Chapter 18 #3
Before he could decipher her look, the music rose and another round began. Keith and Miss Blake looked at them expectantly. It was time to rejoin the dance. But, dash it, Stephen doubted he would be able to concentrate on the steps. Dancing was not what he had in mind.
As soon as Mr. Harrison escorted Kate off the dance floor, Mr. Darby-Wells downed his drink, swept to her side, and claimed her again. Sophie noticed Mr. Harrison’s gaze follow the two as they danced, his expression tinted with sadness . . . or perhaps, resignation.
She and the captain danced another set, and then Sophie begged off to rest. Between her constricting stays and added weight, she found herself becoming out of breath easily. Meanwhile, Captain Overtree danced dutifully with Miss Blake and then his sister.
Mr. Overtree asked his wife to dance, but she shook her head. “I don’t want you to overexert yourself. And really, dancing is the province of the young.”
Earlier, Sophie had seen Colonel Horton talking with several couples nearer his own age. But now he sat alone. It sent a blade of sorrow through her heart, to see his solitary figure amid all the happily paired people, no doubt missing his wife.
Sophie went and joined the older man, noticing he rolled a wrapped sweet between his fingers. “May I sit with you?”
“Of course. Catching your breath, are you?”
“Yes. Unless . . . would you care to dance, Colonel?”
“Thank you, no. My dancing days are over. Mrs. Horton was an excellent dancer.” He looked up at his daughter’s approach. “Was she not, Janet?”
Mrs. Overtree sat on the colonel’s other side. “She was indeed, Papa.”
“Well, my dear, is it a victory?” he asked. “Have the rank and file carried out your orders and plans as you’d hoped?”
Mrs. Overtree released a long breath. “I think so, yes.”
He looked at his daughter in fond amusement. “This is the longest I’ve seen you sit still in a week.”
She gave him a rueful smile of acknowledgement, then said, “I confess I am a little weary.”
“I should say so.”
A peal of laughter sounded—Kate’s—drawing their attention to the line of dancers.
The colonel lifted a knobby hand toward his grandchildren. “Look at Stephen and Katherine.” He shook his head, then smiled at Sophie. “Should have seen that boy when his little sister came along so late. Him already ten years old. Holding that wee bundle with such pride. Such affection.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Overtree nodded, eyes distant in memory. “They were always close. I think she shall miss him more than anyone when he leaves.” Mrs. Overtree shot Sophie a look, amending, “Besides you, of course, Sophie.”
Oh yes, she would miss him indeed.
Next, Mr. Harrison guided Kate onto the dance floor a second time.
Mrs. Overtree huffed. “Is he still here?”
The colonel said, “Oh, let Kate enjoy herself. She is young. It’s only right she should have several suitors vying for her attention.”
Mrs. Overtree’s lips thinned. “I do not consider David Harrison a proper suitor for our Katherine.”
The colonel patted her hand. “There, there, my dear. Don’t fret. It’s only a dance.”
Sophie watched the gentle way Mr. Harrison held Kate’s hand and gazed into her eyes, and knew it was more than a dance. Her heart ached for them both.
Later, when the number of couples dwindled, Sophie and Captain Overtree left the hall by unspoken agreement before the final boulanger.
“Tired?” he asked.
“My feet are tired. But otherwise I am well. Though I have definitely had enough of dancing. Have you?”
“An hour ago.”
They shared a smile and slowly climbed the stairs together.
“Is there no one you need to say good-bye to?” she asked.
“The whole night was about saying good-bye to me and hello to you. I won’t subject either of us to another dozen farewell speeches.” He added, “And I still have tomorrow to bid my family good-bye, so they won’t mind us retiring early.”
Us . . .
They arrived at their bedchamber door, and Sophie’s hands trembled as she fumbled for the latch. He reached out to open the door for her at the same time, and his hand closed over hers. Sophie’s chest tightened at his touch.
He followed her into the bedchamber as usual but did not cross to the dressing room door.
Her nerves quivered.
With all the servants needed belowstairs for the party, no fire had yet been lit in the room, no candles burned, and the shutters were still open.
Moonlight shone in through the tall windows.
Distracted, Sophie moved toward their light and stood gazing vaguely outside.
The moon shone brightly in a clear sky, illuminating the garden and shaped topiaries below.
But her attention was far more focused on the man behind her.
She heard the soft creak of floorboards, sensed his nearness, the air crackling with tension between them.
His large hands descended softly over her shoulders like a cape, instantly warming her. They lowered, cupping her upper arms. She felt him lean down and rest his forehead on the back of her head.
For several moments they both stood still, their bodies not touching, not moving. Hardly breathing. Now and again the distant sounds of carriages drawing up or departing reached her, but she barely took notice.
She tilted her head to one side and tentatively leaned back.
He moved forward, closing the gap between them.
Resting her head on his shoulder, she allowed herself to relax against him—well, as relaxed as she could be considering the tension thrumming between them.
Sophie felt the solid warmth of him against her, supporting her. Protecting her. Yet again.
He laid his cheek against her hair, one hand moving down her arm, then around her waist, drawing her more fully against him. How good it felt to be held.
He bent lower, and she felt his warm breath against her ear.
He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and she closed her eyes to relish the sweet sensation.
With his free hand, he brushed tendrils of hair from her neck and pressed a feathery kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder, then another on her neck.
Shivery pleasure ran through her. Then both of his arms were around her, holding her close.
They did not speak. Sophie felt to do so would be to raise questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
Break the spell. Cause him to retreat. And maybe he feared the same in her, for he said nothing either.
The silence was like a tight violin string between them, binding them from her center to his.
Growing more taut with each tick of the mantel clock.
He slowly trailed kisses up the length of her neck. Her jawline. Her earlobe.
Then he moved sideways and turned her to face him as deftly as a dance step. Their eyes met and locked.
His hands slid upward from her cap sleeves, over her shoulders to her neck, and then he framed her face with his palms. She drew a ragged breath. How wide the blacks of his eyes were in the moonlight. Intense with longing, yet uncertain.
He slowly lowered his head, gaze flicking over her face, her eyes, her lips. She didn’t move. Barely even blinked. He touched his lips to hers, softly, tentatively. A rush of sweet, heady pleasure flowed through her.
When she did not object, he wrapped his arms around her, gathering her near, and kissed her again.
Slowly, firmly, deliciously, his mouth caressed hers. He traced one corner of her lips, then the other, before lingering on the soft center. He lifted his head to look into her eyes, to gauge her reaction, her willingness, before descending again.
She reached up, cupping his jaw with her hand, her thumb stroking upward from his chin to his cheek, already bristly with new whiskers.
Sliding her other hand around his neck, she threaded her fingers into the thick hair at its nape, splaying her hand against the back of his head and drawing him closer yet.
“Sophie . . .” he breathed.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, his expression almost fierce. “I vowed to keep my distance, but I can’t. Send me to the dressing room now or never.”
In reply, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.
She ran her hands over his shoulders and down the ropey muscles of his arms before sliding to his chest. Even the layers of evening clothes could not conceal the hard muscle beneath.
He angled his head, deepening the kiss, and pulled her tight against him.
The room around them faded. A voice sounded from the garden below, two voices.
But Sophie barely heard them, her attention focused on him, on his kiss, on his hands warm and sure on her waist. Not wandering, not pressuring, content for the moment to hold her.
To slowly kiss her, pleasure and passion building.
If she had known kissing him would be like this . . . Oh why had they waited so long—and how would she ever let him go?
Suddenly Stephen stiffened and wrenched his mouth from hers. He turned toward the window, releasing her to lean near the glass and peer outside.
“What is it?” she whispered, shaken by his sudden withdrawal.
“That’s Kate,” he breathed, frowning in disbelief and confusion.
She followed the direction of his gaze. Two figures stood in the garden below. A man and women as evidenced by their outlines and dress, although their features were shadowed.
The man grasped the slight woman by the shoulders and pressed his face to hers, but the woman was clearly pulling back, trying to turn her face away. A cloud shifted, and moonlight shone on his blond hair and her distressed face. It was Kate. With Mr. Darby-Wells.
Sophie drew in a sharp breath. Beside her Stephen tensed and seemed to expand, his shoulders squared, his nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched. He turned and bolted from the room.