After Innocence (49 page)

A man rose from where he sat on one of the sofas. He nodded curtly at her.

Sofie gaped. “Edward! What are you doing here! How did you get in?”

He did not move, staring at her and Edana. “I let myself in.”

She tensed. “You have a key?”

“This is my suite, remember?”

She was furious—frightened. “You cannot walk in here whenever you damn well choose!”

“No? Edana’s my daughter. I wanted to see her before I go out for the evening.”

Sofie couldn’t help flinching at the thought of him going out—undoubtedly to carouse as bachelors did. Undoubtedly the night would end with him in some promiscuous woman’s arms. “You cannot let yourself in here whenever you feel like it.”

“You’re upsetting the baby. She’s going to cry.”

Sofie shifted Edana. “She’s hungry. Why don’t you come back another time.” Very rudely, she hurried into the master
bedroom, not just closing the door, but locking it as well. Then, beginning to shake, she set about nursing Edana. But all the while she listened for the sound of Edward leaving. She heard nothing. She was quite certain that he waited in the salon.

But waited for what?

She could not help thinking about the wild passion they had shared just that morning. God, it did not seem like eight hours ago. It seemed like days or even weeks had passed since she had been in his powerful arms.

Desperately Sofie wondered what she was going to do. There was no question that the current arrangement was unsatisfactory—more than unsatisfactory. It was heartbreaking.

Edana had fallen asleep. Sofie changed her and put her down in her cradle. She debated remaining in the bedroom until Rachelle returned. Then she marched to the door. They must resolve something.

Edward turned to face her as she entered the salon. He gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit down, Sofie.” He was grim.

She stood on the other side of the pale blue rug, not moving. “What do you want from me?” Her voice was unnaturally high. She was hugging herself.

Edward said quietly, “I didn’t come here to seduce you, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Everything’s bothering me.”

His gaze flicked over her features. “I’m not going to apologize for this morning.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“We have to talk.”

“Yes,” Sofie said as grimly, “we have to talk.”

“Please, sit down.”

Sofie gave in and sat stiffly on the edge of one sofa, her knees together, her spine erect, her hands clasped in her lap. Fortunately Edward could not know how hard and fast her heart beat, or that she perspired. Edward sat down, too. Not on the facing sofa, which was some ten feet distant, but on an ottoman he quickly pulled over. Had he sat any closer, their knees would have touched.
Sofie stared at him, afraid to move, afraid that their knees would touch.

“Why are you so afraid of me?”

“After this morning, you have to ask?”

“That’s not fair and you know it. This morning you were as eager as I. I am sorry for saying such rude things to you afterwards.”

She looked into his blue, long-lashed eyes and thought she saw sincerity shining there. But she had thought him sincere long ago, too, and she had been wrong. “What are we going to do, Edward?”

He held her gaze. “I’m sorry for being abusive afterwards, but I meant it when I said I was not going to let you marry Henry Marten.”

She wet her lips, which were dry. “I realized that.”

“Do you love him, Sofie?”

She shook her head, dropping her gaze. “No,” she said miserably, wanting to tell Edward that it was him she loved, wanting to beg him for his love—wanting to scream and shout at him, why! Why couldn’t he love her back?

“Sofie, you’re living here in my suite, with my child. I have no intention of hiding the fact.”

Her head shot up. “Are you advertising it?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“Yes.”

She was bitter—she was relieved. “You are going to force me into marriage, are you not?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her hand. “You don’t have to resort to such foul tactics. I find I cannot live like this anyway. I will marry you, Edward.”

He started, eyes wide.

“Are you really surprised?” she asked, being brisk to hide her grief.

“Yes, I am. You are a very surprising woman, Sofie. It’s been one surprise after another since we first met.”

She looked away. He spoke as if it were a compliment, as if he found her desirable because of her eccentricities.

“Sofie?” He lifted her chin in his large, warm hand.

Sofie stopped breathing, forced to stare into his eyes.

“I will be a good husband. I swear it.” His eyes blazed with the force of his vow.

She inhaled. She wanted to ask him if he would be faithful—she did not dare. Once, long ago, that day at Delmonico’s, he had told her he could never be faithful to any woman for very long. Unable to speak, she merely nodded.

Edward finally dropped his hand, but his gaze moved over her in a liquid caress.

Sofie’s heart began to pound. Did he expect to take her to bed whenever it suited him, once she became his wife? Or would this be a marriage of convenience? The way he was looking at her left her in little doubt. Yet she could not bear to share his bed from time to time and then suffer his extramarital liaisons. Sofie turned her head away. This was a subject that must be discussed, but it was too painful. Perhaps later—after they were wed.

“When do you want to get married?” he asked.

Sofie blinked a few times determinedly. She shrugged.

Edward picked up her hand. She jerked when she realized that he was sliding the solitaire diamond onto her finger. “What are you doing?” she cried.

“We are engaged, are we not?” His eyes were as hard and bright as the diamond he had just placed on her finger.

Sofie looked from his piercing gaze to the cold, sparkling gem. “You don’t have to do this, Edward,” she managed.

He stood, hands in his pockets. “How about tomorrow?”

She felt sheer panic then. She also stood. “No!”

His smile was twisted. “Then when? The day after? Another week? There is no sense waiting.” His gaze pinned her, daring her to commit treachery—daring her to even try to back out now.

She gulped air, filling both lungs. “H-How about after my solo exhibition?”

“When the hell is that?”

“It’s only another two weeks,” she whispered, her voice unrecognizable.

He nodded abruptly.

Sofie could not hold back another moment, and she burst into tears.

Edward stared.

“I’m s-sorry,” she choked, covering her face with her hands. Wasn’t a marriage, any kind of marriage, as impossible as their current living arrangement? “I don’t know how we will manage.”

Suddenly Edward was standing before her and he pulled her hands from her face. “We will manage,” he gritted, his eyes blazing.

Sofie recoiled.

Edward turned and stalked from the room. A moment later the front door slammed, sounding like thunder before the onslaught of the storm.

Rachelle had not come back yet. Sofie picked up a pen she often used when she did ink and washes. Her hand moved of its own volition. She sketched Edward quickly, his head, his neck and shoulders, just hinting at the power in his broad frame, then she began to detail his face. When his bold gaze looked up at her from the page, she dropped the pen and covered her face with her hands.

Oh, God, she was more in love with him than ever—and it hurt more than ever before, too.

Sofie stared at the rough sketch. She had done some sketches during the transatlantic crossing, but they had not been very good and she had torn them up. In truth, she had not worked since the day Edward had found her in Zut with her friends celebrating the fact that Paul Durand-Ruel intended a solo exhibition for her in New York.

But what did it matter if she drew him now? Soon they would be married. Soon she might even be able to ask him to model for her. Despite her distress, Sofie’s heart fluttered a little at the thought.

It had been so long. How she needed to work, losing herself to her passion and love of work.

Abruptly Sofie picked up the pen and gave in. She began to sketch Edward in earnest as she had seen him last night. Her strokes were bolder man usual, and hard and fast and long. As she could not resist temptation, as he had always
been her favorite subject, once again she would do him in oils. Perhaps if she concentrated on the professional aspects of portraying him, it would help her distress. Both Vollard and Durand-Ruel liked her canvases of Edward best. Her exhibition was in ten days. Perhaps she would have this canvas done by then. As her works of Edward so far had all been exemplary, and as she had completed each and every one in a matter of a few frenzied, and therefore exhausting, days, it was probable. If this work was up to par, Jacques Durand-Ruel was going to be thrilled.

With a few more tense strokes, she added the impression of power to his body. Edward lounged against the wall, but he appeared tense and explosive. As tense and explosive as she herself was feeling. How was she going to go through with this? How could she not?

Sighing, Sofie laid down the pen. She stared at the sketch of Edward as he had been last night at Lisa’s ball. Superbly elegant, superbly male. Last night. It hardly seemed possible that after all the time that had elapsed since she had run away from New York to Paris, Edward had found her only last night. Not only had he found her last night, but within the space of twenty-four hours he had put an engagement ring on her finger.

Sofie told herself that it was for the best. It was best for Edana; there was no question about that. Edana was going to grow up loved and cherished by her father. Sofie could recall how much her own father had loved her before circumstance had forced him to flee New York, and vividly she remembered all the years growing up wishing Jake were still alive, wishing that she had a father to love her as the other little girls did. It had been selfish of Sofie to run away from Edward after his second proposal, even though it had been an act of sheer self-preservation. Edana deserved a father, and now she was going to have one.

And if her own panic over the impending marriage threatened to get out of control, Sofie was going to think about Edana’s relationship with Edward, not her own.

Sofie had been so caught up in her own turmoil that she had not spared Henry Marten a single thought. Dismay filled her. Henry was in love with her. Henry was waiting
for her answer regarding his proposal. Oh, God. Sofie did not want to hurt him, but there was not going to be any avoiding it.

Sofie realized that she must not delay. First thing tomorrow, she must go and tell him of her engagement to Edward Delanza.

Sofie hid her hands in her lap, so he would not see the eight-carat diamond ring. Henry held her arms, peering into her face. They stood just inside the door of his office. “God, Sofie, are you all right? Has he hurt you?”

Sofie swallowed. “No.”

“I heard that you left the ball with him. I told myself that you had no choice. You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

“No. Edward insisted upon seeing Edana immediately.”

Henry’s jaw was tight. “And did he also insist upon giving you his suite at the Savoy?”

Sofie lost some of her rosy color. “News travels fast, I see.”

“Yes.”

Sofie inhaled. “He insisted that I take his suite as none other were available.” She squared her shoulders, met Henry’s eyes. “I have agreed to marry him, Henry.”

“Oh, God, I knew it!” Henry cried in open anguish.

Sofie touched his arm. “Oh, please, I am so sorry.”

He turned to stare at her, looking as close to tears as possible for a man who was determined not to cry. “You love him, don’t you? And you always have. From the moment he began pursuing you at your parents’ home in Newport Beach that summer.”

“Yes.”

Henry ducked his head. “I think he loves you, too.”

Sofie started. She knew better, knew it wasn’t true, but hope crashed over her. Oh, God—if only it were true!

The day before the exhibition, Sofie was sick. She had always been scared by the thought of facing the critics and public alone, but when the exhibition date had been far in the future, it had been easy not to dwell on her fear. Now that very justifiable fear was compounded by the fact that
the day after tomorrow, she and Edward were going before a judge to get married. She was so ill that she retched up the single piece of toast she had for breakfast, and remained queasy throughout the day.

Their relationship had not improved. Henry was wrong. Edward did not love her and he never had—the very idea was absurd.

Edward used his key to enter the suite at will to visit Edana several times a day. He was unfailingly polite to Sofie as he would be to any stranger. The explosive tension riddling him, which she had captured in the new oil she was doing, somewhat secretively, remained very visible. In fact, the moment Edward entered the suite, the air between them changed. It became thick and hot, a seething foglike monster, ready to strike flames.

Sofie tried to pretend she was indifferent to his presence, just as she pretended that she did not notice the way he looked at her as if she were some piece of candy he craved. But when his back was turned, she looked at him in the exact same manner, and she knew it. She had never been ashamed of her lust before and could not be ashamed of it now. But at all costs, she would hide it.

Sofie walked the few blocks downtown on Fifth Avenue so she might review the exhibition with Jacques Durand-Ruel privately before the public would on the morrow. She was sorry for setting such a foolish date for their wedding. The solo exhibition should have been the most important event of her life. But it was taking a backseat now to a loveless marriage to a man who felt obliged to give her daughter his name. But Sofie knew she did not dare even speak of postponing the nuptials.

Jacques was expecting her, and he saw her the moment she entered the gallery’s front door. “Dearest Sofie,” he cried, hurrying to her. He embraced her, then kissed her on both cheeks.
“Ma chère,
you are pale. I suspect you are afraid?”