Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 64

The afternoon had been taken up with the greeting of guests and with showing off the splendours of the newly refurbished house. It had been hectic and chaotic, leaving Charles no time to consider what he’d done with Sophie in this very room this morning. Now, however, he found himself seated at the head of a happy, boisterous group, the recipient of enough birthday toasts to float a fleet on, and in possession of plenty of time for reflection.

Ignoring his guests was a bad idea, though, and useless besides. Only one thought continually emerged from his self-absorption. He wanted Sophie, needed to have her in his life. Whether he should, or could, have her were two very separate issues that he still had no answer for, but on that one point, he was firm.

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that he had welcomed the Ashfords to his home. They must suspect that their inclusion in this gathering meant more than it did. In truth, what it meant was that his mother’s vaunted perception must be a little slow in this instance. Now he must find a way to communicate the change in his intentions without insulting them.

It seemed an easy feat compared to the Herculean task of keeping his temper around Mr Cardea. The man’s charming manner, his easy smile, and, above all, his constant, adoring attendance on his cousin infuriated Charles, as did the suspicion that Sophie’s uncle might be promoting a match between them. He resolved to watch the man carefully once he arrived.

Another toast was proposed, this time by Sir Harold, and echoed by Mr Chambers, the young nephew who had accompanied him. Charles smiled, drank, and tried not to gauge just how far down Sophie’s décolletage Mr Cardea, seated next to her, could see.

At last the final cover was removed. Charles relaxed a little as his mother led the ladies away.

Too soon.

‘Another ridiculous English custom,’ Mr Cardea announced in ringing tones. ‘In Italy we know that it is the ladies who make such gatherings interesting.’ He stood and Charles gaped as he saluted the astonished men and followed in the ladies’ footsteps.

Silence reigned a long moment as the port was brought out. Yet soon a strange, creaking sound echoed in the room. It was the protest of Lord Ashford’s corset, as he wheezed with laughter. Soon all the men were howling along with him. Even Charles chuckled a bit and raised a glass in salute to a brilliant manoeuvre.

He found he was not alone in his disgruntlement, however, when the gentlemen did rise to join the females in the drawing room, only to find them clustered around the pianoforte, listening, enraptured, to Mr Cardea’s pleasing baritone.

‘I can see what the man’s about,’ complained Mr Huxley. ‘There’s no doubt the ladies adore him, but his attention to Miss Westby is too marked. I shall mention it to the lady’s uncle myself, for I can’t approve of such close cousins as a match.’

‘Why ever not?’ asked Mr Chambers. ‘It’s done all the time.’

‘Useful means of keeping property in the family,’ added Mr Lowder.

‘I believe the ancient Egyptians actually married their siblings for just that reason,’ Jack said helpfully.

‘I still think the relationship too close. I just cannot like it,’ said Mr Huxley, and he went to extricate Sophie from her cousin by means of an argument over the superiority of English versus American roads.

For once Charles found himself in sympathy with the man, but not for the professed reasons. Watching the others squabble over Sophie made him insane. It roused some hidden primitive instinct that made him want to snatch her away, warn them off, and shout ‘Mine!’ to every male in the vicinity.

But he had no right to do so. Worse, he didn’t know if he should.

He eased his way through the room, stopping to laugh at a ribald joke told by the lively Mr Chambers, exchanging a few comments with Sir Harold, but gnawing on that thought all the while.

He must own up to the truth. Much as he might wish it, perhaps he wasn’t the man for Sophie. All the harsh words he’d spoken to her haunted him. The stark memories of her sweet offers of friendship and his own emotional retreats mocked him. He’d been horribly unfair to her. No doubt she would be better off with someone else.

He distinguished her throaty chuckle of delight from across the room. It triggered the image of her radiant smile and shining eyes. She’d brought laughter back into his life, and companionship and passion.

He watched her, studying the lovely angles of her face, and recalled how her eyes looked when heavy with desire, how ripe and full her mouth appeared when she’d been kissed. He remembered how she felt in his arms, all curves and tangible need. And he knew. Without further doubt. No, she wasn’t better off with any of these milksops. She was his. He would find a way to make it so.

He would begin this very moment, he pledged, as he saw a pained expression cross her face, by rescuing her from Miss Ashford and her mama.

His mother, he found, was there before him. ‘I think that Hannah More is a very fine person,’ Lady Dayle was saying.

‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Ashford, ‘Mama is a great admirer of hers.’

‘But in this time of post-war distress, I think there are very many other charitable institutions you might consider,’ Emily Lowder said with conviction.

‘Mama and I have agreed to donate the money to the Society for the Suppression of Vice. Mama has had the fortune to meet both Mr Wilberforce and Mrs More, and has high hopes of being mentioned in that great lady’s next edifying book.’

Charles was standing behind Mrs Lowder and heard her mutter something under her breath about not seeing Lady Ashford’s performance at the ball.

‘Indeed,’ said Lady Ashford, ‘Hannah More is a saint. She does so much for the unfortunate, all the while encouraging them to become honest, industrious and accepting of their lowly path, which was, of course, assigned to them by the hand of God.’

Charles decided it was time to interrupt. ‘May I join you, ladies?’ he asked.

‘Please, sit down, dear,’ his mother replied, moving over and indicating the bench she was sitting on. ‘This is sturdy enough to hold two.’

Charles sat, admiring the bench as he did. It was a clever piece; the scrollwork was a mirror image of the moulding on the wall behind it. ‘This is one of my favourite changes in the room,’ he said with a nod to Sophie.

‘Indeed, I am very proud of you, Sophie,’ said Mrs Lowder. ‘The whole house is quite transformed. It’s hard to believe how much you’ve accomplished since we picnicked here.’

‘It was clever of you to design the features in the room to match the furniture,’ conceded Lady Ashford.

‘Actually, it was the other way around. I designed the furniture to match the lovely plasterwork done in the last century,’ Sophie replied in a pleasant tone.

‘Ah, I’d forgotten that you dabble in furniture design as well.’ Charles thought Miss Ashford sounded sour.

‘Now here is an example of a worthy charity for you, my dear,’ his mother said.

Sophie made a sound of protest, but his mother did not heed her. ‘Please, Sophie, this is exactly the sort of effort that Miss Ashford might not be familiar with.’ She turned back to the ladies. ‘Sophie founded the workshop that makes her furniture with her own funds. Her foreman, Mr Darvey, was in the Corps of Royal Engineers. He lost a leg in the march on Toulouse, unfortunately, and was sent home with no pension, a broken man.’

Charles did not miss the look of distaste that passed over Lady Ashford’s face, but his mother seemed oblivious. ‘Sophie found him selling exquisite little carvings in the street, just trying to survive. Now he has a respectable position and recognition as a talented artisan.’ She beamed proudly at Sophie. ‘They have provided work for local men as well as taking on quite a number of veterans with no place to go.’ She gestured to the room at large. ‘You can see the quality of the work they have done.’

Charles did not hear the Ashford ladies’ responses. He had been seized by a flash of memory. Sophie, leaning down from Jack’s cabriolet, talking earnestly with a man in a ragged regimental jacket. He remembered the slip of paper and the look of bemused hope on the man’s face.

He remembered the thick portfolio she’d had the first day they had met again in London. He remembered his mother mentioning to someone that the proceeds from Sophie’s book were to be donated to a veterans’ charity.

He’d just spent over a year toadying, courting the goodwill of influential, but inflexible, men. All for the greater good, he’d told himself. Once he had achieved his goals, he could be of use; help his fellow man, help his country through the time of transition that lay ahead.

And all the while he had been making grand plans, telling himself and others how many issues they faced, how many people stood in need of their support and assistance, Sophie, this little slip of a girl, had been out there providing it.

His thoughts flew back over the months. He’d dragged himself out from his dark and dank hiding hole of grief, talked fustian with narrow-minded fools, listened to self-serving rationalisation, smiled when his heart was breaking, danced when he wished nothing more than to lie down and die. And what did he have to show for it?

Nothing. An anonymous enemy, a shattered reputation, a stalled political career. He lifted his gaze, stared at Sophie’s embarrassed countenance. Thwarted love.

He knew then, with an excruciating pang, that she’d been right all along. They had never really known each other.

Sophie was no flighty, capricious girl. She was an incredible woman, more beautiful on the inside than the out. And he, he was a hopeless fool.

He could stand it no longer. He had to get away. He rose, took his leave of the ladies, excused himself to the gentlemen, then left the drawing room, went out the back and set out for the lake.

Sophie watched Charles leave the room. The look he had given her before he stood to go had been disturbing, unfathomable.

She couldn’t blame him if he was disgusted with her. She was ashamed of herself. Today, for the first time in her life, she had acted the coward and let fear rule her.

The question was, was she going to continue to allow it?

‘Wherever has Lord Dayle gone to?’ Lady Ashford asked after a little while had passed. ‘I can’t approve of a host who deserts his party without a word.’ She looked at her daughter with displeasure, as if it were her fault.

‘I notice that Sir Harold has also absented himself,’ Lady Dayle answered. ‘No doubt some vastly important political matter is detaining them in the library.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you are right,’ the baroness said, somewhat mollified. ‘Do you believe they will return soon?’

‘Hard to predict. Sometimes these political conversations can take hours,’ Lady Dayle said with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Would you care for more tea? Miss Ashford, if you feel up to it, I shall bring out the backgammon board.’

‘Thank you, but no,’ Lady Ashford said, getting to her feet. ‘Travelling always tires me. I believe we shall retire. Come, darling, a little extra beauty rest shall not harm us.’

It shan’t harm any of us either, Sophie thought uncharitably as the ever-obedient Miss Ashford rose and followed her mother out. She was glad to escape the tiresome pair. Neither seemed inclined to forgive her for bringing the taint of scandal to their ball.

Their exit appeared to be a signal to the rest of the party. Most of the ladies followed suit and retired upstairs. Some of the gentlemen did as well, while others settled down to a game of cards. Sophie rose and made to bid Lady Dayle goodnight.

The viscountess had seated herself at the escritoire, and was scribbling out a note. ‘Sophie, dear, before you go up, would you mind leaving this note in the kitchen for cook? I wish for her to see it first thing.’ She lowered her voice and leaned in close. ‘Grant me a favour, dear, and make sure the kitchen door is unlocked?’ she said. ‘Cabot said that Charles has gone out walking. I wouldn’t wish for him to be locked out.’ She stood. ‘I always sleep so well in the country, do not you?’ She blew Sophie a kiss and started up the stairs.

* * *

The kitchen was quiet and dark, the servants gone to their rest. Sophie placed the note square in the middle of the scrubbed oak table and then checked the door that led outside. Locked. She drew back the bolt and stood with her hand on the knob.

Lady Dayle’s words today had greatly affected her. This time the obstacle she must overcome lurked within her own heart. Would she continue to allow fear to rule her? There was only one way to find out. She turned the latch and slipped outside.

It was a gorgeous night. The air was fresh and clear, free of the tension that had lingered in the drawing room. A heavy, nearly full moon hung low over the lake, making magic of the ordinary park.

She stepped away from the door, made her way past the kitchen garden, and set out across the lawn. She knew what she was doing. There was only one reason, after everything that had passed between her and Charles, to seek him out like this.

The risk was huge and potentially disastrous. The heartache would be far worse, if he left her, than the pain that had already scared her so. Yet still she walked, her feet heading unerringly to where the moonlight beckoned her, winking off the waters of the lake, calling to her from the copper cupola of Lady Dayle’s folly.

She knew that’s where he would be, and she was right. The effect of the moonlight on the Doric columns turned the place into a study of light and shadow. Charles sat in the dark, in one of the comfortable chairs Lady Dayle had had placed here, his head hung in his hands.

She spoke softly into the gloom. ‘Charles.’

He raised his head, no hint of a surprise in his face. ‘I should have guessed,’ he said, no discernible emotion in his voice.

Sophie entered and took a seat near to him. They sat in silence a bit. ‘What’s wrong?’ she finally asked.

‘Me. You. The whole damned world. Take your pick.’

She sighed. ‘I’m sure it’s a tangled combination of the three.’ But no problem, however convoluted, stood a chance against his strength of character, his determination to do the right thing. ‘I’m also sure that, however problematic, you’ll be able to fix it.’

He snorted. ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. Oh, I might have been arrogant enough to think so, just a few months ago. But you’ve changed all that.’

She was horrified. ‘I have?’

With a muffled oath he stood, banging the chair back against the stone floor. ‘Sophie, you don’t even know what you’ve done to me! Before you came back, I was firm in my goals, sure that my redemption was possible, if only I worked hard enough, long enough.’

He strode away from her, striding between the columns with the sinewy grace of a cat. ‘Then you slammed into my life like cannon shot, and tempted me.’ He glanced back at her, his face twisted. ‘So beautiful, so full of life and laughter. I resisted, though, for, as much as I might regret losing you, I knew that there were other things that would haunt me even more.’

She sensed a hint of the answers she had been looking for. She sat up straighter, started to ask, but he continued on, unaware of her reaction. ‘Now I see what you have done—with just your stubborn will and your generous heart—and I am ashamed. All my great and lofty goals, all my hard work, and nothing to show for it.’

He turned to face her then, and she thought her heart would break at the grief and chagrin and tenderness she saw in his face. ‘You put your talent and your determination to good use. You’re the one who has made a difference, in a concrete, human way that I never gave a thought to.’

‘I did what I could, based on my circumstances, but you are different. You have a chance to help thousands, to change the course of so many lives.’

‘Perhaps once, but my chance seems to be slipping through my fingers. Worse, I don’t even know if I want to hold on. Oh, God—’ he groaned ‘—what if I’ve been wrong all along? I don’t know what to think, what to feel. All I know is that I’m tired of pretending.’ He turned, propped a hand on the nearest column and stared out again at the lake. ‘I don’t suppose you know what I mean, do you? You don’t pretend, you throw yourself out to the world with no thought of what you might suffer. You put others before yourself and they love you for it.’

‘Stop it, Charles. I’m not a saint. Look at all the times you’ve railed at me for my behaviour, and don’t make me out to be something I’m not.’

He laughed, a harsh, ironic sound, and spun abruptly around. Slowly he began to stalk toward her, the moonlight alternately lighting his face and casting it into shadow. ‘Sophie,’ he said, his voice low, seductive, ‘I’d be the last one to call you a saint.’ The deep timbre of his voice somehow echoed in the pit of her belly.

‘Do you know what you are?’ He lifted his hand and tenderly cupped her jaw. ‘You’re a terror.’ His thumb caressed her chin, then brushed her bottom lip, gently, sweetly. ‘A beautiful, exasperating, unselfish, great-hearted monster.’

Her every nerve ending was focused on his touch, on the promise of more implicit in his voice. She allowed him to pull her closer, into the shadows as well. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice husky.

He laughed, and this time it was genuine and a little rueful. ‘Ah, Sophie, you’ve turned my world upside down.’ He dipped his head to brush her lips with his. Sophie’s head swam. A stab of fear tried to surface, but she closed it away, opened instead the door to her longing and let it flood over her.

‘You’ve been the only thing keeping my world right side up,’ she whispered.

Her words seemed to snap his restraint. He kissed her again, deeply, surging inside her mouth with quick, possessive strokes, claiming her, marking her as his.

She surrendered to it. Passion flared, hot and low in her belly. A sense of recklessness made her bold and she answered him in kind, entwining her tongue with his with hot, silky strokes.

So long had she dreamed of this. So many nights imagining the tenderness of his touch, the sweetness of his kiss. How often in life are we granted what we want most? And this might be all she ever got. She had no idea how he would react when he discovered her latest scheme. She felt like a thief, stealing these few minutes of happiness when their future was so uncertain, but she didn’t care. If the worst happened, she would accept the pain, in exchange for the rare wonder of a dream come true.

Her hunger grew as she gave herself up to the moment, and she slid urgent hands up and over the expanse of his chest, to the barrier of his neckcloth. She tugged experimentally. It loosened a bit, but Charles gave a sudden growl, then quickly unwound the thing and flung it away.

She smiled and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, nipping and kissing. Her chuckle turned to a gasp and then a low moan as his fingers sought the hidden fastenings of her gown.

Suddenly he stopped. ‘Wait,’ he said. Her breath caught, as effortlessly he took her in his arms and carried her the few steps to the chaise that Lady Dayle had placed facing the lake. Crouching down beside her, he smiled up into her eyes and slowly raised her skirts, stopping when they had just topped her knees.

‘Ahh,’ he said, tracing reverent fingers up one leg and turning it to explore the dark birthmark on the inside of her knee. ‘There it is.’ He leaned down and pressed a warm kiss on it. Heat flared and travelled the short distance straight up, to where she pulsed with need for him.

He flashed his devil’s grin at her. ‘Do you know how many times you flaunted that at me when we were children? Every time you ran fast or climbed a tree or hiked your skirts to wade. I never thought a thing of it, then. But I watched you dancing, that first night at Lady Edgeware’s ball, and I suddenly remembered. The thought of it has driven me mad ever since.’

She smiled down at him. ‘Now it’s yours.’

His eyes darkened and he surged up against her. She clutched his shirt, pulled him down to her, kissing him deeply. Quickly then, they tugged, and pulled and tossed clothing aside, neither heeding anything except the next exposed spot to touch, caress and kiss.

When at last Sophie lay in naked splendour before him, Charles could only gaze in awe. He’d been right, she was a terror, but she was also a miracle. She’d forced him to rediscover his heart, an organ he’d done his best to forget. She’d forced him to realise that pain was not the only thing he could feel. He was alive again and free to experience pleasure, and passion.

Neither of which adequately described how he felt looking at her now. He stared, wanting to imprint this image, never to forget. She lay reclined on the chaise, a glorious vision of ebony tresses and creamy curves. The moonlight caressed her, flowing over her high and heavy breasts, kissing their taut peaks.

He bent to do the same. His breath flowed hot over her skin, making her gasp in anticipation. He smiled up at her, detoured to place a soft kiss on her mouth, then leaned down and drew her breast into his mouth. Her shoulders slammed back, lifting her breasts higher in a wordless plea. He answered it with hot and languid kisses until she began to squirm in pleasure.

He lifted his head. She cried out, and reached for him. ‘You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,’ he said, his voice rough with emotion.

He turned his attention to her other breast, loving her that way for long moments, while his hand travelled the length of her, exploring and teasing. She tensed a little when his hand strayed lower, but he kissed her worries away. He cupped her, teasing her with strokes as light as a feather, until she relaxed. Then he bent to her breast again, sucking hard and nipping as his fingers spread her, delved deep and drew forth the hot, slick evidence of her desire.

‘Oh, my,’ she said, sounding breathless with surprise. He found the tender nub at the heart of her, and began a slow, enticing stroke that had her twisting and turning, clutching him like he was her anchor in a storm of passion.

‘Charles,’ she gasped, ‘I want to touch you.’

Already hard as a pike, his shaft stood ramrod straight at the mere thought. With a wordless moan of assent he rolled over, taking up her former position as he reclined back against the scrolled arm of the chaise.

Sophie leaned on one elbow, her dark hair spilling down and caressing his chest. Her fingers followed, touching him with the endearing curiosity of innocence, and raining soft little kisses on his neck. He reached for her breast, tracing a slow path around her nipple, but she gave a little shake of her head and pushed his hand away. Deliberately she looked down the length of his body. His manhood stood at attention, pleased with her look of awe.

At her questioning glance he nodded and her hand skimmed downward, grazing him with soft fingertips.

Slowly she slid up and over him, testing the weight of his shaft, eventually wrapping her fingers around the throbbing length. Without thought he placed his hand over hers, showed her how to stroke him and drive him mad. She was a quick learner. Within seconds he was ready to explode.

‘Stop,’ he rasped, stilling her hand.

She released him as if his heat had scalded her. ‘Did I do it wrong?’ she asked, frowning.

‘No—just right, too right. Any more right and I won’t be able to stop.’

Her brow cleared and she leaned down, her breath hot against his mouth. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said, before pressing her mouth to his in a devouring kiss.

He let loose a helpless sound, somewhere between a choke and a sob, and pushed her over and down. Her thighs fell apart and he wedged a knee in between them.

Eyes shining, she gazed up at him, reflecting moonlight and trust. ‘Show me what to do,’ she whispered.

‘Are you sure? We don’t have to—’ He stopped, praying she said yes.

‘Yes.’

He parted her with his fingers once more, feeling a surge of power at her wet, inviting warmth. Her nub was swollen, and he teased it again, softly, then harder, until she was wild again beneath him. He replaced his finger with the head of his rod, rubbing and groaning out loud at the feel of her, wet and slick.

Need hit him like lightning, but he had to go slow. He must. Gently he probed her swollen flesh. Her innocent, uncontrolled movements pulled him in deeper and he groaned. Ever so slowly he tilted his pelvis, stretching her, giving her time to accommodate him. And then he reached her barrier.

He bent and kissed her. ‘Hold on,’ he whispered, and surged into her, burying himself deep in her sweet flesh.

She gasped and froze. He stilled, sweating and fighting to wait while she grew accustomed to his invasion.

‘All right?’ he asked quietly.

She nodded and with a heartfelt moan he began to move.

Oh, Lord, but she was tight. She began to move with him and he surrendered to her warm, wet welcome. He lost himself in her, set free from his burdens by the sweetness of her flesh, and the warmth of her spirit.

He thrust hard, settling into a sweet, rocking rhythm. This was going too fast, he was already on the edge, and she couldn’t keep up. He eased a hand between them, gently rubbed.

She clutched him, her eyes opening in surprise as sensation overcame her. Her breath came in quick, panting gasps now. Charles kept his rhythm steady and suddenly she moaned into the night. Deep within her, he felt her passage tremble, convulse, pull him even deeper.

It was too much. The pleasure was unbearable. Harder he thrust, deeper, every fibre of his being focused on the hot, sweet feel of her, until, with a shout, he shattered. Pieces of his soul scattered, leaving his heart free to soar in the healing darkness of peace.

They came back to earth together, leaving a trail of tender sighs, soft whispers and gentle laughter. Sophie regretted nothing, was happier, in fact, than she had ever been in her life. This, this was what she had been longing for: this utter contentment, complete acceptance, pure happiness that only grew with each touch.

Anxieties tried to crowd in, but she forced all doubts, all fears from her mind. She breathed deeply, determined to absorb everything while she could. The alien planes of his body, hard and flat where hers was soft and curved, the weight of his limbs entangled with hers, his easy laughter and smooth brow, the pleasure in his eyes when he looked at her; they were a gift to her. These were the things she would remember.

Eventually, of course, reality intruded. But it was with soft laughter and unhurried movements that they dressed and prepared to go back to the house. They took their time, enjoying each other and absorbing the peace of the night. When they reached the low wall that surrounded the kitchen garden, Charles sat down upon it, pulled her on to his lap and wrapped her in his embrace. They stayed and watched as the moon began to sink behind the temple, reminiscing, and talking of inconsequential things, each avoiding any mention of the future.

‘Jack mentioned that you have made some progress towards finding your secret enemy,’ she said, just to put off their leave-taking a little longer.

‘Very little.’ Charles sighed. ‘It’s naught but a wild goose chase. Almost literally.’ He made a face and asked, ‘You haven’t seen any small, wiry men skulking about here, have you? Especially one who moves like a bird?’

Sophie laughed. ‘No, none that I’ve noticed. If he wasn’t a plasterer or a carpenter, then I probably wouldn’t take notice of him, in any case.’ They sat quietly a moment. After a moment’s reflection she said, ‘I did know a man like that once, though. He even had the name of a bird.’

She felt Charles stiffen behind her. ‘You did? What was his name?’

‘Mr Wren. He worked for my uncle. It’s strange that I remember him, I haven’t seen him in years.’ She reconsidered her words. ‘Well, perhaps not so strange.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Still wrapped in Charles’s arms, she could still feel the tension growing in his frame.

‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s silly, I suppose. I didn’t like him. He was the one that always came in my uncle’s stead when there was business to be done with our steward. He carried messages and bank drafts and such, and communicated my uncle’s wishes.’ She paused. ‘I used to dread his visits.’

‘Why?’ The question was low, dangerous.

She considered her words. ‘I was young. He was a visual reminder of my uncle’s neglect. And not only to me, I think. Whenever he stayed with us, the talk in the village always seemed to start up again. You know what I mean—talk of my uncle’s estrangement from my aunt and me, of my father’s disgrace, of my unsuitability. All the usual gossip.’

His grip on her tightened. He held her close for a long minute, and then kissed her softly. ‘I am so very sorry,’ he said.

She twisted in his embrace and smiled into his eyes. ‘It’s long over. We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?’

He kissed her forehead and pulled her close again. ‘And this is only the beginning. We’ll go on together.’

Sophie wanted it to be true. A little frisson of panic seized her at the thought that it might not be so. She sank into the warmth of him, seeking again that feeling of content abandonment. It escaped her, perhaps because Charles’s focus suddenly seemed to be far away.

‘Charles, what did you mean tonight when you spoke of your redemption?’ She regretted the words almost as soon as they were out of her mouth. But perhaps it was for the best, she thought a little desperately, to know where they stood right now.

He said nothing for a long moment, yet his stillness held a different quality now. Wariness? Regret? She wasn’t to know.

‘It didn’t mean anything. It’s not important.’ He dropped his head, breathed deep in the crook of her neck. ‘Let’s just enjoy each other tonight.’

The spark of hope born inside her tonight flickered and died away. Her eyes closed. So much lay between them, but not enough. Charles had shared much with her, but he still couldn’t open his heart, gift her with his trust.

This was it, then. This time, stolen away from the real world, was to be all they had. She clutched him tightly, determined to wring every drop of happiness she could, to help her survive the cold and lonely years ahead.

‘The sky is starting to lighten,’ he said, his breath hot against her skin.

She glanced over at the house. ‘We should go in separately, don’t you think?’

‘Yes.’ He turned her and kissed her once more, his eyes intense. ‘Everything is going to be fine, do you understand?’

She nodded, even though she didn’t believe him.

‘You go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay out here for a bit, then follow you in.’

She went, wrapping tonight about her like a blanket, refusing to think of tomorrow.