Married to a Stranger

by Louise Allen

  But now he had a shared office, a clerk and a challenge to reform an area of the business that was very much to his taste and he knew he would find it, quite legitimately, highly profitable. It would be pleasant to be rich. He smiled, amused at himself. He was not badly off now—it would take a foolish or unlucky servant of the Company not to make money—but to be in the position to develop the two estates into something fine, buy all the bloodstock he fancied … Perhaps exert enough influence that a title came his way. Yes, tempting.

  The other campaign was his marriage and that promised to hold far more damaging skirmishes. Sophia’s confession coming so soon after the culmination of their lovemaking had left him almost dizzy. She had not loved Daniel. Part of him resented that on his twin’s behalf, but he knew it was unjust. He had healed enough to be able to see Dan again just as clearly as he ever had. His brother had fallen out of love with Sophia—it would be hypocritical to blame her for doing exactly the same thing.

  Except for one small detail—of the two of them, she was the one who could have broken the engagement with honour. And she had not. If she had, he would never have thought to offer for her, let alone press the matter. He should be angry with her, but he was not and a small glow of satisfaction that he could not analyse kept disturbing him. Surely he was not glad that she had fallen out of love with Daniel? That would be absurd, it was not as though he was in love with her himself.

  This morning she had been poised and pleasant, apparently happy to be with him. But she had not seemed in the slightest bit concerned that he was leaving her alone all day, and when he had kissed her cheek she had stiffened. For a mad moment he had been tempted to pull her from the chair, kiss her hard and possessively on the mouth, there and then in front of the watching servants.

  It occurred to him that perhaps he had been too demonstrative in his lovemaking last night. She was very innocent and shy. Now the memory of that little shiver when he had touched her was lodged in his mind as well. Last night had been the first time for her and he knew he must have hurt her. It would be his duty, and his pleasure, to make certain that every time from now on was better.

  Never had the contemplation of duty been so arousing. The images his brain was conjuring up stirred his body to the point of discomfort. Grimly Callum began to calculate compound interest in his head. By the time he was delivered to his own front door his unruly body was under control, but he was still achingly aware of it. It did not help that he recognised it was entirely his own fault. She is almost a virgin, he reminded himself.

  ‘Madam is in the drawing room, sir.’ Hawksley took hat, gloves and cane. ‘Dinner is at eight, if that is satisfactory.’

  ‘Whatever Mrs Chatterton says. Please send up hot water and Wilkins. I will bathe and shave.’

  Callum paused on the threshold of his room. It looked just as it had when he’d left it that morning and yet he had the feeling that someone had been there. One of the maids, no doubt, dusting. And Wilkins would have tidied up, too. Yet he could not quite shake off the sensation of a presence that lingered on the edge of his perception.

  He turned and opened the door to his study. Again, just as he had left it. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. England smelt strange after years of the dust and strong scents of India. Ah, yes, just the faint hint of the rose perfume that Sophia wore. How strange that he had sensed her presence so quickly. That teasing hint of perfume must have been what had alerted him—he had no idea his sense of smell was that acute. And there, in the rug about three feet from the desk, were the prints of two small heels. She had stood, and looked, for several minutes to leave those deep little dents.

  Unaccountably disturbed, Callum began to prowl around. Nothing was touched. The heel marks were indented beside his drawing slope, too; she had studied that also. What had she said last night about her art? That it was the most important thing to her? He had forgotten all about the way she had been smudged with charcoal and chalks as a girl.

  He went to his room and bathed and changed with his mind only half on what he was doing. ‘I must speak to the maids,’ Wilkins said, tight-lipped as Cal considered the neckcloths he was proffering, draped over his arm. ‘They have been rummaging.’

  ‘Rummaging? Where?’ Cal selected a length of muslin and began the intricate business of tying a knot of his own invention.

  ‘Amongst your shirts and other things, sir. I know to a fraction just how I leave them. And every drawer is always left completely closed. Someone has been touching them and replacing them with care, if not total precision.’

  ‘Nothing is missing, I hope.’ The valet shook his head. ‘Then I would not mention it. Mrs Chatterton may well have been checking over my linen.’

  Wilkins appeared to be restraining himself with an effort. His thoughts on wives interfering in his domain were quite obvious, but training held and he said nothing.

  How very intriguing. Cal inserted a diamond tiepin and gave his cuffs a final twitch. Sophia was curious about him, it seemed. It made him realise that he had hardly given her, as a person, a thought except insofar as her thoughts and actions affected him and his plans. There was the woman he had made love to and the well-behaved young lady whom he had married and the woman who had fallen in and out of love and lost his twin—but what was going on in her head? What was important to her now in this marriage?

  What, he wondered with a frown, did she think of him?

  It was an hour since she had heard Callum come in. Sophia unpicked the last dozen stitches that she had set in her embroidery, pricked her finger, said ‘Rats!’ in a most unladylike fashion and stuck it in her mouth before the blood got on to the linen.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’

  And now her careful pose of sweet domesticity for her returning husband was shattered. She took her finger out of her mouth and held it away from her gown while she fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief. ‘I was sewing and I pricked my finger and I do not want to get blood on the cloth or my new gown—oh, thank you.’ Callum shook out a large clean linen square and handed it to her. ‘Have you had a good day?’ He did not look as though he had spent a tiring day bent over paperwork or in stuffy meetings or whatever it was that he did. She realised that she had no idea.

  ‘Interesting and quite positive, I think. That is a very handsome gown.’

  Was that warmth in his eyes as he studied the amber silk with its coffee-brown ribbons? She felt a definite warming herself as she studied the lean figure in the dark elegance of evening dress. There were muscles under that smooth tailoring; she had felt them shift under her hands as he drove into her body.

  ‘You do not think it is too bright in colour? I was a trifle unsure, but it had been returned to the modiste and it happened to fit and I thought that while I waited for the other gowns I had ordered to be finished …’ She was prattling with nerves. Sophia stopped and reminded herself to breathe.

  ‘I think it is very suitable. The ribbons are a trifle sombre, perhaps. Could they be replaced with ruffles or something?’ Callum grinned, transforming his expression. ‘Or am I completely adrift—will it quite ruin the style if you do that?’

  That smile. Oh, my goodness. That was all she needed on top of her overheated thoughts. Sophia smiled back, her heart lifting. She had not realised just how tense she was. ‘Of course it will! Have you no experience of ladies’ fashions, sir?’ It was meant as a joke, but then she remembered that he had no sisters, had not been in England for years, so the only ladies’ fashions he would have encountered would have been in India and the ones he would have taken an interest in were probably on the backs of his mistresses.

  She knew she had blushed and that her smile had frozen on her lips. She could tell he understood why she was so suddenly out of countenance; the wretched man seemed to read her like a book. Sophia subsided into embarrassed silence.

  ‘Very little, beyond admiring them at social events. And, of course, society fashions in India are always a good season or two behin
d the mode here. If you are enquiring if I bought my mistresses fashionable gowns, no, I did not.’ He waited a beat, then added, ‘They always preferred silks.’

  The image of Callum reclining on heaped cushions like an Eastern potentate surrounded by exquisite golden-skinned beauties with long black hair and dark eyes swam vividly into her mind. She recalled the robe and slippers in his room and how she had found the idea of him wearing them unsettling. She had heard that the East India Company encouraged liaisons, and marriages, between their officers and Indian women, but somehow she had never related that to Daniel or Callum.

  Pride came to her rescue. ‘I can well believe it,’ Sophia said with a smile that felt tight on her lips. ‘Why should they want to be enveloped in tight lacing and layers of petticoats and silly frills in that heat when there are those beautiful fabrics and flowing costumes?’

  Callum narrowed his eyes at her response. So, he had been trying to shock her, had he? ‘Did you bring her with you?’ she asked. ‘Your current mistress at the time? Was the poor soul drowned?’ Even as she said it she winced inwardly at how her temper had betrayed her into cruelty—he would have felt affection for the woman at the very least.

  ‘No, I did not. We should not be discussing such things.’ He strode into the room and poured wine into a glass.

  ‘Why not? I am not a sheltered little virgin any more and you brought the subject up.’ Callum lifted the glass to his lips, his profile turned to her, revealing nothing except a complete absence of humour. ‘And I would like a glass of wine, if you please.’

  He put down his glass and poured another. ‘I paid off my mistress when I returned to Calcutta. And I have not taken one since. Are you satisfied? May we drop the subject now?’

  ‘Certainly, if it makes you uncomfortable.’ She took the proffered glass and pointedly avoided touching his hand as she did so. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It does not make me uncomfortable,’ he snapped, ‘if by that you mean I have a guilty conscience. It is simply not a suitable subject for discussion with one’s wife.’ Sophia merely arched one eyebrow in what she hoped was elegant disbelief. ‘Do you think Daniel and I were living like monks?’

  ‘Of course I do not! I suppose I always knew that is how men behave, whilst unmarried women must maintain an aura of virgin purity and wait for them to decide to stop their raking and come home.’

  But that was a lie. She had never once thought about Daniel and other women because the truth was, by the time she had come to understand about such matters, she must have fallen out of love with him and it did not matter to her. But whether Callum kept a mistress did matter somehow, even though she knew many married men thought nothing of it. ‘Not that coming home and marrying is any guarantee of fidelity, I quite understand that, too.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Callum demanded. He had taken up position before the empty fireplace beneath a large mirror that reflected his back to her. The rigid set of his shoulders appeared as furious as his front view. Sophia quaked inwardly and took a gulp of wine. ‘You expect me to set up a mistress in London, do you?’

  ‘Well … not immediately. You have a lot to deal with just now and I expect it is not a matter of impulse. It must be like choosing a quality horse, I suppose—an investment.’

  ‘Let us be clear, Mrs Chatterton. I am married to you. I took vows. That means I am faithful to you. If I had made arrangements before, then those are now over. Is there anything in that statement that is open to misinterpretation? Because if so, let us deal with any further questions you might have about my morals here and now.’

  She had made him very, very angry, she realised. What on earth had made her think she could tease him? It must have been that grin, that sudden flash of humour. Sophia said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I am sincerely glad that I am not one of your clerks, or some poor soul up before you as magistrate.’ His expression of cold displeasure darkened and she added, ‘That was very clear, thank you.’

  ‘Excellent. And I hope the same goes for you. I will not tolerate unfaithfulness.’

  ‘How dare you! If you think for one moment that I would take a lover—’

  ‘Dinner is served, madam,’ Hawksley said behind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Callum would not come to her tonight, not after that ghastly scene in the drawing room. Sophia sat bolt upright in bed, her hands knotted in the sheet. How much had Hawksley heard? She had not been aware of the door opening behind her—had it been ajar? The entire staff could have overheard.

  She felt sick. Callum was obviously furious—how could he be anything else? Her foolish teasing had turned into a display that he could characterise as vulgar or jealous or immodest, or all three. And she could not blame him. Why had she reacted so badly to the thought that he might take a mistress? It was what men did. And she could hardly delude herself that hers was a love match.

  He had been so polite throughout dinner afterwards that it had cut like a knife. Of course he was well bred and so much in control that he could preserve a perfect front before the servants. From somewhere she had conjured up equally polite responses with the result that they must have sounded like complete strangers who did not take to each other very much, gamely making conversation during some interminable dinner party.

  Hawksley had looked as though he was stuffed. So had Michael and Andrew. But then good servants always did when they were trying to be inconspicuous during meals.

  He won’t come tonight. He won’t come until he forgives me—and how am I ever going to make him do that when I dare not mention the subject to apologise?

  The door opened and the candles flickered wildly. ‘Callum?’ It came out as a squeak.

  ‘Who else were you expecting, pray?’ There was an edge to the question that she supposed she deserved. Her husband was still in evening breeches and tailcoat. As she watched, wide-eyed with apprehension, he began to undress, each garment placed on the chair with a deliberation that only tightened her trepidation, notch by notch.

  ‘No one, of course. I was not expecting you. I thought after we had quarrelled that you would not want to come to me.’

  ‘That was not a quarrel,’ Callum said as he sat down and rolled off his stockings. ‘That was a clarification of expectations.’

  He stood up and draped his shirt over the back of the chair. Sophia’s eyes followed his hands to the waistband of his breeches. The thin silk hid nothing, which was something that young ladies were expected to ignore. One averted one’s eyes from this insight into male anatomy, although as one outrageous dowager had said within Sophia’s hearing at a party, it was interesting to see what the young men were thinking about.

  Callum was not, apparently, thinking about making love to her. Then why had he come? Perhaps she was going to get another lecture about her behaviour, although she could not think of anything else she had done wrong. Not yet. A sin of omission, then. Sophia swallowed a sigh.

  He stood there, hands at his waist for a moment, then turned and began to systematically snuff out the candles, as he had done the night before, only this time he did not stop when he reached the bedside table, but extended a hand to the wicks of those too.

  ‘Would you prefer it if the room was dark?’

  Perhaps he wanted it? Uncertain, she nodded and the final flames vanished, leaving only the smell of hot wax.

  Wide-eyed in the gloom, Sophia heard the whisper of falling material and then the covers were moved as Callum slid into bed beside her. He turned and pressed her back against the pillows and she became aware that he did, after all, want to make love. Had she been forgiven, or had he blown out the candles because he preferred not to look at her while he was still angry over her tactlessness?

  His hands were not unkind as they moved on her body, nor was his kiss careless, but then she had never feared that he was a man who would hurt her physically. Sophia tried to recapture the sensual feelings she had experienced the previous night and found, although exactly the same things appeared t
o be happening, there was none of the pleasure as his hands cupped and caressed her breast, teased her nipples, stroked down her hip.

  Was it the darkness? But the strong body over hers was the same to touch, to smell, as it had been before: she felt no fear of him. His hands were as skilful, as bold, as they had been before. But something was missing, some magic that had been there on their wedding night, despite the discomfort and all her fears.

  Sophia made herself relax, tried to recall what she had done with her own hands, how she had held Callum, encouraged him, caressed him, but her body seemed as numb as her mind. He was pushing her thighs apart now and she opened to him, obedient and passive.

  She felt him lift his head as he braced himself over her. ‘Sophia.’

  ‘Callum,’ she whispered. ‘Callum.’ And he thrust and filled her and began to move and still she felt nothing at all except the strength of the man possessing her and a kind of desperate loneliness.

  Had it taken so long before? He seemed to be waiting for something else to happen. She clung to him, moved with him as best she could and bit back the sigh of relief when Callum shuddered and went limp in her arms.

  His heart thudded against her breast. After a moment he turned his head on her shoulder and she felt his breath on her cheek. ‘You … That was not good for you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it was,’ she lied, forcing a smile because she knew he would hear it in her voice and believe her satisfied. ‘It was just … I am a little tired and perhaps upset because of our … The discussion before dinner.’

  ‘I will help you.’ Callum shifted and she felt his hand between her thighs, parting the slick swollen folds.

  ‘No, no, really, it is all right.’ She did not understand what he meant to do, but she did not think she could cope with the embarrassment of finding out. She tightened her muscles to hold her legs together and after a moment he withdrew his hand.

  ‘I will let you sleep, then.’ He got out of bed, pulled the covers back over her and she heard him moving about in the darkness, gathering up his clothes.