Chapter Twenty
Sophia stared at Hayden as he strode into his bedchamber and closed the door behind him. She sat up. What in heaven’s name just happened? The man had kissed her and pressed himself sensuously against her body until she feared she might melt from the heat growing within her.
How could he leave her in such a state? Curse him!
She slipped off the mattress and marched to the door. As she clasped the brass handle, Mathews’s voice drifted through the wood.
Well, she very well couldn’t demand an explanation with the valet in the room. With an unladylike utterance, she stormed away from the door and crawled back between the sheets.
A half hour later, the voices faded, along with her anger and heated skin. She tossed restlessly about, pulled Hayden’s robe around her, and buried her nose in the cloth to draw in his spicy scent.
Doubtful after what had brought them to this marriage, that Hayden and she would ever have the relationship her mother and father had shared, a union based on mutual adoration for each other. But for the sake of their child and Celia, this marriage needed to work, no matter its inauspicious conception. He’d spoken of the possibility that in time they might love each other. If she made him content would he stay with her, not stray? She darted back to the connecting door, placed her ear on the hard surface, and listened.
Silence.
Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, she opened the door, only to collide with a wall of cold air and darkness. Her gaze veered to the fireplace grate. The normal glow from the coals was absent. Why was the fire not banked?
“Hayden?” she whispered, moving to the massive four-poster bed that the gloom had all but swallowed. She peered at her husband. His hair was sopping wet and he wore no nightshirt. She sucked in a mouthful of cold air. “What in God’s name?” she exclaimed.
Hayden’s eyes opened. He blinked. “Are you an illusion? If not, please go away.”
“You’re going to catch a deadly chill. Have you gone mad?” She stepped to the side of the bed and turned up the gas lamp on the night table.
“By God, you’re not a dream.” He bolted upright and narrowed his eyes at her.
“You’re shivering.”
“Yes, well, that is what happens when one bathes in cold water.” He gritted his chattering teeth.
“Why would you do such a harebrained thing?”
He mumbled. She could have sworn he counted to ten under his breath. “Sophia. Go to bed.”
“Are you delirious from the cold?” She leaned forward and set her hand to his forehead.
The noise he uttered sounded a bit like a growl. The type a stray dog makes when a stranger approaches.
“If you are not warmed you might catch pneumonia.” She lifted the bedding and froze. He wore not a stitch of clothing. She remembered the heat of his naked skin against hers. Her mouth grew dry. She shrugged out of his robe and pressed her knee to the mattress.
His gaze widened. “What are you doing?”
“I read an article about two Russian explorers lost in the wilds of Siberia. They survived by bundling together.”
“We are not in Siberia.”
“I cannot imagine it feels any colder than this room.” She climbed into the bed and slid next to him.
“Out,” he snapped, lifting the blankets up while he motioned for her to leave.
Ignoring him, she leaned over his body and began rubbing his shoulders. His cool skin warmed under her palms. Her own body heated. She peered at him through lowered lashes while she slid a hand down his abdomen. Desire exploded low in her belly.
He closed his eyes and made a sound as though in pain. “Sophia, either you are the most naïve woman in all of Great Britain or you’re trying to seduce me.”
Indeed. The more she touched him, the more she wanted to explore every inch of his skin—to have him do the same to her. Her face warmed. She averted her gaze. “I am, but it appears I’m inept.”
“Good God, woman, if this is inept, you might have me weeping when you are more skilled. If you are doing this out of some misguided sense of—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “Why did you kiss me, then leave?”
“You have been through so very much. I thought you should sleep.”
“I don’t wish to. I feel . . . restless.”
He took a deep, audible breath like he fought some internal struggle, and she knew he intended to send her away. “Sophia—”
“You do realize we can . . . That the baby is not harmed if we . . .” The heat on her cheeks traveled to her ears.
“I do, but you should sleep.”
She snuggled closer, slid her hand lower on his abdomen, and trailed a finger over the narrow path of hair below his navel.
His eyes drifted closed. When he opened them she could see the desire in their blue depth. “For someone inexperienced with seduction, you are doing a remarkable job. If you continue to torment me, dear wife, there will be no turning back. I might want you all night. Not once, but several times. Do you understand?”
She swallowed. Her body felt molten—more aroused than she thought possible. The place between her legs grew wet. She gave a quick nod of her head.
He set his hands on her thighs and slid her body atop him so she straddled his hips. His firm manhood pressed against the dampness between her legs. Awareness, desire, and need shot through her. She rocked forward, wishing he was inside her.
He groaned and slipped his hands up her thighs, dragging the cloth of her chemise upward. He stilled and held her gaze. “Undress for me, Sophia. Lift your undergarment over your head.”
A shiver of unease raced up her spine. For several long seconds, she stared at him, fighting her discomfort, then she drew the fabric up and tossed the garment aside. She would have thought it impossible, but his manhood grew firmer beneath her. Gooseflesh scattered over her arms.
“We’re going to take this slow.” He twined a hand over her nape, drew her mouth to his, and deepened the kiss.
She loved when he kissed her like this—when his tongue tangled with hers, over and over until her body grew limp. He flipped her onto her back and lay beside her.
His hands explored her, sliding across her abdomen, her hips, until his fingers drifted into the curls at the apex of her legs. Closing her eyes, she savored his touch while he caressed and stroked her. One finger, then another, he slipped into her as his teasing tongue lapped at her breasts, turning the buds hard.
Warmth traveled through her. Could one die from such wicked pleasure? She skimmed her hand from his shoulder to his ribs, down the slightly rippled plane of his abdomen, and curled her fingers around his manhood.
He sucked in an audible breath.
She slid her hand up his silky length, then back downward. Gripping him tighter, she hastened her strokes.
A groan escaped him. He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Slow.” He chuckled. “Or it shall be over much too quickly. Yes. Yes, like that.” His breathing grew heavy. He pulled her hand away, and set his palm on her inner thigh.
“Hayden?” She arched her hips upward—her body’s silent plea for him to fill the void he’d skillfully created.
“Spread your legs, love,” his raspy voice commanded.
She did so, and he settled himself between her thighs. Slowly he buried himself in her heightened flesh. He moved, a rhythm that brought him deeper within her after each thrust.
Her body clenched around him. Her breathing ratcheted upward. She teetered on the edge, nearly there. He pulled back, plunged deeper, withdrew, and filled her again, eliciting exquisite pressure. Once, twice, a dozen times. The nerves in her body gathered. A pulse beat where he joined her, and she splintered at the exact moment his face grew taut and he drove so deep she believed they momentarily became one.
His warm body collapsed onto her. Mumbling an apology, he rolled off and tucked her into the crook of his arm. Their heavy breathing echoed in the still room.
Every nerve within her hummed. Contented, she shifted closer and listened to Hayden’s strong heartbeat.
As her sated body and mind settled back on reality, worry eclipsed her contentment. Was she a fool to try to make Hayden love her by sharing his bed? Though the physical pleasure seemed immeasurable, coupling wasn’t love, and desire could wane. Sophia reflected on what Thomas had revealed about Hayden’s first marriage. A union based on an unplanned pregnancy—like her own. And, in the end, Hayden had walked away. She bit her lower lip. Was trying to hold on to Hayden like trying to grasp air in one’s hand? An unattainable feat? Perhaps it would be wiser to harden her heart toward him, not give it away so freely. That way, the pain wouldn’t be so severe, if he ended up leaving her.
She needed to remember, no matter what he said, that history had a habit of repeating itself. She thought of her family—all gone. She didn’t wish to lose another person she loved. No, it was better not to love Hayden. Better to guard her heart, save her love for the child growing in her.
After all, if the past were anything to go by, it would be just the two of them soon enough.
* * *
Hayden scanned the stack of mail readied for the morning post. He’d breezed through several weeks of correspondence in a remarkably short time, buoyed by a nearly forgotten sense of contentment. He skimmed over the last letter he’d written, and, with a slashing stroke, signed his name to it.
Lawrence Bishop was an art dealer with connections in every major city. Varga’s dossier on Sophia had revealed she’d sold three of her grandfather’s paintings to purchase her Chelsea residence.
How strange Hayden had bought one of them. The art dealer would know who’d purchased the other two. If he didn’t, the monetary gains he offered Bishop would set the bloodhound within the man to ground. Hayden smiled as he anticipated Sophia’s expression when he bestowed them on her. They would make a wonderful gift for his new bride.
He stuffed his business ledgers inside the top drawer of his desk and locked it. He stood, slipped the key under the inkpot, and strode to the stairs. Was Sophia still asleep? He’d made love to her not once, but twice during the night, and he feared, if he hadn’t vacated the room early this morning, he would have awakened her again.
At this rate, she’d be with child every year. He’d always wanted a large family. Before he’d married Laura, they’d talked about filling the rafters with their brood, yet it was not in the devil’s plans.
A sick feeling settled in his stomach. He was not the same naïve young man who’d married at twenty-one. Now he knew about deceit and hate, and that life was unpredictable and contentment sometimes fleeting.
In bed Sophia and he shared a passion, but now he needed to make her love him—trust him again. Not with words, but with actions. If he could do that, he might have a second chance at happiness. A chance to have all he’d dreamed of. A thread of guilt weaved through him, for there was no second chance for Laura.
Did he deserve to be content?
No, but Sophia did.
He took the steps three at a time, inching the door open and slipping inside the room.
The morning sun highlighted the empty bed. Rubbing the back of his neck, Hayden eyed the door to the adjoining bedchamber. He strode to it and turned the handle.
Locked.
“Sophia, may I come in?”
“I’m dressing.”
He grinned. “I could help.”
“I assure you that isn’t necessary.”
The cool tone of her voice dissolved his smile. What had happened since last night?
His chest tightened. He blindly peered at the sculpted carpet beneath his bare feet while remembering the panicked expression on Sophia’s face when he’d slipped the diamond and sapphire ring on her finger during the ceremony. Hayden understood her trepidation. They’d say she married a scoundrel. A man who wouldn’t be faithful. A bargain she couldn’t win. But he’d prove them wrong.
But he couldn’t prove himself to her, if she built a wall between them. He knocked on the door again.
The soft patter of feet approached on the other side. The lock snicked and Sophia opened the door. She wore a simple day dress in light blue. Her long dark hair trailed over her shoulders. He recalled how the silken mass had cascaded about his chest and shoulders last night, cocooning him in her clean lemony scent like a sensory aphrodisiac.
Face unreadable, she walked over to the dressing table and started pinning up her hair.
“Why are you up so early?” he asked, stepping into the room.
“I am an early riser. You?”
Was she upset she’d awoken to find him gone? “I let my business dealings fall to the wayside. I needed to tend to them.”
Apprehension flashed across her face. “Hayden, I wish you to know my great-uncle does not condone my desire to work. He does not support me monetarily or emotionally in my endeavors.” She took a deep breath. “My inheritance from my father is not paltry, but modest, and I have no grand dowry. And most of my grandfather’s paintings are on loan to museums where I can visit them. They have sentimental value, and I do not want to part with them. Though I live a comfortable life, I am not some heiress if that is what you believe.”
Most of the women who courted his attention knew he could buy them whatever their hearts desired. It seemed unfathomable that Sophia knew nothing of his wealth. His breweries could barely keep up with the production demanded of them, and the whisky distillery Simon, James Huntington, and he owned turned a substantial profit. “Do you think I care whether you are wealthy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Sophia, I assure you, your great-uncle’s wealth does not interest me.” He drew in a deep breath and glanced around the room. “I shall have your things moved into my bedchamber.”
Her eyes widened. A small lump moved in her slender throat. “My numerous house calls to Thomas’s wealthy patients have made me aware that many husbands and wives who are members of the nobility do not share the intimacy of a bedchamber. They have separate rooms. They only share it to . . .” Her cheeks turned pink. “I-I thought we would do the same.”
A nerve twitched in his jaw. He paced to the window and pivoted around. “From now on you are to share my bed.”
She nervously wrung her hands. “I think it would be best if we had separate sleeping quarters.”
“There will be only one bed in this marriage, Sophia,” he repeated. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
“Are you going out?”
No, he needed to distance himself from her. He wanted her again—the touch of her silky skin against his, the sound of her little gasps, the scent of her aroused body filling his nose. But he needed to take this slow and win not only his wife’s body but her love and good regard. “I intend to take a bath.”
A cold one. In fact, he might spend the rest of his life bathing in water as frigid as the River Thames if he couldn’t win Sophia’s heart.