by Wolf, Bree
Holding her gaze, Mr. Sharpe slowly shook his head from side to side. “Not until you’ve answered my question,” he whispered, making his words sound much more intimate than they otherwise would have. His gaze continued to linger, daring her to answer him, stating loud and clear that he would not move unless she did. “Answer me, and I shall leave. Not London, mind you, but this room.”
Christina did her best to cast him an exasperated look, one meant to hide the irritating flutter in her chest. “Very well then. What was your question?”
Grinning at her, the blasted man chuckled. “As though you don’t remember,” he whispered in that low tone yet again.
Of course, Christina remembered. After she had all but fled his side that day at the ball, his question had continued to echo in her mind, keeping her awake night after night for a reason she did not dare dwell upon. “I’m afraid I do not,” she said, and even to her own ears her words sounded hollow.
Mr. Sharpe’s grin deepened, and Christina’s breath caught as he moved closer still, his eyes fixed upon hers as though they could hold her in place. He inhaled a deep breath, and the moment between them stretched from one heartbeat into another and another. “How far would you go?” he asked, echoing his words from the other night. “Would you take her place?”
Christina knew what her answer should be. She had known it then and she knew it now. All of a sudden, though, her voice deserted her. The words simply would not come, would not leave her lips and put him in his place. Why? Why could she not simply say it?
Angry at herself, Christina opened her mouth, determined to say something, to reply, to give an answer that would make it unmistakably clear that she despised him…when Mr. Sharpe suddenly closed that last bit of distance between them.
Christina inhaled a sharp breath at his sudden nearness, completely taken aback, only to feel her heart all but still in her chest a moment later when his arms swung forward, and his hands settled almost possessively upon her waist. “What are you—?”
“Would you sacrifice yourself to save her?” Mr. Sharpe asked, and his breath fell against her lips. “Would you take her place…at my side?”
Christina could not stop her breath from quickening as she stared up at him. She felt his warm breath mingling with her own, and she knew that she ought to stop him. She ought to step out of his embrace. She ought to chide him for taking such liberties. She ought to—
“It seems I have found a question without an easy answer,” he chuckled, and his hands upon her waist tightened, pulling her closer against him.
Christina held her breath. “Release me!” A wave of relief swept through her at the rediscovery of her voice. “I demand that you release me this instant!”
He grinned at her. “And I demand an answer.” His head lowered toward hers, his eyes not veering from her own. “Would you?” he whispered. “Or is there a reason why you’re not answering me? Are you stalling yet again? Are you so enjoying my company that you’re hoping if you refuse to answer,” his gaze briefly dropped from hers to touch upon her lips, “that I will kiss you?”
Christina’s eyes widened as shock slammed into her. Indeed, what was most shocking was not the threat—or perhaps the possibility—of a kiss, but instead to have the truth revealed to her in such an unexpected way. Yes, Christina had been on the brink of a kiss before. However, never before had she been indecisive. She had always known without thought what she had wanted. Or rather what she had not wanted.
Now, however, she had to admit—at least to herself—that the thought of kissing Mr. Sharpe was irritatingly appealing. She should not want his kiss. She should not, and yet somehow, someway, inexplicably so, she did.
Before either one of them could make up their mind to act, the door to the library was suddenly flung open and in poured a small group of guests, their voices echoing through the vaulted room that Christina found herself momentarily wondering how she had not heard their approach. Perhaps, the truth was, that she had simply been too caught up in the moment. Whatever the reason, it did not change what was.
And what was was that Lady Christina Beaumont, daughter to the Earl of Whickerton, found herself in an intimate embrace with a gentleman—scratch that, man!—his head lowered to hers for a kiss, her slippers discarded a few paces away, and a group of onlookers staring at them as though they were on display at the museum.
Indeed, the day could not have gone worse, or could it have? What were they to do now?
Chapter Eight
What is to be Expected
Thorne had to admit that he, too, had gotten lost in the moment. Although he had planned every step so carefully, the moment he had drawn near, he had acted on instinct alone. She had that effect on him. Whenever those flashing blue eyes looked into his, he seemed to forget everything that was or should be. One word from her lips upended his most carefully laid-out plans, and he found himself giving in to desires he had not quite expected.
Of course, he knew the effect a beautiful woman could have on a man. He had felt himself get lost in the haze of desire before. Still, this was different.
She was different.
Granted, he wanted to kiss her, but it was not all that he wanted or longed for or cherished. Indeed, he loved the way she lied to his face, pretending that she did not feel that sizzling attraction between them. It was utterly endearing to watch her fight for control and not give in, to see her hold her head high and pretend that she truly despised him. Perhaps she did, but most likely because of the effect he, too, had upon her. He knew that she did not like losing control or being at the mercy of another, and so she fought him.
She fought herself.
Her own desires and longings.
Nonetheless, with each breath, he had sensed her begin to yield a bit more. Her resistance had waned. He felt her muscles begin to relax, and he had seen sparks of temptation flash in her blue eyes.
He could see she was displeased to find herself drawn to him, something deep inside telling her to resist him, to resist this unexpected allure between them.
Yet the moment before the blasted door had opened, Thorne had been certain that she had been close to acquiescing.
Now, he would have to wait.
Wait for another chance.
But his moment would come.
Their moment would come, and he would not allow it to slip from his fingers again.
“I’m afraid we are no longer alone,” Thorne whispered, seeing her eyes widen in shock as the impact of their situation slowly found its way into her mind. Neither one of them had yet turned to look upon those who had entered without even the courtesy of a knock; however, they both knew what would happen now.
Lady Christina swallowed, then dropped her gaze, and he could feel her retreating from his embrace. Thorne removed his hands from her, allowing more distance between them than he would have preferred. Still, this was not the moment. Now, here, their thoughts needed to focus elsewhere.
Thorne did not know any of the people who stood in the doorway gaping at them. One by one, they moved inside instead of back out into the hallway. Curiosity urged them onward as hushed whispers flew from their lips. With each one stepping inside, another followed as though an endless supply of guests remained outside in the corridor, only waiting to be allowed entrance.
Hushed words of compromised and a most indecent situation as well as a marriage to swiftly follow drifted to his ears. Although he could not say that he minded, his gaze moved to his partner in crime, noting the paleness of her cheeks, and he felt a small stab of shame at what he had done.
He could only hope that she would forgive him one day.
“What is going on here?” came a deep, masculine voice before the small crowd began to part, making way for Lord Whickerton and his wife, closely followed by today’s bride and groom. Their eyes moved from Lady Christina to him and back again, puzzled and somewhat suspicious expressions coming to their faces.
“If you would allow us a moment of privacy,
” the master of the house said in a commanding tone as he turned to face the assembled wedding guests. He gave a swift nod of the head, his tall stature and authoritative tone no match even for the most curious tattletale. Reluctantly, one by one, they retreated back out into the corridor, their whispers flying frantically back and forth, new rumors spreading far and wide as they hastened back to inform others of what they had just unearthed.
And then, finally, the door closed behind them.
“Christina, what happened here?” Lord Whickerton asked as he stepped toward his daughter, concern instead of reproach in his voice. “Are you all right?”
Lady Christina nodded, her face pale, but her eyes as luminous as always. Despite the look of shock that seemed to linger upon her face, she seemed as agile as always. Thorne wished he knew what she was thinking in that moment.
What Lord Pemberton was thinking in that very moment seemed abundantly clear, though, for the man glared at him in a rather hostile manner. The pulse in his neck beat rapidly, and despite his outward calm, Thorne thought to see anger begin to boil under the surface. It seemed only his bride’s calming presence as she placed a hand on his arm, her eyes seeking his, managed to dispel all thoughts of retribution.
Thorne had met Lord Pemberton once before, not long ago, and the man had struck him as one who adhered to his conscience rather than public opinion. A commendable quality, as far as Thorne was concerned, and he was not in the least put off by Lord Pemberton’s dark glare. After all, the man was merely looking out for his family.
“Father, it is nothing,” Lady Christina said all of a sudden, her features reviving as she took charge of the situation. “It was a misunderstanding. No more.”
Her parents exchanged a look before her mother stepped toward her. “Chris, dear, you were found alone with a gentleman. That is not nothing. Surely, you must know that.”
Lady Christina heaved a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes, of course, Mother. I’m not a simpleton. However, it truly was…a misunderstanding.” She cast him a meaningful glance, one Thorne could not quite interpret. “Nothing untoward happened.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?” the new Lady Pemberton asked, a somewhat suspicious glimmer in her blue eyes, eyes that looked a lot like her sister’s.
Lady Christina hesitated, casting another, somewhat irritated glance in his direction. “I came here to seek a moment of solace and found myself not the only one with that intention. That is all.”
Her father frowned. “May I ask what your shoes are doing over there?”
Lady Christina quickly explained how she had rested in the armchair by the fireplace and then had intended to fetch herself a book when he had entered unexpectedly. Thus far, Thorne knew her words to be completely truthful. However, her further explanations barely scratched the surface of it.
“If that is the case,” Lord Pemberton began as he turned to look at Thorne, “then why are you still here? Why did you not leave the moment you discovered yourself alone with her?”
Thorne cleared his throat. “Quite frankly, the lady and I had something to discuss.”
“To discuss?” the new Lady Pemberton inquired, exchanging a look with her sister. “What did you have to discuss? And alone no less?”
Lady Christina heaved a deep and somewhat exasperated sigh. “I wanted him to cease pursuing Sarah. I thought if I could speak to him, perhaps I could convince him to set his sights elsewhere.” A rather exasperated sigh left her lips, and the look she cast in his direction was far from favorable. “Unfortunately, it seems I was less than successful.”
Again, Lord and Lady Whickerton exchanged a meaningful look before their eyes moved to him, sizing him up from head to toe. “You are still set to marry Miss Mortensen?” Lord Whickerton inquired with a sideways glance at his daughter.
Linking his hands behind his back, Thorne straightened and met the other man’s inquisitive gaze. “As I explained to your daughter, I am merely in negotiations with her father, Lord Hartmore. Beyond that, no understanding has been reached.”
Lord Whickerton nodded. “I see.” A thoughtful expression came to the man’s face as he looked around the room, his thoughts no doubt lingering upon the implications of the situation they found themselves in.
Thorne knew precisely what was expected and could not deny that he was curious to see how Lord Whickerton would react. Would he demand or counsel or suggest? What kind of a man and father was he? Thorne had his suspicions; however, he could not be certain if he would see them confirmed.
Turning, Lord Whickerton looked at his daughter. “Christina, where do you intend to go from here? You know as well as I do what course of action is expected now. No doubt, the news of what happened here has already spread through the guests present here today and will be carried through London in the days to come.” His jaw moved, and his wife stepped up to his side, her arm coming to rest upon his. Again, they looked at one another, one of those silent exchanges Thorne had observed here and there. Then Lord Whickerton turned to face him. “Mr. Sharpe, what are your intentions? What will you do now?” Tension rested in the man’s voice, understandably so; his expression, though, remained calm.
Thorne exhaled a deep breath, allowing his eyes to sweep over the people looking most curiously at him before they came to rest upon Lady Christina for a long moment. In truth, his decision had been made long before this moment. Things had been set into motion and could not be undone. He knew what he wanted, what he still wanted, and he would not back down now. The only question was, what did she want?
Meeting Lord Whickerton’s gaze, Thorne nodded. “Although I am considered an outsider to your circles, I am aware of what is expected in such a situation. If that is what you wish,” he looked at Lady Christina, aware that her blue eyes were all but glued to him, a hint of apprehension in her gaze, “we shall be married.”
As expected, her eyes widened, and it looked as though her jaw would drop to the floor. She stared at him, completely taken aback by this turn of events. Had she truly not seen it coming? What would her answer be? Clearly, Lord Whickerton would never force his daughter’s hand; so, the decision was hers.
Hers alone.
Would she choose him?
Chapter Nine
In Service of a Friend
For a moment, Christina felt as though the room was suddenly spinning. Her vision blurred, and a strange rushing, gurgling sound echoed in her ears. She continued to stare at Mr. Sharpe like a simpleton, as though she could not make out the words he had said. Yet they echoed within her mind over and over again.
We shall be married.
Yes, his reply had taken her aback. She had not expected him to respond in this manner. Had he not seemed rather obstinate before when it came to his impending union with Sarah? Why now the sudden change of heart?
Of course, from a rational standpoint, it should not matter to him whether he married Sarah or her. In fact, objectively speaking, Christina would be the better match. After all, her father would bestow a generous dowry upon her—which considering his own fortune would perhaps not have much sway with Mr. Sharpe—and her family’s connections would no doubt see Mr. Sharpe elevated in position, opening doors for him and assisting his business ventures. So, yes, she understood why he was so ready to agree to this marriage.
Blasted man! Had all this been nothing but a ruse to secure her hand in marriage? Had it not been a coincidence that he had stumbled upon her here in the library? Indeed, with each passing second, that scenario seemed more likely than any other.
Fury once again burned in her veins, and for a split second, Christina was tempted to fling herself at him, determined to inflict physical pain however she could. Who did he think he was? Coming here, to London, into her sister’s home and manipulate her in such a way? Had everything been nothing but a ploy? The way he had…looked at her, reached for her?
Christina still felt the warmth of his hands upon her waist. She still remembered the fleeting brush of his breath
against her lips. Indeed, she had lost herself in that moment. She had allowed herself to be manipulated. She had been so cautious and suspicious of him from the start, and yet in the very moment when she had needed her wits about her, his mere presence had robbed her of every rational thought.
Angry at herself, Christina felt her hands ball into fists, and she quickly hid them in the folds of her skirts. She did not want him to know how deeply he unsettled her, angered her. She did not want him to know that he had outsmarted her.
He had, had he not?
Shame sent heat to her cheeks, and Christina held onto the thought that at least now she would have the chance to refuse him. To put him in his place. To reject him. Never, no matter the circumstances, would her parents force her to accept a man she did not wish to marry. Yes, her reputation would be in tatters; however, there were worse fates than—
Christina paused as a new thought slowly found its way into her mind. Indeed, she did not want to marry him. No woman in her right mind would want to marry him. Neither did Sarah. Nonetheless, if he were to marry her, Christina, Sarah would be safe.
Aware that everyone in the room was staring at her, waiting for her reply, for her answer, Christina turned away and began to pace, her gaze falling on her slippers, still lying by the foot of the armchair she had sat in before…when the world had still followed its usual rotation.
“Nothing has to be decided right now, does it?” her sister Leonora asked, her eyes slightly widened and deep concern in her voice as she looked toward their parents.
Not long ago, Leonora had almost been blackmailed into marriage for the sake of her sisters, worried that her ruined reputation might harm them all. Ultimately, however, all had ended well, and Leonora had married a man she genuinely loved, a man who had come to her aid without a moment’s hesitation. Still, Christina could see that the threat of a forced marriage still lingered in her heart, giving her voice that touch of fear as though she were the one standing at this crossroad.
