The Seduction of Sophie Seacrest Page 12

  Unable to bear his cruel taunts, she tried to flee but he grabbed her, making escape impossible. “Why have you come to torment me?”

  His hold on her gentled. He was so achingly close. “Do you really want to marry him?”

  “The choice isn’t mine to make.”

  “Who in the hell’s choice is it, if not yours?”

  She remained silent. She must carry out her duty to Caroline even if it meant marrying a man she detested.

  “Answer me,” he demanded.

  She shook her head and turned to leave before the tears started.

  “Sophie.”

  Holt hauled her against his chest and found her mouth, his tongue delving inside. He backed her against the door, wedging his knee between her legs until his hardness pressed against her woman’s heat. It had been so long. She let out a desperate moan as his fingers brushed her left breast and settled on the hard object nestled against her bodice. “What the hell is this?”

  Sophie shrieked and pushed him away. He stumbled, still clutching the object inside her bodice as ripping fabric filled the salon. His gaze shot from Sophie’s exposed breast to the source of her struggle lying in his open palm. She seized that moment to throw open the door and run.

  Holt stood alone in the salon, staring at the object in his hand. The ruby medallion winked back at him, tormenting in its brilliance. She’d kept it, all this time. He needed answers, but judging from her reaction, he would get none from Sophie. His gaze narrowed on the jewel, his mouth set in grim determination. For better or worse, the course was set. Sophie was right. She really had no choice.

  ***

  Vivian sat in the darkened library clutching the paper. The heavy, emerald draperies prevented the morning sun from reaching her. She liked it this way. Cool and dark. She’d never believed in fate or anything remotely close to hope, but as she stared at the bank draft which had recently been delivered to her, she thought perhaps divine destiny existed after all. She had a responsibility to see it carried through and she would not disappoint. Soon. Very soon.

  She closed her eyes and centered on events of long ago, events she revisited daily.

  From the moment she met Edward Langford, Earl of Westover, she entertained very personal plans for him. It mattered not that we was married or that he was neighbor, best friend, and business partner to her brother, Arthur. She’d been drawn to Edward because she sensed in him a dangerous side he kept well hidden from friends and family. Nonetheless, it existed, throbbing just below the surface of propriety. Secretly drawn to the dark and forbidden herself, Vivian had been terribly excited by her desire to discover if her perception of the man was indeed correct.

  The affair began the very week after Vivian’s arrival at Waverly Manor. It was so easy really, because there was no need for pretense. Both craved sexual adventure, both demanded fulfillment. There were times when Edward used her so roughly every muscle in her body ached. Vivian never complained. Rather, she exulted in the sensations. She believed that while he might be married to another, Edward Langford needed Vivian’s willing body and insatiable appetite. Perhaps one day they would even discuss a townhouse for her where he might spend all his nights.

  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-full 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 perfec
tly 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.

  Holt grabbed her hips and drove into her softness, plunging time and again. She met his thrusts eagerly, her hands digging into his shoulders as she moaned his name. Their differences fell away and they became merely a man and woman sharing the pleasure of one another’s body. Every movement, every thrust brought them closer together. When Holt stroked the hardened nubbin of her woman’s flesh, Sophie shattered. He grabbed her hips and with one final thrust, poured himself into her sleek, warm body.

  ***

  Sophie woke in her bed the next morning. Alone. Where was Holt? He must have carried her upstairs during the night and was already up and about. Or was he sleeping in his own bed as polite society dictated? She threw back the covers and reached for her robe. There was only one way to find out. She tiptoed to the door that separated their rooms and rapped lightly. When there was no response, she turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The master bedroom was cast in shadows, but she could make out the empty bed covered in a gray, silk counterpane. She scanned the room for a closer glimpse into the man who inhabited this space. The furniture was of a rich mahogany and ornately carved. There were no clothes or personal belongings strewn about. Everything was quite neat, regimental to be exact. She moved to one of the dressers and picked up his razor, turning it slowly in her hands. Alongside the case were two black leather ties and a silver brush. She returned the razor to its case and ran her fingers along the bristles of the brush. She liked his hair on the longish side, despite the shorter styles of the day. Actually, there wasn’t much she didn’t like about her new husband at the moment.

  She sighed and walked toward the massive bed, blushing at the thought of the intimacies they’d shared last night. How would Holt look upon her this morning? Would he feel this same closeness she felt toward him? There was but one way to find out and if she hurried, she might catch him at breakfast.