Chapter Eleven #2
He glanced around at the crowd. ‘Would you care to dance?’
Oh, yes, indeed she would! To feel his body against hers, to move as one with him, just as she had fantasised. To touch his hand, breathe in the scent of him. She longed for it so much it hurt. But she had to remember to be careful.
His head tilted again, a grin on his lips, his expression turning—was it daring?
As if he knew her hesitant thoughts. Oh, yes, that smile was definitely mischievous now, as if he did dare her to dance with him, touch him, be close to him, with everyone watching.
As if he dared her to give way to her desires, her old way of throwing herself into emotion whenever she was near him.
And she could not resist. ‘Oh, very well. Just one dance. I must give all my admirers a chance, as you say.’
He laughed exuberantly, and seized her hand as if he would twirl her around and around until she was dizzy. ‘But I am the foremost admirer among them, I assure you.’
He stood back and bowed properly, offering her his arm.
Oh, yes, all very proper, yet there was something of a lightning frisson in that simple, everyday movement.
She knew so well how it would feel to touch him, the awareness, aliveness that would sizzle over her skin.
Yet she couldn’t back away now. She slid her hand over his sleeve, glad she wore gloves so he could not see she still wore his sapphire ring.
She’d long ago changed it to her right hand, but she couldn’t let go of it entirely.
The whole room, the whole world, stilled when he touched her, everything freezing but the pounding of her heart.
He led her through the crowd towards the dance floor.
She kept her head high, her smile in place, with long years of practice in hiding her feelings, of always looking cool and amused despite everything swirling beneath.
It had grown so hard over the years; it was almost impossible now that time had caught up to her once again.
They found a place amid the couples, a spot for their own waltz, and Alain’s hand came to her waist. Warm, strong, making her shiver.
She felt her smile wobble, but a great force of will kept it in place, and she looked beyond Alain’s shoulder.
She saw Lord Charle-cote watching them sadly, Mary with a wide-eyed amazement, Francoise looking rather satisfied before she whispered to Adele.
Then the others grew blurry, and she became lost in him.
‘We have never danced before,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Have we not? I cannot recall,’ Sandrine answered lightly. It was not true, of course. She remembered everything. Every moment. All the excitement, the wonder. The raw need.
Perhaps they had danced together in her girlish dreams, her old hopes. The fantasy of it felt real, as if this moment had happened before so many times.
The music began, and they swayed into motion together. At first, their steps seemed out of order, but their bodies remembered each other, remembered their rhythm, and they dipped and swayed and spun. It was dizzying, disorienting, making her world change and blur until there was only him.
He looked so very serious as he looked down at her, his hand guiding her. ‘I understand, Sandrine.’
For a moment, she had to concentrate on her feet, and was distracted. But she was caught by his strange tone. ‘Understand?’
‘You have made a new life. Maybe found a new love.’
She stumbled. ‘New love?’
‘Lord Charlecote. If you want to be free, to make a new start…’
She was so shocked, she stumbled even more badly, nearly falling until he caught her.
He thought she loved Lord Charlecote? That she wanted her freedom?
When they twirled to the edge of the floor, she grabbed his hand and drew him with her through the crowd, her smile feeling frozen and brittle on her face.
Along a corridor beyond the main staircase, she managed to find a quiet, darkened little sitting room, stacked with storage crates, the music and laughter a faint echo.
She pulled him inside and shoved the door closed behind them.
They stared at each other in the hot, dark silence, and Sandrine couldn’t breathe.
Her chest felt so tight, her fingers and toes numb.
There, in the silvery moonlight from the window, he looked like—like magic.
Like no time had passed at all. But she had to remind herself of the chasm of pain that lay between them.
She had so much to lose now if she trusted him again.
‘You think I want a divorce? To marry again?’ she whispered.
He ran his hand through his curls. ‘I know it’s been a long time. I would understand, truly. It would be difficult, but if we wanted that…’
‘Do you want that? To be free of me?’
‘Sandrine. We are not speaking of me. I only want you to be happy, to help you if I can, to—to…’ He broke off, shaking his head in a most adorable fashion.
Sandrine hardly knew what she was doing, couldn’t control herself.
She took one step, two, crossing that divide between them, reached up and seized his perfect cravat.
She crumpled its fine muslin in her gloved fist, and he widened his eyes, startled.
Good, now he was as off-balance as she. She pulled him to her, stretched up on her toes, and kissed him.
All the old, hot, swept-away passion of their wedding night flooded back over her, seized her, lifted her. Her body remembered, it knew, and so did his. He seemed to remember, too; his arms came around her, hard, his kiss deepening into hers, filled with need. Answering her hunger with hunger.
He tasted of wine and mint. He tasted of trouble, as though her careful life was toppling all around her and she didn’t even want to stop it. It was the same as before, but so, so different. Now she knew exactly where it led.
She slid her hands over his chest, feeling the hard heat of him under the layers of wool and linen, over his powerful shoulders. They kissed as if they’d been starving for years, as if every lonely night, every regret, was torn away and there was only raw need.
She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, felt his hands on her back, her hips, tugging her closer and closer.
She was drowning, drowning in the way he felt, the smell of him, the taste of him.
She would be driven quite mad if she stayed there with him like that.
Such yearning would surely destroy, leave ashes in its wake.
But she had to stay a little longer, just a little longer…
‘Sandrine,’ he groaned, his lips sliding from hers to kiss her throat, lick at the tiny pulse that beat at its base. ‘Ma belle…’
Oh, yes, how she wanted to stay right there forever! She wanted all her old dreams back again, wanted to lose herself in him, in his strength, and be safe.
But she knew all too well what would come next. Safety with Alain was an illusion. Pain would come after the fire of passion.
She pulled away, wrenching herself out of his arms, and turned her back to the sight of him to try and recapture her control.
She glimpsed her reflection in the window glass, her pale face, her hair tumbling free, and Alain behind her.
He raised his hand towards her, only for it to drop away. He ran his fingers through his curls.
‘Let me—let me take you home,’ he whispered roughly. His hand flexed, twitched, and she longed, dreaded, for him to reach for her again. ‘Sandrine…’
She couldn’t bear it a moment longer. She took another step away, and another, more firmly this time. She smoothed her skirts with shaking hands. ‘Non, Alain. We can’t. Not now.’
His fingers raked through his hair again, and left it on end. ‘It’s different now. I am different. Let me show you, prove it to you.’
She dared to glance back at him, to look into the stormy sea of his eyes. It didn’t feel different. She was still wild for him, filled with longing that threatened to dash away everything else. Yet he was right. It was all so different now. She’d been a fool to forget that even for a moment.
There was Marie. And she couldn’t keep Alain from her any longer. It wasn’t right.
She held her hand up to keep him away, at a safer distance. ‘Come tomorrow,’ she said. She whispered her address before she could change her mind. ‘We must talk.’
‘Yes,’ he answered eagerly. ‘Yes, we must. I have so much to say to you, Sandrine. Just give me the chance to show you how I really have changed, to earn your trust again. However long it takes.’
Yet Sandrine knew he would no longer trust her once he learned the full truth.
She nodded, her throat tight with tears, and ran from the room before she could throw herself back into his arms and lose everything in his kiss all over again.
Alain sent his carriage away as he left the Assembly Rooms, unable to stay still.
Francoise was staying on with the Campbells and Adele, and so he would walk back to his rented house, take in the fresh, cold air, the stars, the quiet of the city as he struggled to cool his racing thoughts—and his wildly aroused body.
He laughed at himself as he dashed down the street, past a startled couple on their way into the assembly.
Years ago, he could never have imagined the emotion coursing through him now, all over his own wife!
The exhilaration, hope, fear, passion. Even a year ago, in his restless wanderings, his yearning for something just beyond his touch, his understanding, he could not have known that what he longed for was right there, already in his life.
What a young fool he’d been in those far-away, heedless days.
How he’d wanted dreams he couldn’t have, that were not real.
He could remember now the intensity of his first, young, inspired-by-epic-poetry passion for Danielle Aurac, by what her beauty, her mystery, had made him think he felt.
But now, it was as if it had all happened to someone else.
It felt unreal, hazy, distant, lost in all he had seen, experienced, learned since then.
Why had he ever thought he’d do anything to be with her, that his feelings were worth hurting anyone over, especially Sandrine?
It was unfathomable now, confusion and self-loathing left in its place. Guilt. Longing for something real now.
Something that maybe, just maybe, he could have had long ago if he hadn’t been so blind.
He stopped beside the river, taking in the enfolding night all around him.
The silver moonlight glittered over the roofs, turning everything pale and magical.
He wished he was an artist, as Sandrine was, that he could capture in paint and keep forever the way she’d looked in her gown, there across the Assembly Room floor.
She had been a pretty girl when they had met, fresh and shy, but now she’d unfurled and was utterly breathtaking.
She made him think of other transcendent sights he’d glimpsed, deserts at night, Paris in the early morning with sunrise-pink over the bridges, minarets, oceans.
How he wished she’d been there beside him to share it all, to see it with her artist’s eye and become enraptured with its beauty as he had been.
She made him see things more brightly, more clearly.
He’d felt so alone then, not sure what was really missing, what would make the beautiful world whole.
Had it really been Sandrine all that time?
Every moment he was with her now twined them closer.
One thing seemed the same as it had been back then, one precious thing—when Sandrine looked at him, it was as if her artist’s eye truly saw him, the first one who ever really did.
His family, Danielle, his friends, they saw what they imagined, what they wanted him—set him—to be.
Whereas Sandrine looked at him so steadily, unblinkingly, and seemed to peer down to a secret soul even he couldn’t glimpse.
Just as he thought he saw the true her. Once, she’d still wanted to be with him. Now…
Now he couldn’t imagine why she would. Not after how he had behaved back then, and all that lay between them.
She had a life here, admirers. She’d become a great beauty filled with quiet confidence, pleasure in her work, in herself.
And he knew he wasn’t the only one who just loved to be in her presence.
Lord Charle-cote, for instance, whose intentions had been clear for everyone in the Assembly Rooms to see.
And he thought of their kiss, so unexpected and glorious.
He barely restrained himself from throwing back his head and howling at the moon.
What should he do now? There had to be a way to show her he’d truly changed, that he was no longer that wild young man who knew nothing.
He knew what he wanted to do: catch her up in his arms, carry her off to a bedchamber, never let her go. But what would win her heart again?
She’d pushed him away there after their kiss.
If she hadn’t, he would have lost himself, forgotten everything but her.
But he didn’t want their first time together again to be quick, heedless, but filled with the knowledge that now was very different from then.
They were different, and he would prove that to her.
No matter how great a torture it had been to give up the intoxicating feel of her body against his, the sweet taste of her.
She’d agreed to see him again. That must be a good sign. A start to the work he had to do now, the truth he must show her. Their future depended on it.