Elizabeth Boyle (32 page)

“Sophia,” he whispered. “Please, leave this to me. Let me do this for you. Consider it a wedding gift.” His lips rained down kisses on her face, her neck, and finally her lips, trying to use the passion between them as a way of convincing her. If her mind refused to see reason, perhaps her body would.

For a moment he lost himself in the passion of their kiss. He tried to let his lips and mouth explain to her what his heart could not.

He saw the struggle in her incredible eyes—a mixture of indecision and passion as she weighed the choice before her. It had been like this every time he’d held her, but tonight he would find a way for her to acknowledge the tenuous yet fiery bond between them.

Bending his head, he kissed her again, his lips asking his question anew.

Her mouth opened tentatively, almost shyly, as he’d expect from the more demure, virginal Lady Sophia. But he knew that wasn’t the true nature of the lady in his arms, so he deepened his search for her, allowing his tongue to gently move over her reluctant lips, opening them and allowing him entrance.

The moment their kiss deepened, he felt her acquiescence, as if the tinder between them suddenly found a spark. A soft sound of longing mewed from deep inside her, answering his question.

She needed him as much as he yearned for her.

Her arms twined around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. Sophia pulled herself closer, the brocade of her wide skirts and the doeskin of his breeches thin barriers compared to the rapid heat spreading between them.

Yet it wasn’t close enough. His hands ran down the length of her bare arms, his fingers sliding over the sleek skin. She flexed like a cat, moving closer to his heat, to his touch. As her hips rocked back and forth against his groin, Giles felt himself tighten, his need for her sending his blood pounding.

“What are you doing to me?” she gasped, as his lips nibbled and caressed her neck. “I can’t think, I can’t remember anything when you do this.”

“Good,” he told her, knowing full well he’d reached the same state. “Then it’s working. For once, listen to your body.”

How could Sophia hold fast to her earlier vow to cast him away when every nerve blazed with the need to be touched, to be caressed?

This was what frightened her so much about this man— his power over her body, over her heart. Before she could start the mental argument he’d told her to forget, his hand curled around her breast, his fingers teasing the tip through the thick brocade of her dress.

“Ooh,” she whispered, her knees suddenly buckling as his hand pushed her bodice lower, exposing her flesh to the chill of the air and the warmth of his touch. Where his fingers before had caressed, his mouth now covered, his tongue teasing the overwhelming sensations from her.

Their mouths met again, but they both seemed to realize it wasn’t enough. Her hands tugged first at his jacket, and then, having discarded it next to the forgotten wrap, her fingers plied the buttons of his shirt. Splaying her fingers over the warmth of his chest, she ran them through the dark mat of hair.

Sophia allowed herself to fall into the incredible passion rising between them. It was exactly how it had been in Paris. And just as easy to allow the fire of his touch to engulf her senses, his hands running over her shoulders, his fingers trailing a tingling path down her arms.

The more he caressed her body, the deeper his hold on her became.

Where in Paris she had thought she might never be with him again, now his touch branded her.

Left her under his control. Made her forget.

“We can’t do this,” she said, struggling to the surface of sanity, her hands pushing at his shoulders. “I cannot.”

He moved back, his face puzzled. “What is this?”

“You can’t do this to me. If you think to use my body against me, it won’t work. I will not be lulled away from what I must do by mere kisses.”

He pulled her back into his arms. “I’ve never thought of my kisses as ‘mere.’ And I was of a mind to do more tonight than kiss you.” His head dipped lower to claim her lips anew.

She shook herself free from him, her heart beating wildly from the passion that clamored to be answered and from her own anger at allowing her love for him to divert her so completely. She remembered what he had said earlier, half-teasing—he would send her back to the Rose Room in a ruined state, the implication being they would have to wed. “No, I cannot. You would make me forget what I need to do. What I
must
do.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “But I told you, I’ve already started making the necessary inquiries. I’ll have them here before the blade finds them. So forget about stealing any more fortunes. And I will hear no more talk of you returning to Paris.”

“It will take more than a fortune to get them out. I can’t ask that of you. I won’t accept it.” Accepting his offer would be akin to taking blood money. His blood. “Go back to London, Giles. Forget me. Forget my family.” Tears welled up in her eyes, the final proof of her decision. She wouldn’t give up until her family was free. And she would do it without him.

Giles’s mouth set in a grim line. “As I said at dinner, we will be wed within a week. There will be no more robberies and no more talk of your returning to Paris. Your misadventure at Selmar’s was your last performance as the Brazen Angel, and from now on you will be Lady Sophia. And that is final.”

With that he took her arm and all but dragged her back to the Rose Room.

For the next few days Giles made good on his promise to Sophia and stuck to her side throughout the days and evenings. He knew his constant presence annoyed her, but he couldn’t care less. He filled her schedule with visits to Byrnewood, shopping in Bath, and entertainments.

Despite his assurances that he was doing everything possible to save her family, he knew that beneath her silent acquiescence she was not about to be pacified by mere words or the frivolous amusements of Bath society.

“What the devil is wrong with your fiancée?” Monty asked as they waited in Lady Larkhall’s salon for Lady Sophia to finish dressing for a concert at the Guildhall. “She looked as if she wanted to end your life when you suggested tonight’s entertainment.”

Mrs. Whitcombe, Lady Fischer, and Dorlissa arrived just then, having earlier offered the use of space in their carriage.

“I haven’t the vaguest notion what you mean,” Giles replied, getting to his feet to greet the ladies.

“Oh, Lord Trahern,” Lady Fischer cried, “I think you are winning over your reluctant bride. And tonight’s entertainment is just the romantic choice to soothe her nerves.” The lady leaned closer, her plumes waggling in his face. “I’ve made arrangements for our second carriage to be brought along. I thought it would be most wicked if you and Lady Sophia rode alone together in your carriage.” The lady glanced over at Monty. “And Your Grace and Dorlissa could ride with Mrs. Langston in ours, and the third carriage can carry all of us older folks, who are in the way when it comes to young love. What say you to my plans?”

Giles grinned at her. “I think it sounds as if you’re not as old as you make yourself out to be, Lady Fischer.”

“Where is Sophia?” Lady Larkhall asked as she entered the room.

“She has yet to appear,” Giles told her, enjoying the annoyed look on her aunt’s face.

While she asked one of the servants to see what was taking Sophia so long, Giles rejoined Monty near the fireplace.

His friend frowned at him. “I don’t see why you’re going ahead with this marriage. While I admit the country air has improved her looks, that sullen expression chills my bones.”

Giles laughed. “Don’t worry about my bride. I have a fine wedding present in store for her. She’ll cheer up.”

Monty didn’t look so convinced. “You won’t catch me marrying some sour little chit. I’ve learned a thing or two from your lesson book.”

Giles couldn’t resist teasing his friend. “Still intent on marrying the Angel?”

Monty looked shocked. “Oh, heavens, no. She would never do. Not now. Not when I’ve found the perfect wife right here in Bath.”

This hardly surprised Giles. Monty usually found his perfect duchess everywhere he went. “You have?” he asked in mock seriousness. “Did I miss the banns while I was out this afteroon? Has the lucky bride been informed of her impending good fortune?”

“Laugh all you want,” the duke shot back. “But my choice is made, see for yourself.” He nodded toward the knot of women, who were being joined by Mrs. Langston. Just then Lady Fischer and Dorlissa turned toward the fireplace.

When Lady Fischer caught the duke’s gaze in their direction, she prodded her daughter to smile.

The girl did so, but it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it.

Monty beamed with pride at his intended bride.

Dorlissa?
Giles glanced hastily back at his friend, stunned at this rapid change of events. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. She’s perfect. Picked up the special license this morning.” He patted his jacket pocket—the one usually reserved for his list of qualifications. “She’ll be the next Duchess of Stanton by the end of the week.”

“Have you considered this carefully?” Giles warned, thinking of a life with Lady Fischer as one’s mother-in-law, but also shocked by this rapid turn of events.

“I spent all night listing her qualifications.”

“And she fits the list?” He couldn’t quite see Dorlissa fitting any list for the perfect duchess.

“Eminently so. Well, she’s—”

“Oh, this will ruin everything,” Lady Fischer began to wail. “I have everything perfect, and now that selfish girl goes and ruins it. I won’t hear of it. Lord Trahern, you must insist.”

“Insist on what?” Giles asked, distracted from Monty’s dissertation on Dorlissa’s qualifications.

“Lady Sophia. She has gone and taken ill. Why, she’s begging off, and now all my plans are ruined.”

S
ophia waited nervously for Emma to return. She would have bet the blade she’d stolen from Selmar that her companion would arrive with not only her aunt, but also Giles.

Ducking under the covers, she pressed her forehead down on the hot bottle they’d hidden beneath the covers. Meanwhile, she clutched a cold rag, hoping it would add a chill to her hands. With Emma’s help and a few tricks, Sophia felt confident their deception would fool even a physician.

From the hallway, Emma’s protests echoed in advance warning. “My lord, ‘tis highly irregular to have a gentleman in a lady’s bedchamber, and given her frail state it may just push her fever higher.”

Sophia bounded out from beneath the covers, ran her fingers through her already tangled and matted hair, and lay her head wanly on her pillow. One nearly guttered candle wavered beside the bed, adding to the miserable ambience of her sickbed.

“Nonsense,” Giles’s deep voice answered. “I will see her immediately.”

The door began to open as her aunt added her opinion. “Mrs. Langston, I don’t think Sophia will mind knowing that Lord Trahern is concerned about her welfare.”

Sophia’s lashes fluttered heavily. She opened her eyes slowly, as if the exertion pained her. Tossing her head from one side to the other, she finally allowed her gaze to focus on her aunt’s concerned expression.

Aunt Celia sat down on the edge of Sophia’s bed. “Sophia, dear, you look feverish.”

“I can’t be,” she whispered weakly. “I’m so cold.” To emphasize her point she caught her aunt’s warm hand in the icy grip of her own.

“Dear goodness, child. You’re freezing.”

Nodding her head in agreement, Sophia reached with her other hand for her companion. “Emma,” she called out. “Did you bring the extra coverlet? The chill is terrible.” Sophia didn’t dare lift her gaze to see if Giles was buying any of her performance. From her vantage point all she could see was the disbelieving tap of his boot.

While Emma went to the dressing closet to retrieve another blanket, Sophia’s aunt laid a gentle hand on her brow.

“Just as I thought. You’ve a terrible fever. That explains these chills.” Lady Larkhall glanced over her shoulder. “She shouldn’t go out. Not until this fever breaks.”

Giles made a noise in the back of his throat. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the bed.

Lady Larkhall conceded her spot, and Giles leaned over the bed.

Sophia opened her eyes again, just enough to find his dark gaze examining her with a skeptical air.

“I’m so sorry, my lord,” she whispered. “To have ruined your evening.”

“Nonsense. My evening will be spent here watching over you,” he told her, his voice filled so much concern that he sounded as if he’d just received news of her imminent demise.

At the doorway Emma stood frozen, obviously unsure of how to intervene in this turn of events.

Smiling up at Giles, Sophia tried to look brave. “Would you? Stay with me? I would feel so much better if you did.”

Her answer obviously took him aback. He tipped his head and looked at her anew. “You want me to stay?”

Before Sophia could answer, her aunt came unwittingly to her rescue. “Stay here? With her so ill? ‘Tis neither proper nor cautious. Fevers like this can be highly contagious, and I wouldn’t want to see you, my lord, fall ill before the wedding. Besides, if she is to be in perfect health in two days’ time, she needs rest, not company.” Lady Larkhall caught Giles by the elbow and tugged him from the bedside.

Sophia whimpered a little for effect.

“No, no. None of that, my dear,” her aunt scolded. “You rest quietly. If you need anything, Mrs. Langston will be right here.”

Emma nodded to Lady Larkhall and went to work spreading the coverlet over her patient.

Peering through her half-opened lashes, Sophia watched in victory as her fiancé was pulled from the room, guaranteeing her freedom this evening.

By the time the parade of carriages rolled down the drive, Sophia was out of bed and frantically searching through her wardrobe for a particular dress.

Emma sat at the dressing table picking through her satchel of paints and powders.

“Do you think he believed me?” Sophia asked.

“He didn’t have a choice.”