The soft click of his bedroom door shutting firmly behind him came to her, and though she listened intently, the thickness of the walls prevented any other sound reaching her. After straining to hear sounds of him for several minutes, she gave it up and tried to go sleep. It proved useless. Thoughts of Ives kept drifting through her brain. It was sheer torture, she finally admitted bitterly, to know he was so close and yet so very far away.
At his sudden explosion through her shattered door, Sophy jerked upright in her bed, hardly daring to believe that he had the audacity to break down her door. Not even Simon at his worst had behaved so outrageously. Instinctively, she reached for the pistol and, slipping from her bed, faced him.
The room was in near darkness. Only the light from his room filtered into hers, yet Ives had no trouble discerning her slim form near the bed. It was obvious from her stance that she held the pistol, and he wondered, half-amused, half-regretful, if these would be his last moments of life. If his last memory would be of Sophy firing her damned bloody pistol at him.
He stopped where he was, the candlelight behind him outlining his tall form and broad shoulders, the golden dragons on his robe winking brightly against the maroon silk.
“Are you really going to shoot me?” he asked, as he stared at her across the distance which separated them.
Sophy’s mouth went dry, and she was conscious that the pistol suddenly felt slippery in her hand. “I will,” she said stoutly, “if you come any nearer.” She was dismayed at the lack of conviction in her own voice, shocked to feel her entire body start to tremble, and not with fear or anger.
Ives smiled crookedly, and took a step in her direction. Sophy backed up slightly, but could not go far; the bed was blocking her retreat.
“Stay where you are,” she said desperately.
His heart beating like a war drum, Ives shook his head slowly, a lock of gleaming, raven black hair falling down across his forehead.
“I cannot,” he said huskily. “I am under your spell, sweetheart, drawn to you like steel to magnet, like blossoms to sunlight. I cannot stay away from you. So if you are going to shoot me, go ahead. That, and only that, will stop me from making love to you tonight.”
The pistol wavered, but she did not drop it. The light from his room suddenly illuminated his face, and seeing his devil green eyes fixed warmly on her, seeing that unbearably attractive brigand’s smile on his mouth, something inside of her splintered.
“Damn you!” she whispered helplessly, the pistol falling uselessly to her side.
Ives closed the distance between them, dragging her unresisting form into his strong embrace. He kissed her roughly, all his despair and fear, his pent-up passion in that one kiss.
“We are, it seems,” he said thickly, when he finally raised his lips from hers, “damned together.”
Sophy did not argue with him. Her blood was singing, her body wildly rejoicing to feel his touch once more. Lifting her mouth to his, she said crossly, “Oh, shut up and kiss me again!”
Ives chuckled and, swinging her up into his arms, said, “Oh, that I shall, sweetheart. That and more.”
Laying her on the bed, he gently removed the pistol from her slackened grip and shrugged impatiently out of his robe. Ives joined her immediately on the bed, his big body pressing intimately into hers. He was hard and warm on her, the shaft between his legs thick and solid, its weight seeming to sear right through the thin material separating them. The desperate hunger between them exploded, and Ives’s mouth crushed hers. His hands made short, violent work of her delicate gown.
Sophy moaned as she felt his hot skin against hers, the muscles of his broad back beneath her questing fingertips. His mouth was magic as it tasted and ravaged her own, his mere touch blatant sorcery as his hands shaped and explored her body. She was ready for him in an instant, damp heat flooding between her thighs, the primitive need to have him banishing every thought but that one. She wanted him. Now.
But Ives had other ideas, and though Sophy twisted up enticingly against him, he ignored the unmistakable invitation and continued to kiss and fondle her. When his lips finally left her mouth and traveled in stinging little bites to her breasts, she was certain she would go mad if he did not soothe the demanding ache which consumed her. But he did not, his dark head sliding lower, his hot mouth touching her in places that astonished her, sliding down low across her belly until he reached the juncture of her thighs.
Blood pounding feverishly, her heart beating as if it would leap from her breast, she cried out in shocked pleasure when he kissed her there between her legs, his tongue seeking that most intimate of all places. He held her prisoner beneath his teasing mouth, his thumbs holding the tender flesh apart as he feasted, long and with great hunger. At that first probing kiss, Sophy’s entire body clenched, fire streaking up through her. The maddeningly sweet sensations wreaked by his famished mouth only incited her more, making the demanding ache within her stronger, more intense ... unendurable.
She thought she was going to die of pleasure. Her fingers fiercely gripped his dark hair, and she was uncertain whether she was trying to pull him away or guide his warm mouth to where the ache was worst. His tongue suddenly stabbed just where she wanted it, and a soft scream was torn from her as sharp, powerful pleasure erupted through her. She shuddered wildly as her entire body seemed to explode into a thousand splinters of sweet ecstasy.
Sophy’s reaction was everything Ives could have wished for. The tremors that shook her body revealed more potently than words just how powerfully he had affected her.
The clawing demands of his own body became paramount. Sliding up over her passion-slick body, he found her mouth, kissing her hungrily as he captured her hips and lifted her to him. He plunged into her silken heat.
With swift, powerful strokes he swept Sophy along with him, stoking the fire which burned within each of them to new heights, deliberately prolonging the heavenly torture until there was only the frantic race to reach paradise. When Sophy suddenly cried out and convulsed around him, the sensation was so sweet, so desperately yearned for that Ives could only groan as he exploded deep within her satiny warmth.
They lay locked together for one long moment, neither one wanting to be the one to end it, but eventually Ives slid reluctantly from her body. They were both breathing heavily, aware that nothing had been settled between them. In the faint flickering light from his room, they regarded each other warily.
Sophy tried to think of something to say, some way of prolonging this moment, some way of closing the chasm between them. She could not deny that what had just happened between them changed nothing, she still did not trust him. Helplessly, she stared at him, uncertainty and mistrust evident in her lovely eyes.
Ives’s mouth twisted, knowing there was no way he could put her suspicions about him to rest, not as long as the Fox ran free. But there was one area he could talk of openly. His eyes locked on hers, he said grimly, “I did not marry you from some misguided need to seek revenge, and you are a fool if you continue to think so.”
Sophy swallowed, tears springing to her eyes. She wanted to believe him, but mistrust died hard. Wretchedly, she said, “Which is exactly what you would say if you did marry me for those reasons.”
His mouth tightened. “Very well, madam, believe what you will.” He suddenly bent down and kissed her almost brutally. “At least, if we have nothing else between us,” he said thickly, when he finally lifted his lips, “we have this.” He stalked from the room.
In utter despair Sophy stared after him, the instinct to call him back very strong. But she did not. Marlowe had taught her well, and the lessons she learned from him were deeply ingrained. Men lied. They went to incredible lengths to gain what they wanted, and tonight, Ives had wanted her.
Sophy rose the next morning, heavy-eyed and not certain how to greet her husband. It was folly, after what had taken place between them last night, to think that she could treat him as she had the past few days—or that she would
refuse him her bed. As he had said, at least they had that between them.
The shattered door between their rooms raised some eyebrows and Sophy knew that news of its ruined condition would be common knowledge before long. Sighing unhappily, she left her room, wondering how to explain its destruction.
With relief, she discovered that her husband had already offered an explanation. It seemed, he glibly told Marcus, Sophy had suffered a terrifying nightmare and hearing her cry out, he had rushed to her side, smashing the door down in haste to reach his wife. No one, of course, was brazen enough to comment on the intriguing fact that the door had been locked against him in the first place.
Breakfast was awkward, Sophy so aware of Ives and what they had shared together during the night that she could hardly think of anything else. Ives was little better, his brooding gaze fixed on his lovely wife as she tried to pretend she was perfectly at ease with his presence.
Fortunately, Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne chatted happily, and the constraint between the other two occupants of the room went largely unnoticed. It was apparent to the others that some sort of change had occurred, simply because Sophy joined them for breakfast instead of taking a tray in her room, which she had been wont to do of late. She actually replied almost naturally to Ives’s halfhearted conversation, making the other three exchange questioning glances. Were they at peace with each other? It appeared so.
Rising from the table, Ives asked, “I wonder if you ladies would like to join me for a drive through Hyde Park this afternoon?” He grinned at Marcus. “Perhaps you would like to accompany the carriage on that showy hack you just purchased?”
“Certainly, sir,” Marcus answered quickly, relieved to be on more normal terms with his brother-in-law.
The two girls looked expectantly at Sophy, relaxing slightly when she smiled at Ives, albeit uncertainly, and replied, “Thank you, my lord. I think we would all enjoy it immensely.”
Emerson entered the room at that moment and, bending down next to Ives, murmured in his ear. Ives’s brows shot up, but he said calmly enough, “Thank you, Emerson, that will be all.”
Rising to his feet, he said to Sophy, “It seems that we have a, er, caller. He wishes to see both of us and is presently awaiting us in the library. If you will accompany me, madam?”
Obviously puzzled, Sophy stared at him. Why hadn’t Emerson simply announced the caller? But following Ives’s lead, she rose from her chair and replied, “Of course.”
Aware of the younger three watching them perplexedly, she smiled at Phoebe and Anne, and said, “Finish your breakfast, and I shall join you shortly in the blue saloon. You may work on your embroidery until then.”
In the hall, Ives said softly, “Do not be alarmed, my dear, but there is a Constable Clarke waiting to see us.”
“A constable!” Sophy exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Why ever would a constable come to call on us?”
There was no time for further private conversation between them before they reached the library, but Ives’s thoughts were racing. There was only one reason he could conceive of for a morning visit, any visit for that matter, from an officer of the law. It had to be connected with Edward’s murder, but how?
The constable, a heavyset, grizzle-haired man of middle age, appeared to be clearly ill at ease. When they entered the library, he was pacing the floor and tugging at his stock. He started visibly at their entrance and after introducing himself, said unhappily, “I beg that you will forgive the intrusion, my lord, my lady, but Magistrate Harris felt—once we learned that Miss Anne Richmond was staying with you—that you were the proper people to be apprised of the situation.” He shook his grizzled head. “Most unfortunate affair. Most unfortunate.”
At his words, Sophy stiffened, her fingers digging into Ives’s arm. He spared a moment to smile reassuringly at her, then asked, “It is about Miss Anne Richmond that you wished to see us?”
“Er, not precisely, my lord....” The constable took a deep breath, and said in a rush, “It is about her aunt, Miss Agnes Weatherby. She is dead.”
“Dead!” Sophy gasped. “But how can this be? We just saw her on Friday, not three days ago.”
“So her butler informed us this very morning,” Clarke said, looking extremely unhappy. “It is my unpleasant duty to inform you that not only is Miss Weatherby dead, but that she was murdered—most foully.”
“How shocking,” murmured Ives, hoping that Sophy, who had blanched at Clarke’s news, was not going to faint. Easing her down into a chair of green damask, Ives glanced at Clarke. “Please, tell us what you can.”
There was not a great deal to tell. When Miss Weatherby’s butler entered the drawing room that morning to open the curtains, he discovered the body of his employer sprawled across a sofa. Miss Weatherby was quite dead. Her throat had been slashed, and from the profusion of blood, it was apparent that she had died almost instantly. Other than Miss Weatherby’s body, there was no sign of violence. The house had not been broken into, and all of the servants could account for their time the previous evening.
In fact, Constable Clarke stated grimly, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the previous evening. Their mistress had returned late from an outing and retired as usual. None of the servants had any explanation for the tragedy.
Ives and Sophy carefully avoided glancing at each other. In spite of Ives’s generous settlement, Agnes had apparently let greed rule her and approached Edward’s murderer—and now she shared the fate of her lover. The conclusion was inevitable.
It had been Miss Weatherby’s butler who informed the authorities of Miss Richmond’s whereabouts. Clarke cleared his throat. “It was thought best that we tell you of the tragedy and allow you the opportunity to tell the young lady yourself, my lord. It is our understanding that you are in the process of being proclaimed her guardian.”
Ives nodded absently, his thoughts on that last interview with Agnes Weatherby. “Yes, yes, of course. I understand.”
“Terrible thing,” Clarke said. “Respectable woman like Miss Weatherby to be killed like that in her own home.” He shook his head. “’Tis an evil world we live in these days.”
After the constable left, Ives and Sophy stared at each other for a long moment.
“She must have talked to Edward’s murderer,” Sophy said sadly. “Even after you offered her a comfortable fortune and we warned her that it was dangerous, she went ahead with it.”
“So it would appear—assuming that the same person who murdered her, murdered Edward.”
“Do you doubt it?” Sophy asked, astonished.
Ives shook his head. “No. I am quite certain that the same person killed both of them.”
“I wonder how much Agnes knew. Oh, if only she had spoken honestly with us!” Sophy’s expressive face twisted. “And dear heavens, what shall we tell Anne?”
“As little as possible,” Ives replied levelly. “She will have to know that her aunt has been murdered, but that is all.”
Sophy looked distressed. “It is a nightmare. First Edward’s murder, and now poor Agnes. Whoever murdered them must be entirely without conscience.”
Ives nodded. Thoughtfully, he added, “And rather desperate to take such chances.”
“Do you think the authorities will connect the two murders?” Sophy asked anxiously. She looked down at her hands, a faint flush burning across her cheeks. “At least no one can suspect me of murdering Agnes.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Ives said slowly. “Quite a few people know the circumstances surrounding Anne’s, er, visit with you. I shouldn’t wonder if that fact isn’t discovered by Clarke soon enough. And unless the good constable is utterly incompetent, and I do not believe that he is, I do not think it will be very many days before he learns of Edward’s murder—and that you and I were found standing over his body.”
The color drained from Sophy’s face, and Ives cursed his blunt tongue. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, dropping to one knee in front of her, “do
not be alarmed. No one will seriously consider you a murderess, but you have to realize that it is going to be unpleasant for all of us for the next several days. There is bound to be all sorts of wild conjecture bandied about, and the circumstances surrounding Anne’s being under your care are only going to add to that conjecture.”
His mouth pulled. “I have little doubt that our visit with Agnes on Friday will be painted in the most sinister of colors.” He grinned crookedly at her. “We are going to have the most shocking reputation, my dear.”
Sophy smiled faintly. “I suspect you are right. But, Ives, what are we going to do?”
He rose to his feet and helping her up from the chair, said simply, “We, sweetheart, are going to do what we originally set out to do—find Edward’s murderer.”
“But how?”
“At the moment, I haven’t the faintest idea,” Ives admitted cheerfully. A glint entered his green eyes. “Of course, you should know by now that I shan’t let such a trifling matter as that deter me!”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Ives’s words lifted Sophy’s gloom. He was right. Nothing would stand in his way, and they would find the man who had murdered Edward and Agnes.
Sophy and Ives saw no reason not to tell the rest of the family at once, particularly since the three younger members of the family were all waiting in the blue saloon, impatient to learn the outcome of the meeting with the mysterious caller.
Anne had not been close to her aunt, but she was understandably shocked and distressed to hear of her death, especially the manner of it. She could not help but grieve; Agnes, despite her faults, had been kind upon occasion, and she was Anne’s last living relative.
“Do not fear that you are alone in the world, my dear,” Sophy said kindly, once Anne’s first storm of tears had passed. “We are your family now and you will never be alone again.”
“By Jove! Sophy is right,” said Marcus warmly. “You are our sister now. We shall look after you.”
For Love Alone Page 25
