Irresistible (22 page)

Now, damn it all, he felt responsible for her. Did he not have enough females for whom to feel responsible?

SOPHIA COULD NOT HAVE felt more shocked or more humiliated if her face had been slapped. Or more guilty. She had been about to present Boris Pinter to Nathaniel’s niece when Nathaniel himself had been standing there to be applied to to perform such a service. But she had been about to comply merely because he had asked it of her—just as she had presented him to Beatrice at the Shelby ball.

Nathaniel had taken Lavinia’s arm, bowed frostily, and spoken with great clarity. His words and his actions had caught the attention not only of their group, but of the group next to it too—the one that included Rex and Kenneth and their wives. A sizable number of people had wit nessed her humiliation. He had cut her quite ruthlessly.

How she hated Nathaniel in that moment.

And how she hated herself.

Was this what she had come to? Was she now a puppet on a string? Was she to be one for the rest of her life? How far would she allow herself to be pushed? A limitless distance?

But there was no time to stand and think. She smiled and held out an arm for Boris Pinter’s.

“Sir,” she said, “will you be so good as to escort me to the refreshment room?” She inclined her head to Lady Gullis and to Eden, who was looking intently at her, though he made no attempt at further interference on her behalf.

Pinter gave her his arm.

“Sophie,” he said when they had stepped outside the drawing room and were on the wide landing that extended the length of the three rooms in use for the soiree, “I do believe our mutual acquaintances do not like me.”

“Enough of this,” she said briskly. “If you enjoy playing the part of cat, sir, I certainly do not enjoy the role of mouse. I will not play it any longer.”

“You would prefer another role, Sophie?” he said, chuckling. “Pariah of a nation, perhaps?”

It was not even a great exaggeration, she feared. But she might risk even that if she were the only one who would be affected. But she thought of Sarah and Lewis and of Edwin and Beatrice. And even Thomas, her own brother, would not be immune. His business success depended a great deal on the preservation of a good name. And he had three young children and a fourth on the way.

“I have allowed myself to become your victim,” she said. “I have paid for four letters, and of course there are several more which I will be asked to buy at your convenience. That is one thing, sir. This is another—this stalking. What is the purpose of it, pray?”

“When I joined the cavalry, Sophie,” he said, “I dreamed as every young officer does of doing my duty, of distinguishing myself, of earning rapid promotion. I am unfortunate enough to have a father who dislikes me, who was willing to purchase my commission in order to be rid of me, but who was unwilling to purchase any further promotion for me. An unnatural father, would you not agree? All proceeded according to plan until, as a lieutenant, I sought a captaincy. Your husband blocked that promotion simply to indulge a personal grudge. I was still a lieutenant when I sold out.”

“That was between you and Walter,” Sophia said. “Or between you and the army. It had nothing to do with me.”

“And now you, Sophie,” he said, “a mere coal merchant’s daughter, have become a favorite of the ton. And a favorite of those favored beings, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Perhaps you have your sights set very high indeed. Pelham is a single man, as is Gascoigne—a baron and a baronet. Either one would be a step up from the mere brother of a viscount.”

Oh, Nathaniel. “How ridiculous!” she said scornfully. But she was getting the point. He wanted a little revenge as well as a great deal of money. Her social life was to be ruined, as were her friendships, to console him for the spoiling of his military career.

And was her wonderful springtime to be ruined too? She could not forget the coldness in Nathaniel’s eyes as he had looked into hers and read her intention of presenting Boris Pinter to his niece. And yet only a few minutes before that their eyes had met and a smile, hardly perceptible on their faces, had passed between them. A sign of awareness, even of affection.

Now it was to be all spoiled. No, it was not a future thing. It had been spoiled.

“I see,” she said. “I am to stay away from my friends, stay away from ton events. Is that what you wish? And what will you do, sir, if I ignore your warnings? Shout your knowledge from the rooftops? Send a letter or two to the papers? You will have created a glorious scandal, but all your power over me will be gone. I wonder which you would prefer?”

“Either one, Sophie,” he said, “would give me great satisfaction.”

Yes, she believed him. And she understood too, though perhaps he did not intend her to know it, that he would eventually have both—all the money she could scrape together from her own resources and from her relatives and Walter‘s, and their eventual disgrace and ruin too. The beau monde would not take kindly to having been so shockingly duped.

“I am going to leave you now, sir,” she said, “in order to find my sister-in-law. If I were you, I would not be too hasty. You might ruin your own fun far too soon. All scandals die eventually, you know. Then you would have to find something new—or someone—with which to amuse yourself.”

“Sophie.” He took her hand in his and bent over it, though he did not set his lips to it this time. “You are almost a worthy adversary, my dear. Walter did not deserve you. Though I suppose that when you have soot beneath your fingernails, you cannot be too fussy, can you?”

“Good evening to you, sir.”

She smiled at him for the benefit of the other people strolling out on the landing and turned back to the drawing room. She hated to walk in there again, to imagine—and not be sure that it
was
imagination—curious glances directed her way. Kenneth and Moira were still there. She ignored them and went in search of Beatrice. She had fully intended to plead a headache and ask if the carriage might take her home. But she changed her mind. She would not play the coward.

She saw Nathaniel a little later. He was having a tête-à-tête with Lady Gullis again, bending toward her the better to hear her over the loud hum of voices. He was smiling his wonderful smile. And even as Sophia watched, the two of them left the room, not for one of the other rooms, but for the landing and the stairs. They did not return.

Well, she thought, she had known it was to be a very temporary thing, her affair with him. She had hoped for longer, for a few months perhaps. But she was not sorry it was over so soon. She had known from the start that she was playing with fire, that there was only heartbreak ahead. She would never have succeeded in convincing herself that her infatuation with him would have played itself out after a vigorous affair of a few months’ duration. The opposite would have been true.

She had spent two nights with him. At least she had those to remember for the rest of her life. But the affair had not gone on long enough to leave her truly bereft. It was better this way.

She wondered five minutes after his departure how it would feel to be truly bereft. Could it possibly feel worse than what she was feeling now?

 

Nathaniel did not go out for the usual ride with his friends the following morning. He was lying in bed, though he was not sleeping. He had lain down only an hour before he usually got up, convincing himself that he would sleep, that he needed sleep.

He had spent most of the night walking the streets. He might, he supposed, have gone to Sophie’s since that was where he had wanted to go earlier. Or he might have spent the hours in Lady Gullis’s bed—he had escorted her home but had made the excuse for not going into the house with her that he did not wish to compromise her reputation with her servants. She had been flatteringly disappointed, but it had been an argument with which she could hardly argue. Or he might have sought out Eden or some other of his male acquaintances, many of whom made a practice of remaining up all night and returning home only with the dawn.

He might even have come home and gone to bed.

But he had walked the streets and had even had the intensely satisfying experience of beating off a would-be thief with his cane.

He was feeling disgruntled, he found, because this business with Sophie was not developing in any way as he had expected. He had wanted peace and comfort—and good sex—after the past few years, when he had shouldered the responsibility of settling a whole family of females. He exaggerated, of course. But it had seemed that way. He had looked forward this spring to seeing to his own contentment as well as to finding husbands for Georgina and Lavinia.

Sophie had seemed the perfect choice after his initial surprise at finding that he was attracted to her in that way—and that apparently she reciprocated his interest.

But Sophie had changed. Despite the outward sameness of both appearance and demeanor, she had developed a mind and a life of her own. It was not surprising, he supposed, when he had not seen her for three years. And it was not undesirable in a woman who lived independently. She also had some sort of secret—he did not doubt that—that she chose not to share.

She was no longer that placid, comfortable Sophie who was always there to cater to a man’s need for pampering and a man’s need to protect. The latter need might have been satisfied, he guessed, but she chose not to avail herself of his protection. And so the relationship had become troublesome to him, uncomfortable. It was just the sort of thing he had come to town to escape.

He thought with regret of the two nights they had spent together, of that cozy feeling of companionship as they had lain side by side talking, of her unexpected passion, of the intense satisfaction he had got from all their couplings. He thought too about that uneasy feeling he had had after the second night—just last night—that it was a more serious affair than he had looked for.

Last evening it had become downright ugly. For reasons of her own—her need to assert her independence, perhaps? —she had chosen deliberately to thumb her nose at them all. She must have known that they had stayed close to her, the four of them, so that she would not have to acknowledge Pinter or endure his attentions. She had shown them that she did indeed reserve the right to make her own friends.

It did not help his mood of irritation to realize that she was perfectly right. After an affair of less than a week’s duration he was already thinking of her almost as he thought of his sisters and Lavinia, as someone who needed his protective, guiding hand on the reins of her life. Almost as if he owned her.

It was over between them. Over before it could become serious indeed. It should never have started. An affair between friends must surely always be disastrous. Friendship was one thing and sex was another. It was foolish to try to blend the two, except perhaps in marriage. That was a different matter. But then he was not in search of a marriage partner.

It was over. The only thing he had not decided during his sleepless night was whether he ought to tell her so, make a formal visit just for that purpose, or whether it was enough merely to let the whole thing lapse.

He was going to begin an affair with Lady Gullis. Although she was intelligent and witty and charming, there would really be only one function to their liaison. It would be better that way. He had made an appointment to take her to Kew Gardens two days hence. He would bed her after that. Probably the best plan would be to rent a house. She would not want him in her home, though she had invited him there last night. He would not want to go to her home. Word would inevitably spread, and though no one would condemn either one of them since all would be conducted with enough discretion to satisfy the scruples of the
ton,
it was not the sort of notoriety he cultivated. Those days were over.

He tried to sleep even though daylight flooded the room. But he kept seeing Sophie’s bare hand with the mark apparent on the third finger where her ring had always been. And her bare neck. No pearls. No ring. There were numerous explanations, none of which was any business whatsoever of his.

Sophie
was no business of his.

He tried to think of Lady Gullis, to imagine ...

Finally he threw back the bedclothes, got up in a thoroughly bad humor, and rang for his valet.

 

Sophia did not sleep all night, though she did try lying in bed for two full hours before getting up and curling into the greater comfort of the chair beside the empty fireplace. She certainly could not sleep on that bed—not tonight. She had fancied she could smell him on the pillow next to her own—and had rolled onto her stomach to bury her nose in the memories before rolling back again, furious with herself, furious with him, furious with everyone and everything.

She hated the feeling of helplessness. She hated feeling trapped at every turn. She had to do something. There was precious little she could do, though in her anger last evening she had been prepared at first to defy Boris Pinter, to break loose from his power, to dare him to do his worst.