The Seduction of Sophie Seacrest (16 page)

As the weeks passed, she pressed him for more
time together. Why should she continue to sneak from the servant’s
quarters in the early morning hours to rendezvous with Edward in
his carriage, his stables, the gamekeeper’s cottage? Why couldn’t
they make love in a decent bed? There were fights and black rages
that always ended in dark, angry couplings. And then it was over;
Edward discarded her as one might a pair of soiled boots. With each
passing day, the anger and resentment increased until one
afternoon, a few weeks after he’d broken off with her, Vivian
witnessed the ultimate betrayal.

Chapter 19

Fresh snow covered the ground in crisp, white
folds as millions of tiny crystals glistened in the morning sun,
more breathtaking than the most exquisite jewel. Nature’s beauty
cloaked tree branches with icy fingers in a glorious, generous
offering.

Sophie waited alone in the small room,
refusing any further assistance. Even her personal maid had been
hastened away as Sophie claimed her last moments of privacy. The
inevitable day had arrived. She’d had one small reprieve when her
betrothed sent word of a sudden illness that claimed him the night
after the opera. He’d canceled the remainder of their stay in
London and she’d been so deliriously happy, she’d forgotten to
inquire as to the exact type of illness that had overtaken him.
Within an hour after receiving the note, she’d packed and returned
to Waverly Manor.

But she could escape him no longer. Soon she
would be Thomas Jameson’s wife. Nausea gripped her and she grasped
at thoughts of her last meeting with Holt. His discovery of the
medallion had proved her ultimate disgrace. He now knew she still
cared and it was the knowing that proved so painful, for Holt
Langford would never reciprocate that kind of feeling.

“It’s time, Lady Sophie,” Annette called
softly through the door. “Is there some way I might be of service
to you?”

“No, just give me a moment.” Sophie adjusted
her veil, draping the thin film of lace over her face. Her hand
moved subconsciously to her left breast where she’d worn the
medallion for so many months.
Foolish girl.
She snatched the
large bouquet of orchids and rushed from the room.

***

She floated toward him like a goddess, her
gown swirling as she moved. It was a high neck ice blue affair,
covered with tiny pearls and cinched at the waist. She wore no
jewels as far as he could tell, but then, she had need of none.
He’d never been a religious man, but he prayed to God she wouldn’t
regret what she was being forced to do. His chest constricted as
she moved to stand before him, head bent slightly. He touched the
hem of her veil and ever so slowly, lifted it from her face.

Sophie raised her eyes to behold her future
husband. Holt Langford, Earl of Westover, stared back at her, his
expression grim, his mouth pinched at the corners. Surely she must
be dreaming, for she had played this scene in her mind countless
times. How could this possibly be real when she was to marry Thomas
Jameson?

She met Holt’s gaze and saw the indisputable
longing in his navy eyes before his expression shifted to a mask of
aloofness, so cold and withdrawn it made her wonder if she’d
imagined the feeling in those deep blue depths. Gathering courage,
she smiled. His stance relaxed and it was then she realized how
tense he’d been. Certainly no one was pressuring him to marry
her.
What then? Did he actually think she would refuse him
marriage? As she pondered this, the enormity of what he was doing
struck her. Had she not once cruelly refused him, cursing his very
existence? Yet he stood before her offering marriage and rescue
from a life with Thomas Jameson.
Why?
Holt tightened his
hold around her waist, gazing at her with that all too familiar
sensual possessiveness that always clogged her brain.

“Aahhmm.” The priest cleared his throat and
glanced at them from above his wire spectacles. “Are you both quite
ready to begin?”

Holt glanced at Sophie, obviously waiting for
reassurance that this was indeed her choice. She nodded and with a
heavy sigh of relief from the priest, the ceremony began.

When Holt slipped the brilliant ruby and
diamond wedding band on her finger, she was reminded of their last
meeting and the ruby medallion. The last time she’d seen him he’d
taunted her mercilessly and yet now he stood before her, the proper
gentleman. When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Holt
kissed her with sweetness and longing. Despite his outward display
of affection, she sensed the hurt and anger smoldering beneath his
touch. Her new husband was indeed a complicated man and though he
might try to avoid it, they had much to discuss before all would
indeed be well.

The reception at Ellswood proved a quiet yet
elegant affair designed for the handful of family members in
attendance. The servants swarmed with word of their new earl.
Speculation was high as to why he had originally arrived in England
under an assumed identity only to leave and later return as
himself, Holt Langford, Earl of Westover. Some said he’d been part
of a smuggler’s brigand, hiding behind his title to escape the
authorities. Others rumored he’d been searching for his one true
love and had wanted her to love him for himself, without benefit of
title or money. Still others whispered the tale of a man without a
country who returned in disguise to see if he could live the life
which duty of birth required. None of them could assimilate the
gangly youth who had left Ellswood at a mere eighteen years of age
with the powerful man standing before them.

Whatever the reason, they all agreed upon one
thing; since the new earl’s return, the estate sparked in a way it
hadn’t in years.

***

Winter’s chill blew in off the open veranda
doors. Holt ignored the cold as he stepped outside to smoke his
cigar and enjoy the stillness of the night. He loosened his cravat
with impatient fingers. Blast convention! What on earth had
possessed him to wear one of these damned contraptions?

The very thought of the person behind his
ridiculous behavior made him hard. He drew on his cigar and
contemplated the night ahead. Unfortunately, before he could get to
the actual wedding night, Sophie would ply him with questions; the
most obvious being why he’d married her. The hell of it was he
didn’t have that answer. He only knew the thought of her with that
worthless fool, or any other man for that matter, filled him with
indescribable rage. He wanted her for himself. Period. And that was
the rub. If he admitted as much she would require some foolish
declaration of feeling, maybe even love, and that he could not do.
Better she believe their marriage was a business arrangement, a
partnership in which both sides would prosper.

She would have security for herself and
Caroline. He would have his wife’s laughter, her sharp wit, her
delectable body. Now he sounded like a besotted fool. Perhaps he
could say he wanted an heir. That would be in keeping with titles
and lineage and such nonsense and it would make him appear less,
well dammit, less besotted. Yes, that was a very good strategy.
Sophie need never know their marriage had little to do with
business and everything to do with that gut-wrenching need he’d
felt since the moment he saw her. Satisfied with his plan, he
snubbed out his cigar and went in search of his wife.

He found her in the library, sitting in the
semi-darkness, mouth pinched, eyes narrowed, hands clasped in her
lap. “Sophie?” Holt placed his hands on her shoulders but his touch
only seemed to agitate her as evidenced by the near growl she threw
at him. “Sophie, what’s wrong?”

“Why did you marry me?”

“Why did I marry you?”

“I don’t think that’s an unreasonable
question under the circumstances.” The fire in her eyes told him
she was warming to the subject even if her voice held the
chilliness of a lemon ice.

“I married you for all the usual reasons,
what else?”

The lemon ice in her voice grew chillier.
“What exactly are the ‘usual reasons’?”

The woman asked too many questions. What to
say? I need you? I can’t tolerate the thought of another man
touching you? Of course not. “I need an heir,” he blurted out. “And
I wasn’t up for courting all those silly bits of fluff who
continuously bat their lashes my way. You, my sweet, I already
know. Quite intimately.” He traced a finger along the swell of her
bosom, caressing the flesh above her gown. She remained perfectly
still as he slowly ran his fingers over her breasts. He found her
nipples through the silk of her gown and gently circled the tender
flesh, smiling when her nipples hardened. Soon she would forget
everything but his hands on her body.

She pushed his hand away and stepped back.
“Is this your answer to everything?”

Holt glared at her. “I hadn’t realized you
found my touch offensive.”

“I find it offensive when you hide the
truth,” she paused, “as you are doing now.”

“Rubbish.” Damn, the woman, why did she have
to be so confounded difficult? Why could she not accept what he
said without question? Like a wife was supposed to do?

“Well?” She tipped her chin up and damn if
she wasn’t tapping her foot.

“I did answer you,” he bit out. “I need an
heir.” When she did not respond, anger forced him to hurl words he
knew he would regret. “I’ll strike a deal with you. Once you are
with child, should you find our union intolerable, I will release
you from our bed.”

Her chin flew up two notches, her eyes turned
to slits and her lips flattened. “Agreed.”

Chapter 20

He wasn’t coming. It was well past midnight
and the entire household had retired hours ago. Sophie sat propped
up in bed, wearing the semi-transparent creation she’d found on her
bed. A lot of good it would do her now with no husband to see it.
Why should she care when she’d driven him away with her cruel
words? She was blasted tired of the subterfuge that had marked
their relationship from the beginning and had hoped they could
start their marriage with a few truths. Nothing as stark or
revealing as an
I can’t live without you
, but a confession
of attraction would be nice. She didn’t believe his bit of nonsense
about marrying her for an heir or to avoid the tiresome exercise of
selecting a wife from a new market of females. Holt Langford did
exactly as he pleased and to hell with propriety and everyone else.
Apparently, to hell with his wife, as well.

She sighed. This marriage business could be
quite tricky, especially if one possessed a very obstinate husband.
Throwing back the coverlet, she swung her legs to the edge of the
bed and reached for her robe. It was time to search out her errant
husband.

***

The embers burned low, providing the only
illumination in the room. The fire hadn’t been stoked in hours and
the study already bore the chill of the night. Holt was well on his
way to getting very drunk, and looking forward to it with keen
anticipation. A half-f decanter dangled from his right hand,
which lay draped over the arm of an overstuffed chair. He’d long
since discarded a glass and was imbibing straight from the
decanter; much quicker that way and required less effort and even
less thought, which was exactly what he desired at the moment. No
effort. No thought. And definitely no reminders of his earlier
encounter with his wife.

Ah, there was that word again. He frowned.
Wife.
Now, why had he gone and gotten himself one of those?
He couldn’t remember. That was a lie. He remembered, even in his
drunken state. A vision of supple beauty drifted toward him . . . a
hint of lavender . . . Sophie. His temptress. She floated before
him and wrapped her warm, sweet body around his, promising all
manner of sexual fulfillment. It was so real his body jumped in
response.

Holt closed his eyes and rested his head
against the cushioned chair as he gave himself up to the dream.
Sophie lay curled in his lap, her thigh pressed against his swollen
cock. She began unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, placing small,
feathery kisses on his chest. Her tongue was on him, darting
through the mat of hair to find his nipple.
God, yes
, she
was sucking his nipple and running her fingers over his chest, all
the way down to the top of his trousers. And in his delicious
dream, those fingers dipped beneath the waistband while his cock
pulsed and strained for release. She needed to end this torment and
touch him. Now. Damnation, it was his dream, he chose the outcome.
Why then did he feel out of control and uncertain what would happen
next?

Logic jumped out the window as her warm hands
circled him. His hips jerked involuntarily, increasing the motion
until he was wet and slick and more than ready to spill his seed.
He reached for the vision and positioned her over his pulsing
shaft, savoring the feel of her hands on him for another moment
before impaling her in one vicious thrust. Sweet Jesus, he thought
he would die. And then she moaned.

His eyes flew open. He squinted, trying to
focus on the vision in white before him. It was Sophie, partially
clad in a filmy white nightgown, head thrown back, eyes closed,
dark hair spilling down her back. He reached out and touched her
face. She opened her eyes and stared back at him, uncertainty
shining in her eyes. Damnation, this was no dream.

Sophie sat astride him, half-naked, with him
buried deep inside her, her sweetness sheathing him. So hot and
wet. Sweat peppered his forehead as he forced himself to remain
perfectly still. Pure torture. Their eyes locked and she lifted
herself slowly and then just as slowly slid back onto his throbbing
shaft. She shuddered and moaned. It was too much.