The Duke's Unexpected Bride

by Lara Temple

  He turned to her, one corner of his mouth pulling up in his version of a smile.

  ‘Of course. Isn’t that what this is all about?’ He waved a hand at Marmaduke’s portrait. ‘You have apparently found the surest way to your aunt’s meagre heart, though it is the only meagre part of her person. Really, I did not realise one could achieve those proportions and live. No wonder she does not go outside—I doubt she could make it through her doorway. Still, that has its advantages, doesn’t it? I think I shall avail myself of her invitation to visit and cultivate her. Together we could do quite well with her, couldn’t we?’

  Sophie listened to him with rising anger. She supposed he was punishing her for her disdainful treatment of him back at the Exhibition, but there was no reason she had to put up with it.

  ‘No, we couldn’t,’ she replied bluntly. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I am waiting for someone.’

  He shook his head mournfully, making no move to leave.

  ‘What a very unworthy excuse. It is clear no one visits this mausoleum, my dear. We are quite alone so why don’t you put aside all these modest country airs. I knew at a glance there is more to you than that. You are a very determined young woman, aren’t you? If it is the Huntley fortune you are after, it appears you are well on your way. I asked my valet to make some enquiries where it really matters and apparently Mad Minnie finds you much more to her taste than any of the pretenders so far. And she hasn’t many more years, does she? If you are just careful and attentive, you might secure a fortune beyond most people’s wildest dreams. And I could help you. I think she would look even more favourably on you if she heard you were to become my wife. I think I have come as far as I can painting portraits. I always knew I would have to wed wealth, but I’ve been postponing the inevitable. And if I have to wed money, I rather like the idea of allying myself to someone who shares my appreciation of art and who is such an original thinker. What do you say? Why, you might even make quite a little splash in the artistic milieu as Lady Wivenhoe.’

  Sophie stared at him, trying to assimilate what he was saying.

  ‘Are you actually suggesting I marry you so that we can scheme to get hold of Aunt Minnie’s fortune? You would marry me on that long chance? Are you that desperate?’

  ‘You are not being very complimentary to yourself, nor to me, my dear. I find the odds...attractive.’

  ‘Oh, please. After that very honest opening please don’t insult my intelligence by trying to convince me you are interested in me for myself, Lord Wivenhoe. You are almost as useless a liar as I am myself.’

  His face hardened.

  ‘Don’t tell me you are fool enough to have developed any ambitions regarding Harcourt based on his gallantry toward you at the exhibition. He is highly unlikely to choose someone as...pleasantly colourful as you. And don’t let that proper façade deceive you. He has an unhealthy impact on young women who are foolish enough to think they can manipulate him. More than unhealthy.’

  ‘The only one contemplating manipulation here is you, Lord Wivenhoe. And now, if you won’t leave, then I will.’

  She turned and had almost made it when he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back against him.

  ‘Don’t run yet, my sweet,’ he said, his mouth so close to her she could feel his breath hot on her cheek. ‘You don’t know me as well as you think. Shall I convince I can be everything a young woman desires?’

  ‘I don’t care if you can. Let me go!’ Sophie tugged at his hands, trying to pry them off her, but he was surprisingly strong and her annoyance shifted to the first glimmerings of fear. ‘I said let me go! This is ridiculous! I’m not interested!’

  ‘Believe me, you will be. If you will just let me show you what it is all about.’ His eyes were bright now, the amber lights in them glowing with an elated look that heightened her fear. She closed her eyes, slackening her body, and he gave a breathy laugh, relaxing his grip enough for her purposes and she shoved him sharply, swivelling away. She had just made it to the door and wrenched it open when he reached her, grabbing her arm.

  ‘Wait, you little spitfire...’

  The words died out. They stood facing the butler, his hand outstretched towards the door, and behind him stood Hetty and Max. There was a moment of stunned silence. Sophie was only conscious of Max’s gaze, hard and intent, first on her, then on the hand that held her arm, and then up to the man behind her. Then time sped up again, so swiftly she had no clear idea what happened—knew just that suddenly she was free and Max was somehow between her and Wivenhoe, driving him back into the parlour.

  And the next moment Wivenhoe had crashed back, landing on the low empire-style table in the middle of the parlour, which promptly cracked and collapsed beneath him. He was only down for a moment and then he scrambled to his feet and launched himself at Max with a feral snarl. This time she saw the blow as Max’s fist slammed into Wivenhoe and the artist stumbled back against the wall. She also saw the shocked expressions on Lambeth’s and Lady Hetty’s faces. Max moved purposely towards Wivenhoe, who stood with his hands braced against the wall, as if ready to spring, and Sophie hurried towards them.

  ‘Enough! Enough!’ she said through a throat that felt too tight for speech, placing herself in Max’s path as he advanced on Wivenhoe, her hands raised before her. ‘Please!’

  That final word, between a command and a plea, reached Max and he glanced down at her and stopped just short of her hands, the dangerous look in his face receding.

  ‘Go to Hetty, Sophie,’ he said curtly, but she shook her head and turned to Wivenhoe.

  ‘Leave. Now.’ Her voice was shaky, but either it or more likely the look on Max’s face carried conviction and Wivenhoe straightened, his face resuming its sardonic cast.

  ‘Is that how the wind blows, sweetheart? Much more ambitious that you let on, aren’t you? No wonder you scoffed at the Huntley fortune. But you’re a fool, girl. That’s all right, Harcourt. I’m leaving. I misread the cards, apparently.’ The last was directed at Sophie as he passed her and there was a sharp, ugly look in his eyes. No one moved until he passed by the butler. Lambeth, still visibly shaken, recollected himself enough to hurry ahead to hand Wivenhoe his hat and cane and open the front door. Then Hetty gave a little shiver and hurried towards Sophie.

  ‘Sophie! Are you all right? Did he hurt you?’

  Sophie realised she was shaking, though she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or shock. She just knew she wished she had been the one to do Wivenhoe damage. Then she saw how pale Hetty was and the shaking eased as she felt herself gather back to a stable centre.

  ‘No, he didn’t. It is absolutely inconceivable to me how someone so...detestable could be such a good painter! It seems quite unfair.’

  Hetty laughed weakly and looked rather helplessly at the crushed table. Behind her Lambeth stood in the doorway, surveying the wreckage as well.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to retire to the Green Salon, Miss Sophie, while I tidy up here? I shall bring some refreshments, shall I?’

  Sophie felt a sudden urge to giggle and was glad when Hetty took command.

  ‘Yes, of course, that is a good idea. I would be glad of a glass of wine.’

  Lambeth bowed approvingly.

  ‘This way, please, Lady Swinburne, Your Grace.’

  Once in the Green Salon, Hetty sank down next to Sophie on a green-brocade sofa with crocodile’s claws for feet, her gaze roaming over the opulent, outdated decor with an absent, wondering kind of awe and Sophie felt her shock ease further. The only remaining tension was the fact that Max, who had stopped just inside the door, had not spoken a word yet. She glanced over at him quickly and then away. He looked cold and distant and detached, and the expression that had shocked her before was gone. The only remnant was in the fact that his hands were still fisted. She thought he wasn’t aware of it and wondered if he had hur
t himself hitting Wivenhoe.

  ‘Is your hand all right?’ she asked, feeling foolish and painfully embarrassed by the whole outrageous interlude. Once again she had managed to put him in an embarrassing and uncomfortable position. And on top of that, Wivenhoe’s insinuations were only redeemed from being humiliating by being utterly absurd. She forced herself to meet his gaze as if nothing unusual had happened. For a moment his eyes fixed on hers and though she could not tell what he was thinking, the sense of danger was still there. Then he glanced down at his gloved hand and she noticed the seam had split along his middle knuckle. He calmly drew off the glove and clasped it in his hand, moving into the room.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ he replied properly. ‘What happened in there?’

  The question was so calmly spoken it took her a moment to register its meaning. Before she could even think how to respond a discreet knock on the door preceded Lambeth’s return with a tray holding a decanter, three glasses and plate of biscuits. None of them moved or spoke until Lambeth poured the wine and bowed himself out. Sophie picked up a glass and sipped carefully at the wine.

  ‘Well?’ Max prompted tensely. ‘What were you doing alone with Wivenhoe after I expressly warned you about him?’

  The bubble of nervous laughter she had been struggling against withered and faded, replaced by a resurgence of the anger she had felt against Wivenhoe. She put down her glass on the tray with a snap and the ruby liquid splashed on to the silver surface.

  ‘I was doing nothing with him! He came to see Aunt Minnie and then he came in to the parlour uninvited...how was I to know what he might do? And how dare you blame me for whatever that snake—?’ She broke off, furious that her voice was shaking. She felt again the alarm as Wivenhoe’s arms had closed around her, the shocked fury that she could not dislodge him by force. And now to have this man accuse her that it was somehow her fault. That was too much. She surged to her feet.

  ‘How dare you?’

  Hetty stood up as well.

  ‘My dear, please, Max didn’t mean it was your fault—’

  ‘Yes, he did!’ Sophie interrupted, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. ‘That is precisely what you meant, isn’t it? That I had somehow encouraged him to...to maul me and...’

  He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, then frowned at her obvious distress and moved towards her.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said more calmly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think...here, sit down.’ He took her arm gently, but she tugged out of his grasp and he let her go immediately. She stood for a moment, tense and almost afraid, watching him, but he didn’t move, just stood there, waiting, and after a moment the tension faded and she sat down again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be angry at you, but at him. I am very grateful you came to my aid. Really. Though I would have preferred to do it myself.’

  A flash of a smile flickered in his eyes.

  ‘I am sure you would have.’

  ‘My dear, here, drink your wine, it will help.’

  Hetty had wiped her glass and handed it to her and Sophie smiled at her gratefully.

  ‘I am all right now, thank you, really. I don’t break so easily.’

  ‘I can see that, but you should go rest. We will continue the portrait tomorrow if you like.’

  Sophie wanted to object, but when she placed the glass on the tray, more carefully this time, she was surprised to see her hand was shaking.

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Tomorrow, if you can? I really would like to continue.’

  Hetty nodded and stood up.

  ‘Yes, of course, my dear.’

  She rang for Lambeth, who appeared almost immediately. Max turned abruptly and she watched as he took Lambeth aside and said something to him she could not catch. Lambeth nodded and bowed and she sighed, guessing he was receiving orders to keep Wivenhoe out. No doubt everyone in the house already knew what had happened. She only hoped this tale wouldn’t somehow reach her parents and provide more grist for their mill. Hetty gave her a quick hug and followed her brother and Sophie watched wistfully as they left. Max had not even said goodbye. It seemed he could not get away fast enough.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you, miss?’ Lambeth asked, a hint of a worried frown on his usually blank face, and she shook her head.

  ‘No, thank you, Lambeth. I think I shall go rest a little.’

  He bowed, but remained standing in the hallway as she trailed upstairs to her room.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I hear congratulations are in order, Max. Lady Melissa is going to look pretty blue; she thought she had you snared,’ Bryanston said tipsily as he leaned over Max’s shoulder to see his cards. Lord Cranworth, Max’s partner at piquet across the card table in the corner of the neoclassical card room at Brooks’s, glanced up from his own hand.

  ‘What’s that? You finally made your choice, Max?’

  ‘Not that I was aware of, Cranworth,’ he replied mildly and discarded an eight of clubs. ‘You’re blocking my light, Bryanston.’

  Bryanston moved, but only to straddle an empty chair by the table.

  ‘Heard it from Wivenhoe at the Royal Cock Pit earlier. The fellow was definitely disguised. He usually carries his drink better than that... Morton was saying he was switching his bet from Lady Penelope to Lady Melissa before the odds shorten further, but Wivenhoe said that would be wasting his blunt because you’ve been caught by some little country miss he met you with at the Exhibition. Is that the one you introduced to me there—what was her name? Something Cornish. Tremaine? You know, the one with the laughing blue eyes. Is it true?’

  Max silently cursed both Wivenhoe and Bryanston, but did not look up from his cards. Two other club members who were idly watching their play straightened attentively, clearly as interested in Bryanston’s gossip as in the game.

  ‘I had no idea Wivenhoe was such an authority on my affairs, drunk or sober. Your play, Cranworth.’

  Bryanston was never good with hints.

  ‘No, I know that, bad blood between you. Never understood why. Not that I like the fellow, but the name’s a good one, even if he dabbles in paints. Still, when I asked him he seemed to know a lot about her. Said he knows her aunt and there’s money there. If that’s true, it’s a damn shame, Max. You don’t need an heiress; you’ve too much blunt already. Should leave some for the rest of us. No wonder Wivenhoe’s grey at the gills. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had an eye on her himself which is why he’s smarting. He’s expensive, Wivenhoe.’

  ‘Quiet, Bry, I’m trying to think,’ Cranworth said, frowning at his cards. ‘Blast. It all hangs on this.’

  ‘It’s all in the odds, Cranworth,’ Max prompted, holding on to his temper by a thread. He knew the worst thing would be to show any sign he was bothered by Bry’s banter. But any hope he had of a reprieve was banished by Cranworth’s next words.

  ‘I know it’s in the odds, Max, it’s just that I can never keep track of them. So it’s all a hum and it’s to be the lovely Melissa after all? Tough on the other girl if Wivenhoe goes spreading that rumour about and there’s no grounds for it. Money or no money, it won’t do her reputation any good...’

  ‘Trevelyan! Sophie Trevelyan!’ Bryanston announced, inspired. ‘That’s it. Just remembered. I’m good with names. Taking little thing, too. Not a beauty like Lady Melissa, but I like her better. Lady Huntley’s niece, right? That’s what Wivenhoe said. It’s coming back to me.’

  ‘What? Lady Huntley?’ asked one of the other men standing by them. ‘There’s definitely money there, Huntley was as rich as a nabob. Lives next to you, doesn’t she? So that’s the way the wind is blowing? Come on; give us a lead, Harcourt.’

  Another man nodded, frowning down at the three cards Cranworth had discarded. ‘The odds in the clubs are shortening in favour of Lady Meli
ssa. If there’s a dark horse in the running for your Duchess, be a friend and let us know, would you? I could use an inside tip with long odds. What was her name, again, Bryanston?’

  ‘I told you, Sophie Trevelyan. She of the laughing blue eyes. But don’t lay the bet near Max, he don’t care for that sort of thing. Private. Very private is Max.’

  ‘True,’ Cranworth assented mournfully as he frowned over Max’s move before recklessly making his own discard. ‘Very sad.’

  ‘Not as sad as this. My game,’ Max said, wishing he could physically take Bryanston and toss him out of the room.

  Cranworth groaned as he inspected the cards in front of him.

  ‘Piqued, blast it. I’m all in. You think after all these years I would have learned not to play piquet with you. At least I have enough sense not to play for more than chicken stakes.’

  ‘Your lady wife won’t let you, you mean,’ Bryanston interjected. ‘You should warn Max not to take the plunge. It’s a dog’s life.’

  Max gathered the cards and shuffled them absently, debating how much more of this he would have to listen to before he could leave. He knew well enough the worst thing to do would be to try and scotch the rumours directly. Until now he had been able to regard gossip about his marital plans as simply an annoying side effect of the process, but this was different. The Lady Pennys and Lady Melissas of the world were protected by their families’ reputations and they were not being made the object of Wivenhoe’s malicious tongue. After what Sophie had been through that day, the thought that she might come under another attack, and this time on her reputation and because of him, was intolerable.

  Every time the memory of that moment surfaced, as it had far too often, he was swamped again with a furious wish he had done Wivenhoe a great deal more damage than he had, coupled with the even more disturbing worry that Sophie was effectively alone in that madhouse, no matter how dependable the butler had appeared when he had agreed with him that Wivenhoe was on no account to be admitted to the house. The thought that Wivenhoe might try something like that again... Even the thought that she didn’t have anyone to be with her after such a shock. She had recovered quickly, but even through the mist of his own anger and confusion he had seen how shaken she was. And he had mindlessly added to her pain because he had been too caught up in the past to think clearly. That was probably why he had acted so uncharacteristically and started that ridiculous brawl. There had been no conscious transition. He had felt foolish enough accompanying Hetty to see the portrait after everything he had told himself about staying away from Sophie, then the moment she had wrenched open the door and he had seen the fear on her face and Wivenhoe’s hand digging into her arm he had just...lost himself. It wasn’t even like going into battle. There he had always been aware of everything, but most of all of himself and what he had to ensure he and his men survived. This had been different. It was as if he had ceased to exist.