by Brenda Joyce
Carmine was smiling, but her black eyes were malicious.
“I am afraid I did not hear the question,” Sofie said uneasily. She rarely crossed paths with Carmine, but now she felt the woman’s seething hostility.
“What do you think of Mr. Delanza? The two of you had such a long conversation before dinner—surely you have an opinion?”
Sudden silence filled the salon as more than a dozen ladies, all magnificently dressed and heavily jeweled, turned to stare at Sofie. She could feel the stinging heat on her face. “We—we barely talked,” she croaked, suddenly losing her voice. “He—he seems … quite nice.”
Carmine laughed. Everyone else tittered. Carmine turned to Hilary. “I think Mr. Delanza has made another conquest,” she all but snickered.
Sofie gripped the arms of her chair. She was ready to respond in kind, but held herself back. For it struck her that Carmine was jealous.
Obviously Carmine wished it had been herself who had the pleasure of Edward Delanza’s attentions. Sofie gazed at her, imagining her stripped of her gowns and jewels and money, leaving nothing but a skinny, mean-spirited spinster. But Sofie suddenly understood. How pleasant could it be, waiting for the duke to offer marriage while knowing that the only reason he was doing so was because of her father’s money?
Sofie knew that had she decided to marry, that would be akin to her fate, too. Her stepfather would have had to pay handsomely in order to find her a husband.
“I think we are all smitten with Mr. Delanza,” Sofie heard Hilary say in her defense.
Sofie was about to speak up, for Hilary hardly had to defend her. Then Carmine snickered and said, “But we are not all cripples, dear Hilary. Mr. Delanza might find any one of us attractive, don’t you think? But not poor Sofie.”
“That is beyond the pale, Carmine,” Hilary snapped as she immediately came over to Sofie, patting her shoulder reassuringly.
“Sofie knows her own limitations, Carmine, dear,” Suzanne stated coolly, striding over. “Don’t you, dear?”
“Indeed I do,” Sofie said, managing a show of outward calm. “I know my own limitations very well. I have no interest in Mr. Delanza or any other man. Or did you forget that I never made my debut?”
“Oh yes, you are studying art,” Carmine said. “How convenient for you.”
Sofie stiffened her shoulders, her eyes blazing, trying to control the sudden temper she found herself in. But she failed. “I think my art is as convenient for me as your duke is for you.”
Carmine gasped at the insult, but before anyone could respond, the men returned, distracting everyone. Sofie sat as stiffly as a board, hardly able to believe she had been so rude, even if it had been deserved. And then she saw him and she forgot all about Carmine Vanderbilt.
She watched him as he entered the room, his strides long and lithe, a glass of brandy in one hand. He was smiling, and his teeth were stunningly white in his tanned face, his two dimples endearingly deep. His wandering, nonchalant gaze connected with hers for an instant. Sofie’s heart was already in the midst of a somersault. She became frozen and heated, all at once.
Then Lisa rushed to Edward’s side, laughing. Conversation resumed in the room, picking up in tempo and amplitude. Sofie could not take her eyes off her sister and Edward.
Lisa had her arm looped in his, swayed gracefully as they walked together, and she laughed again and again, at everything he said. She was animated, breathless, beautiful.
Sofie loved her stepsister. She had liked her from the day they had first met as little girls, soon after Jake’s disappearance, when Suzanne began her acquaintance with Benjamin Ralston. Shortly after Jake’s death, which they’d heard had occurred during his escape from prison in London, Suzanne had married Lisa’s father. The friendship between the two girls, only three years apart in age, had been immediate, and had blossomed into the kind of love that close siblings might share. Lisa was effervescent, generous, and kindhearted, not to mention beautiful. Sofie had used her numerous times as a model for her art.
But now Sofie looked at her and felt quite ill. She had to face a brutal and ugly truth. Just as she was envious of Hilary, she was envious of her own sister, and it was horrible.
Sofie had never envied Lisa before. But now she watched her flirt so effortlessly with Edward Delanza and knew that he must find her as beautiful in spirit as she was in appearance, so beautiful and so perfect, and Sofie wished that she were different.
What would it be like, to move so easily, as Lisa did? To be hanging on the arm of a handsome man. holding his attention so completely? To be attractive and graceful, to take life and all it offered for granted? What would it be like to walk over to Edward Delanza white laughing, without an awkward gait, without feeling gauche, different, pitiable?
It was too much. The day had already taken its toll of her, but this was the last straw. Her jealousy of Lisa was intolerable, her wild daydreams were dangerous. Abruptly Sofie stood, and just as abruptly she gasped, unable to bite off her cry of pain.
It was enough. Instantly those standing near her turned to look; as quickly, they turned away, awkward and embarrassed. But not Edward Delanza, who had also whirled at her cry of distress. Even though he stood on the other side of the room, immediately he started towards her, his smile gone, his face concerned.
Sofie fled. It seemed that her limp had never been as heavy as she rushed from the room.
Outside on the veranda she collapsed into an oversized rattan chair, half-hidden beneath the fronds of a royal palm, refusing to cry. He had seen. Edward Delanza had finally seen her awful limp.
Sofie closed her eyes, trying to will away the tears. It was no easy task. Tonight she was far more than hurt or distressed. She was perilously close to falling in love with a complete stranger, and it was more than absurd, it was infinitely dangerous.
Sofie leaned down to massage her fool, righting to regain her composure, wondering what Edward Delanza was thinking now that he knew the truth about her.
If only today had been different, she thought abjectly. Normally her limp was hardly noticeable, but she had abused her bad ankle so thoroughly, and now she was paying the piper. Rising from her chair too quickly, thoughtlessly, had added to the aggravation caused by the day’s adventures. In another day or two her leg would be as fine as ever, as long as she was careful to rest. Sofie sighed. She must heal herself quickly for another reason as well, the most important reason of all—when she returned to the city she must be able to stand at her easel. Her work could not wait. Edward Delanza’s elegant yet rawly masculine image as he had been at the beach that day flitted through her mind. She had decided upon the work’s composition and planned to proceed without the rough study she’d lost.
“Are you all right, Miss O’Neil?”
Sofie gasped as Edward Delanza—the very last person she wanted to see—materialized from the night shadows and knelt in front of her chair.
“Can I help?” he asked, unsmiling. His blue eyes were filled with concern. Sofie started when she realized he had gripped her hands.
He did not know. Still he did not know. Sofie was sure of it, because there was no pity or revulsion in his steady gaze. And for just an instant, with him kneeling there in front of her, she felt like a beautiful damsel in distress, and he seemed like a knight in shining armor.
She took a breath. “I … I am afraid not.” She turned her face away, grinding down her jaw, wanting to scream at him to go away. His kindness was unbearable. Especially when she knew without a doubt that it would metamorphose into ugly pity or uglier revulsion soon.
“You have hurt yourself,” he said, his voice husky with worry. “Did you twist your ankle? How will you get upstairs to your room? Surely I can be of help.”
Sofie inhaled hard again, about to become seriously undone. Obviously no one had thought to tell him the truth. If only someone had! Maybe it would be better if she did herself. But God, was she brave enough? “I am fine.”
Abruptly he
released one of her hands—only one—but only so he could grasp her chin very gently yet firmly and turn her to face him. “You’re not fine. You’ve hurt yourself. I heard your cry of pain—I saw you limping.”
“You do not understand,” she said through stiff lips. His blue, intense gaze was riveting. No man had ever looked at her with such concern—except for her father, who had died eleven years ago.
If only it could be as it seemed.
“I don’t? Then explain, so I can understand,” he insisted gently. His fingers tightened around her palms.
“I … I did not sprain my ankle, Mr. Delanza.” Sofie took a deep breath and tried to extricate her hands from his, which was impossible. His hands were large, hard, warm. Her next words took more bravery than she had known she had. “You … you see, I am a cripple.”
He did not see. He stared. Then his eyes gradually widened as he finally comprehended her words.
Sofie gave a superhuman effort and jerked her hands free. She looked anywhere but at him, her face hot and red. “Normally I am not so gauche.” Her voice sounded husky with tears, even to herself. “It seems that I have been far too candid with you already today.”
She faltered, thinking of his surprise when she had told him, quite deliberately, of her professional aspirations—and still she could not understand why she had revealed herself in such a manner to a complete stranger. Then she thought of him as he had been with Hilary, and she trembled. Her ankle stilt ached horribly, and despite her resolve, a tear finally slid down her cheek. “But this day has been quite unusual.” Finally she managed to smile overbrightly. “So there is nothing you can do. Would you mind excusing me?” She finally met his gaze.
Her eyes widened. There was still no hint of pity or revulsion in his eyes, which were intent, studying her so closely, she felt him trying to pierce through her every shield and defense, trying to break down the barricades to breach her very soul.
Softly he said, “What happened?”
She could not move or breathe.
“Why are you telling me that you’re a cripple?” he asked in the same tone.
“Because it is true,” she said in an unnatural voice.
His smile was soft, but strange. “Is it? I find your declaration interesting. Miss O’Neil, because I’ve always found appearances to be deceiving, and truths to be hidden where one least expects them to be. What happened?”
She had no time to ponder his statement. “There … was an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” He was calm, still unbearably kind. And he still held her hands, but now Sofie realized his thumbs fluttered over her palms. Her pulse was skittering wildly.
“I … I do not wish to discuss it,” she managed.
“I’m your friend,” he murmured.
Sudden warmth unfurled inside Sofie at his suggestive tone. “My father had … left home, some years ago. I loved him so. Then I learned of his death. I was just a small child and I was so afraid, so upset. I fell down the stairs, breaking my ankle.” She was caught up in the power of his gaze.
Edward’s expression had not changed. “Broken ankles heal.”
Sofie flushed. “This one did not heal correctly. It was my own fault. I did not want to make Suzanne angry—she was already angry with my father, with me. I did not tell her I was hurt. I was a very foolish child.”
Edward stared at her, eyes wide, his expression drawn, pained. “Or a very brave one,” he finally said.
Sofie started.
“Why are you-crying?” he asked gently.
Sofie realized that tears were trickling down her cheeks. She was mortified. And she could not wipe them away, for he held her hands. She shook her head, unable to speak, having no intention of explaining the precise cause of her grief. In truth, she did not understand it herself.
“Is the pain in your leg so bad? Or is it something else?”
“You go too far!” she cried, panicked. “Now, if you would …” She rose, a mistake. She whimpered. And collapsed into Edward’s powerful arms.
For just an instant, as he had risen simultaneously with her, she was in his embrace, every inch of her body pressed against his, her cheek against his chest, her thighs glued to his. And he held her for a single heartbeat, and in that heartbeat, Sofie knew she would never be the same again.
So this was what it was like to be held by a man!
How right he felt—how strong—how right!
Sofie pulled away from him, and instantly Edward helped her back down into the chair. His gaze met hers and she could not look away, her body tingling from the heat and power of him, her heart dancing from the comfort he afforded her even now. “I have overdone it,” she whispered, an understatement.
“Yes, you have,” he agreed. He knelt before her, and his hands found her right foot.
Sofie cried out, not in pain, but horror. “What are you doing?”
His tone was spun silk. “When I found you out here, you were massaging your leg. My hands are much stronger than yours.” In the blink of an eye he unlaced her special shoe, as ugly as sin, slid it off her foot, and tossed it aside.
Sofie was aghast. “You must not.” Her protest died. She was achingly aware of his hands enclosing her small stockinged foot.
He looked up at her as he knelt in front of her. “Why not?” His grin flashed, boyish, playful, sexy.
She was frozen. He held the foot of her bad leg and already his thumbs moved, kneading the inner arch. All the pleasure she might have felt gave way to panic, to terror. But she must not let him even glimpse her twisted ankle. He would be repulsed—and now Sofie knew she must not repulse him; at all costs, she must not.
“Relax, Miss O’Neil,” he murmured. It was the exact tone of voice be had used while making love to Hilary. Sofie whimpered, this time real pleasure mingling with the desperation. “Please,” she whispered, aware of more stinging tears, threatening to fall, “please stop!”
He paused. “What are you afraid of?”
“This—is unseemly.”
He made a disparaging sound. “What are you really afraid of?”
She was too choked up to answer, not that she ever would.
His keenly intelligent eyes held hers, and she knew he understood. But suddenly his dimples deepened and then he winked. “All right,” he said, resuming the massage, which both soothed and distressed her at the same time, “I’ll admit it even at the price of shocking you, Miss O’Neil. I have seen more than a few female feet in my short lifetime; I’ve even held them in my hands. There, what do you think of that?”
Despite the cloying fear, Sofie did think him funny—but she could in no way laugh. Instead, she pursed her lips hard together, trying to control her rioting emotions.
“Your foot feels no different from any other,” he continued, giving her a scandalously bold and sensual glance from under his lashes, which, she now realized, were longer than her own. “In fact, it feels exceedingly, boringly normal.”
Sofie whimpered. They both knew she was not normal. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
He paused, staring into her eyes. “I don’t like your demons.”
“I do not know what you speak of!” she cried.
“Don’t lie to me, Sofie.”
Sofie tried to jerk her foot free, but he would not let her. In fact, his hands closed around her ankle, and she froze, horrified. How could he do this? Why was he torturing her like this? Why?
Gravely he looked up at her. “Your ankle is swollen.”
“Please, do not do this.”
His jaw flexed. He would not let her gaze wander from his. Finally he said grimly, “Your ankle feels like any other, except for the fact that it is swollen.”
She whimpered. He was wrong, wrong, so very wrong.
Suddenly he smiled, very gently moving his thumb across her ankle, the massage turning into a caress. “All right. I’ll admit the entire truth at the risk of shocking you senseless. I lied. I am the horrible cad everyo
ne accuses me of being. There is nothing under your skirts, I’m certain, that I haven’t seen before.”
Sofie sputtered, truly shocked.
Edward grinned, looking anything but repentant—looking exactly like a devilishly handsome and self-satisfied rogue.
“I can’t deny it. I’ve seen more than my share of ankles. Fat ones, skinny ones, young ones, old ones, white ones—yes, don’t be shocked—even brown ones and black ones.”
Sofie stared. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. She heard herself say, “Black ones?”
He winked. “There are a lot of black ankles in Africa. Hell, that was nothing. I’ve even seen red and purple ones—at the Carnivale, of course.”
She made a strange hiccuping sound. He smiled and stroked her again.
Sofie swiped at the tears, which just kept flowing. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I haven’t seen you laugh yet.”
Finally the smallest, strangest sound sputtered from her pursed lips. It was unquestionably hysterical, but it might have qualified as laughter, too.
Edward smiled at her, a smile so warm, it went arrow-straight to the center of her heart, and he placed her foot on his hard thigh, covering it with one palm. “I know when to declare victory—even if it’s a toss-up.”
Sofie had stopped crying. She looked from his handsome, smiling face, from his blue, tender eyes, to his lap, where her foot nestled not far from his groin. He looked, too. In that instant, everything changed. He was no longer smiling. The light in his eyes became brighter, his expression grew strained. When his thumb paused over her instep, she felt it all the way up to her loins.
But all he said, his tone suddenly raw, was, “Miss O’Neil …”
Sofie said nothing. She did not know what to say. He had held her foot, had touched it, and now the atmosphere was so charged around them that Sofie felt the heat and thought she was about to explode.
“Sofie, dear, don’t you think you have caused enough talk tonight?” Suzanne said.
