As she neared the archway to the taproom, she heard the crackle of a large fire and the low rise and fall of a pair of voices in quiet conversation—his voice not among them. She peeked around the threshold. The room was empty except for three men. At one end of the counter, young Mr. Partridge sat on a stool talking companionably with the barman, as the older man dried glasses. And there, slumped in an inglenook, was Captain Overtree, the dregs of a pint in one hand, peering at a small oval he held in the other.
She crossed the few yards that separated them, trying to ignore the raised-brow look the barman gave her.
Nearing his elbow, she hissed, “Captain, what are you doing?”
He tucked the oval frame into his pocket before she could gather more than the faint impression of a face, then glanced up at her from beneath a fall of black hair. “Staying away from you. Trying to, at any rate.”
“What were you looking at?”
“Nothing.” He finished his pint.
“I was told you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t—usually. But there’s nothingusualabout tonight. It’s my wedding night.” He chuckled bitterly. “Some comfort was required.”
“Come upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because you are embarrassing yourself. And me.”
“Because our young Mr. Pheasant, or whatever his name was, and Mr. Thompkins there might wonder why I prefer to spend the evening here than in my... your bedchamber?”
“Yes.” Was he trying to hurt her feelings? Already regretting their marriage? She thought of the portrait he’d tucked away. Was he mourning the loss of the woman he would have preferred to marry—a woman he loved?
“Come, Captain.” She took his elbow and tried to pull him to his feet. He did not budge. She turned to the barman. “Mr. Thompkins, would you please help me get my... husband to bed?”
“Ma’am, if I had a wife as young and pretty as you, I wouldn’t need anyone to drag me to her.”
“Thank you. Now, please just help me...” She picked up the captain’s discarded coat from a chair nearby.
The man slung one of the captain’s arms around his shoulder and helped him off the bench and up the stairs. In their nuptial chamber, they half-dropped him, half-rolled him into bed.
Mr. Thompkins asked, “You can undress him yourself, I take it?”
“I... am sure I can manage. Thank you.”
The man left, closing the door behind himself.
Sophie regarded her bridegroom—eyes closed, dark hair unruly, legs askew. With a sigh, she wrestled off the captain’s boots, glad he had removed his own coat downstairs. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his waistcoat buttons, then stopped.
Since he was sound asleep, she studied him closely by candlelight. His face was so much softer and gentler in repose. The scar he tried to hide, more vulnerable. He smelled of ale and smoke, and she wrinkled her nose.
“You don’t deserve it,” she whispered, “but...” She kissed her finger and pressed it lightly to his temple. “Everyone should be kissed on their wedding night.”
Exhausted, she lay beside him—her in her dressing gown and him in his clothes—and soon fell asleep.
Sometime during the night, the captain moaned and turned over. He threw an arm around her, and murmured a sorrowful “Jenny...”
Who was “Jenny”? It wasn’t a name she recognized. Sophie gingerly removed his heavy arm, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into, and already beginning to regret it.
chapter 6
In the morning, Stephen awoke with an ice pick in the back of his skull and a stomach full of bile and regret. He was swamped with remorse for his behavior of the night before. For showing weakness to his new wife. For breaking his vow to himself.
The truth was, he was attracted to Sophie, and the very thought of her undressing and bathing in the bedchamber they were meant to share did torturous things to him. Yet he had promised he would not press her, that he expected nothing. Why had he done so? He wished he’d never suggested a marriage in name only. In hindsight, he knew he’d done so to lower her risk in accepting him. To protect himself from rejection if she turned him down. Stupid, proud fool that he was.
How disheartening to find himself married to a woman who loved someone else and wanted nothing to do with him. And that thought had fed a revolting combination of resentment and self-pity that no man should succumb to, especially on his wedding night. It was either have a drink, or go upstairs and make a fool of himself. So he had broken his code of the last five years and had one pint. And then another.
