Pamela Sherwood (20 page)

Miss Daventry murmured an inaudible response as Lady Charlotte inclined her head. “Likewise, Miss Tresilian, and my compliments on your performance tonight,” the older woman replied. “My personal taste runs rather more to… weightier material—I am very partial to Mr. Wagner’s operas—but overall, I thought your songs were quite charming.”

The faint condescension in her tone rankled a bit, but people had a right to their own preferences, Sophie reminded herself. “Thank you.”

“Indeed, I was hoping I might engage you to sing at a soiree of my own,” Lady Charlotte continued. “In early August, before Parliament adjourns.”

“I’m afraid I am not accepting any engagements after this one,” Sophie replied, trying to sound apologetic. “I shall be leaving London within a few days, for a month’s holiday at least.”

She had the distinct impression that Lady Charlotte was not accustomed to being refused. The woman’s brows drew together in a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

“If it is a question of remuneration, Miss Tresilian, you may be assured that your commission will be most generous.”

“I assure you, Lady Charlotte, it is nothing of the sort,” Sophie said with a placatory smile. “I have not been to visit my family in more than a year. It is high time that I saw them again, especially as one of my brothers is soon to wed.”

“I see.” Lady Charlotte still sounded none too pleased by Sophie’s refusal. “Well, should you reconsider, here is my card.” She extracted it from her reticule and held it out. “My direction is in Belgrave Square.”

Sophie accepted the card with murmured thanks, which seemed more prudent than flatly stating that she had no intention of reconsidering. Granted, this wasn’t the first time she’d been offered an engagement while fulfilling another, but Lady Charlotte’s autocratic manner rubbed her the wrong way. Perhaps, as Amy had suggested, the woman couldn’t help being overbearing, but that didn’t make the idea of working for her any more appealing.

“Ah, Charlotte.” Sheridan spoke up from behind Sophie, much to her relief. “Pardon me for interrupting you and Miss Tresilian, but Eamon Fitzgerald is attempting to press Guy on the subject of Irish Home Rule, and I suspect he would appreciate your help in extricating himself.”

Lady Charlotte clicked her tongue in annoyance. “That, again! I’d have thought the last defeat would have put paid to that issue. Pray, excuse me—Miss Tresilian, Thomas.” She nodded to them both, then hurried off in a rustle of plum taffeta, Marianne trailing behind her.

“Thank you,” Sophie said fervently, once the Daventry women were out of earshot.

Sheridan smiled. “You’re welcome. I could not help noticing how cornered you looked.”

“I declined an invitation to sing at a soiree of hers. She did not wish to take no for an answer,” Sophie explained.

“Very few people are able to say no to Charlotte,” Sheridan observed dryly. “Or to Guy, for that matter, but the reasons are quite different.”

Curious, Sophie followed the direction of his gaze and saw a tall, athletically built man standing in the midst of a small crowd. Mr. Daventry, she realized when she caught sight of Lady Charlotte navigating purposefully toward him. The contrast between the two was striking, and not just in the physical sense. While Lady Charlotte was intense and rather haughty, her husband was relaxed and convivial, as well as attractive in a typically English way: blond and blue-eyed, with an engaging, almost boyish smile. Good teeth, Sophie observed, white and even—perhaps it was no surprise that he smiled so often. Regular features too, and a cleft in his strong, square chin. Most women would agree that he was a handsome man, and yet for all his clean-cut good looks, he held not a particle of the attraction Robin held for her and always would.

Robin. Recalled to her purpose, she looked for him at once, and to her surprise and delight, saw him approaching, accompanied by Amy in full hostess mode.

“Sophie, my dear, this gentleman has requested an introduction,” she said brightly, for the benefit of whoever might be listening—or watching.

Of course—the forms must be observed, especially in London, where no one except the Sheridans knew of their prior acquaintance. Sophie assumed the polite expression of one encountering a complete stranger while Amy performed the necessary honors.

Robin bowed over her hand, clasping her gloved fingers lightly in his own. “Enchanted to meet you, Miss Tresilian.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Pendarvis.” Sophie tried not to sound as breathless as she felt. “I am—happy to see you in attendance tonight.”

His eyes, as deeply blue as an evening sky, met hers. “I gave my word that I would be here. And I mean to keep my promises.”

The unspoken message in his words took her breath away. Lost for words herself, she let her hand linger in his and feasted her eyes on the face she’d loved since she was seventeen.

Amy looked from one to the other with an air of satisfaction. “Well, then, it looks as if my work here is done,” she observed. “Thomas, my love, I am famished. Shall we take some supper now?”

“Assuredly.” Sheridan offered his arm to his wife. “You might want to consider doing likewise,” he advised Robin and Sophie over his shoulder. “Music may be the food of love, but I’ve found that lobster salad and champagne seldom come amiss.”

Robin smiled at his host. “Duly noted, Mr. Sheridan.”

“We’ll be along shortly,” Sophie added, knowing that discretion was still required of both of them. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice as she turned back to Robin. “I wanted to find you sooner, but there were all these other guests, and then—”

“Lady Charlotte Daventry,” he supplied. “So I saw—no further explanation is needed.”

“You know her?”

Robin shrugged a shoulder. “Only by sight. She and her husband stayed at the hotel for a few days at Easter. They’re a difficult pair to overlook, especially Mr. Daventry. According to Praed, he had the housemaids all in a flutter—they thought him ‘ever so handsome.’”

“To each her own,” Sophie said absently, still studying the face she much preferred.

“And they found
her
a touch high-handed, so they were relieved she kept mainly to herself during their stay. Sophie,” his tone shifted abruptly, “what you sang. That last song. Did you—did you mean… what I hoped you meant?”

Sophie swallowed. But the time for prevarication was over. “Every word.”

Robin’s breath caught, his eyes blazing a brilliant electric blue. The air between them was electric too, crackling with suppressed longing and desire. He leaned toward her across the short distance that separated them, and Sophie felt herself swaying toward him as well.

Only to pull back as her stomach chose just that moment to complain about how hollow it was. She blushed and saw the heat in Robin’s eyes bank down to an amused warmth.

Ruefully, Sophie pressed a hand to her midriff. “My dear life—how embarrassing!”

Robin smiled, an easy, unguarded smile that recalled the earliest days of their friendship. “I’d call it normal myself—reassuringly so. And perhaps it’s just as well,” he continued, with a meaningful tilt of his head. “We’re still in the public eye, after all.”

Sophie glanced around at once and saw with a touch of dismay that several people were eyeing her and Robin with open curiosity. Time to don the masks again.

Prompted by a similar instinct, Robin held out his arm. “Come, Miss Tresilian. Let us go and try the lobster salad our host recommended. Besides, it will be like old times,” he added in a lower voice, “feeding you after a performance.”

Smiling, Sophie took his arm and they proceeded sedately toward the refreshment table.

***

They arranged their movements over the next hour like the steps of an elaborate dance. He stayed by her as they supped on lobster salad and champagne, along with other delicacies, then tactfully withdrew as more guests approached to speak to her and praise her performance.

Sophie, for her part, acted the consummate professional: gracious but humble, and showing no sign of wanting to be other than where she was—although Robin knew she longed as much as he for the moment when they could be alone together. Finally, he saw her approach Amy and murmur something that brought a knowing smile to the other woman’s face. Amy had whispered a reply that made Sophie blush, and then had turned to catch Robin’s eye and give him a meaningful nod. The next part of their plan had been set in motion.

Separate, discreet exits: they’d worked out the details over supper. Robin went first—as one guest among many, his departure would scarcely be noticed. Whereas a fair number of eyes would be on Sophie when she left. People would be more likely to remember who followed her than who preceded her.

Now he waited in the Sheridans’ brougham, shifting restlessly on the well-padded seats. Time passed—perhaps ten minutes, which felt like ten years—and then the door was opening and a footman was handing Sophie into the carriage. She settled next to him on the seat, in a whisper of silk, a drift of scent. He could feel her warmth, hear the quickened rhythm of her breathing, as the brougham pulled away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Back to my house… eventually.”

He raised his brows at the deceptively demure note in her voice. “Eventually?”

“Curzon Street, by way of Hyde Park.” He glimpsed a flash of her dimples in the shadowed interior. “Amy suggested… taking the long way round.”

So that, in all likelihood, was what their hostess had whispered to Sophie before. Robin exhaled. “I’m grateful that she appears to be on our side. Your side, at any rate.”

“So am I. But I thought she and Thomas received you cordially enough?”

“They did.” Although Sheridan had been more guarded than his wife, more openly protective of Sophie, which Robin could appreciate. “They love you like a sister.”

“I love them too.” He heard the smile in her voice.

They lapsed into silence as the carriage neared Marble Arch, its massive bulk ghost-pale in the moonlight, then turned left onto Bayswater Road to begin its circuit of Hyde Park.

The whole scenario felt increasingly unreal to Robin. But here was Sophie beside him, riding with him in a carriage… his dream of a second chance suddenly a reality. Thank God for that—and for her. He hadn’t dared to hope, not until the encore.

But
I
also
dreamt, which pleased me most, / That you lov’d me still the same …

Even now, he could scarcely believe this was real. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he reached for her hand—and felt her fingers curl around his with surprising strength.

“I’m here.” The words were breathed rather than spoken.

“Yes,” he husked, and drew her tenderly, even reverently, into his arms.

Sophie made a soft, needful sound low in her throat, and pressed against him. He breathed in her scent—not violets tonight, but something sultrier and more sophisticated. But she was Sophie still, and improbably and wonderfully
his
Sophie.

Their lips met, restraint and reserve going up like tinder as passion flared between them, all the more intense for four years of privation. They clung together, the only sound in the carriage their ragged breathing as they kissed and kissed again.

Oh, my love. My love
.

He did not realize he’d spoken—groaned—the words aloud, until he heard her whispered response. “Yours, Robin. Always yours.”

“It’s more than I deserve,” he told her thickly.

“Very likely.” He heard the smile in her voice, the wry humor only time and maturity could have given her. “But true just the same. I’m done with trying to deny what I feel.”

“So am I.”

“Well, it’s about time.” She softened the tart rejoinder with a kiss, then settled back in his arms. “We’ve waited long enough for each other, I think.”

“That we have,” he agreed, resting his cheek against her hair.

She took a breath. “So—how are we to manage this?”

And there it was, that clear-eyed practicality that he’d missed every bit as much as her warmth and sweetness. As deeply as he’d hungered for her kisses, she was right to turn her thoughts—and his—in this direction.

“Quietly and discreetly?” he suggested.

“Quietly and discreetly, I’ll grant. As long as you don’t mean ‘chastely’ as well.”

“Sophie—”

She placed a finger over his lips. “I want to be with you, Robin. I always have. We have already waited years, and we may have to wait still longer until your divorce is granted. Why can we not take—just a little time for ourselves alone?”

Just
a
little
time
. A brief interlude with the woman he meant to spend the rest of his life with. A fleeting taste of sweetness after four lonely, barren years. He would have to be made of iron to resist that—or her.
Not
this
time
.

He swallowed. “Where, then?”

She hesitated. “Curzon Street? No one is waiting up for me—I sent my maid to bed.”

“No.” Robin put all the firmness of which he was capable into that one word. “Not under your own roof, my love. I’d be doing you no favors by embroiling you in a scandal—twice.”

He exaggerated, but not by much. In the wake of Nathalie’s appearance in Cornwall, gossip and unkind speculation had circulated about him and Sophie, especially after her hasty departure for London. But in the end, most of the scrutiny had focused on Robin himself and what he meant to do about his errant wife and the children he’d never known existed.

Still, he had no wish to bring anything like that into Sophie’s life again, or risk harming her reputation and career. As desperately as they wanted each other, they could not afford to let passion make them reckless or stupid. This would have to be carefully thought out.

“Robin, I haven’t lived like a vestal virgin these past four years,” she reminded him.

“Perhaps not, but I’ll wager you’ve been careful. You have too much sense not to be.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged after a moment. “There seemed no point in inviting trouble. All right, then—not my house. And,” she added on a sigh, “not your hotel room, either. But surely there must be some obscure corner of London for us to hide in.”