words died on his lips.

  …you are still unwed.

  She glared at him, having little doubt as to what he’d been about to utter. “What was that, Christopher?”

  He blinked several times. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  But it had been there and Sophie hated that it stung as it did. It never ceased to stun her with the fact that no matter who uttered those words—her mother, brother, strangers, or even this man she’d grown alongside as a child—they always managed to hurt.

  “Waxham, do tell us. The scandal sheets have mentioned you’re in the market for a wife.”

  Sophie winced at her mother’s blunt statement. “There’s no question there, Mother.”

  Her mother blinked in apparent confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said, Waxham, do tell us. You followed it with a statement. There was no question there.”

  Mother’s mouth formed a small moue of displeasure. “Very well. Are you in the market for a wife, Waxham?”

  Sophie picked up her fork and knife and speared a piece of the heavily seasoned meat. She popped it into her mouth and chewed, all the while wishing she could slip under the tablecloth and hide from the disgusted twitch of Christopher’s lips. Sophie very well knew her mother to be a salacious gossip and was cause for much shame.

  A loud guffaw burst from the Marquess of Milford’s chest. “I keep telling the boy it’s about time he settles down. Hopefully he intends to heed my advice.” The pointed look he shot toward his son did not go unmarked by Sophie.