Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)(32)

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Christopher frowned at the flowers Mallen held in his hand. What the hell was the meaning of this? He’d enlisted his friend’s aid to thwart his father. The duke had agreed to a pretend courtship of Sophie. The arrangement did not require Mallen do something as foolish as buying the young lady flowers.

He glanced down at his own empty hands, feeling incredibly foolish for his less than impressive courtship. Even if he was only here at his father’s urging, no man liked to be thrown over for another chap.

Last evening, he’d believed Mallen’s rescue of Sophie on the dance floor a flawless touch; a perfect deterrent to Christopher’s father’s plans.

This morning call from the Duke of Mallen, however, was a bit too much.

He settled back against his seat and studied the exchange between Sophie and Mallen.

Mallen bent down and retrieved Sophie’s forgotten book. He thumbed through the pages. Suddenly, his fingers stilled. He didn’t remove his gaze from Sophie’s as he began to recite one of the poems.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies





One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.





And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow…





Of all the nonsensical drivel. A snort escaped him and cut into Mallen’s recitation.

Sophie and Mallen looked to him.

Sophie frowned at Christopher with disapproval to rival the tutors he’d tortured over the years.

“Something the matter?” Mallen drawled. “You don’t care for Lord Byron’s work?”

Christopher bit back an angry snarl, resisting the ungentlemanly urge to toss Sophie over his shoulder like he were some kind of barbarian and hide her away from Mallen’s appreciative eyes. He’d asked Mallen to take her for ices or for a walk, not this…this…romantic drivel that spouted from his mouth. Sophie would be no match for the duke’s full-charm. Hell, no lady would.

“There is nothing the matter,” Christopher bit out. Now was neither the time nor place to challenge Mallen’s actions.

“Where was I?” the duke murmured.

“But tell of days in goodness spent,” Sophie supplied without even a glance at the page.

Mallen inclined his head. “Ahh. Yes. But tell of days in goodness spent…”

Christopher allowed his mind to wander down a path that involved him bloodying Mallen’s nose and he managed his first real smile that afternoon.

Christopher might have perfected an image amongst Society as capable, sought after young lord…but his image had been as carefully constructed as a baker’s sugary treat; one hot sun away from destruction. Mallen, on the other hand, possessed a title, intelligence, and power to rival the king himself. He’d never begrudged Mallen those things. Until now.

Watching him read out of that bloody book to Sophie did something to him. It made Christopher want to throw his head back and rail at the unfairness of life. It reminded him of all his inadequacies. It reminded him that his father was right and he was a failure as a man.

Mallen murmured something to Sophie; the words lost to the intimacy of his hushed whisper. Sophie giggled.

“May I read another?” Mallen offered.

“Oh, please…”

“Please spare me,” Christopher muttered.

Sophie and Mallen looked at him.

Christopher hooked his ankles and propelled back on the legs of the Trafalgar chair he occupied. He sighed. “Very well, then. Another poem.”

Sophie frowned. “You’re being most disagreeable, my lord.”

Yes. Yes, he was. He didn’t give a jot about it, either.

Mallen quirked a single brow in his direction and then proceeded to recite Solitude by Lord Byron.

If Sophie weren’t present, Christopher would have extended his finger in a most ungentlemanly manner for his friend’s benefit.

Christopher sat there, as the minutes ticked by on the ormolu clock, waiting for Mallen to tire of his visit or his voice to grow hoarse, whichever came first, it didn’t really matter. Christopher used the time to study Sophie. When had this fulsome woman replaced the vexing child of his rememberings? Her sweetly rounded form could rival Botticelli’s Venus, and Christopher possessed the sudden urge to fill his palms with her plump breasts…

He toppled backwards in his seat and crashed to the floor.

Sophie gasped. She came to lean over him. “My goodness, Christopher,” she said, seeming to forget herself. “Have you been hurt?”

Mallen pulled into focus; a half-grin on his arrogant face. He extended a palm. “Yes. Are you all right, Waxham?”

Go to hell, Mallen.

Christopher managed a smile and accepted Mallen’s offer of help. He climbed to his feet, his pride smarting just as much as the back of his head did from the fall.