Chapter Twelve
The soles of Mrs. MacLean’s shoes landed heavily on the treads as the housekeeper trudged up the stairs. The woman’s grumbling grew louder as she moved toward Sophia’s bedchamber.
Sophia straightened in her chair and set her open book on her lap. The composition titled The Perfect Rose had arrived in today’s post. Another hateful gift from Great-Uncle Charles. A book that touted not only what features constituted the ideal English woman—a bow-shaped mouth, a heart-shaped face—but also implied a woman was flawed if she possessed any opinions at all. She should have burned it. Not read a stitch of it.
Mrs. MacLean entered the room and pursed her lips. “If ye be asking me ’tis too late to be receiving a gentleman caller.”
A jolt of apprehension flooded Sophia’s belly. She snapped her book closed. “A gentleman caller?”
“Aye,” the elder woman replied, peering at the crisp white calling card held in her hand. “’Tis Lord Westfield. An’ he don’t look nothing like that caricature I seen of him in Punch. No, indeed. The man looks twice as menacing. A right buirdly gent. Noot like most of them pasty-faced nobs one’s apt to see west of Charing Cross.”
Sophia’s heartbeat escalated, and the odd sensation pooling in her belly exploded sending hot rivulets over her nerves. “Westfield,” she said his name—two distinct syllables, the latter drowned under the thudding of her heart echoing in her ears.
“Yes, an’ insisting on seeing ye.”
With trembling fingers, Sophia placed the book on the side table and stood. Wringing her hands, she paced the room. She stopped and spun back toward the housekeeper. “Mrs. MacLean, please send him away. Tell him . . . tell him I’ve retired for the night.” The shrill tone in her voice echoed in the bedchamber.
The housekeeper tapped her foot on the floor and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I tried, miss, but he’s a plucky gent that don’t seem accustomed to being turned away.”
Indeed, Westfield was used to getting his way; he’d most likely remain ensconced in her entry hall until she received him. She let go of the death grip her hands were placing upon each other and took a deep breath.
“Show him to the drawing room,” she replied, mustering her courage.
What did he want? Rubbing her moist palms over the folds of her gold and red gown, she resumed pacing. She moved to the doorway and peered into the dim corridor. She could slip down the back staircase and out the rear of the house.
No, she would not be intimidated. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the stairway and descended the steps. By the time she reached the drawing room, her heart was racing in her chest again. She took several calming breaths and opened the double doors.
Westfield leaned casually against the window frame, his gaze directed out the panes of glass. She knew the view across the street was nearly unperceivable. The air drifting off the Thames had thickened and settled over the embankment like a vaporous cloak.
He was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark silver ascot, and waistcoat. His navy frock coat molded itself to his broad shoulders, and gray trousers encased his long legs. He looked every inch the gentleman. She nearly laughed aloud at the stream of her thoughts. It would be unwise to let the cut of Westfield’s bespoke garments fool her. He was a man to be wary of, especially where her pride and heart were concerned.
He pushed his tall form away from the window’s casings and turned to her. Her stomach clenched. His blue eyes were shadowed, and there was a weariness to his normally handsome visage.
She stifled the foolish urge to rush forward. You must act indifferent, you silly goose. She stepped into the room and closed the doors to hinder Mrs. MacLean’s prying ears.
“Lord Westfield,” she said coolly, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” The steady tone of her voice pleased her.
His gaze raked over her, and she looked down at the gold and red gown she wore with its simple soft flowing skirt and square neckline. Self-consciously she lifted a hand to the exposed skin above the décolletage.
Many of the artists who resided in Chelsea donned aesthetic clothing and no corsets, but Westfield would think her Bohemian. Dash it all, she’d let the man touch her intimately. Of course he thought her Bohemian. She lowered her hand and returned his bold gaze. Thankfully, she hadn’t unpinned the chignon at her nape.
“You look well, Sophia,” he said, breaking the silence.
His deep masculine voice felt like a tangible force caressing her skin. She took a slow breath, tried to regulate the elevated beating of her heart. “Thank you, my lord.”
The silence in the room grew.
“Sophia, are you going to offer me a seat, so I may rest my weary leg?”
She wished to refuse his request; nevertheless, she motioned to the pair of chintz-covered chairs set before the hearth.
With a congenial nod, he strode across the room. An occasional hitch marred his stride. Yet otherwise, his gait was smooth for a man who’d suffered an injury such as he had. She bit back the temptation to tell him he should be using a cane, but then she noticed the familiar, elegant gold-knobbed walking stick propped against the wainscoting near the window.
He stood waiting for her, and reluctantly she moved toward the other chair. A flutter besieged her stomach with each step that brought her closer to him. She’d not forgotten how his mouth and hands had stroked her skin or the feel of his hard body, and certainly not how she’d welcomed his touch.
After she sat, he folded his tall form into the opposite chair. Casually reclining against its upholstered back, Westfield steepled his hands, pressed his index fingers to his lips, and looked at her.
Under his intense scrutiny, the fluttering in her stomach turned tempestuous. “My lord, it is—”
“Hayden.”
“What?”
“I wish you to call me Hayden.”
Not likely! “It is rather late, my lord. May I ask the reason for your visit?”
He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. So close she could smell the faint scent of his shaving soap, along with the smell of tobacco drifting off his clothes. “I have finally decided what my recompense should be for winning our little game.”
“Your recompense!” She sprung to her feet.
Westfield quickly followed suit, standing, and closing the short gap between them. He peered down at her. “A dare was placed between us, Sophia, along with a wager. As the victor I’m due a forfeit.”
She wanted to step back, but she was pinned between his tall body and the chair behind her. “You told me I could leave and consider our dare and that silly wager null and void.”
The corners of his mouth lifted into an uneven smile. “I did. However, if my memory serves me clearly, you stated you did not wish to end either. In fact, you told me, quite adamantly, you intended to win. But since you left, you lost.”
How could he hold her to that, especially after what had transpired between them? “You sent me a check in care of Dr. Trimble’s residence,” she replied as though such a fact offered absolution.
“Yes, which you’ve yet to cash.”
How could she? She’d not won the staggering amount he’d sent her. Accepting it would have made her feel dirty, so she’d burned it. And the money Lady Prescott paid her, she’d given to Thomas for his hospital fund. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “You cannot be serious about this.”
“Quite.”
“And what recompense do I owe you? Shall I return the wages your sister paid me, grovel at your feet, or hail you superior?”
Sophia awaited his answer, but abruptly he moved toward the double doors. She stared at his back in confusion. Was he leaving? She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or once again offended.
He flung the doors open. Mrs. MacLean jumped back with a squeal that rivaled a scavenging hog.
“Madam,” he snapped. “I suggest you retire to your room.”
The housekeeper momentarily froze, then fled down the corridor.
Westfield slammed the doors closed.
Sophia stood motionless as he stalked back toward her. With his hands on her upper arms, he pulled her close. “No, Sophia, I don’t want your deuced wages or you groveling at my feet. A night in your bed should suffice.”
Her knees weakened, and for a brief moment, she appreciated he held her. But indignation quickly overpowered shock. She tipped her chin in the air. “Over my dead body.”
He grinned. “My dear, contrary to any rumors you may have heard, I assure you I am not so depraved.”
“Lord Westfield, you are mad if you believe I will consent—”
His large hands cupped her face, and his lips covered hers. She opened her mouth, intent on rebuking him, but he deepened the kiss, caressed her tongue with his own, withdrew, only to plunge hungrily again. The rhythmic, primal sensation felt tantamount to a heady drug.
He stepped closer, pressed his hard body intimately against hers. Sinful heat radiated from him, warming her skin. Almost light-headed, she slipped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss.
His hold relaxed, one hand shifted to tangle in her hair, the other fell to her waist. “How I want you,” he whispered into her ear, his voice raspy and intense. He nibbled at her neck before returning for another deep kiss.
The foolish, imprudent part of her wanted him, as well, but she couldn’t stop the echo of her inner voice reminding her of his cruel words and the humiliation they brought about. A minute or two more, the rash side of her urged, then step out of his embrace and ask him to leave with the same indifference he showed you.
Cold air brushing over her spine interrupted her thoughts. Hayden had skillfully unfastened the buttons on the back of her gown. If she didn’t pull back, she’d tangle herself in a web spun by her own recklessness. She turned her mouth away and set her hands against his chest.
“Please don’t pull away, Sophia. Those dreadful things I said . . .” He briefly glanced away and mumbled a curse. “I didn’t mean them. The truth is you awaken emotions I believed long dead. I am an imperfect man, and God knows you deserve someone better.”
Startled, she peered into his eyes. They looked tired. She placed her hands against his cheeks and touched her thumbs to the dark smears under them. “I don’t know when you’re lying to me or offering the truth.”
“You wish to hear the truth?” He gave a bitter bark of laughter. “I have spent the last three weeks with one foot in purgatory and the other slipping off stable ground.” He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “I think of you constantly and accomplish little.”
He appeared sincere, and she had already lost her heart to him. Don’t be rash, a voice warned, but instead of heeding it, she perched on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
With a deep, guttural sound, he cradled the back of her head and kissed her again. Within minutes, her gown pooled on the floor, and Hayden’s coat and tie draped a chair. She tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat. That fervent need to press her skin to his consumed her. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders, and then his fingers were on the small satin ties that held her white chemise closed. The thin material fell open, exposing her breasts.
With lowered lashes, she glanced at his face. He was looking at her as though he’d never seen a woman before. Her face warmed. Self-consciously she pulled the material closed.
Gently he pulled her hands away. The fabric fell open again. Leaning forward, he whispered, “Forgive me for staring, but you are not only a remarkably intelligent woman, but beautiful.”
How did he know that at this moment, after Great-Uncle Charles’s thoughtless book on the perfect English rose, she desperately needed to hear such words? To feel desirable. Wanted.
His hand captured the weight of her breast. Her already budding nipple hardened against his palm. He lowered his mouth and trailed a slow path to the breast he held. His tongue darted out, teased the tip.
She hadn’t thought he could drive her madder with want, but the sensations from his wet mouth and tongue, along with the slight abrasion from his shaven chin, heightened her desire. It was impossible to stifle the little sound that escaped her throat. By the time he pulled away, she was panting.
“Will you allow me to make love to you, Sophia? Not because of some blasted dare, but because you wish to.”
The thought of their bodies tangled together, their mouths on each other’s skin, inflamed her. She buried her face into the folds of his white shirt, breathed in his scent. “Yes,” she mumbled against the cloth.
Without another word, he swept her up, cradled her in his arms, and moved to the settee. Abruptly he stopped. “Where is your bedchamber?”
“The second floor, but I can walk. Your leg—”
“It feels fine,” he responded dismissively.
As they ascended the stairs, Hayden kept glancing at her. Her expression most likely conveyed her apprehension. This was insanity. Once again, she had let his touch and his words play havoc with her judicious mind. Could she do this—take carnal pleasure with a man who was not her husband? A month ago, she would have laughed at such an outlandish thought, but now . . .
At the second-floor landing, he turned toward her room where light still shone from within. He crossed the threshold and with his foot nudged the door closed. The four-poster bed loomed. Fear and anticipation fought for control as Hayden carried her toward it.
As if sensing her doubt, he laid her down and turned the gas lamp low, leaving the room bathed in a subtle glow. Setting a knee on the bed, he braced himself over her and covered her mouth with his. He shifted back. “Are you sure?”
No. Yes. This surpassed recklessness, but his kiss and touch left an ache that needed to be soothed. She nodded.
His sensuous lips turned upward. He slipped his braces off his shoulders and tugged his shirttails free. In one swift motion, he drew the crisp shirt over his head, causing his pectoral muscles to bunch reflexively.
Her mouth grew dry. He was magnificent. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to touch him—this man with a body so different from her own, a man hard in places where she felt soft.
He tossed his shirt onto her favorite chair. The sight of the garments touching the flowered surface evoked a sense of intimacy—an intimacy shared by husbands and wives, and yes, lovers.
His gaze never left her as he kicked off his shoes, unfastened his trousers, and slipped them off. As he removed his socks and drawers, his forearms flexed. Swallowing, she forced her gaze lower. His penis looked hard and thick, nothing like the flaccid illustrations in Thomas’s medical books. She understood the mechanics of coupling. Knew a man needed to become firm to make the whole process work, but never had she imagined it would become so large that the veins would strain against the taut skin.
Hayden moved to the edge of the bed, took her hands in his, and pulled her to her knees. He kissed her long and deep while he lifted the hem of her chemise. He broke the kiss and drew the garment over her head. The warmth on her face spread to the tips of her ears.
“How beautiful,” he said, sliding his large palms over her shoulders, arms, the tips of her fingers. His hands lifted to her hair, extracted the pins that held her chignon. The long mass tumbled down her back—swayed against her bare skin. He wrapped his hand in it, tipped her head back, and then capturing her mouth, he lowered them both to the bed.
For long, splendid minutes, he lay next to her merely kissing her. Then his nimble fingers drew off her remaining garments. His hands moved over her, exploring, shaping, feeling. Her skin grew hot. She ached for something more, an unknown entity—primal, yet natural. She shifted closer.
The tips of his fingers grazed her skin, a featherlight touch. Too soft. A torment. She felt him smile against her neck. He comprehended what he did to her. Knew it was not enough. She bit her lip, forced herself not to beg him to increase the pressure, but she couldn’t stop her body from arching, pleading.
In answer, he rolled her nipple between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. It should have caused pain, but it satisfied, drew her closer to the elusiveness she sought. He lowered his mouth to her breast, sucked one, then the other. She tangled her hands in his silky hair and held him to her.
His hand skated over her abdomen to settle between her legs. Her body quivered. He slid his palm against her feminine skin, now dampened by her own uncontrolled yearning. He took possession of her mouth while his fingers stroked her. At the exact moment he deepened the kiss, he slid a finger into her. She pressed her heels into the mattress and lifted her hips.
Wanton. Yes, she felt wanton, and close to bursting from her own heated skin. She wished for more—for Hayden to bury himself in her, to join with her, to satisfy the overwhelming need that clawed for release. But instead, he made his way down her body nipping and kissing. His mouth moved past her navel and dipped between her legs.
Oh, heavens! What was he about? She tried to shift away.
But he held her hips and peered up at her. She stilled, suddenly wanting to experience what his heated gaze promised. His tongue delved where his fingers had been. Every nerve in her body centered in that spot he touched. An unexplored, foreign sensation threatened to overwhelm her. “No,” she said, scrubbing her head back and forth over her pillow.
“Hmm, but you taste so lovely,” he said, his breath, little puffs against her damp skin.
“Please.” To her own ears, the single word sounded like a plea for the continuation of his sensual ministrations, but he heeded her former word and pressed kisses against her inner thigh before he shifted and braced himself above her.
She reached out, tentatively wrapped her hand around his hard manhood. The texture was smooth and silky; it defied its appearance. Fascinated she ran her fingers up, then down its length, stroking him.
He made a noise, low, animalistic in its timbre, and threw his head back. When he glanced back at her, his eyes appeared nearly black. Air swished between his teeth. He shifted, settled between her legs, and pulled her hand away. With one quick thrust, he buried himself in her.
Sophia flinched and dug her nails into his shoulders. She had counseled women on the discomfort associated with the tearing of the hymen, yet she’d not really known what to expect. It had not been too painful. He stilled for a second, drew back, and looked at her, his expression puzzled.
Her stomach fluttered. She must seem gauche, awkward. He opened his mouth, but she laced her hands around his neck and brought his lips down to hers. With a groan, he started moving within her, partially withdrawing, only to plunge again. An exquisite sensation that coalesced pain and pleasure until only the latter survived.
The rhythm of his movements grew stronger, deeper. She wrapped her legs around his hips. Her body clawed at the growing sensations as if it realized something fantastical lay just out of reach. She wanted to ask him to explain what was happening, but instead she arched up, demanded it not elude her. The fine edge of his teeth grazed her neck before his tongue soothed the scraped skin.
She closed her eyes and centered her mind on the pleasure building within her, drawing her closer to the edge of something—a culmination. Then it overtook her. Her legs quivered and hot rivulets of pleasure shot through her body. She floated in a cloud of sated weightlessness.
Hayden’s voice drew her back. “Ah, Sophia, your climax humbles me.”
He thrust forward, once, twice. His breath ragged, he thrust again, tensed, and the sinew on his neck tightened as he held himself deep within her and shuddered. He kissed the top of her head and rolled to his side, taking her with him. He remained inside her and she could feel herself pulsating around him. She buried her face against his chest, listened to the heavy strumming of his heart, and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Hayden brushed his hand over Sophia’s silky hair. She slept soundly, her head upon his chest and one small hand curved around his forearm. The even rhythm of her breathing marked the inevitable passage of time. He wanted nothing more than to stay cloistered in her bedchamber for a few days while the world slipped by.
If he’d meant to purge himself of his desire for Sophia, he’d failed miserably. When he was with her, the past and his guilt over what had happened to Laura drifted deeper into the recesses of his mind.
Edith was right. His wife’s death had tossed him in a dark hole of regret and self-destruction. He’d given up on himself and happiness, but the woman lying beside him made him believe there could be more to his future than regret. She made him want to be a better man.
He flattened his palm against the smooth plane of her belly. He always took precautions, usually more than one. Yet he’d been reckless. The fortitude to withdraw had deserted him, making him wonder if he’d come here to allay his baser instincts or to bind her to him.
Perhaps he didn’t wish to lose the peaceful calm he experienced when beside her. Did that equate to love? Or self-preservation? He wasn’t sure.
So where did that leave him? Did he wish her to be his mistress? That offer would likely be met with a firm slap across his face. Which left only one other option.
Marriage.
But would she accept his proposal?
Damnation, he was a member of the peerage. An earl. Though admittedly, one with a sullied reputation. Yet he had a feeling she wouldn’t care a jot about his title.
So what offer would he make? One might turn her away from him, and the other would bind them for life. And both possibilities were scary as hell.