Sophia’s mouth popped open. “Roxboro,” she protested.
“Alexander. Turn around.” He leaned closer, nose trailing along her neck. “Please. So that I may take off this dress. Or I can rip it off if you prefer. In either case, it is coming off.”
“You’ve been ill,” she said weakly.
Roxboro cocked his head, a curl falling across his brow. “Not entirely true. I’ve been pretending for the last few days, hoping you’d rush to my aid. Which you did not. I’m greatly disappointed, Sophie.”
“You—” she stammered as his hands ran up and down her body. “Did climb from the tub with a great deal of surprising agility.”
“Do you not desire me, Sophie?” His hands stopped their roaming, all his teasing tucked away. Fingers twisted the buttons at her back, but went no further. “Am I wrong?” There was an odd note in his tone. “Because I have felt it for quite some time, though I didn’t wish it. Nor expect it.” He pressed his forehead to her back. “It consumes me.” His palm landed on her stomach. “Do you not feel it? That we are meant to be together?” There was pleading in his tone.
“But you won’t be able to annul the marriage, Alexander,” she half-sobbed, blinking away a tear. “If we do this. Our marriage forced upon you.”
“Sophie.”
“I—knew,” she announced loudly.
A sigh came from him, his clever fingers moving once more to make short work of the buttons trailing down her back. “I see.”
The dress slipped over her shoulders.
“I realized it wasn’t you,” she said in a rush, desperate for him to understand. “Not the night of the Perswick ball but…when you kissed me after dining with my parents. And again, when we stood before the vicar because there was no bloody freckle,” she wailed. “I should have stopped the wedding. Recanted. Right there in front of the vicar and all of London.”
Fingers brushed along the edges of her corset. Tugging at the strings. He didn’t even struggle with the ties. “You aren’t listening to me.”
“I am,” he hummed against her neck.
“It would have been terrible for me, recanting at the altar and an enormous embarrassment for my family. I am Lord Canterbell’s daughter, after all. But your uncle would have been overjoyed. You would have been pleased. But I couldn’t—I’d been so sure and then I was not. Because of the freckle. And it all seems rather impossible. The other guestssawyou.”
“Shush, Sophie.” His arms went around her, nose in the crook of her neck.
“And I was afraid.” Sophia tried to push him away, knowing she would lose him now. How could she not? “To make such an insane declaration.”
Roxboro turned her to face him.
“I couldn’t imagine anyone had the audacity to go about London pretending to be you, Roxboro,” she pleaded. “Who would be brave enough to do such a thing, with no worry of being caught?”
“Alexander.”
“And how does this man look so much like you? Lady Brokeburst,” Sophia stepped over her corset which had fallen to the rug. “She curtseyed to him. Lord Lacton bowed and addressed him as Your Grace.”
“I agree it is a mystery.” Roxboro stood naked and stunning before her, watching as she stormed about in her chemise with a bemused look. “One we will need to look into further but not at present.”
“And of course, the freckle. I hadn’t really looked at your nose until we stood before the vicar. There was no freckle.” Sophia threwup her hands.
“I was wondering when we’d get back to the freckle. Come. Here.”
“You had one at the ball. A freckle.” A surprised gasp came from her as Roxboro grabbed Sophia around the waist. “Just on the end.” She pointed with her finger. “And now you do not.”
“Is that why you were staring at me all through the wedding breakfast like I was some bloody insect? I did wonder.”
“I convinced myself it was a drop of wine,” she tried to explain as his fingers plucked at her chemise. “But there is no wine at The Pillory.” She let out a small whimper. Not from distress but because Roxboro was tearing at the thin layer of cotton covering her.
“I hate wine,” he finished. “I would never drink it, not even were I dying of thirst. Because I did once—and it soured my stomach for all time.”
“It reminds you of the cold. And being…trapped.”
Roxboro grunted. “I should sack Barstow. Now, I suppose I can rip off your underthings. I’d rather enjoy that.”
