Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Studland Park’s Palladian-style facade glowed beneath the setting sun. Amber hues caressed the countryside, drawing Sofia’s eye from the house—that looked as impenetrable as its master—across the sprawling landscape.
Mr Gentry shuffled closer to the window, his knees brushing against hers as he admired the grand mansion. “Studland Park has over two hundred rooms, which is ironic when Rothley lives in six of them.”
Sofia met his gaze, wondering why she found his voice more soothing than birdsong, why the golden highlights in his hair were more spectacular than Studland Park’s stunning vista.
“It must be so lonely here,” she said, the words rousing unwanted images of her own family home: the forgotten clothes in her armoire, the abandoned dressing table, a Moorland family heirloom. “You would think the marquess would welcome visitors.”
“Rothley distrusts most people.”
Doubtless there were many reasons for the lord’s cynicism, the uncertain death of Joanna’s brother being one. Rumours suggesting the marquess had killed his friend had him mounting a search that lasted a decade. An endless battle to prove his innocence and silence the gossips for good.
Joanna’s advice at dinner last night entered Sofia’s mind.
The marquess can be intolerable, but he’s a good man at heart. His forthright manner is his suit of armour. A protection against invaders.
“Given that Lord Rothley dislikes guests, how can I make my presence less burdensome?” Hopefully, in a mansion this size, there would be no awkward encounters in the corridor.
Mr Gentry stared at her for a few heart-stopping seconds. A smile quirked his lips. “Be yourself, Miss Moorland. Rothley respects honesty above all else. Don’t be afraid to challenge him. I’m confident he’ll see what I do.”
And what was that?
Curiosity sparked, but she couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Let’s hope not. We kiss at every opportunity.”
“Not every opportunity.” He ran his thumb over his bottom lip, a sensual gleam lighting his eyes. “We haven’t kissed since our delightful experiment yesterday.”
Yet the memory had left a permanent imprint in her mind. It was like his essence still lingered on her lips, the ache to feel the heat of his mouth deepening by the hour.
She gave a coy grin. “If you’re to take my virtue, we’ll need to kiss again soon. Ruining me is the only way to save me.”
She made her deflowering sound like a business transaction.
Yet the thought of this man settling between her thighs had every inch of her skin tingling. Heat flooded all the forbidden places like the fast pulse of a raging river.
Mr Gentry didn’t give a husky chuckle like he did when playing pretend. “Bedding you may seem like a simple solution, but I will only take your virtue if we’re married.”
“Oh.” The news was more a disappointment than a shock. It was ludicrous to imagine he would bed her without thought or conscience. So why did she feel a sudden stab of rejection? “I thought … well … after our heated conversation in Mr Wiggins’ office, it feels like we’ve shared more than a kiss. There’s a vivid realism to our stories.”
“Trust me. If we were in bed, you would know the difference.”
Would she?
What could be better than the dream?
Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. In her wild imagination, there wasn’t an inch of skin he hadn’t already kissed. She’d dreamt of treating patients and tending the poor, making love to Mr Gentry in a plush room at the Adelphi and on the dispensary floor.
Reality could never match such high expectations.
“It’s not that I don’t want you,” Mr Gentry said, his voice a tight tremble. “By God, every kiss and erotic fantasy feeds a need I can barely control.”
The same desperate desire flowed through her, too.
“I understand.” She gripped the edge of the seat tightly, her fingers itching to touch him. Why was everything so complicated? “It’s hard to know what’s real or what we’ve invented as part of the plan.”
The threat to their lives was real.
The passion in their hearts was real.
The pressure to stay one step ahead of the Merricks was real.
“We should stop inventing romantic tales,” she added, though the vivid stories spoke to a part of her she barely knew—the awakening of the sensual woman she suppressed. “We’ve reached a stalemate. You won’t bed me and I cannot marry you. Let’s not kiss again. Let our problems be our focus.”
He fell back against the squab, wincing like he’d sat on a tack. “You always offer a sensible solution, yet I look at your lips and feel the twisting ache of an addict.”
He did?
“It’s natural we should find comfort in each other’s arms.” Though the line between desire and solace had blurred quite considerably. “We’re both seeking an escape from a dreadful injustice. I assume the hunger will lessen in time.”
“Not when Rothley insists we play the newlyweds in front of his staff. He’ll not have the ton thinking you’re his mistress. If we’re to stay at Studland Park, we must pretend we’re in love.”
I’m not sure I need to pretend , she said silently.
“It shouldn’t pose a problem. It’s not like I’ll flinch if you touch me.” Her breathy sigh would be a natural reaction. “Besides, how do people behave when they’re in love?”
His gaze drifted, a distant search through his memories. “Love lives in the simple gestures. A lingering look. The secret caress of fingers when the world is watching. Brushing dust off a coat as an excuse to touch because love has its own gravitational pull.”
“Fixing a strand of hair that’s out of place.” She fought the temptation to lean forward and brush the errant lock from his brow. “You sound like you speak from experience.”
“My parents loved each other madly in those early years, or perhaps they were good at playing pretend, too.”
A strained silence ensued.
There was no time to decide how to ease the sudden tension.
The carriage stopped outside Studland Park’s sweeping stone staircase. The ornamental lamps were already lit, the soft glow an invitation to a world where opulence reigned.
“Be prepared, Miss Moorland. The mansion house is far more splendid than the Adelphi.”
Why had he mentioned the Adelphi?
Had he not heard a word she’d said?
“If we’re meant to be married, you must call me Sofia. And nowhere is better than the Adelphi.”
“Sofia.” The word left him with a soft sigh, his lids flickering like the sound soothed his soul. “An apt name for a wise woman, though it fails to describe the magical quality that makes you unique.”
For her own sanity, she ignored the compliment.
“And how am I to address you, sir?” Hopefully, he wasn’t one of those stuffy husbands who insisted on being called ‘mister’.
“Call me Reid. I’m named after my maternal grandmother.”
“Her name was Reid?” she teased.
He smiled, and the world felt right again. “Moira Reid. She died long before I was born, but I like to think I possess her tenacity.”
“It’s certainly a quality I admire in you.”
Goodness, could she not follow her own advice?
She nodded to the liveried footman, standing on the gravel drive like a monument to formality. He opened the carriage door while his white-wigged twin let down the steps and offered a gloved hand.
Sofia alighted, feeling like a lost orphan in her plain blue cloak and sturdy boots. Mr Gentry’s tailoring was impeccable. The footmen moved to retrieve their luggage. One seemed surprised her tatty valise was so light.
“Come and meet the housekeeper, Mrs Boswell.” With a guiding hand on her back, Mr Gentry swept her up the stone steps, as grand as a staircase to heaven. “This place would be in turmoil without her. She will ensure all your needs are met.”
“Does Mrs Boswell think we’re married?” It was one thing to lie to the Merricks, another to deceive a kind-hearted soul.
“Rothley told her we’re on our honeymoon.”
“Our honeymoon?” Good grief. “Could we not have said we married last week? Mrs Boswell will think it odd I’m wearing this old dress.” The housekeeper might wonder why a man of his status would marry a rag doll, not a porcelain one. “I don’t even have a trousseau.”
“I’ve taken care of everything.”
His reply drew her up short. “You have?” He had bought her stockings and undergarments and a nightgown so sheer she may as well wear nothing?
“The countess came to my aid. I paid her a visit this morning while you were working in the dispensary. She seemed confident her gowns and slippers would fit you.”
A sudden bout of nerves had Sofia grabbing his hand. “What time did we marry? Where was the ceremony? Someone is bound to ask.”
He threaded his fingers through hers, as tightly as lovers’ twined limbs. “Ten this morning at St Bartholomew’s. Lord and Lady Berridge were our witnesses.” He held her gaze and captured her chin. “All will be well, Sofia. You must trust me.”
She looked up into his compelling blue eyes. “I do.”
Perhaps her mind was conjuring stories again, but she felt a pulse of energy between their palms, evidence of their quiet connection. The tenderness in his eyes mirrored the gentle stroke of his thumb across her chin.
“Once we find O’Connor’s killer, you’ll be free to leave London, if that’s your desire. Until then, the Merricks must believe we’re married and I am your protector.”
Fear seized her, his words conjuring a horror she had not envisioned. “What if Mr Merrick hurts you?” Victor lurked in the shadows whenever Judith lashed out, watching like a predator with a thirst for blood. “What if he seeks to make me a widow?”
Such thoughts were absurd.
But so was the idea of auctioning a lady’s virtue.
Mr Gentry’s mocking chuckle sounded like a dare. “I’m not afraid of the Merricks. I’m more than capable of defending myself.”
Her traitorous gaze moved to his firm biceps. The fabric of his coat clung to the powerful muscles like they were carved by an expert sculptor. The urge to touch him and kiss him took hold.
He wasn’t the only one fighting an addiction.
“Try to look like a happy bride.” He wrapped his strong arm around her and guided her into the vast marble hall to meet the awaiting housekeeper. “Ah, Mrs Boswell. I trust you’ve been resting your ankle every evening as advised.”
The housekeeper, a slender woman in her forties, curtsied. Her warm smile would put anyone at ease. “A little of that ointment you prescribed and half an hour propped on a stool, and it’s fine for another day, sir.”
“That’s good to hear.” He introduced Sofia, drawing her hand to his lips, the light kiss sending a delicious shiver to her toes. “My wife is somewhat nervous. The house can be as intimidating as Rothley.”
The lace trimming on Mrs Boswell’s white cap quivered as she chuckled. “To those unfamiliar with his ways, nothing is as intimidating as the master.”
“Gossiping about me again, Mrs Boswell?” The marquess strode towards them, dressed for dinner in a crisp white shirt and tailored evening coat, though he gave the impression a wolf lived beneath the finery. “Perhaps it escaped your notice, but we’re dining in an hour, and Mrs Gentry is still wearing her travelling cloak.”
Mrs Boswell inclined her head. “The preparations are underway, as ordered.”
Preparations? Sofia presumed they’d take a casual supper.
The marquess stepped forward and bowed. “Welcome to Studland Park, Mrs Gentry. My ancestors were tyrants and philanderers, but despite common opinion, you’ll not find a harem of women lounging in the grand salon.”
Months ago, she might have floundered under the weight of his obsidian stare, stuttering while trying to form a reply. But as the countess often said: Never show a man you’re afraid unless you want him to kiss you.
“No, I imagine you choose your companions wisely, my lord.” Sofia dropped into a deep curtsey. “A lady would need to be extraordinary to hold your interest. In such circumstances, one woman would suffice.”
A flicker of amusement lit his dark eyes. “What a shame the ton lacks your insight, madam. Though I confess, I prefer the company of my Irish wolfhound. Perhaps one day I may be as fortunate as Gentry and find my perfect bride.”
“The perfect bride does not exist, my lord. Love may creep up on you, a sliver of a feeling that takes root and grows with time.” She glanced at Mr Gentry. The intimate feelings hadn’t just taken root. They spread through her like a rampant vine, leaving no part untouched. “My husband found me irritating before he came to respect my opinion.”
“That’s not true,” Mr Gentry said, his warm gaze a caress. “I found your passion for your work remarkable, your knowledge as good as any man’s, but feared encouraging your ambitions.”
“Let’s not dwell on that now.” The marquess clapped his hands as if desperate to end the conversation. “Molière will throw a tantrum if we’re late for dinner. Make haste, Mrs Boswell, get our guests upstairs or I’ll deduct the smashed Sèvres from your personal allowance.”
Mrs Boswell found the threat amusing. “Molière knows there’ll be a mutiny if he touches the china. And I wish you well finding someone who can manage a house this size, my lord.”
The marquess pulled his gold watch from his pocket and checked the time. “No more dawdling, Mrs Boswell, or our guests will be bathing in the fountain.” He addressed Mr Gentry. “I’ll be in my private drawing room when you’re ready. We can await your bride there.”
Mrs Boswell led them on a long walk up the carpeted marble staircase and down a landing the length of Dean Street. “The master insisted you have the marchioness’ suite, Mrs Gentry. There’s no finer bedchamber in all of England.”
The housekeeper threw open the double oak doors with such gusto Sofia expected to hear trumpeters heralding a fanfare. She entered the majestic room slowly, stepping tentatively on the vast Persian rug as if it were made of eggshells.
“It’s spectacular.” Indeed, she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
The gold Rococo four-poster bed looked like it belonged to Aphrodite. A blue fresco of angels decorated the high ceiling. The crystals hanging from the chandelier looked like they had been crafted by the gods. The walls were a warm cream, the decorative stucco a sumptuous pale gold, yet the open door to the dark, masculine room adjacent stole her attention.
Mrs Boswell heard Sofia’s silent concerns. “Mr Gentry will occupy the grand chamber. Lord Rothley prefers his old room in the east wing. You’ll find the key to the adjoining door in the escritoire, though I doubt you’ll need it tonight.”
Mr Gentry captured Sofia’s hand—another act in their play—drawing her farther into the chamber. “Have you ever seen a room as splendid as this?”
“No.” The rug was a soft cloud beneath her feet, but she would rather the cold tiles in the dispensary, her toes warmed by the heat of Mr Gentry’s feverish kisses.
“I hate to rush you.” Mrs Boswell gestured to another open door. “But your bath is ready, Mrs Gentry, and we mustn’t keep the master waiting. I’ll find a cap for your hair. You’ll not want to get it damp.”
Two maids entered, each carrying a satin gown—one a sumptuous garnet red, the other a deep cerulean blue like Mr Gentry’s eyes. The maids arranged them carefully on the bed, then stood with their hands clasped, awaiting instructions.
“I shall be in my chamber if you need me. I’ll leave the door open.” Mr Gentry smiled before disappearing into the dark-panelled domain.
She watched him go.
The last year had been a whirlwind of worry and bouts of sheer terror. When she prayed to her parents for help, they must have listened. Everything changed the day Mr Gentry hired her.
Sofia fell into a deep reverie as the maids undressed her and tucked her hair into a pink silk cap. The water in the huge copper bath warmed her cold, tired limbs. The soothing smell of jasmine oil relaxed her troubled mind.
She tried not to think about Mr Gentry stripping off his clothes, or his pleasurable groan as he slid his muscular frame into the water.
Mrs Boswell appeared in the doorway of the candlelit bathing chamber. “His lordship hopes you’ll do him the honour of wearing his mother’s parure tonight. There’s a choice of two on the dressing table. Will it be the sapphire and diamond choker or the ruby pendant, madam?”
Sofia hesitated.
Neither, but it would be rude to refuse.
“Perhaps I could ask your husband’s opinion?” Mrs Boswell gave a coy grin. “You might like him to choose your gown tonight.”
Sofia didn’t need a man to tell her what to wear, nor did she care about expensive jewels, but everything about the last hour had been overwhelming. Agreeing would appease the marquess and give credence to their matrimonial tale.
“Yes. Tell my husband I will wear whatever pleases him.”
One maid tittered as she poured water over Sofia’s soaped shoulders, while Mrs Boswell left to seek Mr Gentry’s approval.
Seconds passed before Mr Gentry did the unthinkable and entered the bathing chamber like he had every right to be there. His clean shirt was open at the neck, revealing the strong column of his throat. “Leave us.”
The maids leapt to attention, not as fast as Sofia’s heart lurched or the speed with which she covered her breasts.
“But, sir, we only have forty minutes until the dinner gong.” Mild panic laced Mrs Boswell’s voice. “And Janet needs to style Mrs Gentry’s hair.”
Mr Gentry’s mouth curved into a slow, mischievous smile. “Inform his lordship there’ll be a short delay.” He kept his gaze fixed on Sofia, wetting his lips as he stared at her bare shoulders. “Close the bedchamber door on your way out, Mrs Boswell. My wife will ring when she’s ready.”
The servants left them alone.
Their gazes locked amid the sudden stillness.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” came Sofia’s hushed protest.
“We’re married.”
“No, we’re not.”
“As to that, I’ve been thinking.” He moved towards her like a panther on the prowl, power in every sleek step. “Perhaps you were right.”
She swallowed. “Right about what?”
Right that he was dangerous?
Right that kissing was an addiction?
“That saving you from the Merricks matters more than easing my conscience.” He crouched beside the tub, his gaze moving over her body, unhurried, deliberate, the light hum in his throat a sensual song. “We agreed honesty was the best policy, yet neither of us has been truthful.”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
But he had clearly lied to her.
“You say you want me to bed you to save you from being forced to marry a degenerate. That’s not entirely true, Sofia.” He stood, shocking her again by dragging his shirt over his head and casting it on the chair. “It’s an excuse to have what you desperately crave.”
Sofia stared at him. At his broad chest and sculpted muscles. At the soft dusting of hair and small, perfectly round, brown nipples.
The ladies at The Jade would swoon if they saw him now.
Her nipples hardened.
Her sex ached beneath the water.
“You claim you’ve been untruthful, too,” she stated, though wanted to pant and whisper, God, you’re magnificent .
He knelt behind her, removing the silk cap and combing his fingers through her hair. “I’ve lied more than once.” Pressing his mouth to her temple, he whispered, “I didn’t need you to take down your hair at The Burnished Jade, but I was curious to see the woman, not the scholar.”
“Did the exercise sate your curiosity?”
“No.” Warm fingers stroked her neck before he brushed her hair behind her ear. “It fed a need to know more. A hungry need that makes a man reckless.”
She knew that feeling well: the pooling pressure between the thighs, the low, coiling ache that stole every inhibition.
“What other lies have you told?” She dared to lower her arms and lap water over her tight nipples, drawing his greedy gaze to her breasts.
He wrapped her hair around his hand, the light tug sending a wave of pleasure to her toes. “That if I’m to take your virtue, we need to marry. We need to marry because I want you more than once.”
More than once?
Sofia wasn’t sure if he’d repeated the statement in that deep, gravelly baritone or if it echoed in her mind. Either way, her body responded, the pulsing muscles in her core almost begging her to concede.
“Lust is no more a reason to marry than desperation is.”
“You forget admiration and friendship,” he uttered, brushing his mouth against the shell of her ear while trailing his fingers over her collarbone. “You need a man who’ll satisfy your needs and ambitions.”
This imagined union still lacked one vital ingredient.
But did love really matter?
Was it not a luxury afforded to the few?
“Perhaps we should explore what marriage means,” he said, his breath hot against her neck now. “Let me touch you. Open your legs for me, Sofia … let me ease the tension throbbing in that swollen little bud.”
Her pulse soared, her heart thumping drum-like in her chest. “But we’ll be late for dinner.” It was an excuse she prayed he’d ignore.
“You’re halfway there, love. It won’t take long.” His fingers moved, a soft, teasing glide to the damp valley of her breasts. “It will be our experiment, something to add to those erotic notes you hide in your precious journal.”
Sweet mercy!
“Say it, Sofia. Say you want me to make you come.”
Oh, God, just do it!
“I … I do.” She wanted his hands all over her body.
“I need to hear the words.” He moved like an assassin in the night, rounding the tub and capturing her mouth in a swift and silent kiss. He was on his knees, leaning over her naked body, his hand lightly cupping her breast. “Say it. Make me come, Reid .”
She arched her back, her nipple grazing his palm, her throaty moan a white flag of surrender. “Touch me.” She opened her legs wider, captured his hand and slid it down between her thighs. “Make me come, Reid.”
He was panting now, a flash of triumph in his eyes. “Make no mistake,” he growled, yet his fingers moved achingly slowly through her folds. “When we make love, we’ll set the house ablaze.”