Loving The Lost Duke (Dangerous Deceptions #1)(31)
‘Thank you, yes. You will be living chiefly on your estate at Calderbrook, I imagine?’
‘Certainly. There are other houses, but that will be our home, assuming that Sophie does not take it in strong dislike.’
‘But you have not visited it since your return to England?’ Elmham was obviously seeking a tactful way of enquiring whether the house was neglected and unfit for his stepdaughter.
‘No. Under the circumstances perhaps a house party would be in order.’ The restlessness to be out of London, to be at Calderbrook, had been gripping him for days. It was only Sophie who had been keeping him in London after the first few days, not all his careful, rational plans, he realised. He had thought to let Isobel settle after all the traveling, equip himself properly, get back into London Society and watch his uncle and cousin. But that had meant ignoring the tug at his heartstrings to go home. Now he could let himself follow his heart not his head and return to Calderbrook.
The clock on the mantle struck and both men glanced up. ‘I should not keep a lady waiting and more than twenty minutes have passed.’
Elmham stood up and extended his hand across the desk. ‘Good luck.’
Would he need luck? He was a duke after all, as was all too apparent from the way the butler escorted him across the hallway to the drawing room. He was not quite rolling out a red carpet before Cal’s booted feet, but his demeanour suggested one could be produced for him at twitch of the ducal finger.
But he found he did not want Sophie to agree because of his rank and status. He wanted her to agree because she thought it would be pleasant to be married to him, that she liked him, that she found the prospect of bearing his children attractive.
It was tempting to go to the over-mantle mirror and twitch at his neckcloth, run his hand through his hair, both actions likely to wreck Flynn’s exertions to turn him out as the ideal suitor. It was equally tempting to pace up and down. Neither was dignified, both showed a lack of control and of self-confidence. Where was she? A full half hour had elapsed since her stepfather sent the message and she had known he was coming which should have given her more than enough time to choose a gown and fiddle with her hair.
Cal took up a stance in front of the window, hands behind his back, as he watched the passing traffic. This was really extraordinarily nerve-wracking, even though he knew she was going to say yes. How did men cope when the outcome was in question? How did you school your face and keep your dignity in the event of a rejection?
His first marriage had been, almost literarily, a shotgun affair. He had gone to the bed of a woman he had every reason to suppose was interested only in pleasure as he was and had then been confronted by her indignant father, apparently a most respectable Boston merchant. Cal had seduced his innocent flower, he had worked his wiles on a young woman unused to the ways of wicked English gentlemen. He was a vile seducer.
Caught hook, line and sinker. The only mercy was that he had never revealed his title to his father-in-law and had managed to keep it a secret even from Madeleine until she was dying in Calcutta. He had been travelling incognito, but using his real names because Thorne was a common-enough surname, and had told anyone who enquired that he was from country gentry, travelling in search of adventure. What he had not hidden well enough was that he had the money to travel as he liked, even if he was happy to rough it when necessary. That was what had attracted Madelaine’s father. It had been another hard lesson in how trust can be utterly mistaken. But Sophie –
The click of the door latch brought him round. Ah yes, Sophie.
She stood in the middle of the floor, the door firmly closed behind her, and dropped into an elegant curtsey. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Miss Wilmott.’
This time he was going to do things properly, with a flourish. Cal took two long strides across the floor, held out his hand and when Sophie, blushing delightfully he was pleased to see, took it, he dropped to one knee, kissed her fingers and looked up. ‘Miss Wilmott. Sophie. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? I admire you and I desire you more than I can say.’
The blush deepened when he said desire, but she was smiling. Sophie gave his hand a little tug, so he stood, still holding her hand and waited for her answer. Her blush, her smile, the frisson of anticipation were all curiously pleasant.
Yes. Oh yes. The words stayed inside her head as Cal stood looking down at her, patient, assured. Waiting. Admiration and desire. He had the sensitivity not to make protestations of love, which he knew she did not want, did not expect. Of course she didn’t and, it was quite clear, neither did he. And yet she must be infected with Mama’s romance after all, because part of her, an irrational, foolish part, yearned to hear him say, I love you. It yearned, even if she knew the words would not be true, even as she winced away from the memories. She had heard those words often enough from Jonathan – and look where that had led.
This was a man she liked, trusted, found interesting – and desirable – and he was offering her a marriage beyond her wildest dreams. She would be foolish indeed to hesitate for a moment.
‘Yes, Cal. I would be honoured to be your wife.’
Sophie had expected to be seized in a passionate embrace and fiercely kissed. She had fantasised about it all afternoon until her toes had curled in her satin slippers and her mother had repeated a question about pearls three times without an coherent answer.
In the shrubbery at the masquerade Cal had been passionate, exciting, tender, with the thrilling edge of a man only just in control of himself. Now he no longer needed that control. She was his. Well, almost. Sophie was not entirely certain she wanted what came after the kissing. That had been uncomfortable, embarrassing, painful and messy. It was inevitable, of course, and necessary, but kissing was wonderful. Being kissed by Cal was bliss.