Professor Love

by Nikky Kaye

  “In bed?” Sophy shot up from the bed and started pacing. It was disgusting. It was tacky. It was shallow. “It’s immoral!” She clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words echoed in the room; she hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

  Maura narrowed her eyes and her spine stiffened. “Immoral? You write about sex for a living, daughter dear,” she reminded her.

  “Love. I write about love. And they always get married in the end,” Sophy protested. She shoved the rocking chair to the side so that she’d have more room to pace.

  “Not always.” Maura scrutinized her, then her eyes widened. “You made love with Max, didn’t you?”

  Sophy halted in her tracks, heat crawling up her cheeks. “That’s not the issue here,” she directed at the wall. The wallpaper was suddenly extraordinarily fascinating.

  “I think it is,” her mother insisted. “I think that’s exactly what you came over here to talk to me about.”

  Sophy whirled around. “It doesn’t matter.” She glared at her mother, but Maura wasn’t budging an inch.

  “You little hypocrite!”

  Sophy was stunned at the venom in her mother’s voice. “What?”

  “You heard me. You stand there and tell me I’m immoral for having a relationship with your father—your father, not even some stranger—and then come to me for advice after you finally get the hots for someone?”

  Richard’s voice came through the bathroom door. “Really, Maura. You’re being a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “You stay out of this, Dick!” Maura shouted.

  “It’s not an affair.” Sophy crossed her arms under her breasts and tried to swallow the tears threatening to fall.

  “So it was a one night stand? Oh, that’s much better,” Maura crowed. “Now who’s being immoral?”

  “Why are you being so mean about this?” Sophy was deeply ashamed by the whine in her voice but couldn’t seem to stop it.

  “Because, sweetie, you’re being remarkably naïve.” Maura softened and patted the bed again.

  Sophy stood her ground.

  “Oh, honey.” Her mother sighed. “You write about love and passion and sex and marriage, but you don’t understand that it doesn’t always work out the way it does in your books. That’s why it’s fantasy. Real life isn’t about romance and thunderbolts. It’s about learning how to get over your own selfishness enough to treat someone the way you want to be treated. With respect. Friendship. If love exists, it’s only a fluke. A wonderful, wonderful fluke.”

  Sophy didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted the salt on her lips. She sat down on the bed and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “So you don’t believe true love exists either?”

  “Either?”

  “Max doesn’t believe in it.”

  “Are you in love with him?” her mother asked gently.

  Sophy nodded, then shook her head, then her chin dropped onto her chest.

  Maura took her hand and squeezed it. “Sometimes the more you hope for, the more dissatisfied you’re going to be. The trick in life is to figure out what is the least that would make you happy, and go for it. And when you get it, hang on to it with all you’ve got.”

  She sniffed. “But I always thought that you were supposed to aim high. Hope for the best—”

  “And expect the worst? Maybe. But you have to remember that disappointment is a part of life. If Max doesn’t love you, he doesn’t love you. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I don’t care anyway.”

  Maura reached for a tissue from the box on the nightstand and offered it to her. “Yes, you do. That was always your problem, Sophy. You care too much.”

  Sophy scrubbed her face with the tissue and blew her nose. It was too bad she couldn’t wipe her heart clean as easily. She exhaled raggedly and rose from the bed. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sor—”

  Her mother cut her off. “I know. And it’s okay.”

  Sophy sighed and turned to the bathroom door. “Sorry, Dad.”

  There was an answering thump.

  * * *

  It was a beautiful day for a wedding.

  Sophy looked around at the people filling the pews of the church. The morning sun streamed through the stained glass windows, blanketing the stone floor in a kaleidoscope of colors. Pockets of red and blue and green-tinted rays bounced off the gleaming wooden pews and danced in the hair of the guests being seated. Fragrant lilies and roses lined each pew, and near the door a dozen doves cooed in a polished brass cage, waiting to be released when the bride and groom exited the church in a shower of environmentally-friendly birdseed.

  Sophy laced her fingers together tightly, already feeling her palms start to sweat through the white gloves.

  Just then the organ piped up and the march began. Sophy rose to her feet and closed her eyes briefly, feeling the music pound in her veins.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Her eyes flew open as the voice growled in her ear. She glanced over at Max and frowned. “How did you find me?”

  His dark suit matched the glower on his face and a small crinkle formed between his eyebrows. Sophy clenched her fingers together more tightly in an attempt to stop herself from reaching up and smoothing it out.

  “It’s the only wedding in town today. I took a chance. You know I’ve been trying to reach you for a week?” he whispered harshly.

  Sophy’s gaze wandered from the concern in Max’s eyes to the bride passing by their pew. With such an elaborate and obviously expensive wedding, it was too bad the bride couldn’t afford some taste. Yards and yards of white satin were encrusted with stiff lace and sequins. Sophy couldn’t see her face through the veil, which seemed to come from the cheesecloth family, but she sure could see the bride’s heavily bronzed skin through the enormous heart-shaped cut-out in the back of the dress.

  “Sophy, are you listening to me?”

  She turned her attention back to Max. “Hmmm? Oh, yeah, I saw you called.” Cool, she reminded herself. Non-committal.

  “Your mother told me what happened,” he whispered in her ear.

  So much for cool. Sophy’s head whipped around and her eyes narrowed. “What exactly did she tell you?” she demanded, silently promising a long and painful death to her mother if she had told Max that Sophy was in love with him. Might be in love with him. No—definitely wasn’t in love with him. Her brow furrowed and she felt the beginnings of a headache.

  “She told me about her and your father, and your reaction.”

  “Oh?”

  The organ fell silent and the guests planted their behinds on the polished pews. Sophy smoothed down her sage green linen skirt and stifled the urge to kick the padded kneeler in front of her.

  “Sophy, why can’t you be happy for them?” His voice was barely loud enough for her to hear it, but his disappointment was as clear as the church bell.

  She realized he pitied her, sorry for her naïve idealism and romantic delusions. For some reason, she was proud of her belief in true love, and it frustrated her no end that he would see that hope as a character flaw.

  Max’s gleaming wingtip and argyle-covered ankle were starting to look more appealing than the kneeler as a target. She crossed her legs daintily and twisted her gloved fingers together.

  “Do you know they’re not getting remarried?” she asked him in a low voice.

  “Of course. I suggested they have an affair, and that’s all...” he trailed off and his face turned as white as the calla lily perched in the vase at the end of the pew.

  “You suggested they have an affair. This was your idea?” She couldn’t believe her ears.

  An elderly lady in a blue-feathered hat in front of them turned her head and glared. “Shh!”

  Max leaned towards Sophy. “Your parents have passion back. That’s enough, and you should be happy for them, no matter what they decide to do, or not do. Grow up.”

  Her stomach twisted at the admonishment. Her father had
said that as well. Could she have been wrong about true love?

  “You think passion is enough?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear the answer.

  “Sure.”

  Sophy’s heart suddenly felt as cold and as hard as the stone floor her heel was scuffing on. She was in love with him. Not with the Earl of Maxmara, but with Dr. Max Wright, anal-retentive psychology professor. Sensitive but demanding lover, friend to small animals and children, remember? Her experiment had worked, right down to the wooing of ladies.

  Shame and regret flooded her. She had been trying so hard to make him into a hero, she hadn’t realized that she was falling in love with a man. A real man, with real flaws and real virtues. Her hero was real, and she had been too blinded by her ideals to see it. And now it was obvious that Max didn’t feel anything other than passion for her.

  “You know what, Max? It’s not enough, not for me. I want flowers and violins and stupid sappy boxes of candy. I want to feel like every love song was written just for me. I want to be woken up by somebody pawing at me that’s not the cat. I want to have someone for date night, to nag to take out the garbage and pick up the kids from clarinet lessons.”

  “Clarinet?”

  “I want someone to go couch shopping with. I want to fight over the remote, and be happy about it when I win. I want to be wined and dined on my birthday and Valentine’s Day, and all the days in between.” She inhaled deeply, the scent of roses filling her nostrils. “Smell that? That’s true love. That’s what I want.”

  He was silent. All she could hear was the rustling of the assembly and the officiant’s voice ring out in a kind of special mockery directed at her. At least that’s what it felt like.

  Tears began trickling down Sophy’s cheeks and she wiped them away angrily with her gloved hands. “Our time is up, Max.” Her voice started to crack and she swallowed tightly. “Walk away.”

  She stared at the blue hat in front of her, determined to avoid the pity that would surely be in her hero’s eyes.

  A whisper of his aftershave and the smell of his sun-warmed skin drifted past her as he rose from the pew, and brushed past her without a word. Tears blurred her vision as she heard him walk away. What had she just done?

  Sophy clutched the back of the pew in front of her and shot bolt upright to her feet. Maybe she could stop him and apologize. Maybe he was right, and passion was enough. Maybe her mother was right, and passion was the best she could hope for. Maybe lust was good enough.

  “Do you have an objection?” a voice rose from the altar.

  She blinked to clear her vision and saw the crowd watching her curiously. Oh. She was standing. Nobody else was. She knew what this part was.

  “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” he advised.

  Sophy slowly looked around the church, and two hundred people turned in their seats to watch her. She stiffened. Okay, might as well make a point.

  “Yes, I have an objection.” She directed her attention to the bride and groom, who looked nearly ready to faint in tandem. “Do you love each other?”

  They nodded, and Sophy whirled around to confirm that Max standing near the door, watching her. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed and an incredulous look on his face.

  She turned back to the couple standing at the altar.

  “Really love each other? You’re ready to deal with meddling in-laws and whining kids and the invoice from this...” She waved her hand around. “This production?” What had Tom said? “Sticky dogs, mortgage payments and jobs that you have to take so that you can pay the bills?”

  They nodded. The bride paled to the color of her dress and her soon to be husband was starting to look very nervous.

  “We’re in love,” the groom squeaked.

  Sophy turned to Max with a smug expression. “Good. That’s all I needed to know.”

  Max frowned and straightened. His shoes echoed loudly as he marched up the aisle. As he approached the altar, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

  “When you start having problems, give me a call.”

  The bride’s eyes started fluttering back in her head and the priest steadied her. The groom took the card from Max. “You a divorce lawyer?”

  “No, a marriage counselor.”

  The bride finally fainted, taking the priest with her. Pandemonium erupted in the church. Max pivoted and strode back down the aisle. He stopped at Sophy’s pew and straightened his tie.

  “This is what you want?”

  He tilted his head towards the groom hovering over his bride and one of the ushers trying to extricate the priest from the folds of wedding dress like a fish from a trawling net.

  She stared at him, still in shock at what he had just done. Could she love a man who would go to such cold extremes to prove a point? But didn’t she just do the same thing?

  “Not like this,” she said faintly, realizing he was right all along. True love didn’t exist. If it did, they would be together and none of this would be happening.

  His blue eyes turned to ice. “Then I hope you get what’s coming to you.” He headed for the door.

  Sophy closed her mouth, her eyes suddenly stone dry. She reached down and pulled off her right shoe. The bone-colored leather was smooth under her fingers and still warm from her foot. Her heart breaking, she hucked the shoe at Max.

  “You’re a coward!” she screamed as he slipped out the door.

  Sophy’s eyes widened and her gut twisted as her pump hurtled into the birdcage and the door clanged open.

  A dozen white doves escaped, flying frantically around the church. Looking for a way out.

  “Oh no,” she murmured.

  She felt the flapping of wings over her head and watched as a large glob of white goo plopped onto the blue-feathered hat. Its blissfully ignorant owner swiveled in the pew and smiled at her.

  “Don’t you just love weddings?”

  Sophy burst into tears.

  10

  Clarissa Templeton was going to hell in a brass-trimmed barouche with the devil himself sitting beside her.

  Charming. Beautiful. Well-mannered. Clarissa snorted indelicately and stared out the window at the passing countryside, which was still dripping from the morning’s thunderburst. Well, she had certainly proved her unworthiness to the Earl of Maxmara. In fact, she had gone out of her way to demonstrate to him just how unsuitable she could be.

  Her lips quirked in memory. Her charm had been noticeably lacking at the dinner she had attended at his grandmother’s stately home. Much to Maxmara’s horror and his grandmother’s amusement, Clarissa’s appeal had faded the moment she accidentally set fire to the drapes. Granted, they were moth-eaten and ugly, but the little misadventure had inspired her.

  Surely if she were to prove to the earl that she was not in possession of those virtues he sought in a potential life’s mate, he would cease his pursuit of her more, well, hidden attributes. As tempting as his velvety eyes and hard body were, Clarissa feared more for her sanity than for her reputation should they tumble into that satin abyss again. The night they had spent together was a mistake she would not soon repeat.

  Well, not until tonight, that was. Clarissa sighed heavily and glanced over at Maxmara. He would undoubtably be expecting a reprisal of that passionate encounter. It was their wedding night, after all.

  She fingered the heavy gold band on her left hand and her mouth twisted with irony. It had been her own valiant effort to persuade him of her inappropriateness that had landed her in this situation.

  When her act of arson had failed to deter him, she had tried to destroy her own reputation as a beauty. It hadn’t been too difficult to scorch her hair with hot tongs until it fell out in large clumps, nor had it been hard to find gowns in styles and colors that suited her most ill. She had even approached a young woman in Whitechapel for a brief tutorial on the art of over-rouging. But her efforts were in vain.

  The earl had simply held her still as he scrubbed her fac
e clean with a wet flannel, and then shoved her back in her bedchamber to change her clothes. Clarissa remembered the humiliation and frustration that had consumed her as she ripped off the jaundiced gown and his voice rose mockingly from behind the door, proclaiming that he saw only her inner beauty, that no amount of rouge nor poorly designed gowns could displace.

  She tilted her head slightly and peered at Maxmara again. His long legs were propped up on the seat opposite and his arms were crossed over his broad chest. He slouched against the back of the carriage, his eyes closed and his expression peaceful.

  Clarissa fumed inwardly. Somehow it didn’t seem just that he should be so relaxed when she herself hadn’t had a moment’s peace since their first meeting in her father’s library. The earl’s head bobbed slightly as the carriage dipped into a rut, but he did not wake. It was unfortunate, Clarissa thought, as he would likely now be alert come evening. All evening. And there would be no escape for her.

  He hadn’t let her out of his sight for two weeks, not since her last escapade. She bit her lip at the memory, realizing that she had indeed been a little overzealous in her impropriety.

  The idea of posing as Maxmara’s ill-mannered mistress had been inspired at first, but she rapidly lost all control over the situation when he discovered her little joke, and was not amused. He blackmailed her into marriage, promising that he would convince her doting father that she was indeed his mistress if she did not accept his “proposal”.

  And the one thing that Clarissa could not—would not—do was hurt her father.

  Carefully she unclenched her fingers and reached for the sash at the window. Air. She needed air. She struggled with the latch, her clammy fingers squeaking as they slipped over the dusty glass.

  “Let me do that.”

  Clarissa flattened herself against her seat as the earl reached past her to open the window. She could smell his skin, only inches away from her, and noticed a small spot on his jaw where his razor had missed. She screwed her eyes shut. Air. She needed air.