Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (16 page)

In a great showing of disrespect to the distinguished hostesses of Almack’s, Miss S.W. arrived twenty minutes late to Almack’s Assembly Rooms and was turned away from the hall.

~12~

If one had told Sophie a mere fortnight ago that the Duke of Mallen would be escorting her along one of the many walking trails of St. James Park, she’d have accused them of madness.

Her glance strayed from the Duke of Mallen’s chiseled features to the gardens of flowers off in the distance. She expected she should feel elated at having garnered attention from the much sought after, very eligible, young duke. Why, every last lady from ten to one hundred and ten clamored for Mallen’s notice and here it was, bestowed, oddly enough upon her—plump, garrulous, incorrigible Sophie Winters.

All she could think of, however, was Christopher’s odd, yet honest visit. For days she’d believed his courtship had stemmed from his sense of familial obligation. Now, however, she wasn’t altogether sure.

“How very odd to see horses flying through Hyde Park.”

A gentle spring breeze kissed her skin and freed a lone curl from the intricate coif arranged by her maid. She tucked the strand back behind her ear.

“Hm-mm,” Sophie murmured. The strand came loose yet again and fell across her eye. The Duke of Mallen shot her a sideways glance. A half-grin tugged at his lips.

“And my, if that isn’t Lady Jersey dueling with Lord Applesbey in the middle of the walking path,” he said.

The duke was amicable. Abundantly charming. So why, at this moment, was she thinking about Christopher?

“Is she?”

Mallen gave a solemn nod. “Oh, yes. And if that isn’t Lady Caro cheering on Lord Applesbey.”

His words, finally registered. Sophie came up short and looked around.

“Ahh, I see I’ve at last secured your attention.”

Sophie winced. “My apologies, Your Grace. I’m afraid my mind wandered.”

“Did it?” he drawled.

“It did,” she confessed, until she realized he was being glib.

Sophie sighed. This wasn’t going well at all. Oh, if her mother and Geoffrey learned she’d insulted the duke on an outing, well then they’d probably see her wed old, lecherous Carmichael as penance for her ill-behavior.

“Forgive me,” she said.

He inclined his head. “No apologies are necessary, Miss Winters.”

“You are too gracious, Your Grace. I’ve been unpardonably rude.”

His smile broadened. “I must admit, I’m not accustomed to being ignored.”

“How very humble of you, Your Grace.” The words slipped past her lips and it was entirely too late to call them back. She groaned, the sound swallowed by the duke’s booming laugh.

“I say, I don’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself this much,” he confessed after his laugh had faded to a small chuckle.

Sophie grimaced. “Really, Your Grace? If this is your idea of enjoyment, then you’ve been remarkably deprived.”

He inclined his head, his expression growing somber. “You know, we dukes aren’t ones to be freely entitled to anything light-hearted. Early on, we learn to be strict, somber, and stoic.”

Mallen softened those words with a smile but he clearly spoke with an element of sincerity underlining his admission. As long as she’d known Emmaline, Sophie had marveled at the freedoms enjoyed by the Duke of Mallen and his family. Only now did she realize that with his title came far greater limitations than she’d imagined of them.

“You’ve turned all serious on me, Miss Winters.”

“I feel badly for you.”

He turned to face her, a question in his emerald green eyes. “No man likes to be the recipient of pity,” he said.

“Nor any woman,” she added.

He nodded. “But then, I was not the one pitying you, Miss Winters.” His gentle reproach caused her to sigh.

She was making quite a bumble of this whole outing with the young duke. “Forgive me.” And because he deserved clarification, she continued. “It is not that I pity you, but rather your status.”

The gaze he passed over her face grew more pensive. He urged her forward and they resumed walking. “I swear you are the only woman in the entire realm to speak unfavorably upon my title.”

Sophie waved her hand. “Oh, it is not that I look unfavorably upon it. I just imagine that it is…well, difficult, to go through life under such close scrutiny, desired for your position.”

“Well,” he muttered.

“I’m doing a rather poor job of explaining myself.” It didn’t escape her notice that he didn’t disagree. Sophie felt remarkably sure that this would be her last visit from the duke. “I understand to some extent what it is like to be closely scrutinized.”

“This Lady Ackerly person you speak of so often?” he supplied.

She nodded. “Yes. Lady Ackerly reports almost daily about my missteps and flaws. It garners the fleeting interest of the
ton
that sees me as an amusing diversion…but there are no stringent expectations placed upon me. To Society I’m merely Miss Sophie Winters, an incorrigible miss. But you,” she looked at him, and his gaze held hers. “You, Your Grace are expected to be above reproach and you do so admirably. I, on the other hand would fail miserably if I were to possess such a distinguished title as yours.”

The duke took her hand. He gave it a firm, but gentle squeeze. “You do yourself a disservice, Miss Winters.”

The duke hadn’t strung together anything more than the most polite utterances in the three years she’d known him, and now he defended her character. He possessed a gallantry that would melt any debutante’s heart. Why, she
wasn’t
a debutante and his quietly spoken assurance warmed her through.

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I know what I am.”

The duke raised a brow once more. “Oh, and what is that?”

She gave a little shrug. “I am incorrigible. I say the wrong things. I somehow manage to find myself in scrape after scrape. I have a love of all pastries.”

Mallen said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke, his words came out almost introspectively. “Do you know, I find I rather prefer that about you, Miss Winters?”

“My love of pastries?”

His smile deepened. “Your love for pastries, I understand. However, I referred to those unconventional attributes you spoke of.”

Unconventional attributes. That was certainly
one
way of putting it. Sophie snorted. “You should tell that to my mother and brother.”

“What of Waxham?”

He caught her when she stumbled. “Christopher?” she repeated and then heat suffused her cheeks at the use of the young earl’s Christian name. “I-ah, that is, Lord Waxham?” she corrected herself. “I merely used his given name because we’ve known each other since I was in the nursery and…”

“I didn’t say anything about your use of his name,” he interrupted with a trace of humor in his tone.

Sophie closed her mouth.
Stop talking, Sophie. Stop talking, this instant.

“You’ve known him your entire life.”

She gave a curt nod. “I have,” she said, upon realizing that his gaze was trained forward. They came to stop at St. James’s Park Lake. He stared out at the waterfowl with a singular intensity, and then glanced back down at Sophie.

“You gave him a good deal of trouble as a child,” he said.

Sophie chewed at the inside of her lip. How was she supposed to respond to such a statement? If she were to protest, and list all the mean, horrible things Christopher had said and done to her as a young girl, then she would sound childish. Now, with a woman’s mind and maturity to her years, Sophie could acknowledge that she hadn’t been altogether kind to Christopher. In that, the duke was indeed correct.

“You’ve gone quiet,” the duke observed, calling her back to the moment.

“You are rather interested in my history with the earl,” she countered.

The duke grinned. “You are as bold and spirited as my sister.”

Sophie smiled back. “Thank you.” Most young ladies wouldn’t like being compared to the duke’s sister. After all, it hardly inspired romanticism to be likened to one’s sister. In Sophie’s case however, he’d paid her the ultimate compliment. Emmaline possessed strength, courage, and character not found in most men.

“How did you meet Chris…Lord Waxham?” she asked, turning the questioning back on the duke.

He captured his strong, squared jaw between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze seemed to turn inward. “We met as young boys at Eton. Waxham was a remarkably lonely, shy young boy.”

Those words gave Sophie pause. She thought of the boy she remembered and the man he’d grown into; a leading peer of Society, his company desired by the most respected lords and ladies. “Impossible.”

The duke looked to her. “Not impossible. Quite true.”

She shook her head. “I never knew him to be that boy,” she said, at last. No, he’d always seemed so full of confidence. He’d excelled at social graces, unlike the very inept Sophie.

The duke shook his head. “No, I imagine you didn’t. I imagine you saw an entirely different young man. We don’t always present our true selves for Society.”

Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth. The duke couldn’t be more right on that score. After all, members of the
ton
failed to note any of her redeeming qualities. Then, what was the true Christopher? The arrogant lad who’d teased her mercilessly, or the shy, uncertain, friendless child spoken of by the duke?

Her heart cracked in a painful way at the image the duke had painted of Christopher as a lonely little boy. His life had not been a joyful one. His mother had died when he was a small boy. Sophie imagined it had been quite difficult growing up with the condescending Marquess of Milford as one’s father. She bit down on her lower lip as she considered the very unsettling possibility that she had, in attempt to shield herself from hurt at Christopher’s hands, inadvertently caused him greater sadness.

“You mustn’t feel guilty,” the duke said, correctly interpreting the reason for her quiet.

She followed the path of a Great White pelican as it glided into a graceful halt upon the lake. “We weren’t always adversarial toward one another,” she confided and then felt herself blush at the honest admission. Over the years, she’d considered her relationship with Christopher and tried to determine whether one event had turned him into a frowning, disapproving figure. Or had it been a series of moments over the years that had altered their relationship?

The duke continued to rub his jaw in that introspective manner. “You aren’t solely to blame for your turbulent relationship with Waxham.”

She said nothing.

Pause. Then…

“It says a good deal about your character that you’ll not speak ill of him and how he treated you as a girl.”

Sophie shifted, not at all comfortable with the duke’s high praise. She’d grown so accustomed to disappointing—her mother, her brother, Lady Ackerly—that she’d forgotten how to field compliments. Her father had really been the last person to compliment her.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Sebastian will suffice.”

She looked to him. “As in your name,” she blurted. “Oh, that wouldn’t be proper.” Sophie could just imagine Lady Ackerly’s article if it were discovered she’d gone and called the duke by his Christian name.

“I insist,” he said.

And because she imagined it would cause a greater scandal if she stood and argued with the distinguished Duke of Mallen, she said, “Very well.”

He neatly steered the discussion back to the topic of the earl.“I’d wanted Waxham to make a match with my sister.”

The moment Emmaline had severed her age-old betrothal to the Marquess of Drake, Christopher had launched his courtship. At the time, Sophie couldn’t have imagined a more disastrous match for her friend, or any lady, than Lord Waxham.

Now, she acknowledged that Christopher wasn’t a poor prospect. In fact, he might make the right young lady a dashing husband. As Society’s incorrigible miss, Sophie would never fit that role.

“He did not have an easy time of it as a child.”

Again, the duke’s words tugged at Sophie’s heartstrings. “You had said he was lonely at school…”

Sebastian shook his head. “Not simply at school. His mother died when he was quite young. All rather tragic.”

Sophie had only been a mere babe of three and therefore, the details of that time in Christopher’s life escaped her. She knew the young marchioness had died in a carriage accident on her way to a soiree.

“He was just turned eleven,” the duke supplied.

The well of sadness within her breast filled and threatened to spill over. Odd how she’d never considered how the loss of his mother had affected Christopher. Sophie’s father had died several years ago and the pain of that, well it would never go away. It still snuck upon her at the most unexpected times and robbed her of whatever happiness she felt in the moment. “How hard that must have been for him,” she said quietly.

The duke nodded. “I’ll not speak ill of the marquess, but being Lord Milford’s son was not easy for Waxham.”

As a frequent victim of the marquess’ condescension, she’d always wondered at his friendship to her loving, gentle father. Lord Milford’s lip seemed perpetually pulled back in a sneer whenever she was near. For all the times her brother had driven her to madness with his teasing, and for all her mother’s disappointment in Sophie’s attempts at making a match, Sophie had never doubted their love.

Sophie wandered to the edge of the lake and stared out. She could not imagine what Christopher’s life must have been like as the only child of such a mean, miserable man. How very lonely he must have been. Guilt ate at her for never having considered Christopher’s circumstances—until now.

Pebbles and gravel crunched loudly under the duke’s boots and he stopped alongside her. She looked up at him.

And because she should respond in some way to his earlier statement about the marquess, Sophie said, “The marquess isn’t the most good-natured gentleman.”

Mallen’s lips flattened into a hard line. “The day Waxham learned of his mother’s death, his father slapped him for crying.” A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. “He said it was unbecoming to show such emotion, even for one’s mother.”