Authors: Illusion

Emily French (6 page)

BOOK: Emily French

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Seth seemed disinclined to small talk, content to sit in silence, regarding her with an enigmatic expression.

That steady, silent regard began to wield a strange effect on Sophy, making her feel awkward and unsure of herself. Her heart began an erratic thumping, and she felt hot one minute, chilly the next. A long breath escaped her lips, and she felt light-headed. When their gazes collided, she found she could not tear her eyes away from his.

Seth leaned his elbows on the table. If he didn’t know better he would say his wife’s fascination was oddly innocent and totally genuine. His white teeth glinted, and his eyes crinkled in sardonic amusement.

“A watched pot may never boil, my dear, but an unwatched omelet will always burn!”

Cheeks scarlet, Sophy lowered her lashes quickly. She found her husband had an unsettling effect. Disturbing. Making her a stranger to herself. Restless in a way that she didn’t like.

What she did like was the way Seth tucked into the fluffy omelet, oozing cheese. His Adam’s apple slid up and down as if he savored every mouthful.

In truth, Seth did. For several years he had been accustomed to camp fare, which, more often than not, consisted of basic army rations subsidized, on occasion, with a scraggy chicken or jackrabbit stew. The cook he employed had neither the expertise nor the desire to embark on any recipe more exciting than boiled meat and potatoes.

“I must commend you on your cooking, Sophy. That was delicious.” He scraped the last morsel off his plate.

“You ought to taste my
coq au vin
and my
boeuf à la mode.”

“When did you learn to cook like that?”

“One of the many indulgences my father gave me was cooking lessons from a French chef.” Sophy knew she was gabbling, her tongue working faster than her brain. “Father paid Marcel’s passage from Paris on condition he stay with us for six months. Marcel stayed for a year, found himself an American bride and now owns a restaurant downtown.”

Seth arched one dark eyebrow. “You look like a bride yourself, all decked out in white, waiting for her husband.”

Instant warmth flooded Sophy’s cheeks. Suddenly she was painfully conscious of him, of his maleness, of all that this night could mean. She stood uncertainly. She did not speak, but simply looked at him, her eyes very wide and pleading in her small face. Her lips trembled.

It seemed an eternity passed before he moved. Slowly, gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, and drew her toward him. The warm masculine smell of wool and leather, and something indefinable, flooded her senses. Sophy’s hands came up and clutched the white pleated folds of his shirt. She saw the brown skin of his throat, and felt the vibrations of his heartbeat through her fingertips.

Instinctively, Sophy stood still within Seth’s arms. The caressing hands slid across her back, warm through the frail barrier of cotton, his touch as delicate as a butterfly’s, as light as down.

Her fears and hesitation fled, and she snuggled closer. His arms tightened. Slowly she let her hands, still shy in their response, slide up to his shoulders. Touching him meant merging reality with dreams.

Seth withdrew from her slightly to stare into her eyes, his own fiercely blue. She quivered in his arms like a fragile, windswept flower. His palms tested the contours of her waist before his hands came back to her shoulders, moving lightly back and forth, over her collarbone, circling lower and lower with each stroke.

The buttons of her negligee gave way beneath his fingers, and he brushed the fine material aside. Sophy’s thoughts became scattered and unfocused. The tips of his fingers trailed across the tops of her breasts, curved down, round, to softly cup the underside of the soft mounds.

It was shocking, and somehow shameful, but very low down, below the pit of her stomach, her organs began to twist and coil, to converge throbbingly in a tightly laced ball. A deep shuddering sigh convulsed her body, which was soft and yielding in a way it had never been before.

Seth whispered something incoherent, and then his mouth came down hard on hers. Sophy clung to him, her mind reeling, her insides quivering. She arched against him, her mouth finding his with answering passion.

She murmured in protest when his lips left hers, but Seth only slipped lower, kissing the hollow of her throat. He made a groaning sound, and his thumbs stroked the rounded flesh.

Sophy pushed in denial of the hand at her breast, but then came a tremulous joy, so strong it was almost painful. A rising, thickening pleasure that drew her muscles taut. The universe shrank to the size of a hand and only his fingers were real. They probed the hardened peak before he drew it into his mouth.

The warm wetness of his mouth, the roughness of his tongue, made Sophy squeeze her eyes shut. She gasped as a bolt of fire pierced her loins, rippled down her thighs, up her belly, leaving her quivering, muscles trembling in a deep, hurting need.

She was going to die! She whimpered and dissolved into his body, raking her fingers through his hair, wanting, needing something only he could give.

The solid strength of his body touching hers made Sophy feel weak. Full-length against him, she was aware of his labored breathing, of every muscle in his long legs, the fiercely masculine outline of his body. His responses became slow and hesitant, as if he feared hurting her, though he made no attempt to camouflage his desire, as he pressed her to him.

Seth was straining her to him so intensely, pressing her curves into the hard planes of his body with kneading, wanting hands, that it came as a shock to Sophy when he suddenly thrust her back from him and held her inches away in a hurting grip that told her how hard it was for him to break contact with her. She glanced up at him in bewilderment, and saw the faint uncertainty in his features before his face hardened into its familiar unemotional mask.

Feeling much like a man caught in a tidal wave, Seth made a desperate attempt to battle against an irresistible force. He had promised to give her time! His body surged with desire. He felt ready to erupt!

There was chaos in him. He couldn’t give in to lust. How could he not? He couldn’t. It was destruction. He was a man of honor. He must resist, give her the time she had asked for. His voice was low and rough.

“Go to bed, Sophy. I’ll tidy up here.”

“Will you be joining me?” Her voice was an airless whisper. Her breath had been taken by an explosion of ecstasy and confusion.

“No. I am travel-weary and tired, Sophy. Let’s leave it at that.”

Silence filled the kitchen. Sophy waited for a heartbeat. For an instant, she felt as though everything inside were collapsing. Her knees were shaking and she felt weak and cold all over, as if the blood were draining from her body. Seizing her composure with a stubborn will, she stiffened her spine. Pride alone kept her chin up.

At last she spoke in a voice that seemed to echo the thundering of Seth’s pounding pulse. “As you wish.”

He watched her go, quietly shutting the door behind her. He had an overwhelming desire to call her back. Still, he kept himself in check. For a long time, he stood there, looking at the closed door, listening for the sound of her footsteps. A very long time. But he couldn’t hear them, for the beating of his heart.

“For heaven’s sake, lass. Whatever’s the matter with ye?”

A face-crinkling frown replaced the morning smile of greeting that had spread over Tessa Fraser’s face as she drew the bedroom curtains.

Sophy shrugged. “Seth came home last night.” The words were flat, without expression, like black stones dropped into a stagnant pool.

“Oh, my precious lamb! Do ye want to tell me about it?” Tessa’s voice was all concern.

“I should never have married him, Tessa. Never.”

Sophy pulled up short. She could have bitten off her tongue for letting that out. Where on earth was her mind wandering? Conscious of her own dissatisfaction, she had been so occupied with her chaotic reflections that she had not given a thought to her words.

“There, there, now.” Tessa shook her head in her inability to refute the vehement declaration. “What’s done is done.” She gently wrapped her arm around Sophy’s shoulders.

Sophy whirled. Thrust off Tessa’s comforting hand. Shook her head in denial. This attraction she felt for Seth made her feel out of control, and it wasn’t a feeling she was at all comfortable with.

“No, it’s not done. Seth Weston has a lot to learn about marriage. He made a bargain. Signed a contract. I am not a weak and pliable creature to be pushed to one side.”

There followed a long moment of silence in which Tessa watched Sophy jump off the bed and insert her feet into the mules beside the bed.

“Merciful heavens! Has he been unfaithful, then? When ye’ve only been married a few weeks!” Tessa’s words were faint, filled with disbelief, matching the surprise in her face.

Sophy flushed to the roots of her hair as a most unladylike certainty goaded her sharp reply, “Of course not! His mother was ill, but that does not mean I am to be left behind like some ornament on a shelf.”

Tessa’s robust face paled considerably, and her lips twitched briefly in a bleak smile. “Aye. ‘Tis right sorry I am, my wee bairn, to find ye so provoked. ’Tis thinking I am that wanting and marrying are two different things to a man.”

Sophy shrugged testily. She managed to curb her tongue and did not answer. There was no need, no reason to make that assumption seem trivial. After all, Seth had what he wanted from the marriage...her money.

What she had never anticipated was that her own emotions would betray her, challenge long-held convictions. But one thing was certain. She had not married to be subjected to the sweet kind of indulgence usually reserved for children or to be treated like some kind of parcel!

Tessa dared no further comments, for she sensed by the brusqueness of Sophy’s reactions that she wished to speak no more of the matter. Instead, she deliberately engaged in an inconsequential one-sided conversation about some phantom creatures invading the kitchen in the night.

As Tessa brushed and styled her hair, Sophy resolutely kept her eyes shut. That way, she could envisage Seth lying across her bed, lazy and content, relaxed in a magnificent sprawl, like a huge jungle cat, satiated with love. Somehow the vision shifted, changed. He was now a medieval knight, ready to defend her honor, her very life.

It was an illusion she could cling to, one she could hold dear. How one converted the image into reality was another matter, especially when love was not a factor in the equation that was her future.

Her father had always advised when in a situation requiring instant answers to trust her inner voices and good common sense. What would he have said to her present situation?

Sophy could almost hear his voice.
Well, my girl, pride and arrogance have gotten you into a fine mess! You’re the one who set the limits to the relationship. You’re the one who’ll have to renegotiate.
How she missed him!

Resolutely, she turned her mind to more prosaic matters. Like her new project. Her face brightened. Like finding a house in Greene Street.

Sophy drew her brows together in mild exasperation. The warm day had darkened rapidly as fleeting wisps of cloud gathered to form masses of gray slate across the sky, casting a pall over the sun. The wind moaned as it drove clouds into a tumbling, threatening horde above the comb of chimney tops.

The carriage turned into a narrow street where stately brownstone mansions nestled behind grilled-iron doorways. Midway along the thoroughfare, the carriage stopped. Bidding the cabriolet driver to wait, Sophy hurried up the semicircular shallow marble steps, peered at the nameplate and rang the doorbell.

A servant opened the door, took her card and disappeared.

She took a deep, spine-stiffening breath as the door opened again and the servant gestured to Sophy to enter. Though the house was strangely silent, Sophy thought she heard the muffled tones of voices raised, and even the peculiar sound of suppressed laughter.

Entering the drawing room, Sophy stared in awe at the brightly patterned pink wallpaper, the large diamond-paned windows, the lavish mahogany paneling glowing with a rich luster. An exquisite rose-and-gray Aubusson carpet covered the floor, while against one wall a small iron stove glowed, exuding warmth. Hanging over all in the center of the ceiling was a tremendous crystal chandelier.

Sitting among a plethora of pink velvet cushions was a golden-haired woman. Voluptuous. Elegant. Dressed in a low-cut gown of watered silk, a ruffled shawl of bobbin lace over her shoulders. Her legs were covered with a gray woolen rug patterned with pink hearts. She looked up as the door opened, making no attempt to rise.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Weston?” Her voice like warm black velvet, thick with a French accent.

Sophy put down her muff. “I am looking for Madame Bertine. I wish to speak with her privately.”

The woman inclined her perfectly shaped head. “Speak,
ma fille. ”

BOOK: Emily French

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