For Love Alone (23 page)

His hand bunched up her gown, sliding it upward over her hip. Her thigh was warm and firm beneath his touch, and his fingers wandered, brazenly exploring the smooth flesh he had laid bare. Fondling her buttock, he pulled her to him, helplessly pressing himself against her, letting her feel the heated, solid length of him, letting her know how hungry he was for her.

Sophy stiffened at the insistent touch of his rigid member against her thigh, memories of Simon battering her,
hurting
her with just such a weapon, darting through her mind. Instinctively she pushed against Ives, terror driving her. “No,” she panted. “No. Let me go! You will
not
hurt me again!”

Groaning, Ives fell back, lying on the floor beside her, staring up at the ceiling. Several rather savage fates for Simon Marlowe flashed through his mind, and, suppressing an urge to curse long and with great vehemence, he finally turned and looked at Sophy.

She had not moved far from him. Seated on the floor just a foot from him, the fire casting shadows on her face, she stared at him as he gazed steadily back at her. Her breathing was rapid, the breast he had freed from her gown rising and falling rhythmically, the rosy nipples hard and swollen from his passionate caresses. The gown was still bunched up around her hips, her long legs bare to his gaze. Ives closed his eyes in despair as a keen blade of desire knifed down his spine at the glimpse of several dark golden curls peeking from between her thighs. Ah Jesu. What was he to do?

Fear and desire churned within Sophy as she stared at him. Naked, he looked very large and dangerous lying there on the floor beside her. He had made no overt movement toward her; there was no fury or anger on his face.

Warily regarding him, realizing that he had no intention of forcing her, some of her fear lessened, her initial terror fleeing. Simon, she admitted almost hysterically, would have beaten her into submission for daring to repulse him in this manner, but Ives ...

She swallowed painfully. “You must think me very foolish,” she finally said in a small voice.

Ives smiled with an effort. “Not foolish, just badly scarred by a bastard I would give much to have alone for five minutes ...”

Only half-aware of what he said, against her will her gaze traveled over him as she unconsciously noted the smooth, hard chest, the flat belly and ... She swallowed, her eyes suddenly riveted by the sight of his shamelessly erect manhood between his thighs.

Her breath quickened; the ache between her thighs suddenly intensified. She could not tear her gaze away from him, could not stop looking at that impressive rod of hard, male flesh. She had never seen a naked man before, had never, she realized giddily,
wanted
to....

Ives froze beneath her stare, his own breathing shallow and constricted, helpless to control the surge of heat that went through him, helpless to control the increased swelling of his unruly member. It seemed to have the lady's undivided attention, if her rapt, intense expression was anything to go by. He waited, afraid to break her concentration, afraid to do anything but lie there and let her look....

As if compelled, she touched him, her hand closing warmly and firmly around him, and Ives jerked and groaned beneath her touch.

“Sweetheart,” he managed thickly, “if you touch me, it is only fair that I be allowed the same pleasures.”

Sophy nodded dazedly, completely absorbed by the sensation of the silky hard flesh in her hand. So smooth, she thought. So powerful....

Ives's hand slid warmly over her hip, and Sophy gasped when his gently probing fingers slipped between her thighs and rubbed there where the ache was most incessant. Blind, urgent desire erupted through her as he continued to stroke and fondle the soft, damp flesh. Simon had never touched her so. His touch had been grasping, greedy, cruel.

Gently Ives inserted one finger within her satiny heat, and Sophy smothered a moan of sheer pleasure, pushing down against his invasion. She wanted, she was stunned to realize, more. Much more.

Several passionate minutes later, when her body was trembling and begging for release from his increasingly demanding caresses, Ives slowly laid her back on the floor once more and fitted himself between her legs. And when he filled her, when he moved on her, slow and sure and oh, so sweet, Sophy did not think once of pain or Simon.

W
aking in the early-morning hours of darkness, the fire now just a glowing heap on the hearth, Ives stared at the ceiling overhead, thinking about the evening and the sweetness of their joining. It was an easy thing to do; they were still lying on the floor, and Sophy's warm weight cradled next to him was a potent reminder.

What had happened between them had been incredible, and Ives had the satisfaction of knowing that in the end Sophy had taken as much pleasure from the consummation of their marriage as he had.

He did not, however, delude himself into believing that one coupling had banished all of his wife's demons. Her life with Simon Marlowe must have been hellish. Certainly Simon's careless brutality had left scars, scars that he was going to have to heal, if Sophy would let him. He was extremely hopeful that the next time he made love to his very beautiful and desirable wife, she would trust him just a trifle more than she had tonight.

His mouth twisted. Teaching her to trust him was going to be well-nigh impossible until he had finished this blasted business of
Le Renard.

He did not look forward to the next several weeks. On one hand he would be trying to convince his mistrustful wife that he really was an exemplary fellow, and on the other, he would be abandoning her much of the time as he continued his charade and went about acting the part of a lecherous, drunken libertine. Deserting a new bride, he thought wryly, would certainly give his portrayal of a heartless cad a certain cachet.

He and Roxbury had discussed the situation at length the previous night. His godfather had not been at all pleased at the unexpected turn of events. Neither the news of Scoville's murder nor Ives's imminent marriage had sat well with him.

“By Jove! Did you have to be quite so gallant?” he had demanded as they had sat sipping brandy in the library of Ives's town house. “And did it ever occur to you that you might very well be marrying a woman who has killed both her husband and her uncle?”

Ives smiled lazily across at his incensed godfather. “The thought has briefly crossed my mind. And I suppose, in so far as Scoville's death is concerned, I could have simply ruined her reputation and let it go at that....”

His lazy smile vanished, and his green eyes steadily meeting Roxbury's, he said softly, “I could not let her hang. You see, I have been of a mind to marry the lady for some time. It has been my most ardent wish for several weeks now, but she had proven to be rather unencouraging. The baron's murder only gave me the advantage I was looking for.”

Roxbury snorted and took a sip of his brandy. “I suppose you know what you are doing. But damn and blast! I don't like you leaving London right now. And your marriage makes the situation a trifle ticklish, wouldn't you say?”

“Indeed it does,” Ives admitted. “And while I would very much like to explain matters to Sophy, I think that, for the present at least, the fewer people who know what we are about, the better. Though it goes against the grain, I shall say nothing to her.”

Roxbury sent him a fulminating glance. “I should bloody well hope so! I absolutely forbid you to say anything about this matter to your bride! Not one word!”

Ives nodded slowly, seeing a great many pitfalls in front of him, but generally agreeing with Roxbury. “It is not going to be easy for me to continue the charade,” he conceded honestly, “but I have little doubt in my ability to carry it through.” He smiled ruefully. “The situation with Sophy, of course, will be quite, ah, interesting until we have finally captured the Fox. Once he has been safely dealt with, I can confess all to my justifiably furious bride and proceed to show her how fortunate she was in marrying me. Until that time...” He shook his head. “Until that time, she is going to believe that she has married as thoroughly bad a man as Simon Marlowe was reputed to be.”

Roxbury snorted again. “Not reputed. Fact. He was a bad man.”

Ives shrugged and, changing the subject slightly, asked, “What did you think of the note?”

Roxbury looked thoughtful. “I believe that you are right; it was not originally written to Lady Marlowe, but to someone else whom Lord Scoville intended to blackmail.”

“The Fox, do you think?”

“I don't know. I suspect yes, but only because I dislike coincidence. There is the added fact that we know that at one time, Scoville and Marlowe dabbled in selling secrets to the Fox. It was relatively innocuous stuff and because we had other, more serious leaks at that time, we paid them little heed. And, of course, after a few months, the pair of them grew weary of playing their little game of gentleman spy—although Scoville did continue, off and on, until control of the Grayson fortune fell into his lap.”

Roxbury grimaced. “Knowing the gentlemen involved, I am sure that Marlowe and Scoville wondered who it was that was buying their information. I've often wondered about the circumstances of Marlowe's death. I don't doubt that he would have thought it a great jest to have someone like the Fox under his thumb. As for Scoville, in view of the note and what it implies, I would wager a small fortune that Scoville recently stumbled somehow across the man's identity.”

Rubbing his chin, he said slowly, “Scoville's murder was reckless and swift. The framing of Lady Marlowe both clever and ruthless in both cases. All four of those attributes could be applied to our friend, and we are fairly certain that he was probably at that house party. Given past history, I find it hard to believe that someone else just happened to murder Scoville. And it would have to have been a terrible secret that Scoville threatened to reveal to drive a person to murder. Most people would pay, and pay handsomely, to keep an embarrassing indiscretion from becoming public, and God knows that nearly everyone at Allenton's party had much they would prefer not see the light of day.

“On the other hand, most of them are so brazen in their vices, so indifferent to public opinion, that many of them would have laughed in Edward's face at the idea of being blackmailed. Depraved as Allenton's guests were, I doubt that even they would select murder as a way of eliminating an embarrassing problem. But if, and it is a big if, Scoville
did
stumble across a clue to the Fox's identity, well, then his murder makes perfect sense.”

Ives nodded, having already come to the same conclusions. “What about Meade?”

“What about Meade?” Roxbury asked testily. “You said that he let it be known Friday night that he has access to some vital information. We have to hope that the Fox now knows this fact, too, and that he will make contact with Meade. So far, the men who are watching Meade have indicated that he has made no effort to steal the memorandum. What worries me is that he will simply copy it right under our noses or memorize it.” Roxbury sighed heavily. “And unfortunately, we can do nothing about him until he leads us to the Fox, if he ever does. The recent news that Vienna has been attacked by the French makes it all the more urgent that we flush out our quarry.”

Ives frowned. “I do not think that our clever friend would simply take Meade's word for the contents of the memorandum. I think he would want to see the actual document before he paid him.”

“I agree. Which is why we are watching the bait almost as closely as we are watching Meade.”

“Assuming that Scoville
had
unmasked the Fox, I wonder,” Ives said slowly, “what it was he discovered. If he was murdered because of it, it had to have been something he came across not very long ago....”

Roxbury took another sip of his brandy. “I agree,” he said as he set his snifter on the table. “Once you return to London, you can sniff around and see what you find out about Scoville's latest dealings. Who knows, murdering Scoville might turn out to have been a mistake for our crafty friend.”

Lying on the floor at Harrington Chase, Ives was inclined to agree with Roxbury's previous assessment. It might not be the memorandum that traps the wily Fox, but Scoville's murder.

Despite the carpet, the hardness of the floor was making itself felt, and, ruefully, Ives admitted that he had grown used to sleeping in a comfortable bed these past several months since his return to civilian life. Shifting slightly, he freed his arm from beneath Sophy's head and a second later carefully lifted her from the floor and carried her over to where the bed awaited them.

Gently sliding her under the covers, Ives considered joining her, but the sudden surge of heat in his loins made him decide against it. It would be too tempting to make love to her again, and he was convinced that pushing her too fast would prove detrimental in the long run. They had consummated their marriage and for now that would have to satisfy him.

He would, he told himself consolingly as he quietly left her room, have years in which to enjoy the marriage bed and Sophy's sweet body. A little restraint now, he thought with a grin, would no doubt be very good for his character. And it might be easier on Sophy if she woke alone in her own bed. She would have, he mused as he slipped into his own bed, much to think about the night which had just passed.

Ives was correct, on all counts. Waking to a room full of sunlight, Sophy lay in the big bed blinking sleepily for several moments. It took a while for reality to sink in, but a slight discomfort between her legs and a twinge here and there recalled her instantly to where she was and what had happened the previous evening.

Vividly the memory of last night's stunning intimacy spun through her mind, and she sat bolt upright, glancing warily around the room. To her intense relief there was no sign of her very large, too-attractive-by-half husband. A little frown creased her forehead. Manipulative husband, too.

Sophy might have allowed herself to be manipulated into her current position, but she was very aware of the fact that she
had
been manipulated, and she did not like it.

On several counts, for although she did not discount the fact that she had not fought very hard to escape her fate, Ives Harrington was simply too used to having his own way. And
far
too used to arranging things to his own liking. The way he had so expertly maneuvered her into his arms last night was a perfect example.

Her lower lip suddenly curved into an unconsciously dreamy smile. He was also, she admitted with a sigh, quite the most fascinating man she had ever met, and she did not trust him one bit.

Everything else aside, she simply did not like the way that he had so quickly and expertly cut the ground from beneath her feet on several important occasions lately. Like a wounded gazelle, she had been isolated from the herd and swiftly snapped up by a green-eyed predator. And yet he had been kind, she thought slowly, and considerate in many ways. But the fact remained, she did not trust him. Neither his motives, nor his glib words.

But what, she asked herself soberly, as she sat up and swung her legs from the bed, was she going to do about it? The man was now her husband. And as her husband, he held almost total sway over nearly every aspect of her life. He even, she thought sourly, still had her pistol. Her eyes narrowed. He had requested that she trust him; it would be most interesting to see how he reacted when the shoe was on the other foot!

Putting the problem from her for the time being while she tended to more practical matters, Sophy rang for her maid. An hour later, bathed and gowned in a charming confection of jonquil muslin and pale green silk ribbons, her hair caught up in a cunning arrangement on the top of her head, a spangled green ribbon threaded through the golden curls, she left her rooms.

Descending the magnificent floating staircase, she eventually found herself on the main floor of the house. For a moment, she stood there undecided, trying to get her bearings. Spying a black velvet pull rope in one corner, she was on the point of ringing for a servant when a door to her left opened and Ives strolled out.