Illusion. Emily French
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this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony....”
Seth was conscious of the slight figure standing at his side. Whoever heard of a bride wearing mourning black—and red roses? Not exactly proper. In fact, downright unconventional! Like a reflection on water, his first impressions of Sophy were beginning to waver.
That sort of picture did tend to ignore the small irregularities. A dangerous mistake. Although it was only a tiny error in the mental image of her that he had fashioned, it bothered Seth.
A seasoned campaigner, he knew little mistakes, small pieces missing in the puzzle, could lead to much bigger and more dangerous miscalculations. There were still too many unknowns in the mystery that was Sophy van Houten.
No. Sophy Weston. He made a quick adjustment in his mental construct of his bride. His bride. Hell, what on earth was he doing here? It was too late now to get out of it, but he had a feeling that someone had set a trap for him and he had fallen into it.
“Wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband... for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer... in sickness and in health... to love, honor and obey... ?”
Confusion and a strange kind of fear thudded with Sophy’s heart, which was pumping in quite an uncertain manner. As Seth’s fingers closed over hers, her insides churned and she felt a deep throbbing wave of excitement. It was startling and disturbing to react as strongly as this to his touch.
I shouldn’t be here, she thought, staring blindly at the preacher. She knew nothing of love, so it wasn’t so bad that they didn’t love each other. Seth was marryring for security and she was making a respectable bargain, the kind many women in her position struck. It was just that she felt uneasy. Besides, it was too late now to change her mind.
Sophy felt a moment of panic, and her throat was so tight that the “I will” demanded of her would hardly come out.
There! It was done! She was married to Seth Weston.
Seth Weston...
He stood beside her, in stiff military style, a soldier girded for battle. She heard his responses, firm, strong and, in some way, completely impersonal.
Somehow, that bothered her. An unaccountable tension gripped her. She felt as though she were standing on the brink of a very wide, very deep chasm.
“—what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Lost in thought, Sophy scarcely realized the ceremony had concluded. Seth, too, stood as if made of stone, not moving, staring into space. The silence was awkward.
Finally, Cousin Pieter, who had acted as groomsman, gestured toward Sophy. “Go ahead and kiss the bride, Seth.”
Sophy was overwhelmingly conscious of the tall, powerful figure at her side. Face aflame, she forced herself to meet her husband’s eyes. A quickening shivered through her middle. She attempted a smile, but her mouth felt soft, tremulous.
The deep glow in his eyes was suddenly so intense that she was forced to look away or be scorched by the heat. Why was he looking at her that way? It was vaguely unnerving, and it took a great deal of courage not to step back. Instead, her small, pointed chin rose in challenge.
Seth paled considerably. He drew in his breath sharply, and his eyes blazed with the sizzling heat of a lightning bolt. Then he appeared to reach a decision. Sophy had the feeling that he always made decisions that way, quickly and surely.
What would it be like to be kissed by him? Sophy’s eyes widened. She knew he was going to kiss her, and she knew she wanted him to.
Yet, at the same time, she felt trapped, unnerved by the strange feelings coursing through her. The quickening rippled outward from her belly, into her limbs.
I can’t, she thought in panic. She sucked in a quick breath, and turned her head sideways. Seth’s breath was soft and warm in her ear and she felt chills on her arms as his moist lips landed just above her earlobe.
Sophy could see the sudden flush on his cheekbones, and his blue eyes seemed to see right through her head. Crystal eyes, frost eyes. And they were filled with a brilliance that subtly invaded her being, causing her to shiver, to remember that her first impression of him had told her that he could be a dangerous man.
She watched Seth’s mouth draw downward, his weight shift to one hip, heard his intake of breath, which mocked her.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. Weston. My aim is not what it was.” There was something slightly contemptuous, or was it scorn, in his tone? She looked up at him and saw in his eyes an almost blazing anger that was quite unmistakable.
Startled by the extent of his reaction, Sophy’s throat tightened on a sudden urge to cry out. She had not intended any offense. It was merely a spur-of-the-moment act of self-defense. So why did she suddenly remember one of Aunt Ella’s maxims? Who digs a pit shall fall therein.
Chapter Three
“Teatime, Sophy.”
Intent on her work, Sophy was busy cleaning out the numerous drawers of her tall Empire secretary. She gave the maid a quick smile.
“Put it on the table, thanks, Tessa. I’ll join you in a minute, Aunt Ella. I’m just about finished here.”
Boxes of books and papers, all precisely wrapped and labeled Mrs. Seth Weston, were neatly stacked, awaiting the removers.
Mrs. Seth Weston.
She frowned. What a mess, a frightening, overwhelming mess her life had become. Nothing was going as planned. Even her wedding day had not gone as anticipated. It seemed as though she had taken a wrong turn and, without warning, found herself on the lip of a great abyss.
From that moment in the church when Seth had faced her, his eyes twin blue flames, the marriage had been a debacle. For a shattering second she had been torn between running into her new husband’s arms and running as far away from him as she could.
True, he had been a perfect gentleman. She could not fault his manners. A small smile curving his mouth, he had bowed, brought her hand upward and kissed the delicate flesh on the inside of her wrist, before placing it on his extended arm.
There had been something in that smile that wrung an instant response from her, something intimate that she was too inexperienced to define. Blood-pulsing. Nerve-tingling. As though he knew of, and understood, her dilemma perfectly.
She had groped for something to say before they turned to greet their guests, but it was too late. Whirling in upon itself, her mind paralyzed her tongue, and the moment passed.
Color flowed under her skin, staining her cheeks a dull pink at the memory. She’d been scared by that kiss! Terrified by the churning inside her. In vain she tossed the memory aside, but perfunctory though the gesture might have been, the spot he kissed still tingled and throbbed.
Tossing a sheaf of notes into the wastepaper basket, Sophy had the uncomfortable feeling that she had been outmaneuvered. It was difficult to recall, even now.
Dredging it up was like opening the edges of a slowly healing wound and probing for the nerve. Although he held her arm, she had not dared to look at him. She was conscious of his nearness, conscious, too, that he was tense.
The relief was there in her eyes when a servant had handed Seth a telegraph. She knew it, but couldn’t disguise the emotion when he paused in the act of reading the message, and met her eyes very directly. His blue eyes narrowed, he explained he had to leave for Chicago immediately.
That had been two weeks ago. The days had passed for Sophy in a flurry of activity as heavy trunks were filled to overflowing. Seth had decreed that Richard Carlton, his New York agent, would give any assistance she might need.
“Drink your tea, Sophy. You’re looking quite pale.”
Aunt Ella sat on the edge of the settee, ramrod stiff. Sophy’s ceaseless activity was disturbing to say the least.
“If