The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series) (25 page)

She blinked the tears from her eyes. "I would be a perfect wife. I promise, I won't come up here again without your blessing. I want nothing more than to love you again."

He paused in the doorway, his back to her. "I have decided there is no course of action open but a divorce. I came to inform you of that, madam."

"No!" She clapped a hand over her mouth, hardly believing the shriek came from her.

The baby let out a wail to rival the trumpets of Jericho.

"You will leave the child here and be gone from my house by noon. I have given orders for your bags to be packed."

* * *

The pips on the cards blurred before Keene's eyes. His luck had run foul or his concentration had been destroyed by the thought of Sophie in his bed, clad in scanty underclothes. Of course, the rather liberal drinking he had been doing hadn't helped. It certainly hadn't curbed his imagination when it came to Sophie. He needed to send her back to his father's house as soon as possible.

"I'm hungry. Let's go," said Victor.

Victor looked as tired as Keene felt. He shouldn't have kept Victor out all night with his shoulder still on the mend.

Keene played out his losing hand, scooped up his remaining markers and pushed back from the table. A maudlin rush of appreciation for his recovered friendship prompted him to throw his arm around Victor's shoulder. "I'm glad for you. I don't know how I should have kept myself from her."

Victor rolled his eyes. "I'm glad your clothes fit me so well."

"I hope your luck was better than mine."

"Not much. I need to find an heiress soon." Victor steered Keene out to the street.

The sun burned Keene's eyes. He shut them and relied on Victor's guidance. "Only heiress I've heard about lately is a Miss Chandler with a sharp tongue. She should be bang up on the mark for you."

"Haven't met her."

Keene stumbled, his legs nearly useless after hours of sitting in deep play. "She knows you."

"Does she?"

"She saw you with Sophie buying clothes. What on earth were you thinking?"

"Sophie wanted to impress you."

Keene drew to a stop. The bright sunlight cut through his dulled senses.

"She thinks you are ashamed of her," Victor said.

Keene's shoulders stiffened. "You know she is not ready for London."

"She doesn't understand why you don't want her here."

It ought to be perfectly clear to her, now that he had refused to sleep with her several times. Why wouldn't she just spill the bag on her pregnancy? "She'll bloody well figure it out soon, won't she?"

"She is green to town life. She needs guidance." Victor's damn calm words came equipped with barbs.

"You can't guide Sophie. She's like a runaway freight wagon on a steep hill. All you can do is clear the path or get out of the way."

"Rather out of your taste, isn't she? You usually like your woman biddable."

"I like them modest and restrained, not stupid."

"Sophie's not the least bit addlepated."

"She's a complete pea goose. Why'd you let her cut her hair?"

"That was her idea."

"My point exactly." Keene felt regrettably sober far too fast. "I liked her hair long. And up. I liked it up. If she wanted to please me she should have left it long."

Victor shook his head.

"When your nose is clean, you can wipe mine."

"No, thank you," answered Victor with more calm than was normal for him. Which was a good thing, because most of Keene's appreciation for his rediscovered friendship was evaporating in a black haze.

"She called marriage to me an exchange of prisons."

They walked in silence a few minutes before Victor spoke. "My aunt had a cat once. She kept it in a wicker cage. Had to have a new one nearly every week. The cat kept clawing his way out, you see. Then she went and had a cage made of metal. Damn cat nearly chewed it's leg off trying to get out."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Damned silly to keep a cat in a cage if you ask me."

"I'm not keeping her in prison," Keene shouted.

"I was just talking about my aunt's cat. Died, you know."

Keene couldn't help himself. "How?"

* * *

Sophie stared at the yellow pantaloons and green jacket draped over the back of the chair. She shrugged and dropped the dressing gown. She had been through the wardrobes and found nothing to wear except her husband's clothing. These might very well be his, too. Although why they would be in another bedchamber as if laid out for her use, Sophie hadn't a clue.

She'd looked long enough for female clothes; these would have to do. Fortunately there was a pair of tasseled boots on the floor beside the chair. Her feet would probably fit like twigs in the fire grate, but they would do to get her to the hotel. Good thing she had cut her hair. Otherwise, she would really garner stares as she walked through town in men's clothing. Now she could just hope people mistook her for a boy and none of the people who "counted" would see her.

It was one thing to have her clothes taken away, but to be told the master had them when she asked for them was really too much. She'd been sent to her room on bread and water many times, but never, ever, had her clothes been held hostage.

If she was honest with herself, that might have stopped her from sneaking out a time or two, but, really, to leave a female with nothing to wear besides her drawers was beyond the pale.

Later, as she made her way down the front stairs—no point in trying to sneak out a back entrance, she didn't know the lay of the house—the knocker sounded. She paused, gripping the rail to avoid pitching down with the overlong boots. The socks stuffed inside only kept the boots from sliding off if she held her toes up with each step. Her shins already burned from her practice steps in the hallway.

The butler opened the front door, and Sophie peered down, trying to see.

"Is Mr. Davies home?" The tense female voice drifted up to Sophie.

She bent down and caught a glimpse of dark hair.

The butler replied with a large dose of starch, "Mr. Davies is not at home."

"Please, would you tell him I need to speak with him? It's urgent."

There was a pregnant pause. "Madam, he has not returned home this morning. Would you care to wait in the drawing room?"

"Oh." There was another drawn out pause. "I'll wait in my carriage."

"Would you like me to see if Mrs. Davies is at home?"

The question seemed to surprise the visitor. "I . . . yes."

Sophie could either hope they didn't notice her and make a break for it when the butler led the caller to the drawing room, or she could just go forward and learn who sought out her husband at such an unfashionable hour.

"This way, Mrs. Keeting," said the butler.

Mrs. Keeting? George's wife? The woman Victor implied bore her husband's child. Curiosity got the better of Sophie. Instead of retreating while she had a chance, she watched the woman step inside the entry hall.

Her sable hair was piled on top of her head in a sleek, smooth, loose swirl, the kind of soft demure style that Sophie's hair would never tolerate. The visitor shed her green pelisse and gloves and gave them to the butler.

Her simple white morning gown adorned with a green ribbon covered a slim figure. Amelia glided across the floor and only paused as her blue eyes met Sophie's. Her elegant hand rose to her throat. Her dark eyebrows lifted in a delicate arch of surprise while her cherry lips moved into a soft "O" of surprise. Even the expression of shock on her porcelain perfect features was elegantly understated.

This woman was everything Sophie was not: strikingly lovely, delicate, dainty and disgustingly demure.

A rush of pure hatred flowed through Sophie and shocked her with its intensity. She wanted to turn and climb the stairs, but with the boots felt like a clod. The moment stretched to an eon before they heard the scrape of a key in the lock.

Keene stumbled in, his evening clothes wrinkled, his cravat flat. His hair was mussed, his dark eyes glazed, and he was in dire need of his razor. A wide-eyed anticipation replaced his tired expression when he noticed the visitor in the hall. "Amelia."

"Oh, Keene, he . . ." She moved toward him, her hands outstretched. She bit her lip rather than continue the sentence she started.

Keene took Amelia's hands in his. "Blythe, would you have coffee brought to the drawing room."

The butler bowed and disappeared into the back of the house.

Keene didn't even close the front door before he stepped forward to take her hands in his. Was he so enamored of her that he forgot the gaping door and the cold air rushing inside?

"He has banished me. I'm sorry. I did not know where else to turn." Amelia's words caught on a sob. "He insisted I leave her with him. I don't know where to go or what to do."

"Come, we'll talk about it."

Victor entered, then shut the door.

A turbulent sea of impressions washed over Sophie.

Amelia's head turned in Victor's direction. After a glance at his friend, Keene tightened his grip on Amelia's hands as if to keep her to himself. Sophie saw a hint of yearning on Victor's face before his expression closed off.

"Go home, Victor." Keene tugged Amelia toward the library.

Victor stepped toward the stairs. "My clothes—"

"—will be here tomorrow." Keene said.

"My clothes!" Victor stared up at Sophie.

No hope for it now. Sophie stepped down, the boots clumping like leaden buckets on her feet.

Keene glanced up at her and then clenched his eyes shut as if removing her from his sight could banish her from his life.

Sophie turned to run back up the stairs, but the empty toe
of the boot caught on a riser, and she pitched forward.

Victor, being closer to the staircase, reached Sophie first. Not that she had slid down more than a couple of steps, but Keene's heart jolted with each thump. He pushed Victor out of the way and reached for Sophie. He guided her shoulders as she moved to sit on the stairs.

She shrugged away from him. "I'm all right."

"This is your
wife?"
asked Amelia with not quite an air of condescension in her tone, but a mix of shock and disbelief.

"Hard to believe, is it not?" Keene rose to his feet.

Sophie sat on a stair by his knee. "Well, I shouldn't be wearing these clothes if Keene had left me anything to wear last night, but he took my dress off to heaven knows where, and none of my other clothes are here."

Keene winced.

Victor coughed politely and turned slightly.

Amelia looked at Keene, Sophie's clothes, and then at Victor. Two tiny lines formed between her flyaway eyebrows, while a flush crept up from her neck.

The last thing Keene wanted was to leave Victor and Amelia alone together, but a private moment with Sophie would require leaving the two former lovers together.

When he entered the house and saw Amelia standing in the entry hall he'd been tempted to shut and lock the door before Victor entered the house, or pull Amelia into the drawing room out of sight, but he hadn't had time to do either.

"Go upstairs, Sophie. I'll send your dress up to you," Keene whispered.

"It's an evening gown."

"She has you there. She is at least wearing morning clothes. Although I have to say we are getting shockingly loose with our apparel," said Victor. "Perhaps Amelia would care to contribute."

"You don't have any dresses to wear?" Amelia half turned toward the door, her hand raised in an uncertain gesture. "I do have my bags in my carriage."

"I'm leaving," said Sophie with a mulish cast to her expression.

Keene closed his eyes and wished them all to perdition. He reached under Sophie's arm and lifted her to her feet. "You're not leaving. Don't make me restrain you. Now go upstairs and get out of Victor's clothes."

"They're your clothes? I am sorry." She gave Victor a sheepish smile. "They were lying over the chair, and I didn't know."

Hounds of fury nipped at Keene's feet. His wife couldn't spare him more than a surly line, while Victor got a pretty apology and smile. Keene begrudged that smile more than anything.

Amelia was doing her best not to stare, and Victor had developed a fascination with Sophie's display of his breeches.

Keene jostled Victor's shoulder. "Do you mind, sir?"

Victor's gaze fastened on the pantaloons stretched across Sophie's flat belly, accommodating the soft flair of her hips. They fit her far differently than when he wore them. "Not at all. She doesn't look a bit—"

"Don't say it."

Victor looked him square in the eye and finished, "—like a chap."

"I don't? I thought with the short hair and everything I might pass for a youth." She tugged the bottle-green jacket down. She turned her head up toward Victor with a plea in her expression.