Married to a Stranger

by Louise Allen

  ‘You think my figure drawing is adequate?’

  ‘More than that.’ He touched a sketch she had made of Chivers. ‘The portraiture is charming and appears to be most revealing of character.’

  Sophia emerged clutching her parcel and portfolio, dazed and delighted and with an appointment for three days’ time to finalise terms. Now she knew her drawings were of saleable quality, the urge to do more was almost overwhelming. She wondered if Callum would allow her to draw him, for the only sketch she had made was the one in the chaise on their wedding day and that was marred by a pencil slash across it from when he had startled her. The thought made her shy for some reason. Perhaps, because she knew now that she loved him, it would be too intimate, too revealing of the way she felt.

  She was about to hail a cab when she noticed another shop, its window filled with colour and a small crowd standing outside laughing. The multi-paned bow window was full of prints pinned in rows along strings. Cartoons, she realised, caricatures of public figures and international events. They were cruel, perceptive, vigorous. She blinked at one of the Prince Regent, his mistress and a chamber pot—and crude. These were definitely not the sort of popular images she had seen at home, but she could not resist them. Sophia opened the door and went in.

  On impulse, when she arrived back in Half Moon Street Sophia went straight to Averil’s door and knocked.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Chatterton, my lady is at home.’ The butler stepped back to give her access into the hall and, as Sophia stepped on to the marble floor, a voice came clearly through the half-open drawing-room door.

  ‘I cannot like it, Averil! How could she forget Daniel and marry a man she hardly knows within months of the wreck? It seems heartless. And poor Callum—what was he thinking about to let himself be trapped like that?’

  The butler, his hands full of Sophia’s parcels, froze; it was quite clear he knew who they were discussing, but it was too late to deny her entrance now.

  ‘Well, I like her,’ Averil’s voice was equally forthright and just as clear. ‘And so will you, Dita. I have no doubt Callum thought it was the right thing to do—and you know what he is like: Sophia probably had no choice in the matter once he had made up his mind!’

  The butler dumped the packages unceremoniously on the hall table, flung the door wide and announced, ‘Mrs Chatterton, my lady,’ with an air of desperation, presumably in the hope of forestalling any further faux pas.

  Sophia walked in, her mouth dry and her stomach in knots. Averil stared at her from the chaise, her face a picture of embarrassment and alarm as the other woman in the room, an elegant creature with dark hair and wide green eyes, sprang to her feet.

  ‘Oh, my dreadful tongue! You must be Callum’s wife,’ she said and came forwards with impetuous confidence, both hands held out. ‘I am Perdita Lyndon and I do apologise—I had no right to leap to conclusions. Averil is quite correct, of course Callum would have left you no choice in the matter. The man is an unmovable object when he decides upon something.’

  ‘Lady Iwerne.’ Sophia took her hand and managed a stiff little nod. Despite the frank apology she felt quite sick. She knew who the outspoken lady was. She had heard her name several times—another of Averil and Callum’s friends from the Bengal Queen. She had survived the wreck and, so Averil had told them, was now married to her rescuer, the Marquess of Iwerne. And not, it seemed, moved to like her, or trust her motives, however open her apology had been. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to Averil. ‘I am sorry, Lady d’Aunay, I have called at an inconvenient time.’

  ‘No, of course you have not! I so wanted you to meet Dita,’ Averil said remorsefully. ‘Oh dear, and now I have become Lady d’Aunay to you, just when I thought I had made a new friend. Please, Sophia, come and sit down by me and let Dita retrieve matters. Benson!’ The butler reappeared. ‘Bring tea and the very nicest biscuits.’

  Sophia sat, her stomach still in a miserable knot.

  ‘I am tactless and outspoken but, please believe me, I am not usually given to attacking people I do not know behind their backs,’ Lady Iwerne said, sitting down again in a swirl of expensively tailored skirts. ‘My only excuse can be that I feel defensive for both Daniel and Callum because of what happened—and that is most unfair to you. I cannot imagine what it must have been like to lose your betrothed. It was so brave to marry Callum.’

  Sophia knew she could nod, dab at a tear, accept all the sympathy and they would believe her. But it would be a lie and she could not accept credit for courage from Callum’s friends. ‘It was very much to my own benefit,’ she said stiffly. ‘Callum could have married anyone and I would have been left a spinster.’

  ‘But he felt it was his responsibility to look after you,’ Averil said, leaning across to squeeze Sophia’s hand.

  The ready sympathy dissolved the miserable knot inside, made her want to explain. ‘Yes, he did. And I said no, of course. But he would not listen and Mama wanted it, and my brother is training for Holy Orders and it would have made such a difference … I still said no, even though I was tempted, so tempted. I want children, a family. But I wasn’t sure it was right and then he … we—’ She broke off, blushing.

  ‘He made you want him? Callum’s tactical skills are just what one would expect,’ Lady Iwerne said with a wry smile as the butler brought in the tea tray. ‘How very clever of him,’ she added as the door closed again and Averil began to pour. ‘He is most attractive,’ she added slyly.

  ‘And now, here I am, indeed, Lady Iwerne,’ Sophia said, trying to pretend she had not heard that last remark. ‘I only hope I can make Callum a good wife.’

  ‘Call me Dita, please. We will be friends, I know it.’ And looking into her intelligent, vivid face, Sophia believed it. Dita smiled. ‘I, being far less dutiful than you, can only hope Callum will make you happy. You are very modest, but it is not as though he gains nothing from this marriage—an attractive, intelligent wife, support at home as he starts his career in England, someone who knows and understands his family. Do you love him?’

  ‘Yes—oh!’ With a hand that shook, Sophia took the tea cup Averil was offering. ‘I did not mean to say that. He doesn’t know how I feel.’

  ‘And it is such a difficult thing to say, isn’t it? Only three words, but when one has no idea what the reply will be, they just seem to freeze on your lips,’ Averil said with a smile. ‘And men are even worse than we are—sometimes it takes them a while to understand how they feel.’

  Dita rolled her eyes. ‘Quite. Well, you have us now. How can we help? Let me think. Is everything all right in the bedroom? Does he need seducing?’

  Averil gave a snort of laughter. ‘No!’ Sophia knew she had gone crimson. ‘Everything is just wond—I mean, that is not the problem.’ As she recovered her composure she realised that Dita’s assured manner of speaking of such things probably meant that she and the marquess had been lovers, just as Averil and Luc had been before their marriage. It was shocking, but it was also reassuring to know that feeling about lovemaking as she did was not something unusual or wicked. She had wished for married friends her own age to confide in, and here they were.

  ‘Callum is very cool,’ she added with some haste. Dita’s exquisitely groomed eyebrows rose. ‘I mean, out of the bedchamber. Very pleasant, very kind and amiable. Sometimes it is like living with a man who is on the other side of a sheet of glass. Sometimes I think that making … er … the bedroom, is the only thing that really warms him.’

  ‘He was always the controlled one, the ambitious, hard-working twin,’ Averil said, frowning. ‘But I would never have called him cool or distant. He was witty and a good friend.’

  Dita nodded in agreement. ‘I’ve seen him in fits of laughter and engaging with other people’s enjoyments.’

  ‘He still misses Daniel dreadfully, I think. It has hurt him very much to lose him,’ Sophia said. ‘They were in each other’s heads, somehow. I can remember that. It must be like losing part of yourself. I don’t
know how to fill that void for him, or even if I should try. I had fallen out of love with Daniel, you see. Callum knows that. I felt, I still feel, so guilty about it—but how could I feel the same? We had grown up. I was different, he must have been too.’

  The words seemed to spill from her mouth and the relief at saying it, at being honest with friends, and not just with Callum, was intense. The other women were silent as her impulsive words died away into silence. Were they shocked? Disgusted? She braced herself for their reaction.

  ‘I can quite see that. Ten years apart—of course you had changed,’ Dita stated. There was a sympathetic silence, then she added, ‘Well, at least you are out of mourning, by the look of things. That will help both of you.’

  ‘We have begun to go out in society now. In fact, we are having our first dinner party tonight.’ A thought struck her. ‘I know it is dreadfully short notice, but would you—?’

  ‘Come to dinner? We would love to—I was hoping you would ask. Now I know I am forgiven. We must have another cup of tea, and then we will catch up on all the news.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sophia returned home at seven in the evening fizzing with excitement. She swept through the front door just as Callum came down the stairs, suavely elegant in evening dress, his golden skin and dark hair the perfect foil for white linen and deep blue cloth. ‘My dear, I was about to send out a search party.’

  ‘Oh, Callum, I am late, I am so sorry—and after I was so cross when you were late the other day, too! Did you have a good day at the docks?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ He eyed her portfolio and the brown paper parcel. ‘You have been shopping at this time in the evening?’

  ‘Oh, no. I mean … yes, I went shopping and then I called on Averil and Lady Iwerne was there so I have invited her and Lord Iwerne for dinner tonight as well. They’ve just got back to town from their honeymoon, too, just like Averil and Luc. I do like her, very much. Only, we fell to talking and I quite forgot the time. But I remembered to send a message to the staff about the two extra guests, and the wedding presents have been unpacked,’ she finished, breathless.

  ‘I shall be delighted to see both the presents and our guests.’ And he did look pleased, Sophia thought with relief. She had not been sure it was quite the thing to invite a marquess to dinner at such short notice.

  ‘I must run and get changed.’

  Callum stood aside courteously to allow her to mount the stairs. ‘Perhaps I can look through your drawings while I am waiting.’ He reached for the portfolio.

  ‘No!’ Sophia whirled round and snatched it back. ‘Not those dreadful scrawls, I would be mortified to have them looked at. I’ll … I’ll find something better than these to show you.’

  She whisked upstairs and into her sitting room. Her old folder was on the side and she shuffled some of her better drawings into it, then, with a guilty pang, pushed the portfolio with Mr Ackermann’s card and notes and the caricatures she had bought in it under the sofa. Sooner or later she must confess what she had done, but not quite yet. She wanted to savour the triumph of actually selling her work before she had to defend her actions.

  Andrew came at the tug of the bell pull. ‘Please give this to Mr Chatterton.’ She handed him the folder and ran up to her room to dress for her first dinner party as a married lady.

  Cal checked with Hawksley that all was ready for the evening, then settled himself in the drawing room with Sophia’s folder of drawings. He had no very great expectations after her reluctance to show them to him. Just because she had been drawing for many years did not mean she had any talent; he only hoped he did not have to struggle to find some kind words to say. It was strange how living with Sophia had made him so sensitive to her feelings. Or perhaps that would have happened with any woman: he was just not used to domestic closeness.

  The drawing that lay on top was of a woman, her head bent over sewing. She was obviously utterly focused on her work and yet the pose was one of tranquillity and grace. He stared at it, recognising Chivers despite the fact that her face was not visible. He turned the sheet over and found a minutely detailed flower study, then a sweeping sketch of Green Park followed by another portrait, this time of a small child staring solemnly at a cow. Green Park again, he thought, arrested by the way Sophia had caught the mixture of fear and curiosity on the toddler’s face.

  She wanted children, he recalled. So did he, of course. An heir and, he supposed, the proverbial spare. That was unpleasantly close to the bone—life was dangerous and unpredictable and the thought of losing a child made his blood run cold. It would be even worse than losing Daniel. As bad as losing Sophia. He pushed the idea away and thought of a little girl. Yes, that was ideal, three children. At least. As he looked at the sketch in his hand Callum found the abstract wish for children had become something else, a definite desire to have children with Sophia.

  Where had that come from? The realisation that she would make a good mother, he supposed, although it was more than that, somehow.

  He was still sitting there, daydreaming, the folder open on his knee, when Sophia came down, a trifle pink from hurrying.

  ‘You look very fine, my dear,’ Cal remarked. She had gained a little weight, a little colour in her cheeks, since they had married. It was hard to remember why he had ever thought her plain.

  ‘I do?’ She patted at her piled curls, frowning into the overmantel mirror.

  ‘Indeed. The pink in your cheeks suits you and running down the stairs has produced a most alluring effect around the neckline.’

  Sophia looked down at the rapid rise and fall of her bosom and became pinker. ‘Wretch!’

  ‘Which reminds me, I have a present for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  How intriguing, he thought. Her reaction was a polite query, not an instant demand to know what it was. But then, this was his wife, not his mistress. And, although Sophia had married him for security and position, she was not at all grasping. In fact, he rather wished she would ask him for something, anything. ‘It occurred to me that I had bought you no jewellery and that we are entertaining formally for the first time tonight.’

  ‘You gave me my wedding ring and your grandmother’s lovely sapphire.’ Sophia held up her hand, the gems winking in the candlelight.

  ‘And now this.’ He picked up the long dark-blue leather case from the table beside him as he got to his feet.

  ‘Oh.’ She seemed reluctant to take it and then, when she did, she held it, unopened, in her hand. ‘I have done nothing to deserve it.’

  ‘You are my wife. You do not have to earn such things—it is my pleasure to give them to you.’

  Sophia shook her head. ‘I cannot help but feel this is an unequal relationship.’

  ‘It is marriage.’ Cal took the box and opened it, wondering what made him such an expert on the subject. Marriage to Sophia was not proving to be quite what he had imagined, a polite, harmonious domestic arrangement with privacy and restraint on both sides and no need for any awkward emotion.

  White fire flashed along the length of the case, a line of brilliance against the dark velvet lining. He lifted the necklace and put it around Sophia’s neck, lingering a little as he fastened it, letting his fingers stir the dark tendrils of hair her maid had so cunningly left to caress her skin. ‘And I do not think that marriage is a matter of an accountant’s books, a debit-and-credit balance. It is, I hope, a matter of trust and partnership.’

  It was a pleasure to touch her, a pleasure to adorn her with what was, ultimately, the fruits of his hard work. These were not inherited gems. But one day, perhaps they would be. One day Sophia might give them to their daughter on her wedding day. Something swelled in his chest, a mixture of pride and apprehension and a tenderness that made him catch his breath.

  Sophia stood and looked at their reflections in the glass, the diamonds pulsing with the rhythm of her breathing, his hands lying possessively on her shoulders. ‘It is lovely. Trust and partnership. I hope that,
too,’ she said slowly and then, with sudden vehemence, she turned and caught his hands in hers. ‘I want that. I want to share my thoughts with you and to have you share yours with me. To be part of your life, even though you never wanted me there.’

  ‘I never saw you there, but now you are here, my wife, I am glad of it,’ Cal said, surprised to find he meant it. ‘Trust, then, and understanding and sharing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were clear and dark and happy as she looked into his and Cal felt a jolt of some emotion he hardly recognised displace the sensation of apprehension in his heart. Happiness. Such a perilous emotion. ‘Yes, please, Callum. And the necklace is beautiful, thank you. I am sorry if I seemed ungrateful.’

  ‘I do not want gratitude,’ he said, meaning it and wondering as he spoke what he did want. ‘But a kiss would be very acceptable.’

  Her arms went around his neck and she smiled up at him. ‘But that is as much a pleasure for me as for you, Mr Chatterton,’ she said as he lowered his mouth slowly to hers, savouring the anticipation.

  ‘The Marquess and Marchioness of Iwerne, Captain the Count d’Aunay, Lady d’Aunay, ma’am,’ Hawksley pronounced with the air of a butler who felt he was loftily above such circumstances as discovering his master and mistress locked in a passionate embrace in the middle of their drawing room.

  *

  Callum took absolutely no notice of the butler, or of the four guests who entered on his words, until he had finished the kiss, apparently to his satisfaction.

  Sophia emerged blushing and laughing to meet the sardonic amber gaze of a tall, black-haired stranger. Instinct alone would have told her that this was not Callum’s bachelor colleague from East India House, even if he did not have Perdita at his side: he had a tangible air of confidence and privilege that warned her that this was the Marquess of Iwerne. Warned was the apt word, too, she was certain. A good man to have on your side, a dangerous enemy.