Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)(73)

His valet had apparently been notified of Christopher’s state of dishabille. He’d readied an immaculate pair of tan breeches and a sapphire waistcoat.

Christopher made quick work of changing into the dry garments. He didn’t bother with his soaked hair. Instead, he left the locks sopping wet. The ends of the strands brushed the collar of his shirt, and dampened the fabric.

He slipped his arms into the sleeves of jacket and tugged it closed, gritting his teeth. He should have expected his sire would do something as reprehensible as barging in on Christopher’s wedding trip. He’d never allowed him any happiness. It had always been about exhibiting a semblance of control over his son.

This past week, Christopher had been happier than he’d been in his entire life. Many times, he’d been on the cusp of confessing everything to Sophie. But none of the moments had seemed right. He and Phi had spent the days learning each other’s bodies, but more, they spent the time learning about each other. He learned her favorite sweet was in fact berries dipped in chocolate. He’d shared his love of the theatre. She’d entertained him with ribald ditties on the pianoforte.

He kept telling himself that he needed to tell her of his father’s plan and Christopher’s attempt to thwart those efforts. He intended to tell her. But something had always prevented him from doing so. Why, right before they’d been caught in the vicious storm, he’d been meaning to confess all.

Now, he could admit that he’d merely made excuses. He’d been so bloody contented and hadn’t wanted to risk losing that happiness. As a result, he’d not given Sophie that which she deserved—the truth.

Well, no more. After he met with his father, he’d seek out his wife and tell her all. Every last, shameful bit.

His palms grew damp and he wiped them along the sides of his breeches. She’d understand. She had to. The alternative was not to be countenanced.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” Christopher called out.

“My lord, the Marquess of Milford has requested your presence in his office.”

Christopher gritted his teeth. Bloody, commanding bastard. He gave a curt nod. As much as he longed to defy his father’s orders, he was more inclined to meet with him and be done with their exchange. The sooner he met with his father, the sooner he’d be able to return to his wife’s side.

He imagined her smooth, naked body under the hot, fragrant waters of her bath. A heaviness settled in his loins. God, what he wouldn’t give to join her.

With a regretful look over in the direction of the door that separated their rooms, Christopher started for his meeting.

When he arrived at his father’s office, he didn’t knock, but instead shoved the door open.

His father sat behind the mahogany desk, his head bent over a ledger. “I’ve been waiting, Christopher.” A thick dose of annoyance underlined the marquess’ words.

“What do you want?” Christopher asked, his hands balled into tight fists at his side.

His father reached for his pen, dipped it into the ink, and scribbled something onto the page. He studied the words, and then set the pen down. Then, he sat back in his leather chair.

“Sit down, Christopher.”

“Get on with it, Father.”

The marquess’ frown deepened. He folded his arms across his chest. “I wanted to tell you I’m proud of you.”

Christopher blinked. If a choir of heavenly angels had come down and planted a halo upon the old bastard’s head, he wouldn’t have been more shocked. He eyed his sire with a leeriness befitting the old marquess.

“You didn’t want to but you wed the girl, anyway.” He tipped his head. “I know you and I have not gotten on over the years but you sacrificed your happiness for our estates.”

Bile worked its way up Christopher’s throat. “This is what you’ve come for?” he said, his voice coming out garbled. “To thank me for wedding Sophie?” He made to leave but his father held up a staying hand.

“Here me out, Christopher. And then you can leave.” He motioned yet again to the chair at the foot of his desk.

Christopher hesitated and then sat to hear what the old bastard had to say.





Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet





While in attendance at the Cotswold Olimpik Games, Miss S.W. took umbrage with the cock-fighting and released the caged creatures. Her efforts went unappreciated by the fowl that chased her from the tent.


22

Sophie chewed at her lower lip, her gaze trained on the door. She’d bathed and changed into suitable attire. As much as she longed to remain closeted away in the safety of her chambers, Sophie was no coward. As an earl’s wife, she had an obligation to properly greet and welcome her father-in-law— even if he were an odious cur.

“My lady, you rang?” Lucy entered the room, interrupting her musings.

Duke hopped off the bed and ran over to the maid. He sniffed at her skirts. When he’d ascertained that she had no treats with which to share, he returned to the edge of the bed.

Sophie scooped him up, and placed him back on the coverlet. With his two front legs, he dug at the fabric, and then settled down into the little nest he’d made for himself.

“Do you know where my husband is?”

“I believe he is meeting in the Marquess of Milford’s office. Is there anything else you require?”