Pamela Sherwood (10 page)

Sophie did not know whether his mouth came down on hers or whether hers rose to meet his, but the end result was the same. Here, in this sun-warmed pavilion fragrant with honeysuckle, Robin Pendarvis was kissing her, his mouth tender but assured, his arms enfolding her and drawing her close to his heart. Marveling, she closed her eyes and kissed him back.

She’d dreamed of this moment, of her first kiss, as many young girls do. And there had been attempts here and there—shy, awkward, inexpert busses from boys as young and inexperienced as she. But this was a man’s kiss, and the woman within her awoke beneath the touch of his lips and strove to match him, passion for passion. And love for love.

Because she
knew
it at last for love: these feelings that had been developing ever since New Year’s, only far more intense—purified now into something she could not have denied, even had she wished it.

Here
you
are. Here
we
are.

The rightness of it sang through her like an aria composed just for her.
This
was
he
. The man she was meant to love all her days.

The knowledge rolled over her like a great wave, terrifying and exhilarating at once. Breathless and exultant, she clung to him, savoring the lean hardness of his body so close to hers and the mingled scents of clean linen, bay rum, and warm male skin.

He drew back, gazed down at her with hazed, almost slumberous eyes. “My God, Sophie.” His voice sounded thick, almost slurred. “You are lovely. So lovely.”

“Robin.” His name emerged as a whisper. She freed a hand, reached up to touch his face… and saw awareness flash back into his eyes, followed swiftly by panic: a portcullis descending to repel invaders.

“My God!” His tone was wholly different now as he pulled away from her, his eyes wide and slightly wild. “Forgive me, Sophie—Miss Tresilian! I should not have taken such liberties.”

Sophie swallowed. “On the contrary, perhaps you should have taken them long before.”

He turned from her, raked a hand through his hair, took a few agitated strides about the pavilion. Strange how she should feel so much calmer than he at this moment. “I didn’t intend—I never meant—”

“I know.” Feeling oddly composed, she summoned a faint smile. “You are the last man I could ever imagine
planning
something like this.”

He stared at her, the crease prominent between his knotted brows, then said abruptly, “As a gentleman, I know what should follow from—
this
. But as I told you before, I am not in a position to marry, or even to court a lady such as yourself.”

“I remember.” Sophie cleared her throat. “But you do not strike me as the sort of man to trifle with a lady’s affections. Or to engage in dalliance, when your intentions are not—what they should be.”

“Honorable, you mean.” He smiled without humor. “I am flattered that you hold me in such high regard. But in this case, you are correct. I did not intend seduction when I brought you here, either to the Hall or the gardens.”

“Of course you didn’t.” She kept her voice low and soothing, as though gentling a restless horse.

He exhaled gustily. “Might I prevail upon you to accept my deepest apologies and my assurances that this won’t happen again?”

Sophie fixed him with a level gaze. “With regard to your apologies, I see no reason for them, as I was a willing participant in this kiss. And as for your assurances, I for one will hope they are incorrect, because I should like very much for this to happen again—when you
are
in a position to marry, or at least court.”

“Sophie…” The sound of her name on his tongue was sweetness itself, and it told her all she needed to know. She was not the only one affected by what had passed between them.

He turned away again—trying to compose himself, she realized. “Perhaps one day,” he began, then broke off, shaking his head. “I cannot expect you to wait. Not when I don’t know how long it will be before I can make any promises. You have all your life, all your
youth
, before you, and I have no right to interfere with that! No right to bind you to—to something you might regret, in time.”

It was on the tip of Sophie’s tongue to protest, but the tension she saw in the set of his shoulders silenced her. So close to the breaking point, and if she pushed—as she longed to do—she might drive him away completely.

“Very well,” she said at last. “I confess, I do not see things exactly as you do, but I will respect your wishes in this. May we agree to be friends—special friends—for now? Surely no one could find anything wrong in that.”

He drew a ragged breath, then “Friends,” he echoed, with obvious relief. But she thought she heard a trace of regret in his acceptance as well, which eased the smart somewhat for her.

“And I
will
be discreet, Mr. Pendarvis. Robin.” She permitted herself the luxury of using his Christian name and took renewed heart from what she saw in his eyes: hunger and longing, headier than the finest French champagne. This
wasn’t
finished, whatever he might say.

“Thank you,” he said, with clear gratitude. “I’ll take you inside now. And perhaps we should start back to Roswarne soon, before your family misses you.”

Young though she was, Sophie recognized the signs of a man in full retreat, trying to deny what had just occurred. Like trying to put a genie back in the bottle, and about as likely to prove successful.

But this was progress of a sort. He was at least admitting the
possibility
of marriage. Not cutting it off altogether and refusing to consider it. All she had to do was be patient—and all would come right at the end. She was sure of it, sure enough for both of them.

But because he’d looked so conscience-stricken, so determined to do the right thing, whatever it cost him, she held her tongue, assumed a demure expression, and allowed him to escort her back to the house.

I told my love, I told my love

I told her all my heart…

—William Blake, “Love’s Secret”

Cornwall, June 1891

So this was what it came down to in the end: lies, deceit, and an implacable enmity that could no longer be concealed behind a mask of good manners.

Gripped by an icy rage, Robin stared into the face of the man whose vicious slanders had almost cost him his reputation among his new neighbors—and so much more. Nankivell stared back with equal loathing and no trace of remorse. Not even the disgust of Harry and James, whom he had also traduced, had cowed him. Clearly he regretted nothing about his scheme, except its failure.

“This upstart,” the baronet sneered, gesturing at Robin. “This Johnny-come-lately. Just what do you know about this fellow, Miss Sophie?” His voice dropped, became low and insinuating. “I could tell you things.”

He was bluffing, Robin knew. There was no way this man could know his history, but the words sent a jolt of alarm through him all the same. If Nankivell—or someone like him—ever found out…

A sudden presence beside him: Sophie, head held high, eyes flashing, as she confronted her former suitor. “I know that
he’s
a gentleman, Sir Lucas. That’s all I need to know.”

Oh, God.
Her faith in him, so solid and unshakable, was at once a wound and a balm
. Oh, my dear, if you but knew…

Startlingly, Sophie’s declaration took the wind right out of Nankivell’s sails. He flushed and turned away. In other circumstances, Robin might have enjoyed his adversary’s discomfiture, but now all he wanted was to get out, fast, before his control disintegrated and his last defenses crumbled.

Which
way
I
fly
is
Hell; myself am Hell…

Major Henshawe, the magistrate whose assistance they’d requested for tonight, was discussing defamation and recompense. Somehow, Robin summoned the composure to excuse himself. He’d abide by whatever Harry and James decided. He thought he saw pity in Harry’s eyes as they shook hands—Christ, how much had he suspected about Robin’s feelings for his sister?—and turned away from it as from a blow.

“Robin!” Sophie pleaded, stretching out her hand, but he stepped away from that too.

“Good night, Miss Sophie.” Such simple words, so hard to say. “And to all of you.”

He strode from the library, not looking back. Each step seemed to tear the heart from his body—he knew he’d already torn out
hers
—but he kept walking, not stopping until he was standing on the front terrace, surrounded by darkness, waiting for his horse to be brought up.

Such a fragile thing, hope—but ever since that kiss in the pavilion, he’d let himself indulge in it. Let himself believe there might be a future for them, someday… until Nankivell’s words had reminded him of how impossible that was.

The door flew open behind him, and she was there, breathless and urgent at his shoulder. “Mr. Pendarvis! Robin! Don’t go!”

Robin swallowed dryly, feeling her entreaty pull at him like a chain about his heart. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome, Miss Tresilian. Pray excuse me.”

She caught his sleeve as he turned away. “There’s no reason for
you
to leave! You, Harry, James—none of you killed Lord Trevenan!”

“That’s not why—”

She made an impatient gesture. “And forget what Sir Lucas said! He was talking out of spite—just as he was when he slandered you!”

“Perhaps,” he conceded with a taut nod. “But the essence of what he said is true enough. I do have secrets that I have kept from you and everyone else in Cornwall.”

“I don’t care about your secrets, Robin! I’ve never cared!” Passion—and tears—thickened her voice. He risked a glance at her, then wished he hadn’t. The moonlight bleached her upturned face to marble, showed her brimming eyes, the faint quiver of her lips. Sophie, who never cried, who was made for laughter and music…

“But
I
do.” He forced himself to remain calm, even distant. Not to take her in his arms as he burned to do. Not even to wipe away—or kiss away—her tears. Behind them came the sound of distant music that seemed to mock their shared pain.

“You should find someone else,” he continued doggedly, looking away from her and into the gloom. Through the darkness, he glimpsed the shadowy shape of an approaching groom leading his equally shadowy horse up to the terrace. “Someone with no secrets and no past to regret. You deserve—that kind of happiness, that security.”

“I’d rather have love!” she choked out. “
Your
love!”

He swallowed again, feeling as if his heart were lodged in his throat. “You say that now, but you’ll see that I am right. Good-bye, Miss Tresilian.”

Her breath caught in a sob that tore at his heart. Hating himself, Robin strode down the steps and all but sprang into the saddle, riding off as though the devil was at his heels.

***

Two days later

“Mr. Pendarvis is here to see you, Sir Harry,” Parsons announced from the doorway of the breakfast room.

Sophie froze with her teacup halfway to her mouth.
Robin
. After the way they’d parted two nights ago, she’d begun to fear he’d never return. That hope was lost, but now…

She set down her cup carefully, caught Aurelia Newbold’s sympathetic eye, and managed a smile. Then Parsons was showing him in, at Harry’s behest, and she could see no one else.

Her first thought was that he looked tired and anxious, and, in spite of everything, her heart went out to him—even more when she heard his first words. “Forgive the intrusion, Harry, but I’ve just heard there was some trouble here yesterday, and someone was injured?”

Sophie felt herself flushing as his gaze met hers, and a wild elation surged through her. He’d come because he thought
she
might have been hurt! Hope was alive, after all.

“That would be me,” James was saying. “But not seriously—a graze on the arm, nothing more. And I’m glad to say the trouble’s been resolved.”

As
we
all
are
, Sophie thought, repressing a shiver at the thought of the danger he and Aurelia had faced.

Robin relaxed visibly. “I’m relieved to hear it, Trevenan. Might I know the details?”

James directed him to Harry, as he and Aurelia were about to leave for Pentreath. The American girl thanked them for their hospitality as she rose from her chair. Sophie wondered if yesterday’s ordeal had resolved things between her and James; she liked Aurelia and her twin, Amy, but of the two, Aurelia seemed better suited to her cousin. But that was their business, she reminded herself, turning back to Robin. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Pendarvis? Or a bite of breakfast, perhaps?”

“Yes, take a plate and join us, Rob,” Harry chimed in. “I’ll tell you what happened, once I’ve seen James and Miss Aurelia on their way.”

Alone with Robin—and how rare and fortuitous that was!—Sophie poured him a cup of tea. “Come and have something to eat now,” she urged. “You’ll be the better for it.”

“Thank you.” But instead of going over to the sideboard, he sat down beside her. “I am… very glad that you were not hurt yesterday.”

“I was never in any danger,” she assured him. “Indeed, I was safe at home at the time. But it was good of you to come and inquire.”

“I’d have come in any case.”

The admission startled them both. Sophie bit back an exclamation of triumph and saw that Robin was frowning. Not in anger, she thought—rather, he seemed to be wrestling with himself over something. “Sophie… do you mean to ride this morning?”

“I was considering it,” she ventured.

“Then may I accompany you?” His eyes, almost midnight-dark, were intent on hers. “There is—something I need to tell you, and in all conscience I cannot remain silent any longer.”

From any other man, the words would have sounded like the prelude to a proposal. Because it was Robin, she knew otherwise, but her heart still gave a little bound. At least he seemed willing to confide in her again; surely that was a good sign. Hearing Harry’s returning footsteps in the passage, she said quickly, “Yes, of course. I can be ready right after breakfast.”

***

“Married?”

“Four years ago, in Rouen.” Robin’s face was expressionless, but the tautness of his body revealed more than those terse words ever could.

Sophie turned away, struggling to remain or at least
appear
calm, even as her thoughts fluttered and flapped wildly through her head, like a flock of birds unable to settle.

Married
. The confession rocked her to the core. And at the same time, it explained
so
much
. Robin’s repeated assertions that he was in no position to marry. His careful discouragement of the hopeful young ladies’ desires of attaching the Pendarvis heir. And his continued attempts to keep
her
at arm’s length.

Sophie felt her face flame at the realization. For a moment, she wanted to do nothing more than fling herself onto Tregony’s back and gallop away before mortification consumed her. Only the knowledge of how difficult
that
would be while hampered by a riding habit and a sidesaddle kept her rooted where she stood. That—and the growing conviction that, whatever secrets lay in his past, Robin Pendarvis truly
cared
for her. Indeed, she would stake her life on the belief that what he felt for her was real. That was precisely what she was doing
now
.

She stole a glance at him. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part, but… he did not look to her like a man who still felt a strong attachment to his wife. But whatever his feelings for this unknown woman he’d married, Sophie wasn’t going to behave like a hysterical ninny and ride off in a storm of tears and recriminations. Not after he’d finally confessed the whole truth, at
her
urging, no less. The least she could do was to stay and hear him out.

She turned back to him, doing her best to speak calmly. “So, your wife was—is—a Frenchwoman?”

Gratitude flashed in his eyes, and for that, she was glad she was staying.

“Half-French, on her mother’s side,” he replied. “Her father was English, but died before she was born, and her mother died when Nathalie was four years old. Her uncle, Paul Gerard, was her guardian and my mentor, the architect I studied under. But he died suddenly—a fall from a roof—two years into my apprenticeship, and left her virtually penniless.”

“Did you marry her to protect her, then?” Knowing Robin, she could easily imagine how he might do something of that nature.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “In part, perhaps. I did feel some obligation to my late mentor. But it wasn’t quite that simple.”

Sophie grew very still. “Did you love her?”

“I—thought I did. It was a boy’s passion, on my side. I don’t know what it was on hers.”

Sophie swallowed. “What did she look like?”

He did not answer at once, and when he did, the words came out jerkily, as though forced from him. “She was tiny.
Mignonne
. Fair-haired—very fair, with light eyes. Almost silvery.” His mouth twisted, half-wry, half-wistful. “I used to call her
La
Belle
sans
Merci
. She could be… enchanting, at times—willful, a little spoiled, but charming too. More than half the young men in the village were smitten with her.” He looked down, pulling distractedly at a loose thread on one of his riding gloves. “I was barely past my majority when we wed, and she was just nineteen.”

Nineteen, only a year older than Sophie herself. And Robin had been twenty-one—surely not as guarded and secretive as he was now. And an early, ill-starred marriage
was
a secret of some magnitude. She could understand why he hadn’t wished it to become public knowledge—or a weapon in the hands of someone like Sir Lucas Nankivell.

“She had no other kin,” Robin continued. “Her father had broken with his relations to marry her mother, and she did not wish to go to England. I was determined to take care of her, to earn a good living for us both. We weren’t married a year before she became restless, discontented. I worked too long, she said. Left her alone too much. And she did not like where we were living, in Rouen. She hoped we might go to Paris, to be closer to the heart of things. But it was beyond my means to relocate there.”

So lack of money had been one bone of contention. Sophie wondered if…
Nathalie
had known of Robin’s expectations as the Pendarvis heir, and whether the girl had set out to captivate him for that very reason. She forced herself not to voice that suspicion; it would be petty and unworthy of her to cast aspersions on a woman she’d never met. Moreover, she suspected the thought might have occurred to Robin as well.

“Before we’d been married two years, she left me. With one of her lovers.”

“
One
of—”

Robin’s blue eyes had gone starkly grey, and the faint stretch of his lips was no smile at all. “She had several to choose from, or so I understand.”

“I’m—sorry,” Sophie faltered, aware of how pale and inadequate that sounded.

“After she’d gone, I went rather off the rails at first. Drinking, mostly. And—other things.” He did not look at her when he said the last.

Other
women
, Sophie deduced. Well, that did not surprise her, under the circumstances. Robin might consider her sheltered, but a girl with three brothers could not grow up wholly ignorant of the ways in which men could… misbehave.

He exhaled, glanced up again. “Work saved me. After several months, I put down the bottle, crawled out of the gutter I was wallowing in, and took up the tools of my trade again.”

“I’m glad,” Sophie said at once. “At least she couldn’t destroy that for you.”

The ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “Well, it was better for my liver, certainly. I moved into cheaper accommodations, continued my apprenticeship with one of my mentor’s colleagues, and got on with my life in general.”