But it was a start, the cool rational voice in her head had conceded. A step in the right direction. Her mind and heart could agree upon that much at least. And then she’d put them both away—the rapture and the reason—for there was a performance to be given.
Now, she bowed, acknowledging the audience’s enthusiasm, and let her gaze drift almost casually down to a certain seat in the front row.
He was still sitting there, applauding like the rest, and in his eyes she saw everything she had ever dreamed of seeing: pride, tenderness, passion… and hope. The same hope that had sustained her five years ago, when she’d foolishly believed that love could conquer all. Seeing it reflected in his eyes now sent a shaft of pain through her heart.
Pain—and something more.
This was the man who had believed in her from the start, who had always striven to put her first, even when she hadn’t agreed with the ways he’d done so. The man who had encouraged her to pursue this dream, even at his own expense.
Why had he never understood that he was her dream too, that he mattered to her every bit as much as the music?
And with that acknowledgment, something shifted inside of her—and the rest of the world shifted along with it. Looking down at him, she felt again what she had not felt in four years: a sweet certainty that banished all the lingering doubts and fears.
Robin was her dream, her reality… and her love. Still. Forever.
Time she let him know that.
The applause was still ringing in her ears, interspersed now with calls of “Encore!” Recollecting herself, Sophie smiled again at the audience and turned to Mrs. Herbert. They had arranged for this eventuality—but the title Sophie now whispered to the accompanist was neither of the songs she had chosen earlier. Mrs. Herbert’s brows rose in surprise, but she recovered at once and began to play.
Another song the audience would recognize, though Sophie doubted whether many of them remembered it had come from an opera more than half a century old. But whatever its origin, this song embodied the message she wished to convey more clearly than any other.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she began to sing, her voice carrying to every corner of the salon but colored with an intimacy that suggested the song was meant for one person alone:
“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls,
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches too great to count,
Could boast of a high ancestral name;
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you lov’d me still the same
That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same,
That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same.
I dreamt that suitors sought my hand;
That knights upon bended knee,
And with vows no maiden heart could withstand
They pledg’d their faith to me;
And I dreamt that one of that noble host
Came forth my hand to claim.
But I also dreamt, which charmed me most,
That you lov’d me still the same
That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same,
That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same.”
She let her voice build to a crescendo on the last chorus, transforming the song into a triumphant paean to love that withstood any test, any change in circumstances.
Much to Sophie’s relief, the audience responded with as much pleasure as they’d shown before—one could never predict how encores might be received. As the applause swelled around her, she bowed her head, taking a moment to compose herself. The salon seemed almost unbearably warm, and her pulse raced as though she’d just run a mile—uphill and in bad weather.
At the same time, she felt as though she had shed an enormous burden. She’d sung her heart; all she could do now was hope that he’d heard her.
Raising her head, she risked another glance down at the front row—and found Robin, clapping almost mechanically as he stared up at her.
He looked… stunned. There was no other word for it. She could see the hope still in his eyes, but it was tempered with uncertainty—as though he were on the brink of understanding what she had sung, of grasping her deeper meaning, but feared to be wrong at the same time.
Her heart went out to him in a rush, and she sent him the faintest of smiles, along with a silent message.
Soon, my love.
***
Such a resolve proved easier to make than to carry out, however, as a number of Amy’s guests wished to meet Sophie at the conclusion of her programme. Introductions passed in a blur, as she smiled, answered questions, and accepted compliments as graciously as she could, even with every fiber of her being yearning toward Robin, wanting only to find and speak to him.
Casting a quick glance about the room, she located him in a far corner. Their gazes met for a split second, but it was enough. Anticipation shivered through her, like the wind through a grove of aspens. Not long now…
Amy, who was performing the introductions, caught her eye just then, and Sophie sent her a look of entreaty. With a hostess’s unerring instincts, Amy caught on at once.
“I think we’d best let Miss Tresilian catch her breath now, Regina,” she said briskly to Sophie’s current well-wisher, a fashionable middle-aged matron. “Or to take some refreshment. Singing must be thirsty work, after all.”
“Of course,” her guest agreed, sounding immediately contrite. “You must be parched, my dear,” she added to Sophie. “I know I would be, after a performance like that! Thank you for giving us all such a delightful evening.”
Sophie smiled. “You’re very welcome, Mrs. Dalton. Singing always gives me great pleasure. But Mrs. Sheridan is right—I would be most glad of refreshment now.”
“Then, by all means, come and have some,” Amy invited. “A cold supper will be set out momentarily. And I’ve included the dressed crab you like so much, Regina,” she added, deftly steering Mrs. Dalton away and slipping Sophie a quick wink in the process.
Alone at last, Sophie exhaled thankfully. Bless Amy for understanding.
She turned to go in search of Robin—only to find someone else was standing directly in her path. Two someones, she amended: a tall, thin woman, perhaps in her late thirties, and a slight, fair-haired girl who might be seventeen.
“Miss Tresilian,” the woman began in a deep, rich contralto that sounded vaguely familiar. “I had hoped to have a word with you.”
Sophie bit back an unladylike oath and managed a smile instead, mindful of the courtesy she owed to Amy’s guests. “Of course, ma’am. And whom have I the honor of addressing?”
“I am Lady Charlotte Daventry.” She spoke with as much majesty as if she were Queen Victoria herself. “And this is my niece, Marianne Daventry,” she added, her tone a little more perfunctory this time. “My husband, Guy, is the member for Shenstone.”
The names, along with Lady Charlotte’s arresting voice, jarred Sophie’s memory. So this was the overbearing connection who plagued Sheridan’s sittings and whom Amy could tolerate only in small doses. Studying the woman more closely, Sophie could understand why she might have such an effect. Lady Charlotte’s features were too strong for beauty, and her figure spare and angular, but she had a presence any diva might have envied and she carried herself with the dignity of an empress. No wonder poor Miss Daventry was so intimidated! “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Charlotte,” she said politely. “And yours, Miss Daventry.”
Miss Daventry murmured an inaudible response as Lady Charlotte inclined her head. “Likewise, Miss Tresilian, and my compliments on your performance tonight,” the older woman replied. “My personal taste runs rather more to… weightier material—I am very partial to Mr. Wagner’s operas—but overall, I thought your songs were quite charming.”
The faint condescension in her tone rankled a bit
, but people had a right to their own preferences, Sophie reminded herself. “Thank you.”
“Indeed, I was hoping I might engage you to sing at a soiree of my own,” Lady Charlotte continued. “In early August, before Parliament adjourns.”
“I’m afraid I am not accepting any engagements after this one,” Sophie replied, trying to sound apologetic. “I shall be leaving London within a few days, for a month’s holiday at least.”
She had the distinct impression that Lady Charlotte was not accustomed to being refused. The woman’s brows drew together in a mixture of surprise and annoyance.
“If it is a question of remuneration, Miss Tresilian, you may be assured that your commission will be most generous.”
“I assure you, Lady Charlotte, it is nothing of the sort,” Sophie said with a placatory smile. “I have not been to visit my family in more than a year. It is high time that I saw them again, especially as one of my brothers is soon to wed.”
“I see.” Lady Charlotte still sounded none too pleased by Sophie’s refusal. “Well, should you reconsider, here is my card.” She extracted it from her reticule and held it out. “My direction is in Belgrave Square.”
Sophie accepted the card with murmured thanks, which seemed more prudent than flatly stating that she had no intention of reconsidering. Granted, this wasn’t the first time she’d been offered an engagement while fulfilling another, but Lady Charlotte’s autocratic manner rubbed her the wrong way. Perhaps, as Amy had suggested, the woman couldn’t help being overbearing, but that didn’t make the idea of working for her any more appealing.
“Ah, Charlotte.” Sheridan spoke up from behind Sophie, much to her relief. “Pardon me for interrupting you and Miss Tresilian, but Eamon Fitzgerald is attempting to press Guy on the subject of Irish Home Rule, and I suspect he would appreciate your help in extricating himself.”
Lady Charlotte clicked her tongue in annoyance. “That, again! I’d have thought the last defeat would have put paid to that issue. Pray, excuse me—Miss Tresilian, Thomas.” She nodded to them both, then hurried off in a rustle of plum taffeta, Marianne trailing behind her.
“Thank you,” Sophie said fervently, once the Daventry women were out of earshot.
Sheridan smiled. “You’re welcome. I could not help noticing how cornered you looked.”
“I declined an invitation to sing at a soiree of hers. She did not wish to take no for an answer,” Sophie explained.
“Very few people are able to say no to Charlotte,” Sheridan observed dryly. “Or to Guy, for that matter, but the reasons are quite different.”
Curious, Sophie followed the direction of his gaze and saw a tall, athletically built man standing in the midst of a small crowd. Mr. Daventry, she realized when she caught sight of Lady Charlotte navigating purposefully toward him. The contrast between the two was striking, and not just in the physical sense. While Lady Charlotte was intense and rather haughty, her husband was relaxed and convivial, as well as attractive in a typically English way: blond and blue-eyed, with an engaging, almost boyish smile. Good teeth, Sophie observed, white and even—perhaps it was no surprise that he smiled so often. Regular features too, and a cleft in his strong, square chin. Most women would agree that he was a handsome man, and yet for all his clean-cut good looks, he held not a particle of the attraction Robin held for her and always would.
Robin. Recalled to her purpose, she looked for him at once, and to her surprise and delight, saw him approaching, accompanied by Amy in full hostess mode.
“Sophie, my dear, this gentleman has requested an introduction,” she said brightly, for the benefit of whoever might be listening—or watching.
Of course—the forms must be observed, especially in London, where no one except the Sheridans knew of their prior acquaintance. Sophie assumed the polite expression of one encountering a complete stranger while Amy performed the necessary honors.
Robin bowed over her hand, clasping her gloved fingers lightly in his own. “Enchanted to meet you, Miss Tresilian.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Pendarvis.” Sophie tried not to sound as breathless as she felt. “I am—happy to see you in attendance tonight.”
His eyes, as deeply blue as an evening sky, met hers. “I gave my word that I would be here. And I mean to keep my promises.”
The unspoken message in his words took her breath away. Lost for words herself, she let her hand linger in his and feasted her eyes on the face she’d loved since she was seventeen.
Amy looked from one to the other with an air of satisfaction. “Well, then, it looks as if my work here is done,” she observed. “Thomas, my love, I am famished. Shall we take some supper now?”
“Assuredly.” Sheridan offered his arm to his wife. “You might want to consider doing likewise,” he advised Robin and Sophie over his shoulder. “Music may be the food of love, but I’ve found that lobster salad and champagne seldom come amiss.”
Robin smiled at his host. “Duly noted, Mr. Sheridan.”
“We’ll be along shortly,” Sophie added, knowing that discretion was still required of both of them. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice as she turned back to Robin. “I wanted to find you sooner, but there were all these other guests, and then—”
“Lady Charlotte Daventry,” he supplied. “So I saw—no further explanation is needed.”
“You know her?”
Robin shrugged a shoulder. “Only by sight. She and her husband stayed at the hotel for a few days at Easter. They’re a difficult pair to overlook, especially Mr. Daventry. According to Praed, he had the housemaids all in a flutter—they thought him ‘ever so handsome.’”
“To each her own,” Sophie said absently, still studying the face she much preferred.
“And they found her a touch high-handed, so they were relieved she kept mainly to herself during their stay. Sophie,” his tone shifted abruptly, “what you sang. That last song. Did you—did you mean… what I hoped you meant?”
Sophie swallowed. But the time for prevarication was over. “Every word.”
Robin’s breath caught, his eyes blazing a brilliant electric blue. The air between them was electric too, crackling with suppressed longing and desire. He leaned toward her across the short distance that separated them, and Sophie felt herself swaying toward him as well.
Only to pull back as her stomach chose just that moment to complain about how hollow it was. She blushed and saw the heat in Robin’s eyes bank down to an amused warmth.
Ruefully, Sophie pressed a hand to her midriff. “My dear life—how embarrassing!”
Robin smiled, an easy, unguarded smile that recalled the earliest days of their friendship. “I’d call it normal myself—reassuringly so. And perhaps it’s just as well,” he continued, with a meaningful tilt of his head. “We’re still in the public eye, after all.”
Sophie glanced around at once and saw with a touch of dismay that several people were eyeing her and Robin with open curiosity. Time to don the masks again.
Prompted by a similar instinct, Robin held out his arm. “Come, Miss Tresilian. Let us go and try the lobster salad our host recommended. Besides, it will be like old times,” he added in a lower voice, “feeding you after a performance.”
Smiling, Sophie took his arm and they proceeded sedately toward the refreshment table.
***
They arranged their movements over the next hour like the steps of an elaborate dance. He stayed by her as they supped on lobster salad and champagne, along with other delicacies, then tactfully withdrew as more guests approached to speak to her and praise her performance.
Sophie, for her part, acted the consummate professional: gracious but humble, and showing no sign of wanting to be other than where she was—although Robin knew she longed as much as he for the moment when they could be alone together. Finally, he saw her approach Amy and murmur something that brought a knowing smile to the other woman’s face. Amy had whispered a reply that made Sophie blush, and then had tur
ned to catch Robin’s eye and give him a meaningful nod. The next part of their plan had been set in motion.
Separate, discreet exits: they’d worked out the details over supper. Robin went first—as one guest among many, his departure would scarcely be noticed. Whereas a fair number of eyes would be on Sophie when she left. People would be more likely to remember who followed her than who preceded her.
Now he waited in the Sheridans’ brougham, shifting restlessly on the well-padded seats. Time passed—perhaps ten minutes, which felt like ten years—and then the door was opening and a footman was handing Sophie into the carriage. She settled next to him on the seat, in a whisper of silk, a drift of scent. He could feel her warmth, hear the quickened rhythm of her breathing, as the brougham pulled away from the curb.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Back to my house… eventually.”
He raised his brows at the deceptively demure note in her voice. “Eventually?”
“Curzon Street, by way of Hyde Park.” He glimpsed a flash of her dimples in the shadowed interior. “Amy suggested… taking the long way round.”
So that, in all likelihood, was what their hostess had whispered to Sophie before. Robin exhaled. “I’m grateful that she appears to be on our side. Your side, at any rate.”
“So am I. But I thought she and Thomas received you cordially enough?”
“They did.” Although Sheridan had been more guarded than his wife, more openly protective of Sophie, which Robin could appreciate. “They love you like a sister.”
“I love them too.” He heard the smile in her voice.
They lapsed into silence as the carriage neared Marble Arch, its massive bulk ghost-pale in the moonlight, then turned left onto Bayswater Road to begin its circuit of Hyde Park.
The whole scenario felt increasingly unreal to Robin. But here was Sophie beside him, riding with him in a carriage… his dream of a second chance suddenly a reality. Thank God for that—and for her. He hadn’t dared to hope, not until the encore.
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, / That you lov’d me still the same …
Even now, he could scarcely believe this was real. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he reached for her hand—and felt her fingers curl around his with surprising strength.
Pamela Sherwood Page 20
