His mind remembered. His body remembered. And it was dashed difficult to look at her as a sister. To treat her as his brother’s wife. Especially when she carried his child.
Did that not trump everything?
He did not wish to cause a scene or create a scandal, to shame her or his parents. But to sit by and do nothing while she presentedhischild to the world as his brother’s? Intolerable. It was beyond his strength. How would he manage it? Especially since Marsh had not even given him the chance to object to their marriage, or to do the right thing himself. Anger surged through him at the thought. He longed to confront Captain Black in person—give him a piece of his mind. But since he wasn’t there, Wesley decided he would write a letter to that effect.
When Wesley got home, he did so. Then he went looking for Sophie, steering clear of the parlour where he heard Kate and Miss Blake chatting within. He slipped up the stairs and gave a cursory look through her bedchamber door. Empty. He continued up to the old schoolroom, where he’d guessed she’d be. Sure enough, she sat at her easel working on that dashed portrait of Captain Black in uniform. Her palette held shades of red with black and white for light and shadow.
“Sophie.”
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. She must have seen in his expression some of what he was feeling, because she rose and turned to face him, setting her jaw.
He made up his mind—he was going to kiss her. And if he ended up with a slap for his trouble, so be it. He shut the door and strode toward her.
She held up her paintbrush like a sword to warn him away, but he put his arms around her and gathered her close, unheeding, capturing her hands between their bodies, brush and all.
“Don’t!” She cried, struggling in his arms. “The paintbrush—”
“Hang the brush.” He reached between them, jerked it from her grip, and sent it flying across the room. Then he pulled her close and lowered his mouth.
She turned her face away, and his lips caressed her cheek, her ear, her neck.
“Sophie. Please.”
“No. I can’t,” she choked out. “Don’t you unders—”
He found her lips, covering her protest with his mouth. How he had missed this. Missed her. Victory flared in his heart, but then she wrenched her mouth away.
“Stop it!” she cried. “Please... stop...”
The door banged open, and Wesley turned with a snarl, ready to send Keith or a housemaid or whoever it was packing. Instead Miss Whitney stepped inside, broom raised high.
“Let her go, Master Wesley.”
Sophie ducked her head in mortification and pulled from his arms.
He stared down at the irksome old woman. “Mind your own business, Winnie. It isn’t what it seems.”
“It is exactly what it seems. And you have the mark to show for it.”
She pointed to his chest, and he tucked his chin to look at his shirtfront. At the blood-red smear over his heart.
Behind them, Sophie let out a gasp. He looked over in alarm, and saw her press her hands over her mouth, staring at something across the room. Wesley followed her gaze, and his gut twisted. When he’d whipped the brush away in frustration, he’d sent a spray of paint over her portrait of Stephen. A drop of red ran down the captain’s face like blood. Like an omen.
Sophie ran from the room.
Wesley squeezed his eyes closed and released an irritated sigh. Angry with himself and with the woman before him. He braced his hands on his hips and faced her.
“You think you know so much, old woman. But do you know I love her?”
She lowered the broom. “I know you think you do, and will say anything to get what you want.”
“It isn’t like that. We have history together. We belong together.”
“You say you love her. But would you be true to her?”
“Of course I would.”
She shook her head. “I think it quite likely you will be tempted to betray her this very night, before the jester sings and the cock crows.”
