by Katy Madison
Keene pressed his lips together in a resolute line, but a hopeless look shadowed his eyes.
Victor regretted his needling, but he couldn't stop. Anger fed him like mother's milk. "I do hope you will not demand satisfaction, sir. For I won't be able to give you a good fight."
"I should not ask it of you."
God, the man was always so perfectly polite and poised. Victor envied him his composure as much as he wanted to rattle him out of it. "What will you do?"
"Nothing. You will not speak of it, either."
"You are such a cold fish."
The glare Keene gave him was anything but cold.
"I swear on my father's grave, I shall not speak of your wife's condition or how she came to that pass. To anyone else, at least. It's quite understandable, though. She is a pretty thing, very lively."
Keene's glare intensified. "Stay away from her."
Victor knew he had pressed enough. "I am in no condition to pursue your wife, sir."
"I'll kill any man who so much as touches her."
Did Keene actually love his wife? "You could have chosen annulment."
Keene's lips twisted. "No, I could not."
There was more here than met the eye, but Victor no longer had the energy to ferret out the truth. The exertion of climbing the stairs wore on him. Sweat streamed down his sides and back although a winter chill permeated the house. Keene deposited him on a bench while he sought out an upper servant to inform him where his friend would sleep. Victor supposed if he died here in the main hallway someone would find him eventually.
In the end, Keene had to seek out his Cousin Jane to learn where to deposit his friend and request aid in getting him to bed.
"I hope your friends shall not mind, but I have put them together as we have more guests than we anticipated. You, of course, will be in Sophie's room. You know where that is. Your friends shall be two rooms down on the same side of the hall." Jane patted his arm and moved on to another guest, who was asking where she might retire for the afternoon.
Keene didn't know how well sharing a room would go between Victor and George. He supposed if they refrained from killing each other it would be well enough. Keene searched the drawing room for Sophie, wondering if he should ask for her assistance in getting Victor care. He didn't see her among the guests. He wasn't sure he was ready to see her after the news her father had shared.
The information hadn't settled in his stomach yet. The haste of the marriage surprised him, so there was reason to be suspicious. Yet, he hadn't reconciled what he thought was Sophie's innocence with the notion that her father had seen her with a man. Although the language had been couched enough that he couldn't quite be certain how much Farthing had seen.
Very likely Keene could have asked him to be more specific, but as the words fell from his father-in-law's mouth he wanted to scoop them up and shove them back in. Not that it would have made any difference if he had known in advance of his proposal. His father wanted Sophie's bloodline. He felt the fool, playing to what he thought was her innocence.
After a passing glance at George, who was imbibing rather freely of the champagne offered in the drawing room, Keene left to return upstairs. But as he passed the main hall he saw the front door shut. He moved to a window and saw his wife slipping and sliding through the newly fallen snow.
* * *
Sophie kicked through the snow. A layer of ice below the thin coating of white prevented running. The late winter snow resembled little pellets more than the fine mist of dreams, but then, snow was rare around her home. She'd needed to get out of the crowded drawing room, where her new husband was missing and everyone politely refrained from mentioning his absence while their eyes circled the room.
Only his friend's attendance let her know that Keene was even in the house. His other friend, the one who had looked ill, had been missing since the ceremony. Sophie supposed Keene found his friend more entertaining than her. Although he rarely noticed her when she didn't need rescue. Which was all a pack of feeling sorry for herself, and she needed to quit this instant.
Sophie threw her arms wide, embracing the chill of the winter storm. Her boots slid out from beneath her, and she met the ground with a jarring thump. She giggled, releasing pent-up energy. She couldn't be too mad at Keene when she had spent hours before the wedding wondering if he would even show up. He had done that, and, God willing, she would have years with him.
Tonight he would join her in her bedroom and would kiss her and do all the other things that made a woman a wife. No doubt Keene would be good at that.
She supposed it was odd to be looking forward to such things. Certainly no one had encouraged her to anticipate her wedding night with pleasure.
Maybe if it was anyone other than Keene she would have been more frightened. Sir Gresham had been so serious that she feared a misplaced nervous giggle would bring his wrath down upon her head. Ponsby was so big that the thought of him sharing a bed and possibly rolling over her in his sleep was frightening.
Her heart thumped madly when she thought of Keene kissing her, as if she were in the throes of terror. She rather liked the feeling of it, the way her bones melted like wax, her stomach danced like dragonflies on a pond surface, the warm heat that flooded through her. Each brush of his body, each touch of his hand, every press of his lips made her tingle from head to toe. And if he invited her to take the lead, she promised herself no more biting.
She leaned back, indulging in her speculations about the coming night. Her father would have her on bread and water for a week if he knew the wicked nature of her thoughts.
Cold seeped from the ground up through her body. She welcomed the sensation. The wind whipped, whistling around her, and the sting of ice pellets bit her cheeks. Settling the hood of her cloak more firmly around her head, she sat up.
The crunch of thin ice shattered her thoughts. She scrambled to her feet. Who had joined her outside? She swiveled around. The wind whipped her hood against her face, blocking her vision.
"Sophie?"
"Keene," she breathed his name on a sigh. She managed to get her hood adjusted so she could see.
He looked mad as thunderclouds. "You should not be outside."
Her smile froze on her face. The last thing she wanted on her wedding day was a lecture from her new spouse. She turned around, sucking down her disappointment. "Why not?"
"You could fall and hurt yourself. You should not take risks with your condi—you should not be out here."
"I wouldn't get hurt if I fell, I'm very near to the ground." It was not as if she was on horseback or racing a dogcart.
"Sophie, come along. I want you back inside."
Would he be just like her father? "Have I made you angry? For I did not mean to."
He came closer. "I am concerned for you. I should not wish to see you endangering your health or your . . ." His voice trailed off.
Sophie faced him. He looked both angry and distracted. "My what?"
He looked off toward the horizon. Sophie frowned. He turned back toward her. His eyes searched her face. The wind tugged at her hood and made her cheeks sting with cold as she waited for him to speak.
"You are my wife now, and mine alone."
She hadn't expected him to say anything like that, but the words poured through her like heated honey.
"Whatever has gone before is done. Do you understand?"
No, but Sophie decided to nod. She wasn't about to protest anything when he had claimed her as his.
"Certainly I have been with many women before, but what's past is past."
Sophie stared at him. Was he saying he would be loyal? After what her mother said about making herself crazy for expecting too much, she hadn't thought he'd promise fidelity.
She stepped toward him. "You will be true to me?"
He blinked.
Sophie had the awful sinking feeling she had assumed too much. In her effort to back away, she slid, probably on the same patch of ice that had done h
er in before. Whenever she was around Keene, her normal grace—or at least normal ability to avoid predicaments—deserted her. Both feet went in opposite directions, and she fought to plant them on the layer of snow-covered ice.
Keene caught her around the waist and jerked her against him. For a second they both wavered as her face plowed into his midsection. Then he raised her upright. She wasn't sure why she did it, perhaps to reassure herself that he was really here, but she brushed her fingers across his cheek. His hand closed over hers, his skin warm where hers was cold.
The moment hung in the air like the white puffs that marked their expelled breath. His dark eyes searched her face and dropped to her lips. He pressed against her, and found her mouth with his.
There was a second of the gentle pressure she expected, but then the kiss changed. His breath mingled with hers. His flavor invaded her mouth. The wet swirl of the kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced. This was no namby-pamby kiss, it was wild. It was scorching. And she loved it.
He pulled her tight against his frame. The cold wind assaulted her as her hood fell back, but his hold fired her blood. She clung to him, her arms around his neck. He bent her backward as if he meant to devour her. He moved his hands under her cloak, pulling her closer and stroking over her in the same motion. His mouth never leaving hers, he lowered her to the ground.
Sophie couldn't think beyond feeling his weight against her, the demand of his lower body, the magic he created with his mouth. The wind whipped around them while he kneed her legs apart. His hips settled in the cradle of her split legs. The heaviness against her woman's core was strange and hard and made her breath come in short snatches.
Her breasts ached. She grabbed his roaming hand and placed it over her chest. He flicked his thumb over the tightened tip of her breast. A shooting burst of sensation traveled down her body, centering low in her, where his body met hers. Instinct took over and her hips twisted, both seeking and escaping the pressure of his body. Her legs drew up involuntarily, rubbing against his. She wanted this to go on and on. At the same time, the powerful sensations brewed like a storm within her. She whimpered, wanting the fury and fearing she would fall apart within it.
His mouth moved away from hers. She couldn't tell what he was doing, but she suspected he was tugging their clothing aside. Panic rushed through her. Here? Now? In the snow? "Keene?"
He stopped moving, closed his eyes and turned away slightly. For a second the only sound was the rasp of their breathing. Then he settled his lips against her neck, his kiss gentle but nonetheless evocative. His hand lay against her thigh, his fingers rubbed in a circle. He shifted his hand up, his thumb settled just inside the jut of her hipbone.
Keene brushed his lips over her forehead. What was he doing? Her hands were like ice. Seducing his wife on the ground outside her home in full view of the windows hadn't been in his mind when he'd approached her. Seducing her? Hell, he was all but forcing her, except she hadn't uttered a protest and had thrown herself into his kiss with enthusiasm, with every inch of her body. But she sounded alarmed when she whispered his name. Confusion swirled through him. He never lost control.
He found her hands and brought them under his coat, tucking them under his arms to warm her nearly frozen fingers. He pulled her up to a sitting position and resettled her hood over her tangled blonde curls. He had never meant to handle her so roughly, treating her no better than a ha'penney whore. Her hands were so cold, they chilled him through his clothes. "We should go inside."
She looked at him, her blue eyes large, her lips swollen. She whispered as if unsure of him. "What just happened?"
God, she seemed so innocent, so uncertain of her response, which didn't seem a likely reaction for an experienced woman bearing another man's child.
He pulled her into his lap and bent his head, touching their foreheads. He had come out here with a plan to guide her back inside, and a half-baked idea that it would be a good time for a confession. That is, if there was anything to confess. She was so ready and willing, but yet managed to project an air of inexperience. His head swirled with confusion.
"I daresay I got carried away. Forgive me?"
"If you forgive me for biting you." Her gaze slid away from his, and she leaned into the crook of his neck.
He grinned. "I'd forgive you anything that is past, so long as you confess."
He waited with baited breath, but she didn't say anything. They couldn't sit out here in the ice and snow while he waited for an admission that might or might not come.
Perhaps there wasn't anything to tell. She was a physical girl. She liked running, jumping, swimming and climbing on window ledges. Perhaps the one saving grace of her enjoying athletic pursuits was that she should enjoy bedroom antics in an enthusiastic, whole-body way.
Her lack of reserve shouldn't matter. The saints forgive him, he should not be making love to his wife outside in February, whether or not she encouraged him.
The real question was, why would he get so carried away with her that he tried to lie with her on the cold ground? Any woman deserved the comfort of a bed, at least the first time. Even if it was only the first time with him, not the first time ever. "Come inside, Sophie, before we both catch our death of cold."
Christ, he had completely forgotten about Victor.
* * *
Keene found Victor slumped on the bench where he had left him. It had been nearly a month and a half since the duel. "Why is your wound still bleeding?"
"The surgeon has lanced it twice. He says it keeps growing putrid with infection. I daresay George managed to reopen it during our scuffle."
Keene tucked his arm around Victor's ribs, helping him rise to his feet. "Perhaps you need a new surgeon."
Victor leaned heavily on Keene. "Perhaps I need new friends."
They moved down the empty hallway. "Likely you do, but I daresay they will not punish you enough."
Victor laughed. It was a weak, coughing sound. "For heaven's sake, Keene. Go beat your wife if you feel the need to punish someone. I have done taking abuse from you."
Keene reached for the doorknob of the room assigned to his friend. He wouldn't punish Sophie. He hadn't a right to expect better of her. Spending one day in her father's house and her company in the last six years hardly made a reasonable foundation for a marriage. Damn Victor for overhearing everything, anyway. "But you are not done taking abuse from George?"
"The man is raising my child. I prophesy I shall take more cruelty from him."
Keene took note of his friends' traveling bags deposited near the door. "No doubt, for Mrs. Farthing has assigned you to the same room."
"Dear Lord. Shouldn't you have said something?"
Keene kicked the door shut. They hobbled toward the bed. At least it was rather large. "What should I have said? No, they cannot room together as Victor ruined George's wife, and they cannot stomach each other's company."
"Does George know?"
"No. He may be completely insensible by the time he is brought to bed, anyway."
"Ah, he is not the man we have known and loved."
Keene turned toward Victor as he helped him sit on the bed. Victor's observation rang with reality. George's reactions were not what either of them would have expected. In all their carousing over the past few years, George had been the one to temper their wildest urges, to remind them they were gentlemen and that everyone from the lowest violet seller to the tiniest chimney sweep deserved kindness and consideration. He had been the one to preach moderation in food and drink, reminding them that overindulgence would lead to headaches and hangovers. "It only goes to show how deeply hurt he has been."
Victor shrugged out of his jacket. "Amelia loves his restraint."
Pulling the jacket down Victor's arms, Keene was caught off guard by the sincerity and regret in Victor's tone.
The words could have easily been facetious given the latest turn of events, but they weren't. There was both longing and resignation in Victor's tone, as
if he both wanted her and yet knew she wasn't for him, and had perhaps known all along. But why hadn't Victor married her? Why bed her and not offer the shelter of his name? He obviously cared for her in spite of his protests that she was too easily seduced.
Victor had also spoken of marriage for himself. While Keene couldn't bring himself to ask the complicated questions about Victor's feelings toward George's wife, he could needle him about his single state. "Are you so jealous of George's and my deep wedded bliss that you intend to emulate our state?"
"Something like that. You know those pistols we used in the duel have a curse."
"Yes, they are about as true as a sailor's wife."
"Truer than the sailor, no doubt." Victor smiled weakly. "You should be thankful for that, for I did not mean to miss. No, there is the legend that the true winner of the duel shall find happiness in marriage, and the loser shall be doomed to a wife from hell. Since you so obviously have been the loser in the parson's mousetrap, I must, of course, seek a wife."
"Now, there is a good reason to marry."
"Well as it is, I need a wife."
"Do you have someone in mind?"
"Perhaps a cit. You should have taken the five hundred pounds a year. Do you think I could find a girl in trouble whose father would pay me large sums to save her honor?"
Keene paused in pulling the shirt away from Victor's wound. He yanked it hard, feeling the tug of dried blood as the shirt ripped free.
"Damn, man!"
Victor covered the oozing wound with a folded handkerchief. Fresh blood soaked the cloth. A drop crept out from underneath the pad and trickled down his bare chest.
The sight tempered Keene's anger. He couldn't lambaste a man who was bleeding all over the place, and he would have to help him bandage the wound as it was his broken carriage that had forced all their valets to stay behind. He had to ask himself, was he truly angry at Victor or did Victor's willingness to probe at his wounds make him a useful target?
"I would ask you, sir, to not speak despairingly of my wife."
"You love her, don't you?"
The assumption floored Keene. "I daresay not. My father loves her pedigree." Which was information he had not intended to divulge. "Good God, Victor, do not ever repeat that or I shall have to find a better set of pistols."
