Shadow Dance

by Anne Stuart

  “Oh, she’s very busy,” Sophie assured her. “Usually with other people’s concerns.”

  She could sense her companion’s curious glance. “I don’t suppose you’ll be just like her when you get older?” There was almost a hopeful expression in that deep, drawling voice, and Sophie looked at her in surprise.

  “Lord, I hope not,” she said devoutly. “Actually, I’m considered to take after my aunt Edith, a sadly impractical creature who gave up everything for love. She could have married a duke’s son, but instead, she ran off with a curate. She’s lived a very happy life with her husband and six children in Somerset, but my mother considers that she’s wasted her life.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think my aunt is very happy in her life, and doesn’t consider it the slightest bit wasted. And neither would I if I had half her blessings,” she said firmly.

  “I think, dear girl, that you are far wiser than your mother.” A large, gloved hand reached over and covered Sophie’s, and she felt perfectly, divinely happy. “Let’s not think about her, shall we? It’s a glorious day, and despite Mrs. de Quincey’s misgivings, it is not going to rain. If it does, I shall take it as a direct insult.”

  Sophie giggled. “Now you sound like my mother.”

  “Wretched girl,” Mrs. Ramsey said easily, snapping the reins. “Let us enjoy our glorious day. Who knows when we shall see its like again?”

  It was a melancholy thought. “Who knows?” Sophie echoed. And tucking her arm through Mrs. Ramsey’s strong one, she slid closer on the seat, prepared to wring the last ounce of pleasure from the perfect, cloudless day.

  It rained. Valerian had known since his brother had managed to plant him a facer that the day was doomed, and if he’d had any sense he would have sent word to Sophie that the elegant Mrs. Ramsey was once more indisposed. Except that she’d probably decide her dear friend was suffering the pangs of childlessness, and would doubtless appear with hot soup and poultices and that devastating sympathy.

  The drive to Kenley was pleasant enough. No, it was more than pleasant, it was sheer heaven, with Sophie curled up beside him, serenely peaceful. They explored the old Roman ruins, and if the rough footing underneath forced Valerian to put a steadying hand under Sophie’s elbow, gradually increasing it to an arm around her slender waist, then there was no one around to think it the slightest bit odd.

  They ate in the shade: cold chicken and cheese and thick brown bread. They drank lemonade and listened to the lazy sound of the bees, busy in the wild roses that bloomed so freely. And then they both slept.

  When Valerian woke he was being pelted by hot, wet raindrops. He sat up quickly, afraid the water might wash away the disguising powder with which he’d covered himself so liberally. His skin was too tanned from years in the sunlight, his beard had a normal tendency to grow, and with the addition of his burgeoning black eye, he needed all the covering he could get. He quickly grabbed the oversize hat and yanked the concealing veil down over his face, just in time to face Sophie.

  She looked absolutely adorable. Her blond curls were tousled, her blue eyes sleepy, her soft mouth curved in a welcoming smile. He almost leaned over and kissed that mouth. Instead, he climbed to his feet, holding out his large hand. “It’s raining, child,” he said, lightening his voice deliberately. “We’d best head back before we get soaked.”

  “Damn,” she said succinctly.

  He grinned behind the veil. “Damn?” he echoed. “What would your mother say?”

  “Double damn,” said Sophie. “My mother would say, ‘I told you so.’”

  “There are worse things in this life than having your mother say, ‘I told you so,’” he said consolingly.

  “Name one.”

  The deluge hit just as they reached the open carriage. Sophie slipped, and Valerian reached underneath and shoved her up into the seat, controlling his real need to let his hands linger. He vaulted up after her, grabbing the whip, and in a moment they were off, careening down the road at a spanking pace.

  The summer-dry roads quickly turned to soup, the horses were high-strung creatures, not overfond of thunder and lightning, and his gloves split beneath the strength he was exerting in controlling the team. When he could, he spared a glance at his companion.

  She was sitting close beside him, her hat draped sod-denly around her head, and he told himself he was about to see his beloved at her absolute worst. He’d yet to meet a woman who could survive a cold, soaking rain in a reasonable humor, and he could only hope the well-bred Miss Sophie de Quincey would indulge in a full-fledged tantrum. It might make his departure easier.

  Suddenly she reached up, took the dripping hat from her head, and sent it sailing into the bushes, tilting her face back into the rain and laughing. And Valerian wondered how he was ever going to let her go. Disaster and temptation weren’t through with them yet. The rain, instead of abating, only seemed to increase. The horses struggled mightily, Sophie curled up beside him, taking some shelter from his larger body, but eventually he gave up.

  “We’re stopping?” He could barely hear her question beneath the thundering rain.

  “We’re at an inn,” he shouted back. “We’ll have to take shelter until this damned storm breaks.”

  An hostler appeared out of the rain to take the horses’ heads, and Valerian leapt down with an immodest disregard for his skirts, reaching up for Sophie. She jumped into his arms, laughing in unselfconscious delight, and it took all his willpower to release her, keeping hold of her hand as they made their mad dash into the inn.

  The innkeeper appeared, wiping his hands on a thankfully clean apron. “It’s wicked weather, my lady. We’ve got a warm fire and hot tea, if you’d condescend to enter.”

  “Certainly, my good man,” Valerian said from behind his sodden veil. “But first my young friend and I shall need private rooms to mend our toilettes.”

  “I’m most sorry to tell you, my lady, that I can’t oblige. We have only two bedrooms, and one of them is already bespoke.”

  “Only two bedrooms in an inn this size? Don’t be absurd!” Valerian protested.

  “We’ve had a fire, my lady,” the man said miserably, wringing his hands. “We haven’t yet finished the repairs.”

  “Show us your room,” Sophie said, smiling sweetly. “I’m certain it will be just fine.”

  “Indeed, ma’am, it’s a very comfortable bed.”

  Valerian controlled himself with an effort. “We weren’t planning to spend the night, my good man, but just to wait out the worst of the storm.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the road’s already flooded between here and Hampton Regis. Even if the rain were to stop right now, the water wouldn’t go down till after midnight.”

  “What an adventure!” Sophie cried, obviously pleased. “Don’t worry, Val. Your husband has complete faith in your self-reliance, and so does my mother. I’m certain they won’t worry unduly.”

  Valerian thought of his brother’s strictures, and made an unseen grimace. “Mr. Ramsey is more strict than would first appear,” he said.

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. Unless there’s another road to Hampton Regis?” She turned her bright, inquisitive eyes to the unhappy landlord.

  “There’s only one, miss, and it lies even lower than the main road. It floods even more often. I’d advise against trying it.”

  “Well,” said Val in what he hoped was a matter-of-fact voice, “it appears we’re stranded, at least for the night. I don’t suppose you could come up with dry clothes, my good man?”

  “For the young miss, I’m certain we could devise something,” he said. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I doubt we’d have anything to fit you.” He looked up at Valerian with awe. “Most of the women around here are built along smaller … er, that is to say …”

  There was nothing to do but take it with a sense of humor. Sophie was eyeing him warily, trying to gauge his expression behind the damp veiling. “I
know, I know,” he said lazily. “I’m gargantuan. I’ll just have to sit by the fire and hope I dry off.”

  “My wife has an extra night rail she could lend you. She’s not so tall, but she’s good and stout, and I imagine it’ll fit,” the man said anxiously.

  Wearing the clothes of a stout landlady didn’t particularly appeal to Valerian, but there wasn’t much he could say. “That would be very generous of your wife.”

  “In the meantime, let me show you to your room, and I’ll see about some hot tea.”

  Valerian was in a very bad mood indeed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I might prefer a hot rum punch.”

  Such a request from a lady was unusual, but the innkeeper did his best not to blanch. “Hot rum punch? I could see to that. I was going to make one for our gentleman guest, and I could brew you up some as well. Something a bit weaker.”

  “By no means. I want it strong and hot and spicy,” Valerian said determinedly.

  “So would I,” Sophie piped up. “Forget about the tea.”

  “Rum punch?” the landlord echoed, horrified. “For both of you ladies?”

  Valerian took Sophie’s hand in his. “For both of us ladies,” he said. And his voice was dangerously low.

  The bedroom under the eaves was small, cozy, and smelled faintly of wet smoke. The bed was tiny, and if anyone thought Valerian would be able to share it with Sophie and not touch her, that person was out of his mind.

  Val had a scant few minutes alone as Sophie sought the privacy of the convenience. Time enough to strip off his sodden hat and try to repair his appearance. He ran a worried hand over his strong jaw, but he’d shaved very closely that morning, and the faint stubble was almost indiscernible. At some point he’d have to closet himself and shave again, but he didn’t dare attempt it at the moment. Sophie was innocent, but she wasn’t stupid, and he could think of no excuse for the dashing Mrs. Ramsey to be shaving.

  He had to make do with whisking powder over his face. The black eye was beginning to show through the makeup, and he accepted it reluctantly. At least it might distract her attention from his faintly darkening chin.

  He had no skill at all with his hair, and no choice but to tie it behind his neck with a riband. The effect was too masculine, but fate had taken a hand, and he could only work with what he had. At least he always kept his razor and powder with him, ready for disaster.

  When Sophie reentered the room she looked flushed and breathless. She glanced at him shyly as he tried to shake some of the water from his sodden skirts. “You know,” she suggested, “you could probably borrow some of the landlord’s clothes until yours dry. I know the suggestion is quite shocking, but you must be wretchedly uncomfortable.”

  He almost choked. “I don’t think it would be quite the thing for me to dress up as a man,” he said gravely.

  “No, I suppose you’re right.” She had a pale blue dress and a froth of white lace over her arm, and she dropped the clothes on the bed before presenting her narrow, delicious back to him. “Would you unfasten my dress?”

  For a moment he didn’t move, casting his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and without further hesitation he moved behind her, his usually deft hands clumsy as they began to unfasten the row of tiny buttons.

  He’d undressed a great many females in his life. Ladies of fashion, dairymaids, farmers’ daughters, and governesses. They’d all been more than willing, and he’d grown quite conversant with the intricacies of women’s clothing. Even in the heat of advanced desire, he’d never had so much difficulty with the fastenings.

  “Are you all right, Valerie?” Sophie asked when the last button finally parted and the damp dress slid down over her shoulders.

  “Splendid,” he growled, then coughed to cover the masculine note in his voice. He moved away, turning his back to her, uncertain if he could stand to watch.

  “How are your hands?”

  He glanced down at them. They were one of the most revealing things about him. They were large, well shaped, used to hard work, and undoubtedly masculine. “Fine,” he said, wishing women’s dresses came with pockets so that he could hide them.

  “Your gloves ripped again, didn’t they? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt …” The blasted girl came around in front of him and caught his hands in hers. She’d dispensed with her pink dress, and she was wearing her chemise and petticoats. He could see far too much of the swell of her small, perfect breasts, he could see the shape of her legs beneath the damp petticoats, and he almost groaned.

  He tried to yank his hands away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “You go through more gloves than any female I know,” she said humorously, running her soft fingers over the calluses on his palm. Her touch was deft, innocently erotic, and he was immediately hard beneath his concealing clothes. A frown creased her brow. “You must have worked hard in your life,” she said.

  It was now or never. He needed to warn her, needed to drive her away, and the only thing he could think of was more lies. “I’m afraid I have,” he said, letting his large hand rest in hers, trying not to stare down her cleavage, not to drink in the lavender scent of her perfume. “I’m afraid I’ve been living under faintly false pretenses.”

  “You’ve been lying to me?” Her voice was still and wary, but, she didn’t release his hand. It was a warning.

  “No,” he said, lying once more. “I just haven’t made my antecedents clear. I’m not quite as wellborn as one would think. I … I married above me. By quite a bit.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said soothingly.

  “I used to work as a seamstress,” he said desperately, hoping to give her a disgust of him.

  “I’m sure you were very industrious.”

  “And I worked on a farm,” he added, this time truthfully.

  “You’re so lucky,” she said soulfully. “And your hands show honest toil. You shouldn’t be ashamed of them.” And to his utter horror she leaned forward and put her lips against his palm.

  And then she released him, backing away, suddenly startled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was foolish of me.” And she turned her back to him, her beautiful, narrow back, and reached for the clothing on the bed.

  He couldn’t stay in that room a moment longer, with the feel of her mouth still on his hand, the scent of her perfume on the air, the sight of her creamy skin dazzling his eyes. He practically raced toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the parlor,” he said in a strangled voice.

  She turned, and through the dampness of the thin white material he could see the faint darkness of her nipples, puckered against the cold, wet material. “I might need help dressing,” she protested.

  Not from me, my girl. One more moment alone with you and you won’t have any need for clothing, he thought grimly. “I’ll send the maid,” he said, escaping.

  The landlord met him at the bottom of the stairs, a troubled expression on his cherubic face that Val suspected was habitual. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but there’s a bit of a problem. We’ve only one private parlor, and that’s already been bespoke by the gentleman in the other room. I thought it wouldn’t be proper asking him to share, seeing as how you two ladies are traveling without male escort, so to speak, so I thought you might condescend to use the taproom. No one’s going to come in on a night like this one, and if they do, we’ll just send them on their way. You and the young lady will have your privacy, I promise you, and no interference from the gentleman.”

  “The taproom will be fine,” Val said, sailing past him with what he hoped was a certain majesty. He paused, looking back. “Are you certain none of the other bedrooms are available? I don’t mind the smell of smoke.”

  “Certain, my lady. Especially in this weather. We’re fixing the roof, but as it is …” He shrugged. “Was there some particular problem, my lady? Most women prefer to share a bed. Gives ‘em a bit of company, and while my inn is in every way respectable, another woma
n would give you some added protection, so to speak.”

  There was no way Valerian could argue it further. He knew perfectly well that his insistence on a private bedroom was peculiar. Indeed, it would be very odd if he didn’t share Sophie’s bed to give her companionship and countenance. He was just horribly afraid that wasn’t all he’d end up giving her.

  “The room will be fine,” he said wearily. “I was only thinking of the young lady’s comfort. I am a bit large for that particular bed.”

  The poor landlord could say nothing. To agree would be to insult his guest; to disagree would be even worse. “Perhaps the gentleman might be willing to exchange rooms. His bed is larger and—”

  “Heavens, no!” Val said with a perfect trill of laughter he’d perfected several weeks ago, having learned it from Neville Pinworth. “That would be quite indecent, I assure you. I wouldn’t think of asking him to trade. My niece and I will make do. Perhaps if there’s a pallet, an extra mattress …?”

  The landlord shook his head once more. “Burned, my lady.”

  Val cursed inwardly. I tried, Lord, I tried, he said silently. “Then I suppose we’ll simply have to make do,” he said in a dulcet voice. “How is our rum punch coming?”

  “I’ve made some for the gentleman, and I was just about to brew up a fresh batch for you. Something a bit more suited to the ladies.”

  Sophie had appeared on the stairway, decently clothed in a pale blue dress that had obviously been the height of fashion twenty years ago. The neckline was low, the waist a more natural one, and the dress clung to her curves like a second skin. Valerian didn’t know but that it was even more arousing than her skin.

  “We want strong punch,” she said, descending the stairs. “Mrs. Ramsey and I intend to enjoy our night of freedom, don’t we?”

  Valerian let his eyes drift over her white shoulders, the pale slope of her breast. “Immensely,” he said, consigning his misery to the devil. He would take tonight, take whatever he dared to enjoy, and tomorrow he would willingly pay the price.