He took her hand in his. “You, my wife, may flirt with me any time you like. The way you are looking at me now, I almost think you mean it.”
She met and held his gaze. “I do.”
His heart beat hard, and he swallowed in vain to dislodge the lump in his throat. He said in a voice low and hoarse, “Careful, Sophie, or I may begin believing you. And then you had better lock the adjoining room door.”
She looked at him quickly, then away, the veil of her golden-brown lashes falling over her eyes once more. What had he seen there? Hope? Fear? Uncertainty?
Before he could decipher her look, the music rose and another round began. Keith and Miss Blake looked at them expectantly. It was time to rejoin the dance. But, dash it, Stephen doubted he would be able to concentrate on the steps. Dancing was not what he had in mind.
As soon as Mr. Harrison escorted Kate off the dance floor, Mr. Darby-Wells downed his drink, swept to her side, and claimed her again. Sophie noticed Mr. Harrison’s gaze follow the two as they danced, his expression tinted with sadness . . . or perhaps, resignation.
She and the captain danced another set, and then Sophie begged off to rest. Between her constricting stays and added weight, she found herself becoming out of breath easily. Meanwhile, Captain Overtree danced dutifully with Miss Blake and then his sister.
Mr. Overtree asked his wife to dance, but she shook her head. “I don’t want you to overexert yourself. And really, dancing is the province of the young.”
Earlier, Sophie had seen Colonel Horton talking with several couples nearer his own age. But now he sat alone. It sent a blade of sorrow through her heart, to see his solitary figure amid all the happily paired people, no doubt missing his wife.
Sophie went and joined the older man, noticing he rolled a wrapped sweet between his fingers. “May I sit with you?”
“Of course. Catching your breath, are you?”
“Yes. Unless . . . would you care to dance, Colonel?”
“Thank you, no. My dancing days are over. Mrs. Horton was an excellent dancer.” He looked up at his daughter’s approach. “Was she not, Janet?”
Mrs. Overtree sat on the colonel’s other side. “She was indeed, Papa.”
“Well, my dear, is it a victory?” he asked. “Have the rank and file carried out your orders and plans as you’d hoped?”
Mrs. Overtree released a long breath. “I think so, yes.”
He looked at his daughter in fond amusement. “This is the longest I’ve seen you sit still in a week.”
She gave him a rueful smile of acknowledgement, then said, “I confess I am a little weary.”
“I should say so.”
A peal of laughter sounded—Kate’s—drawing their attention to the line of dancers.
The colonel lifted a knobby hand toward his grandchildren. “Look at Stephen and Katherine.” He shook his head, then smiled at Sophie. “Should have seen that boy when his little sister came along so late. Him already ten years old. Holding that wee bundle with such pride. Such affection.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Overtree nodded, eyes distant in memory. “They were always close. I think she shall miss him more than anyone when he leaves.” Mrs. Overtree shot Sophie a look, amending, “Besides you, of course, Sophie.”
Oh yes, she would miss him indeed.
Next, Mr. Harrison guided Kate onto the dance floor a second time.
Mrs. Overtree huffed. “Is he still here?”
The colonel said, “Oh, let Kate enjoy herself. She is young. It’s only right she should have several suitors vying for her attention.”
Mrs. Overtree’s lips thinned. “I do not consider David Harrison a proper suitor for our Katherine.”
The colonel patted her hand. “There, there, my dear. Don’t fret. It’s only a dance.”
Sophie watched the gentle way Mr. Harrison held Kate’s hand and gazed into her eyes, and knew it was more than a dance. Her heart ached for them both.
Later, when the number of couples dwindled, Sophie and Captain Overtree left the hall by unspoken agreement before the final boulanger.
“Tired?” he asked.
“My feet are tired. But otherwise I am well. Though I have definitely had enough of dancing. Have you?”
“An hour ago.”
They shared a smile and slowly climbed the stairs together.
“Is there no one you need to say good-bye to?” she asked.
“The whole night was about saying good-bye to me and hello to you. I won’t subject either of us to another dozen farewell speeches.” He added, “And I still have tomorrow to bid my family good-bye, so they won’t mind us retiring early.”
Us . . .
They arrived at their bedchamber door, and Sophie’s hands trembled as she fumbled for the latch. He reached out to open the door for her at the same time, and his hand closed over hers. Sophie’s chest tightened at his touch.
He followed her into the bedchamber as usual but did not cross to the dressing room door.
Her nerves quivered.
With all the servants needed belowstairs for the party, no fire had yet been lit in the room, no candles burned, and the shutters were still open. Moonlight shone in through the tall windows. Distracted, Sophie moved toward their light and stood gazing vaguely outside. The moon shone brightly in a clear sky, illuminating the garden and shaped topiaries below. But her attention was far more focused on the man behind her.
She heard the soft creak of floorboards, sensed his nearness, the air crackling with tension between them.
His large hands descended softly over her shoulders like a cape, instantly warming her. They lowered, cupping her upper arms. She felt him lean down and rest his forehead on the back of her head.
For several moments they both stood still, their bodies not touching, not moving. Hardly breathing. Now and again the distant sounds of carriages drawing up or departing reached her, but she barely took notice.
She tilted her head to one side and tentatively leaned back. He moved forward, closing the gap between them. Resting her head on his shoulder, she allowed herself to relax against him—well, as relaxed as she could be considering the tension thrumming between them. Sophie felt the solid warmth of him against her, supporting her. Protecting her. Yet again.
He laid his cheek against her hair, one hand moving down her arm, then around her waist, drawing her more fully against him. How good it felt to be held.
He bent lower, and she felt his warm breath against her ear. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and she closed her eyes to relish the sweet sensation. With his free hand, he brushed tendrils of hair from her neck and pressed a feathery kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder, then another on her neck. Shivery pleasure ran through her. Then both of his arms were around her, holding her close.
They did not speak. Sophie felt to do so would be to raise questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Break the spell. Cause him to retreat. And maybe he feared the same in her, for he said nothing either. The silence was like a tight violin string between them, binding them from her center to his. Growing more taut with each tick of the mantel clock.
He slowly trailed kisses up the length of her neck. Her jawline. Her earlobe.
Then he moved sideways and turned her to face him as deftly as a dance step. Their eyes met and locked.
His hands slid upward from her cap sleeves, over her shoulders to her neck, and then he framed her face with his palms. She drew a ragged breath. How wide the blacks of his eyes were in the moonlight. Intense with longing, yet uncertain.
He slowly lowered his head, gaze flicking over her face, her eyes, her lips. She didn’t move. Barely even blinked. He touched his lips to hers, softly, tentatively. A rush of sweet, heady pleasure flowed through her.
When she did not object, he wrapped his arms around her, gathering her near, and kissed her again.
Slowly, firmly, deliciously, his mouth caressed hers. He traced one corner of her lips, then the other, before lingering on the soft cente
r. He lifted his head to look into her eyes, to gauge her reaction, her willingness, before descending again.
She reached up, cupping his jaw with her hand, her thumb stroking upward from his chin to his cheek, already bristly with new whiskers. Sliding her other hand around his neck, she threaded her fingers into the thick hair at its nape, splaying her hand against the back of his head and drawing him closer yet.
“Sophie . . .” he breathed.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, his expression almost fierce. “I vowed to keep my distance, but I can’t. Send me to the dressing room now or never.”
In reply, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.
She ran her hands over his shoulders and down the ropey muscles of his arms before sliding to his chest. Even the layers of evening clothes could not conceal the hard muscle beneath.
He angled his head, deepening the kiss, and pulled her tight against him.
The room around them faded. A voice sounded from the garden below, two voices. But Sophie barely heard them, her attention focused on him, on his kiss, on his hands warm and sure on her waist. Not wandering, not pressuring, content for the moment to hold her. To slowly kiss her, pleasure and passion building.
If she had known kissing him would be like this . . . Oh why had they waited so long—and how would she ever let him go?
Suddenly Stephen stiffened and wrenched his mouth from hers. He turned toward the window, releasing her to lean near the glass and peer outside.
“What is it?” she whispered, shaken by his sudden withdrawal.
“That’s Kate,” he breathed, frowning in disbelief and confusion.
She followed the direction of his gaze. Two figures stood in the garden below. A man and women as evidenced by their outlines and dress, although their features were shadowed.
The man grasped the slight woman by the shoulders and pressed his face to hers, but the woman was clearly pulling back, trying to turn her face away. A cloud shifted, and moonlight shone on his blond hair and her distressed face. It was Kate. With Mr. Darby-Wells.
Sophie drew in a sharp breath. Beside her Stephen tensed and seemed to expand, his shoulders squared, his nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched. He turned and bolted from the room.
“Stephen . . .” she called after him, worried for Kate, but also worried about what he might do to that presumptuous dandy. Oh, God, don’t let him kill the man. At least he had not diverted into his dressing room for either sword or gun. Then again, judging from the murderous look on his face, bare hands would be more than sufficient weapon.
Stephen thundered down the stairs. He was vaguely aware that Sophie had called him by his given name, but at the moment he could not stop to savor it. Fury and a savage protectiveness flashed through him like wildfire, consuming the tender passions of only moments before. If he hurts Kate, so help me . . .
Hands fisted, Stephen ran through the house, ignoring startled looks from his parents, who were bidding farewell to a final few guests, and charged out the side door toward the garden.
“Let me go,” Kate cried.
“Come on, little miss. Don’t play the innocent. You know your mamma has been trying to foist you on me all night.”
Stephen’s blood boiled. And the moonlight gave everything—garden wall, Kate’s dress, and the man’s blond hair—a red cast.
He launched himself through the garden archway, grasped Darby-Wells by the shoulders, jerked him away from his sister, and sent him flying to the ground.
He said, in a voice deadly calm, “Apparently you did not hear the lady. She said to let her go.”
Sprawled on the ground, the young man scowled up at him. “Dash it, Overtree, you’ve spoilt my coat.”
“To the devil with your coat. This from a man who would ruin a young lady but care more for his worsted wool.”
The man rose, dusting off his tails and torn lapel. “Cost a fortune. I shall send you the bill from my—”
“I’ll pay it now.” Stephen coiled his arm. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he calculated the dandy’s fine bones and slight weight and restrained his force—a little—as he delivered a stunning blow to the man’s face. Smack. Down he went again.
Kate gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth.
Stephen turned to her. “Are you all right, Kate?”
She nodded, tears filling her eyes. Hopefully not because he’d hit the handsome lecher.
His fears were laid aside when his sister leaned in to him, sobbing. Stephen draped one big arm over her shaking shoulder like a black wing.
From the house came several people who had followed Stephen outside in alarm. His father, his mother, the young footman, and the butler, carrying a lamp. And there, running out behind them, breathless and anxious, was Sophie. She looked from Kate, to the fallen man, to him, her mouth drooping open, her eyes downturned. Apparently, she did not see anything heroic in his actions, but rather barbaric. It reminded him of how she’d reacted when he’d fought off the young thieves in Plymouth. He had allowed himself to think her opinion of him had changed since then. Evidently he was wrong.
In the aftermath of raised voices and explanations and getting the fallen gentleman to his feet, Sophie retreated. In more ways than one.
Their father took Kate into his comforting arms.
Their mother, however, hissed, “I wanted you to encourage a proposal of marriage, not a tryst in the garden.” Then she turned her disapproving face toward Stephen. “Could you not have simply ordered him to cease like a civilized person without resorting to violence?”
With brittle politeness, she offered to send for a cloth and ice for the man’s swelling eye.
Mr. Darby-Wells angrily waved away her offer, face contorted in disgust. “Can you not control your offspring, Mrs. Overtree? First your daughter leads me a merry dance and then your behemoth son attacks me from behind. Really. I don’t know what sort of people you are. This is the nineteenth century, if you were not aware. I think it a good thing Captain Black is returning to his regiment. The sooner the better. He’s a danger to society.”
“We . . . apologize if your actions were misunderstood,” his mother said, lips tight.
“Don’t apologize to that snake, Mamma,” Stephen growled. “For all his airs and graces, he is no gentleman.” Sophie had been right about the man.
Teary-eyed, Kate said, “I’m sorry, Mamma. I didn’t mean to make him think I was that sort of girl. Truly I didn’t. He said he needed some air and asked if I would show him the garden. I thought he liked me. I never imagined he would not take no for an answer.”
“Oh, come, Miss Overtree.” Darby-Wells rolled his eyes. “I hardly dragged you out here against your will. Save the dramatics. You were not crying like a missish schoolgirl five minutes ago—no need to play one for your parents now.”
Stephen fisted his hands again.
Noticing, his father said, “Young man, you had better leave, and quickly, if you don’t want your left eye to match your right.”
By the time Kate had been calmed, reassured, and settled, Mr. Darby-Wells sent home, resentful and livid in his barouche, and possible repercussions discussed and dissected with his parents, another hour or more had passed.
Finally, Stephen trudged back up the stairs with none of the hopeful fire he’d felt going up with Sophie hours before. He sighed a deep, weary sigh and let himself into his dressing room using the servants’ entrance. Through the door, slightly ajar, he peered into the moonlit bedchamber. Sophie lay in bed on her side. Her back to him. Again.
He didn’t bother calling for his valet, considering the hour, but undressed himself and dropped to his hard sofa. He hoped his wife slept well. He, for one, would not.
chapter 19
The next morning, Sophie awoke feeling uneasy. She had not meant to fall asleep before Stephen returned last night. But when an hour had passed and he’d still not returned, her eyes refused to remain open. She didn’t know what time he’d come up, bu
t he had not woken her. She hoped Kate was all right. A small part of Sophie wondered if Kate had—well, not deserved it, of course—but had encouraged the man’s advances by going out there with him in the first place, dazzled by his looks and charm.
It reminded her of her own foolish reaction to Wesley’s attention. It had gone to her head and made her lose her better sense. Perhaps the same thing had happened to Kate. She would seek her out later and see how she fared. But her first priority was finding Stephen. She wanted to apologize for falling asleep—assure him it had not been a pretense to avoid him. She wanted to tell him how she felt. That although they were not long acquainted, the more time they spent together, the more she admired him, and the more her hope for the future grew.
He wasn’t in his dressing room, where she assumed he’d slept last night. Oh, it should have been in that big bed, with her. Remorse filled her. Thank heavens they had the rest of the day together.
Libby entered in response to her bell, all eagerness to talk about the evening before.
“What a night, ay, madam? Such goings-on as this old house hasn’t seen in ages.”
Sophie formed a vague smile, but her heart wasn’t engaged in the idle chatter. It was already missing Captain Overtree. The only “goings-on” she cared about at the moment were those that had happened in this very room. And those that had not.
“Young James got into the open champagne. He’s as green as a gherkin this morning, poor fool. And we’re all agog about your husband giving that Darby-Wells fellow the setdown he deserved. Miss Katherine isn’t the first female he’s tried to have his way with, not according to Flora. Had it coming, she says.”
Sophie felt a prick of remorse for having briefly entertained the notion that Kate might have been at least in part to blame. Now she was glad Stephen had knocked him down—and hopefully knocked some sense into him, though she doubted it would be the last time he refused to take no for an answer.
“Have you seen the captain this morning?” Sophie asked. “He . . . rose before I awoke.”
“Oh yes. He’s had his breakfast, and last I heard he was closed up in the library with some men from his regiment who showed up bright and early. I don’t know what it’s about. But lots of exclamations and dark looks from what Edgar said.”