For Love Alone (29 page)

Lady Beckworth, sitting in a delicate chair covered in rose silk, was placidly drinking a cup of tea. Putting down her cup, she beamed at Sophy, and murmured, “You do not have to thank me, my dear; you have handled yourself just as you ought. And I have thoroughly enjoyed myself.” Something suspiciously like a giggle came from her. “Oh my, was not Leticia Greenwood put out that Ives had chosen you as his bride, instead of that spotty daughter of hers? I could hardly control myself when she began to sing your praises and pretend she knew right from the first how it would be between the two of you. She is
such
a cat!”

Sophy chuckled and helped herself to a fresh cup of tea. Settling into the sofa, she sipped her tea, and admitted, “I know. I did not know where to look when she began to speak in that disgustingly arch manner of hers.”

A little frown creased Sophy's forehead as she took another fortifying sip of her tea. “She seemed to think it was odd though, that Ives had chosen to marry
me....”
A little flush stained her cheeks. “Not because of my reputation,” she added hastily. “It wasn't that—although she did allude to it. It was something else, as if there was some reason why a match between a Harrington and a Grayson was quite extraordinary.”

Lady Beckworth coughed slightly, and her gaze not quite meeting Sophy's, she said, “Well, you know, dear, there is that old business of Robert....”

“Robert's suicide, you mean?” Sophy asked sharply.

Lady Beckworth nodded, and suddenly seemed to be very busy with her tea cup and saucer.

“But what does his brother's suicide have to do with me?” Sophy demanded, her expression confused.

Her eyes full of pity, Lady Beckworth stared at her for a long moment. Then, giving a heavy sigh, she muttered, “I had hoped that Ives would have explained all to you by now, but I see that he has not.”

She hesitated as if, for once, considering the wisdom of her words. Old habits won out, and she said in a confiding rush, “You see, dear, your mother, Jane, was the young woman Robert was in love with. Robert killed himself because she married your father. Everyone knew it. And everyone knew how Ives felt about it. Even as a boy his determination to seek revenge was known amongst friends of the family—Leticia and her family have always been intimate friends of the Harringtons. Ives frequently swore that there would never be anything but enmity between himself and the Grayson family. And
that
is why it is so incomprehensible to the likes of Leticia Greenwood that Ives would have chosen to marry
you.”

S
ophy's face went white and she stared aghast at Lady Beckworth's kind face.

“My
mother
?” she finally managed in a strangled tone. “Ives's brother killed himself over my mother?”

Lady Beckworth nodded sadly. “I am afraid so. It was a terrible tragedy.”

Sophy stood up. She took an agitated step around the room. “But why did I never hear of this?” she demanded.

“Well, I don't suppose it was something your mother wanted to talk about, and I am sure it was not a common subject between your parents and their friends. Why should you have known? After all, it happened before you were even born.”

“But that fact did not, apparently, matter to Ives,” Sophy replied tightly, her hands clasped in front of her. Good gad! she thought despairingly. Had she become so completely mesmerized by Ives that she had forgotten the lessons in deceit that she had learned from Simon? What other secrets, she wondered bitterly, had Ives kept from her? And why? Why had he never mentioned what had happened between his brother and her mother? He should have told her, she thought stubbornly,
especially
the part her mother had played ... unless there was some sinister reason he had not done so?

She took a shaky breath, not liking the path of her thoughts, hardly aware of Lady Beckworth's concerned gaze resting on her pale face. She did not want to believe ill of her husband, but she could not help believing that she had been utterly misled by his many thoughtful acts. It seemed likely, she admitted bitterly, that she had been deliberately charmed and seduced by him. It was more than possible that there had been a dark and ugly reason behind his determined pursuit of her, his inexplicable rescue of her the night Edward had died. Painfully, reluctantly, she came to the conclusion that Ives could have been plotting some sort of twisted revenge against her right from the very beginning. She did not want to think it, but the notion would not go away.

She had almost come to believe that Ives could be trusted, begun to accept the idea that perhaps their marriage was not a bad thing, but now ... She swallowed convulsively, finally admitting that she had been unconsciously waiting for his dark side to be exposed. That there had been a part of her that had suspected all along that things were not as they seemed, that it was only a matter of time before he revealed that the black heart of a cad lay beneath his supposedly considerate exterior.

Her mouth twisted. Oh, but he had done his work well. And it had all been for one ugly purpose—to disarm her, to have her trust him and to make her fall in love with him—so that when he finally revealed the truth, that he despised her and her family, that he would
never
love
her,
it would be all the more shattering.

Her marriage to Simon had not imbued Sophy with any strong feelings of high esteem, and since there was not a vain bone in her body, she had always been suspicious of the reasons behind Ives's bold pursuit of her.

In fact, she had never quite understood the fascination she seemed to hold for men in general—Simon, Grimshaw, Dewhurst, and the others. It was incomprehensible to her that she was beautiful, and that her beauty might evoke powerful yearnings and strong emotions in the male breast. The notion that her spirit, loyalty, and determination might cause admiration and respect was equally foreign to her.

The circumstances surrounding her marriage to Ives had been unusual and she had been mistrustful of his motives right from the beginning, and she had—foolishly, it now appeared—allowed herself to be swept along by him. He had not wanted to marry
her.
It had not been chivalry that had prompted his drastic actions, it had been
revenge
!

Why shouldn't she believe this? Simon had certainly shown her that men were cruel, hateful beasts. Her uncle had been little better. Ives's apparent predilection for the company of men like Grimshaw, Coleman, and Marquette only added to the evidence against him.

And now, to learn that her mother had been the cause of his adored brother's death, to hear that Ives had sworn vengeance against the woman who had spurned his beloved older brother... Jane was beyond his reach, but her daughter was not.

She gave a mirthless little laugh. Oh, it was all so clear now. She had no doubt that he intended to spurn her, just as her mother had done to his brother.

Aware that Lady Beckworth was looking at her with alarm, Sophy sent her a taut smile, her eyes glittering like molten gold. “This has been a most instructive morning, has it not?” she said with false calm. “I had wondered why your nephew chose to marry me. Now I know—revenge.”

“Oh, my dear,” exclaimed Lady Beckworth, appalled, “I am sure that you are mistaken. Why, one has only to see the pair of you together to realize that he is utterly smitten with you. I am positive that he has forgotten all about those immature rantings. He cannot blame you for what Robert did.”

“We shall just have to see about that, won't we?” Sophy murmured, the expression in her eyes not at all reassuring.

 

Ives
had
forgotten all about his fleeting notion of using Sophy to satisfy his once-savage thirst to avenge Robert's death. In fact, in the days since he had first thought of it, he came to realize that it was folly and downright foolish to blame Sophy for something her mother had done. If he had been asked about it, he would have burst out laughing at the nonsensical idea.

Unfortunately, returning home in a jovial frame of mind that afternoon, he discovered that Sophy thought precisely that. Her request for an immediate interview in her bedchamber brought a frankly carnal glow to his eyes, and he had been anticipating a lazy afternoon spent making love to his wife when he entered her room. One look at her stony features made it obvious that he was
not
going to be spending any time in her bed in the near future.

In growing dismay and unease he listened to her measured words, his heart clenching into a painful knot. Finished with her recital of the ugly facts she had just learned and her conclusions, Sophy stood in the middle of the room, regal as a queen, and coldly regarded him. “Do you deny it?” she demanded, her face set and hard.

“By Jove! Sophy, you cannot believe that I married you to wreak some sort of belated revenge. You cannot!” he exclaimed, half-furious, half-appalled. “Sweetheart, you must believe me. Such a thought never entered my—” He stopped, uncomfortably remembering that he
had
considered such an idea, the very first time he laid eyes on her.

“Never?” she asked grimly, having noted with a sinking heart his fatal hesitation. “I find that hard to believe. Why
should
I believe you?”

His own temper sparking, Ives snapped, “Why should you not? When have I ever given you reason to mistrust me?”

Sophy opened her lips to hurl back a stinging retort, only to close them abruptly. When
had
he proven himself unworthy of her trust? Desperately, she sought for some event which proved her point. Surely there was something he had done that revealed his perfidious nature? Almost gratefully she remembered his cool abandonment of her immediately upon their return to the city. “You left me to spend the evening with your friends on our very first night back in London.”

“Good gad! What does that have to do with anything?” Ives growled, angry hurt building within him. He did not know when he had been more furious, or wounded. Scowling at her, he added coldly, “Am I to be chained to you like a felon to an iron ball?”

His words were knives in her flesh, and her chin lifted, her fists clenching at her sides. “No, m'lord, you are not! In fact, I'd lief as not have you at my side at all!”

Fighting an urge to shake her, he snarled softly, “Well, that suits me just fine! Good day, madam! Be assured that I shall take care not to inflict my presence upon you in the future!” Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the room, the door violently slamming shut behind him.

Shaken and trembling, Sophy stared miserably at the door. She should be satisfied. She had confronted him. And he had not denied the truth of her words; he had actually tried to turn them against her.

So now she knew. All of his tender caresses, all of those teasing smiles and thoughtful considerations had been an act. She was married to a man every bit as vile and underhanded as Simon had been.

Furiously, she wiped aside a tear that dared to fall. It was better this way. Let there be nothing but indifferent politeness between them. Let them go their separate ways. She had survived one such marriage; surely, she could survive another? Except. Except,
I love him!

Biting down hard on her lower lip, she kept the tears at bay, wondering how they had come to this dismal state so suddenly. Only yesterday, he had returned her pistol to her. And she had been warmed by his offer to Agnes Weatherby, beginning to believe that there was some rational explanation for his desire for the company of Grimshaw and Meade. And last night ...

Her lips softened and her heart beat faster. Last night, there had not been a cloud on the horizon as she had lain in his arms and he made love to her, her body responding wildly to him, ecstasy such as she had never dreamed flooding her. And now. Now, everything was gone. Gone like fallen leaves before the winter gales.

It was not to be expected that their estrangement would go unnoticed. Whenever they were in the same room together, despite their polite words and manners, the air seemed noticeably cooler to anyone in the vicinity. Lady Beckworth's departure that very afternoon left a void, the lack of her amiable chatter making the icy aloofness between the newlyweds all the more apparent. By that evening, almost everyone in the house took to swiftly sidling out of any room occupied by both Lord and Lady Harrington.

After an interminable dinner where Ives and Sophy exchanged only the coolest of conversation, the three younger members of the family were grateful when Ives, abandoning the usual after-dinner brandy with Marcus, immediately departed to join his companions. Sophy watched him leave the dining room with dead eyes and, a second later, without explanation, sailed out of the room, leaving Marcus, Phoebe, and Anne to stare at each other in bewilderment.

“What has happened between them?” Phoebe asked Marcus as they made their way from the dining room a few minutes later. “I thought they were happy together. But now!”

“Is Sophy angry because you and Lord Harrington went to Tattersall's this morning?” inquired Anne timidly. “Could that be the cause?”

Marcus shook his head. “No, Sophy would not cut up rough over something like that! And I know that Ives was in great humor this morning, looking forward to spending the afternoon with Sophy.”

“And Sophy was so very cheerful, even after enduring the scrutiny of all those scandal-sipping old cats who came to call this morning.” Phoebe stopped and looked thoughtful. “At least she was when Anne and I were excused just after Lady Greenwood arrived. I wonder if Lady Greenwood said something ... Oh, if only Lady Beckworth had not left!” Phoebe exclaimed despondently.
“She
would know what the problem was, and how best to solve it!”

Marcus made a face. “I would not start meddling if I were you,” he warned. “This is between Sophy and Ives. I doubt that either one of them would thank you for interfering.”

Both girls sent him a disgusted glance. “Oh, pooh! You simply do not want to be bothered,” Phoebe said.

“It ain't that. Sophy and Ives are married, and only a fool puts his head between a warring husband and wife.
I
ain't a fool!”

Having delivered that pithy statement, he turned on his heel and went in search of his own entertainment.