The Hellion Bride

by Catherine Coulter

It wasn't long before they were lying side by side, as comfortable as three blankets could make them. "Well, at least we've gotten things started," Sophie said. Without thought, she reached out her left hand and found Ryder's. For an instant, he stilled, then brought her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her wrist and palm.

  "Yes," he said. "But it won't be easy, sweetheart. Damnation, I should be whipped."

  "I have to admit it has in the past seemed to me to be an excellent thing to do to you, but not for this. This isn't your fault."

  "And just whose fault is it? Mrs. Smithers's? Dr. Pringle's?"

  "All right, so your judgment of Mr. Dubust wasn't correct. I wish you would stop flailing yourself, Ryder."

  But he couldn't, at least not to himself. Irrespon­sible fool, that's what he was, and he knew it and despised himself for it. He'd already planned to change things, had already thought about it a good deal because he was now married and a husband, for God's sake, but he'd been too late.

  Sophie was right. Flailing himself didn't help a thing at the moment. They'd at least gotten things started. Whilst they'd been in Lower Slaughter, they'd managed to find two women who had worked before at Chadwyck House who were perfectly will­ing to come back on the morrow. But for now, there was merely filth and more filth. They slept in the Blue Salon, on the floor near the floor-to-ceiling windows— "Hell," Ryder said, "we can call this the Black Salon if we want to. The good Lord knows there isn't a patch of blue left."

  He cursed luridly.

  "So much for your first night at my wonderful house," he said, and punched his pillow. He then pulled her closer to his side. "I'm sorry, Sophie. This is all a damned bloody mess and I've dropped you right in the middle of it."

  She didn't answer. Not that he expected her to, because he was so furious, so ashamed that he'd let himself be such a lazy, worthless clod that such a thing could happen, that he wanted to rant, and so he did. "I'll find the fellow. It shouldn't be difficult. All the furnishings were catalogued, a fact I doubt our Mr. Dubust knew about. But Uncle Brandon was a great one for detail, indeed so much detail, I think he died finally from choking on it. In any case, we'll track all the things down, then I'll find Dubust and cut off his . . . well, the fellow will end up in a bad way, I swear it."

  Ryder paused a moment, then realized that his bride was fast asleep. He kissed her forehead.

  Life, he thought as he eased into sleep himself, was occasionally irritating and made one face up to what one was. On the other hand, life did bring some pleasant surprises, like the wonderful soft one who was nestled in the crook of his arm. Her palm was lying over his heart.

  The next few days were beyond anything Sophie had ever experienced. She felt like a general direct­ing her troops, that is, when she wasn't spending her time on the front line side by side with them. She spent her days immersed in dirt, bone tired by mid-afternoon, and having more fun than she could ever remember. What she was doing meant something. She felt wonderful. She felt worthy for the first time in a very long while.

  Her hair was bound up in a dirty bandanna, smudges on her face, her gown too short and just as dirty as her bandanna, when Doris, a very fat good-natured woman, yelled from the front entrance hall, "Mrs. Sherbrooke! There's a gentleman here."

  Sophie barely had time to set her broom aside when she came face to face with a very handsome man who had something of the look of the Sherbrookes. She said, her hand thrust out, "You must be Tony Parrish."

  "Guilty, ma'am. And you are my cousin's new wife." He turned then and called out, "Come in, love, and dredge up all your wondrous charm. Our new cousin doubtless needs it."

  When Melissande Parrish, Lady Rathmore, floated on fairy-slippered feet into the entrance hall looking like a princess stepping into a slum, Sophie could do nothing but stare at the incredible vision. She had never seen a more beautiful woman in her life.

  "You're Alex's sister?"

  "Oh yes. I'm Melissande, you know, and you must be Sophie. You're a surprise to every Sherbrooke in England, so Tony tells me. No one ever thought that Ryder would . . . that is, Ryder is so very much in demand with the ladies, but Tony believes he won't see his other mistresses now and—"

  "I believe that's enough abuse of the topic, love," Tony Parrish said, and leaned down and kissed his wife full on the mouth, much to Sophie's astonish­ment.

  Melissande blushed and said, "You shouldn't have begun that in the carriage, my lord, and now you will—" She broke off, shook herself, and said to Sophie, "My husband is a dreadful tease, you know. Now, I see no place to sit. It is very strange. Whatever shall we do?"

  Sophie was stymied. In that moment, Ryder strode into the house, looking so beautiful in black Hes­sians, buckskins, and white shirt open at his throat and wild and male that she wanted, in that brief instant, to hurl herself into his arms. He'd changed so very much in the past three days. Or, she thought, her brow puckering, perhaps it was she who had changed, but just a bit, just a tiny little bit. No, he was just Ryder and she didn't feel a blessed thing toward him. He had a very nice smile, his teeth white, his face so very expressive, his light blue eyes crinkling at the corners with pleasure. There was something different about him. It took another moment for Sophie to figure out what it was. He was clearly in charge here. It hadn't been that he'd lived in his brother's shadow, no, not that, but here, at Chadwyck House, he was the master and he fitted the role very well. And I, Sophie thought, am the mistress.

  The cousins shook hands, slapped each other on the back, and insulted each other's manhood in high good humor. Sophie felt herself stiffening as she waited for Ryder to turn to the beautiful woman at Tony's side. She was waiting for him to meta­phorically fall at the fairy slippers of the gloriously beautiful Melissande.

  He didn't.

  He smiled down at her, a social, quite imperson­al smile, and said, "Welcome to Chadwyck House, cousin. I told Tony to keep his distance else I'd put him to work."

  "I'm not such a sluggard," Tony said. "Behold two willing slaves to do your bidding."

  "We're not going to London until next week," Melissande said, looking around her and shuddering. "Until then Tony insists that we help out. However, it is much worse than I'd imagined. I've never been dirty before and I think that grime beneath one's fingernails is quite disgusting."

  Artless, Sophie thought, achingly beautiful and artless. She tucked her fingers into a fist because her fingernails were black with blackening from the grate.

  "You won't do a thing," she said to Melissande. "At least not in that gown." Sophie looked at her husband, a question in her eyes, but Ryder was looking at Tony, who, in turn, was grinning at his wife, saying, "You've been sweaty, very sweaty. Ah, I do remember a time in the Northcliffe gardens— you remember, don't you, sweetheart?—beneath that statue of Venus trying to cover her bosom with a very small hand—that you got really quite grimy and you didn't give a good damn."

  Melissande punched him in the arm.

  "Some things never change," Ryder said, shaking his head at his cousin. "Then again, some things change so much that it leaves a poor mortal nearly speechless."

  "Ah," said Tony, "that is a state my dear wife hasn't yet quite achieved. But she draws ever near­er."

  Melissande said, puzzlement in her voice, "You appear pretty, Sophie, even though you are wearing that horrid thing around your head and your gown is beyond awful. But you're not beautiful. It is all very odd, you know. I simply don't understand it."

  Sophie blinked.

  "There is simply no accounting for a man's pref­erences," Ryder said easily. "I daresay it is a lack in my man's character. She means," Ryder said in his wife's ear, "that it's incomprehensible to her that I, a manly man by all accounts, would prefer you to her."

  "I can see why she would feel that way," Sophie said. She smiled at the vision. "You are very beau­tiful."

  "Yes, I know, but Tony prefers that I try to turn aside such compliments, that I treat them as if they were as insubstantial
as snowflakes, that is his metaphor, you know. That is the correct term, I believe. But I have no doubt at all that your compliment is terribly sincere and, after all, you're not a gentleman, thus it can be accepted gracefully, don't you agree, Tony?"

  Tony Parrish, Viscount Rathmore, looked perfect­ly serious. "Such logic is irrefutable, my love." He said to Ryder, "All right, tell me what I can do. Incidentally, I brought six men over to help and four women."

  Sophie felt like hugging her new cousin. More help, bless his kind heart. She gave him a dazzling smile that made him cock his head at her. "I see," he said slowly. "Yes, Ryder, perhaps I do see."

  Four days later, Chadwyck House was spotlessly clean, and completely empty save for a big bed in the salon and the furnishings in the servants' quar­ters. Mrs. Smithers was cackling with pleasure, still eating like a stoat. She was delighted that the mas­ter had come home to stay and was cursing Allen Dubust for a bounder.

  As for Allen Dubust, he'd been caught in a pub in Bristol, his pockets lined with the sale of all Chadwyck House furnishings, all ready to board a ship bound for America in a matter of hours. He had rent money as well from all the farming tenants. It was actually Uncle Albert Sherbrooke who saw him first and Aunt Mildred who screamed him down, offering three guineas to a group of young toughs to bring the lout down and hold him on the ground.

  The furnishings were coming home. The rent mon­ey was coming home. Dubust was going to spend many years in Newgate, rotting. Mrs. Smithers cackled endlessly with that news. All would be well. Ryder felt profoundly lucky. He'd been stupid and irresponsible and he'd been saved despite it all. The wondrous Sherbrooke luck was with him still.

  All the tenant farmers made their appearance and it was quite a surprise to Ryder that he actually enjoyed spending time with each of them, speaking of their needs, their profits, their willingness to set everything to rights again.

  He realized with something of a start that he was a happy man, despite the havoc he himself had brought about because he'd been an absent land­lord. He was setting everything to rights. He wrote his brother, detailing all that had happened, and Sophie's first bout with Melissande, who was, truth be told, developing into a quite acceptable female. She had even offered to oversee the polishing of some new silverware that Tony had presented to them from Mr. Millsom's warehouse in Liverpool.

  It was a Tuesday afternoon, the sky overcast, the air chill. The gently rolling hills were serene and so lovely that Sophie wished she had more time simply to ride about and look. As it was, she had to ride into Lower Slaughter to the draperers. There was so much still to do and she loved it. She was humming to herself, thinking about Jeremy and wondering when he could come to live with them.

  There, in the middle of the road, she came face to face with Lord David Lochridge. They stared at each other.

  "Good God," he said. "It is you, Sophia Stanton-Greville. No, no, you married that Sherbrooke fel­low, didn't you?"

  Sophie felt sick to her stomach. She could only nod at him.

  Lord David's eyes narrowed. "You did marry him, didn't you? Or are you his current mistress?"

  "No," she said.

  He laughed, and it was a nasty sound. "Would you like to know something else, my dear Sophia? Charles Grammond lives very near to Upper Slaugh­ter. He'd gone to the colonies, to Virginia, I was told, but he hated it and moved here. He has a great-aunt who helps support him and that prune-faced wife of his and those four wretched children who are of no account at all. He's very much on the straight and narrow now, else the great-aunt will cut him out of her will. Isn't that a pleasant surprise for you? Two of your former lovers here, your neighbors."

  "I must go," Sophie said, tightening her fists on Opal's reins.

  "But not too far. We have much to discuss, don't we, Sophie? I will, of course, speak to Charles. I do wonder what he'll have to say. You see, I'm engaged to marry a local girl who's so rich it will take even me a good ten years to go through her fortune. Ah, yes, we must talk and make decisions. I do expect you to keep your mouth shut in the meanwhile, my girl, else you will be very sorry, both you and that husband of yours."

  It was in that instant that Sophie remembered what the ghost had said—not really said, but told her so clearly in her mind—something about when they came it would be all right. Was this what the ghost meant? If so, how could it be all right? Nothing could ever again be all right.

  She'd left the West Indies and come to a new life, a new life that had such promise until now.

  She silently watched David Lochridge ride away from her. She did her errands. The draperer, Mr. Mulligan, shook his head when she left his shop. Poor Mr. Sherbrooke had wed himself to a half­witted female. It was a pity.

  When she returned to Chadwyck House, she went upstairs to the master bedchamber that she and Ryder had changed completely. The walls were painted a soft pale yellow. There was a lovely pale cream and blue Aubusson carpet on the floor. She went to the now sparkling-clean window and stared out over the newly scythed east lawn. So beautiful. It looked like a Garden of Eden. It was her home. But not for much longer. Slowly, very slowly, she eased down to her knees. She bent over, her face in her hands, and she sobbed.

  Mrs. Chivers, the newly installed housekeeper, saw her, managed to keep her mouth shut, and searched out the master. Ryder, not knowing what to expect, and firmly believing that Mrs. Chivers had misinterpreted Sophie's actions, still came to her immediately. He stopped cold in the door­way, staring at his wife. He felt a coursing of sheer fear.

  He strode to her, nearly yelling, "Sophie, what the hell is wrong with you?"

  She whipped about, staring at him. Oh God, what to tell him? That everything was over now? That the Sherbrooke name was on the verge of being ruined and that she was responsible? Oh God, Ryder had temporarily lost his furniture but she had brought utter devastation on his family.

  She tried to get a hold of herself. He dropped to his haunches beside her and she felt his hands close over her upper arms. Slowly and very gently, he turned her to face him. Her face was without color, her eyes swollen from crying.

  "No, no, don't cry," he said and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "There is one very good thing about marriage, Sophie. You're not alone. There's another person to help you, no matter what the problem, no matter what the hurt. Talk to me, sweetheart, please."

  She shook her head against his chest.

  Ryder frowned over her head. It was she who had kept his spirits buoyed since they'd arrived here. It was she who'd directed the servants, who had over­seen the meals, who had herself swept and cleaned and dusted and smiled through it all. She'd been happy, dammit. He knew it. What the hell had hap­pened?

  Her crying stopped. She hiccuped. He felt the soft movement of her breasts against his chest and felt instant and overwhelming lust. Her monthly flow had ended several days before but she'd been so tired, so utterly exhausted at the end of each day, that he'd simply held her at night.

  But now, he wanted her. Very much.

  "Talk to me, Sophie," he said again.

  She straightened and leaned back, still held in the loose circle of his arms. "My knees hurt."

  "We have a bed. Come, let's sit down."

  She eyed that bed, knew that he wanted her, she wasn't blind. His sex was swelled against his trou­sers. She saw Lord David naked and stroking his sex, she felt again how he'd kissed her, stabbing his tongue into her mouth before she'd managed to distract him, and how he always stripped off his clothes at the cottage and showed her his body and his sex and how big he was and how he was going to take her.

  And Charles Grammond, middle-aged, his belly sagging, not a bad man really, pathetically grateful when she'd first told him she would take him as her lover, and then how he'd changed, catching her in the middle of the day to force her against a tree and she'd had to hit him with her riding crop and he'd only laughed and pulled his sex from his britches and told her he wanted his sex in her mouth and she could do it now. An
d, dear God, she'd helped to ruin him even as she'd told him what a wonderful lover he was. And he pranced about, so pleased with himself, bragging about his virility—didn't he have four living children to prove it?

  Now both of them were here. Both of them believed her a whore. Both of them would take great delight in ruining her. She clearly remembered the looks both men would give her whenever they saw her, and what they said to her in their lewd whispers, how they spoke about the nights they'd spent with her and what they'd done to her and she'd done to them. . . .

  She jerked away from Ryder. He stared at her, his head cocked to one side in question.

  She bounded to her feet, turned, grabbed up her skirts, and ran from the bedchamber.

  He stared after her. He'd seen the blankness on her face when she'd looked at the bed, followed by the myriad facial expressions he knew were from her damned memories of Jamaica, and all when she'd seen his sex swelled against his britches.

  He had hoped, prayed, that she was coming around to trusting him. His jaw tightened. He wouldn't let this continue, he couldn't.

  He bided his time for the remainder of the day. There was always so much to be done that there wasn't any particular discomfort between them, even during dinner when they were alone. That night, at ten o'clock, Ryder stepped into their bedchamber, and saw that Sophie wasn't in bed. She was seated in a wing chair in front of the fireplace, her legs tucked beneath her, a book in her lap.

  "I finished my work," he said.

  The book, a collection of essays by John Locke, slipped off her lap. She made no move to retrieve it.

  Ryder leaned down and picked it up. "Where the devil did you find this?"

  "Your Mr. Dubust left it."

  "I don't blame him. Listen to this: 'Latin I look upon as absolutely necessary to a gentleman.' What an appalling notion. I imagine that my youngest broth­er, Tysen—the future cleric—is now quite fluent in Latin. He says that his congregation will glean his meaning from his intonation, that the words aren't important, that God didn't mean for common folk to really understand in any case, only to gain the holy essence—whatever that may be—which will come from him, naturally."