Pamela Sherwood (21 page)

“Perhaps. But your picture must be in all the print shops in town,” he pointed out. “I bought one just yesterday. Wherever we go, you might still be recognized.”

She tensed in his arms, struck by a new thought. “Which would do
you
no favors, either. Especially if you hope to gain custody of Sara.”

He hadn’t considered that, and the implications chilled him to the bone. While Nathalie had betrayed their marriage first, he still had to show that he was the more responsible parent. They weighed their options in bleak silence, each arriving at the same unsatisfactory conclusion.

“Damn.” Sophie’s voice sounded small and chastened. “I’m so sorry, Robin. I wasn’t thinking.” Her hand crept into his again.

He gave it a comforting squeeze. “Not your fault—I wasn’t thinking either. Who’d have imagined that you’d become so famous that even London isn’t big enough for you?”

She stilled. “Perhaps… it’s not a city we should be thinking of at all.”

“Sophie—”

“No, listen!” She turned in his arms, and he could see the urgency on her face even in the faint glow of the carriage lamps. “I have an idea, Robin. There may be a way for us, after all.”

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall

And she me caught in her arms long and small

Therewithal sweetly did me kiss,

And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”

—Sir Thomas Wyatt, “They Flee From Me”

At any hour of the day, Paddington station swarmed with activity as hordes of travelers descended from the trains or rushed to board them. Shrouded in steam, the engines squatted in position like mechanical dragons, their doors gaping open to receive or disgorge passengers. Now and then a whistle blew, mournful and imperative at once.

Valise in hand, a copy of
The
Times
tucked under one arm, Robin strode along the platform toward the first-class carriages, glancing through the windows of various compartments. At last he spied one that looked almost empty, except for a veiled woman in a plain dark dress sitting by the window, her nose buried in a book.

Without hesitation, he opened the door and stepped up into the compartment.

“Madam, if I may?” he inquired with perfect formality, as he closed the door behind him.

The woman glanced up from her book, bestowed upon him a look of cool appraisal—just discernible through her veil—and inclined her head, before returning her attention to whatever she had been reading.

Curious, Robin glanced at the spine of her book:
The
Huntsman
Winds
His
Horn
by Lewis Wells, a popular author of detective stories. Well, at least it wasn’t Marie Corelli or someone equally dire. Amused all the same, he stowed his valise in the overhead rack, took the seat opposite her, shook out his newspaper ostentatiously, and began to read as well. A lady and a gentleman, sitting in silent, solitary decorum: two strangers who could not be less interested in one another. A few minutes later, the train’s whistle wailed and they pulled out of the station.

Much to Robin’s relief, no other passengers entered their compartment. After the conductor had collected their tickets and departed, he moved almost casually to sit beside his fellow passenger. He felt her entire body relax as he seated himself, and caught the glimmer of laughter in her sea-green eyes beneath that absurd veil.

He found himself grinning like a schoolboy, caught up in the lunacy of this entire escapade. “Minx! A Spanish duenna couldn’t have improved upon that look!”

Sophie stifled a giggle. “Was I that convincing? I did feel I had to be, just in case we acquired an audience.”

“You effectively
thicked my blood with cold
,” he assured her. “Fortunately, we’re still alone, so you can dispense with the basilisk stare for now.”

“With pleasure. But I must confess,” she added in a low voice, tucking back her veil, “I feel as if I’m performing in a French farce.”

“The only thing missing is a bed,” he murmured, and saw her flush deliciously.

She lowered her gaze, deceptively demure. “That will come into play soon enough.”

The thought was enough to send a hot rush of arousal through him, but, mindful of their surroundings, he contented himself with taking her hand. Their fingers twined together, as intimate as a kiss.

“So, where are we going, exactly?” he asked as they leaned back against the seat, shoulders brushing. “Oxfordshire?”

“Yes, not far from the Cotswolds,” she informed him. “Lord and Lady Warrender have a cottage to let on their estate. As Thomas is such an old friend of theirs, he vouched for me, and they were more than willing to let me stay here for a short holiday, after I finished my engagements in town. I’ve heard it’s a charming place—Thomas stayed there himself while he was painting a portrait—and bound to be very private, since the Season’s still in full swing.”

“It sounds just about ideal. How long were you planning to stay?”

“Oh, I had thought about a week, although Lady Warrender assured me I could stay a fortnight, if I wished.” Sophie paused, studying him with searching green eyes. “But I know you’ll want to return to London—and Cornwall—sooner than that.”

“Yes,” he admitted on a sigh, touching his lips to her brow. “Far sooner, I’m afraid.”

She grew still against him. “How long do we have?”

“My solicitor told me the papers should be ready on Tuesday.” Mr. Halifax had offered to mail them to Nathalie, but Robin had refused. His ill-starred marriage had been undertaken face to face; it should end the same way, no matter how enraged Nathalie became once he told her he’d filed for divorce.

Still… Tuesday was a mere four days from now. Sophie’s lovely face paled as she absorbed that unwelcome but inescapable fact, and Robin could almost
see
her dredging up a smile from somewhere.

“Well, then, we’ll leave at first light on Tuesday morning, so you can have the papers in hand by noon,” she said with a creditable attempt at briskness. “And as to the rest, we’ll just have to make the most of our time away.”

“Agreed.” Robin put an arm about her shoulders, drawing her close. His regrets ran as deep as hers. After so many years apart, so much longing and loneliness, this interlude seemed like a crust thrown to a starving man.

But a crust was better than nothing at all, he reminded himself. Who knew how long it would be before they could be together lawfully, especially if Nathalie resisted the divorce? At least they could have this interlude, snatch a few days of happiness, before he returned to Cornwall and began the lengthy process of ending his marriage once and for all.

Four days… but he was determined to make the most of them—as was Sophie, he knew.

The train wound along, and they sat together, fingers still entwined, and watched through the window as London slipped away.

***

Less than two hours later, they stood with their valises on the platform at Witney, having changed trains at Oxford. The mid-afternoon sun shone down on them beneficently from a cloudless sky.

A beautiful day, Sophie thought. The thought struck her that she’d have found it beautiful even in the pouring rain, simply because she was here with Robin. Besotted… just as she’d been as seventeen, though she hoped she’d acquired more sense and perhaps even some wisdom in the ensuing six years.

“What now, my love?” Robin spoke the words lightly, almost carelessly, but they sent a pleasurable shiver through her just the same.

“Well, we should go into town first and wire Amy to let her know we arrived safely.
And
when we’ll be coming back to London,” she added. “Someone should know where we are, just in case. And we can trust her and Thomas to keep our confidence.”

“We owe both of them a great deal,” Robin agreed, offering her his arm.

They did indeed, Sophie reflected somberly as they left the station. Amy had been delighted to hear of Sophie and Robin’s reconciliation, and Thomas, while more reserved than his wife, had expressed similar wishes for their happiness and offered practical assistance in arranging their brief holiday. At Thomas’s invitation, Robin had checked out of Brown’s Hotel and moved his trunks to Sheridan House; he’d also arranged to have any correspondence forwarded there too.

They found a post office easily enough and sent the telegram. Afterward, they hired a hackney carriage and were soon on their way to Wyldean Hall, located perhaps five miles south of the town.

“The staff knows to expect me today,” Sophie explained to Robin as they bowled along the country roads. “I sent a wire this morning, so they’ll have got the cottage ready for guests: food, fresh linens, candles, anything we might need.” She smiled. “Lady Warrender told me there’s even a piano in the parlor—a small one.”

“The parlor or the piano?”

Sophie giggled. “I think she meant the piano, but I suppose the parlor might be on the small side too. Never mind, I think we’ll have all the room we need. Downstairs—and upstairs.”

He touched her cheek. “It was upstairs I was thinking of.”

Upstairs, where the bedchambers were most likely to be.

Sophie leaned into Robin’s caress. Useless to deny she was thinking of that too. Of the moment both had thought would never come. Sitting beside him in the carriage, she was all the more conscious of his proximity—the warmth of his body, the coiled energy in his lean frame, and the familiar scent of bay rum that set every nerve ending atingle. Desire curled through her: she burned to kiss him, to touch him as they’d touched last night in the Sheridans’ carriage—but they’d had the advantage of darkness then. Daylight provided no such protection, she thought with an inward sigh. They must be discreet a while longer.

Still, to be here, with him, was more than she had ever dared to dream for the last four years. The rest would come soon enough.

So she sat quietly with her hand in his and gazed out the window at the scenery: the yellow stone houses, many half-timbered in Tudor fashion; bushy hawthorn trees studded with dark fruit; and the graceful willows lining the banks of the Windrush, its waters glowing amber in the sun. There was something curiously soothing about watching a river flow, she mused, much more restful than watching the sea. And her eyelids felt as heavy as stone shutters; she’d risen early this morning to prepare for the journey, and after last night’s performance and everything that followed, the effort had been little short of Herculean. Perhaps if she closed her eyes for just a moment…

The next thing she knew, Robin was gently shaking her awake. “We’re here, my love.”

***

Sophie fell in love with the cottage at first sight. Built of honey-colored Cotswold stone— like the main house—it gleamed among the beech trees like a perfectly set jewel. In autumn, when the leaves had turned to copper and flame, the sight must be truly dazzling, she thought.

While Robin took down the valises and settled with the hackney driver, she went up the walk and unlocked the door with the key the housekeeper had given her. Entering, she breathed in the scents of beeswax and lemon thyme, and took a long look around.

Two large rooms—a kitchen and parlor—appeared to dominate the ground floor. The former came equipped with a modern cookstove and an impressive array of pots and pans; the latter was comfortably but tastefully furnished, with William Morris chairs, a well-padded sofa, and the promised piano standing in a corner. Everything was as clean and tidy as a new pin, the stone floor swept, the surfaces of tables, chairs, shelves,
and
piano all gleaming with polish.

“This
is
something like,” Robin remarked with approval as he stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Sophie turned in a slow circle, feeling happiness bubble up as from an underground spring. “It’s perfect!”

“Why don’t we wait until we see the rest of the place before making such a declaration?” Robin suggested, but he was smiling.

“I know it’s small. You could probably fit it into a corner of Pendarvis Hall—”

“I stayed in far less commodious places following the regiment. This will more than do,” he assured her. “Shall we go up and see the first floor?”

Upstairs, they found two good-sized bedchambers, one papered in pale blue stripes, the other in rose sprigs; a bathroom with a full-length tub; and even a water closet containing a flush commode with an embossed bowl. The sight of the last left them temporarily speechless.

“Well, it’s not primitive, at any rate!” Sophie remarked at last, stifling a giggle. “We shan’t be living like Robinson Crusoe while we’re here.”

Robin smiled, the rare, unguarded smile that always turned her bones to water. “He had only Friday for company. I have you—that makes me better off than he already.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her, a light, soft caress that hinted at much more to come. “Are you hungry? We had no luncheon.”

“Famished,” she admitted, still nestled within the circle of his arm. “But, oh, Robin—I would dearly love a bath first!”

“Then by all means have one,” he proposed. “In the meantime, I’ll go down to the kitchen and see about putting something together for us both.”

“I don’t want to leave all the work to you,” she protested, but he shook his head.

“It’s not that hard to brew a pot of tea and open some tins. Besides, I find that fixing a meal relaxes me—and we’ll have to heat some water anyway for your bath.”

This was a domestic side of him she hadn’t seen before, but one she found instantly appealing. And he did look less tense—the set of his shoulders was looser, and his expression more open. Not as tightly wound as he’d been in London.

“Very well,” Sophie conceded, capitulating without any real resistance. “And perhaps we can have a morsel or two while we wait for the water to boil.”

***

The bath was lovely, the water just the right temperature, and there was Pears soap with which to wash—an additional luxury. Feeling much refreshed, Sophie climbed out, swathed herself in a thick, soft towel, and padded into the rose-papered bedchamber, seeking her valise and a change of clothing.

A charming room, she mused idly, as she located the valise and began to sort through what she had packed. Lady Warrender, or whoever had decorated this chamber, had exquisite taste. The floral theme was prevalent throughout, from the sprigged wallpaper to the patterned curtains to the bowl of potpourri on the dresser, breathing out a faint odor of roses. The furnishings were also well chosen: an elegant dressing table, a pair of wing chairs upholstered in moss green, and a bed with a carved oaken stead, just big enough for two.

Her mind stuttered to a stop. The bed… the one she and Robin would share tonight, as lovers, for the very first time. Anticipation quickened her pulse and sent a rush of heat flooding through her body—to be with him at last, the way she’d dreamed of for so long.

And yet… there was apprehension mixed in with the eagerness too. These last four years had changed them both, especially her: she was no longer the untouched innocent whom he had first known. He had accepted or seemed to accept her history, but in the end, would he be disappointed—that he was not her first and only lover?

Sophie pulled herself up sharply. She was being ridiculous—and she needed to stop borrowing trouble. In all their dealings, Robin had never said anything to her that he didn’t mean. So if he said her past relations with other men made no difference to him, she should take him at his word.