Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day, Alexander woke his wife in the most pleasant manner possible, with his head firmly wedged between her thighs. She yelled his name and beat her fists on his shoulders when reaching the peak of her pleasure, which was immensely satisfying.
He intended to keep his wife so happy and sated so that she might forget what a terrible human being he’d been and possibly still might be.
They would have to return to London eventually, which meant Sophia would be faced with a herd of former paramours along with Alexander’s tattered reputation, not to mention those who assumed she’d trapped him in this marriage, which to be fair, she had, no matter how unintentionally.
Yes, but I don’t mind.
He would let none of it touch her. He wanted nothing to hurt Sophie.
Alexander had never been in love. Not once, unless you counted an expensive bottle of French cognac.
But he mused, gazing at his wife all lovely and pink after climaxing on his tongue, he was in love with Sophia.
Why, exactly, he’d no idea. Nor was Alexander certain when he’d fallen in love with her, only that he was.
She was not beautiful, though Alexander thought her the most marvelous creature in existence.
Ordinary in every way, yet Sophia made him feel the most extraordinary things.
Damon would not be pleased. Not about Sophia, nor anything else Alexander meant to do.
His mind was clear. His thoughts focused.
There was no Oakhurst to demand his attention.
Whether his uncle approved or not, Alexander was going to be the bloody Duke of Roxboro.
Going forward, he would handle the affairs of his estate and title, whether Damon assumed he was capable or not.
He would release his uncle from all responsibility in regards to the dukedom.
Not because his uncle had mishandled matters.
Quite the contrary. But it was far past time for Alexander to take the reins of his own legacy.
The careless, arrogant libertine he’d been died in that carriage weeks ago. Well, somewhat. He’d try to be good. For Sophie.
So, several days ago, while his wife was being difficult, Alexander summoned his secretary, Freeman, to The Pillory.
Damon might have complained, but his uncle was nowhere to be found.
Sophia rolled out of bed with a groan, clutching the sheet and searching for the remains of her chemise. Her lips wrinkled at the torn pile of clothing. “It looks as if I were attacked by a wild animal.”
“You were.” Alexander stood, naked, and walked to the center of the room, holding up a few tattered bits of linen. “I fear everyone will know of your depraved nature, Sophie. Stone is a terrible gossip.”
“You should…cover yourself.” She averted her eyes, a blush on her cheeks.
“I don’t think so.” Sophia was ogling him and didn’t want to admit to it.
I adore her.
She hissed, like an irritated cat. “I’m taking the sheet with me.” She marched to the door adjoining their rooms. “I believe I’ll bathe.”
“A grand idea.” He’d let her do so alone. This time. “Join me for breakfast on the terrace, my terrible shrew, once you are dressed.”
She gave him a saucy wink, which sent a glowing ember to flame inside Alexander’s heart.
Yes, I’m definitely in love with her.
*
Less than an hour later, Sophia and Roxboro were settled in comfortable chairs on the terrace, sharing a leisurely breakfast. Birds chirped and flew overhead. Butterflies floated above the blooms in the garden. Entirely peaceful.
“I’ve sent a messenger to Hampshire,” he said. “I think my uncle must have gone trout fishing.”
Sophia set down her tea. “I should have summoned him the moment you were brought home after—the incident. But I was so worried you’d—and I suppose it slipped my mind and—”
“You didn’t want him here, because he doesn’t like you.”
“Also, yes.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I didn’t die. Damon wasn’t in London even had you sent a note immediately after I was brought home. I’ve written to Lady Falmouth and my cousins. I’m sure they’ll descend upon us in due time.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Well, there wasn’t much for me to do while I was pretending illness to force my wife back into my orbit but send letters.
” He shot her a bemused look. “Damon is unlikely to be pleased with me, but not entirely due to bedding,” his voice lowered to a seductive purr.
“You.” His eyes dropped first to her mouth then to the tops of her breasts.
“Why?” She lowered her cup of tea, scorched by that look. The love for Roxboro hummed inside her heart, it had been there all along, but afraid to be heard.
Roxboro had told her while they lay in the darkness last night, whispering to each other, that his uncle had wanted a more advantageous marriage for his nephew. He’d planned on choosing the bride himself.
“Because he’s planned a match for you. I can still—no one need know.” She bit her lip, afraid of what he might say, even after their night together.
“Are you insane?” Roxboro tossed a grape at her.
“No.” An exasperated sound came out of him.
“You might already be carrying my heir. But even if you weren’t, I don’t want an end to our union.
I thought I made my position clear, several times over the course of the evening.
But if I must spend the rest of the day and night convincing you with my tongue on your—”
“Roxboro,” she whispered, somewhat horrified. “The servants.”
“Alexander,” he countered. “Besides, Damon would pick someone…tedious. Terrible women such as yourself who know how to hurl a good insult and detest embroidery are in short supply in the ton. Where would I find another?”
“Hmm.” A lovely glow filled her heart.
“Damon will barely notice you once I make my announcement.” Roxboro’s eyes glinted deep green in the morning light, so dark she could barely make out the striations of gray around his pupils.
“I plan to take over the management of my own estates. Damon has been doing so for years, first because I was far too young and then after,” he shrugged.
“Well, I was far too busy enjoying my immoral lifestyle. But I owe it to my father to take a firm hand. And Damon deserves to enjoy his own life. He has his own properties. He’s got to find husbands for Violet and Rose, which will be a great challenge, to say the least.” He regarded her with a lifted brow. “That pleases you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. You are intelligent, Alexander, as your library suggests. The Lustful Turk notwithstanding.”
“It is historical in nature.”
“But not the volumes on mathematics. Nor engineering. I know you read such when you come to The Pillory, which you do far more regularly than I’d first guessed.”
“Barstow is nothing more than a gossip. Worse than an elderly matron of the ton.”
“I’m not quite so bad, Your Grace.” The butler appeared on the terrace.
“Good God, Barstow. Announce yourself.” But there was no bite in Roxboro’s words. “Do you have word from my uncle?”
“Not yet, Your Grace, however, this has arrived for you.” Barstow’s features remained bland, but the corner of one eye twitched.
Roxboro took the travel-stained envelope from his butler, surprise lighting his features. “This is Oakhurst’s writing. I suppose he’s finally decided to write to me.”
Barstow pulled a newspaper from beneath his arm. “The London papers.”
“I’ll read them later.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I must insist you read them now.”
Dread filled the air. The news, whatever it happened to be, wasn’t good.
Roxboro narrowed his eyes. He set down Oakhurst’s letter and picked up the newspaper.
“New bill introduced to Parliament.” One elegant finger flipped the page.
“Lord Waller is suspected of falsifying an investment opportunity and thus bankrupting several of his peers. No surprise there. My uncle has always said he couldn’t be trusted.
All very boring. Sophie, pass me another piece of toast.”
“Your Grace,” Barstow intoned. “May I direct you to the second to last page?”
Sophia drizzled a bit of honey on the toast and pushed the plate to him, alarmed when he paled dramatically at whatever he read. He glanced at the letter, then back to the paper in his hands.
“Oakhurst is dead. As is Lady Maxwell.”
“What?”
Roxboro jerked to his feet and walked to the end of the terrace, gazing out over the lawn, fingers stretched over the balustrade, gripping the stone.
Sophia reached for the newspaper, which was over a week old.
The news that Alfred White, the Earl of Oakhurst had died, was much older.
His body, and that of Lady Maxwell had been found at the home of Comte Deleon in Paris.
There was a brief mention of a large gambling debt.
And how honorable Oakhurst had been in taking the gentleman’s way out.
Her stomach pitched as she took in her husband. Suicide.
“I’ll handle this, Barstow,” she said.
“Yes, Your Grace.” He gave Sophia a sympathetic look and bowed, before exiting.
“This is unexpected,” Roxboro said to her once Barstow and the other servants had gone.
Sophia approached, letter in hand. “You should read it,” she offered, not daring to get too close. Roxboro was…rather brittle in the morning light. She wasn’t sure what to do to comfort him.
“The gentleman’s way out. You understand the meaning, don’t you, Sophie? Though I can’t imagine why he would shoot Felicia.”
Sophia tamped down the jealousy at the use of Lady Maxwell’s given name. It spoke of intimacy between the two. “Maybe the letter will explain matters.”
“Will you read it to me. I don’t think—” Roxboro shut his eyes. “Please.”
“Of course.” Sophia tore open the envelope and pulled out one thin sheet of paper. The letter wasn’t long. Only a few paragraphs.
“Roxboro”, she read. “I’ve shot Lady Maxwell.”
“Well, I suppose that confirms matters,” Roxboro said, his voice etched with grief. “Continue.”
“She lies mere feet from me, dead as I write this. Soon, I will turn the pistol on myself once I post this letter. Confession, they say, is good for the soul. Felicia insisted, you see. She was always more consumed with guilt over our actions than I. I would have confessed sooner, Roxboro, but I assumed you’d be dead and I wouldn’t have to.
But, you’ve always been far too lucky. Damon Viceroy has found me out.
Roxboro sent Sophia a questioning look.
“There’s more.” She cleared her throat.
“You see, dear friend, I’ve been pilfering bits of your fortune for several years.
It was rather easy to do considering your love of drink, and I was quite desperate.
You seemed an easy mark, and I could tolerate being in your company.
At first, I merely stole your purse. Cheated you at cards.
Hazard. Had you sign off on my markers at Binson’s after telling you they were yours. Do you recall the emerald cufflinks?”
Roxboro went still, hands clutching the stone. “My father’s. Rare and valuable. I stupidly,” he shook his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”
“I could have lived off you for years, but you were exhausting. I wanted away from you. So I forged your signature on a handful of bank drafts. Decent sums but far less than you usually spend. I never imagined Lord Damon and your secretary would look too closely. My mistake.”
A deep, horrible sound came from Roxboro. Sophia took two steps towards him, but he held out a hand. “No, Sophie. No. Finish it.”
“I had truly hoped that trollop at the brothel would kill you and I could flee to the Continent in peace, but your uncle was not so easily fooled. He has men looking for me, chasing me about until I realize I can run no further. So I’ll salvage what is left of my honor the only way I know how and I couldn’t allow Lady Maxwell to confess my sins to your uncle. Pity. She was a lovely woman.”
“That’s all,” Sophia choked out, wishing there was something she could do or say to take the sting of Oakhurst’s betrayal away, but there was nothing. “Save for his signature.”
“I’d no idea,” Roxboro’s chest rose and fell, pained by the news. “That he was destitute. Or that he hated me. I thought Oakhurst—it never occurred to me I was being used. We were always wallowing in drink. No wonder Uncle Damon couldn’t stand Oakhurst. He must have suspected.”
Sophia refolded the letter, touching his arm. “Alexander.”
“I want a brandy, Sophie. Desperately.”
“Alexander—”
“But I’m not going to have one.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I promise. You need not worry.” He gave her a wobbly smile before walking off the terrace and into the sweep of lawn. She watched him go, until he disappeared near a cluster of oak trees.