Her neck heated. “Hush.”
His jaw slackened. “That’s why you married Marsh! What an imbecile I am. I knew there must be some other reason. I cannot believe I didn’t guess immediately.”
Sophie raised a hand. “Stop it. Stop it right now.IfI were with child. And if Ihavea child, he or she will be the captain’s—Stephen’s.”
He shook his head, eyes alight. “No. It’s mine, isn’t it?”
She held her tongue, refusing to confirm or deny his guess.
He gripped her shoulders. “Did you know before I left Lynmouth? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sophie struggled inwardly. Might it not be better for everyone—the child, and Stephen, and the family—if she admitted nothing but kept up the pretense? The words she held back escaped as silent tears running down her cheeks.
Wesley’s beautiful eyes filled with tears as well. “You are carrying my child, and you married my brother? How could you? Why didn’t you wait?”
The dam broke. “Because you left me with no other choice!” She jerked away from him and fled, hurrying from the room.
Sophie retreated to her bedchamber, shaking and breathless. Now she had done it. What would Wesley do? Would he tell everyone? Heaven help them all.
She didn’t go down to dinner that night, sending Libby to let Mrs. Overtree know she didn’t feel well and wouldn’t be joining them. It was certainly true. Libby brought soup and tea on a tray to her room, and afterward Sophie went to bed early.
She was about to drift to sleep when a soft knock nudged her alert.
“Sophie? It’s me.”
Wesley’s voice. Afraid he would enter if she did not respond, Sophie snatched up her dressing gown and hurried to the door, opening it only a few inches.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Go away.”
“I might have stayed away. Or at least tried. But now that I know you are carrying my child...”
“I never said that!” she hissed. “It’s Stephen’s.Iam Stephen’s. Now go away before a servant or your parents find you at my door. Would you ruin my life all over again?”
Looking stricken, he turned away, and she regretted her sharp words. She closed the latch and rested her back against the door. Overwhelmed with worry and regret, she slid down to the floor, leaned her head back against the wood, and let the tears come.
Finding out Sophie carried his child clarified the situation in Wesley’s mind. He had been angry and disappointed with her, but now he understood why she had married so abruptly. He shook his head in wonder. He and Sophie had created a child—the ultimate masterpiece. The realization filled him with love and awe. Suddenly the prospect of losing Sophie and their child frightened him. But what other choice did he have?
Several days passed with he and Sophie tiptoeing around one another—she avoiding him, or greeting him with cool civility whenever their paths inevitably crossed. Him being as kind to her as she would allow.
Kate returned to pose again, and then remained to watch and learn from Wesley as he painted Sophie.
“Why do you add the red first?” Kate asked. “That is not the color I would have chosen... Do you think umber might be better...?”
“Kate, please be quiet for two minutes together,” Wesley replied. “I have answered your last thirty-seven questions with the utmost patience, you must allow. But I cannot concentrate with all your chattering.”
“Very well.” Kate shrugged and sat back down on the stool near his—but not too near—to watch him work.
Silence reigned for several minutes. Blissful silence, broken only by the occasional coo of a mourning dove in the eaves beyond the window. The melancholy sound apparently matched Sophie’s mood. He had rarely seen her expression so forlorn.
He said, “Now I am going to paint your eyes, so if I could ask you to look at me, Sophie....”
She blinked, clearly struggling to hold his gaze.
“The eyes, the eyes,” he murmured. “Oh, the tales they tell.”
“Hers tell a sad tale indeed,” chirped a voice at his elbow.
Wesley jerked around. Sophie started as well.
