Chapter Eighteen
Tonight there would be no limits. Sofia trembled with the knowledge of it as her husband led her up the festooned staircase to the lord’s bedchamber. Her husband—something she never thought she’d have again, let alone welcome. But she did welcome him. She already knew this. Her body welcomed him and her heart welcomed him, this brave man who was willing to stand in the breach between her and society, between her and Il Marchese, this man who was willing to build a life with her. But tonight, there was one last secret to show him.
They’d said a formal farewell to the guests gathered on the lawn and now, for the first time all day, they were alone together. But even in the lord’s chamber they’d not been forgotten. Candles had been freshly lit by a stealthy maid, the bed turned down and sprinkled with rose petals. A bottle of champagne stood sweating and cold on a small table by the window accompanied by a bowl of the largest, fresh-picked strawberries, red and ripe. The scent of a summer night quietly filled the air: sweet, direct. It carried a type of innocence with it. So unlike... She didn’t want to think of another wedding night. But how could she not compare them?
Conall moved to the champagne and popped the cork. He poured her a glass. ‘Some day, you will lay those ghosts, Sofia. For now, it is enough that you see the difference between then and now, between what you were and what you’ve become.’ He picked up his own glass. ‘Cheers to the future, my beautiful wife.’ They drank, the champagne cold on her dry throat. Conall set aside his glass and began to strip, slowly, deliberately, much as he had on the river bank, a man comfortable in his skin. Naked in the candlelight, he did not disappoint. ‘Now it is your turn—shall I help?’ He took her nearly empty glass of champagne.
She hesitated. ‘I’m not so beautiful, Conall.’ She was not ready to let go of the illusion that had been today; the illusion of a perfect wedding created so skilfully by his family; the illusion of being a bride Conall Everard would have chosen on his own if his honour hadn’t prompted him. He would see now that her divorce wasn’t her only flaw, that even the superficial beauty of her was an illusion as well.
Conall began to work the laces of the gown. ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he murmured softly at her ear, his hands competent and swift, slipping the satin from her shoulders. ‘I want to see you, all of you, naked, Sofia, every beautiful inch of you.’ But of course, he didn’t know, couldn’t guess what was beneath her clothes.
The exquisite gown fell to her feet in a cloud of white satin, her corset, her chemise, her pantalettes, joining it as Conall stripped away her last defences. The breeze from the window caressed her bare skin and she trembled. Behind her, Conall’s body was a delicious contrast of warmth and male heat. He ran his hands down her arms, his voice a husky whisper. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
He drew her to him then, her buttocks against the heat of his groin where his desire was evident, her back against the strength of his chest, his arms wrapping about her, his hands skimming upwards from the flat of her stomach to the fullness of her breasts, filling his hands with her, learning her with each caress in ways he’d not learned her before at the river. She closed her eyes, savouring the moment, because it couldn’t last, her body poised for the inevitable.
She knew the moment he found it. His warm hands froze. His finger traced the ridges. ‘Dear God, the bastard branded you.’ Conall’s voice cracked. With revulsion? With distaste? Sofia swallowed. He would not want her now. She stepped away from him, turning slowly to face him, to show him.
‘Now you know I am not beautiful.’ Even her beauty was an illusion. ‘I have a lovely face, nothing more.’ Giancarlo had seen to that. This will stop anyone who seeks to cuckold me. I should have done this long ago. Sofia squeezed her eyes shut, pushing back the memory of the searing heat, the smell of burning skin, her skin, as the R pressed into her, Andelmo holding her down as she’d screamed. It was the type of brand given to runaway slaves. She moved her hands to cover herself and waited for the rejection.
‘No.’ Conall’s voice was firm, firm enough to make her eyes open. ‘You don’t need to cover it up. You don’t need to hide it, not from me.’ His eyes met hers. His horror had been for her. Not in reaction to her. ‘The Marchese did this because you ran away?’
‘Twice.’ Her voice sounded small.
‘Twice? You’re very brave, my dear girl.’ Conall’s finger traced the R anew and she saw something new in his gaze, not the revulsion she’d expected to see, but respect, admiration, mingled with deep sorrow. Real sorrow, not pity. ‘Someone should have stopped him. Someone should have protected you.’ He danced her back to the bed and they lay down, length to length as they had been at the river. There was comfort in the familiar, in the notion that she and Conall had an intimate ritual all their own. His hand was warm at her hip, his light stroke encouraging. ‘Tell me? Sometimes the best way to exorcise ghosts is to confront them.’
Here in this little candlelit cocoon of theirs, she could tell her story, needed to tell her story perhaps in order to let it go, to be rid of its power over her. ‘There was no one I could turn to. I was an outsider. I barely spoke any of the language. No one was willing to risk Il Marchese’s wrath to help a foreigner. So, I learned to help myself.’ It had been another reason why he’d been so keen on an English bride. The language barrier, the new culture, being an outsider had all been restrictions of their own. Prisons without walls, without locks. She’d been entirely reliant on him.
Conall’s grey eyes were steady. ‘And your wedding night? Was he cruel then, too?’
‘He brought ropes and a blindfold to our wedding chamber,’ Sofia confessed. ‘He felt it was important to initiate his virgin bride to his tastes immediately. Later, he had other games. Many were physical, not all of them. I made the mistake of thinking humiliation only existed in the physical variety. It didn’t. There were the clothes, the places he took me, the things he’d ask me to do.’ Sofia shook her head. ‘I don’t want to remember him tonight. I don’t want him to have a place here.’
‘And now he won’t. Here, in this room, in this bed, with me, you are safe. Always.’ He put his mouth on the brand, tracing it with kisses. ‘R is for redeemed, Sofia.’ And then the loving began. He came astride her, straddling her body with his long, muscled legs, his head lowering to kiss her mouth, her throat, her breasts and the valley in between leading to her navel. ‘Will you let me be in charge tonight? Let me show you that it can be good even when you are not in control?’
How easily he’d divined the secret that had sustained her courage on the river bank. He slid down her body, his hands framing her hips as he kissed her abdomen, the nest of her mons and, lower still, finding the seam of her. Kisses turned to licks, her sighs of delight to begging mewls. More, more, more. She was deliciously out of control, this mix of the new with the old. They had done this before, but tonight was different. They were naked, both of them entirely exposed, and she was giving him his lead, putting herself into position as the recipient, not the director of the pleasure, and it was a heady difference indeed even knowing what came next.
Conall raised up over her, his eyes dark with unrestrained desire, his arms bracketing her head, as he levered his body between her thighs, already wide, taking her in a swift thrust, her body ready for him, eager for him. Yes, this! her body cried. This was how it was supposed to be: a lover who was energetic and thorough, dedicated to mutual pleasure.
Sofia picked up his rhythm, hips rising in time with his; thrust and slide, thrust and slide, until the pleasure came again, claiming and receding like the tide with each pulse, each movement pushing her closer to the brink again. Only this time she was not alone, this time it would not be pleasure for only one, but for both. She could feel it in the gathering tension of his body, in the ragged inhalations of his shortening breaths. Climax was coming. And when it did, they shattered together, bodies slick, breathing laboured, desire satiated.
S
ofia floated in the aftermath, savouring the moments of bliss in no-man’s-land where no fear could reach her, no doubts. She snuggled against Conall’s shoulder, his arm draped across her hip as he dozed. She was drowsy, too, she could feel sleep coming for her on the wings of lovely, impossible dreams. She would fall asleep in this man’s arms every night; passion was hers for the taking as long as she conquered her fears. But before she let sleep claim her, Sofia reached up a hand to push an errant strand of hair out of Conall’s face and smiled at her sleeping husband and whispered the impossible words, ‘I love you.’ He’d given her a great gift tonight in ways that went far beyond the physical. She loved him, as much as she could allow herself to love a man.
* * *
She’d married the Viscount, the cunning bitch! Anger coursed like wildfire through Giancarlo. A lesser man would leave on the nine-fifty to Taunton and confront them both, but Giancarlo Bianchi liked to think he was not un elefante in un negozio di porcellane, charging in with no finesse. There was no game in that. No pain in it. Giancarlo gave his cigar a hard, satisfying snip and lit it on the balcony of his Coburg suite. Emotional castration, that was what he sought. He let out a long exhalation of smoke.
It had been a week of shocks. His man, Andelmo, had returned with a black eye and sore ribs, claiming he’d barely been able to drag himself to the train on its return to London. The Viscount was serious about her, then. Serious enough to follow a man with a knife into an alley unarmed. That level of seriousness had been borne out in The Times days later with the announcement of the marriage. Taunton was indeed serious about protecting her. But if Taunton thought a piece of paper would stop him, Taunton had misjudged. Possession was nine-tenths of the law. If he could drag Sofia back to Piedmont, he would let the Catholic King and the Pope sort out the legitimacy of a civil-licensed, Protestant marriage and see what Taunton had to say about that then.
Giancarlo blew out smoke. Of course Sofia had married. She knew he was coming. She must be very scared indeed. She didn’t know when, however. That was what made the game delicious. Now, he could claim a dilettante’s pleasure in the planning, knowing that every day he delayed was a day of agony for her. Did she realise yet she was the proverbial sitting duck? Marriage had not set her free, it had trapped her. She could not run now. Which meant time was on his side. He knew where she was and where she’d be when he chose to make his move. He would do so when her guard was down, when she thought the Viscount had made her safe. There was just enough trust left in her to believe such a fairy tale one last time. He would have to go through the Viscount, though. That was an unplanned circumstance, but it was easily done. Everyone had an Achilles heel and he already knew Taunton’s. Hargreaves had told him: that damned alpaca project. But it also gave him the perfect opening.
He’d enjoy taking her pet project and turning it against her just as much as he’d enjoy making her a widow. That would certainly cut through the marital paperwork. Perhaps he’d shoot the Viscount in front of her to make sure she understood he meant business. Giancarlo took another long drag on the cigar and leaned on the wrought-iron railing. ‘Ah, my dear. I am coming for you and this time I will never let you go.’
Chapter Nineteen
He was never going to let her go. It was Conall’s first thought upon waking, Sofia’s warm body in his arms and sunlight streaming through the window curtains. It was the perfect morning, as had been the last week of mornings and only a fool wouldn’t want more of them. By all accounts, it had been an unorthodox honeymoon. Under other circumstances a man of his stature would have taken his summer bride to the Lake District and a quiet, charming country house, but he had alpaca to shear and a mill to oversee, so they’d settled immediately into the rhythm of daily married life, splitting their time between hiring for the mill and overseeing the shearing. Their days were full and dinners were served late in order to maximise all the daylight possible. But after the dishes were clear and the business of the day was behind them, the nights were theirs. As a result, the alpaca were sheared, the mill was staffed. They had a competent overseer in place and they could begin to relax at least a little. They.
So many of his thoughts and sentences these days started with that word and it filled him with a terrifying happiness. How long could it last? Part of him embraced the happiness, but the other part was cautious, waiting for the moment when the bottom would fall out of the fantasy. Helena and Frederick had written, sending their congratulations and news. London had taken the announcement of their marriage with a mixture of mild neutrality and outrage.
Some simply hadn’t cared. There were other, more interesting scandals happening right under their noses. They didn’t need to beat the brush of the countryside for gossip. But others had cared greatly, mainly mothers with daughters who’d fancied themselves the next Viscountess of Taunton. Those hostesses would not make life easy for Sofia or perhaps for his family when the time came. He’d understood that risk from the start, they all had, and they’d chosen to accept it. That wasn’t necessarily the fantasy he was focused on losing. He’d never cared overmuch about London life. It was the fantasy between them, between him and Sofia. That was the fantasy he didn’t want to lose. He was holding a small piece of himself in collateral against that moment. Was she?
Sofia’s body stirred against him, implicitly answering his as she slowly came awake. Did she feel the same? Partly happy, partly fearful? He kissed her neck and nuzzled her ear. For her sake, he wanted to quash those fears, to give her an entirely fresh start.
That was his mission today: to secure that happiness, starting right now. He pressed another set of soft kisses to the back of her neck, a smile taking his mouth when he felt her stir. Her derrière wiggled deliciously against his groin as she stretched, a little mewl of delight indicating her willingness to play.
Her soft bottom bumped the hard length of him in invitation and he took it, entering her from behind in a long, lingering thrust, taking his time as he filled her and as she stretched to accommodate him. She made him feel as if he’d finished a long journey and arrived at the one place where he knew he belonged. How fantastic and strange to find that place with a stranger he had not known seven weeks ago. His hands cupped her breasts in a gentle holding. He listened to her sigh and he began to move again. As languorous as the joining was, it did not take long to bring them to a slow, boiling climax that left them both lazily soporific in its aftermath.
He played with her hair as he held her close, watching the sunlight turn it platinum and gold in shifts. ‘Spun gold, that’s the colour of your hair. Do you know the children’s tale of Rumpelstiltskin? The little man who spun straw into gold? I always imagined this was the colour of it.’
‘I like that. I carry a fortune in my hair.’ She gave a soft laugh.
‘Shall we ride out for a picnic today? Just the two of us?’ he cajoled quietly at her ear. She smelled like sage and love in the morning and he was already stirring for her again. ‘We can dance barefoot in the grass, fly kites and pick wild flowers. We can hunt for strawberries.’ There would be blankets and a hamper of food, and time to make love under the blue sky.
‘What about work?’ She hesitated with practicalities.
‘Beautiful days in England should not be wasted. We never know when we’ll get another,’ Conall joked. ‘Tell me you’ll come for a proper English picnic. Well, at least an improper English picnic. Proper ones aren’t nearly as much fun.’
She turned in his arms and wrapped her arms about his neck. ‘I suppose the mill can do without us for a day.’
* * *
It was to be a holiday in truth, a break from all that populated their days. They drove out to a weir, away from town, away from the mill, away from the pastures full of big, brown-eyed alpaca, away from the house with its constant bustle of people. For a woman who had lived three years quietly and mostly alone, it was a welcome change of pace. Not that she minded the constant companionship of
her new family and station in life, but it did take some getting used to.
She was finding, much to her surprise, she didn’t like sharing Conall all the time, yet part of what she adored about him was the way he selflessly gave of himself to others. There were other surprises, too, in these heady midsummer days. Her mantle of fear was slipping. Each day she waited for the bottom to fall out of her happiness and each day, when it didn’t, the horror of Andelmo’s attack receded, the belief growing that she could be safe here. The most wicked whisper of all took up residence in her conscience: maybe Conall was her reward. She had suffered and now she was entitled to some happiness of her own.
Not the least of the surprises was her personal happiness. She was happy. With Conall. Because of Conall. She had not expected happiness and she’d certainly not expected to find it with a man, in marriage. And yet, somehow, she had. Or most of her had. Part of her clung to the old admonition: when something sounded too good to be true...but each day the admonition faded just a bit more, overwhelmed by this new sense of freedom without fear. She laughed out loud for the pure joy of it. There was only light now.
A pleasant breeze blew at the blanket in her hands as she tried to spread it on the ground. ‘Did you bring those kites? The wind is picking up.’
‘I found Freddie’s old ones in the stable.’ Conall held up a furled bundle. ‘Shall we give it a try?’
He let out the string and motioned for her to join him. ‘Come hold the string.’
They got the kite aloft and Conall wrapped his arms about her, hands on hers where she held the ball of string. She was warm against him, smelling of sun and sage. This was all that mattered, being here with him. He wished it was that simple.
‘Let the string out a little, it wants to soar,’ he coached her gently, but the wind gusted, tugging hard at the kite, and Sofia gasped, the string slipping out of her hands. ‘Oh, no! It’s getting away, Conall!’
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story Page 17
