Chapter Twenty-Three
Sophia sat outside, the gentle breeze blowing through her hair, lifting the strands to tickle her cheek.
The lavish gardens of The Pillory were a perfect spot to enjoy a book.
Peaceful. Every blade of glass manicured.
The roses, bright crimson and pink buds just beginning to unfurl, dotted the landscape, along with peonies, delphinium, and a wealth of wisteria.
She liked wisteria a great deal. The tight clusters of flowers reminded her of grapes.
Turning, Sophia looked up to the open window of Roxboro’s rooms, wondering if he could see her out here sitting amongst the flowers.
Or even if he cared. They had not spoken again since their argument, because Sophia was studiously avoiding her husband.
Whether over embarrassment from the intimacy they’d shared or her own behavior in saying such cruel things to him, Sophia wasn’t sure.
Which did not stop Roxboro from demanding her presence.
Hours after the reading of The Lustful Turk, Barstow informed Sophia that His Grace expected her to dine with him that night.
She politely declined, citing a headache.
Roxboro snarled his displeasure as he hurled a series of books, possibly a porcelain figurine and what sounded like a boot at the closed door separating their rooms.
Though her husband could hardly get about on his own yet without toppling over, Sophia made sure the door stayed locked. Just in case. She wasn’t ready to…face him.
Over the course of the following day, Roxboro insisted Sophia present herself, more than once. He attempted bribery, suggesting Barstow tell Sophia the duke had relapsed into illness.
Stubbornly, she did not go to check on him.
Stone wasn’t available, as he was still visiting his mother, but Barstow could deal with Roxboro.
The butler said little in relaying Roxboro’s messages to Sophia, but she could read the censure in his eyes well enough since Barstow made no effort to hide it.
She did not bother to explain her avoidance of the duke, because as a duchess, there was no need to explain herself to anyone.
Putting some distance between she and Roxboro seemed prudent.
A matter of self-preservation. Sophia’s emotions were far too unwieldy where her husband was concerned.
The only bit of good news, in addition to Roxboro’s recovery, was that Lord Damon had still not been located.
According to his staff, Lord Damon had gone to join Lady Falmouth and his daughters at yet another house party.
But when a note was sent, Lady Falmouth replied that Damon was not with them.
She wanted to come to The Pillory immediately, but Sophia assured her that Roxboro was on the mend and would return to London shortly.
His Grace says his uncle may have gone fishing in Hampshire, Barstow informed her.
Sophia’s delay in sending word to Damon had mattered not a whit, it seemed, so she decided not to feel guilty over doing so any further. He was bound to arrive eventually, much like potato blight.
Gravel crunched on the path winding through the garden, stopping behind her. A throat cleared.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” came Barstow’s voice. “But the duke requests you attend him. He is quite insistent.”
“Roxboro is always insistent. Has…the fever returned? His wounds reopened?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Has he had any brandy? Scotch?”
“No, Your Grace, though he continues to ask.”
She’d made sure Barstow and the rest of the staff was informed that Roxboro was not permitted spirits.
Not until he was healed. Anyone handing him so much as a thimble of brandy would be sacked immediately.
She hadn’t nursed him—her heart clenched—only to allow him to fall back into his old habits.
Barstow had explained to her that his uncle had been truly addicted to spirits, body and soul. But Roxboro didn’t seem as far gone.
Still, Sophia was not willing to take the chance. Roxboro could be angry all he wished. He would hate her soon enough when she confessed. Plenty of time to become a sot again.
She returned to her book which had been open to the same page for the better part of an hour because Sophia couldn’t seem to concentrate. “Then please inform the duke that I am busy at present. I shall attend him another time. Tell him I’ve gone for a walk. Or…into the village.”
Barstow clasped his hands before him. “Your Grace—” He nodded towards the house. “He has been watching you since you came into the gardens. He ordered me to pull a chair to the window. I do apologize. As I said, he is most insistent.”
Dear God.
“Duchess,” Roxboro’s dark rumble echoed over the lawn to where she sat. “I see you.”
Sophia snapped her book shut. It wasn’t holding her interest, at any rate. She was going to have to face Roxboro, it seemed, or he’d scream the house down.
“Inform the duke I shall be along presently.”
Behaving like a child. Again. Yelling into the gardens. Did he have not an ounce of respect for his status? Dukes did not summon their wives in such a manner. Admittedly, there was some gratification in having him demand her presence. As if she were…important to him.
I can’t possibly be.
Yet, she’d seen the way he’d looked at her when Sophia came apart in his arms, only she didn’t trust it.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler bowed, lips twitching.
“This isn’t the least amusing, Barstow.” Sophia stood. “Not at all.”
*
A half hour later, Sophia stood before the door connecting her room with Roxboro’s. She’d thought to delay longer, but Ann had arrived only moments ago, whispering that His Grace was becoming quite annoyed and threatening to pound on her door until Sophia appeared.
She took a deep breath, preparing herself.
Sophia knew the time had come for her to confess she’d known the day they wed that it had not been Roxboro in the gardens.
She could have halted the ceremony though Mama would have fainted and Papa furious.
But Roxboro didn’t have a freckle. He didn’t drink wine.
And the impossibility of there being…another man who so closely resembled him became real.
She should have been honorable and fled the church.
Accept her status as a pariah. Society meant little to her.
After much consideration, Sophia had decided that in the spirit of honesty, she would contact her father and have him use his influence in Parliament to have her union with Roxboro dissolved.
The marriage had not been consummated. She was still a maid.
Lord Damon would be ecstatic. Sophia would learn how to become a nun and tend bees.
Her palm pressed against her mid-section, willing the scones she’d eaten to stop pitching about. Food always seemed to settle her nerves. Not today, it seemed. But usually.
Roxboro was bound to be unpleasant once she confessed.
Any liking for her would immediately disappear, as would be expected. Papa would make sure the annulment was secured. Roxboro could remarry someone far more suitable than Sophia. Parliament would never deny him an annulment under the circumstances. He was a duke after all.
It’s the right thing to do.
She couldn’t live with the guilt for the rest of her life simply to stay a duchess. She’d been wrong and it was time for Sophia to admit her mistake.
Swinging open the door, Sophia came to a stop, mouth opening in surprise.
“Finally,” Roxboro snapped. “The water has almost cooled.”
She tried to avert her eyes from the sight of Roxboro in his bath. One in which he was no longer ill and completely unclothed. The tub had been turned to face the bloody door connecting their rooms. Where he knew she would appear and see…. everything.
Damn him.
The steam from the bath had the dark tendrils of his hair curling about Roxboro’s temples. Not so much as a bubble floated across the surface of the tub’s water. Every inch of his magnificent form was…on display.
Wretch.
It was difficult, no, impossible, not to admire him. Her eyes, against Sophia’s will, traced down his chest dusted with dark hair, pausing only at the newly formed scars now decorating his torso, before lowering to—
She jerked her chin away.
“Something wrong?” Roxboro lifted a brow as if his nakedness was of no consequence to either of them. “You appear to be unsettled, Sahara.”
“Not at all,” Sophia snapped back.
“Good, because I had an interesting conversation with Barstow and Stone. Neither of whom bathed me while I was ill and feverish.”
Damn. She should have sworn both men to secrecy.
“I also put spoonfuls of broth between your lips.” Sophia looked him in the eye. “What of it?”
“Well, I don’t understand your shyness. You’ve already seen everything.” A lazy grin pulled at his lips. “And you are my wife. We should have no mystery between us.” His voice lowered. “Come. Here.”
Sophia’s body…. arched towards Roxboro at the command. Dear God, the blood was fluttering beneath her skin.
“Is there a reason you’ve summoned me, Your Grace? I was enjoying the gardens. Reading,” she managed to croak.
“You haven’t read a book to me in several days. Not since I pleasured you on the bed. You appeared to enjoy having me touch you, which is why I find your absence untenable.”
“Untenable?”
“Intolerable. Unacceptable. Unfathomable. Do I need to go on, or do you take my point?”
Dear God. He sounded entirely ducal. She wanted to beg his forgiveness. And the ache for him? It was everywhere, especially between her thighs, where he’d put his terribly elegant fingers.
“Was it necessary to yell at me from the window, Roxboro?” she countered. “Such behavior is unbecoming of a duke.”