Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)(59)

“I’m proud of you, Christopher.” As if the devil himself had summoned him, the Marquess of Milford stood framed in the doorway. An uncharacteristic smile formed on the old bastard’s hard, unyielding lips.

Christopher climbed to his feet. “How long have you been there?”

His father arched a white brow. “Long enough to see Mallen knock you to the floor.” He waved his hand about. “Doesn’t matter.” A rusty laugh squeezed out of the marquess’ throat. “I imagine the duke isn’t accustomed to not getting his way. In the end, Miss Winters chose you. Did you tup the girl?”

Christopher’s hands balled into tight fists at his side. It was all he could do to keep from storming across the room and beating his father bloody. He looked past his sire’s shoulder and the fight went out of him. In the end, Christopher had no one to hate except himself. The marquess hadn’t ruined Sophie…those actions belonged to Christopher alone.

He dropped his chin to his chest.

“Not that it matters,” his father went on, either oblivious or uncaring about the internal battle that raged within Christopher. “She’s ruined and has no choice but to accept you. Still, it would be better if she was sullied for anyone else. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about Redbrooke trying to pass her off to a better chap.”

The viscount would be wise to do just that. Any number of lords would be more deserving of Sophie’s hand. Mallen’s visage came to mind. Christopher gritted his teeth. He was truly a bastard because even now, even if it meant Sophie’s happiness, he didn’t want to see her wed to anyone other than himself.

“Be sure you are at Redbrooke’s first thing in the morning. The last thing we need to provide the viscount is time to realize you’re hardly the gentleman Society believes you to be.”

He dropped his head into his hands, as his father took his leave, a maniacal laugh Christopher’s only company as he was forced to confront the ugly truth of what he’d done.





Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet





It is been purported that Miss S.W. was seen at Mary Somerville’s lecture on her understanding of the night sky at the Royal Astronomical Society. As this individual who looked markedly like Miss S.W was wearing breeches and a hat, the identity cannot be wholly confirmed and shall therefore, remain wholly speculative.


17

Christopher handed his beaver hat to Viscount Redbrooke’s butler.

The servant wrinkled his nose as though he found Christopher’s company distasteful. He appeared to be a good judge of character. “If you’ll follow me, my lord.” He didn’t wait to see if Christopher followed but made the long climb up the winding staircase to the main floor of the house.

With each step he took, Christopher’s guilt grew and grew until it was a living, breathing force that threatened to choke off his air supply.

He could not in good conscience enter into a union with Sophie unless he confessed all; his father’s ultimatum, Christopher’s efforts to thwart his father, Mallen’s role in helping him.

Yet, he knew with an intuition that had protected him from public shame all these years that the moment Sophie learned the truth, the gentle lightness that had grown between them would be shattered. She could never look at him the same.

Nor would he be able to blame her.

The butler stopped outside Redbrooke’s office. He glanced over his shoulder and then opened the door to announce Christopher.

Christopher paused at the entrance and took a long, slow breath.

“Enter,” Redbrooke called out.

Perhaps Sophie needn’t know the truth after all. Perhaps they would both be best served by her ignorance of Christopher’s sins.

Redbrooke didn’t pick up his head from the documents in front of him. “Waxham.”

The butler took his leave and Christopher moved into the room. He stopped at the foot of Redbrooke’s desk, and waited for the other man to finish reading the papers that occupied his attention.

As he stood there, all the age old insecurities that had haunted Christopher reared their ugly head as he was forced to confront the reality; Redbrooke would require him to read and sign off on legal documents. His eyes closed and he counted his shallow breaths until they slowed.

When he opened his eyes, Redbrooke’s gaze was trained on him. “Sit.” His command was no polite offer.

Christopher slid into the seat across from Redbrooke. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to begin by apologizing for…”

“For?” Redbrooke interrupted. He arched a single brow.

The viscount apparently intended to make this exchange as uncomfortable as possible for Christopher which was no less than he deserved. Christopher didn’t have any siblings but he tried to imagine if he was in the other man’s position and some undeserving gent had compromised his sister. He was confident that he wouldn’t do something as polite as offer the man a seat across from him to discuss a marital contract, but would instead greet the bastard across a dueling field at dawn.

“I’m sorry for the shame I’ve caused Sophie.”

Redbrooke tossed his pen down. Black ink smattered the documents atop his otherwise orderly desk. “Sophie caused her own shame. She’s been the bane of my existence for two, now three years.”