Chapter Twelve
Sophia flounced out the terrace doors, coming to a halt at the start of the path to take in the Canterbell gardens. There wasn’t a great deal to see as the area was rather small. A twisted maple at the only bend in the path. Some peonies. A burst of roses.
Her heart thumped hard in her chest, irritated that he’d forced her out here. Why couldn’t Roxboro merely bid them all good night, and she’d see him the day after next before the vicar? There was no reason to pretend, at least for her family, that they had any great liking for each other.
Strolling about in the moonlight. Of all the ridiculous ideas.
“Ah,” his footsteps sounded behind her. “Doesn’t this bring back memories, Lady Saffron?”
“Not fond ones, Roxboro.”
“I must have been excessively charming that night because I didn’t force you outside.
Nor tug you along like some villain in a novel, else Lady Brokeburst would have included that in her recitation of events.
Which means you went with me of your own accord.
Thus, I must have enticed you, no matter how displeasing you find me now. ”
Roxboro took her arm, the scent of bergamot shaving soap drifting in the air between them. A hint of brandy. Possibly scotch, after all, he’d had multiple glasses at dinner. “Remind me of our meeting at the Perswick ball.”
The sarcastic note in his low, rumbling voice was gone. There was no anger. No annoyance.
“Unbelievable,” she scoffed, pulling away, not caring to be reminded of her stupidity yet again. Mama’s speech had been distressing. And true. “I have given you a complete accounting of the tale, more than once.”
“You had champagne. A glass or two.”
“I see you remember that much.” Sophia stiffened. “But I wasn’t foxed.” She’d been lightheaded. Dizzy with awareness of Roxboro. “The room was warm. We retired to the garden for fresh air. I received a pathetic kiss.” Lord, but this was…embarrassing.
“Continue.”
Sophia plucked absently at her skirts. Why must they repeat this exercise again?
“My father arrived on the terrace,” she threw at him, recalling her shock. Her pained disappointment that she was no better than Hortensia or any of those other pea-hens. “You had slid into the shadows, like the coward you are.”
“Had I kissed you yet?”
“Yes. When my father arrived, I called out to you because,” she pulled away from him and walked towards the maple tree. “I was shocked you would leave,” she managed to say with as little emotion as possible. “With little notice.”
Roxboro truly didn’t recall a moment of their encounter.
He trailed behind her, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. “I—think you imagine it was me,” he said carefully. “Enough so that when you called out Roxboro, Lord Canterbell assumed the same. Did he see me clearly or only—”
“Dear God.” Sophia threw up her hands in anger. “This again.”
“I am often intoxicated.” His brows drew together. “I do not think that is in debate. But I have never forgotten my whereabouts. Or if I attended a ball. Nor do I seek out young ladies of your ilk for obvious reasons.”
“My ilk?” Sophia crossed her arms.
“Virginal, modest, well-bred young ladies,” he replied bluntly. “You hold no interest for me, not to seduce or engage in any way. I don’t attend balls as a rule because I do not dance.”
“I imagine you dance as well as you sit a horse.” Sophia swatted away a moth.
Roxboro made a sound.
“Is there a point to this inane conversation?”
“That while drunken behavior and lechery are part of my nature, taking a young lady, such as yourself, into a dark garden without caring whether we were seen, is not how I behave. Ever. I simply would not have done so. I wouldn’t find it appealing.”
Sophia stopped, digging her heels into the gravel. “And I am just as certain that it was you, Your Grace.”
“You don’t strike me as unintelligent. Nor easily led about. If I am accused, shouldn’t I know my crime? What did I say for you to throw caution to the wind and follow me outside?”
Sophia clenched her fists. Fine. Roxboro would hear it all, even though it made her seem pathetic and something of an imbecile.
“You—told me that you had admired me from afar,” the words came out in a halting manner. “After seeing me in the park. You were taken with me. Ridiculous, of course. I can see that now. You claimed—you wished to court me and meant to speak to my father.”
Roxboro went completely still.
She turned and took several steps away from him, unwilling to allow him to see her after such a confession. “I should have known better, given your reputation. You see, I am not as intelligent as you imagine. Lady Brokeburst and her eyesight are not entirely to blame.”
Roxboro took her arm once more, gently pulling her beneath the tree.
“No wonder you are so angry, Lady Salmon.” The words were soft.
Sophia bit her lip. “Now you’re just making names up.”
“I am guilty of a great many misdeeds,” he breathed into the night air. “You’ve heard the stories, no doubt. But there is not one in which I debauch a girl of good family? Never. I avoid—”
“Ladies of my ilk.” Sophia looked down at her slippers. The gossips were clear on Roxboro and his pursuits. Drinking. Gambling. Deviant behaviors. Women too numerous to count. But he was correct. There were no tales of him pursuing a girl such as herself. “Perhaps I was the exception.”
“It wasn’t me,” he murmured. “I can prove it.”
“This is madness, Your Grace. There simply is no one else it could have been, no matter how you protest. You are…unique in your looks. Difficult to mistake.” She raised her chin. “But very well, how do you intend to prove that it was not you?”
“Like this.”
Roxboro grabbed her around the waist with one arm, the fingers of his other hand sinking into her hip until she was secured against the long muscular lines of his torso. Bergamot, stronger now, filled her nostrils.
I didn’t realize he was so tall.
That was her last coherent thought before his mouth descended on hers, warm and full of so much heat Sophia’s knees buckled. A wave of—dear God, I may faint—pure fire lit along her skin. An ache filled her, the sort they only spoke of in romantic novels.
Now this…her mind whispered. Is a kiss.
*
Damnable troublesome twit.
The scent of roses came from her hair, mixing with the aroma of the flowers in the garden. Delicious and full of thorns.
I don’t mind thorns.
A sound left her. A delicate whimper before her lips parted beneath his. He pulled her closer, running the tip of his tongue along the bottom of her mouth just as he had longed to do every time she hurled an insult, or called him a sot. Sophia tasted of wine. Innocence. Blistering irritation.
Alexander swallowed all of it. Begged for more.
She gave a brief, fruitless struggle, all the while her fingers curled into the edges of his coat, so that all Sophia succeeded in doing was to rub that generous form along the already hard ridge of his cock. Each one of her curves softened against him, molding until they fit perfectly together.
A soft groan, whether from him or her, filled the air beneath the tree.
This…this was the sensation he chased in every glass of brandy or scotch.
At a game of hazard. Or the women he bedded.
A sense of pure, unadulterated bliss that left room for little else.
A complete emptying of Alexander’s thoughts so that nothing else mattered but the physical ache of awareness.
The prickle of his skin. Arousal and unadulterated lust pulsed between his thighs, threatening to strangle his cock.
Christ, I might swoon.
Sophia returned his kiss, enthusiastically if not with a great deal of experience.
She followed the movements of his tongue, making soft, feminine sounds that sent another wave of longing down his body.
Each breath urged him for more. Tiny teeth nipped at his bottom lip.
Alexander pushed her back to the trunk of the tree, pinning her to the bark.
“Sophia,” he said against her mouth, pressing the hardened length of his cock directly between her thighs.
“Oh,” she softly panted before arching more firmly into his chest.
Alexander’s hand slid from her hip, cupping Sophia’s backside, squeezing at one luscious, plump—
Dear God.
He pulled away so abruptly that Sophia stumbled, grabbing on to the tree trunk to keep from falling.
Taking a lungful of air, demanding his heart stop the crazy tumbling inside his chest, Alexander stepped back from his terrible, annoying twit of a bride.
His cock throbbed. Ached. His entire body burned.
For her.
Eyes wide, hands trembling against her skirts, Sophia stared at him in shock.
It had not been him at the Perswick ball. He would never have forgotten…. Her.
“That,” she sputtered, the mounds of her breasts rocking with every halting breath. “That,” Sophia shook her head, fingers brushing along her lips, “It wasn’t—”
“Me,” Alexander whispered, daring to look at her mouth once more.
She spun about and took a few halting steps in the direction of the house, pausing just outside a circle of torchlight. Took two deep, gulping breaths. Fingers clutched in agitation at her sides, the fingers jerking ever so slightly. But Sophia did not turn. Did not face him.
“I bid you good evening, Your Grace.” Her words were sharp. Like knives. “The duck did not agree with me and our walk did not help matters. Please apologize to Lord Damon for not bidding him good evening. I will see you at the church, Your Grace.”
Alexander nodded, though he doubted she could see him. If nothing else, he’d proved to himself, if not Sophia, that he hadn’t ruined her.
Though now, he dearly wanted to.
She sprinted up the steps to the terrace, not sparing him another glance and disappeared into the depths of the Canterbell home.
Alexander waited a moment or two before reaching into his coat pocket. His fingers closed around the small flask filled with scotch, one he continued to carry though he hadn’t taken a sip in weeks. Lifting the flask, the scotch fell down his throat, making his belly burn.
He had his truth, though Alexander wasn’t sure what he would do with the information.