Pamela Sherwood (2 page)

Sophie glanced at her card, experiencing a pang of regret when she saw the name already beside it. “I’m afraid the first waltz is claimed. But the supper dance is free, and it is also a waltz—if you’re still interested.”
Please
be
interested
, she thought with an urgency that surprised her. But this mysterious man with his unquiet eyes drew her as irresistibly as the moon drew the tides. If he would just partner her in this dance, take her in to supper afterward…

He smiled, the expression transforming his angular face, and for just a moment, she forgot how to breathe. “I am indeed. Please put me down for that, Miss Tresilian.”

“Miss Sophie.” A new voice—cool and cultured—interrupted them.

Looking up from her card again, Sophie saw that Sir Lucas Nankivell—one of their neighbors—had appeared just at Mr. Pendarvis’s shoulder and was regarding her fixedly.

“Good evening, Sir Lucas,” Sophie greeted him politely, wondering why his gaze should affect her so differently than Mr. Pendarvis’s. The baronet was pleasant enough to look at, after all: tall and athletically built, even if—as Harry said—he would never see thirty again.

“I wanted to tell you how exquisite your performance was,” Sir Lucas went on, his gaze still intent on her. “The equal of any singer I have heard in Covent Garden.”

“You flatter me, Sir Lucas,” Sophie said lightly. “But thank you all the same.”

“I assure you, Miss Sophie—I do not offer empty compliments,” Sir Lucas persisted. “Now, might I have the pleasure of partnering you for the supper dance?”

“Forgive me, Sir Lucas,” Sophie began, feeling insensibly relieved, “but I have already promised that dance to Mr. Pendarvis.” She nodded toward the man in question.

Sir Lucas turned his head and, much to Sophie’s astonishment, subjected Mr. Pendarvis to a prolonged and not particularly friendly scrutiny. Mr. Pendarvis stared coolly back, but Sophie thought she saw a tiny muscle tighten in the corner of his jaw.

Suddenly uneasy, she resumed, “I should introduce you. Mr. Pendarvis, this is Sir Lucas Nankivell, Baronet, one of our neighbors. Sir Lucas, Mr. Robin Pendarvis.”

“Pendarvis,” Sir Lucas echoed, his gaze still on the other man. “Of Pendarvis Hall?”

“Indeed.” Mr. Pendarvis inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“A fine old establishment.”

“Thank you.”

“It must take some… work to maintain it.” Was that a faint sneer in Sir Lucas’s voice?

“Most properties do.” The chill in Mr. Pendarvis’s eyes belied his calm tone.

“Indeed.” A wealth of condescension infused that single word.

Sophie glanced from one to the other, her uneasiness growing.
Dear
life, what ailed these men?
Despite the polite, even innocuous words, they reminded her of nothing so much as a pair of strange dogs sizing each other up; only the raised hackles were missing. She’d never seen such a blatant case of—if not hate, then strong dislike at first sight.

She was wondering how to defuse things when Sir Lucas turned back to her. “Perhaps another dance then, Miss Sophie?” he suggested. “The first one
after
supper?”

“Yes, of course.” Sophie penciled his name in, then tried to smile impartially at both men. “I shall see you, by and by. But I can hear the music starting for the quadrille, and here comes my brother to dance it with me!” she added with relief. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

Fortunately, they both stepped aside at once. Gathering up her skirts, Sophie hurried to meet John—brothers were a godsend at times like this! But she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. Much to her relief, Mr. Pendarvis and Sir Lucas were now heading in opposite directions. But then surely neither man was foolish or ill-bred enough to make a scene—not over a dance, of all things!

Even the supper dance… Sophie found herself smiling at the prospect as she and John joined the couples lining up for the quadrille. Robin Pendarvis, with his brilliant blue eyes and air of mystery—a man, not a callow youth—would be sharing a waltz
and
supper with her! What had begun as an evening of simple pleasures—music, good food, good company—suddenly promised far more.

***

The dances came and went in quick succession: waltz, polka, galop… Sophie was astonished to find herself in demand for so many of them. But it was pure delight to be considered “out” now, and thus able to dance as often as she liked. Not even having her toes and hem stepped on by her less graceful partners could dim her pleasure in that.

Talking of partners… now and again, her glance strayed to Mr. Pendarvis. Far from hiding in corners or taking refuge in the library or some other masculine enclave, he remained in the ballroom, dancing with ladies of varying ages—from girls just emerged from the schoolroom to middle-aged matrons who still clearly loved to take a turn about the floor. The discovery pleased her, even though she couldn’t help envying his partners, a feeling that intensified when she saw the satisfied, even smug smile sported by one of them—a pert redhead slightly older than herself—as Mr. Pendarvis led her through a spirited polka.

That supper dance couldn’t come fast enough after that. Watching Mr. Pendarvis’s approach, Sophie only wished she were wearing something a bit more sophisticated tonight, crimson, perhaps—or green, to complement her eyes. But Mama had been quite firm about what was suitable for a girl Sophie’s age at her first adult party. So, white it had to be.

Fortunately, if the light in his eyes was any indication, Mr. Pendarvis didn’t appear to find Sophie’s appearance lacking. “As promised, Miss Tresilian.” He sketched a bow. “Though I’ve noticed you’ve been much in demand this evening. You are not too weary, I trust?”

“Not at all. I love to dance.” Sophie took his proffered hand, her pulse quickening pleasurably at his warm, firm clasp. “My sister, Cecily, warns me I won’t always be able to keep up like this, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

“Wise counsel, if somewhat dampening,” Mr. Pendarvis agreed, leading her out onto the floor. “But I feel I should apologize in advance. I’m not the most exciting of dancers.”

Sophie smiled at him. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Pendarvis. I’ve had some partners this evening who afforded me rather more excitement than I desired. I should be glad of a nice, uneventful waltz at this time.”

“Then I shall do my best to make it thoroughly sedate,” he said, smiling back. “As long as you don’t fall asleep in the middle of the set.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’ve yet to experience that with any partner.”

And as they stepped into position, her right hand clasped in his left, his right hand settling at the small of her back, Sophie felt a thrill of anticipation that gave the lie to her previous words. However this waltz proceeded, she was certain it would prove anything but uneventful.

***

Her head just topped his shoulder, and for a moment, Robin felt a shock of familiarity that was not entirely pleasant. He pushed it away, made himself concentrate on the young lady in his arms—who could not be more different.

Dark rather than fair, slender without being ethereal, with those lively green eyes that looked straight into his own, without artifice or dissembling. Sophie might be young, but she was by no means gauche or awkward. Indeed, she had a poise and self-possession that any woman of any age would envy. Like the rest of her family, she exuded the sense of being comfortable with herself and her place in the world. Not complacent, and certainly not smug, but… secure. Confident, as few girls of seventeen were.

The music began, a lilting Strauss confection, and Robin led Sophie a trifle hesitantly into the dance. But then, who wouldn’t feel self-conscious taking the floor with one’s host’s youngest sister and the apple of her family’s eye? He just managed to avoid looking around to see if Sir Harry or any of the Tresilians were watching them, telling himself he was being ridiculous.

So, a gentle waltz—just as he’d promised her. He held her the prescribed distance away, aware of the heat of her body, warm from previous dances, through the thin silk muslin of her gown. And the scent that drifted from her skin—a simple essence of violet, delicate but haunting.

Once, many years ago, he’d been beguiled by what he thought was innocence. But this girl, with her open face and shining smile, was a true innocent, someone to be cherished and protected. That she also happened to arouse feelings in him that were rather less innocent was his problem entirely. If only he hadn’t been such a credulous fool
then
, perhaps he could let himself acknowledge those feelings
now
, without guilt or regret…

But that sort of thinking availed him nothing. The past was the past, and he had to live with that. Closing the door on all the “might have beens,” Robin concentrated on the dance. Much to his relief, he seemed to be doing passably well—Sophie’s hem and toes were intact, so far. And Sophie herself waltzed beautifully, her steps light and graceful. Little wonder that so many young men sought her out as a partner.

Her voice broke in on his thoughts. “Mr. Pendarvis, are you quite all right? You were looking so—forbidding just now.”

“Was I?” He summoned a smile and guided her into a turn. “A moment’s distraction, Miss Tresilian, that I hope you’ll forgive. I am not usually so inattentive when dancing with a charming young lady.”

“Are you sure there isn’t something troubling you?” she persisted, her gaze intent on his face. “Your great-uncle, perhaps? I’d heard he was unwell.”

“He’s a little under the weather, but I suspect it’s mostly age that ails him,” Robin replied. “That, and having outlived so many of his old friends and companions. I offered to stay with him tonight, but he seemed indifferent to the idea.”

Sympathy warmed her eyes and voice. “My Grandmother Tresilian became like that toward the end of her life. She turned inward and hardly seemed to know any of us anymore. All we could do was see that she had all she needed and make her as comfortable as possible.”

“That’s what I am trying to do. It’s at times like this I wish we were closer, though—I did not meet my great-uncle until I was sixteen, and we’ve met only sporadically since then.”

“You did not grow up in Cornwall then, Mr. Pendarvis?”

“I did not have that pleasure, Miss Tresilian. My father was a captain in the army—we followed wherever the regiment took him. I never set foot in Cornwall until after his death, but he’d told me all about spending his childhood summers here. When I saw it for myself, I could not believe how
green
everything was, and how mild the climate. My father’s last posting was in India—sadly, he died there, of fever—so you could scarce imagine two places more different.” The only similarity was how alien he’d felt in both. Aloud, he said, “I beg your pardon, Miss Tresilian. This conversation has turned far more serious than I intended it to.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Pendarvis,” she assured him. “I’m sorry about your father—I’ve heard that living conditions are very rigorous in India.”

“You’ve heard rightly. It’s a country that holds much beauty but much danger as well, especially for unwary foreigners,” he added, remembering some close calls during his boyhood; a poisonous snake had figured prominently in at least one of them. “It took me some time to accustom myself to how much calmer England seemed, by comparison.”

Sophie’s brows arched. “Calm but not boring, I hope?”

Robin looked down into her piquant young face. “No, not boring at all. Especially now.”

Her eyes widened as she absorbed the compliment, and a faint flush rose in her cheeks, but he thought she did not look at all displeased. Encouraged, he executed a successful twirl, and they danced on.

***

The break for supper came, and he escorted her into the dining room, which in size and shape reminded him of a lord’s medieval great hall. A long table decked in snowy linen dominated the room, and the food had been laid out on huge serving platters for diners to help themselves.

As Lady Tresilian had promised, supper was lavish, as befitted the season: roast joints of beef and mutton, ham, goose, lobster, and salmon. Savory and sweet pies of all description—Robin had heard the joke that the devil himself avoided Cornwall for fear of being baked in a pie—along with hothouse fruits, puddings, jellies, and pitchers filled to the brim with rich Cornish cream. Cider, champagne, and wine were also available in abundance; Sir Harry prided himself on his cellar, Sophie informed him.

Once they were seated, Robin served them both from the various laden platters. Sophie ate lightly, but with the eager appetite of seventeen, whetted no doubt by her performances in the music room and on the dance floor. He liked that she did not peck or nibble at her food, as too many fashionable young ladies did.

“Would you like anything more?” he asked, as she polished off the last delectable bite, then eyed her empty plate a touch wistfully.

She shook her head. “I mustn’t gorge myself, not when there’s more dancing to follow. But I will take a little more champagne, if you please.”

He reached for the bottle and poured out half a glass of the pale sparkling wine for her.

Sophie sipped it delicately. “Wonderful,” she said on a sigh. “They don’t usually let me drink anything stronger than tea, or occasionally cider, unless it’s a very special occasion.”

Robin glanced involuntarily toward the end of the table, where Sir Harry was sitting; fortunately, his host was not looking in their direction. “Oh, dear. Will your brother be displeased by my plying you with strong drink?”

She gave a gurgle of laughter, as irresistibly bubbly as the champagne. “Only if we’re foolish enough to tell him! But you needn’t worry, Mr. Pendarvis. I’m enjoying this evening far too much to spoil it by getting tiddly.”

Her frank admission made him smile as well. Nothing of the coquette about Sophie, he thought, nothing calculating or artful. Her face, her manners, and her conversation were open, candid, and unaffected, and all the more endearing for that.

Did she have any idea of her own appeal? She’d a host of admirers, but he’d seen no evidence that she’d been flirting with any of them. Or with him for that matter.