A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story

by Bronwyn Scott

  There were no brass rings. There was no heaven if she fell, only hell. But for a while there could be limbo, that intermediate position where there was both nothing and something. In limbo, there could be kisses and maybe more as long as it led nowhere and required nothing, no promises, no revelations. She made a deal with her devils. She could have Conall to hold the demons at bay, if she left him in the end. That was the only way this could work.

  Sofia lifted her head, her eyes finding his for a long moment before dropping to his mouth in the silent, age-old request: kiss me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Yes, this was what she wanted. Conall’s mouth took hers with eagerness, his hands tangling in her hair. He gave her his mouth, his touch, his kisses, his comfort and she gave herself over to him, to the reassurance that comes from being with another body, from the feel of another’s touch. He would give her more if she asked. His own mouth was hungry, his own body wanting to feast. The tenseness of his muscles beneath her hands suggested he was keeping himself in check, waiting for her to set the pace, to exert her control on the interlude. He would not use her vulnerability to sate his own appetites, that she could trust him.

  He sucked at her lower lip, his teeth sinking in lightly. A little moan escaped her. She pressed her body into his, an invitation to a kiss that encompassed not only mouths but bodies as well, and he took it. She let him lower her back on to the blanket, let him cover her with his length. She wrapped her arms about him, her own hands buried deep in the thick walnut depths of his hair. She could feel his own arousal rising; she could feel, too, that he was not ashamed by it. How she wished she could keep this moment for ever, where she wasn’t a plaything for a man’s gratification, where there was pleasure for her. And, oh, how she wished she was brave enough to ask for more of it.

  Sofia moved her hips against his, her tongue licking the tender flesh of his earlobe, laughing softly when it elicited the catch of his own breath and a small, frustrated groan. Intuitively, she knew Conall would not disappoint, just as she knew asking for more would commit her down a path that might prove difficult to extricate herself from later for many reasons, not the least being simple want. She might not want to extricate herself. All her promises broken at her own behest.

  Conall’s hand shaped her breast through the wet bodice of her gown, pulling the fabric taut until she was sure he could see the outline of her nipple, and then his mouth descended, suckling and nipping until her hips arched and the chill of her body was chased away by the warmth of want. She wanted his mouth everywhere at once: at her breast, at her lips, at the very core of her where she was damp and burning all at once. It would be the work of a few words to direct his attentions there. If she dared, pleasure could be hers. Out here in the open by the river, she could claim what had eluded ten years of marriage.

  No. She would not use him like that. Sofia forced herself to break off the kiss, the caress. She owed him better than that. He didn’t know her. He thought he did. But that glimpse she’d allotted him was only a sliver of what lay beneath the surface. She would not take any more from him until he knew better, until he understood his choice.

  ‘Would you like some warmed wine?’ Conall rolled to his feet, his voice husky, but she saw the questions in his eyes. Why had she broken it off? Why had she stopped? ‘I brought wine and bread. It will just take a moment to heat.’ He was already reaching for the hamper and the straw-bottomed fiasco inside. ‘A nice red from France.’ He grinned as he held up the bottle.

  ‘To go with our fish.’ Sofia made a pout and gathered the blanket about her, the chill returning in the absence of his warmth. ‘I’ve ruined your lunch.’ She watched him pour the wine into a pan and balance it on the grill over the fire.

  ‘Hardly. We have bread, wine, blue skies, sunshine and good company. One cannot ask for more.’ This was the second time he’d cooked for her. Conall bent over the fire, checking the wine, his trousers pulled tight over the muscled curves of his buttocks, reminding her that his clothes were damp, too. A shiver went through her.

  Conall noticed. ‘You should get out of those wet things. We’ll lay them next to the fire and they’ll be dry in no time.’ As if to encourage her, he pulled his shirt over his head and hung it on a low branch, oblivious to the fact that her mouth had just gone dry. He was magnificently made, all elegant muscles and sinew, and tan. There wasn’t a pasty white inch on him. He turned towards the fire and lifted the pan, presenting her with a glorious view of his back, muscles flexing with each motion as they tapered to a lean waist and buttock rounds. They would be white, she thought with a secret smile, her mind already imagining.

  He poured the heated wine into a tin camp cup and brought it to her with a scold. ‘You’re still dressed. Wet clothes are the fastest way to a cold. Don’t be stubborn for propriety’s sake, Sofia. There’s no one to see us for miles and I will not ravish you.’

  More was the pity. It might be nice to be ravished by him, a mischievous portion of her thought; to have him decide for her how far things could go. No. Control was her only weapon, her only defence as she went tentatively down this new path of intimacy. Even so, the idea was quickly quashed by other more practical concerns. Even if she was in a position to entertain a consummated relationship, she wasn’t going to undress in front of him. It would expose too much, would invite too many questions about a past she wanted to forget.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Sofia took the wine, wrapping her hands around the heat of the cup, but a sneeze belied her words.

  Conall took back the cup. ‘You’re not fine. Take off your clothes or you’ll have a fever by nightfall. I promise not to look.’

  She humphed at that. ‘You make me sound like a petty juvenile.’

  ‘Well?’ Conall arched an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you are.’

  She sneezed again. Maybe he had a point. She could not risk a fever. It would leave her bedridden and weak, vulnerable. What if Giancarlo found her and she couldn’t physically run? She rose and scouted the area for a discreet clump of bushes. She would keep the blanket close. She would be safe.

  * * *

  Conall spread Sofia’s wet things near the fire and poured himself a cup of the heated wine, conscious that he was alone with a naked woman wrapped in a blanket and he was hot enough as a result. The woman was temptation for a saint on a good day. But the sight of her sitting beside the fire with her hair down took temptation to a whole new level. She was stunning and vulnerable and hungry for him. She wanted him or whatever she thought he could provide her. That much had been evident earlier and it had shaken him how much her desire had found an echo in his own. He sliced up the bread and toasted it over the fire to give himself something to do besides stare. He’d been with beautiful women before. He was surrounded by them in London as de rigueur. The Season was full of them. But none like her, none who spoke their mind, who asked for what she wanted.

  ‘Toast, too. I am impressed. You’re quite the outdoorsman. Where did you learn to do all of this?’ Sofia ran her fingers through the tangle of her hair, a gesture that was innocently sensual.

  ‘My father.’ Conall flipped the bread over. ‘He would take me fishing and we’d build a camp like this one. Sometimes, in the summer, we’d stay overnight and sleep under the stars. He believed a man should be self-sufficient regardless of his title or station in life.’ And yet, he’d left his family in debt, one too many investments gone bad in the pursuit of such self-sufficiency. He passed Sofia the first piece of toast. ‘Some day I’ll make you a slice with melted cheese on it.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll stay that long?’ She laughed and gave him an appropriately coy look, but he detected a brittleness beneath. They were dancing too close to the subject of her nearly overstayed welcome and the contract’s imminent arrival.

  ‘You might,’ he answered, not looking away from her, forcing her to acknowledge the current that ran between them. This was the third time that
current had flared. They’d not talked about any of the kisses, the touches, the heat that was present whenever they were together. It would be dangerous to ignore it, to pretend it didn’t exist much longer when it clearly did, and if it continued on its trajectory, they would reach a place where they did not stop at kisses and caresses through wet clothes.

  She slanted him a teasing look. ‘You do tempt a girl, Conall Everard.’

  It was laughingly said, but Conall answered her gaze with a more serious stare of his own. ‘Do I tempt you?’ He thought he’d tempted her a few minutes ago, but she’d cut it off without warning. He was in deep waters now. What if they gave in to that temptation? Would it satisfy their mutual curiosity and be done or would it reveal something more? What was he angling for from her? An affair? What could he offer her beyond that? He knew the answer to both and it was no and nothing. She was already supporting his mill, a clear reminder that he had nothing to offer other than a title that needed propping up. But it wasn’t just the practical issues. He could not offer her his heart. That was far too risky, especially if she claimed it. Then he could be hurt again, betrayed again, as his father’s death had hurt him. Love itself was the greatest illusion of all.

  Conall rose, feeling the need to create some distance. Things between them had a habit of becoming intimate so quickly. That day in the meadow, today on the river banks—both were evidence of just how fast things could escalate and of the headiness that came with it. She left him spinning until he hardly recognised himself. ‘If you’ll be all right, I think I’ll fish for a while.’ He made up some nonsense about his mother expecting fish tonight.

  ‘I’d rather you sit with me.’ Her words were bold. ‘I should explain about this morning, about the fish...’ Her words fell off, some of her boldness deserting her.

  ‘You don’t need to.’ But the curiosity was killing him. Her words were stuck in his mind. They dared to reach for more. They didn’t know the brass ring was just an illusion. She hadn’t been talking about the fish. She’d been talking about someone else. He had understood that immediately. But who had she meant? Had she meant herself? Her marriage?

  ‘I want to. Please let me.’ She paused and looked away for a moment, suddenly nervous. ‘No one ever lets me speak of it; often I don’t even let myself think about it, but perhaps it would best if I did. Maybe I could move forward if I did. Consider it a favour? Of course, I’d understand if you felt it would be too much.’

  Conall settled back into his place on the log. Some day she’d realise he would deny her nothing. ‘Then I’d be honoured. Whatever you tell me, your secrets are safe here.’ Her blue eyes said she didn’t believe him, but she appreciated the gesture anyway.

  ‘Be careful what you promise, Conall. You don’t know what those secrets are.’ She fell silent for a long while and then she laughed uncertainly. ‘Now that I have someone to listen, I hardly know how to begin.’

  ‘You wanted to tell me about your divorce?’ Conall prompted.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I want to tell you about my marriage.’ Her eyes locked on his. ‘My husband was a sadist.’

  Conall felt his breath catch. He wanted to stop her right there, to tell her she didn’t have to say any more. But he saw the challenge in her eyes and he resisted. She was daring him to let her go on. Indeed, those five words already told him a great deal. He had to let her continue. This was where London had failed her. The ladies wouldn’t want to hear such sordidness. They wanted the scandal without the details. It made condemning her that much easier. Details would create understanding, compassion, empathy, if not sympathy, and that would never do. So he let her go on.

  ‘I married him at eighteen. It was a match arranged by my parents and Il Marchese while I was at finishing school. He visited me a couple of times that winter and that spring. I knew him, or I thought I did. He brought me flowers when he visited and small gifts. He said they were to make up for my not getting a Season. He wanted to marry me right away.’ Her eyes took on the cast of one remembering the past instead of seeing the present. ‘At the time, I didn’t care too much. He was handsome, charming the way an older man can be when he gives his attention to a naïve young girl. All the girls at school thought it was terribly romantic and my parents were eager for the match. They were gentry and they needed me to marry well. They’d spent a lot of money for me to attend a school that was also attended by girls destined to marry ducal heirs.’

  Girls like Helena Colbert-Tresham. An expensive school indeed. ‘You couldn’t have known what he was like,’ Conall offered, feeling the words were entirely inadequate to the situation.

  ‘No, I couldn’t have. I was young, malleable, eager to please not only Il Marchese, but my parents and my older brother. Besides, his title was far grander than anything I could aspire to here in England.’

  A suspicion took root in Conall’s mind. ‘How did your parents know him?’ English gentry didn’t rub elbows with Continental marquises.

  ‘My father met him at a gaming hell in London.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘My father had a penchant for living beyond his means and Il Marchese was quite keen to cover his debts and more in exchange for marrying his daughter.’

  ‘Ah.’ The suspicion grew into a tight ball. ‘Did your father have any inkling as to the sort of man he was?’ Conall hoped not. It was the only saving grace that remained to one Mr Northcott, who had traded his daughter in marriage to a foreigner he barely knew, all to cover a rather extensive gambling debt.

  Sofia’s eyes were hard sapphires. ‘No, he didn’t. They gambled together and drank together, but for all his faults, my father is faithful to my mother.’ She paused and Conall felt a measure of relief for the errant father. But her next words shattered that sense of relief. ‘But my brother did. He and Il Marchese spent a few evenings carousing at a high-end brothel on the Strand where Il Marchese paid enormous sums for, ah, certain pleasures.’ Her gaze slid away in her discomfort and embarrassment. ‘A wife is a much more economical arrangement. She has to do those things for free.’

  Anger ripped through Conall as the pieces came together. An innocent girl married to a stranger in order to clear a gambling debt no matter the cost—a cost her family had known and decided she would pay on their behalf. ‘Where is your family now?’ His hand flexed around a rock. He was of half a mind to call out the brother who’d knowingly sent his sister into sexual servitude. Northcott. Who did he know by that name? He would find out and when he was done with the brother, he’d call out the father for selling his daughter for his own comfort.

  ‘At home, I suppose.’ He noticed she didn’t mention where home was. ‘I haven’t seen them since my wedding and I stopped writing after they returned none of my letters.’ Which confirmed his other worst suspicions: that the family had done nothing to get her back, or to rescue her. They had simply left her to face her fate. Face it she had. The woman sitting beside him was strong. She’d survived. Ten years. Conall’s respect for her ratcheted up another level, as did the need to defend her. Often it was the strong who needed protection the most.

  ‘Life with him was horrible,’ she said quietly. ‘I fought as hard as I could. I tried to run, twice. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t escape. Like the fish on the line, I was stuck. I’d consented to the marriage. I’d chosen this. I’d been dazzled by his wealth and charm, and the adventure of living abroad, seeing Italy. I only had myself to blame.’

  ‘You had your family to blame.’ Conall’s words came out fierce. He would not sit there and let this woman censure herself. ‘They should have had your best interests in mind. Your brother should have protected you.’ Goodness knew he would have died for Cecilia before he saw her married to such a man. ‘Your father should not have bartered you.’

  ‘One cannot always count on others. I’ve become very good at looking out for myself.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I hope you understand about the fish, now you see why
I couldn’t bring myself to reel it in. Freedom is everything. I wouldn’t take it from any creature.’

  He did see and he saw so much more than she might have intended. She needed control: to control the mill, to control their kisses. This was her way of warning him she would never trust a man again, never stay anywhere long enough to give a man dominion over her life, even if that man was him. And he wanted desperately to change her mind. Behind the hard sapphire eyes, he saw in her, too, the young girl denied a Season, a chance to be beautiful and admired, a chance to dance and be adored. There was so little he could give her, but he could give her this. He could admire her; he could adore her. He could show her real intimacy and that it wasn’t to be feared or shunned, that she didn’t have to control it.

  Conall rose from the log. ‘Come here.’ He drew her to her feet amid her protests. ‘I can’t change the past, I can’t replace all that you lost, but I can offer you a waltz, the sort we might have had if we’d met, if you’d had the Season you’d deserved.’ He led her to the river bank, their bare feet sinking in the soft sand.

  ‘We did dance, at Ferris’s honeymoon ball,’ she reminded him.

  He shook his head with a smile. ‘Not like this, though, not where I discovered you for myself from across the room and had to fight off suitors to claim you.’

  She laughed at his story. ‘Is that what would have happened?’ It was an easy story to get swept up in, imagining meeting him at a debutante ball, being the girl who caught his eye. How different her life might have been.

  ‘I would have put my hand, just here.’ He gripped her waist, feeling the slimness of her through the secured blanket. ‘And my mouth here.’ He bent his lips to her ear, murmuring, ‘And when the music started, I would have led you into a waltz.’