Page 63
“I know, my love.”
Sophia stared at him, her beloved husband. Who was still alive. Impulsively, she leaned forward to kiss him on his perfect lips.
“Are you feeling better?”
She gave a brief nod. “I know you must work with Perry to find my brother, but could you wait? Last night I was so terrified you had been killed, and up until this moment, the only time we have spent together is to sleep. I am weary of dealing with earth-shattering revelations. I need a few quiet moments to stop and rest with you.”
Richard drew her into his arms, holding her close. “Yes,” he murmured softly. “I would like that very much.”
They sat together in silence, Richard picking at the remains of his breakfast while Sophia drank tea. He thought about his earlier declaration of love. Had she heard what he said? Was she pretending he had not revealed his heart to her? Or had she been too distracted to hear him?
Dealing with the emergency that Cecil Hayward created was easier to his state of mind than the nerves that assailed him at the thought that he had announced his feelings—blech—but she said nothing in return. Did she desire his esteem?
This was not the appropriate time to press the matter. Emotions were running too high, while shock was still wearing off after the tragic events of the night before. But the impulse to delve into it anyway was all he could think about.
“Richard?”
He looked up to find Sophia restored to her usual composure. Her blue eyes were calm, and her manner peaceful. Apparently, her request to slow things down and stand still for a moment was exactly what she needed.
“Tell me about your crusade. What have you been doing? I know you found Ethan because of it, but I do not really understand how you have gone about it.”
Richard pulled a face. “Will you still like me if you know the details?”
She extended a hand to cover his own, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. “I will like you more.”
He blew a puff of air and told her. His voice was steady but tinged with regret. He told her how he had composed a list of the women from his past whom he might have wronged, detailing how Johnson and Long had investigated their current circumstances. He explained how he had met with his former companions to offer heartfelt apologies for any irresponsibility on his part, and where it was appropriate, he had provided financial assistance to help them move forward.
He also shared how he had gifted an unentailed property to Ethan’s family as a gesture of gratitude for their kindness in taking in the boy after his mother’s passing.
When Richard finished speaking, he hesitated before finally lifting his gaze to hers, unsure of what he might find. To his relief and astonishment, Sophia was smiling, her eyes filled with warmth and admiration.
“Your crusade is most commendable.”
His spirits lifted at her encouragement. Oh, how he loved this odd female he had married. He could think of no other woman of his acquaintance who would be so gracious about his past mistakes and his clumsy efforts to sort them out. Except for one. You know of one other. Richard squashed the voice in his head. He did not want to think of her. Since the moment of his revelation on the Astleys’ terrace, he had made a point not to think about her.
It was as if Sophia picked the errant thought from his head because her next question was so unnerving that his stomach heaved when she asked it.
“Tell me about your first betrothal?”
Richard sprang to his feet in agitation, knocking over the heavy armchair with the juddering force of his movement. His heart fluttered in his chest, revolting at the subject she wished to discuss. Why did she have to ruin their nice moment?
“I think we should call for the servants. It is time to get dressed and deal with this Cecil debacle, I think.”
“Richard?”
He righted the armchair to distract his thoughts, desperate to find a change of topic, but his mind was a blank. All he could think about was—
“Richard?”
He rubbed his hands over his face, panic setting in before he realized that withheld information had nearly resulted in Sophia being killed last night. That he himself was lucky to be standing there breathing. If he could survive an encounter with a dueling pistol in his own home, then surely he could survive a conversation in the privacy of his wife’s bedchamber about the worst mistake he had ever committed. “Damnit!”
Sophia waited for him, calm and far too understanding. Seething with—what, he did not know—just seething, he reclaimed his seat to stare at the table in front of him. Reaching up to loosen his cravat, he floundered at the recollection that he was dressed in an open-neck cotton nightshirt. He dropped his hand back to the table.
Why was he more afraid to think about what he had done to Annabel than he had been about leaping onto an armed man the night before? It was beyond comprehension how emotions and guilt could eat at one’s soul. Emotions had no force, no tangible mass. Yet they could feel more solid than the walls of a prison, despite their intangible nature.
“Earlier you allowed me to talk. To explain about Cecil. It was not comfortable, but having finally shared the burden of what I have been living with … it helped. I will sit here and wait until you are ready, Richard. I care about you, and it is obvious you need to unburden your conscience. It is important, because we face genuine danger when we leave this room, and I think it best we leave with clear minds so we can operate effectively. For our sake, and the sake of your son upstairs.”
Drat, I need a drink!
