Read Online Never Courted, Suddenly Wed by Christi Caldwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Christi Caldwell
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their family’s machinations.
As a bachelor, Geoffrey must have commiserated with Christopher’s awkward situation for he neatly steered the conversation in another direction. “Waxham, I understand you are to be congratulated on fleecing Lord Whitmore of his stables.”
Christopher shifted in his seat, seeming equally uncomfortable with the new topic for discussion.
Sophie’s ears perked up. Lord Whitmore was a reprehensible dandy. Yet, it was inexcusable to relieve the gentleman of his entire stables.
Mother gave Geoffrey a pointed look. “It is not the thing to discuss gaming with ladies present.”
“Oh, come. I think Waxham is to be commended,” Geoffrey said to Mother. He directed his attention at Christopher once again. “If there is truth to the rumors, you are now in possession of two Friesian and three thoroughbreds?”
“It is actually three Friesian,” the marquess interjected for his son. “Then there is the white Arabian. Isn’t that right, Christopher?”
Christopher picked up his wine and took a long sip. “That’s correct.” His voice sounded curiously flat.
Sophie frowned at his detachment.
He must have felt her harsh stare for he looked at her. “I gather by the creases at the corners of your eyes and the frown upon your lips that you disapprove.”
“I do not have creases at my eyes,” she said automatically. “And I don’t approve of anyone who uses their skillset at cards to exploit another’s weakness.”
His eyes narrowed. He leaned close and she immediately sank from him. Her heart hammered wildly at the muscle that throbbed at the corner of his hard, firm lips. “First, Whitmore chose to partake in cards. He was free to leave the table at any time. Second,” he dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Unless you know all the details, Miss Winters, I suggest you avoid speaking in absolutes.” Christopher refocused his attention on his meal, promptly dismissing Sophie.
He didn’t speak another word to her. Sophie didn’t know why his disregard should fill her with this keen disappointment and breathed a sigh of relief when the meal neared its conclusion.
At last, Mother clapped her hands. “Shall we retire to the parlor? Sophie will regale us with a song upon the pianoforte.”
Sophie’s relief died a swift death. “No!” The refusal burst from her with such vehemence that four pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction. She cleared her throat. “That is, I’d rather not play this evening.” She glared over at her mother, whose lips pursed with a clear desire to protest.
The last thing Sophie wanted was to subject herself to the humiliation of performing like a small child for the marquess and his son. Her mind traveled back to the first time she’d played in front of Christopher. She’d been a girl of seven; he’d been nearly five and ten years. Sophie had wanted nothing more than to play with her doll, Penelope but Mother insisted Sophie play the pianoforte for the Marquess of Milford. She’d played not even three notes when Christopher had beat his hand against his leg and roared with laughter.
It was the last time she’d played for an audience.
Her brother, in attempt to cut the palpable tension, directed his attention toward Christopher. “My sister is quite accomplished on the pianoforte. Aren’t you, Sophie?”
Christopher’s gaze landed on her.
Perhaps she should smile and show her teeth after all. It would be a good deal more direct than this game young ladies were forced to put on for the sake of a marital match. “I’m not playing, Geoffrey.”
Mother cleared her throat. “She’s just being modest.”
Sophie shook her head. “No, no I’m not.” She held her brother’s gaze in a silent battle of the wills.
Geoffrey shoved back his chair and stood. “You’ll play.” He directed his attention to his guests. “Why don’t we retire to the parlor?”
She opened her mouth to labor the point when Christopher climbed to his feet.
As a bachelor, Geoffrey must have commiserated with Christopher’s awkward situation for he neatly steered the conversation in another direction. “Waxham, I understand you are to be congratulated on fleecing Lord Whitmore of his stables.”
Christopher shifted in his seat, seeming equally uncomfortable with the new topic for discussion.
Sophie’s ears perked up. Lord Whitmore was a reprehensible dandy. Yet, it was inexcusable to relieve the gentleman of his entire stables.
Mother gave Geoffrey a pointed look. “It is not the thing to discuss gaming with ladies present.”
“Oh, come. I think Waxham is to be commended,” Geoffrey said to Mother. He directed his attention at Christopher once again. “If there is truth to the rumors, you are now in possession of two Friesian and three thoroughbreds?”
“It is actually three Friesian,” the marquess interjected for his son. “Then there is the white Arabian. Isn’t that right, Christopher?”
Christopher picked up his wine and took a long sip. “That’s correct.” His voice sounded curiously flat.
Sophie frowned at his detachment.
He must have felt her harsh stare for he looked at her. “I gather by the creases at the corners of your eyes and the frown upon your lips that you disapprove.”
“I do not have creases at my eyes,” she said automatically. “And I don’t approve of anyone who uses their skillset at cards to exploit another’s weakness.”
His eyes narrowed. He leaned close and she immediately sank from him. Her heart hammered wildly at the muscle that throbbed at the corner of his hard, firm lips. “First, Whitmore chose to partake in cards. He was free to leave the table at any time. Second,” he dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Unless you know all the details, Miss Winters, I suggest you avoid speaking in absolutes.” Christopher refocused his attention on his meal, promptly dismissing Sophie.
He didn’t speak another word to her. Sophie didn’t know why his disregard should fill her with this keen disappointment and breathed a sigh of relief when the meal neared its conclusion.
At last, Mother clapped her hands. “Shall we retire to the parlor? Sophie will regale us with a song upon the pianoforte.”
Sophie’s relief died a swift death. “No!” The refusal burst from her with such vehemence that four pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction. She cleared her throat. “That is, I’d rather not play this evening.” She glared over at her mother, whose lips pursed with a clear desire to protest.
The last thing Sophie wanted was to subject herself to the humiliation of performing like a small child for the marquess and his son. Her mind traveled back to the first time she’d played in front of Christopher. She’d been a girl of seven; he’d been nearly five and ten years. Sophie had wanted nothing more than to play with her doll, Penelope but Mother insisted Sophie play the pianoforte for the Marquess of Milford. She’d played not even three notes when Christopher had beat his hand against his leg and roared with laughter.
It was the last time she’d played for an audience.
Her brother, in attempt to cut the palpable tension, directed his attention toward Christopher. “My sister is quite accomplished on the pianoforte. Aren’t you, Sophie?”
Christopher’s gaze landed on her.
Perhaps she should smile and show her teeth after all. It would be a good deal more direct than this game young ladies were forced to put on for the sake of a marital match. “I’m not playing, Geoffrey.”
Mother cleared her throat. “She’s just being modest.”
Sophie shook her head. “No, no I’m not.” She held her brother’s gaze in a silent battle of the wills.
Geoffrey shoved back his chair and stood. “You’ll play.” He directed his attention to his guests. “Why don’t we retire to the parlor?”
She opened her mouth to labor the point when Christopher climbed to his feet.
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