As the meal progressed it was obvious that his anxiety about finding topics of conversation was misplaced. Sophia progressed smoothly through remarks on the weather, speculation about the latest news on the royal family, some amusing anecdotes about their country neighbours and solicitous enquiries about the hour at which he preferred to take breakfast.
It was pleasant, easy and just a trifle dull. He rather suspected that he was being managed. Cal dragged his thoughts away from their uncomfortably jumbled wanderings between Company business and erotic fantasies, and exerted himself to take an active part.
When the merits of the almond tartlets had been adequately discussed Sophia nodded to Andrew to assist with her chair and rose. ‘I will leave you to your port, Mr Chatterton.’
‘I will be with you directly, Mrs Chatterton,’ Cal countered, getting to his feet as she left the room. One glass, that was all. A man’s wedding night was no time to be lingering over the port.
But he did linger, twisting the stem of the glass round and round as he watched the candlelight shine through the blood-red liquid and the wine sloshed against the sides like waves on a miniature sea. Blood-red waves. Chance and the power of nature meant he was alive and here and Dan was gone. And the woman in the room beyond who was behaving with such impeccable good manners had lost the man she loved and had got him in his place.
Cal tossed back the wine and reached for the decanter. His wedding night. Well, at least he felt confident about that aspect of this marriage. When he had kissed her at Long Welling Sophia had trembled in his arms—and it had been with desire, not fear. But she was an innocent and a sheltered one at that. He would just have one more glass while he considered how best to go about it.
Sophia decided that Callum’s idea of ‘directly’ was not hers. She sat and waited in the elegant, dull drawing room for half an hour, then allowed herself to feel annoyed. That did have the benefit of giving her something to think about beyond her nerves and wondering if she was going to enjoy Callum’s lovemaking.
It was all well and good if she did, but he would not be expecting her to enjoy it, would he? She had been, he believed, in love with his brother. She could hardly confess to a man mourning Daniel that until she had seen Callum she had had to look at his brother’s portrait to remind herself what he had looked like and that she had fallen out of love with him years ago. To experience raptures in Callum’s arms would make her seem either improperly wanton or lacking in respect to his brother. He would know she had married him under false pretences.
The clock chimed. Not that she would be experiencing anything at all, let alone rapture, if he did not emerge from the dining room soon. Was it normal for a new husband to sit alone drinking port at such a time? Sophia got to her feet, crossed the hallway to the dining-room door and applied her ear to the panel. There was the distinct ching of a decanter stopper being carelessly replaced.
Sophia lifted one hand, touched the door handle and then withdrew it. No, she would not go in and ask when he was joining her, she was going to bed. That would demonstrate either a suitable reticence or her irritation at being kept waiting, however he chose to take it.
She did not have to ring for Chivers. She was in the bedchamber when she reached it. Sophia thought the maid was exhibiting considerably more excitement about the occasion than the mistress, judging by the young woman’s smile and the way she fussed around undressing Sophia. She submitted to a spray of scent, to a fetching ribbon in her hair and to having the bowls of roses set either side of the bed because it would have seemed strange not to expect the attention, tonight of all nights. She had no desire to start rumours about her marriage in the Servants’ Hall.
‘Such a pretty nightgown,’ Chivers murmured, giving the sleeves a final tweak as Sophia settled back against the heaped pillows. ‘I’ll wait until you ring in the morning, ma’am, before I bring up your chocolate. Goodnight, ma’am.’
Presumably she was now expected to recline here, every ringlet in place, a shy smile on her lips, until her husband deigned to arrive. That paled after ten minutes. Defiantly Sophia picked up a novel from the bedside table and began to read.
‘My dear?’ Callum stood in the doorway clad in a red robe. Something about his stance warned her that he had been there some time.
‘Callum.’ Her breathing was suddenly all over the place. Sophia wriggled back up from her comfortable huddle and pulled off the dangling ribbon that had slid down to the end of its lock of hair. She made rather a business of re-tying it. ‘Have you been there long?’
‘Long enough to see you are engrossed. What are you reading?’ He closed the door and began to snuff out the candles on the dressing table and mantelshelf, leaving the branches on either side of the bed burning. The shadows flickered and the darkness closed around them, stranding the bed in an intimate island of light, cut off from the rest of the world.
‘A novel.’ Sophia put it back on the table and dropped a handkerchief over it. ‘Just nonsense.’
Callum sat on the edge of the bed, right against her hip, and picked it up the book. His robe gaped at the neck to reveal bare skin and dark hair. Sophia swallowed. Her apprehension flooded back.
‘The Husband and Wife, or, the Matrimonial Martyr by Mrs Bridget Bluemantle,’ he read out. ‘Engrossing nonsense, apparently—you are halfway through volume three.’
‘You object to novel reading?’ Sophia sat up straighter, prepared to do battle to defend her books.
‘Not at all, and I am not the kind of husband who insists on regulating his wife’s reading. But the title does not argue much optimism about the married state, which is lowering, considering why I am here.’ She could not decide whether he was serious or teasing her. His profile as he looked down at the book gave nothing away.
‘I had decided you were not coming,’ she retorted, remembering her grievance.
‘And that was a relief?’ Callum stood up and shrugged off the robe with his back towards her. She had been right: he was wearing nothing beneath it. Her gaze slid over broad shoulders, narrow waist, smooth skin marked by small scars on his left shoulder and a sickle-shaped mole on his right hip. She had never seen a naked adult male before. The classical statues at the Hall looked like this, but they were not moving, nor did their muscles shift intriguingly under skin that was a pale gold in the candlelight. Sophia clenched her hands on the edge of the coverlet to stop herself reaching out and caressing the taut curve of his buttocks. He would think her beyond all modesty if she did that.
Then he began to turn and she shut her eyes as well. There was only so much she could cope with, she thought, biting her lip against a gasp of nervous laughter. And the statues had fig leaves.
The edge of the bed dipped. She moved over to the right-hand side to give him room and took the bedspread with her before she remembered to loosen her grip on the edge. She had to say something; he had asked her a question. ‘A relief? No, of course not. After all, the worst is soon over, isn’t it?’ Perhaps that was not the most tactful way to put it.
There was silence from the other side of the bed, then Callum said drily, ‘I would hope so. I have never slept with a virgin before.’
‘Good. I mean, I am sure you have not.’
There was the sound of breathing, close to her ear. How had Callum moved without her realising? Sophia opened her eyes just in time to see the heat and intent in his eyes as he bent to kiss her and then she was swept up in the kiss, just as she had been at Long Welling.
He expects me to enjoy his lovemaking, she told herself. It is hopeless to pretend I do not wish to. Her arms went around Callum’s neck and she found herself shifting to cradle his weight over her. Through the thin silk his aroused body was explicit against hers.
‘This delightful nightgown is very much in the way,’ he murmured in her ear, accompanying the words with tiny flicks of his tongue.