For All Eternity

by Heather Cullman

  “Perhaps.” She sighed and shook her head. “The only thing I know for certain is that you deserved far more respect and consideration than you received from me. I can’t imagine why you wanted to marry me. I was such a conceited little fool.”

  So dejected, so very remorseful did she look, that he rushed to ease her conscience by confessing, “I wanted you because you were beautiful and because the ton had decreed you the finest of the Season’s Marriage Mart offerings. The shameful truth is that while I admired you, I didn’t love you. Not in the way a man should love the woman he marries. So you see, I was as much a fool as you. You couldn’t see past my scar, and I couldn’t see past your desirability.”

  Rather than be mollified, she looked positively crestfallen. Certain that she’d misunderstood his reason for telling her what he had, he elaborated, “What I’m trying to say, Sophie, is that I’m as much to blame for what happened in London as you. If I had opened my eyes and really looked at you, I’d have seen your loathing for me and never proposed. Perhaps then you might not be in your current fix.”

  “Perhaps. But I’d also never have opened my own eyes and discovered what a wonderful man you are,” she whispered. The instant she uttered the words, she wished she could take them back. What did he care that she’d had a change of heart? It wasn’t as if he were lovelorn and languishing over her. One couldn’t be lovelorn if they had never loved in the first place. Embarrassed, she bowed her head and pretended to smooth the scarlet silk cap ties.

  After several beats of silence, he murmured, “Sophie?”

  “H-m-m?”

  “If I weren’t scarred, do you think you could have learned to love me?”

  There was rawness in his voice, a heartbreaking inflection of hopelessness and yearning that caught her off guard and made her glance up at him. He didn’t look at her, but at Ming-Ming, who lay on her side, slobbering. As he always did when in her company, he held his head at an angle, hiding his disfigurement. Her throat strangled by emotion, she choked out, “Oh, Nicholas. I — “

  “No.” He turned his head abruptly to face her, treating her to a full view of his scar. “Don’t answer. I’m sorry. I had no right to ask you such a question.”

  She smiled tenderly, aching at the pain in his eyes. “I shall be pleased to answer.”

  “Sophie — “

  “The answer is yes, my lord. I have discovered that you are a very easy man to love.”

  “Sophie — ” He more groaned than uttered the word.

  “No. I’m not finished. I have also discovered that I like your scar … very much.” Her smile broadening, she met his gaze. He returned it unblinking, his dark eyes gleaming with hope, yet tortured with uncertainty. Desperate to prove the truth of her words, to free him from his haunting doubt, she reached out and gently touched his damaged cheek.

  He closed his eyes, flinching convulsively.

  Her motions slow and deliberate, she traced the length of the scar, exploring its texture. It felt smooth and cool, like a satin ribbon in the silk of his skin. When she reached the end, she cupped his entire cheek in her hand and cradled it as if it were the most precious thing on earth. And to her it was, he was. “Such a lovely, dashing scar,” she murmured. “How did you get it?”

  “Quentin cut me with a saber,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “What!”

  “He didn’t do it on purpose. He was only five at the time.”

  “Five! Whatever was a child that age doing with a saber?” she exclaimed, utterly shocked.

  He smiled faintly, though he still didn’t open his eyes. “Like all boys, he was fascinated with fencing. His favorite game was engaging in swordplay, using sticks for foils. One day, just before his sixth birthday, he decided that he was old enough for a real sword. The one he set his sights on was our grandfather’s saber, which hangs over the fireplace in the armory at Somerville Castle.” “I’m surprised he could lift it,” she interjected. “I picked up Uncle John’s saber when I was ten, and it took almost all the strength in both arms to do so.” “He couldn’t lift it, not really, which is how I got cut.” His smile faded then, and he sighed. “It was I who discovered him standing on the mantel, trying to lift it from the wall. He succeeded just as I reached him. Because of the weight of the sword, he was pulled off balance, and when I moved to block his fall, the blade somehow sliced my cheek.”

  “Oh, Nicholas! How awful! You could have been killed,” she cried, her heart missing a beat at his peril. “I do hope Quentin was contrite.”

  “Very. He cried much harder than I, though I must confess that it was a long while before I could look in the mirror without weeping. It took a year for me to accept the fact that I was scarred, and two to become accustomed to the sight of it. I hadn’t thought much about it in years until, well — “

  He opened his eyes then and looked at her, his gaze searching as it touched hers. His voice raw with emotion, he whispered, “Is it true, Sophie? Do you no longer find my scar repulsive?”

  Spurred by her need to reassure him, she slipped her hand from his cheek to his chin and drew his face to hers. Murmuring, “Would I do this to something I find repulsive?” she kissed his scar.

  He groaned her name once, then his arms closed around her and he dragged her to him, crushing her so near that she was forced to straddle his lap. Gazing at her with the adoration she’d so longed to see, he swooped down and captured her mouth with his. She sighed her pleasure and pressed against him, returning his passion with a fervor that echoed his.

  Oh, but his kiss was wonderful … rough yet tender and filled with a demand that awakened the most unimaginable feelings within her. Her whole body felt hot, as if he’d lit a fire inside her that danced beneath her skin and made her burn in places that were as shocking as they were secret. It was that heat that made her twine her legs around his waist, pressing and rubbing against his belly … seeking… though what she sought, she didn’t know.

  Nicholas knew, and he groaned his torment. Dear God! Did she know what she did to him? The feel of her, her long legs clinched about his waist and her womanhood surging against his belly …

  A ragged sob escaped him. Heaven help him! It was more than he could bear. Never in his life had he desired a woman as he did Sophie; never had he felt such urgency, such unbridled need. There was no coyness in her passion, no self-consciousness or calculation. She gave it freely and joyously, with a generosity that was as innocent as it was brazen. Driven beyond all thought by her responsiveness, Nicholas deepened the kiss.

  Sighing her rapture, Sophie melted against him, growing boneless with pleasure as wave after thrilling wave of new sensation washed over her. Oh, those sensations… the ecstasy! They kindled within her the strangest and most bewildering desires, ones that made her moan and flush and quiver all over. She sighed again and clung to him yet tighter. Ecstasy, yes … sheer ecstasy.

  Moaning in a way that gave voice to his own desire, Nicholas eased Sophie back onto the stable floor, never once pausing in his amorous assault on her mouth. When she lay beneath him, her legs about his hips and her thinly veiled womanhood pressed against the bulge in his trousers, something inside him snapped. Sobbing at the intensity of his need, he thrust hard, convulsively rubbing and grinding his arousal against her.

  “Oh, Nicholas,” she moaned into his mouth, thrashing in frenzied response.

  With a hoarse cry that echoed hers, Nicholas arched up and again slammed against her. She whimpered and clasped his taut buttocks, pinning his erection against her, her body stiffening as she thrilled to the resulting sensation. He reciprocated, grasping her backside to lift her to him. Shuddering and jerking with every move, he thrust against her over and over again.

  Maddened by a need she didn’t understand but desperately wished to relieve, Sophie wildly rubbed her sex against his pummeling one, growing more frenzied with every thrust. “Oh, Nicholas, please!” she begged, though what she begged for she didn’t know. All she knew was that she would d
ie if she didn’t get it. “Nicholas, please — “

  Yap!-Yap!-Yap!

  Neigh!-Whinny!

  Thump!

  A man’s bellow, “Bloody hell!”

  A woman’s shriek, “Boo-by!”

  Nicholas and Sophie froze, then looked at each other in horror. “Ming-Ming!”

  Chapter 18

  Nicholas came to a skidding halt on the threshold of the stable door, a curse escaping him as he viewed the scene before him. Bedlam. The scene in the stable yard was utter bedlam. Beside him, he heard Sophie gasp as she, too, observed the spectacle.

  Clompity-clomp! Clompity-clomp! His father’s gray stallion raced around the twilight-shadowed yard, its long silver mane and tail streaming like mist off a ghost.

  Yap! Yap! Ming-Ming chased after it, her short legs pumping furiously as she barked and snapped at its hind fetlocks.

  Neigh! Whinny!

  G-r-r. Tiny canine teeth sank into horseflesh.

  The gray screamed and kicked.

  Ming-Ming skittered aside, just barely escaping having her skull crushed by the horse’s flailing hoofs.

  “Boo-by!” Helene shrieked, dashing headlong into the fray. Mindless of everything but her need to rescue her pet, she lunged at the animals, screeching at the top of her lungs.

  As for his father, he sat in the center of the yard where he’d been thrown, shaking his head as if trying to restore his wits.

  “Father!” Nicholas shouted, rushing to him.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, “but I most probably shan’t be able to say the same for Helene if you don’t take her in hand.”

  Nicholas followed his grimacing father’s gaze to Helene, who had caught onto the horse’s tail and now ran behind it, tugging hard and commanding it to stop. As he watched, the animal bucked, sending her tumbling onto her backside. Terrified that she’d be trampled, he plunged into the melee and narrowly missed being run down himself as he scooped her up and pulled her against him.

  “Boo-by!” she screeched, struggling in his grasp. G-r-r! Yap! The dog weaved between the gray’s legs, avoiding its hooves with a canniness that was nothing short of amazing.

  O-o-mph! Helene elbowed Nicholas in the belly. Tightening his grip to further immobilize her, he shouted, “What the hell were you trying to do? Kill yourself and the animals?”

  “But my boo-by!” she wailed.

  As he hauled her screaming and kicking form to safety, four grooms, two stable boys, and Oliver, the head coachman, poured from the stables. His father, over whom Sophie now fussed, shouted to them, “Forget the horse! Get that damn dog. Gilbert will calm down once you get that demon off his heels.”

  “Demon! How dare you!” Helene shrieked, impotently slapping at Nicholas’s restraining arms. When he refused to release her, she flung back her head and glared up at him. “Well, don’t just stand there like a dolt, Lyndhurst! Do something! If you were any sort of man at all, you would rescue Ming-Ming.”

  “Ming-Ming doesn’t appear to want rescuing, and I would be less than a man if I let you get your silly head smashed in,” he retorted, watching as the dog bit a groom who sought to contain it. “However, if you promise to stay put and not do anything so foolish as grab the horse’s tail again, I shall do what I can. Gilbert is a valuable bit of cattle, and I would hate to see him injured.”

  “Gilbert? Who cares about that evil horse. It’s my Mingy who’s in danger!”

  “It’s your Mingy who is the danger,” he growled, releasing her. Determined to tell his mother exactly what he thought of her matchmaking when this was over, Nicholas stalked across the yard. After pausing to inquire after his father, who appeared to be enjoying Sophie’s ministrations, he moved to where the grooms swarmed about the animals, coaxing and commanding both in turn.

  Motioning the men away, he shouted, “Ming-Ming! Here, girl!” punctuating his command with finger snaps.

  The animal paused mid-nip to glance in his direction.

  He snapped his fingers again and dropped into a crouch. “Come on, Ming-Ming!” He snapped and pointed to the ground near his feet.

  G-r-r! She latched onto the gray’s rear fetlock, where she clung with leechlike tenacity. The poor stallion screamed and reared, forcing the grooms to fling themselves flat against the stable wall to avoid being struck by its hoofs.

  Helene screeched as if she were being murdered. Expecting to see her charging across the yard, Nicholas glanced behind him. Blessings of blessings, mademoiselle was there, restraining her.

  “Release me this instant!” Helene was shrieking, bucking with a violence that rivaled that of the stallion. When the abigail refused to comply, she threatened, “If you do not unhand me, I shall dismiss you. Do you hear me?” Still, the maid held firm.

  Shaking his head, Nicholas turned back to the animals. The horse was now lathered and foaming at the mouth. Exhausted from its panic, it slipped on the cobblestones and fell forward, its front legs buckling beneath it. To Nicholas’s immense relief, it instantly bound up again.

  Growing desperate now, he looked around him, grappling for a way to stop the madness before the animals destroyed each other. It was then that his gaze fell upon a stick laying nearby. Remembering how Ming-Ming had enjoyed their short-lived game of fetch, he seized it and shouted, “Ming-Ming! Here, girl!”

  Again, she looked at him. He waved the stick. She yapped and wagged her plumelike tail. Praying that she remembered the game, he shouted, “Fetch, Ming-Ming. Fetch!” and flung the stick as far from the horse as he could.

  The dog froze, its stubby legs stiff and drool streaming

  from its mouth, then it yipped and dashed after the stick. He dashed after it, tackling it just as it tackled the stick.

  “Boo-by! Oh, my poor boo-by!” he heard Helene wail.

  Ming-Ming growled her protest at his rough treatment and promptly sank her teeth into his forearm.

  Nicholas gritted his own teeth against the pain, hard-pressed not to murder the dog where they stood. Indeed, he might have done exactly that had Helene not rushed to him, sobbing her pet’s name.

  “Oh, boo-by… boo-by … boo-by.” She snatched the furry white leech, which was still attached to his arm, and yanked it away, ignoring the way its teeth tore his flesh as she did so.

  As Nicholas stood clutching his bleeding arm, watching with distaste as she kissed its slavering mouth, Sophie and his father approached. His father, he noted, favored his left leg and was leaning heavily on Sophie, who scolded him for rising too soon.

  Despite the pain in his arm, he smiled. Only Sophie would dare to chastise his father, and his father would only allow a servant as comely and sweetly earnest as she to get away with doing so. As they stopped beside him, Helene rounded on Sophie.

  “You!” She furiously snapped her fingers at Sophie. “Stoo-pid . . . stoo-pid girl! This is all your fault.” Snap!-Snap! “Explain yourself this very instant!”

  Sophie cast Nicholas a helpless look, who returned it with a faint smile. Before he could speak up in her defense, however, his father boomed, “Come, now, Helene. Time enough to discuss this matter later, after you’ve calmed yourself.”

  “I assure you that I am perfectly calm,” she retorted, clearly resenting his intrusion.

  “Nonsense, girl. You look as if you could do for a glass of brandy. Indeed, I daresay we could all do for one.” His father paused to smile at Sophie. “You, too, my dear. What say you to joining us?”

  “What!” Helene’s face turned an exceedingly unflattering shade of purple. “How dare you invite her — ”

  Snap.’-Snap! at Sophie ” — to join us? Need I remind you who I am?”

  Nicholas gazed at her, not even bothering to disguise his dislike. “I can assure you that we are perfectly aware of your exalted station, Helene. You have been exceedingly vigilant in pointing it out at every opportunity.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “Indeed? Well, then, in that instance, I can only assume that the invitation was meant as an insult.”
<
br />   “Insult? Poppycock!” his father exclaimed. “Sophie is a lady born and bred. In case you haven’t heard, her father is a baron.”

  “Oh?” Helene’s full red lips twisted into a sneer as she transferred her gaze to Sophie. “Tell me, Miss … Barton, is it?”

  Sophie nodded. To her credit she remained unperturbed.

  “Yes … Barton.” Helene studied her face for a beat, as if trying to place it, then dropped her gaze to sweep her length. As she did so, her expression turned positively frigid.

  And no wonder, Nicholas thought, noting her appearance as well. Not only was her gown askew, her hair had come down and her lips were swollen in a way that bespoke of ravishment.

  Certain that he looked the part of the ravisher, he glanced at himself. Bloody hell! As if it weren’t damning enough that he wore neither coat nor waistcoat, his shirt was half pulled out and his trousers were awry, probably from Sophie grasping his buttocks. Then, there were those telltale scruffs on his boots —

  “Tell me, Miss Barton,” Helene purred. “Exactly which baron’s by-blow are you?”

  Something inside Nicholas snapped when he heard Sophie gasp and saw the color drain from her face. It was his fault that she was in such a state, and he’d be damned if he’d let her suffer for it. Eyeing Helene coldly, he bit out, “I can assure you, my lady, that Miss Barton’s birth is every bit as legitimate as yours.” “Perhaps even more so,” his father injected.

  “What!” Helene spat, rounding on him. “How dare you imply such a foul and wicked thing. You, sir, are even less of a gentleman than your — ” she gestured wildly at Nicholas ” — whoremongering son!”

  Despite his fury with the girl, Nicholas couldn’t help but pity her when he saw his father’s expression. Had it been he who he glared at in such a manner, he’d have jumped on his horse and ridden hell-bent for London. In truth, he would rather face the devil than his father when he was in such a mood.

  “Unless you wish to pursue our present conversation, my dear, the conclusion of which I assure you shan’t be to your liking, I suggest that you return to your rooms and calm yourself.” Despite his mild tone, the threat in his father’s voice was unmistakable.