by Lisa Kleypas
“Is it?” Nick asked lazily. “That’s an interesting coincidence.”
It was clear that behind Cannon’s set face, his mind was busy sifting through questions. “Yes,” he agreed. “Very interesting.”
And to Nick’s relief, the magistrate left his rooms without another word.
As soon as Sophia returned to Bow Street, she took advantage of Ross’s absence and went to the criminal records room. It was an ideal time to search for the information her brother had requested, since Vickery and the other clerks had gone to a local tavern for a supper of beef and ale. The offices would remain largely unoccupied until one of the assistant magistrates returned to prepare for the evening court session.
Sophia’s slender fingers combed rapidly through the file drawer as she hunted for the notes that had been taken during George Fenton’s questioning. A single lamp illuminated the small room, providing barely enough light for her to read.
Eventually her attention was caught by a particular page, and she held it closer. There were references to both Nick Gentry and George Fenton. Realizing that she had found what she was seeking, Sophia folded the page and began to tuck it into her sleeve.
Suddenly she heard footsteps, and the sound of the doorknob turning. She had been caught. Her heart propelled upward in one great choking lump, and she shoved the page back into the drawer and slammed it shut just as the door swung open.
Ross stood there, his lean face shadowed and impassive. “Why are you in here?”
Apprehension swamped her, and she moistened her lips nervously. Certainly Ross could see how white her face was. She knew that she was the very picture of guilt. Desperately she seized on the first lie she could think of.
“I was… trying to replace information I had taken from the files, back when I was hoping to discredit you and the runners.”
“I see.” His face softened as he approached her. He took her chin in his hand, his fingers stroking the soft space beneath her jaw. Sophia forced herself to meet his gaze, although her soul cringed at deceiving him. A caressing smile touched Ross’s lips. “There is no need to look so guilty. You didn’t harm anyone.”
He began to spread light, wandering kisses over her face. “Sophia,” he murmured, “Morgan found out today who sent you the necklace.”
Drawing back, Sophia tried to look as though she didn’t already know the answer. “Who is it?” she asked unsteadily.
“Nick Gentry.”
Her heart began to pound with uncomfortable force. “Why would he do that?”
“This afternoon I paid a visit to Gentry, to ask him that question. Apparently he had taken an interest in you, and wishes to become your protector in the event that our relationship ends.”
“Oh.” Unable to meet his gaze any longer, Sophia pressed herself against him, hiding her face against his shoulder. Her voice was muffled by his coat. “Did you tell him that would never happen?”
His arm slid around her. “Gentry won’t bother you again, Sophia. I’ll make certain of it.”
If only that were true, she thought miserably, caught in a violent welter of feelings. She was furious at her brother for putting her in this terrible position, yet she still loved him and believed there was goodness in him. She was certain that he was not completely beyond redemption. On the other hand, there was not much to recommend about a man who was willing to blackmail his own sister.
The temptation to confide in Ross was overwhelming, and she bit her lip to contain the words that battled frantically inside her. Only the chilling fear of losing him kept her silent. Trembling from distress and frustration, she leaned harder against his supportive body.
Feeling her shake against him, Ross made a soothing sound. His warm breath feathered the delicate crevices of her ear as he nuzzled her. “You’re not afraid, are you?” His arms surrounded her. “Sweetheart, there’s no reason to be upset. You’re safe.”
“I know,” she said, her teeth chattering. “It’s just that the past few days have been a bit of a strain.”
“You’re tired,” he murmured. “You need a hot brandy, and a relaxing bath, and a night of sleep—”
“I need you.” Sophia grasped his collar and tugged his head down, straining hungrily to reach his lips.
At first Ross was reluctant, returning her kiss with restraint. “Easy,” he whispered when their mouths parted. “You don’t want this right now—”
She crushed her lips against his, pushed her tongue into the dark sweetness of his mouth, until his resistance crumbled and he began to breathe harshly.
“This is what I want,” she whispered, pulling his hand to her breast. “Please. Don’t deny me, Ross.”
With objections still poised on his lips, he cradled the weight of her breast and bent his head to kiss her throat. Rapidly his concern was replaced by desire. A groan of pure lust escaped him, and he reached down to clamp her bottom in his hands. He lifted her onto the top of the file drawers, his mouth continuing to devour hers. Sophia sat and parted her stocking-clad legs with shameful eagerness, allowing him to stand between them.
“We can’t do this here,” Ross muttered, his hand searching inside the rustling mass of her skirts. “If a clerk should walk in and see—”
“I don’t care.” She pulled his head to hers again.
Their mouths meshed and clung until they were both robbed of breath. Sophia moaned as his fingers slid past the slit of her drawers, gently fondling her moistening flesh. “I want you,” she gasped, her hand descending to press on his.
“Sophia…” Ross ground out the word against the side of her neck. “Let’s go to my room…”
“Now,” she insisted. Greedily she fumbled with the front of his trousers to free his straining erection.
Abandoning all attempts to dissuade her, Ross helped her with a muffled laugh. “Insatiable minx,” he accused, sliding her hips to the edge of the cabinet. He entered her in a smooth, deep plunge that made her gasp. “There… will this satisfy you?”
“Yes. Yes…” She leaned back helplessly against his arm.
Supporting her back and buttocks, Ross lifted her completely off the cabinet, keeping her fully impaled. He brought her to the door and pinned her against it, allowing her legs to dangle helplessly on either side of his hips. Sophia moaned as he thrust at exactly the right angle, stroking inside her, rubbing against the most sensitive part of her sex.
“Sophia,” he growled, his rhythm unceasing, “I want an answer now.”
Panting, she stared at him in bewilderment. “An answer?”
“I want you to say you’ll marry me.”
“Oh, Ross… not now. I want to think some more.”
“Now,” he insisted, suddenly holding still inside her. “Do you want me? A simple yes or no will suffice.”
She clutched at his shoulders while her body throbbed with longing. “Don’t stop. Don’t.”
His brilliant gray eyes stared into hers as he resumed his thrusting at a torturously slow pace… the deep, prolonged drives that he knew would drive her mad. “Yes or no?”
“I won’t answer that question now,” she said, writhing uncontrollably. “You will have to wait.”
“Then so will you.” His mouth caught hers in a hard, wet kiss. “We’ll wait just like this,” he whispered. “And I vow, Sophia, that your toes are not going to touch the floor until I have my answer.” He rocked against her gently, his sex penetrating even deeper than before.
A sob rose in her throat. She was so close, her body primed for release, her emotions strained beyond bearing. Nothing mattered but him. In one reckless, greedy, soul-anguished moment, she chose what she wanted most. Her mouth moved against his, pressing a silent word to his lips.
“What?” he asked urgently, drawing his head back to look at her. “What did you say?”
“I said yes,” she moaned. “Yes. Ross, please help me, please—”
“I’ll help you,” he whispered tenderly, and muffled her cries with his mouth as h
e gave her exactly what she needed.
Chapter 15
Following a simple wedding ceremony in the private chapel on the Silverhill Park estate, Ross’s mother hosted a ball that was attended by guests from at least three counties. Sophia tried not to be overwhelmed by the surfeit of attention. Countless newspapers and magazines had published information concerning Sir Ross Cannon’s bride, where and when the wedding would take place, and even where they were to live. Gossip raged in salons, coffeehouses, and taverns. The revelation that Sir Ross’s new wife was the daughter of a viscount added more spice to the story, for it was also known that she had worked for him at Bow Street.
Sophia was gratified by the Cannons’ ready acceptance of her, and especially by the warmth that his mother displayed. “My friends have asked me to describe you,” Catherine had told her the day before the wedding. Assorted guests sat in the parlor, some playing games at the card table, some strolling arm in arm through the circuit of family rooms. A few women were engaged in needlework, while gentlemen sat with newspapers and conferred on the day’s events. “Naturally,” Catherine continued, “they are all exceedingly curious about what kind of woman would manage to capture Ross’s heart.”
“His heart isn’t the part of his anatomy that she’s captured,” Matthew muttered nearby.
Catherine turned toward him inquiringly. “What did you say, darling?”
He managed to produce an insincere smile. “I said my brother has indeed been captured. One can hardly recognize him for that witless grin he has taken to wearing.” A few guests laughed upon overhearing the comment, as the change in Sir Ross’s usually remote demeanor had been generally remarked upon. Many had agreed that it had been a very long while since Sir Ross had seemed so lighthearted and relaxed.
As Matthew spoke, Ross entered the parlor and went over to Sophia. Picking up her hand, which was resting on the curved back of the settee, he lifted it to his lips and whispered, “Shall I tell them why I’m smiling?”
The wicked gleam in his eyes reminded Sophia of the passionate interlude they had shared the previous night, when he had sneaked into her room and joined her in bed. She frowned at him while her cheeks colored. Laughing at her discomfiture, Ross seated himself beside her on the settee. “And how do you describe my fiancée to your friends, Mother?” he asked Catherine, picking up the threads of the conversation.
“I tell them that she is the most delightful young woman I have ever met. Not to mention lovely.”
Catherine glanced at Sophia’s peach-colored gown with an approving eye. “Is that a new dress, dear? The color is most becoming.”
Sophia did not dare glance at Ross. The subject of her clothes had provoked a heated argument between them just a few days earlier. Because Ross had insisted on marrying her so quickly, there had been no time for Sophia to have new gowns made. And since he was a man, he had not given a single thought to her trousseau. The only clothes Sophia possessed were the dark dresses she had worn at Bow Street, all of them made with coarse fabric and no embellishments. She had cringed at the thought of being wed in one of those drab garments and then attending a ball in it. Therefore she had approached Ross with some trepidation and asked for the return of the lavender-silver gown.
“As you no longer require it for an investigation,” she had told him in his office, “I would like to have it back, please.”
Ross had received the request with disgruntled surprise. “What do you need it for?”
“It is the only suitable gown I have to get married in,” she said calmly.
A scowl settled on his face. “You are not going to wear that at our wedding.”
“It is a perfectly lovely gown,” she persisted. “There is no reason why I can’t wear it.”
“Yes, there is,” he countered in outrage. “It came from Nick Gentry.”
Sophia returned his scowl. “No one will know that.”
“I’ll know it. And I’ll be damned if I will allow you to wear it.”
“Fine, then. What will you have me wear?”
“Choose a dressmaker—I will take you anywhere you wish this afternoon.”
“No dressmaker will be able to make a suitable gown in three days. In fact, there is barely enough time to alter the lavender one. And I will not marry you in front of all your friends and family looking like a beggar!”
“You can borrow a gown from my mother. Or Iona.”
“Your mother is nearly six feet tall and as thin as a rail,” Sophia pointed out. “And I’ll be damned if I will wear a gown of Iona’s and then endure snide comments from your brother about it. Now, where have you put the lavender gown?”
Glowering, Ross leaned back in his chair and propped the heel of his boot against the side of the desk. “It’s in the evidence room,” he muttered.
“My gown, in the evidence room?” she exclaimed indignantly. “No doubt it has been shoved onto some filthy shelf!”
As she hurried out of the office, his curses could be heard down the hallway.
Rather than allow Sophia to wear the lavender silk, Ross had actually sent three runners out to investigate various dressmakers. Somehow they managed to find one who was willing to sell a gown that was part of another order. It would cost a fortune, the dressmaker warned, as she would probably lose one of her most valued clients as a result. Ross paid the hefty sum without a word of protest.
To Sophia’s private relief, the dressmaker presented her with an exquisite pale blue gown with a flattering square-cut bodice and a fashionably low waistband. The full skirts were adorned with glittering beadwork flowers, as were the full, elbow-length sleeves. It was a magnificent creation that fitted her almost perfectly and required very few adjustments. In a display of generosity, the dressmaker had also allowed Ross to purchase two other gowns from her other client’s order, so that Sophia would have day dresses to wear at Silverhill Park.
On their wedding day, Sophia wore her hair pinned in curls atop her head, with silver ribbons woven throughout. A necklace of pearls and diamonds was clasped around her neck, a gift that Ross had sent to her that very morning. She felt like a princess in the shimmering gown, the clicking weight of pearls around her neck, the heeled satin shoes on her feet. The wedding ceremony was a transcendent dream, anchored only by the warm grip of Ross’s hands and the silver intensity of his eyes. At the conclusion of the vows, he bent to brand her with the possessive heat of his lips, a brief caress that contained the promise of much more.
Champagne flowed freely at the wedding banquet, an eight-course feast that was followed by a lavish ball. Sophia was introduced to hundreds of people, and before long she was weary of smiling and her ears were ringing. It was impossible for her to remember more than a few of the multitude of new faces. Some people did stand out in her memory, one of them being Sir Grant Morgan’s wife, Lady Victoria. Having long been curious about what kind of woman would wed the intimidating giant, Sophia was surprised to discover that his wife was quite small of stature. Lady Victoria was also one of the most spectacularly beautiful women Sophia had ever seen, with a voluptuous figure, a profusion of vivid red hair, and a vivacious smile.
“Lady Sophia,” the petite red-haired woman said warmly, “no words can express how thrilled we are that Sir Ross has finally married. Only a remarkable woman could have enticed him away from widowerhood.”
Sophia returned her smile. “The advantage of the match is entirely mine, I assure you.”
Sir Grant interceded, his green eyes twinkling warmly. He seemed far different from when he was at Bow Street, and Sophia observed that he basked in the presence of his wife as a cat would in sunshine. “I beg to disagree, my lady,” he told Sophia. “The match holds many advantages for Sir Ross—which is obvious to all who know him.”
“Indeed,” Lady Victoria added thoughtfully, her gaze finding Ross’s dark form as he stood in a separate receiving line. “I’ve never seen him look so well. In fact, this may be the first time I’ve ever seen him smile.”
<
br /> “And his face didn’t even crack,” Morgan commented.
“Grant,” his wife scolded beneath her breath. Sophia laughed. Morgan winked at her and drew his wife away.
As the musicians played a piece by Bach, Sophia searched the crowd for a glimpse of Ross. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen now. The sweet melody provided by strings and a transverse flute made her feel curiously wistful. Glancing at the glittering skirts of her gown, Sophia smoothed them with a gloved hand. She imagined the pleasure her parents might have felt if they had known she would marry a man like Sir Ross. And she had no doubt of the grief they would have suffered to learn what had become of their only son. Suddenly feeling very much alone, Sophia wished that her brother could have attended her wedding, although that was obviously impossible. He and she lived in different worlds, and there would never be a way to close the distance between them.
“Lady Sophia.” A voice intruded on her thoughts, and she was confronted with the last face she would ever have expected to see.
“Anthony,” she whispered, her heart dropping in a sickening plunge.
Anthony Lyndhurst was just as she had remembered, handsome and blond, wearing a self-important smile. Sophia could not believe that he had the gall to approach her. Stricken, she did not curtsy in response to his bow.
“My congratulations on your marriage,” he said softly.
It took all of Sophia’s strength to conceal her turmoil. Frantically she wondered why Anthony had come and who had invited him. Was there to be no peace even on her wedding day?
“Walk with me,” he suggested, indicating the long portrait gallery that branched off the drawing room.
“No,” she replied in a low tone.
“I insist.” He proffered his arm, making it impossible for her to refuse without causing a scene. Pasting a brittle smile on her face, Sophia rested her gloved fingers on his coat. She accompanied him to the gallery, which was far less crowded than the drawing room. “You’ve done quite well for yourself, Sophia,” Anthony remarked. “Marrying a Cannon will give you considerable status and fortune. Well done.”
