Chapter 15
The next few days were busy. “There is no duchess, and you are the wife of the heir,” her new father-in-law told her when she protested that she should not be leading the preparations for feeding and housing the guests who would come for the funeral. Each night, she went to bed exhausted, but surely there would have been time for James to introduce her to marital intimacies? If he truly wanted her?
There were no more drugging kisses, no more protestations of desire. He still called her “my heart,” but at night, he came to bed after her and slept chastely on his side of the mattress, while she lay awake and burned with lust and doubt.
He had his Belvoir, using her social connections to draw people to the funeral, efficiently coaching his family through the rituals of English mourning. And it seemed that Hythe had been right all along. That was all he wanted.
She would not let him see that she cared, and if a few tears stained her pillow in the night, she managed to keep still and silent so that he never knew.
Sophia was tired. James had tried to make sure she rested as much as possible, but he had been so busy, managing the arrangements for a ducal funeral and helping his father with a smooth transition. The duke was dead, and the new duke faced many challenges, not least proving to Society that his children belonged among them.
Yes. She was tired. That explained the shadows in her eyes, the effort she made to smile at Hythe and Felicity, who arrived in time to join them for the funeral and returned to the house with them when it was over.
He attempted several times to cross the room to her side, but half of London wanted to talk to him it seemed, including Hythe who wanted to come the next day to sign the marriage settlements they had agreed the previous day.
James refused. “Sophia and I will be leaving early for Oxfordshire. Why not stay for dinner tonight? We shall meet about the settlements after.”
Soon, he and Sophia could be alone. Soon, soon they could escape to the manor his father had settled on him. Soon, he could make his bride fully his, instead of snatching a few hours of uncomfortable rest snuggled next to her, unwilling to disturb her sleep by his importunate demands. For her first bedding, she deserved his full attention—his full, devoted, dedicated attention.
He went up to their bedchamber that evening after an uncomfortable interview with Hythe. Sophia was already in bed, as she had been, he realized, each night since his grandfather died, sitting propped against pillows, reading a book. What a sad state he was in that, even in her flannel nightgown and demurely covered by a pale blue bed cape, she was the most alluring sight he had ever seen.
Was Sophia unhappy? Did she have regrets? Hythe seemed to think so, and even Felicity had grabbed his arm as they said goodnight and commanded him to find out what was wrong with Sophia. Before he pulled the ribbons on that cape and unbuttoned the modest gown, they needed to talk.
Sophia made herself smile calmly when her husband entered the bedchamber a good hour before she expected him. “The water should still be warm, James,” she said, and she waited for him to go behind the dressing screen to wash and change into his nightshirt.
Instead, he crossed the room and perched beside her on the bed. “What are you reading, my heart?”
When he called her “my heart” in the deep tone that thrilled all the way to her most intimate places, she could almost forget that he didn’t want her. She met his dark eyes and then could not look away. “Don’t, James,” she begged.
He frowned, his brow creasing. “Don’t what, my heart?”
If he had not repeated the endearment, perhaps she could have kept her secret, made some non-committal remark that turned the conversation. But she could not help blurting, “Don’t call me that!” She shifted away so his body did not rest against her legs and turned her gaze to the ceiling cornice in the corner, biting the inside of her lip to hold back tears.
James sighed, a deep exhalation as if she had punched him in his torso, and he shifted too, drawing back. “I was afraid of that. You are sorry you married me. Hythe said it, but I did not want to believe him.”
“I?”
Was she sorry? She had been trying to tell herself she was not, that few marriages at their level of society involved love, and at least in the Winderfield household she was needed and respected. And when her husband finally steeled himself to bed her, there would be a chance of children. It would be enough. Surely?
“No. I am not sorry, James. I am only sorry that you…” Sophia stopped. She had been going to say she was sorry he had lied about loving her, sorry she had fallen so deeply in love with him that even discovering his perfidy had not stopped her from longing for him with every breath she took.
His brow creased still farther. “Tell me, Sophia. Tell me what I have done and how I can undo it. For I swear, wife of mine, that I will move heaven and earth to make you happy. Do you fear going to Oxfordshire with me? We can stay if you wish.”
He lingered over the last few words, suffusing them with regret. She shook her head. Another moment and she would be under his spell again.
“No, you are not afraid? No, you wish to go? To stay?” He shook his head. “Tell me, Sophia. Remember I am a blundering male, and be honest with me.”
Honest, was it?
“As you were honest?” she blurted. “When you called me your heart and said you loved me? And then nothing? Not even a kiss! I might just as well have been sharing a bed with Felicity! You didn’t even see my beautiful lacy corset!” To her horror, she burst into tears, and suddenly she was in her husband’s arms, and he was kissing her wet face, murmuring imprecations on his own head.
“Oh my heart, I am a fool. I am a brute. How could you know… Of course, you could not. I only meant to be considerate, my love. I wanted you so much; I longed for you, but you were so tired, and I feared to tire you further for if I had a taste of you I knew I would not be able to stop. What a stupid man you have wed, Sophia. It never occurred to me that you might think I didn’t want you!”
He was kissing her then, with a desperation she recognized and met, returning his kisses as if they were her last link to life, and she would die if she could not absorb and be absorbed by him, merging into his very being so they became one.
“You see?” he said, with half a laugh after a long interlude. “I was afraid to touch you for fear I would ignite, and I was right, it seems. Lying beside you this past week has been torture, and I do not mean to wait another minute, my heart, if you will give me leave.”
Sophia hesitated, peering into his eyes, and the passion she saw there reassured her. “You are my husband,” she prevaricated. “It is your right.”
“It is my duty, my privilege, and my delight, my heart, to protect you, to honor you, and to cherish you; to please you out of my bed and, yes, to pleasure you in it.” He swallowed, his throat convulsing. “And if I fail in any of those, it is your right to rap your husband on his thick head and teach him better. Tell me what you want, Sophia, and it is yours.”
The answer, she found, was simple. “You,” she said. “James, I want you.”
“You have me,” he told her, and made it so.