“Our mutual grudge notwithstanding, Nankivell and I generally try to avoid each other, so I can’t begin to guess how Lady Nankivell feels about her husband. But according to recent rumor, she’s left him—for now.” Robin’s mouth quirked. “I don’t know whether Nankivell’s affair with Nathalie predates this separation, and I don’t much care. It’s possible Lady Nankivell left when she found out about it. If so, I hope she still has some control over her fortune. I’d hate to think how much of his wife’s money Nankivell spent on that diamond necklace for mine.”
Sophie stared at him, aghast. “The necklace? The one in your dream?”
His eyes were winter-cold, his mouth crooked in a mirthless half smile. “She was wearing it when I caught them together. The necklace—and nothing else.”
“Oh.” The single appalled syllable was all Sophie could manage at that. She wished fervently for a cup of tea herself—or a glass of something considerably stronger.
“Nankivell’s idea. From what little I heard before interrupting them, he enjoys seeing his mistresses wearing his gifts during—intimacy. It satisfies his sense of proprietorship.” Robin’s mouth twisted wryly. “Adding my wife to their number was particularly gratifying for him.”
Sophie shuddered. “Hateful man.”
Robin shrugged. “He’s not worth hating—not really. As far as I’m concerned, he’s welcome to Nathalie’s favors, and I don’t doubt she was a willing participant. Possibly even the instigator. The irony is that in seeking to serve me another ill turn, he actually handed me the key to my cage. Doubtless it would gall him if he knew.”
“And Nathalie herself? Do you think she loves him?”
“I doubt it. More likely it was sport for her—taking another lover, right under my nose and under my roof this time.” Robin’s voice hardened. “Well, she can have all the lovers she wants now, and I’ll even grant her an annuity toward a separate household, but I’m done with this sham of a marriage. I won’t live like this any longer!”
He broke off then, struggling to contain his anger—anger that was all the more intense for being held on such a tight rein these last four years, Sophie realized. She covered his hand with her own, and after a moment, he turned his hand palm up and twined their fingers together.
“I want an end to this,” he said more calmly. “An end to bitterness and resentment, mine and hers. This arrangement benefits no one anymore, not even Sara.” His eyes, clear unclouded blue, met Sophie’s. “And I want a fresh start with the woman I love.”
“You have it.” She drew their linked hands up to her lips and kissed his fingers. “And you have me. The rest will come in time, Robin. We’ll simply wait it out, together.”
“Together,” he agreed, his mouth softening into a genuine smile this time. “That’s becoming one of my favorite words.”
“Mine too.” She smiled back. “Now, let me get breakfast ready, and then we can take on the world. Or go for a walk in the woods, if you prefer.”
He released her hand. “The woods, I think. The world can wait a few more days.”
“So it can,” Sophie agreed, sobered afresh by the reminder of how short this respite was.
So, make the most of it. Pushing back her chair, she asked brightly, “Bacon or fried ham with the eggs?”
***
Four days, one for each year they’d spent apart. That was how Sophie came to think of it afterward. Four days in which they lived only for love and each other. Rising when they chose, fixing themselves a leisurely breakfast in the cottage kitchen. Walks in the woods, or down to Wyldean itself, a charming village made up of yellow stone buildings, like the manor and the cottage. And talking about everything under the sun, from weighty subjects like politics and the state of the world to the more intimate and personal matters that concerned only themselves.
The staff at Wyldean Hall seemed to have a sixth sense about when to visit the cottage. Or perhaps they were merely respecting the tenant’s expressed wish for privacy. In any case, Sophie and Robin would return from their rambles to find that the rooms had been cleaned, the beds freshly made up, and more food delivered in their absence, but no sign of any person in sight. It was like living in a fairy tale, Sophie told Robin, in which one was waited on by elves or invisible servants.
“And their invisibility must be respected,” she added lightly, “or the enchantment ends, and everything will vanish in a clap of thunder.”
“This enchantment will last, I promise you,” Robin said, and kissed her until fairy tales were the furthest thing from her mind.
Sometimes Robin played the upright piano in the parlor. He’d acquired a measure of competence that surprised her. “Music was a way of keeping in touch with you,” he explained. “And Sara is learning to play now, herself.”
And Sophie would sing—not opera, but the less demanding, though still beautiful, songs she’d learned as a girl. Some of them he knew as well, and they would sing together, her soprano mixing with his passable baritone.
There were books in the parlor. Not many, to be sure, but a pleasant enough collection of novels, poetry, and even a few volumes of history. Occasionally they read aloud to each other, although Robin teased her for her choice of reading material on the train. “I never imagined you’d acquire a taste for sensation novels!”
“Detective novels,” she corrected him. “Much more respectable, and some of them are quite ingenious too. In any case, I needed something to entertain myself with during my travels. David introduced me to Lewis Wells’s work when we last toured together. Apparently he’s well-acquainted with the author.” She fingered the binding of her book. “Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is more brilliant, but Mr. Wells’s detective is more human, which I rather like. Mind you, my first preference is for a good romance—with a happy ending, of course.”
Robin’s eyes warmed. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said, drawing her closer to him on the sofa.
One afternoon, surprised by a rainstorm while out walking, they hurried back to the cottage and built up a fire to drive away the chill, curling up together on the hearth rug to watch the cheerful blaze.
Warm and secure in Robin’s encircling arms, Sophie said, “Tell me about your children.”
He pulled back a little, looked searchingly at her. “Do you truly want to know?”
Sophie smiled her reassurance. “Why wouldn’t I? Sara is your daughter, and in the eyes of the world, Cyril was your son. More important, he was the son of your heart, and I can tell that you grieved—and still grieve—for him.”
“Thank you.” Robin’s expression eased, though she could see the sorrow in his eyes.
After a while, he said, “The doctor told me we were always living on borrowed time with Cyril. But he had so much love to give, perhaps because he sensed he’d so little time to give it. I won’t say he was an angel—he had bad days, when he was peevish and hard to please, and I know he’d have given much to be strong and active, like James and Aurelia’s son.”
A wistful smile tugged at his mouth. “But they managed to be friends just the same. Whenever Jared came to visit, he brought toys and books to share. Cyril was as bright as a button, and he loved to be read to. Sara would sit beside him with her books and try to share her lessons with him.”
“So they were close.”
“Very much so—just as a brother and sister should be. And they enjoyed many of the same things, like the sea.” Robin’s eyes had gone dreamy, even distant. “Sometimes I would wrap Cyril in blankets, put him and Sara in the carriage, and drive down to the beach. Sara would look for shells, and Cyril would just sit and watch the water, the waves coming in and out. And the boats—he always dreamed of going to sea. Last summer I managed to take him and Sara aboard James’s new yacht a time or two, just for a gentle sail round the harbor.”
“They must have loved that.”
“They did. And no mal de mer, either,” Robin said, with a hint of pride in his voice. “Cyril turned out t
o be a natural sailor. Sara was a little queasy at first, but she was fine once she got her sea legs.”
Where had Nathalie been in this? Sophie wondered. Had she accompanied Robin and the children on their outings? For that matter, how involved had she been in her children’s lives from day to day? The questions crowded on her tongue, but she swallowed them back, not wanting to upset Robin; Nathalie was already a sore subject for him.
He was still speaking, his thoughts, like his gaze, a million miles away. “By autumn, he’d grown too frail for such outings, so I bought some watercolors of the ocean and hung them in the nursery, where he could see them from his bed. Sara brought him shells—scallops and whelks. And James and Aurelia gave him a conch for his fourth birthday, so he could hear the sea.
“On his last night… he fell asleep listening to it.”
Robin’s voice caught. Sophie turned and wrapped her arms around him, drawing his head down to her shoulder. He shuddered once, then stilled, but she could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he was fighting back tears.
Four years ago, she’d resented Nathalie bitterly, and she’d resented the idea of those children, links between Robin and his estranged wife that could not be severed. And yet, at the last, she had managed not to resent those children themselves. Hearing now of Robin’s love for them, she could only be glad that they’d had the father they deserved.
He raised his head at last, thrust a hand across his eyes. “Forgive me, I still—”
“Don’t apologize,” Sophie broke in vehemently. “Don’t ever apologize for loving that little boy! I think you made all the difference in his life, and I’m glad, truly glad, that you had each other.”
Robin leaned his forehead against hers. “I am glad it was peaceful for him at the end. That he didn’t suffer. And when I think of him now, I like to imagine him as the man he might have become, if fate were kinder. Strong, hearty, sailing the seven seas…” He exhaled slowly. “Sara was devastated, even though we tried to warn her about Cyril’s condition. How can you truly explain death to a seven-year-old?”
“A simple child, / That lightly draws its breath, / And feels its life in every limb, / What should it know of death?” Sophie quoted, stroking his cheek. “She must miss him terribly.”
“She does. I think she’s the one who mothered him, more than Nathalie ever did. She hasn’t been sleeping well since he was lost. She’s a grave little thing, my Sara, and she’s had to grow up far too fast. I did not want her exposed to the friction between Nathalie and myself, not after everything else she has endured.” Robin looked up, more composed now. “I’m hoping that her stay at Pentreath will help her heal. James and Aurelia have an excellent nursemaid who was willing to look after Sara along with the other two. And Sara enjoys playing with Jared, and Aurelia lets her help with baby Alexandra sometimes.”
“I am so glad you’ve become such good friends with James and Aurelia.”
“So am I. Harry and I still consider ourselves friends, but things were strained between us for a while after you left Cornwall.”
“I know.” Sophie’s mother had written of the ongoing tension between Harry and Robin. Judging from more recent letters, Sophie had inferred that they were on better terms nowadays, but perhaps more guarded with each other than they’d formerly been. “Well, I hope you can patch them up now. Especially since you’re going to be making an honest woman of me at last.”
Robin huffed a small laugh. “Harry would probably say it was the other way round—you’d be making an honest man of me. Emphasis on the word ‘honest.’”
“Hush, that’s in the past now,” Sophie reproved. “And no one can deny that you’ve conducted yourself openly and honestly since Nathalie returned.”
“Thank you. It hasn’t been easy, but I have tried to balance honesty with discretion—there’s no benefit to airing our dirty linen before the county.” His face grew somber. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve asked James and Aurelia not to tell Sara about the divorce. Such news is best coming from a father. And I don’t wholly abandon hope that Nathalie and I can come to some sort of—arrangement.”
Given what she’d heard, Sophie had her doubts, but she kept them to herself.
Robin sighed. “I don’t hate her, Sophie. Not even now. Although there were times in the last four years… but she’s Sara’s mother, and she grieved for Cyril, in her way. It was a sorrow we shared, at least for a little while. I even thought we could…” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Go on,” Sophie prompted.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I wondered if we could—not reconcile, exactly, that was never in the cards—but find a way to be kinder to each other. I’d thought perhaps we might travel up to Yorkshire as a family, have Sara meet my mother’s kin. They’d love her—and they’d have been courteous to Nathalie, if only for my sake. However… other things came to light before I could even make the suggestion.”
The affair with Nankivell, Sophie translated without difficulty.
Robin’s mouth twisted in a wry half smile. “So, that was that—the end of the last illusion. Or simply the end, if you prefer.” He sighed again. “I’ve heard it said that the opposite of love isn’t hate but indifference. And that is mostly what I’ve felt for Nathalie these last four years. Hardly an incentive to remain in a marriage, even one such as ours. We both deserve better.”
Sophie wondered if Nathalie would have preferred Robin’s hate to his indifference, but that was perhaps too dark an insight to share. “Well, if you do not hate her, then I can manage not to hate her too,” she replied instead. “Life is too short for that.”
Robin’s arms tightened around her. “No looking back?”
“No looking back,” Sophie agreed, nestling her head on his shoulder.
***
Four… three… two… one. The days flew past like birds on the wing. Robin wished he could catch them all in their flight, to live them over again.
And now it was their last night in this refuge. Tomorrow loomed large for them both: the return to London lay ahead… and so did their inevitable parting. Even knowing the latter was temporary did not ease the ache in their hearts.
But at my back I always hear, / Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near…
Slim and pliant as a willow, she rose over him in the bed. “Let me make love to you, dear heart.” Her smile was as enchanting as Circe’s and as old as Eve’s. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”
Intrigued, Robin acquiesced, then watched, marveling, as she straddled him, one knee on either side of his hips. In the lamplight, she seemed lit from within, her ivory skin luminous as the pearls he’d given her, her dark hair showing glints of chestnut and copper as it rippled over her bare shoulders. No erotic fantasy in which he’d ever indulged could match the reality of her.
Now she curled her hand about his rearing shaft, stroking up and down its length. Even through the condom, he felt the heat of her palm, and his loins ached with need. It took all his restraint not to seize her by the waist and tumble her onto the mattress beneath him. Instead, he reached up to stroke the undersides of her breasts, brush the rose-brown nipples until they hardened into stiff little peaks.
Sophie closed her eyes, gave a pleased little hum low in her throat. “Patience, my love,” she murmured, then angling her hips, she lowered herself onto him by exquisitely slow degrees. Inch by inch, until all his length was tightly sheathed in moist feminine heat.
Robin sucked in air as arousal pulsed through him. “My God, Sophie…”
But she was nowhere near finished with him. Instead, she began to move, raising and lowering herself repeatedly, building up a delicious friction that spread outward from their joined bodies like ripples in a pond. Stifling a groan of impatience, Robin grasped her hips and urged her onward, faster and faster, until they reached the peak, the world flashing white around them.
She climaxed first, head flung back, gasping, triggering his release seconds later. They c
ried out together—and then she was falling, toppling like a felled tree, but he was there to catch her and enfold her close.
Shuddering, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his damp face in her hair. Her body still rippled and shook in the grip of her orgasm. Fascinated, he pulled back to watch her face, glowing and transfigured in its ecstasy. Full of surprises, his Sophie. Much as he’d adored the girl, he found himself continually challenged and delighted by the woman. A lifetime might not be enough to uncover all her mysteries, but he meant to have the time of his life exploring them.
Afterward, they lay entwined and talked of this and that, as lovers will. Inevitably, the subject of tomorrow’s journey arose. They’d already been down to the village to hire a carriage that would take them to the railway station. If all went as it should, they would arrive in London by late morning. Robin could collect the papers from his solicitor and catch an afternoon train to Cornwall—a far longer journey, but he would reach home by nightfall.
“You could stay here at the cottage, you know, instead of going to London,” Robin suggested. “You do have it until the end of the week, at least.”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t want us to part a moment before we must. And it will be too lonely without you.” She smiled tremulously. “All the memories we’ve made here! The cottage will surely be haunted by them.”
“Ah, if these walls could talk.” Robin played with a curling lock of her hair. “So, where shall you go instead?”
“Well, I shan’t stay long in London, not after telling everyone who wished to engage me that I was going on holiday. Perhaps,” she ventured, “I might go and visit Cecily in Veryan? That way I would still be in Cornwall, but far enough away not to cause problems while you and Nathalie are discussing the divorce.”
His heart leapt at the thought of her being in the same county, even if propriety dictated that they keep apart for now. “I would be very glad to have you even that close. But only if you are willing to make the move.”
Pamela Sherwood Page 24
