Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)(78)

23

“Enter,” the Marquess of Milford thundered from within his office.

Sophie took a deep breath, and turned the handle.

She stepped inside his lair.

The marquess didn’t pick up his head from the ledger in front of him. She used his distraction as an opportunity to study him. Somewhere in his sixtieth year, with stark white hair, and a hard-angular face, she imagined there’d been a time when he’d been very handsome. Sophie tried to imagine Christopher’s mother.

Had the woman loved the cruel, condescending man? Or had theirs merely been an arranged match between two suitable individuals.

He finally looked up. His gaze narrowed. “You.”

All the earlier resolve that had driven her down, was restored at the chilled reception. She arched a brow. “Me.”

His mouth went slack, and she suspected that he’d expected her to flee his office, with a quivering lip and terror in her heart. Not for the first time she wondered if he delighted in kicking small pups and gave thanks Duke was tucked away in her chambers. “Do you know, my lord, not for the first time, I wonder that my father ever claimed you as a friend.” Her father had possessed a pure heart whereas the marquess seemed to possess no heart. What an odd pairing of men.

She wandered deeper into his lair. “There is something I want to say to you.”

“Oh?” His bored tone fueled her ire.

“You are a horrific human-being, and an even worse father. I’m sorry that Christopher grew up in such a household.”

“So you’ve come to insult me,” he drawled.

“I’ve come to tell the truth,” she said. She dusted her palms along the front of her gown. “It pains me to know the abuse Christopher endured at your hands. Hopefully, at some point, in these late years of your life, you reconcile the harm you did to your son…and search for peace, because if not, I’m certain there is a dark place in hell reserved for the soulless cowards like yourself.” She nodded. “That is what I came to say.”

With a flounce of her curls, Sophie walked out as casually as she’d entered, closing the door softly behind her.

In the early hours of the morning, when the black night sky still reigned, Sophie left.





Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet





In spite of the well-lit walkways at Vauxhall Gardens, somehow Miss S.W. stumbled upon a trysting couple and pitched forward into the colorful fountains. Her emerald satin gown was ruined beyond repair.


24

Christopher struggled to open his eyes. He blinked back the fog of sleep, wincing when he moved too quickly. His mind tried to make sense of why he sat crouched on the floor in the corner of his chambers.

Then reality rushed in with all the force of a sudden, summer rainfall. He leaned his head against the door that separated his and Sophie’s chambers. Throughout the day, her shuddery sobs had penetrated the walls between them. He’d knocked, pleading with her to allow him entry, but silence met all his requests.

So, he’d sat at the foot of her door, and tortured himself with the aching tears of despair she shed for him and his deception.

At some point, exhaustion had forced him into a deep slumber.

He rubbed the corded muscles in his neck and stood. His body throbbed in protest, but Christopher embraced the pain. It seemed a small penance for the sin of breaking Sophie’s heart.

He swiped a hand over his face, hoping that in the light of a new day, after a night of tears, Sophie had reflected on the sincerity of his words. Mayhap she'd, if not forgiven him, pledged to move forward.

Christopher rapped on the door. His heart hung suspended as he waited for her call, granting him entry.

He knocked again.

Silence met his efforts.

“Phi?” He tried the handle.

Locked.

A frown formed on his lips. He understood his wife’s hurt, even acknowledged that she was entitled to her anger but by God, he’d not allow her to lock him out forever.

“Phi, please open the door.”

When several minutes later, she still had not responded, Christopher shoved his hip against the solid wood panel. He winced as pain reverberated from his hip down to his thigh. He jammed his shoulder against the door, until he shattered a segment of the paneling.

God, this is what he’d become? A brute who’d knock down his wife’s door. He reached through the break in the wood and turned the lock.

Christopher entered her chambers. “Phi?”

His wife’s bed had been meticulously made; not a wrinkle marred the sapphire-blue coverlet. He walked in a circle, taking in the surroundings.

The bureau that had held her bottles of fragrance and brushes was devoid of all her female fripperies.

His stomach tightened with the staggering truth before his eyes.

No. She wouldn’t. She…

He stormed across the room and tugged open the doors of her armoire with such force, he nearly ripped them from the hinges.

Empty.

Christopher staggered back. A dull, humming filled his ears. He dug his fingers into his temples to blot out the throbbing ache behind his eyes…his efforts futile.

Sophie had left him.

He sank down into the fragile chair at her vanity, and stared at the ragged creature with a day’s growth of beard, reflected back in the bevel mirror.