Free The Stolen Bride by Jo Beverley Page B

and her time since in London at her brother’s house. He spiced the dialogue with interesting anecdotes from his less disreputable adventures. She knew herself to be blossoming, conversing with animation and frequently genuinely amused.
    She could not be unaware, however, that ahead of them Sophie and Randal were quietly arguing.
     
    Sophie was growing too desperate, too pushed for time for subtle approaches, and that note had somehow increased her sense of urgency. “Randal, I need to spend time alone with you,” she said. She saw the refusal on his face and continued, “If you fear you will be overcome with lust, I promise to scream when you start ripping my clothes off.”
    “Sophie, behave yourself,” said Randal, color touching his cheeks and making him even more beautiful.
    Sophie’s teeth gritted painfully. “If you say that to me once more ...”
    He gave a little laugh and tweaked an auburn curl. “I apologize. But really, Sophie, I can’t see why you’ve got this maggot in your head. In little over a week we can be as alone as we please, for as long as we please. It seems worth waiting to me.”
    The picture he had conjured up sent fire through her veins but she brought her feelings ruthlessly under control. “What on earth do you think I’m demanding?” she asked. “Look, we could walk into the picture gallery and leave Verderan to show Mrs. Hawley the china. That gallery has windows all down one side and is lined with your watchful and forbidding ancestors. It would be perfectly proper and,” she said as enticingly as she knew how, “we could be together, just you and I, Randal.”
    They had come to a stop between the door to the gallery and the one to the Etruria Room where the ducal china was displayed. He wound his fingers through hers. It was something, she supposed, draining every drop she could from the feel of his skin. She could almost imagine their blood crossing that thin barrier, weaving them together, heart and soul. It wasn’t enough. It just created a greater hunger.
    “And you would slip into my arms,” he said softly as his thumb gently rubbed the back of her hand. “And you would want to be kissed. And I would kiss you ...” His hand tightened painfully on hers as his voice took on an edge. “And I don’t think my grandfather’s haughty disapproval would matter a damn.”
    That was hunger she saw in his eyes. She locked her fingers in his and made to pull him in the direction of the gallery, but he was stronger and the door to the Etruria Room was closer.
    Beth and Mr. Verderan had tactfully dawdled while the lovers talked. Beth, at least, had hoped that something to the purpose was being said. When they entered the Etruria Room, however, Randal was opening a cupboard to display a singularly horrendous blue Chinese elephant which was used to cool wine. Sophie had a bitter line to her pretty lips and the moistness of tears in her eyes.
    After viewing the china, they strolled in the gardens and then went to the cool blue Adams Room for tea. They were joined there by the marquess, by Lord and Lady Stanforth, and by the Stanforth offspring and his nurse. With a blissful smile, the child toddled straight to Verderan with an offer of a carved horse.
    “No, thank you, brat,” said the man coolly. “I have better of my own.”
    “Horsey,” Stevie informed him seriously.
    “Only in the most general sense.” Stevie thrust the wooden toy at him insistently and Verderan sighed. “If you look behind you, young man, you will see a valuable crystal bowl full of fruit. Why don’t you throw it to the floor and stamp the subsequent mess into the Aubusson carpet.”
    Chloe Stanforth came dashing over. “Mr. Verderan!” she exclaimed, picking up the squirming boy. “I will thank you not to corrupt my child!”
    As she turned away, Stevie set up a screech of deprivation.
    “Seems to me he’s hell-bent on perdition,” murmured Verderan quite audibly.
    The child’s father was