Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (7 page)

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 bored 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.

For one long moment she felt a remarkable connection to Christopher. They were each victims of their family’s machinations.

As a bachelor, Geoffrey must have commiserated with Christopher’s awkward situation for he neatly steered the conversation in another direction. “Waxham, I understand you are to be congratulated on fleecing Lord Whitmore of his stables.”

Christopher shifted in his seat, seeming equally uncomfortable with the new topic for discussion.

Sophie’s ears perked up. Lord Whitmore was a reprehensible dandy. Yet, it was inexcusable to relieve the gentleman of his entire stables.

Mother gave Geoffrey a pointed look. “It is not the thing to discuss gaming with ladies present.”

“Oh, come. I think Waxham is to be commended,” Geoffrey said to Mother. He directed his attention at Christopher once again. “If there is truth to the rumors, you are now in possession of two Friesian and three thoroughbreds?”

“It is actually three Friesian,” the marquess interjected for his son. “Then there is the white Arabian. Isn’t that right, Christopher?”

Christopher picked up his wine and took a long sip. “That’s correct.” His voice sounded curiously flat.

Sophie frowned at his detachment.

He must have felt her harsh stare for he looked at her. “I gather by the creases at the corners of your eyes and the frown upon your lips that you disapprove.”

“I do not have creases at my eyes,” she said automatically. “And I don’t approve of anyone who uses their skillset at cards to exploit another’s weakness.”

His eyes narrowed. He leaned close and she immediately sank from him. Her heart hammered wildly at the muscle that throbbed at the corner of his hard, firm lips. “First, Whitmore chose to partake in cards. He was free to leave the table at any time. Second,” he dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Unless you know all the details, Miss Winters, I suggest you avoid speaking in absolutes.” Christopher refocused his attention on his meal, promptly dismissing Sophie.

He didn’t speak another word to her. Sophie didn’t know why his disregard should fill her with this keen disappointment and breathed a sigh of relief when the meal neared its conclusion.

At last, Mother clapped her hands. “Shall we retire to the parlor? Sophie will regale us with a song upon the pianoforte.”

Sophie’s relief died a swift death. “No!” The refusal burst from her with such vehemence that four pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction. She cleared her throat. “That is, I’d rather not play this evening.” She glared over at her mother, whose lips pursed with a clear desire to protest.

The last thing Sophie wanted was to subject herself to the humiliation of performing like a small child for the marquess and his son. Her mind traveled back to the first time she’d played in front of Christopher. She’d been a girl of seven; he’d been nearly five and ten years. Sophie had wanted nothing more than to play with her doll, Penelope but Mother insisted Sophie play the pianoforte for the Marquess of Milford. She’d played not even three notes when Christopher had beat his hand against his leg and roared with laughter.

It was the last time she’d played for an audience.

Her brother, in attempt to cut the palpable tension, directed his attention toward Christopher. “My sister is quite accomplished on the pianoforte. Aren’t you, Sophie?”

Christopher’s gaze landed on her.

Perhaps she should smile and show her teeth after all. It would be a good deal more direct than this game young ladies were forced to put on for the sake of a marital match. “I’m not playing, Geoffrey.”

Mother cleared her throat. “She’s just being modest.”

Sophie shook her head. “No, no I’m not.” She held her brother’s gaze in a silent battle of the wills.

Geoffrey shoved back his chair and stood. “You’ll play.” He directed his attention to his guests. “Why don’t we retire to the parlor?”

She opened her mouth to labor the point when Christopher climbed to his feet. He helped her from her seat and held his elbow out. Sophie placed her fingertips along the sleeve of his jacket and allowed him to escort her to the Red Parlor. With its blood-red wallpaper and crimson upholstery it was the most garish room in their entire household. She wrinkled her brow. The one saving element to the room was her beloved pianoforte.

“I’d say this is the quietest I remember you,” Christopher murmured, interrupting her puerile musings. “Never tell me you’re still afraid of the Red Parlor.”

A smile played on her lips. “It is a horrendous room.”

He chuckled; the sound familiar and friendly, not the sarcastic expression of mirth she expected of him. “It is the kind of space that would give young children night terrors.”

They entered the blood-red room, with its soaring ceilings and full floor-length windows. Her gaze traveled around the fifty-foot space, until it landed upon the snarling lions. She loathed them with the same burning intensity she had as a child.

Christopher followed her gaze, to the red-upholstered sofa with its dark, mahogany arms. He turned to her mother. “Might I take Sophie for a stroll around the room?”

Mother clapped her hands like a child who’d just received a reprieve from her daily lessons. “What a delightful idea, Christopher.”

“Thank you for sparing me from her and Geoffrey’s pestering,” Sophie said.

Christopher lifted his chin in unspoken acknowledgement. He ushered her in silence down the perimeter of the long room, until they’d placed a considerable distance between their families.

He slowed his pace. “They’re trying to make a match,” he said, breaking into the silence.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” she muttered, humiliated by her brother’s desperate attempt to marry her off; especially to a gentleman who’d so clearly avoided her through the years. The sting of embarrassment slapped her cheeks.

He chuckled. “Based upon your response, marriage to me is not something you would prefer.”

Unbidden, Odysseus danced through her imaginings. His ready grin. His appreciation for intelligence. He’d not looked at her as an oddity or as a lady underneath his notice.

She held her palms up. “How am I to respond to that, Christopher?”

“Honestly.”

Sophie glanced up at him and started. When had Christopher gone from the tall, gangly boy who’d teased her to this towering, lean but well-muscled figure? She furrowed her brow and continued to peer at him. His too long black locks defied fashion’s norms. And his eyes. She squinted…there was something ever so familiar, ever so friendly about his hazel eyes.

“Phi?” He wrinkled his brow. “Are you all right?”

“Uh, yes. Fine.” Her toes curled at having been discovered studying him. “You were saying?”

“I was pointing out that you don’t want to wed me.”

“Nor you me.”

He blanched. “God, no.”

She bit the inside of her lip not knowing why his words should cause this pang in her heart. “Why don’t you say what it is you’re thinking and be done with it.”

He must have heard the hurt in her words. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to offend you,” he said, in hushed undertones.

Sophie started at this unexpected side of her childhood nemesis. Mayhap he’d not grown into as boorish a man as he’d been a child. She stumbled a bit and he helped right her footing.

“My father would like us to make a match of it.”

Ahh, so they’d come round to the real reason for Christopher’s sudden interest in her company. Sophie glanced across the room. Mother’s hawk-like gaze rested on Sophie and Christopher as they continued their stroll around the room. Her brother sat with his legs folded, a smile on his face.

She sighed. “As do my brother and mother. Alas the only thing to stop them from agreeing to…” Sophie snapped her lips closed.

Christopher paused and forced her to a stop. “The only thing to stop them?” he urged.

Sophie looked anywhere but at him. The last humiliation she needed was to admit Geoffrey and Mother’s grasping attempt at a ducal title. Especially when it required Sophie to secure said ducal title.

“Phi?” he pressed.

Perhaps it was the desperate urgency underlying his tone that made her set aside any attempt at self-preservation. “I told them I could bring a duke up to scratch.”

Christopher’s rocked back on the heels of his black Hessian boots. “A duke?”

She nodded.

He caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and proceeded to study her. “Any specific duke?”

“I told them the Duke of Mallen,” she said on a rush. And because she knew Christopher’s closest relationship was with the duke, she felt her whole body flame with mortification.

“Mallen?” he repeated, as though she’d suggested God himself had plans to court her.

Sophie lifted her shoulder in a little shrug. “The only thing that would stop their tenacity was if I dangled his title in front of them.”