Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sophia wandered out into the gardens, grateful to be away from the house and dark cloud of Lord Damon’s presence.
He was polite to her, of course. Smiled.
Said mildly charming things. But those gestures were only meant to hide his obvious dislike of Sophia from Roxboro.
The last few days had been uncomfortable to say the least.
Thankfully, Damon was returning to London today.
“Not a moment too soon,” she said into the breeze. “He is like the plague hovering over Alexander.”
Damon had received the news that Alexander was taking up his own affairs with a thinly veiled smile, less than eager to give up control of the estates he’d managed since the Duke of Roxboro was an infant, but Sophia’s husband would not be dissuaded.
She’d caught Damon, more than once, deliberately trying to entice Alexander to share a brandy.
Which her husband resisted. He seemed firm in his belief that the attack on the duke’s carriage had been two desperate thieves and nothing more, suggesting Alexander hire more footmen.
“Yes, well,” Sophia said to herself. “When your nephew is a sot, it is easier to maintain control over him and his wealth. Dictate his days. You’ll have to find something else to occupy your time, Lord Damon.”
A squirrel ran across the path, stopped, chirped at her, then veered to the left, a part of the trail that had fallen into disuse, overgrown with weeds and brush.
“See,” she said after the squirrel. “Even you agree. I suppose you think I should go this way.”
The squirrel circled a tree a few steps to the left, pausing every so often to chirp at her. He started up the rough bark of the giant oak, watching Sophia with the small black beads of his eyes, tail twitching. Then the squirrel moved, revealing a scarred portion of bark. It…looked like letters.
Sophia approached, hands running over the gnarled tree which looked to be nearly ancient. Branches stretched overhead, enveloping her in a canopy of green.
M and C was carved into the bark. Along with a crudely drawn heart.
She stretched to trace the letters.
Marianne and Charles?
Sophia jerked back her fingers as if burned.
She knew the tragic tale of the previous Duke of Roxboro, along with the ridiculous tale that all the dukes were notoriously short-lived.
Easy to believe when one is well on their way to drinking far too much brandy in the middle of the day, but far less certain now.
Alexander had told her once that his mother had been a devious creature who after securing an heir in her belly, had her lover murder Charles Viceroy, Alexander’s father.
Her husband claimed there had been no affection between his parents.
If they cared nothing for each other, why carve such a symbol with their initials into a tree at The Pillory?
“Sophie!”
Turning from the tree, Sophia lifted her skirts, running back the way she’d come. Her husband was searching for her, and she wished to be found. Stepping back onto the main path leading to the gardens, Sophia stopped at the sight before her.
Breathe, Sophia.
Alexander, in only his shirtsleeves, striding towards her, the color of his eyes matching the leaves above her head. Nearly. There was still a hint of stormy gray around his pupils. Her husband. The magnificent Duke of Roxboro. Sophia thought her heart might burst.
“I’m here,” she dipped into a curtsey, gratified to keep her balance.
“Oh, stop doing that. You’re awful at it,” a slow grin stretched across her husband’s face. “Mara is much better.”
“Pity you didn’t ruin her then, Your Grace.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist, spun her about and then lowered her to the grass. “I was missing you, Sophie.”
“I thought to leave you and Lord Damon alone before he departs.”
“Oh, he’s already gone. Didn’t even wait to bid you goodbye.” Alexander’s eyes widened, pretending great surprise. “How impolite.”
“I’m quite hurt,” she cried. “Devastated.”
“You aren’t. Damon is quite put out that I insist on bedding my wife and do not plan to stop.” His hands tugged at her skirts, lifting them until her stockings and underthings were exposed. “I’ve not yet fucked you under a tree, Sophie.”
“Well then, don’t waste this moment, Your Grace.” She pressed her lips to his, feeling the honey spill languidly between her legs as she stretched them wider in a plea for his touch.
“Little harlot.”
“I am what you’ve made me, Your Grace.”
“True.” He stopped tugging at her clothing, his hand running up the side of her hip and long one breast until she sighed. Cupping her cheek, Alexander regarded her intently, his thumb brushing along her lip. “Sophie,” his voice broke just a bit before his mouth caught hers.
Oh, Alexander could kiss a woman senseless.
“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. “I love you. I am so—shamefully lost without you, my unwanted duchess. Whoever has been impersonating me, I owe him a debt I can never repay because he brought you to me.”
Sophia shut her eyes to hold back the tears gathering. What a somewhat sweet but rather perfect thing to say.
“You don’t have to love me back.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m rather lovely on the outside, but the inside requires a great deal of work. Not many would be up to the task. But don’t give up on me. Don’t—”
“Stop being an idiot, Your Grace.” A tear trickled down her cheek as she opened her eyes. “Your affections are returned tenfold.”