For Love Alone (14 page)

Sophy froze, her heart banging against her ribs. One part of her was amused by his audacity and curious about his kiss. Another part was vaguely frightened, as the memory of Simon's cruel consummation of their marriage in a vehicle much like this one drifted painfully through her mind.

The two men were nothing alike, she told herself worriedly. And she was no terrified virgin. Ives Harrington was
not
her husband—he had no power over her. Surely he would not attempt to force himself upon her. Wordlessly she stared up at Ives's dark, rough-hewn features, fright and indecision on her face.

“What is it?” he asked quietly. The expression on her face and the stiffness of her body warned him that something other than feminine reluctance was at work here.

When Sophy did not answer him, he murmured, “You have no need to be frightened of me, sweetheart. I want very much to kiss you, Sophy, but only if you allow it.”

Sophy took a shaken breath, his words allaying her fears somewhat. Instinctively she knew that he was no brute like her husband, and that knowledge freed her. Ideas of what his kiss would be like had haunted her for days. Why not, she asked herself, find out what it would be like? Knowing she was a fool, she could not resist his blandishments, or her own curiosity. Throwing aside her doubts, she lifted her lips to his. “Please,” she murmured, “please...”

Ives groaned and gathered her closer, his mouth finding hers. Half-prepared to be repulsed by his kiss as she had been by her husband's, Sophy was dazed by the storm of emotion that exploded through her as his lips gently, expertly explored her own. His mouth was warm and compelling, his lips firm and knowing, and she shuddered under the onslaught of the sweet sensations his embrace evoked.

His arms were iron bands around her, and she leaned into him, pressing herself against his hard length, oddly enough feeling, for the first time in her life, protected and cherished—and, oh, so, vibrantly alive. It was a novel experience, and she reveled in it, unaware that her actions were nearly Ives's undoing.

He had told himself he would not rush her, that he would give her time, but having her slim warmth pressed so ardently against him, having her sweet mouth pliant and obedient under his own was almost more than flesh and blood could bear. Her response was more than he had hoped for, more than he had dreamed of during all the restless nights since meeting her. Muttering an imprecation against her lips, he deepened the kiss, his tongue surging into her mouth.

Shamelessly, Sophy allowed him his way, her head falling back over his arm as he plundered her mouth. Her body seemed not to be her own, the most elemental sensations springing to life within her. She suddenly ached with a need she had never imagined, her very flesh unbearably sensitive to his lightest touch.

With shock, she realized that not only was he kissing her in the most blatantly intimate way possible but that one of his hands was lightly cupping her breast, his thumb rubbing rhythmically over the swollen nub of her nipple.

Aghast at her own actions, she struggled to escape him, and when he did not immediately release her, an atavistic fear shot up through her, dispelling all her pleasure and clouding rational thought with the memory of Simon's brutal ruttings. She fought like a wild thing, her fists beating against his chest, her body straining desperately away from him.

Lost in the magic of Sophy's sweetness, it took Ives a moment to realize that the lady was no longer agreeable to his embrace. Not only
not
agreeable, but absolutely frantic to escape. Instantly his head lifted, and his arms fell harmlessly to his sides.

Like a terrified, feral creature, Sophy shot off the seat and threw herself into the far corner of the coach. “D-don' t touch me!” she stammered, her breathing labored, her face pale and strained in the uncertain light filtering into the coach from the flickering streetlamps outside.

Astonished, Ives eyed her. Something, he realized, was very wrong. This was certainly not the reaction of a sophisticated, worldly woman to a passionate embrace. More like a terrified virgin, he thought with a frown.

Gently, he said, “Sweetheart, I told you that your slightest whim is my command. If you do not want me to kiss you, I shall not.” He smiled whimsically at her. “I will not deny that I hope most fervently to change your mind, but you have no reason to fear me.”

His words calmed her, and, feeling like a perfect fool, Sophy tried to regain her composure. Sitting more naturally, she straightened her gown and pushed back a curl that had tumbled free from the artless knot on the top of her head.

When her breathing returned to normal and she felt in command of her voice, she muttered, “I warned you, my lord, that I do not want either a husband or a lover. If you wish for a lady of a more . . . accommodating nature, I suggest you set your sights elsewhere.”

He sighed dramatically. “Nay, sweetheart. I'm afraid that only you will do for me.”

Temper sparking, she sat up even straighter in her corner. “And I have told you that I am not interested in any sort of relationship with you other than that of acquaintance! Are you a dolt? A dunce? Do you not understand simple English? I do not want to become your mistress!”

A crooked grin that did odd things to her heart crossed his craggy face. “That's certainly speaking plain. Mayhap I shall just have to change your mind, hmm?”

Torn between amusement and vexation at his audacity, Sophy snorted. “You shall not. My resolve is firm, and you are a conceited fool if you think you shall change my mind!”

“Ah, a challenge. I always liked a challenge,” he observed confidingly. “Yes, a challenge is just the thing to put me on my mettle. Makes life more interesting, don't you agree?”

Sophy shook her head in despair. He was impervious to insult! Worse, even when she was her angriest at him, she was always conscious of an absurd desire to laugh at his impudent actions.

Deciding it would not do at all for him to know the indecision that bedeviled her, and heaven knew he needed no encouraging, she said frostily, “You have been warned, m'lord. I shall say no more about it.”

Thankfully they had arrived at their destination, and there was no more conversation.

Stephens's was a haunt favored by the military, especially the army, and Sophy was not surprised to discover that there were several gentlemen there with whom Ives seemed to be well acquainted. During the time that they waited for the arrival of the Offingtons, Ives introduced her to a bewildering array of men still in service, as well as several who, like him, had recently become civilians.

Ives proved himself to be an exemplary host, his behavior elegantly solicitous on her behalf. He showed no sign of the passionate man who had crushed her against him such a short time previously. There was nothing in his manner she could find fault with and, utterly absorbed by his lively tales of his activities in the cavalry, she was almost disappointed when the Offingtons arrived and she was no longer the sole object of his attention. Her thoughts were completely contradictory, and Sophy was uncomfortably aware of it.

Their meal was delightful, the conversation gay, and Sophy was able, for the most part, to relax and enjoy herself. By the time the evening had nearly ended, she was shocked to discover she had not thought of the troubles with her uncle once and that she was finding Ives's company far too amusing for her own good.

It was only when they were preparing to leave that the mood of the evening changed. Laughing at some quip Ives tossed her way, Sophy happened to catch sight of a group of men just arriving for a late meal. Recognizing her uncle amongst them, she frowned. What, she wondered, was he doing here?

Edward was with a largely familiar group: Lord Grimshaw, Henry Dewhurst, Etienne Marquette, Sir Alfred Caldwell, Lord Coleman, and several other military men, as well as Edward's favorite crony, Sir Arthur Bellingham. She was slightly puzzled to see Edward here; Stephens's and its clientele were not the usual sort her uncle found amusing. Stephens's was, in its own way, respectable and exclusive, traits one did not normally associate with Baron Scoville.

Ives noticed their arrival also, and his gaze sharpened. He quickly scanned past Edward and his cronies, Bellingham and Dewhurst, to view Grimshaw and the others on his list of suspects. He was not surprised to see them here. It was logical that if one of the three on his list was the Fox, he would have many contacts and friends amongst the military and inhabitants of the Horse Guards. How else could he supply his master, Napoleon, with information?

Seeing his suspects with a group of men he knew to be officers in the army, Ives realized again the enormity of the task in front of him. In the past several days, his own men had discovered nothing very striking about the three men on the list—except for their shockingly licentious ways—and any one of them could be the Fox. Or not.

Spying Sophy sitting with Ives and the Offingtons, Henry Dewhurst immediately made his way to their table. Bowing and smiling, he made himself agreeable, his admiration for Sophy blatant and, to Ives's mind, annoying. Naturally the other gentlemen drifted over and general introductions were made.

Ives noticed at once the stiffness between Sophy and her uncle, but it was a foxed Sir Arthur Bellingham who blurted out, “I say, Sophy, did you really threaten to kill Edward this afternoon? Thought he was foxed when he told me. Niece and all. You wouldn't kill your own uncle, would you?”

Sophy froze. If it wasn't just like Edward to go about telling all and sundry the contents of what had been an extremely private conversation. The man had the taste and tact of a blind ferret. Embarrassed at suddenly being the cynosure of all eyes, Sophy tried to make light of the situation.

“You know my uncle, Sir Arthur,” she said quietly. “Exaggeration is part and parcel of his personality.”

“Exaggeration!”
exclaimed Edward, who was not in much better condition than Sir Arthur. All of the gentlemen had obviously been imbibing heavily throughout the evening, though no one as yet was clearly drunk. “By Jove! Are you denying that only this afternoon you stated plain as a pikestaff that you would kill me before you would let me undertake my duties as guardian to Phoebe?”

“I may have allowed my temper to prompt me to speak hastily,” Sophy said tightly, her eyes sparkling angrily.

Edward sneered, well aware of the discomfort he was causing her. “So you wouldn't kill me, if I took over the care of Phoebe, hey? Changed your mind about my character, have you?”

In the face of such open provocation, Sophy could not control herself. “I will never change my mind about either your character or your morals,” she ground out. “You are a disgraceful roué who should have no part in the raising of an innocent young woman.”

“Ha!” shouted Edward gleefully. “You may think what you like, gel, but
I
am Phoebe's guardian, and I can do whatever I please.” His eyes full of malice, he murmured, “Think I will see my solicitor tomorrow morning and start proceedings to claim my rights to the brat. Best prepare yourself to give her up to me.”

“I will kill you first!” Sophy spat, responding to his barbs exactly as Edward knew she would.

Edward looked at Bellingham. “Told you,” he said with satisfaction.

It was an unpleasant end to the evening, and Sophy was furious with herself for letting Edward goad her into hot speech, especially in public.

Having accomplished his task, Edward wandered off taking Bellingham and several others with him. Deftly smoothing over the unfortunate incident, Dewhurst, Sir Alfred Caldwell, and the Frenchman, Etienne Marquette, remained to chat with Ives, Sophy, and the Offingtons for several moments longer.

Sophy was not mortified by the scene with her uncle. Their dislike for one another was well-known, and it was pretty well understood that if one put Lord Scoville and Lady Marlowe in each other's vicinity, a heated exchange was certain to occur. Still Sophy was sorry it happened and, glancing at Ives once Dewhurst, Caldwell, and Marquette had rejoined their original group, murmured, “I apologize for letting my wretched tongue ruin your party. I should never have let him make me lose my temper.” She smiled at the Offingtons. “I apologize to both of you, too, but at least you were prepared for what happened.”

Sara nodded, a twinkle in her eyes. “If I were a lady inclined to games of chance, I would have wagered a decent sum on the likelihood of a similar outcome at
any
meeting between you and your uncle.” She patted Sophy's hand. “Do not let it distress you, dear. We know how Edward is, and I am sure that Viscount Harrington has seen far worse confrontations than that little exchange between you and your uncle.”

Ives took a sip of his hock. “Mrs. Offington is correct. My only regret is that I did not intervene sooner and send him on his way.” He smiled at Sophy. “It is I who should be apologizing to you. I should not have allowed him to accost you.”

Sophy smiled saucily. “While you are nothing like my uncle, you
do
share one unfortunate trait,” she purred. “Once determined upon a course, I doubt anyone could stop either one of you.”

“A hit! A definite hit!” crowed Randal, by now used to the constant sparring of the other two.

Ives nodded, his green eyes appreciative. “I agree. The lady is becoming quite adept at slipping under my guard.”

Something in his tone of voice made Sophy look away, her cheeks faintly pink. Drat the man! He was far too dangerous for her peace of mind, and if anyone was slipping under anyone's guard, it certainly was not she. More likely, he was slipping under hers!

Once Ives had seen his guests to their homes and he was alone in his carriage, he considered the nasty scene between Baron Scoville and his niece. Something, he decided judiciously, was going to have to be done about Lord Scoville.