She hadn’t died.
Even now, Sophie felt some surprise at that. Barely a day after that last, wrenching break, she was on her way back to London, accompanied by her mother. She remembered nothing of the journey; mercifully, the pain had given way to numbness and emotional exhaustion by then. According to Lady Tresilian, she’d spent the whole duration gazing out the window of their railway compartment, speaking only when spoken to, and eating only when coaxed and then no more than a sparrow would.
Sophie had no reason to doubt her mother’s account. It had been days before the protective numbness had worn off, by which time she and Lady Tresilian were ensconced in the Sheridans’ townhouse. Amy had welcomed them with open arms and, perhaps alerted by her sister, asked no questions about what had happened in Cornwall, but provided only boundless sympathy and comfort.
Gradually, as from a lengthy illness, Sophie had recovered. Or at least progressed to the point of being able to eat, sleep, and take some interest in the world around her. She’d stayed on with the Sheridans through the summer, even after her mother returned to Cornwall. In August, rehearsals for the tour had begun, and by early September, she was on the road with the other pupils, embarking upon the life of a professional singer.
But the memory of those agonizing first days in London was as vivid—and painful—as if no time at all had passed. And it was that memory haunting her now as she stared Robin down, awaiting his reply to her question.
He said at last, “Nathalie is—as she always is. She doesn’t change.”
The flat neutrality of his tone was a condemnation in itself. And it told her all she needed to know about his continuing marriage to a woman he no longer loved. Strangely enough, she felt no sense of triumph or even bitterness, just a weary pity for everyone concerned.
“I see.” She tugged at a loose thread on her riding glove. “And I’m sorry, Robin.”
His eyes had gone the color of a winter sea. “Don’t be. I chose my lot four years ago, with no illusions regarding how things were likely to turn out. And it hasn’t all been terrible,” he added abruptly, answering her unspoken question. “I’ve had my work, and”—his eyes and voice softened fractionally—“the children.”
Of course—the children. Had she really been so arrogant as to believe her happiness mattered more than their needs? And she did not doubt that Robin was a good father or that he made no distinction between his daughter and Nathalie’s son. “They must be getting so big now. Children always grow so fast. Are they well?”
To her shock, a spasm of pain crossed Robin’s face. “Sara is well. But Cyril, my son… died in January. The doctor said—he’d had a heart ailment since birth, and he was lucky to live even this long.”
“Robin, I’m so sorry!” And she was. The memory of that child, pale and fragile in his mother’s arms, rose in her mind, as sharp as the first and only time she’d ever seen him. She’d been too stunned that night, too shaken by the knowledge of what the children’s existence might mean for her and Robin, to feel any particular sympathy for him. But now it flooded her from head to toe. Cyril couldn’t have been more than four or five years old.
And Robin had loved him. She could tell that by the starkness of his eyes, the compressed line of his mouth. His grief was very real—and all too recent.
“He did not suffer, at the last. And we were all there for him. Even his mother.” He stared out over the Serpentine, his hands lax upon the reins. “After a time, I found that his death—changed certain things for me. I discovered I was no longer content to leave things as they were, as they had been.” He took a breath and met Sophie’s gaze squarely. “I mean to renew my divorce suit against Nathalie.”
“Divorce?” Sophie echoed. Questions crowded on her tongue, so many she couldn’t begin to ask. Why now, when he had been so adamant before? What could possibly have happened to change his mind? Other than that poor little boy’s death…
He nodded, his mouth still firmly set. “No one in the county questions that Sara is mine, and now—with Cyril gone—well, there’s no sense in continuing with our farce of a marriage. We haven’t lived as husband and wife since her return.”
Sophie’s heart gave a painful little skip at this disclosure, even as she sternly reminded it this was neither the time nor the place for such indulgences, not in the wake of Robin’s loss and now this decision, over which he had agonized four years ago. Once again, she wondered what could have driven him to this point, and once again, he seemed to anticipate her question.
“She took another lover, Sophie.” His tone had gone flat again. “Oh, it wasn’t a shock—she’s had several others since she came back. The only condition I laid on her when I agreed not to pursue the divorce four years ago was that she be discreet. As of the last fortnight, she violated even that.”
Sophie regarded him closely, seeing no trace of jealousy, nor any sign of the anguish that a betrayed husband might feel under the circumstances, but his face was set, his mouth grim. A line had been crossed, then—some final condition had been breached, and this was the result. “But won’t it be—difficult to obtain a divorce after you’ve lived together for several years?”
Robin shook his head. “Given the circumstances, it should actually be easier.” He gave Sophie a wintry smile. “I caught them together—in flagrante delicto. You can’t get much more blatant than that. And I shall have no compunctions about naming her latest lover as co-respondent in the divorce. Hell—I might even enjoy it!”
Sophie winced inwardly, not knowing what to say. This was a side to him she had never seen before—hard and cynical. It grieved her to think of his becoming so over the last four years. But then, she acknowledged ruefully, she herself was no longer the romantic, starry-eyed girl who’d trusted love to overcome all difficulties.
Robin sighed, some of the hardness leaving his face. He looked more like the man she remembered now, and she began to relax. “Nathalie is still Sara’s mother, so I will not deny her access or forbid them to see each other. There’s no need to make this uglier than it has to be.”
“Will you petition for custody of your daughter?”
He nodded. “I firmly believe Sara is better off with me.” His expression softened in the way it had before when he mentioned the children. “We’ve grown very close these last four years. And Nathalie favored Cyril in any case, especially once Sara grew out of babyhood. She’s had less and less time for our daughter, of late. I’d hoped it might prove otherwise, after we lost Cyril, but… things are what they are.” He fidgeted with his reins, frowning to himself. “According to a more recent law, despite her infidelity, Nathalie could try to secure custody until Sara is sixteen, but she’d have to prove herself the more fit parent.”
Sophie privately wondered how anyone could consider Nathalie Pendarvis a more fit parent than Robin, then told herself not to judge a woman she did not know. It wasn’t as if she’d had the opportunity to witness Nathalie’s capabilities as a mother, after all—or even wanted such an opportunity. It had been hard enough to imagine Robin and his wife raising their children together without actually having to see it.
Robin sighed again, patting his horse’s neck almost absently. “Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Perhaps there’s a chance Nathalie and I can settle the question of custody like the civilized adults we’re supposed to be.” He glanced at Sophie, his expression shifting again, still somber but with a hint of… diffidence? “And that is—essentially what I came to tell you, my dear. But… as it happens, there is something I should like to ask you as well. If I may.”
Sophie swallowed dryly, her heart hammering against her ribs in slow, heavy strokes, every inch of her skin sensitized and tingling. “Robin…”
“I understand that I have no right to expect anything at all from you,” he continued, and Sophie could not begin to guess how hard this was for him. “Not after—all this time. But… I love you.” His eyes, dark as midnight, were intent on hers. “I have never stopped loving you. N
o other woman has taken your place in my heart, nor ever will. And so I must ask… now that I am to be a free man, is there any hope at all for us?”
***
Hope—the sweetest poison of all. Sophie closed her eyes, remembering the taste all too well. She’d lived on it for more than a year once she’d realized she loved him, and in the end, she’d been left with only the bitter dregs.
“Robin.” It came out more strongly this time. She opened her eyes and gazed into that once dearly loved face. “So much has happened in the last four years.”
“I know. Time hasn’t stood still for either of us.” He paused, then continued with almost painful precision, “And if, in that time, you have come to care for someone else, just tell me—and I swear I shall trouble you no more.”
“Someone else? Who could I possibly—?”
“That young man you sang with last night—Mr. Cherwell. You seemed to be on the best of terms. I couldn’t help but wonder…”
“Good heavens, no!” Sophie exclaimed. “David is a dear friend, nothing more.” Despite the gravity of the situation, she felt a faint smile tug at her lips. “In fact, he once wished to play matchmaker between me and his brother. Fortunately for us all, Llewelyn had other ideas—and, as it turns out, another lady in his sights.”
It was warming and more than a little gratifying to see the relief that swept over his face. “Then, you are—unattached?”
“At present, yes. But,” she emphasized, looking him square in the eye, “I won’t pretend that there haven’t been other men in my life, Robin. Men whom I cared for, who were more to me than… simply friends.”
A shadow crossed his face at her confession, but after a moment, he nodded. “Fair enough. And if you had honored one such with your hand and heart, I would have tried not to begrudge him his good fortune. And to wish you happy.”
“I know you would have.” It was what he had urged her to do, time and again: find another, worthier man. Her own folly that she could conceive of no one worthier than he—or had it proved, in the end, a greater wisdom?
He moistened his lips, as nervous as she, and no wonder. “But if you are yet heart-whole, and you are not indifferent to me—”
She gave a tremulous little laugh. “I couldn’t be indifferent to you if I tried, Robin! And heaven knows I have tried!”
He smiled then, his eyes suddenly, suspiciously moist. “Darling Sophie. I have loved you since you were seventeen. That hasn’t changed, whatever else has.”
That hadn’t changed for her either, even though the admission lodged like a bone caught in her throat. So much love, so much hope—all dashed in one midsummer night.
“Love…” she husked, then swallowed and tried again. “Love can’t solve everything, Robin. We learned that four years ago.”
“Perhaps not, but it’s a start, isn’t it?” He reached out, brushed the fingers of her nearest hand with his own. “And in the end, perhaps that’s all we have. I know you have a brilliant future before you. That you are adored by half of Europe. That there are men far richer, handsomer, and grander than myself, without my encumbrances, all eager to court you. I have no right to ask this of you, but will you—will you wait for me?”
All the things she’d dreamed of hearing. The things she imagined on those lonely nights on tour, when she’d lain awake, remembering. And hoping in vain for some miracle that would allow them to be together at last.
How was it that, at this longed-for moment, she should feel as much fear as exultation? Who would have thought that finally being offered your heart’s desire would be so terrifying?
Sophie swallowed. “I need time. Time to think about all of this.”
“You’ll have it. All the time you need, I promise.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “That may be the one thing I can safely promise.”
Twelve
When I am from him, I am dead till I be with him.
—Sir Thomas Browne, Religio Medici
There seemed little to say after that, and they both lapsed into silence, riding sedately back the way they had come. Some part of Sophie longed to say something, anything, to shatter the constraint between them, but another part of her—the part that had known disappointment and learned discretion—kept her tongue in check.
Not until they had reached Hyde Park Corner did she muster up the nerve to speak. “How long will you be staying in London?”
“A few more days as yet. At least until my solicitor has finished preparing the divorce papers.” He paused, then continued, almost abruptly, “Sara is staying with James and Aurelia at present. Their son, Jared, is her friend, and,” a faint smile warmed his eyes, “she is also fascinated with their new baby girl. In any case, I didn’t want her exposed to the unpleasantness between Nathalie and myself.”
“Of course not. That was very considerate of you. And exactly how a father should think, in these circumstances.”
“My motives weren’t entirely selfless,” he confessed wryly. “I was safeguarding my own interests as well. James and Aurelia know that I intend to seek a divorce. With Sara staying at Pentreath, it would be just about impossible for Nathalie to run off with her, as she’s threatened to do in the past.”
His face had gone grim again—no surprise if he’d had to live with that constant threat hanging over his head for four years. Sophie felt a fierce spark of anger at the thought: however unhappy a marriage, parents should never use their children as weapons against each other.
She said in her most reassuring tone, “Well, as Earl of Trevenan, James wields quite a lot of influence in the county. If anyone can keep Sara safe in your absence, it would be he.”
Robin sighed. “I tell myself the same thing. But I cannot deny that I think of her every day, and miss her sorely.”
“At least you know she’s in good hands, and that you’ll be seeing her again soon.”
The sound of laughter and approaching horses’ hooves reached them, and they quickly drew their own mounts aside to make way for a small riding party—ladies and gentlemen both—heading for the Row. Fortunately, the newcomers seemed far too intent on each other to spare Robin and Sophie more than a passing glance.
“I must be going,” Sophie said once the riding party was out of earshot. “I have an engagement this afternoon, and I should put in at least an hour’s worth of technique beforehand.”
He nodded acknowledgment. “I’m staying at Brown’s Hotel at present. If you should come to a decision—about us—within the next few days, you can write to me there.”
“Thank you.” Sophie summoned a parting smile as she urged her horse forward. “I will try not to keep you waiting too long for an answer.”
His own smile was bittersweet. “After the last four years, I assure you my patience is infinite. Take as much time as you need.”
***
Lost in thought, Sophie rode back toward the livery stable. Divorcing Nathalie—so he meant to do it at last. The question was, did she have the stamina to see it through with him, after everything they’d endured?
Four years ago, she wouldn’t have had to ask. But she’d been as confident then as she was apprehensive now. Afraid to hope, and haunted as well by how it had ended before. The pain might have faded, but she remembered all too clearly how much it had hurt. And how utterly helpless and bereft she’d felt in the face of Robin’s decision to walk away from everything they might have shared. Even understanding his reasons hadn’t diminished the agony.
Never again. She’d vowed that repeatedly to herself. No other man would ever have the power to devastate her like that.
And no other man had. She thought of the men whom she had described as “more than friends.” Her lovers, spaced out over four years: the young violinist on her first tour who’d been as lonely and in need of comfort as she; the dashing French composer who’d written a charming bagatelle of a song just for her; Sebastian Brand, a promising baritone who’d stepped into the role of Almaviva during those nights she’d play
ed Susanna. Not so many—three in all.
But however much pleasure they had all derived from their brief dalliances, it had been music that bound them—a strong connection, though not the only one lovers could share. As well she knew. For none of her lovers, however talented and accomplished, had come close to supplanting Robin in her heart.
There were times when she had almost hated him for that.
On her return to Curzon Street, she discovered that her drawing room was filled to overflowing with flowers, sent by admirers who’d attended the concert. Lavish arrangements of full-blown roses and calla lilies jostled for position with exotic orchids in varying hues and brilliant blue hydrangeas.
“Where should these go, ma’am?” the footman inquired, holding up a basket of the latter.
Sophie considered the offering. “Oh, I think upstairs in my sitting room, perhaps.” The blue would go well with the color scheme there. “And that arrangement,” she indicated the roses and calla lilies, “can stay in the drawing room. It’s far too grand for any other place!”
“Very good, ma’am.”
More flowers awaited her in her chamber—along with something else. Curious and apprehensive at once, Sophie opened the velvet box Letty handed her, and stifled a gasp at the diamonds sparkling up at her: a delicate bracelet made up of three strands of glittering gems.
“Oh, miss!” Letty breathed, her eyes round as saucers.
“Put this on my writing desk, Letty,” Sophie said firmly, closing the box with a brisk snap. “I’ll write a note of refusal to,” she consulted the accompanying card, “Lord Ingram later.”
Still wide-eyed, the maid accepted the box and carried it away, while Sophie unpinned her hat with hands that shook only slightly. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, nor would it be the last if she continued in her chosen profession. No doubt Letty thought her touched in the head to refuse such a gift from a titled admirer. But magnificent as the diamonds were, Sophie knew they came with a price—a price she was not willing to pay.
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