The night of the Perswick ball, Roxboro had a bloody freckle, just on the end of his nose. Tiny. Barely noticeable. Sophia recalled thinking at the time how attractive she thought that freckle happened to be. Like a dimple.
Roxboro unceremoniously shoved her inside the carriage, pushing aside her skirts and kicking his leg when the fabric wrapped stubbornly around one ankle. “I’m not sure what is wrong with you, Lady Sesame,” Roxboro gritted his teeth. “But please stop behaving as if I’m about to have you drawn and quartered. Smile, if you know how. Wave.” He picked up Sophia’s arm and flapped her wrist. “Like this.”
She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Instead, for the first time in her life, Sophia obeyed. She waved and nodded politely as if their marriagewere the most wonderful thing that had ever happened. The carriage pulled away from the church, slowly rolling down the street in the direction of the Duke of Roxboro’s home where a lavish wedding breakfast awaited them, the very thought of which made Sophia’s stomach pitch violently.
I do not believe a scone will fix this.
Her new husband leaned back against the luxurious cushions with a grunt. Tugged on his cravat to loosen the pristine white folds. Reaching inside his coat, one that fit the breadth of his shoulders like a second skin, he pulled out his flask. “Here.”
“No, thank you,” Sophia managed to say, still staring at his nose.
“Suit yourself. I thought it might put some color in your cheeks.” He took several swallows, filling the carriage with the scent of scotch. “Better.” Roxboro cocked a brow at her and leaned forward. “What? You’re staring at me as if I’ve grown a second head.”
It could have been a drop of wine, not a freckle.
Sophia nodded slowly. Yes. A drop of wine.
“My god, have you hit your head?”
“No, Roxboro,” she snapped. “You’re more the one that stumbles about.”
He sat back, looking somewhat pleased. “Oh good. I didn’t want you fainting during the upcoming blissful celebration,” he drawled, ensuring that Sophia knew the breakfast would be anything but. “Or sliding under the table.” Roxboro’s gaze locked on her mouth for a moment before he looked away.
Sophia paid him no mind. She was too overwhelmed with relief. There was no cause for alarm. None at all. Roxboro had tasted of wine in the Perswick gardens. As they stood conversing by the refreshment table, he’d had a glass of something jewel toned dangling from one hand.
Merely a drop of wine.Nota freckle. Never a freckle.
Lady Brokeburst curtsied. Lord Lacton bowed.She repeated the words like a prayer before taking a deep breath of reassurance to steadyherself. Sophia hadn’t been mistaken. There was only one Duke of Roxboro. It wasn’t as if he had a twin roaming about. Now as to the magnificent kiss after dinner at the Canterbell home, there was an explanation, she only hadn’t thought of it yet.
“I am merely wondering if you’ll stumble up the stairs of your own home.”
Roxboro let out a bark of laughter. “I’m not foxed, my lady. Not yet, at any rate. Last night was another matter.” He took another swallow before placing the flask once more into his coat pocket. “I was rejoicing at our upcoming nuptials.”
“Splendid.”
He shifted in the seat across from her, eyes lingering over her mouth once more until the air between them grew thick, buffeting along Sophia’s limbs. He’d pinned her against the tree trunk and kissed Sophia as if he…hungered for her. Warm bergamot surrounded her, just as it did now, drowning out any hint of spirits.
Bergamot. But he hadn’t smelled of—
Sophia pushed the unwanted thought aside because…well, it was impossible. She was only suffering from nerves as any woman forced to wed a feckless sot of a duke might be.
“Well, here we are,” Roxboro said as the carriage rolled to a stop before an enormous brick home. She’d barely noticed when Papa dragged her here to confront the duke, but now she took in the duke’s residence with fresh eyes. The house, more mansion, stretched nearly the length of the street and was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Blooms spilled from boxes situated beneath every window. Two towering Italian cypress, not a leaf out of place, guarded either side of the massive black door.
“What is wrong with you?” Roxboro said as he stepped carefully out of the carriage.
A footman came forward and bowed to Sophia. “Your Grace, welcome home.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sophia’s uncertainty overRoxboro, the freckle that might have not been a freckle, the bloody bergamot scent that seemed infused into his skin now, but hadn’t been the night of at the Perswick ball and that…kiss, persisted during the entirety of the wedding breakfast.
The panic would grow by leaps and bounds, then dissipate, only to return more forcefully moments later. The sense that something was…wrongpersisted. Sophia stared at Roxboro’s nose for so long while toying with her poached chicken, he finally leaned towards her and asked ifshewas foxed.
“That is more your area of expertise, Your Grace,” she said, trying to avoid looking at his nose.
“Just so,” Roxboro gave her a roguish wink. “A rather pleasant state of being. I’m well on my way.” His mood was…friendly today, which left Sophia even more unsettled. She’d expected Roxboro might ignore her. Or be unkind.
A glass of scotch remained at her husband’s elbow the entire meal, never once allowed to go empty. Whenever the amber liquid dipped, even slightly, Lord Damon would wave for one of the footmen to refill his nephew’s glass.
