Irresistible (29 page)

“Yes, ma‘am,” he said.

SOPHIA HAD HAD HOT WA ter hauled laboriously up to her dressing room, and she had soaked for all of half an hour in the deep tub after washing herself with the soap he had thought was perfume. She had washed her hair with it too and had then let it almost dry before brushing and brushing it until it crackled and shone. She had picked out her prettiest nightgown. With the dressing gown she had no choice. She had only the one.

She prepared for him as if she were a bride awaiting her bridegroom, she thought rather ruefully. But she was not deterred by the thought. There had been an hour, of course, after his departure when she wondered what madness had her in its grip and had almost dashed off a note to tell him not to come, never to come again.

But she had come to a decision, sitting there with Lass on her lap again. Or rather, before the decision, she had had a vision of herself. She had seen herself as she had become. In a sense she had been a victim ever since her marriage, but at least then she had made the best of circumstances. She had made something of her life. She could not say she had enjoyed those years in the Peninsula, in France, and in Belgium. But she had endured and even prevailed over dreadful conditions. She had had friends. She had been liked and respected. She had respected herself.

And then she had had a taste of real freedom after Walter’s death and the unexpected gifts and pension from the government. She had made a new life, a new circle of friends. She had been happy in a contented, placid sort of way. She had felt in control of her own life and destiny. She had begun to like herself.

Yet now what had she become? She had become a poor cringing thing, afraid to go outside her own house, afraid even to look from the windows lest she see him or his spies watching. She was afraid to attend any social function, especially a ton entertainment. She was afraid even to walk in the park lest she meet someone she ought not to meet—and someone else see her do it. She was afraid of every knock on the door below.

She had given up almost all communication with Walter’s family, though they were puzzled by it and perhaps even hurt—Sarah was hurt. Sophia had refused to attend a garden party with them just the day before. And she had brought to a bitter end four of the friendships she had valued most in the course of her life—as well as the friendships she had begun with the wives of two of them.

She had cut short the spring love affair she had promised herself she would indulge in without any qualm of conscience.

In order to become an abject creature who jumped to the command of a villain and a bully. In order to be constantly afraid, afraid, afraid ...

And why?

Because Walter had betrayed her yet she would not betray him. That was why.

And so her life had been ruined, and soon Edwin’s life and that of the rest of his family would be ruined too, and perhaps Thomas’s as well. And beyond the ruin—what? Scandal and disgrace? Very probably.

It was not only her life that had been ruined, she had realized, turning her head and laughing despite herself when Lass decided to lift her head and lick Sophia’s cheek. It was her very self. Through to the very core of herself she felt worthless.

She would not allow it any longer. She simply would not. She had wondered from the start how far she would allow herself to be pushed. She had wondered if there was a limit beyond which she would not go and had feared that perhaps there was not. But there was. The limit had been reached. She would go no farther into degradation.

And so she had sat on, well after the time she would normally have rung for tea. She had planned what she would do, what she must do—three things. She would discover whether she could sell her house and proceed with the sale if she could. She would find the boxes in the attic that contained those belongings of Walter’s that she had kept. And she would have her last, glorious night with Nathaniel. It would be glorious. She would see to that. And it would be the last.

She had had hot water hauled to her dressing room....

 

She did not feel as nervous or as self-conscious or as awkward as she had that second time—or not nervous in the same way anyway. She was strung up with excitement, of course. She was ready soon after eleven and after that paced her bedchamber and her dressing room, peering out through the window every minute or so. She could not sit down. And for lack of anything else to do with her hands, she brushed her hair again as she paced.

Lass gave up trotting around at her heels and jumped onto a forbidden chair. She rested her head on her front paws, peered upward at Sophia as if expecting the usual command to get down, and closed her eyes. She heaved one deep sigh.

“Precisely,” Sophia said. “Midnight will never come.”

But he did. Seven minutes early. She flew down the stairs and pulled impatiently and as quietly as she was able at the bolts. Finally she had the door open.

“You are early,” she said.

“Am I?” He stepped inside, removed his hat, and bent his head to kiss her. “Should I have waited outside until the stroke of midnight?”

She smiled at him, brimming over with happiness and excitement. “No,” she said. “I was earlier. I have been waiting.”

“Have you, Sophie?” He took the candle from her hand and lifted it higher. “You look very happy. Happy to see me?”

“Yes.” She beamed at him before turning to lead the way upstairs. “Very.”

She was not going to play any games of pretended indifference tonight. This night was for her and she was going to grasp all it had to offer. For once in her life she was going to be utterly selfish.

He set the candle down on the dressing table when they reached her room, glanced at Lass, who thumped her tail on the cushion and opened her eyes briefly, and turned to Sophia. Perhaps he expected a repetition of that other night when neither of them had known quite how to proceed. But tonight she was not going to allow any awkwardness. She had followed him to the dressing table. She reached up her hands and unbuttoned his coat. She pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms while he stood still, watching her.

“You are not wearing evening clothes,” she said. “These are your riding clothes.”

“Yes,” he said.

She started on the buttons of his waistcoat. “There was a ball tonight,” she said, “at Lady Honeymere’s. Did you not go to it?”

“I went,” he said.

His waistcoat was on the floor behind him, on top of his coat. She pulled his shirt free of his pantaloons and then began unwrapping his neckcloth.

“But you did not stay?” She had to reach behind his neck to complete the unwrapping.

“I had something better to do,” he said.

And so he had gone home and changed into his morning clothes. Did he intend staying all night, then? She hoped so. It was already past midnight. Time was running out on her. But she would not think of that.

He raised his arms so that she could lift his shirt over his head. She dropped it on top of his waistcoat, spread her hands over his chest, and set her face against him. He smelled faintly of some musky cologne.

“Sophie.” He took her by the arms and held her away from him while those wonderful bedroom eyes of his roamed all over her. “You are so very beautiful.”

“Oh.” She laughed, embarrassed. “It is very kind of you to say so, Nathaniel, but you need not do so. I know I am not lovely. But”—she lifted a hand to set against his lips to stop him from saying what he was about to say—“thank you for saying it anyway. Every woman should be told that at least once in her life. You have suddenly made me feel almost beautiful.”

And she would always,
always
remember that he had said it, that he had been that attracted to her.

But his eyes were looking quite intently into hers. “I have just realized something today,” he said. “At some time in your life—I do not know when, perhaps even at the very beginning of it—you convinced yourself that you were not pretty. And so you set out to hide your beauty from yourself and from everyone else. You have been quite clever at it—with the style and fit and color of the clothes you have always worn, with your manner of dealing with other people. If someone had asked me even a week or so ago about your appearance, I might have described you as pleasant looking but not particularly lovely. And then you said those words this afternoon—about my looking at myself in a glass and looking at you and at Lady Gullis. The implication was that I would find you by far the most inferior of the three. And I realized that you had trapped me—always, ever since I have known you—into seeing you as you see yourself.”

Once upon a time she had thought herself tolerably pretty. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly vain, she had even thought herself beautiful. And then she had married Walter....

She bit her lip and wished his hands were not still holding her where he could gaze at her. She wanted to put her face against his chest again.

“Sophie,” he said, “you should always dress in light colors like these. You should always dress your hair not to confine its glory but to display it. And you should always smile as you smiled at me downstairs after you had opened the door to me tonight. You are surely one of the most beautiful ladies of my acquaintance—perhaps even
the
most beautiful, but then I am partial.”

She had always told herself that beauty did not matter. And indeed she believed it. She had told herself that it was more important to be an amiable person, to have friends who liked her. She had told herself that it was better to be good old Sophie than to be a ravishing beauty.

But oh, it felt wonderful beyond belief to be told that to Nathaniel she was perhaps the most beautiful lady he had ever known.

She smiled at him—as she had smiled downstairs. “Thank you,” she said. “Oh, I
do
thank you.”

“Did Walter never tell you that?” he asked her.

She sobered instantly. Walter had never been able to bear to
touch
her.

His hands released her then, and his arms came about her, drawing her to him like iron bands. “I am sorry,” he said, his mouth against the top of her head. “I am so sorry. Your marriage is none of my business. Please forgive me.”

But she was not going to have her glorious night spoiled. She lifted her face to him and smiled again. “I do not want to think about Walter,” she said. “I want to think about you, though I am not sure I wish to do a great deal of
thinking.”

“Sophie.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “Ah, Sophie, I have missed you.”

She put her arms up about his neck as he kissed her and abandoned herself to her night of love. Although she would not say so in words, she was not even going to pretend that for her it was not going to be just that. A night of love.

“Sophie,” he said after a couple of minutes, “you are as hungry as I. Let’s remove the rest of our clothes and lie down, shall we? Let’s make love.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at him as she undid the ribbon bow that held her dressing gown closed at the neck. She thought she might well burst with happiness. “Let’s make love.”

 

 

It was getting light outside. That happened early at this time of year, of course, but even so he must be going soon, Nathaniel thought regretfully. It would be very pleasant just to go back to sleep with her head pressed against his arm as it was now and one of her arms thrown across his chest. And to wake up with her later, perhaps make love to her yet again before they got up and had breakfast together and planned their day together.

He opened his eyes and stared upward. This was the part of a night spent with a woman when he usually felt cozy and regretful at having to leave the comfort of the bed—but he usually felt eager too to be gone, to draw fresh air into his lungs, to stride off homeward, to feel free again, his own person again. He did not usually think of breakfast with and the rest of the day with his bed partner.

But
usually
of course no longer applied to him. Nights like this past one were no longer usual with him.

And a night
just
like this last one was unique to his experience.

They had slept very little. They had made love over and over again—with fierce passion, with moaning tenderness, with quiet, shared pleasure. They had made love without clothes, without covers, without masks. They had given and taken and shared. They had exhausted each other and restored each other. They had been as one.

And he was not sure he was going to be able to let her go at the end of the Season. He caught himself in the thought but he did not push it instantly away. He held it and considered it. No, he was not at all sure.

He bent his head and kissed her mouth. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him.

“Did I fall asleep?” she asked. “I wonder why I came to do that.”

“I must be going,” he said.