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He rested his forehead against hers. She was right. His Sophy would have fought against that with her last breath. “I have much to make up to you for, Sophy.”
“We have the rest of our lives.” She cupped his cheek, her fingers stroking his skin, her lips against his jaw.
“My father doesn’t believe in love, not the sort that we have.”
“You are not your father, Harry.” She kissed him again, little soothing kisses, and he sighed.
He closed his eyes, allowing her to touch him, kiss him, but his thoughts were still dark. Sophy was true and so had he been, until he saw her with that man in Lambeth, and then he had turned his back on her. His father’s lies had worked their way into his heart and soul, and he hadn’t even realised it. How many times had he heard him denigrate the women he used for his own pleasure? Drawing a line between them and the sort of woman a gentleman should marry. And to his father, Sophy had always been firmly in the former camp. Harry knew now he had learned his own bias from the cradle.
Had the doubt in his heart started as far back as the night Sophy and he lay together in the heart of Pendleton and she had stepped down from the pedestal he had always kept her on? His Sophy might have been an innocent but she was curious and not shy at all when it came to touching him, showing him that she wanted him. For some reason he had expected her to weep and break into pieces when he had her, and instead she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the experience. If that was the case then he was more of a fool than he had thought.
What man would not want the woman of his dreams to desire him as much as he did her? He wanted to blame his mistake on his unhappy childhood, the skewed vision he had of women that came from his father, but in the end, Harry could only blame himself.
Sophy’s breath warmed his throat, and he held her tight. When she fell asleep at last he settled her against his chest, wrapping a blanket tightly around them, and stared at the window and the passing countryside. The confrontation to come was one he should have had years ago.
His father had always been a towering figure in his life. Someone he loathed and loved, admired and despised, all at the same time. They were alike in many ways but he would never do the things that had been done to him. His children would be treated very differently, and loved … God, yes, he would love them so much.
You are not your father, Harry.
Harry smiled as Sophy stirred in his arms, stroking a fingertip across her cheek. That was all he really needed to hear. He was not his father, and whatever happened at Pendleton, he reminded himself that he would still have her. He would still have the greatest prize of all and this time nothing his father did or said could take her away from him.
Chapter 31
SOPHY
Pendleton Manor, Oxfordshire, England
Harry strode straight through the door, ignoring the surprised greetings of the servants, his face closed and focused.
Sophy lingered behind, thinking to let him have his time with Sir Arbuthnot alone, but he stopped and turned.
“Come.” He reached out his hand in that imperious manner.
Sophy took it and the next thing she knew he was pulling her along behind him, up the stairs towards his father’s bedroom.
“Harry, perhaps it would be best to wait. Harry?”
He didn’t answer her, other than to tighten his grip on her hand. Pendleton was a mishmash of old and new, and this was one of the oldest parts of the manor. The narrow corridor went up and down stairs, and turned a corner before it stopped. Harry’s fingers clenched and then he closed them around the handle and flung the door open without even knocking.
Sir Arbuthnot was sitting up in bed, a bowl of soup on a tray beside him, a napkin tucked into his nightshirt. The room smelt of sickness and long occupation, and although the drapes were drawn the windows were closed.
Sophy hadn’t seen this man for years. Some part of her noted he was thinner, his face aged and lined with pain and frustration. For a man like Sir Arbuthnot his current circumstances must be hard to bear. She was glad. She hated him for what he had done to her and her father, to her and Harry. There had been times during the past three years when she had wished him dead. He had destroyed her life because Harry would not put her aside, or use her as his father used women he deemed less worthy.
She had imagined confronting him like this, raging at him … and yet now she saw him, so different to the ogre in her memory, she felt her desire for revenge falter.
“Harry?” he said, his voice slightly slurred. One half of his face was drawn down, part of the consequence of his turn. For an instant joy lit up his eyes, so like his son’s, and then he spotted her.
Harry barely paused. Sophy could see his face was flushed with anger and determination. He let her hand go and strode across the room to the bedside, which had documents spread over it. Papers from the running of the estate she assumed. Sir Arbuthnot might be bedridden but he remained in charge. She reminded herself that he might still find a way to destroy her newly found happiness and her vengeful heart rallied again.
She came forward and stood beside Harry.
“I know what you did,” Harry said, his voice was low with raw emotion. Sophy felt his arm tremble as she leaned in close to him, resting her body against his.
Sir Arbuthnot’s dark eyes were back on his son’s face, taking him in. Then they moved to Sophy, and narrowed. She saw all that he was at that moment, and it frightened her.
“What did I do?” he said seemingly without concern, but his gaze was watchful. His hair stood up as if it needed a good comb, but otherwise he was shaven and cared for. No neglect here, she knew Harry wouldn’t have stood for it. Despite everything his father had done he was still the dutiful son.
“I know what you did to George Harcourt. He never stole from you. You loaned him money and then you accused him of stealing it so you could get rid of him. You waited until I was at Langley Hall and then you destroyed that man’s life, all so you could get rid of the girl I loved.”
