The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series) (39 page)

A flood of tenderness and love swept over her.

She wanted nothing more than to embrace Keene, to tell him how she had always loved him, from when she was a little child following him around.

Surely, now that he had made her his wife, he wouldn't leave her alone all the time. Perhaps he had waited so long to bed her to allow his own feelings to grow.

He stirred, turning his lips to her shoulder and pressing damp kisses on her skin. He stroked her hair and shifted to his elbows. He rained tender kisses on her face.

Sophie wiggled, the heaviness of her lower body impatient with the ceased movements. "Is that all?"

Keene grinned. "No, not for you, but give me a minute. I'm spent." Yet, his hands began a slow roaming journey over her skin, leaving trails of starbursts in his wake.

Sophie couldn't imagine feeling more content, more loved, in spite of the tenseness of her body. His full attention filled her with satisfaction and a hunger for more. The only thing she could imagine intruding on this sense of well-being was if he began ignoring her again. And surely he wouldn't do that.

* * *

"What sort of a to-do?" Impatience threatened to get the better of Victor. Would he have been able to persuade Mary Frances to continue her seduction without the fisticuffs if his coachman had continued driving as instructed?

"Well, it seems the servants have dragged several mattresses out into the street, my lord."

"Perhaps they intend to beat the bugs out."

The coachman frowned. "I hardly think so, sir. It appears that they think they might cushion his landing."

Mary Frances whispered, "What is the problem?"

Victor leaned through the door to follow the line of his coachman's outstretched arm and pointed finger. "Bloody hell!"

* * *

"Oh, well if you are tired, you needn't—oh!" Sophie curled her fingers into the sheets at the long sweep of Keene's hand over her curves.

A smile of satisfaction tugged on his lips, even as he pressed them to the graceful column of her neck. He should have taken more time teaching her the wonders of making love, spent more time to be sure she was more than receptive. He should have had her hungering for his touch the way he had for hers. Except he hadn't realized it was the first time for her.

He was a complete and utter idiot. She was no more pregnant than he was. How her parents had reached that conclusion he didn't know, but he could shoot them for making him delay this moment of wonder for three months. Well, he could shoot them if he felt the least bit of anger with the world, but he only felt foolish.

He rolled to his back, taking her with him. She sprawled on top of him, and he rubbed his hands down her back, loving the feel of her. Concerned she might grow cold, he gathered the covers to pull over them.

"We are done, then?"

His wife was lovely and oh so damnably innocent. Even though he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with her in his arms, he fought the replete languor that followed his explosive climax. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this wonderful. Perhaps he never had, but Sophie was not by any stretch of the imagination satisfied, and what was worse, she had no idea what was wrong, but her chaotic breathing and her wriggles told their own story.

"Not in the least. We are just moving to the next entertainment." The lady's pleasure.

He might have to go for a long cooling walk later if he thought too long upon slaking his needs upon her again tonight. He didn't want her sore. Her body's tensile resistance had surprised him, but then, virgins were not his usual fare. With her surprise and dismay at the delay, she was no doubt caught as unaware as he was by her body's fragile barrier.

Slowly he roamed his hands over her body, while he pressed kisses anywhere he could reach. She grew expectantly still on him. "Are we doing it again?"

Not exactly. "Would you rather talk?"

She shrugged.

He shifted her body to rest beside him, where he could touch her more freely. "I'd rather kiss you."

Her lips were pliant under his. Her taste swirled on his tongue, sweeter than nectar. Her eager whimper and heartfelt sigh when he ended the kiss charmed him to the bottom of his feet where her toes tangled with his.

He stared into her blue eyes and grinned. The smiles kept coming even though he was trying damnably hard to complete the serious business of training his wife, a business he hoped to take a lifetime with.

She stared back. "Why did we wait so long?"

Because he was a stark raving lunatic. That was one way to erase his amusement. The last thing he wanted was to tell her he had doubted her virtue. The reason hardly made sense in light of the evidence and would only misdirect her pleasure. "Someday I'll explain."

Her forehead crinkled. "Not now?"

"Not now." He kissed the tip of her nose, feeling a wave of love sweep over him. He resisted it for a moment, but then it seeped through him like a gentle flood. He did love her, more than he realized before now. In this moment, loving her felt like the only right thing.

He circled her breast with his fingertips. She edged her chin down and her gaze dipped. Her shift away from his touch startled him. Right now he simply wanted to show her the world and return to her the gift of complete fulfillment.

Perhaps he had spent too long regaining his equilibrium. He knew a woman's desire left untended could flicker out. He would spend all night rekindling it if he had to, but perhaps Sophie wanted to talk.

He scooted her closer to his body and tugged her legs over his. "That was one hell of a nightgown, Sophie. Will you wear it again for me?"

"Amelia said it should end up on the floor so fast as to make its wearing pointless."

Did Amelia have something to do with his wife's presence in his bedroom? "Not pointless, love. But I shall endeavor to leave it on longer next time, if that should please you."

Her blue eyes held questions.

He swallowed harder. Did he have the answers for her? Never had it mattered so much. He feared saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. "What, Sophie?"

"Why did you marry me?"

He could lie and say he loved her, which he suspected he did at the time but hadn't known it. He searched for a reasonable explanation. The truth was he hadn't wanted to marry her and had only done so because he'd had his hand forced, and he was damnably glad his father had greased his path to give him what he really wanted. "Does it matter?"

Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and she shifted her gaze away to stare up at the canopy of the bed. He doubted she found the draperies fascinating all the sudden.

He took a deep breath and dug in. "Sophie, my father made you his heir."

"I can't inherit." Her gaze shot to his. "His estate is entailed."

"Only a small part. Before, Richard was to have most of the estate and the farms. I would only have the title and the old estate house with the ten acres it sits on."

"The dower house? Oh, Keene, why?"

Her face scrunched in both concern and confusion. True, she couldn't inherit the title, but was she ready for explanations that his father hadn't sired him, that he had no idea who his natural father was? And did it matter to the point he wanted to make?

"Why would he do that?"

The words tumbled out of his lips before he could stop them. "I'm not his son."

He held his breath, waiting for her reaction. Not many people knew. Victor knew, and he'd just told George, and now Sophie knew. Of everyone, her opinion mattered most. His real father could be a stable hand for all he knew.

"You married me to get your father's estate?"

No.
She would have control over her inheritances and the ability to decide to pass them on to their children. "No! I'll never get it."

Her blue eyes filled with moisture.

"It doesn't matter, Sophie." What mattered was he could have walked away from his father's blackmail. In anything else he would have refused. He would have refused any other woman. But it was her, handed to him, and even when he thought she carried another man's child, he'd wanted her. He'd been ridiculously blind.

Many times in his life he'd considered leaving England and making his fortune elsewhere, but once marriage to Sophie was an option, the idea of leaving deserted him. Oh, he suspected he'd wanted her all along.

"It
does
matter." Her voice trembled.

He framed her face with his hands. "What matters is that you are my wife and I—"

A pounding on the door made them both jump.

"Keene, are you in there? You have to come, now." The door crashed open, and Victor charged into the room.

"Bloody hell!" Keene flattened his body over Sophie's. "Get out!"

Victor scooped up Keene's clothing off the chair and tossed it toward him. "You have to come,
now.
George is about to kill himself. You have to stop him."

Keene's heart froze. He twisted to look at Victor. The horror and dread on Victor's face spoke to Keene like nothing else could. Victor hadn't looked this alarmed when they faced each other with pistols at dawn. He didn't think his friend even realized Sophie was in the bed with him.

"We'll finish this when I get back." He slid out from under the sheet and grabbed his breeches.

Victor must have belatedly realized how intrusive his interruption was, but instead of a characteristic sarcastic remark he jerked around and paced away. "He's about to leap from his roof. Mary Frances is talking to him, but, God, Keene, you have to save him. Your carriage is outside."

"Did you tell Amelia?" Sophie sat up, the sheet clutched to her chest.

Victor swung around, his face pale. "Good God, no!"

"I'll come with you." She swung her legs to the side of the bed.

"Sophie, just stay here. I'll handle this. I don't want you there." He didn't want her parading around naked in front of Victor, either. Keene grabbed his boots and a shirt and headed out the door.

Victor was right on his heels. "Your pardon, ma'am." He paused long enough to pull the door shut.

The silence of the room chilled Sophie. She put her head in her hands. Keene had married her because she was his father's heir. And he'd left her again. She'd never felt more alone in her life.

She threw her head back and kept the tears from spilling out. Admittedly, Keene had a good reason to leave her this time, but it hurt nonetheless. He didn't want her with him while he dealt with a crisis. Perhaps the only place he wanted her was in his bed, and even that had only followed her throwing herself at him.

Her heart bled. Was this how George felt? He shouldn't, because Amelia did love her husband. But Sophie had no such assurance. Keene married her because she was his father's heir.

It was almost too much to absorb. But beyond her own problems, Amelia deserved to know that her husband was about to leap to his death. Sophie pushed back the covers, ignored the stain on the sheets and scurried into her own room to get dressed. She slammed the connecting door, even though the point was moot.

* * *

"There is only the phaeton, madam. The master has the carriage. And the coachman is gone with them." Blythe said.

"I'll drive."

"Are you sure?" asked Amelia clutching her arm. Then, "Hurry, please," she whispered.

"Very good, ma'am. I'll have it brought around." Blythe left them to carry out her request. An open phaeton at night might not be the best choice, but it was the only one.

Less than fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Amelia and George's home. Servants bobbed around the front carrying lamps, maids sobbed with aprons thrown over their heads.

Keene stood on the roof of his carriage, his white shirt only half buttoned. The cool night breeze rippled his dark hair and the edges of his shirt, exposing the chest that Sophie had so recently laid her head upon. A lump formed in her throat, and a wash of heat swept through her.

His effect on her had always been devastating, now it was earth-shattering. She tore her gaze away from him.

"Oh, God," whispered Amelia beside her. She had her hands over her mouth. Sophie was afraid she might swoon she was so pale.

Sophie followed the line of Amelia's vision. George sat near the edge of the steep slate roof, his feet propped against the gutter, his head buried in his hands.

"George, come down, man. We'll talk this out," Keene shouted.

A gentle rain misted Sophie's face as she stared up at the solitary man.

"No, you don't understand. I can't do it. I can't be what you think I should. I miss Amelia, but I can't pretend that child is mine." The barely audible words drifted down from the man on the roof.

"I'm here," whispered Amelia.

Sophie twisted around, assessing the situation. A pile of bedding littered the street in front of the house. The drop from the roof might not be fatal anyway, unless George chose to dive off head first. She didn't understand why Keene was trying to reason with a crazed man.

A dormer window stood open behind George. The rain picked up, while the habitual London fog stirred by the stiff breeze drifted around in ghostly wisps.