“It was the moon, this moon,” he continued, grasping for the right words. “Likely you won’t believe me, Sophie, but you have been in my thoughts ever since it came over the rooftops.”
Ever skeptical, she tipped her face to one side. “The moon, Harry?”
“Yes, the moon,” he said, his voice low, confidential, as if wooing her all over again. He took a step closer in the road, pulling off his glove before he reached out toward her. “It’s almost as if that infernal moon were haunting me, making me think of nothing but you and the past. Remember, lass, remember the last night before I left for Dover? That was April, too, with another moon exactly the twin to this one, and—”
“No, Harry, don’t,” she interrupted abruptly, shaking her head. “Please. Don’t.”
“Why not, Sophie?” he said, undeterred. He swept his hand up toward the sky, so grand a gesture that his horse whinnied uneasily behind him. “Can’t you see for yourself? It’s fate that’s brought us back together, lass, fate and this moon that—”
“But I don’t believe in fate, Harry,” she said, purposefully looking away from the sky and moon to the rutted road beneath them. “If you can remember that I had skill at ciphering, then you should likewise recall that I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or anything else that claims we cannot have will over the lives God gave us. I never have, Harry, and I’m not going to begin now, not even for the sake of your moon.”
“I’m not asking you to begin anything new.” Gently he touched her chilly cheek with his fingertips, not wishing to startle her as he coaxed her to trust him again. Yet still he could feel the little tremor that rippled through her, a shiver of—of what? Fear or excitement or uncertainty, anticipation or dread or the wildest joy, all the same things he was feeling himself?
“I’m only asking you to be the old Sophie from the manor,” he continued, “the one who seized whatever life tossed her way, and claimed it as her own. Remember who you are, lass, and what we had together. That’s all I’m asking.”
“That’s a great deal.” Though she didn’t pull away from his touch, her eyes were troubled as she searched his face. “We were scarce more than children then.”
“We were far more than that, Sophie,” he whispered, leaning closer to kiss her. “We were lovers.”
“No, Harry, don’t,” she cried softly, twisting away from him just before his lips found hers. “What we were then no longer matters.”
“Damnation, Sophie, it does,” he said, hoarse with frustration. He reached for her again, and once again she pulled away, her heavy woolen skirts swinging out from her legs like a bell. “Why won’t you admit it?”
“For the same reasons I left you before,” she said, her words coming in such a painful rush it was almost a sob. “Because I’m good at calculations and logic and seeing which things can be combined with success and which cannot. Because we were never meant to last together, Harry, and all the moonlight in this sorry world cannot alter that truth.”
“What if I said I cared for you still?” he demanded. “That’s the truth, moon or not.”
But she only shook her head again. “You should have forgotten me, the way I forgot you.”
“But you didn’t, Sophie,” he insisted. “Damnation, I’ve only to look at your eyes now to know that. Why can’t you admit you still care for me, as well, the way I know you do? Why can’t we take this night that’s been given us, and leave the rest until tomorrow?”
“I won’t, Harry,” she whispered, her voice breaking with a long, heartbreaking sob. “I can’t. Not even you could make me do that. Because you will always be the Earl of Atherwall, and I will never be more than a mere country governess, and neither of us a match for the other.”
But before he could answer, to his shock, she changed.
There on the moonlit road, she swallowed back the sob and visibly steeled herself, straightening her back and composing her features into severe propriety and blinking back any stray tears. Through sheer willpower alone, she put everything to rights. Briskly she tied the bonnet ribbons beneath her chin, using the broad brim like blinders to shutter and shadow her face, and the transformation was complete. In no more than a minute, she’d smothered both her beauty and emotions as surely as if she’d hidden them behind a mask. She became exactly what her driver had declared her to be: a poor, plain governess that no man would ever notice.
“Do you understand, my lord?” she said. Even her voice now seemed to carry a governess’s schoolroom authority, while the use of his title—damnation, he never thought he’d hear that from her!—served to accentuate the gulf between them even more. “Have I made myself clear, my lord?”
He nodded silently, too stunned to find words for his response—at least not words he’d want to use to her.
How in blazes could she possibly believe he gave a fig about his rank over hers? How could she do that, when she was the one who’d thrown up a wall of scratchy wool and propriety between them, as impenetrable as one of stone and mortar?
Yet here she was, wanting him to believe she’d no interest left in him at all, that she’d prefer her life as a lowly governess to whatever he offered. Of course if she truly wanted to be free of him, then he’d let her go. He had never forced a woman to do anything she didn’t want, and he wasn’t going to begin now.
But the memory of the other Sophie, the laughing, bold, adventurous girl that he’d loved with such passion and delight—that Sophie wouldn’t let him leave. God knows he’d seen glimpses of her tonight, little bright flashes behind the severe facade that proved she still existed.
One more night with her was all he was asking. One more night together…
She claimed she placed no value in fate, and proudly made her own choices for how she ordered her life. Well, then, so be it. Let her be stubborn; let her be proud. He wouldn’t argue, because that, too, was part of what made her Sophie, and besides, she’d never give in.
But before this night was over, he’d play the ruthless highwayman again. He’d use every scrap of charm and persuasion and passion to steal away her heart for keeps. This time, when she made her final decision, he’d leave no doubt that she’d make the right choice: the one that would include him.
“You do understand, my lord?” said Sophie again, striving to keep the anxiety from her voice along with every other emotion. She wished he would answer, instead of simply standing there. “I have made myself clear?”
The tall man before her was Harry, and yet he wasn’t. He’d changed, her Harry, and this elegant, self-possessed gentleman in black was a far cry from the boy she remembered. His smile was the same, and so was his laugh, but the well-muscled chest and arms beneath the tailored coat were new, as was the lordly imperious air that, she guessed, must have come with his title. There now was a darkness to him, too, that was harder to explain, a moody undercurrent that seemed as black as his clothes.
It worried her, this black streak, just as she was worried by whatever foolishness had inspired his masquerade as a highwayman. Over the years, she’d read enough newspapers with accounts of fashionable London to know how his boyish impulsiveness had grown dangerously into reckless dares and wagers. It had been one thing to see how high he could climb up a tree when they’d been children, and it was quite another for him to drive a phaeton blindfolded at breakneck speeds. If the driver on her own carriage tonight had been armed, he very well could have killed Harry outright. Then the fact that Harry’s pistol hadn’t been cocked would have been as meaningless as his intentions. It was almost as if he wished to die, a final, flamboyant gesture to show the world he was beyond caring.
And he’d been right, painfully right, about one thing: God help them both, she did still care for him.
“Do you understand, my lord?” she said again, feeling like a desperate parrot with only one question learned by rote. “Do you—”
“Yes, lass, I do.” His voice was low, careful and now intentionally devoid of the emotion he’d shown before. �
�I do not care for your decision, but I shall abide by it.”
“Thank you.” She knew she was making the right choice. Along with Harry’s wagers and exploits, those newspapers had also linked him to scores of women, titled, wealthy beauties all, and each one of them proof that he’d never keep a lasting affection for a humble country spinster. A duchess might indulge in an dalliance with Harry, but a governess would only be ruined.
Of course she’d made the proper decision.
But suddenly Sophie felt the evening’s chill, making her hug her hands around her folded arms. At least the walk ahead would warm her, even if it could never be as satisfying as the kiss she’d rebuffed. She looked down the road where her carriage had vanished. “Do you know how far it is to the nearest inn? I was asleep when we stopped, and did not notice how far we’d come.”
“Not far,” said Harry, pointing in the opposite direction. “Perhaps a quarter mile at most.”
“But what about that way?” she asked. “That’s where that wretched driver went with all my belongings.”
“Oh, at least five miles,” said Harry. “That is, if that rattletrap of yours can travel so far without falling to bits.”
“It already very nearly has,” she said, her unhappiness growing by the second as she stared down the road, as if staring alone would somehow bring the carriage back. “A pox on that lazy coward of a driver! He has not only robbed me of my trunk, but now I’ll never make Winchester when I promised. Even if Sir William doesn’t dismiss me outright before I’ve properly begun, then he’ll still regard me as an unpunctual laggard, unfit to be trusted with his sons.”
“You, Sophie, a laggard?” asked Harry wryly. “Oh, my, my. Pray not a laggard, of all things base and unspeakable. Whatever is this kingdom coming to?”
She turned back toward him, glaring. “This is your fault, too, my lord. Don’t pretend that it isn’t. If you hadn’t startled that dullard of a driver with your—your foolishness, then he wouldn’t have bolted in the first place.”
But Harry only shrugged, unconcerned. “You should be glad to be rid of the man. He certainly was happy enough to shed you.”
“I’m so very pleased you’re amused, my lord,” she said, snapping off each word like a brittle icicle. “What better use for my troubles than to entertain you?”
“Oh, Sophie, I am sorry.” He smiled ruefully, open repentance that licked at those icicles. “I have caused you trouble. I admit full responsibility, freely and openly.”
She sniffed. Things were seldom so direct with Harry. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” he said, his cloak giving a grand flourish to his bow, “for being so forgiving. Now you must let me make my amends, as any gentleman should.”
“You needn’t do anything, my lord.” she said quickly. She couldn’t allow herself to become indebted to Harry, not for so much as a shilling. “You are not obligated to me in the least.”
But he swept aside her objections as if he hadn’t heard them, and perhaps, now being an earl, he hadn’t. “I’ll take you myself to the closer inn and see that you are fed and settled there for the night. Tomorrow we’ll find that rascal with your trunk, and then I’ll have my own carriage come take you wherever you please.”
“No!” she exclaimed, appalled that he’d assume such responsibility for her welfare. For years she had been an independent woman, perfectly capable of looking after herself, and she most certainly did not wish to be “settled” anywhere by Harry. “That is, thank you, my lord, but I can manage perfectly well for myself.”
She curtseyed with the deference owed to earls, then turned and began walking briskly down the road, toward the closer inn.
“You needn’t walk, Sophie,” he called after her. “It’s a chill night for a forced march.”
“Thank you, my lord, but both my feet and my shoes are equal to the challenge,” she called back without turning. She suspected he was following, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking over her shoulder to be certain. “It shall take more than a bit of a breeze to stop me.”
“But why walk at all,” he reasoned, “when you might ride instead?”
Instantly she recalled riding with him on a summer morning so early that the sun had just begun to rise. They hadn’t bothered with a saddle, but had ridden together on one horse with only a blanket beneath them. With no grooms yet in the stable to watch, she’d hiked up her skirts over her bare legs and sat astride, nestled back against Harry while his arms had held her steady, and she’d felt like some wild, pagan princess, racing with him across the open fields….
“The saddle will not accommodate two riders, my lord, nor would it be a proper arrangement for us,” she said, striving to push away the unruly memory. Blast him for making her thoughts go down such paths! “I shall walk, thank you.”
“But I didn’t mean to ride with you,” he said, coming up to join her as he led the large black gelding by the reins. “You shall have Thunder here to yourself, and I’ll walk.”
She flushed with guilt, wondering if he’d been remembering their wanton summer mornings, too, or if they’d only been in her own wicked head.
“I meant that it’s not a sidesaddle for a lady’s use, my lord, and besides, I’ve no wish to deprive you of your own horse,” she said, quickening her steps even though she knew she’d no hope of out-pacing his long stride. “You ride, and I’ll continue as I am.”
“Then I shall walk with you,” he said, easily falling into step with her, the way he’d done in the old days. Though he made no move to take her hand again or otherwise touch her, she was still so acutely aware of his nearness that the sensation was almost painful.
“At least, I will, Sophie,” he continued, “unless you have an objection to sharing the road with another traveler. But beneath this moon it’s quite companionable for old friends like us, don’t you agree?”
She stopped abruptly at that, making him stop, too.
“It’s not going to be the same as it was, Harry,” she said urgently. “You can just put that notion aside right now. What we had when we were young is long past done, finished, and it won’t ever be the same again.”
With his face patched with moonlight, his smile came slowly, almost lazily, and so filled with his old charm that she simultaneously wished to shriek with protest at the unfairness of it and purr with pleasure like a happy cat feeling its warmth.
“Oh, Sophie,” he said fondly. “Of course it won’t be the same. It will be better. Much better, if I’ve any say. But never the same, lass. Never the same.”
“Oh, butter and beans,” she muttered defensively, and with every last shred of resolve, she turned away from him and kept walking.
CHAPTER FOUR
“THERE’S THE INN NOW,” said Harry, pointing toward the long, low house with six chimneys, sitting in the crook of the road. He had been walking beside her like an unwelcome specter; he might as well be useful, and point out the local landmarks. “The Peacock. Known for its turtle soup and tamarind punch, and a blind fiddler named Orlando who knows every song ever written.”
Sophie paused for a moment, studying the inn. “You are familiar with this place, then?”
“I’ve dined there, yes,” he admitted, and no more. The truth was that, when he’d been younger, the Peacock had been a favorite spot of his in the spring and summer. Tables and benches were brought out beneath the trees and along the stream that ran behind the inn, and the fiddler had played for the dancers under the starlit skies, long into the night. The inn was near enough to London for Harry to bring a lady for supper, yet sufficiently far away as to make the trip seem like an adventure to the lady, and far enough, too, to justify taking a room for the night if the supper went well.
Not that Sophie needed to learn any of that.
He glanced down at her, at how she was brushing the dust from her hem before she’d go farther. He didn’t remember her as being this overly concerned with appearances, or so dete
rmined to do what was right and proper. Perhaps that had come of being a governess, but for her own sake, he’d like to see her relax and be more at ease with herself as she was, and less concerned with how others might judge her. In other words, he wanted her to be like the old Sophie—the Sophie he was sure was somehow still beside him, retying the bow on her grimly unfortunate bonnet for what must have been the hundredth time this evening.
“The Peacock, you say,” she said, sounding like a general reconnoitering the field of battle. The inn seemed uncharacteristically busy for the middle of the week, with light streaming from its window and patrons noisily coming and going through the yard. “I suppose it looks well enough from here. The inn has a respectable reputation among travelers?”
“I’ve never heard any complaints,” he hedged, which, while true, was not perhaps what she meant. “If the same host is there that I recall, then he’ll see that we’re welcomed most handsomely.”
She looked up at him with surprise. “‘We,’ my lord? I know you have walked with me this far—”
“And a rare pleasure it has been,” he said gallantly, though in fact it hadn’t been, not really. They hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words in the entire half mile they’d walked: scarcely the witty conversation he’d hoped for. All he’d really wanted to do was to stop the infernal trudge and slip his arm around her waist and pull the bonnet from her head and the pins from the tight knot so her glorious golden hair would spill down her back.
And then, with her face turned up toward him and moon, he’d kiss her and she’d kiss him, for as long as it’d take to compensate for the ten years they’d lost.
“I’d hoped I’d made my wishes clear, my lord,” she was saying. “I do not require welcoming or anything else from this innkeeper. Rather I intend to make the necessary arrangements to retrieve my belongings, and continue on my way to Winchester, all as swiftly as possible. I am a most capable woman, my lord.”
“Yet even the most capable women know when to accept assistance,” he countered. “The keep is an old acquaintance of mine, and will be more inclined to help you after a word or two from me.”
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