Her mind stuttered to a stop. The bed… the one she and Robin would share tonight, as lovers, for the very first time. Anticipation quickened her pulse and sent a rush of heat flooding through her body—to be with him at last, the way she’d dreamed of for so long.
And yet… there was apprehension mixed in with the eagerness too. These last four years had changed them both, especially her: she was no longer the untouched innocent whom he had first known. He had accepted or seemed to accept her history, but in the end, would he be disappointed—that he was not her first and only lover?
Sophie pulled herself up sharply. She was being ridiculous—and she needed to stop borrowing trouble. In all their dealings, Robin had never said anything to her that he didn’t mean. So if he said her past relations with other men made no difference to him, she should take him at his word.
She took a few deep breaths to steady herself, then looked down into her valise again. And broke into a smile when she saw a fold of pale rose peeking out from under a shirtwaist, recognizing the nightgown she’d bought in Paris, the exact shade of the Maiden’s Blush roses that grew in the garden at Roswarne. The color, however, was the only maidenly thing about it, Sophie thought as she lifted it out. Both the nightgown and its matching robe were made of sheer silk gossamer, shot through with gilt threads.
Her smile grew as she held the nightgown up to the light, which turned it almost translucent. Yes, a garment like this was meant to reveal even more than it concealed—and once it was donned, very little would be left to the imagination, especially if she chose not to wear her combination underneath.
Humming softly, Sophie took out the robe as well and began to unwrap the towel from her body. Perhaps there were some advantages, after all, in not being an untouched innocent.
***
Freshly arrayed in the nightgown and robe, her unbound hair tumbling down her back, she went down to the kitchen to find Robin brewing the tea, his back to her.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” he said, without turning around. “Did you enjoy your bath? I had a bit of a wash myself, and put on a clean shirt. No objection to a cold collation, I trust?”
“None at all. It sounds delightful,” Sophie replied. “Thank you for making dinner.”
“You’re very welcome.” He turned then, and she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen as he took in what she was wearing. For a moment he just stared, heat kindling in his eyes, then the heat mounted to his face as he realized that he was staring. “My God. Sophie.”
She laughed delightedly, did a little turn so that the gossamer skirts floated and shimmered around her. “Do you like it?”
“Like it? Ask me if I have a pulse,” he retorted, smiling. “And I’m heartily glad that I’m the only one to see you in it. I am the only one, aren’t I?” he added, with just a touch of unease.
Sophie smiled back, loving him. “You are. I bought this in Paris, and I’ve worn it only for myself so far.”
And now, for you was the unspoken message, which Robin deciphered without any difficulty. “Then I count myself even more privileged,” he said lightly. “Now, come and have some dinner, before I start thinking of ways to get you out of that very fetching nightdress.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, deliberately provocative. He looked good enough to eat himself, his shirt collar open to expose the column of his throat and a patch of lightly tanned skin, his sleeves rolled back over muscled forearms, his dark hair damp with comb marks but still appealingly mussed.
“First things first. You did say you were famished before,” he pointed out, pulling out a chair for her at the wide kitchen table. “And you wouldn’t want my culinary efforts to go to waste now, would you?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” She seated herself in the chair and let him serve her from the spread he’d put together while she bathed.
He’d done a very creditable job with what he’d found: cold ham and potted chicken, fresh bread and butter, a wedge of cheese, almonds and a bunch of fat purple grapes, and a tin of sweet biscuits. A rather light meal, but after their travels and in this heat, neither desired anything heavier. There had been eggs in the larder, Sophie had noticed earlier, and a flitch of bacon. They could have a more substantial breakfast if they fancied one. There was something deliciously domestic about this interlude, and they found themselves content merely to savor it.
All around them was silence. One could not imagine such silence unless one had lived in a great city like London, where silence was so rare. Only in the hours before dawn was London quiet, and not for long even then.
“More ham?” Robin asked, as he filled Sophie’s teacup again. “Or bread? I can slice more of both, if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve had quite a sufficiency. But I will take a chocolate biscuit—I still enjoy ending my meals with a sweet,” she confessed, smiling.
He passed her the biscuit tin. “A pity there’s no cake to mark the occasion.”
“Occasion?”
“Belated occasion. Your birthday was at Midsummer—a fortnight and odd days ago.”
“Oh.” She felt herself flushing. “I hadn’t thought—I mean, I don’t… oh, dear.”
His eyes were intent on her face. “What’s wrong, my love?”
She shook her head, impatient with herself. “You’ll think it’s silly.”
“Never,” he assured her, covering her hand with his own.
“Well…” Sophie hesitated a moment longer, then said with a wry smile, “It occurred to me, a while ago, that I hadn’t had much luck with birthdays in recent years. Not just because of that night,” she hastened to add, when she saw the shadow cross his face. “But the year before, you and James and Harry were facing those awful slanders, and then there was the year I caught the influenza while on tour and couldn’t speak, much less sing. I suppose it’s made me a touch superstitious. So now—when Midsummer Eve comes round, I tend to celebrate my birthday very quietly. A good dinner and some small indulgence, like a new frock or a night at the theater.”
“Understood.” Robin squeezed her hand. “All the same, I should like to mark the occasion. Perhaps between us, we can exorcise the ghost of Disappointing Birthdays Past?”
She managed to smile. “That sounds like something straight out of Dickens. What did you have in mind?”
“Wait here.” He got up and strode from the kitchen. When he returned, he was carrying a black velvet box that he held out to her, almost diffidently. “I bought these for your nineteenth birthday but never had the chance to give them to you. I hope you can bring yourself to accept them now.” He swallowed before continuing, “And the heart that goes along with them.”
Sophie’s breath caught on a sob when she opened the box and saw the double strand of pearls, gleaming against the black silk like a string of tiny full moons. “Robin…”
“I’m sure that you’ve seen or been offered far grander—” he began.
“These come from you,” she broke in, blinking back tears. “That makes them the grandest of all. Oh, my dear heart, you don’t need to buy my affections, you never have—”
“I know.” He brushed away her tears with a gentle, if slightly unsteady, hand. “And I’m not fool enough to think you can be bought. But I purchased these with you in mind, and it’s time they were given to their rightful owner. If I may?”
She handed him the box, and he lifted the pearls from their silken nest, fastening them about her throat.
“Many happy returns, my love.” His lips brushed her nape as he fastened the clasp, then knelt down by her chair to study his handiwork. “I used to imagine how they’d look against your skin. And I can tell you the sight does not disappoint.”
Sophie fingered them, cool, silken spheres of graduated size. While she could not see the effect without a mirror, she’d always loved the way pearls felt to the touch. “So beautiful. Like moonlight on a string. And you kept them all these years?”
&nb
sp; “In the safe at my bank. I never meant for anyone but you to wear these. My Nereid.”
Pearly treasures. “I’ll cherish them always,” she told him with a tremulous smile.
“My mother once said that pearls go with everything. I’d like to add that they look magnificent with… almost nothing too.” His gaze, now an intense smoky blue, lingered once again on her diaphanous nightgown.
Sophie felt her lips quirk, an imp of mischief taking hold of her. Leaning forward in her chair, she twined her arms about his neck and drew his head down until their lips were nearly touching. “Would you like to see how they look—with nothing at all?”
His kiss, soul-searing and intense, was all the answer she needed.
***
If only this could have been their wedding night, in truth. The night they’d both dreamed of, before that Midsummer Eve when everything had been shattered. A night that would have enshrined him forever as her first, last, and only love.
But then, he already held that distinction, Sophie realized, no matter who else had shared her bed in their years apart. She was no longer a virgin. But her heart beat as rapidly, her breath came as quick and fast, as if she were still that untried girl anticipating their nuptial night.
In the rose-sprigged room, they stole kisses as they undressed, buttons flying apart, shoes and slippers being kicked aside, discarded garments dropping at their feet.
“Sophie.” Naked save for his drawers, Robin set his hands upon her shoulders, gazed down into her eyes. “My dearest love.”
Her nightgown slipped to the floor. His drawers followed seconds later.
Sophie looked down, flushing when she saw the proud jut of his erection. Knowing she was responsible for that sent a fierce triumph surging through her, and she reached forward to touch it, touch him…
He nudged her hand aside, not in repudiation, but because he was holding something in his own hand. “Sophie, this is—”
“I know what it is,” she broke in, recognizing it at once. “Several years ago, on tour, an older soprano took me and some of the other young singers aside and explained about rubber sheaths and Dutch caps.”
“Dutch caps?” Robin echoed, astonished.
“They’re a bit like sheaths, only for women.” Sophie’s cheeks grew warm, but she met his gaze squarely. “As it happens, we’re doubly prepared tonight.”
He shook his head, befuddled. “I cannot believe we’re having this conversation. We couldn’t have four years ago.”
“Yes, we could. Only it would have taken longer, and involved much more blushing.”
A laugh broke from him at that, and the lingering tension shivered apart until there was only desire. Once the condom was in place, Robin drew her into his arms.
“Sophie.” He studied her for a moment—naked save for his gift, gleaming about her throat—before deftly undoing the clasp and dropping the necklace onto the dressing table behind them. “Believe me, love, you need no adornment. Especially tonight.”
His hands slid down from her shoulders to cradle her breasts, then traced a sinuous path over her ribs and belly like an explorer charting the course of a river, or an undiscovered country. License his roving hands and let them go…
Sophie’s skin sang beneath his fingers. She’d known other caresses, by lovers far more experienced, but no other man’s touch inflamed her as his did. No other man had ever sounded the deepest chord within her, rousing a host of emotions she could not begin to name.
A moan of pure pleasure escaped her as his fingers found and parted her seam, began to stroke back and forth over moist folds, lightly at first, then with a deepening pressure that sent shocks of pleasure reverberating through her. Gasping now, she surged forward, her mouth fastening on his, her hands gripping his shoulders convulsively. From their first kiss at the Hall, he’d awakened the woman inside of her. And that woman now responded, matching him touch for touch, kiss for kiss.
Through a haze of pleasure, she registered that his fingers were gone and his hands were clasping her hips, tilting them forward… and then he entered her with a thrust that rocked them both from head to foot and drove a hoarse cry from her throat.
Robin’s eyes flew open, shock and self-reproach blazing across his face in an instant. “Oh, God—Sophie…”
She gulped in a breath, shifted her weight… and let the laughter bubble up, exhilarated and exultant as she relished the feeling of him, hot and hard inside her. Where he was meant to be. Some advantages to no longer being an innocent. “Don’t stop, Robin!”
His expression changed from guilty to wondering. “Sophie—”
“Don’t stop,” she repeated, stroking his face. “And don’t apologize.” She angled her hips, rocked against him provocatively, and heard his breath roughen and catch. “Just—carry on.”
He sagged with relief, but not—fortunately—where it mattered most. Instead, he began to move, slowly and gently at first, then with increasing speed and force. In and out, in and out, plunging deeper with each thrust… Sophie held onto him as her knees trembled beneath her, and fiery pinwheels spun behind her closed eyes. And the sensations between her legs built and built, bearing her aloft like a cresting wave or a choir in full voice…
Then she was falling, tumbling off the edge of the world into Robin’s arms, his cry mingling with hers as their shared climax tore through them. And in that moment, Sophie thought she heard the Lost Chord, transcendent and divine, echoing within the very depths of her being…
When they came to themselves, they were lying entwined upon the carpet, her head pillowed on his chest as it rose and fell with his still-ragged breaths. His heart pounded like a drum—just like hers.
Minutes or years passed before Robin spoke, his voice not quite steady. “My love… are you all right?”
Sophie put all the conviction she felt into her reply. “Much better than that.”
He relaxed. “I’ve pictured this so often over the years. Dreamed of it.”
She kissed his shoulder, tasting the salt on his damp skin. “So have I.”
“I used to imagine making love to you—gently. Tenderly. The way a husband should make love to his new bride.” He huffed a rueful laugh. “I never pictured anything so—immoderate!”
“Disappointed?” Sophie asked, stroking his face.
He shook his head. “Astonished, amazed, but—very far from disappointed. You?”
“Not disappointed at all,” she said staunchly. “Besides, given how long we’ve waited and how much we’ve had to overcome,” still have to overcome, her mind supplied, “perhaps it’s not too surprising that our first time as lovers was like this.”
Robin gave a slow nod, conceding her point. “Perhaps not. All the same, I intend for things to be a bit different next time.”
Sophie stretched luxuriously, savoring the sensation of his lean, hard-muscled frame against her own. “In what way?”
His eyes glinted. “Well, for starters, I insist on our making it over to the bed first!”
Amidst her laughter, he swept her up from the floor and carried her over to that article of furniture, which, on close inspection, proved to be more than satisfactory for their purposes…
Fifteen
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
—Andrew Marvell, “To His Coy Mistress”
Morning broke soft and dove-grey in Oxfordshire. Sophie woke first, and lay listening to the soft trills of birdsong outside the cottage. Nature’s music—one of the loveliest ways to wake up, she thought with a smile of drowsy contentment.
And waking up with a lover made it even sweeter. Raising herself on one elbow, Sophie studied the man still fast asleep beside her: the strong, angular features, the sweep of his lashes, the way his dark hair fell over his brow. There were lines about Robin’s eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there four
years ago, lines attesting to the strain he’d lived with as an unwilling husband. Tolerating his wife’s many lovers, compensating for her neglect of their children, and at the same time, doing his best to run the hotel and make it provide for them all.
Last night had been both consummation and release for them, an unquenchable fire burning away years of hopeless longing, loneliness, and stoic endurance. Her loins still throbbed pleasurably when she remembered their first joining, so fierce, so hungry, so immoderate, to use Robin’s word. Later, at moonrise, he’d made love to her again, slowly this time, with all the tenderness, care, and… moderation of which he was capable. And Sophie had reveled in that second coupling, not just for its sweetness, but for what it revealed about him: that he was still, at heart, the gentle, considerate, chivalrous man with whom she’d fallen in love. Their years apart hadn’t changed him beyond recognition. Nor had Nathalie.
Nathalie… Sophie fretted her lip, suddenly uneasy. She did not want to think about Robin’s wife, not now and not here, the place where their love was to have free rein at last. But sooner or later, the subject would have to be dealt with. Nathalie Pendarvis was not an abstraction, but a person… if not a particularly admirable one.
For so many years, Sophie had thought of the woman—when she could bear to think of her at all—as the wicked witch in a fairy tale. Someone who had calculatedly, maliciously destroyed her happiness and Robin’s by appearing, with children in tow, to stake her claim anew. Perhaps she’d been less than fair. Nathalie might be malicious and calculating, but surely she was human too. Maybe it was desperation as well as greed that had driven her to Cornwall. Desperation not just for herself but for those two young children.
And now, four years later, Nathalie Pendarvis was a wife whose husband did not want her, who wished only to be free of her. And a bereaved mother, who had lost a son and who might have to forfeit custody of her daughter, if she and her estranged husband could not come to terms. Perhaps Sophie erred in giving Nathalie the benefit of the doubt, but it was possible that she was unhappy too, and lashing out in the only way she knew how—by making others as miserable as she. If she could be brought to see there was another way, even for her…
Pamela Sherwood Page 22
