Married to a Stranger Page 11

  ‘Yes. I felt—I feel—so guilty about worrying over that at such a moment. I tell myself there is no value in fretting over what might have been, regretting what I did not do—that helps no one.’

  ‘You should have asked William for help. We would have done something,’ Cal protested. The slender fingers interlaced with his tightened. ‘Pride?’ he asked.

  Sophia nodded. ‘And guilt, I suppose.’

  ‘Then what were you going to do? What would you have done if I had not come back and asked you to marry me?’

  ‘I told you. Find paid employment,’ she said. ‘I think we would have had to sell the house as well. Mama would have lived with Mark when he was ordained and had a parish.’

  ‘In your shoes I would have bitten the hand off anyone offering to rescue me from those straits,’ Cal said. ‘Not resisted as long as you did.’

  ‘No, you would not,’ she contradicted. ‘You would have stuck out that stubborn chin and refused. Can you imagine yourself accepting a marriage of convenience to a wealthy woman because you needed money?’

  ‘It is different for a woman,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Sophia agreed with a somewhat watery attempt at a smile. ‘I discovered that. But this is all beside the point. Callum, do you not see? I let you believe I still loved Daniel and you felt you had to marry me out of duty to him. But all the while I should have been honest with both myself, and with him, and released him from the engagement years ago.’

  ‘It was not easy, was it?’ he asked her, wondering why anger was not stirring inside him. She had broken her word, failed to love his twin, done nothing to release either of them and then married him to save herself from penury. He should be angry. ‘You had to struggle to bring yourself to do it.’ Perhaps that was why? She had not snatched at his offer lightly, greedily.

  ‘I could do my duty by my family, which was to marry well, or be honest with you.’

  ‘And you do not know me, let alone love me, so your course of action was plain—do the best for your family.’

  ‘Yes. I should not have told you, I can see that now,’ she added, her expression miserable. ‘I should have been strong enough not to ease my conscience by admitting it. At least then you would not have known that you had married me for nothing.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Callum said briskly. ‘I needed a wife and I have found one without delay. We will deal well together, never mind how we happened to come to this point. I do not regard it and neither should you.’ Did he mean it? He had no idea, but he had to say it. Anything else would be cruel. Sophia was his wife now, for better or worse.

  He gave her hand a squeeze and released it, slid out of bed. ‘I’ll leave you, you must be tired now.’

  She sat and watched him as he walked around the bed to pick up his robe, the sheet clutched to her breasts, her eyes still dark. Like this, she was beautiful. Desire surged back and Callum tied the sash tightly around his waist. He might want her, but he would not make love to her again tonight, not while he had this new reality to come to terms with. And, strangely, the one question that was beating at his brain was, Why don’t I mind about Daniel?

  ‘Callum?’ ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing. Sleep well.’

  There was little chance of that, he thought as he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Callum was in the dining room, addressing himself to a large steak when Sophia came downstairs the next morning. She had to confess to herself that she was grateful for the presence of Hawksley to open the door for her and Michael to hold her chair so that she was occupied with thanking them and seating herself and did not have to meet her new husband’s gaze until he had resumed his own seat.

  ‘Good morning, Sophia.’ There was a newspaper folded beside his place and a pile of letters at his other hand, but he seemed content to neglect them for conversation.

  Sophia managed a composed smile and pushed to the back of her mind the embarrassing realisation that the staff knew what they had been doing last night and that Callum was probably thinking about it too. Soon she would get used to it, she supposed, but for now, the more she thought about what had happened in bed, the more blush-provoking it seemed. She had screamed. What if anyone had heard her?

  Or perhaps all Callum was thinking about was her disloyalty to his twin and the fact that she had deceived him by allowing him to think she had still been in love with Daniel.

  ‘Good morning. It seems to be a very pleasant day. Yes, coffee, please, Michael.’

  ‘There is post for you.’ She blinked and came back to the present as Callum lifted the top three letters from the pile and passed them to her. She recognised her mother’s hand on one; the others were from friends in St Alban’s. ‘Hawksley, please see that Mrs Chatterton’s post is handed to her directly in future.’

  ‘Sir.’

  This was, Sophia knew, a considerable concession. Most husbands would expect to have all the incoming post pass through their hands as a matter of course. She smiled her thanks, met a heavy-lidded look and glanced away, blushing. Callum had not stayed with her last night, or come to her room this morning. He had been gentle when she had confessed, but doubtless he was displeased with her.

  Her tongue had certainly seemed to freeze. She had wanted to tell him that she would do her best to please him in bed, that she felt very grateful that he had taken her in Daniel’s place, but the words had sounded gauche and foolish even as she began to whisper them, and her voice had been choked with the tears that had welled up in shock at the sensual pleasure, the discomfort, the confusing way Callum had made her feel.

  Instead her confession had tumbled out, proving to him that he could not trust her to do the right thing.

  If she had tried to explain her feelings, she would probably only have embarrassed him. Mama had warned her that men did not like to speak about emotions or deep personal matters once the first courtship was over. Besides, he might think she was trying to tell him that she had fallen out of love with Daniel and into love with him. She cringed inwardly at the thought. The wonderful intimacy that she had felt with Callum for a few minutes, skin to skin, heart to heart, was something for the bedroom. Perhaps she would feel it again. For the rest of the time well-bred restraint was obviously appropriate.

  Michael put a plate of eggs and ham in front of her and she began to eat, surprised at how hungry she felt. Callum pushed away his own empty plate. ‘I must go to Leadenhall Street today and I expect to be away until dinner time, I am afraid.’

  ‘Leadenhall Street is where East India House is, is it not?’ Sophia recalled. ‘You will have a great deal of business, I quite understand.’ It was a relief, in fact. She would have the opportunity to explore and talk to the servants and start to feel less like a guest and more like the mistress of the house. ‘I will need to discuss menus with Mrs Datchett. Will you dine at home every night this week?’

  ‘I have no idea. I ate out most of the time before—bachelors do. Now I am married it would be more fitting for me to entertain here. I may need to bring colleagues home to work in the evening. Surely the woman can improvise? My Indian cooks always did.’

  ‘She would not want to serve an inferior meal to your guests. Indian cuisine is different, I am sure.’ Sophia felt herself bristling at the implied criticism of one of her staff.

  ‘It certainly is. Tell her that if I do bring guests without warning we will not expect a formal dinner party. Will that help?’

  ‘I am sure it will.’ Sophia gestured to the footman to pour more coffee for both of them. Callum had been used to a bachelor existence with Daniel. No doubt their servants had improvised to cope with whatever their young masters wanted and the brothers would not stand on too much ceremony. England was quite another matter and no doubt his comments would find their way back to Mrs Datchett’s ears before long. Diplomacy would be called for.

  ‘Madam’s cards have arrived, sir.’ Hawksley proffered a salver and Callum picked up the rectangle of pasteboard on it, nodded his appro
val and passed it to Sophia.

  ‘There you are. We must be married, it says so there.’

  Mrs Callum Chatterton

  Half Moon Street and Long Welling Manor, Hertfordshire

  The card was stiff, gilt edged and elegant. ‘Oh. Thank you.’ How daunting. These were for when she made calls without her husband. At home her name had been on Mama’s card, so this was the first time she had had her own. But who on earth was she to call upon? She knew no one in London.

  ‘Right. I’ll be off, if you will excuse me. I’ll leave you to get on with your letters.’ Callum rose and came to bend over her shoulder. Sophia turned to say goodbye and was surprised by a kiss on the cheek. Against her skin his was smooth, with just the faintest hint of bristle after his morning shave. Castile soap, a trace of sandalwood, virtually no trace of the warm smell of heated male skin. Even so there was a tug, low in her belly, as her newly awakened body responded to the closeness of his.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, with an attempt at cool composure and hoped her thoughts did not show in her voice. ‘Have a good day in the City.’

  His grimace made her smile and then he was gone, leaving her alone in her own house, with her own servants. Her first day as a married woman.

  Sophia finished her coffee and bread and butter as she listened to the sounds of her new home. Carriages in the street, snatches of conversation as people passed, the clatter of booted feet running down the stone steps into the narrow area at the front of the house and then more voices as someone in the kitchen opened the lower door. Callum’s voice talking to Hawksley in the hall, the bang of the front door, the slight sound of Michael shifting his stance as he stood by the buffet waiting for her next order.

  All she had to do was to make this household run like clockwork. Her husband was a hard-working man with a lot on his mind; he must come home to domestic perfection, a home that ran so smoothly he never even noticed. That was not so hard, she told herself, even if she had no idea what Callum’s likes or dislikes were yet. And by the time she had managed that, then perhaps she would have made some acquaintances, begun to create a new life for herself. ‘Michael, please give my compliments to Mrs Datchett and ask her to join me in my sitting room in half an hour.’

  That had sounded confident enough; she only hoped the woman was easy to deal with. She had rehearsed everything they needed to settle in her head and was waiting, a list to hand, when the cook-housekeeper entered. She seemed a pleasant, competent woman, Sophia decided after a few minutes. She suggested things that needed to be bought for the kitchen and scullery, announced that the staff quarters and service area were most satisfactory, nodded agreement to the housekeeping allowance that Sophia proposed and then asked, ‘And will you be entertaining much, ma’am?’

  ‘I expect so. In the meantime my husband may well bring colleagues home to dine at very short notice. He does not expect a formal dinner on those occasions. Is that likely to be a problem?’

  ‘No, ma’am. If we agree the menus for the week I’ll make sure we have enough food in the larder to add extra dishes as required.’

  That was a relief. ‘Can you cook Indian food, Mrs Datchett?’

  ‘No, ma’am!’ She frowned. ‘No, but there’s a receipt for a curry in one of my cook books. That’s Indian, I think.’

  Mrs Datchett bustled off back downstairs and Sophia set herself to explore her new domain. Her bedchamber and dressing room were well appointed; they just needed a fresh coat of paint and some new hangings, as did the rooms on the ground floor and the hall, stairs and landings.

  Which just left Callum’s study and bedroom. The doors were unlocked and he had not said he did not want them disturbed. Even so, it was with the sensation that she was entering Bluebeard’s chamber that she turned the handle on the bedroom door.

  Chapter Eleven

  His valet had unpacked and tidied the room, but Callum had somehow managed to imprint his personality on the space far more than Sophia felt she had in her own chamber. Wilkins had gone out on an errand to the bootmaker so she could explore without fear of interruption.

  There were silver-backed brushes on the dresser, a silver dish with tie pins in it, a few small boxes, everything with the cat’s mask from the family crest. He must have taken things from the Hall, she guessed, to replace those lost at sea.

  In her room was the trunk filled with the trousseau she had embroidered with this very crest. Fortunately she had not followed her mother’s suggestion of adding an entwined D and S to the cat’s mask, so everything was usable and if she did not draw attention to it perhaps Callum would not think about who they had originally been intended for.

  She moved around the room, touching the books heaped on the dresser, on the floor beside the bed, uneasy about picking them up. There was a pencil and a pile of paper on the nightstand as though thoughts might come to him in the middle of the night and have to be recorded immediately. An oil painting of the Hall hung on one wall, on the other a smaller version of the triple portrait of the brothers that hung over the fireplace in William’s study.

  Daniel’s charming, boyish smile was vivid, even in this copy, contrasting with Callum’s steady, thoughtful gaze. That was the Daniel she remembered, but was it the man he had grown into? The adult Callum she could see clearly in the youth, but he had a harder edge now that this serious boy had been lacking. Sophia reached up and touched Daniel’s painted cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Daniel. Sorry I fell out of love with you, sorry you are gone.’

  There were Indian objects too, she found as she wandered around the room. Callum must have sent them home over the years. She picked up a small soapstone carving of a god with the head of an elephant, an ivory panel carved deeply with swirling vines, fruit, birds and a tiny lizard, then a set of boxes, vivid with enamelled colours, so light that they must be papier maché.

  The slippers by the bed were backless embroidered leather with curling toes, the robe at the foot of the bed was not the plain red one she had seen last night, but a gorgeous weave of blues and black in heavy cotton. Callum would look like an exotic Eastern prince wearing those, she thought with a sensual shiver.

  On impulse she turned back the covers and ran her hand into the bed. No folded nightshirt: he must sleep naked. Feeling as though she had been caught watching through a spy hole, Sophia jerked back her hand and straightened the bed.

  Still, she couldn’t drag herself away. It was as though this exploration would reveal the man she had married, answer questions she dare not ask. The bottles on the dresser were coloured glass and each, when she removed the stopper and sniffed, held a different perfumed oil. Sandalwood in one, a musky, disturbing fragrance in another, a third filled with something that teased her nostrils with the warm scent of spice.

  The clothes press held the sombre coats and waistcoats of a gentleman who had been in mourning. The woollen cloth was of the highest quality, the dark waistcoats were silk. What was his normal taste? Would he buy more flamboyant waistcoats now, more dashing coats?

  Drawers revealed piles of white shirts in fine linen, muslin neckcloths, handkerchiefs. All new and good quality. She touched things, ran her fingers over them, inhaling the scent of starched linen and masculine leather. There was a pile of hat boxes from Lock’s and more boxes revealed gleaming boots and evening slippers. Callum had not been averse to shopping for himself, she realised.

  Sophia scanned the room. Had she left everything as it had been? Yes, she was sure of it, he would never know she had been in here.

  Next door the study was quite incredibly untidy in contrast to the bedchamber. Obviously Wilkins had no control here. Books had been unpacked from chests and were stacked all around and in piles on the shelves. A drawing slope had been set up and boxes on it revealed pens and rulers, inks, chalks, a box of watercolours, the squares of paint dry and brittle.

  Sophia stood for a while looking at the pristine white sheet pinned to the board, her fingers itching for a pencil, a stick of pastel, anything to draw with.
She turned away before the urge to mark the clean surface overcame discretion.

  A pile of papers was on one end of the desk under a piece of marble with a carving of a tiger on it. Folders were heaped at the other end, bristling with markers. There were letters, too, stacked on the leather desktop, already annotated on their wrappers.

  She stood by the desk and looked around. Here she did not dare touch anything. The desk needed a blotter. She must add checking the inkwells and the blotting paper to the footmen’s routine.

  Callum knew people, many people, here in London, she realised, looking at the amount of correspondence. His work would bring him into contact with them, every day. He would not be lonely and he would doubtless soon make friends, and so would she.

  Now she would have luncheon and go out shopping with a dress allowance beyond her wildest fantasies, and in shops that she had dreamed of visiting. It would be feeble of her indeed to feel sorry for herself with that prospect in view.

  *

  Cal sat back in the hackney carriage and willed himself to relax for however long it took to negotiate the evening traffic between the City and Mayfair. Strange that a musty, battered carriage represented the peaceful neutral ground between two battlefields—the East India Company headquarters and his own household.

  The Company he could deal with, given hard work and careful tactics. Already he could see his path clearly there. They had sized him up in the first weeks, considered the reports he had worked on, the way he had reconstructed what he could of the information lost in the wreck, both his work and Daniel’s. They would have listened to the senior company officials who had survived and, eventually they made him the offer of a post that was all he had hoped and more.

  It had been a strain, focusing on the work, the discussions, while he was still physically and mentally wounded from the wreck. Perhaps his sombre demeanour and total focus had been what had convinced them. He would probably never know.