Never Dare a Wicked Earl by Renee Ann Miller (11)

Chapter Ten

The coals in the grate and a low-burning lamp cast weak light over Sophia’s bedchamber. From the doorway, Hayden stared at her slight frame cocooned beneath the bedding.

As he moved closer, the thick carpet muffled his walking stick. He peered down at her slumbering form. Her countenance appeared serene. The taut breath held in his lungs eased out between his teeth as relief coursed through him.

“Sophia, I’m so dreadfully sorry,” he said under his breath.

For several heartbeats, he stared at the way her normally constrained hair flowed like dark waves of silk over the white pillowcase. He reached out to touch a lock, then yanked his hand back. This was so wrong.

She’s fine. Now get the hell out of here. He hobbled to the door. A few feet from it, the walking stick tangled with the leg of a chair. He tumbled to the floor and landed with a bang.

Bugger it! He rolled onto his back and braced himself on his forearms.

Sophia bolted upright, clutching her blankets to her bosom.

“Is-is someone in here?” she asked, her voice an uncertain whisper.

Ignoring the pain, Hayden froze. From where he lay, he watched her survey the room. Thankfully, her gaze didn’t dip to him sprawled on the floor. Sighing, she tossed the covers down and slid off the bed.

Hayden sucked in a breath. She wore a cream-colored nightgown of finely spun silk and lace. His gaze traveled down her lithe silhouette to survey how the fabric clung to every turn of her body before ending to expose the swell of shapely calves and finely turned ankles.

Well, he’d be damned. He’d envisioned Sophia, more than once, asleep in her bed, but she’d always donned a woolen nightgown with buttons nearly up to her nose, not some gossamer garment.

She padded toward the fire with her arms wrapped about her waist. At the hearth, she stirred the coals with a brass poker and inched her toes closer to the warmth.

The light from the fire and the lamp on the mantel cast a glow through the thin material revealing the shape of her long, slender legs and their juncture. His mouth grew dry. He should remain quiet, but his damnable conscience forced her name from his lips. “Sophia.”

With a gasp, she spun around and lifted the poker menacingly in the air.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t be frightened.”

“My lord, is that you?”

Indeed, are there any other restless souls in this residence besides me? “Yes.”

Hesitantly she moved toward him and without the glow of the fire directly behind her, the outline of her naked body beneath her nightgown faded.

“What are you doing in here?”

She must think him a lecher. “If I told you I sleepwalk would you believe me?”

A long moment passed. “No.”

“Would you believe when sleep evades me I come in here and lie in this very spot?” He tapped the carpet below him for emphasis while he inwardly chastised such a half-witted tale.

She uttered a short sound that imparted her disbelief in his inane explanation.

“You doubt me?” Forced indignation tinged the timbre of his voice.

“I do.”

He heaved a heavy breath. “Do you know, Sophia, intelligent women can be such a bother.”

Leaning forward she peered at him. “Are you drunk, my lord?”

Slightly sodden, but not inebriated enough not to know he shouldn’t be in here. However, he seized the excuse like a hawk upon a field mouse. “Yes, utterly soused.” For emphasis, he grinned like a buffoon.

“Ah, I see,” she said quietly.

“Sophia, unless you intend to skewer me, I would appreciate you lowering the poker.”

She glanced at the tool she held in the air and pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I should.”

“Skewer me or put it down?”

“Both.”

“Yes, I understand how you might conclude I have entered your room with some nefarious intent, but if that had been my plan, wouldn’t I have climbed into your bed instead of taken residence on the floor?”

Pressing her teeth into her bottom lip, she stared at him, then lowered the poker and walked back to the mantel. The closer she moved to the fire, the more her silken gown turned diaphanous.

“Sophia, will you please find something to cover yourself?”

She spun back toward him, her head tipped to the side. She glanced down at herself. Her sleepy eyes flashed wide. “Oh!” She cupped her hands over her breasts.

His cock hardened. He groaned. “Good God, woman, don’t stand there doing that.”

On quick feet, she padded to the bed and slipped on a cotton robe. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

She was right, but in his defense, he’d not expected her to be wearing little more than a veil. He shifted onto his knees and braced his weight on the chair.

Pulling the wrapper tightly about her, Sophia knelt next to him and picked up his walking stick. “At least you had enough sense not to gad about unassisted.”

The lemony scent of her hair along with the lavender on her skin filled his nose. He swallowed. Dangerous to be in here when he wanted to pull her close and breathe in her fragrance. He reached out to take the walking stick from her.

She tucked it behind her back. “I do not think you are thoroughly intoxicated, my lord.”

“If I say I’m in my cups, I am.”

“At the mission, I see many women and even children who are bitten by drink. You may have indulged, but you’re not exhibiting the symptoms of someone who is truly drunk. Your speech is not slurred and . . .” She looked pointedly at him balanced on his knees. “Your equilibrium seems intact, though obviously faulted.”

He thrust out his hand. “Give me my walking stick.”

“Perhaps you wished to assure yourself I was fine?”

He gave a derisive snort. “That conk to your head has scrambled your logic.”

“Has it?” She settled her bum onto the heels of her feet. The perceptive minx had the audacity to smile.

“What is so humorous?”

“I know the truth, my lord.”

“And what truth do you think you have happened upon?” he asked.

“That you are much more disposed to thoughtfulness than you wish most to believe.”

Thoughtfulness? He wanted to laugh, for at this moment he wished for nothing more than to press her onto her back, settle himself between her thighs, and take her right here on the rug. What would she bloody well think of that? “Do you really believe you’ve got me figured out?”

She nodded.

He inched closer and drew a finger slowly over the seam of her full lips. Her dark, long-lashed eyes grew round. “Tell me, Sophia, do you truly wish to know what is going through my mind?”

* * *

Sophia studied Westfield’s heated blue gaze. Desire warmed her skin. Obviously, she’d relinquished her sanity. She should be scrambling to her feet as any sensible woman would do. Yet she lingered as little jolts of electricity exploded within her stomach.

What was wrong with her? There was little time to ponder her own convoluted mind, for without further warning, Westfield seized her upper arms and dragged her body close to his. His face was taut, and for a moment, she was unsure of his intent. He slipped a hand to the small of her back and drew her mouth and body to his. The movement seemed almost violent, as if fueled by anger, but when his lips covered hers, they were gentle.

With a soft moan, she released the walking stick. It toppled to the floor, and its gold head hit the thick carpet with a muffled thump. She wrapped her arms around him, allowed her hands to glide over his white nightshirt and the corded muscles of his back.

Their bodies moved, shifted. Suddenly she lay on her back, and his tongue invaded her mouth. The sparks in her belly grew, traveled through her veins, leaving a nervous, yet exhilarating sensation in their path.

Threading her fingers through his hair, she cupped the back of his head and slid her tongue against his. He made a husky sound, while one of his large hands slid to her breast. She arched against the pressure—the heat of his palm. She couldn’t seem to get close enough to douse the fiery need within her.

Westfield released her mouth, trailed kisses over her cheek, and down her neck to the ridge of her collarbone. His mouth replaced his hand to capture her breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown, teasing her nipple until it turned pebble hard. With his eyes locked on hers, he breathed on the dampened cloth.

Her lips parted, and she arched up again, silently begging him to continue his wickedness. His lashes lowered and slowly, as if he wished to torment her, he drew his tongue over her other peaked tip.

He peered up at her. “I won’t do anything you don’t wish, Sophia. You have only to say the word no, and I shall stop.”

Though raspy, his voice possessed a soothing tone. It made her feel safe, but it was an illusion, a wistful dream, conjured in her own mind and solidified by his skilled touch.

She opened her mouth, intent on telling him they had gone too far, but before she uttered a word, he ran his tongue over the shell of her ear and whispered, “Ah, Sophia, how beautiful you are. Remarkable in every way.”

Did he realize what those words did to her? How they spoke to some deep craving within her—some need born from the echo of her great-uncle’s cruelty, his disdain. She turned her face and set her mouth to Westfield’s.

She wasn’t sure how long they kissed. Minutes were seconds. Seconds were hours. It seemed impossible to measure time. His hand slid over the swell of her hip to settle on her left thigh. His fingers flexed. Cool air danced across her lower legs as he drew her hem up, inch by inch, as though he realized the touch of the silky fabric, traveling up her skin, heightened her desire, adding another layer of intrinsic pleasure. His hand shifted to her inner thigh. His palm and the pads of his fingers danced lightly over her skin, a soft sway like the gentlest of breezes that scatters gooseflesh over one’s skin. His hand slid—cupped her most private spot where dampness grew.

The noise he made sounded almost feral in its rough tone. It should have frightened her, but she’d crossed a point where fear heightened pleasure, and pleasure seemed absolute. His touch felt good, better than any touch she’d experienced. An ache for more grew within her. She let her thighs relax—an invitation for him to increase his exploration. He drew his finger over the seam of her nether lips while his tongue filled her mouth. She felt wicked and lost in the tumultuous sensations, the maelstrom of desire.

Then the warmth evaporated. Dispersed like a flash of lightning in the sky. Cold air flowed over her dampened skin.

Her eyes fluttered open. Westfield stared at her, his chest heaving, his face shadowed. He jerked back. His taut expression turned the heat coursing through her to ice. She shivered.

With terse movements, he tugged her nightgown down over her legs and pulled her wrapper about her. He leaned on the small chair, grabbed his walking stick, and scrambled to his feet.

Dumbfounded, she watched him move to the door and set his hand on the knob. “Westfield?” The rasp of his name was barely audible to her own ears, but he turned and glanced down at her.

“You asked why I came into your bedchamber, Sophia. By now it should be exceedingly obvious. I wished to seduce you.” He took a heavy breath. “However, I am a man who is enormously fond of a challenge, and this seems all too easy.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, but it didn’t eradicate the sound of her gasp. She turned her face away and willed her tears not to flow.

The door opened, and then clicked shut.

His vile words spun in her head, and the more she absorbed them, the more her body trembled. A sob caught in her throat. He had played her for a fool, and she had let him. She curled into a tight ball on the floor and wrapped her arms about her knees. Tears blurred her vision, and then spilled forth with a nearly forgotten vengeance.

* * *

Hayden slammed the back of his head against his door. Had he ever wanted a woman so desperately? Yes, a long time ago, but he had turned his back on Laura and only added to her heartache.

Sophia deserved someone better. A man who would whisper words of love to her while he took her innocence. Someone who would cherish her forever and offer her fidelity and marriage. Someone who would protect her. Someone besides himself. Better to hurt her now. Better to show her what kind of man she dealt with.

He shouldn’t have touched her, but her scent had filled his nose and he’d forgotten propriety and almost let his desire ruin her.

“I am a man who is enormously fond of a challenge, and this seems all too easy.” His unforgivable words echoed in his head. Sophia would be gone in the morning. He was sure of it. Just as he was sure it was for the best.

His gaze settled on the bottle of whisky. He hobbled to the bed, picked it up, and took a long swig, hoping this time it would numb his brain. He sat on the edge of the bed and brought the bottle to his mouth again and again until it was dry. Then he fell back against the mattress and prayed sleep would overtake him.

* * *

“Wake up, Papa!” Celia’s voice snapped from somewhere in the distance.

With great difficulty, not to mention a good deal of pain, Hayden opened one heavy-lidded eye. Celia stood by his bedside. He placed his hand on his pounding head, opened his other eye, and forced a weak smile. He tipped his head sideways and surveyed the empty whisky bottle that mocked him from the bedside table.

“Celia?” His voice reverberated loudly between his ears as though his head mimicked a great empty tower which amplified sounds to astronomic proportions. He closed his eyes and prayed the echo would cease before his head split open.

Celia pinched his arm.

Oh God, he was dying, and the child pounded the nails into his coffin with just two tiny fingers. He forced his eyes open again. “Yes, dear.” He swallowed the bitter taste coating his parched mouth.

“She is gone, Papa!”

Her voice pummeled his ears, and he winced. “Let us play a game, Celia. See who can whisper the softest. The winner shall decide what dessert Chef will prepare today. Now repeat what you said, but remember the game.”

If Celia had meant to whisper, she failed terribly. “Sophia is gone, Papa!” She dashed away the tears on her face.

Comprehension settled in his pickled brain. Hayden sat up so abruptly he feared his head would roll off his shoulders and topple to the floor. “Gone?” he repeated, forgetting his own game and setting off the reverberations again. “Where?” Then it all came flooding back to him like a deluge on the lowlands.

“I-I don’t know.” Her narrow shoulders sagged. “I overheard Mathews and Hawthorne talking.”

The emptiness in his dream returned. Gone. He had expected nothing less. It was for the best, for if Sophia had stayed he’d have begged her to forgive him, and ended up wanting her even more than he did now. And she deserved far better than him.

“My lord.”

He looked up at Mathews’s scowling face. “When did she leave?” Hayden asked.

Mathews walked over to the windows and drew the curtains open. The room filled with cruel light. Hayden squinted against the shafts cutting through the glass.

“Left near seven this morning.” Mathews strode to the side of the bed and removed a note from his inside breast pocket.

Hayden thrust out his hand.

Mathews shot him a disdainful look. “It is for Lady Celia,” he said, handing it to her.

Celia studied the paper in her hand. “Did you sack her, Papa?”

Hayden’s muscles tensed. No, he had done something much worse. “Do you wish me to read the letter to you or would you prefer to read it yourself?”

She rubbed her fingers over the slightly felted parchment before handing it to him.

He patted the mattress next to him, and Celia climbed atop the bed. Snuggling herself under the bedding, she peered expectantly at him.

He unfolded the note as though it was a public decree declaring him a grievous fiend. However, the short missive, directed solely at Celia, didn’t mention his name, not once. He cleared his throat. Then read aloud.

Feeling an overpowering wish to smash something, combined with a great deal of self-disgust, Hayden resisted the urge to crumble the paper held taut in his hand. Instead, he focused his attention on Celia’s solemn, upturned face. “I’m sorry, Celia, but Sophia couldn’t stay forever. There are those who need her care more than I.”

Without a word, Celia tucked her face into the crook of his arm and chest.

He ran his hand down her back and glanced at Mathews. The man eyed him with an ungracious and accusing expression etched upon his face. “Mathews, please have two breakfast trays brought to my room. Celia and I shall be spending the day together.”

* * *

After taking the omnibus to Oxford Circus, it took Sophia a mere fifteen minutes, walking at a brisk pace, to reach Thomas’s Harley Street residence.

When the housekeeper opened the large oak door, the pungent smell of freshly brewed coffee spilled forward as if under the guidance of an easterly gale.

“Good morning, Mrs. Morehouse. A beautiful day, isn’t it?” Sophia asked, feigning cheerfulness.

The slender, gray-haired woman eyed her critically before giving a resounding humph. Then without a word, she dipped her right index finger into her mouth, leaned forward, and raised said finger into the crisp morning air. “’Tis going to rain, and you without an umbrella.”

“Really?” Sophia glanced over her shoulder at the startling blue sky.

The elder woman pursed her lips as a clap of thunder exploded in the distance. It probably would rain. Sophia should know better than to doubt the woman. The old crow was like a walking barometer with the uncanny ability to predict precipitation with nothing more than her confounded finger.

“Is Dr. Trimble in his office?” Sophia inquired, stepping fully into the black-and-white-tiled entry hall and unbuttoning her coat.

Mrs. Morehouse nodded. “On his third cup of coffee.” The lines framing the housekeeper’s pencil-thin lips deepened. “I guess you’ll be wanting a cup as well?”

Sophia hung her coat and hat on the hall tree and smoothed the skirts of her serviceable navy dress. Whatever the housekeeper lacked in personality, she made up for with her coffee. And since Thomas couldn’t make it through the day without drinking pots of the stuff, it explained why he’d never dismissed the cantankerous woman.

“It does smell wonderful.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Morehouse replied, turning and heading toward the kitchen.

After making her way down the corridor, Sophia rapped softly on Thomas’s office door.

“Come in.” His brisk tone indicated he didn’t welcome the intrusion.

Sophia opened the door.

Thomas, dressed in his shirtsleeves, bounced up from his chair, his somber expression replaced with one of unabashed pleasure. “Sophia.”

She crossed the room, and Thomas warmly grasped her hands within his.

“I was just contemplating what time I should return to Westfield’s today to check on you, and here you are.” His right hand reached out to touch the lump on the back of her head. He frowned and motioned to one of the sturdy wooden chairs facing his large oak desk. “You are well?”

“Splendid. And I’m ready to return to work.” The coiling in her stomach twisted tighter as she sat. She had always felt so comfortable around Thomas; nevertheless, she did not relish his inquiring why she’d changed her mind about attending Westfield.

His eyebrows rose. “You are returning to work today?”

Dipping her chin, she tugged off her gloves. “You were right, Thomas. Westfield has recovered sufficiently. I’m sure the danger of infection has all but passed.”

Thomas settled against the back of his leather chair and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. “Did you examine him this morning?”

“No, I left early.”

He nodded again and lowered his fingers. “Words cannot express my pleasure. You have been dearly missed here.”

“How kind of you to say so.”

“It’s not kindness. It’s the truth.”

She glanced down at her gloves. She’d kept her tears at bay all morning, but they suddenly threatened like dark, ominous clouds.

“Sophia, has something upset you?”

Luckily, the appearance of the housekeeper, bearing a tray, saved her from having to reply.

She forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Morehouse.”

Without expression, the housekeeper set the tray, laden with a barrel-shaped mug of steaming coffee, a linen-lined basket with currant rolls, and a small porcelain fruit dish with raspberry jam, on the table adjacent to Sophia’s chair. “There’s a Mrs. Barnes asking for you, Miss Camden.”

Sophia tapped her chin. “Mrs. Barnes?”

The woman nodded. “Says she knows you from the Eastern Dispensary.”

“Oh, yes. Please tell her I’ll be there shortly.”

As the housekeeper exited the room, Sophia picked up the hot cup of coffee and took a sip. She peered over its rim. Thomas still stared at her. She lowered the mug. “Do you remember Mrs. Barnes?”

“Your reticence in answering my question only confirms something has distressed you. That scoundrel didn’t . . . He didn’t offend you, did he?”

She couldn’t tell him how foolish she’d been. “Of course not. Really, Thomas.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Now, I guess I should go and see what has brought Mrs. Barnes here today.”

“Sophia?”

“Yes.” She stood and placed the cup on the tray. The sting of tears pressed on her eyes.

Thomas slammed his hands down on his desk. “What did that blackguard do?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I am fatigued, that’s all.”

He opened his mouth, and then pinched it closed.

“I am pleased to be back.” She moved to the door. With her hand on the handle, she turned back to him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not questioning me more, and for promising me you will not have an inquisition with Lord Westfield.”

“I have made no such promise.”

“But you will, won’t you?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. “Of course,” he said at last. “If that is what you wish.”

She nodded and stepped from the off ice, anxious for an end to the conversation.