Chapter Thirteen
I don’t think—but it had to be—but it couldn’t—
The gnawing, insistent whisper gnawed at the fringes of her mind as she looked up the length of the aisle, each pew decorated with sprays of roses and baby’s breath.
The path that would bring her to Roxboro.
His handsome features were calm. Composed.
Save for the tiny smirk he made no attempt to hide.
The lilies in her bridal bouquet quivered as she took a step. Then another.
The kiss Roxboro bestowed upon her only two nights ago had shaken Sophia to the core.
As Roxboro surely knew it would. He hadn’t lied.
Roxboro did not kiss like a slobbering puppy.
Nor without pronounced sensuality. Sophia’s senses, her very soul, had left her body during that kiss.
Not at all like…before. Even his mouth felt different… like another pair of lips—
Don’t think it, Sophia. Don’t even consider it.
The green of Roxboro’s eyes, bits of silver glittering in the morning light streaming through the windows of the church, trailed over Sophia.
Impudently, though his features remained perfectly smooth.
She struggled to keep her gaze on the vicar as Papa walked her forward, not daring to look at the guests filling the pews.
Mama wanted a grand wedding for her daughter, no matter the reason behind it.
Half of London was in St. Paul’s, the rest outside awaiting their exit.
Everyone wanted to see the infamous Duke of Roxboro brought up to snuff by Lord Canterbell’s daughter.
Sophia grew dizzy just thinking about it. She pitched to the left, but Papa caught her elbow.
“Buck up now, moppet,” his breath crested over her ear. “I’ll make sure you are treated well.”
Yes, because having Papa constantly tossing threats at the Viceroy family was a brilliant way to begin her marriage. A union Sophia now considered was being made under false pretenses.
That kiss.
If the claiming of her mouth was any indication of how Roxboro might stake his claim on her body, Sophia would be reduced to nothing more than a pliable mound of flesh as they consummated their marriage.
Mama had given her a version of what to expect, none of which made a great deal of sense.
Each body part was given a charming euphemism, namely the ‘gentleman’s length’.
My God. What a stupid name for the male anatomy.
The lilies in Sophia’s hands shook so hard as Papa left her beside Roxboro, a petal fell from the bouquet and drifted to the floor.
She should flee. Run out of the church and into the street. If she were lucky, a carriage might run her over. Mama would be horrified at the scandal, but Sophia would be dead, so it was unlikely to matter and—
“Ow,” she hissed as her forearm was pinched, somewhat viciously and would probably leave a bruise.
Roxboro was staring at her in irritation, the vicar with expectation.
“I’m…sorry. I didn’t—” she choked.
Another pinch.
“Stop that,” she said under her breath, causing the vicar to raise his brows in question.
“Try to pay attention,” Roxboro murmured. “This is somewhat important.”
“I do. To all of it,” Sophia said, gripping the bouquet to her chest, a shield against what was happening. The vicar droned on about the sanctity of marriage, while she took in the chiseled line of Roxboro’s jaw, the shape of his brows, the patrician nose and—
Sophia inhaled softly, the breath halting in her lungs.
There’s no freckle at the end of his nose.
Her mouth went dry.
There had to be. Possibly she couldn’t see it from this angle. Leaning forward slightly, twisting as she tried to get a good look at the end of his nose.
A soft growl came from Roxboro. “Are you having a seizure of some kind?”
Her heart beat furiously, like a bloody drum in her chest. Panic, the sort which heralds impending doom, sank into every inch of her body.
Why hadn’t she noticed before? Why—
“Do not faint. It’s unseemly at a wedding,” Roxboro said in a bored tone.
“I’m not going to faint.” She turned back to the vicar who looked more annoyed than the duke.
“Your Grace,” the vicar intoned, inclining his head in Sophia’s direction.
Roxboro dipped his chin, the green of his eyes so brilliant as he brushed his mouth rather seductively along Sophia’s own. Not a kiss. More an imitation of one.
A soft sound came from her chest. Pin pricks drew along her arms and down between her thighs. And then it was over.
Applause erupted from the pews as the guests stood and Roxboro turned Sophia, to guide her out of the church. Dozens of eyes, accusatory, she imagined, drew over her as she walked at Roxboro’s side.
No freckle.
Mama was weeping, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Papa was at her side, patting her shoulder in a soothing manner. Mara sat to their right, her gaze fixed not on Sophia but the Marquess of Caster who sat across the aisle directly opposite her.
Lord Damon’s features were schooled into chilly politeness, that dark, flinty gaze stabbing at Sophia with dislike.
Lady Violet tilted her head as Sophia passed, eyeing her with a great deal of curiosity and not the good kind.
Lady Rose’s features reflected nothing but absolute boredom.
Only Lady Falmouth regarded her with welcome.
Stepping outside, Sophia blinked at the sudden burst of light after the dimly lit church. Her feet dug in as she noted the crowd assembled. Roxboro’s grip on her arm remained firm as he coaxed her forward, forcing her slippered feet to move.
“We’re almost finished, Lady Salamander. You can faint once we get to the carriage.”
“I’m not going to faint. Also, I am not a reptile.”
Roxboro shrugged.
A crowd outside St. Paul’s gathered to congratulate the duke and his new duchess, jostled about, trying to get closer.
Someone grabbed at the train of Sophia’s gown.
Others yelled out to Roxboro. But he never stopped, nor waved.
He led her straight down the steps to his waiting carriage, stumbled at the bottom step and righted himself, turning to face Sophia as he did so.
No freckle.
The night of the Perswick ball, Roxboro had a bloody freckle, just on the end of his nose. Tiny. Barely noticeable. Sophia recalled thinking at the time how attractive she thought that freckle happened to be. Like a dimple.
Roxboro unceremoniously shoved her inside the carriage, pushing aside her skirts and kicking his leg when the fabric wrapped stubbornly around one ankle.
“I’m not sure what is wrong with you, Lady Sesame,” Roxboro gritted his teeth.
“But please stop behaving as if I’m about to have you drawn and quartered.
Smile, if you know how. Wave.” He picked up Sophia’s arm and flapped her wrist. “Like this.”
She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Instead, for the first time in her life, Sophia obeyed.
She waved and nodded politely as if their marriage were the most wonderful thing that had ever happened.
The carriage pulled away from the church, slowly rolling down the street in the direction of the Duke of Roxboro’s home where a lavish wedding breakfast awaited them, the very thought of which made Sophia’s stomach pitch violently.
I do not believe a scone will fix this.
Her new husband leaned back against the luxurious cushions with a grunt. Tugged on his cravat to loosen the pristine white folds. Reaching inside his coat, one that fit the breadth of his shoulders like a second skin, he pulled out his flask. “Here.”
“No, thank you,” Sophia managed to say, still staring at his nose.
“Suit yourself. I thought it might put some color in your cheeks.” He took several swallows, filling the carriage with the scent of scotch. “Better.” Roxboro cocked a brow at her and leaned forward. “What? You’re staring at me as if I’ve grown a second head.”
It could have been a drop of wine, not a freckle.
Sophia nodded slowly. Yes. A drop of wine.
“My god, have you hit your head?”
“No, Roxboro,” she snapped. “You’re more the one that stumbles about.”
He sat back, looking somewhat pleased. “Oh good. I didn’t want you fainting during the upcoming blissful celebration,” he drawled, ensuring that Sophia knew the breakfast would be anything but. “Or sliding under the table.” Roxboro’s gaze locked on her mouth for a moment before he looked away.
Sophia paid him no mind. She was too overwhelmed with relief. There was no cause for alarm. None at all. Roxboro had tasted of wine in the Perswick gardens. As they stood conversing by the refreshment table, he’d had a glass of something jewel toned dangling from one hand.
Merely a drop of wine. Not a freckle. Never a freckle.
Lady Brokeburst curtsied. Lord Lacton bowed.
She repeated the words like a prayer before taking a deep breath of reassurance to steady herself.
Sophia hadn’t been mistaken. There was only one Duke of Roxboro.
It wasn’t as if he had a twin roaming about.
Now as to the magnificent kiss after dinner at the Canterbell home, there was an explanation, she only hadn’t thought of it yet.
“I am merely wondering if you’ll stumble up the stairs of your own home.”
Roxboro let out a bark of laughter. “I’m not foxed, my lady. Not yet, at any rate. Last night was another matter.” He took another swallow before placing the flask once more into his coat pocket. “I was rejoicing at our upcoming nuptials.”
“Splendid.”
He shifted in the seat across from her, eyes lingering over her mouth once more until the air between them grew thick, buffeting along Sophia’s limbs.
He’d pinned her against the tree trunk and kissed Sophia as if he…
hungered for her. Warm bergamot surrounded her, just as it did now, drowning out any hint of spirits.
Bergamot. But he hadn’t smelled of—
Sophia pushed the unwanted thought aside because…well, it was impossible. She was only suffering from nerves as any woman forced to wed a feckless sot of a duke might be.
“Well, here we are,” Roxboro said as the carriage rolled to a stop before an enormous brick home.
She’d barely noticed when Papa dragged her here to confront the duke, but now she took in the duke’s residence with fresh eyes.
The house, more mansion, stretched nearly the length of the street and was surrounded by a wrought iron fence.
Blooms spilled from boxes situated beneath every window.
Two towering Italian cypress, not a leaf out of place, guarded either side of the massive black door.
“What is wrong with you?” Roxboro said as he stepped carefully out of the carriage.
A footman came forward and bowed to Sophia. “Your Grace, welcome home.”