Pamela Sherwood (24 page)

Her arms tightened around him. “She meant to seduce you.”

He nodded weary acknowledgment. “I can’t think why, though.”

Sophie pulled back a little, her expression quizzical. “Can’t you? It seems to me that Nathalie had everything to gain if she’d succeeded. Security, respectability, power—and you.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “But she didn’t love me, nor I her.”

“I wonder.”

Robin glanced up sharply at her soft, almost musing tone. She raised her brows. “Why does the idea surprise you so much? I saw her face that night when she came back and found us dancing together. You say that she didn’t love you, and perhaps she never had. I may not have understood everything back then, but I can tell you this much: Nathalie did not like seeing me with you, not one bit.”

“Her vanity was injured, nothing more.” He shrugged a defensive shoulder. “She probably hoped I’d turn into a sot or blow my brains out when she left me.”

“Instead, you thrived,” Sophie pointed out. “Eventually, anyway. You returned to England, became a successful architect, inherited the Hall, and turned it into a profitable business. You are so much more than the boy she married and abandoned, the struggling young apprentice. You’re a man of means now—and a handsome one.” She paused, stroking his hair, then continued levelly, “She may not have loved you, but I think, on some level, that she
wanted
you. And you didn’t want her.
That
would have made you irresistible.”

Robin shifted in his chair. What Sophie said made a certain degree of sense, even though he felt uncomfortable as hell admitting it.

“Nathalie may have hoped that, in time, your marriage would become a complete one again,” Sophie continued, still sounding eerily composed, even detached. “Getting into bed with you may have been her most blatant attempt at winning you over. But I am sure she tried other means as well. Subtler ones.”

A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. “Subtle and Nathalie were poles apart!”

He remembered her swathed in frivolous bits of silk and lace, trying on him all the coquettish little tricks that had worked so many years ago—the pout, the fluttering lashes, the near-lisp he’d once found charming. And her barely concealed rage when they availed her nothing, culminating in the night when she’d got into bed with him.

More memories bubbled up, like corruption from a poisoned wound: Nathalie taking over the music room he’d decorated with Sophie in mind, and playing would-be seductive French
chansons
on the piano in his hearing. (He’d refrained from locking her out only because Sara loved the music room too and had asked to have piano lessons.) Nathalie flirting with his neighbors and guests, always with one eye on him to gauge his reaction And he remembered the book of clippings he’d made, following Sophie’s career, and how he’d found it torn and damaged on the floor of his private study. No need to ask whose work
that
had been, and from that point on, he’d kept that notebook and any other news regarding Sophie under lock and key.

“Come back, dear heart.”

He surfaced, shuddering, aware that his face was damp with perspiration.

Sophie’s gaze was compassionate. “Where did you go?” she asked, smoothing his hair.

Back
to
hell
. He managed a wan smile. “Trust me, love, you don’t want to know.”

Sophie worried her lower lip, clearly tempted to argue the point, but much to Robin’s relief, the kettle whistled behind them.

“Drat!” Sophie muttered, and went to rescue it. “Shall I make the tea, then?”

Without waiting for a reply, she spooned tea into the pot, then poured in the boiling water; her brow was still creased in a frown that had nothing to do with her current task.

Bracing his forearms on his knees, Robin took several composing breaths. There had been times, these last four years, when he’d felt as though he were living in an armed camp. But he was free now, and
never
going back to how things had been. Nor was he going to waste any more time dwelling on it, not when he was here, at long last, with the woman he truly loved.

“Here.” Sophie placed a steaming cup of tea before him. “Drink this; you’ll feel better.”

Robin took a careful sip, appreciating both the hot drink and the familiar ritual. “Forgive me. I never wanted to burden you with this.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Burdens shared are burdens halved. But I am sorry to see you in such distress.”

Robin blew out a breath. “You’ll think it’s strange, no doubt, but I was more disturbed when Nathalie climbed into my bed than when I found her entertaining her latest lover in her own. Not that I enjoyed that,” he added, “but I didn’t feel… manipulated to the same degree.”

Sophie said slowly, “You don’t think she… arranged for you to find her so? In hopes that you would be outraged or inflamed with jealousy?”

“Perhaps she did—I don’t know. But if she was expecting some big dramatic scene, she was doomed to disappointment.” He felt his mouth crook. “In retrospect, I think I felt mainly distaste, and some surprise that she showed such poor judgment in her choice of bedfellow.”

Sophie fretted her lip. “Did Nathalie—seduce a guest at the hotel?”

Robin smiled without humor. “Oh, nothing so commonplace as that, my dear. She set her sights much higher—or lower, depending on how one looks at it. Nathalie’s current lover is Sir Lucas Nankivell.”

***

For a moment Sophie just stared at him, convinced her ears were playing tricks on her. Then, “Sir Lucas?” she echoed faintly.

“None other,” Robin replied. “He’s held a grudge against me since the day we met. And I won’t deny it became mutual quite soon after that.”

She reached behind her for a chair, sank down on it without looking. “Because of me?”

“Oh, in part.” Robin caressed her cheek. “I won’t deny it, love. Nankivell’s wanted you from the first. Not that I blame him, but that certainly lent an edge to our dealings. It would have only got worse after we uncovered his slanders that summer.”

Sophie pulled a face. “Oh, I doubt he was heartbroken over losing me—not that he ever had me to begin with! Any halfway pretty girl with a large dowry would have done for him, and yes, I figured that out a long time ago. Without my fortune, he’d never have approached Harry for my hand. Besides, didn’t he marry an heiress just a year or two ago?”

“Yes, an industrialist’s daughter from Birmingham,” Robin confirmed. “But no one with eyes to see would mistake it for a love match. Not on his side, at any rate. His title, her fortune—that seems to be the way of things these days.”

“If she does love him… poor girl,” Sophie said feelingly. “Especially now that he’s unfaithful.” She spared a moment to be thankful she’d never felt an attraction to Sir Lucas.

“Our mutual grudge notwithstanding, Nankivell and I generally try to avoid each other, so I can’t begin to guess how Lady Nankivell feels about her husband. But according to recent rumor, she’s left him—for now.” Robin’s mouth quirked. “I don’t know whether Nankivell’s affair with Nathalie predates this separation, and I don’t much care. It’s possible Lady Nankivell left when she found out about it. If so, I hope she still has some control over her fortune. I’d hate to think how much of
his
wife’s money Nankivell spent on that diamond necklace for mine.”

Sophie stared at him, aghast. “The necklace? The one in your dream?”

His eyes were winter-cold, his mouth crooked in a mirthless half smile. “She was wearing it when I caught them together. The necklace—and nothing else.”

“Oh.” The single appalled syllable was all Sophie could manage at that. She wished fervently for a cup of tea herself—or a glass of something considerably stronger.

“Nankivell’s idea. From what little I heard before interrupting them, he enjoys seeing his mistresses wearing his gifts during—intimacy. It satisfies his sense of proprietorship.” Robin’s mouth twisted wryly. “Adding my wife to their number was particularly gratifying for him.”

Sophie shuddered. “Hateful man.”

Robin shrugged. “He’s not worth hating—not really. As far as I’m concerned, he’s welcome to Nathalie’s favors, and I don’t doubt she was a willing participant. Possibly even the instigator. The irony is that in seeking to serve me another ill turn, he actually handed me the key to my cage. Doubtless it would gall him if he knew.”

“And Nathalie herself? Do you think she loves him?”

“I doubt it. More likely it was sport for her—taking another lover, right under my nose
and
under my roof this time.” Robin’s voice hardened. “Well, she can have all the lovers she wants now, and I’ll even grant her an annuity toward a separate household, but I’m done with this sham of a marriage. I won’t live like this any longer!”

He broke off then, struggling to contain his anger—anger that was all the more intense for being held on such a tight rein these last four years, Sophie realized. She covered his hand with her own, and after a moment, he turned his hand palm up and twined their fingers together.

“I want an end to this,” he said more calmly. “An end to bitterness and resentment, mine
and
hers. This arrangement benefits no one anymore, not even Sara.” His eyes, clear unclouded blue, met Sophie’s. “And I want a fresh start with the woman I love.”

“You have it.” She drew their linked hands up to her lips and kissed his fingers. “And you have me. The rest will come in time, Robin. We’ll simply wait it out, together.”

“Together,” he agreed, his mouth softening into a genuine smile this time. “That’s becoming one of my favorite words.”

“Mine too.” She smiled back. “Now, let me get breakfast ready, and then we can take on the world. Or go for a walk in the woods, if you prefer.”

He released her hand. “The woods, I think. The world can wait a few more days.”

“So it can,” Sophie agreed, sobered afresh by the reminder of how short this respite was.

So, make the most of it
. Pushing back her chair, she asked brightly, “Bacon or fried ham with the eggs?”

***

Four days, one for each year they’d spent apart. That was how Sophie came to think of it afterward. Four days in which they lived only for love and each other. Rising when they chose, fixing themselves a leisurely breakfast in the cottage kitchen. Walks in the woods, or down to Wyldean itself, a charming village made up of yellow stone buildings, like the manor and the cottage. And talking about everything under the sun, from weighty subjects like politics and the state of the world to the more intimate and personal matters that concerned only themselves.

The staff at Wyldean Hall seemed to have a sixth sense about when to visit the cottage. Or perhaps they were merely respecting the tenant’s expressed wish for privacy. In any case, Sophie and Robin would return from their rambles to find that the rooms had been cleaned, the beds freshly made up, and more food delivered in their absence, but no sign of any person in sight. It was like living in a fairy tale, Sophie told Robin, in which one was waited on by elves or invisible servants.

“And their invisibility must be respected,” she added lightly, “or the enchantment ends, and everything will vanish in a clap of thunder.”

“
This
enchantment will last, I promise you,” Robin said, and kissed her until fairy tales were the furthest thing from her mind.

Sometimes Robin played the upright piano in the parlor. He’d acquired a measure of competence that surprised her. “Music was a way of keeping in touch with you,” he explained. “And Sara is learning to play now, herself.”

And Sophie would sing—not opera, but the less demanding, though still beautiful, songs she’d learned as a girl. Some of them he knew as well, and they would sing together, her soprano mixing with his passable baritone.

There were books in the parlor. Not many, to be sure, but a pleasant enough collection of novels, poetry, and even a few volumes of history. Occasionally they read aloud to each other, although Robin teased her for her choice of reading material on the train. “I never imagined you’d acquire a taste for sensation novels!”

“Detective novels,” she corrected him. “Much more respectable, and some of them are quite ingenious too. In any case, I needed something to entertain myself with during my travels. David introduced me to Lewis Wells’s work when we last toured together. Apparently he’s well-acquainted with the author.” She fingered the binding of her book. “Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is more brilliant, but Mr. Wells’s detective is more human, which I rather like. Mind you, my
first
preference is for a good romance—with a happy ending, of course.”

Robin’s eyes warmed. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said, drawing her closer to him on the sofa.

One afternoon, surprised by a rainstorm while out walking, they hurried back to the cottage and built up a fire to drive away the chill, curling up together on the hearth rug to watch the cheerful blaze.

Warm and secure in Robin’s encircling arms, Sophie said, “Tell me about your children.”

He pulled back a little, looked searchingly at her. “Do you truly want to know?”

Sophie smiled her reassurance. “Why wouldn’t I? Sara is your daughter, and in the eyes of the world, Cyril was your son. More important, he was the son of your heart, and I can tell that you grieved—and still grieve—for him.”

“Thank you.” Robin’s expression eased, though she could see the sorrow in his eyes.

After a while, he said, “The doctor told me we were always living on borrowed time with Cyril. But he had so much love to give, perhaps because he sensed he’d so little time to give it. I won’t say he was an angel—he had bad days, when he was peevish and hard to please, and I know he’d have given much to be strong and active, like James and Aurelia’s son.”

A wistful smile tugged at his mouth. “But they managed to be friends just the same. Whenever Jared came to visit, he brought toys and books to share. Cyril was as bright as a button, and he loved to be read to. Sara would sit beside him with her books and try to share her lessons with him.”