The Duke's Unexpected Bride

by Lara Temple

‘No, sir. Sue was very surprised. She said Miss Trevelyan usually has a smile and a kind word, but this time she didn’t even say thank you. Sue thought she looked very...sad. She thought perhaps—’

  ‘No.’ The word whipped out of Max. ‘Not Sophie. She wouldn’t.’

  ‘No, Your Grace. I quite agree, Miss Trevelyan has too much strength of character. But she is also a very considerate person. She would know her extended absence would cause a great deal of concern. She would not wilfully disappear without letting someone know.’

  ‘Did she receive any message? Has Wivenhoe been here today?’

  Lambeth’s eyes widened.

  ‘No, sir. I assure you. I have not forgotten he is not to be admitted. And there have been no notes or messages delivered either.’

  Max strode back to the door. As outrageous as the thought was, it was the only one he had.

  * * *

  By the time he reached Wivenhoe’s house on Wimpole Street his fear was stoking a vicious rage. When the butler opened the door he shoved past him without ceremony.

  ‘Where is Wivenhoe?’

  ‘In the library, sir, if I might...’

  ‘This way?’

  ‘Yes, but, sir...!’

  ‘This is unexpected,’ Wivenhoe said from the doorway and Max strode towards him.

  ‘Sophie has been gone since this morning. Do you know anything about it?’

  Wivenhoe raised one brow and stepped back warily.

  ‘Sophie? Has she run away from you? Clever girl. But as much as I might wish she had made her way to me, she hasn’t. At least not yet. You don’t deserve her, Harcourt.’

  Max grabbed Wivenhoe by the coat and shoved him hard against the wall.

  ‘Let go of me!’ Wivenhoe pushed back, losing some of his urbane calm. ‘She’s not here! And if she did come here, I’d send her packing.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? After those affecting scenes yesterday?’

  Wivenhoe inspected him with something between mockery and pity.

  ‘What scenes? You’re a fool, Harcourt. I’m tempted to make the most of your stupidity, but strangely I can’t quite reconcile myself to doing that to her. There was nothing in those scenes, as you call them, to which you or anyone could take exception, unless you take issue with excessive compassion, which, given your cold blood, you might. Last night at the theatre I found her talking about Serena with Morecombe and it made me maudlin. She was just listening to me and being kind, damn her.’

  There was, for a change, the ring of sincerity in Wivenhoe’s voice. It was only because Max was so desperate to believe him that he held back. He shook his head, but let Wivenhoe go.

  ‘What does Morecombe have to do with this?’

  Wivenhoe moved away towards the sideboard and poured himself a measure of brandy, not bothering to offer any to Max.

  ‘He was there, in the passage leading to the foyer, talking to her. That’s why I stopped. I thought he had gone mad and disappeared somewhere. I asked her what he wanted and she said “to have tea and talk” or something equally mundane, bless her. I could tell she was hurting for the pathetic old fool and it made me angry, I suppose. At him, at her, myself, you. And she stood there and listened with those big commiserating eyes. I feel like an idiot now, but it got to me. But if you think you walked in on a romantic interlude you’re the fool, Harcourt.’

  Max struggled to find a stable point in this tale, while his mind remained fixed on the fact that Sophie had walked out of Huntley House hours ago and disappeared and that he needed her. Safe. With him.

  ‘Then where could she have gone?’

  It was ridiculous to be asking Wivenhoe, but he was scared and desperate.

  Wivenhoe frowned, as if registering the import of what Max was saying for the first time.

  ‘When was she last seen?’

  ‘She left Grosvenor Square around ten o’clock. She didn’t have more than a few coins with her according to the maid.’

  Wivenhoe’s frown deepened and he glanced at the clock.

  ‘That’s...what? Six hours ago.’

  ‘I know that, thank you. The Huntley butler checked everywhere. Reeves, her friends, the posting houses, even though she didn’t have enough funds for a ticket.’

  ‘Did you argue?’

  Max shot him a look filled with loathing and Wivenhoe shrugged, dismissing any responsibility.

  ‘Don’t lay your blindness at my door, Harcourt. So it’s possible that she ran away, after all.’

  Max turned away from Wivenhoe, staring at the wall. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Sophie isn’t one to run away. Not like this. She is too honest. She wouldn’t take the easy way out like Serena did.’

  Wivenhoe’s eyes flashed with sudden fury.

  ‘How dare you speak of her that way? You never should have got engaged to her!’

  ‘We agree fully on that, at least. But she could have chosen to break the engagement. I gave her every opportunity to withdraw and she didn’t. As far as she was concerned she had you and me secured and she was too greedy to give anything up. Remember that when you idolatrise her.’

  ‘Don’t you dare preach at me. That was my child you killed when you gave her that poison!’

  Max stared at the unveiled venom in the artist’s face.

  ‘What are you talking about? I never gave her a damn thing and she sure as hell didn’t get it herself. You gave it to her.’

  Wivenhoe’s fury faded into confusion.

  ‘No. I told her I wouldn’t, that she would have to marry me. She told me she would get it from...someone who would do what he was told and hold his tongue. I thought she meant you and I wanted her to tell you about the child. I knew there was a limit even to your sense of duty and that you would finally break with her and then... I was certain it was you. I told Sophie it was you. I don’t think she believed me, though.’

  ‘You told Sophie that I poisoned Serena?! You insane bastard!’ Max grabbed Wivenhoe again, all his fear and fury channelling into his hatred of this man, dragging him up against the wall as if he could shove him through it. But suddenly the significance of his words struck a chord in the corner of his brain still functioning. He let Wivenhoe go and stepped back.

  ‘What were Serena’s words? Someone who would do what he was told and hold his tongue?’

  ‘Surely you don’t mean Morecombe?’

  ‘No wonder Morecombe fell apart when she died. She was everything to him.’

  ‘You’re being absurd.’

  ‘My mother told me he hardly left the house or spoke to anyone after Serena’s death. Why in hell would he be at Drury Lane talking to Sophie of all people and inviting her to tea?’

  Wivenhoe straightened his coat, keeping his eyes warily on Max.

  ‘I don’t know. The man is mad after all. What difference does it make? Even if you’re right about him getting the potion for Serena, why would he do anything to Sophie?’

  Max shrugged. He had no idea if Morecombe was connected, but if she had gone there, perhaps they would know something. At least it was a something he could act on. He had nothing else. He turned to go.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Wivenhoe stated, marching after him.

  ‘Like hell you are.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  Max shrugged. He didn’t care. All he cared about was Sophie.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sophie turned over and bumped her head. The pain was muffled, nowhere near as bad as the stuttering dance of images flashing inside her eyelids without rhyme or reason; it felt like the whole Summer Exhibition had been tossed up inside her head into a chaos of shapes and colours. Finally it slowed. She saw a little girl picking up a pebble on a beach. Then someone’s hand. A strong hand.
She reached for it and poked something hard and opened her eyes.

  The stone wall glistened slightly in the shimmering light of a candle standing on a table just at the edge of the bed. The room smelled of damp old things and added to the wave of nausea that rolled through her as she forced herself to sit up.

  What a gullible fool she was. If she weren’t so scared, she might even appreciate what Max might say about the stupidity of indulging in compassion without an iota of judgement. She squeezed her eyes shut. Max. How on earth would she get out? No one would find her here. She tried to stand, but the room pitched and swayed and she pressed her hand to her mouth to hold back the need to gag. Finally she heard a key scrape and turn in the lock and Morecombe stepped into the room, his arms draped with bright yellow fabrics. Behind him stood the footman who had opened the front door.

  ‘How are you, my dear? I hope you aren’t feeling too unwell because of the laudanum. I’m afraid we will have to give a little bit more before we leave for my home in Hampshire at first light. Meanwhile, why don’t you change into one of your...one of these dresses? It’s a pity your hair is so light. They go better with dark hair...’ His voice trailed off as he looked down at the dress in his hand. ‘I think you should wear the topaz dress first. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  Sophie listened, trying to think, fighting her nausea and fear. This made no sense, but somehow she knew arguing with this mad, lost man would serve no purpose. He looked up and saw her shudder and frowned in concern.

  ‘Are you cold, my dear? There’s no fireplace down here, I’m afraid. Oh, dear, perhaps if you promise not to make a fuss we could move you to your bedroom until we are ready to leave. I don’t want you to be taken ill. Phelps, do we still have the bedroom keys?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Well, then. We’ll wait outside while you change. I’m so sorry, but Annie isn’t with us any more. It is just Phelps and I now so you will have to make do with us. Here you are.’

  He laid a dress down on the bed and backed out with a tentative smile.

  She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. The thought of putting on Serena’s dress was almost intolerable, but she had to humour him if she was to find an opportunity to escape. It took her a while to dress, hampered by revulsion and by the persistent dizziness that threatened to swamp her each time she moved. But when a timid knock sounded she was dressed and waiting.

  The look on Morecombe’s face was telling and pathetic—excitement and disappointment mingled as his eyes moved over her. Then he came and very gently placed her hand on his arm, petting it as they walked through the cellars and up the stone steps heading upstairs, with Phelps at their heels. Her nerves begged her to just run or scream at the top of her lungs, but she didn’t like the look of the solidly built Phelps and she didn’t want to be drugged again, and certainly not by force. Instead she leaned heavily on Lord Morecombe’s arm as he cooed and tutted worriedly.

  ‘I must have given you too much, poor thing. You are much more slight than... It will wear off, though, my dear, and then you will be right as rain, just wait and see...’

  Anger was a powerful antidote to fear, she realised, and as it gathered, her compassion for this damaged and damaging man withered, replaced by a single-minded focus on getting out of that house as quickly as possible. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked carefully around the hallway. Then she wavered and his arm came around her, supporting her.

  ‘I don’t think I can climb... I think I’m going to be ill,’ she whispered, clinging to the balustrade and pressing her hand to her mouth. The way she felt right now, she was certain her words were believable.

  ‘Oh, my poor dear. Phelps, do fetch...something.’

  Phelps grunted and hurried towards the back stairs.

  ‘A chair...must sit...’ she gasped, sinking her forehead against the balustrade, and Morecombe glanced around helplessly before heading towards the door of the room she had been shown into before. She waited only for him to disappear into the room and then shoved herself away from the bannister, her eyes fixed on the metal bolt of the front door as if it was the exit from hell, which in a way it was. She had just reached it and shot it back when she heard Morecombe’s agonised cry.

  ‘No! Come back. Phelps! Stop her!’

  She didn’t even turn at the sound of footsteps thudding behind her, just grabbed the knob with both shaking hands and dragged the door open, filling her lungs in preparation to scream as she had never screamed in her life. The door opened, but she didn’t make it outside. Out of the darkness a black figure hurtled towards her, raising her off her feet like something out of a tale of hell and demons coming to collect their victims.

  ‘No!’ she gasped, fighting furiously. ‘No!’ She wouldn’t let them take her. She wouldn’t. She needed to get away. Her fists were heavy and useless like in a dream and she was held immobile, enveloped.

  ‘Sophie...’

  She didn’t know if it was his voice that registered, though it was so deep and shaken it was hardly recognisable, or the feel and scent of his body, but she stopped struggling. It was a trick, part of the drug’s effect, it couldn’t be Max. She tried to push away so she could see. It looked like him, so handsome it hurt her. But she didn’t trust this apparition. They had probably given her more of that horrible drug and she was just imagining Max holding her. They would take her away and she would never escape. She felt the tears on her cheeks, hot and hopeless. She had lost Max. She should have told him how much she loved him, even if he didn’t. It was too late now. That surge of energy had cost her and she didn’t seem to be able to breathe deeply enough, the buzzing in her head building to an unbearable pitch. She had heard drowning was a pleasant enough way to die, if there was such a thing, but it didn’t feel pleasant. She struggled against the downward pull of the dark, but it took her anyway.

  * * *

  Max picked her up in his arms as she sagged, holding her tightly, his body shaking with relief and fury as he took in her tangled hair, the trails of tears on her cheeks highlighting a faint bruise along her cheekbone. Murder rose in him and he looked up to meet Morecombe’s shocked face.

  ‘I will kill you!’

  ‘You don’t understand... I was trying to protect her. It was all my fault, giving her that potion, but she insisted. I couldn’t let it happen again. I had to protect her.’

  Wivenhoe stiffened at Morecombe’s words, but Max didn’t care about their significance.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about what you did to your daughter, you madman! But I’ll have you locked in Bedlam if you come within a mile of Sophie ever again, do you understand? If you ever touch her, I will kill you.’

  Wivenhoe moved past him into the hall, pulling off his gloves. The footman eyed them warily and stepped back.

  ‘You take Sophie home, Harcourt. I’ll deal with this,’ Wivenhoe said calmly.

  Max glanced down at Sophie’s form. She wasn’t quite unconscious; she was frowning, her lips moving, as if in a bad dream, and there were tears slowly streaking down out of the corners of her eyes. A vice closed on his heart and squeezed.

  ‘What did do you do to her?’ he snarled at Morecombe.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing, upon my honour. It’s just the laudanum. I might have given her a little too much. I was going to take the very best care of her, I assure you.’

  Max shook his head, closing his arms more tightly around her.

  ‘God help you.’

  ‘I doubt He will get involved here,’ Wivenhoe said. ‘You really should take her home, Harcourt. You can safely leave this situation to me.’

  Max hesitated, but then headed out to the waiting hackney. He held Sophie against him as they drove to Grosvenor Square, more tightly when she started shuddering. But she didn’t wake, not even when he carried her upstairs to his bedroom in Harcourt House, igno
ring the shocked looks of his butler and footman as he passed.

  It was only when he laid her out on the bed that he noticed the gaudy topaz dress and his fury rekindled. He turned her slightly and unworked the hooks, sliding the dress off her as gently as possible. He tossed it contemptuously to the floor and pulled the coverlet over her. Then he sat down beside her on the bed and took her hand. It was cold and restless and he pressed it between his, cursing Morecombe and himself.

  ‘No. No. I won’t let you,’ she mumbled and he raised her hand to his mouth.

  ‘Hush, Sophie. It’s all right. You’re safe now. I have you.’

  She shuddered again and she seemed to struggle to open her eyes.

  ‘Max... What happened?’

  ‘You’re safe. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have gone...so stupid... Sorry I’m trouble...’

  Her voice faded and he gathered her to him, cocooning her. Her head turned against his shoulder, her body slackening.

  ‘Stay...’ she murmured and he had to physically stop himself from crushing her to him. He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, as if that could stifle the pain, but it just grew. He hated that he had made her feel she had to apologise for an act of compassion, as if she was responsible for that madman’s acts. That he could make her do that was just another sign he was wrong for her.

  Finally she gave a little sigh, like a child sinking into deep sleep, her body relaxing and her breathing evening out. For the first time in his life he wished there was someone who would just take control and tell him what to do, how to make this right. How to make her stay and care for him. There had to be a way.

  ‘Sophie. Stay with me,’ he whispered, and his next words flowed almost soundlessly over her bruised cheek. ‘Sophie, my love.’

  * * *

  Sophie surfaced from the bottom of a deep dark ocean and opened her eyes. It wasn’t the basement because she could see a fireplace and the logs were snapping happy orange and red. She shifted on the bed, waiting for the nausea and dizziness, but there was nothing. Aside from being very thirsty, she felt fine, even alert. The bed was amazingly comfortable and smelt clean and even familiar. Then her memory expanded and relief and happiness bubbled up in her. Max had come for her. She was safe.