Married to a Stranger. Louise Allen

her, his air of abstraction quite gone.

      ‘A wife?’ Sophia found herself caught by his eyes, eyes that seemed now to see nothing but her.

      ‘A wife. I wondered if you would do me the honour, Sophia?’

       Chapter Two

      ‘Me?’ Sophia’s surprise was almost comical. For a moment she gaped at him and Cal wondered whether he had made a mistake and she was not the intelligent and poised young woman he had thought six months ago. Then she shut her mouth—her wide and generous mouth—thought for a moment and asked, ‘Why should you wish to marry me, Mr Chatterton?’

      Ah, yes, the intelligence was there, and the courage. Her chin had come up; she was taken aback, almost alarmed by his unexpected proposal, but she was not going to allow him to fluster her. He recalled the first time he had seen her after he had returned home. He had been half-drowned, battered, bruised, hoarse with shouting through the long, desperate night for the brother whom the sea had taken, and he had been in no state to be gentle with her.

      Sophia had fainted when he’d told her the news, but when she had recovered her senses she had been calm, undemanding and firm with her mother who was indulging in hysterics. From the depths of his own misery Cal had found himself unable to care very much about Sophia and her feelings, only to be grateful for her restraint and the way she retreated behind the mask of the civilised things that one says and does to somehow hold the wild expressions of grief at bay.

      He told her a little of what had happened and he had been unprepared for the generosity of her response when she could well be blaming him for failing to save her betrothed.

      ‘I was on the deck, Daniel was in one of the boats, helping the women down,’ he had explained. ‘A great wave took it. I could not find him.’

      ‘You went in? You tried to save him?’ she had asked in horror. In her wide eyes he saw again images of tumultuous seas, of darkness and rocks, and heard rending timber and screams.

      ‘Of course.’ Cal recalled staring at her blankly. ‘Of course I did.’

      ‘Please.’ She had reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers burning hot against the chill of his skin. ‘You must get warm or you will take a fever.’ Weeks later, as the deep cold inside him had begun to thaw, he had recalled that touch, her instinct to comfort and nurture instead of demanding comfort herself.

      Other memories had come back as he learned to live with his loss and to remember Dan. He had nagged his brother to remake his will when he was putting his own affairs in order and Dan had been evasive. He would get round to it, he promised. Nothing was going to happen to him, after all. He had shrugged off all the illnesses that India could throw at a man, had missed being bitten, stung, eaten or mauled by the assorted lethal wildlife—what was Cal worrying about? Besides, if anything did happen, his twin would look after Sophia, he knew that.

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Cal had agreed. ‘I would care for her as though she were my own, I swear it. But even so—’ But Dan had not done anything about his will and then, when it had come to it, Cal had done nothing to help Sophia. He had been sunk in grief and shock and with a black hole where the consciousness of his twin had been for his entire life. As he recovered that promise came back, niggling at his conscience.

      He pulled himself back to the present and the young woman in her drab gown who watched him from behind wary blue eyes. She had grown and filled out from the scrap of a girl he remembered almost ten years ago, but she was still too slender, too pale.

      ‘I found myself looking forward for the first time in months and I thought it time I married. I am almost twenty-eight, I have estates now to consider as well as a career that involves entertaining. A wife seemed … logical.’ Dull, perhaps, after the high-fliers who had been warming his bed and helping fill the long night hours when he would prefer not to sleep, and certainly not to dream.

      ‘I can see that,’ Sophia said, a trifle tartly. ‘But why me? You are the brother of an earl, you are in London where you may meet any number of eligible young ladies who, if you will pardon my frankness, will have several more childbearing years ahead of them than I have. I assume an heir is one of your considerations when you talk about estates?’

      He liked the sharpness, her honesty, and answered in kind. ‘I had not thought of a long engagement. We could, as it were, make up some lost time.’ She caught his meaning, blushed, but her mouth twitched. Sophia possessed a sense of humour, then.

      ‘I repeat,’ she persisted with a frown of reproof, ‘why should you want to marry me? The Season might be over, but I cannot believe you could not find a wife in London if you are minded to marry soon.’

      ‘I think you would be very suitable. And I feel it my duty,’ he stated. ‘Daniel would expect it. I promised to look after you and I have neglected that in my own grief.’ This was the woman Dan had once loved, however carelessly.

      ‘What?’ Sophia interjected. ‘No! It was a tragedy and an accident and no one owes me anything. And I do not expect anything either—least of all to marry you, Callum Chatterton. You never showed the slightest interest in me when we were younger.’

      Sophia got to her feet, her cheeks flaming, a martial glint in her eye. Cal stood too, but made no move to touch her. She was mortified, he could see, and hurt pride was making her angry. Animation improved her looks, he thought, even as he tried to repair the damage of his bald statement.

      ‘I am proposing a … shall we call it a marriage of convenience?’

      ‘It is very noble of you,’ she said. And he felt a momentary flicker of admiration for the way she controlled herself. She had dignity as well as courage, he thought and then saw her expression waver into uncertainty. ‘Let me understand. Do you mean that you would not want to … I mean, that you would not expect to share my bed?’

      ‘Why, certainly I would want to share your bed and make love to you in it, Sophia.’ The blue eyes widened. Was she completely unaroused, completely innocent? How very interesting. And stimulating. He had so far been seeking the company of the skilled and the sophisticated, but an innocent wife would be just as distracting provided the essential sensuality was there.

      She recovered her composure with visible effort. ‘Forgive me if I cannot find it in myself to accept such a flattering offer.’

      ‘I think you have more common sense than to accept some romantic flummery from me,’ he said drily. ‘I could protest feelings that we both know I do not have, any more than I expect them from you. But let us be frank. I assume you have not taken some vow of chastity.’ The haughty look became a frown. ‘So who will you marry now? Some country squire? The curate? Instead you could be the sister-in-law of an earl and have the comfortable life I will give you.’

      ‘Let us leave aside what I might gain from such a match,’ Sophia said, her back turned to him as she stared out over the untidy garden. ‘What possible benefit could it be to you to marry a woman of my age without influence or wealth, other than to salve your conscience? Any wife will warm your bed as well as I.’

      He should stop teasing her. ‘I would gain a wife with elegance of manner, intelligence, courage and poise,’ Cal said. Her cheek, all he could see of her face, became peony pink. He was laying it on rather thick—she hardly looked elegant in that gown. ‘I would have the satisfaction of knowing I have done as my twin would have wished.’ He hesitated, then decided that he owed her frankness, if nothing else.

      ‘I do not look for a love match. If I am to be honest, I do not think myself capable of that kind of total emotional commitment any longer. I feel, since the wreck, that part of me has been ripped away. You knew us both once, you showed some understanding of how a twin must feel—I wonder if you can comprehend that now I do not think I will ever be able to love anyone wholeheartedly again. Not my brother, and not a woman.’

      Sophia moved away, her movements jerky, and came to rest with one hand grasping the frame of the door. She did not speak.

      ‘With