For All Eternity

by Heather Cullman

  Apparently her voice reflected her distress, for Miss Stewart was by her side in a twinkling. Ducking her head to peer at her face, she murmured, “Why, you’re crying. Whatever is wrong?”

  So kind, so very compassionate did she look, that Sophie dropped the hat and threw herself into her embrace, weeping in earnest.

  “There, there, now, dear,” the lady’s maid crooned, patting her heaving back. “Nothing can be so bad as all that.”

  “B-but it is, w-worse even,” she sobbed.

  The other woman sighed. “Well, it shan’t do any good weeping about it. Indeed, you shall just make yourself ill, which will only make matters worse.” She gave Sophie’s back several more pats. “My suggestion is that you calm down and tell me what is wrong. Who knows? Perhaps I can help. Even if I can’t, it might make you feel better to talk about your troubles.”

  Sophie continued to cling to her, considering her suggestion. If anyone would listen and not pass judgment, it was Miss Stewart. She was also one of the few people she could trust to be discreet. Thus she raised her head to meet the other woman’s gaze and whispered, “I think I murdered Lord Lyndhurst.”

  Rather than look shocked, as she expected, Miss Stewart merely frowned. “Murdered him?” She shook her head, visibly perplexed. “Whatever are you talking about? His lordship isn’t dead. I saw him myself not ten minutes ago.”

  “Well, he may not be dead yet, but he probably shall be before morning. Oh, Miss Stewart! I didn’t mean to poison him, truly I didn’t! I only wanted to make certain that he had a sweet with his luncheon.”

  The lady’s maid stared at her blankly for several moments, then a look of dawning rose on her face. “Are you saying that it was you who put the tarts on his lordship’s tray?”

  Sophie nodded, wishing that someone would shoot her and put her out of her misery. Her voice broken with grief, she croaked, “I saw that he didn’t have a sweet on his tray when I fetched her ladyship’s luncheon, s-so I gave him one tart from each of the other trays. I thought, well — ” she sniffled and shook her head ” — his lordship has been so kind to me that I simply couldn’t bear the thought of him not having a sweet. He does so love his fruit. Instead I killed him.” That last was uttered on a moan.

  “Oh, Sophie. You silly, silly, child,” Miss Stewart exclaimed, giving her a hug. “You haven’t killed him. Indeed, he shall be up and about tomorrow … the day after at the latest. This sort of thing has happened before, and he always survives.”

  “But I feel so wretched. I — “

  “Hush, now,” the other woman interjected, hugging her again. “You had no way of knowing that pineapple makes him ill. What you did, you did out of kindness. I’m certain that her ladyship will agree when you tell her.”

  “Tell … her ladyship?” Sophie echoed in alarm.

  Miss Stewart nodded. “Of course you must tell her. Our poor mistress wonders how those tarts came to be on her son’s tray, and worries about a reoccurrence of the mishap. If you tell her exactly what you told me and promise not to repeat the mistake, you shall take an enormous load off her mind. You will also ease your own by getting it off your conscience.”

  Sophie returned her companion’s bespectacled gaze, pondering her words. Then she reluctantly nodded.

  “Yes, I suppose I must confess, though where I shall find the courage, I cannot say.”

  “I suspect that you will find it the same place you found the courage to admit fault in the Mayhew disaster.” Picking up the daisy cap Sophie had dropped, she directed, “Now, off to bed with you. You can finish — ” she glanced into the clothespress ” — well, whatever it is you’re doing with the hats in the morning.”

  Though Sophie was far from tired, she obeyed.

  Like the afternoon before it, the night proved endless. Sleepless with anxiety over her coming confession, she tossed and turned until Pansy was forced to seek her rest in Fancy’s bed. By morning she was so exhausted from fretting that she could barely drag herself from bed. But drag she did, and the first place she dragged was to her ladyship’s rooms. Best to get the dreaded interview over as soon as possible.

  Once there she was greeted at the door by Miss Stewart, who informed her that her ladyship had just gone to bed after a night of tending Nicholas, and wasn’t to be disturbed until later. Disappointed yet at the same time relieved, Sophie wandered downstairs for breakfast, then passed the day helping Pansy mend the family linen. It wasn’t until evening that she again mustered the courage to face the marchioness.

  But her ladyship wasn’t in her rooms, she had gone to visit Nicholas. Determined not to spend another night in torment, she resumed her task of arranging hats and awaited her mistress’s return. She had just reached the white hat r’s — red ribbon and rose ruching respectively — when she heard the bedchamber door open. Her stomach aflutter, she reluctantly went into the adjoining room.

  It was Lady Beresford, at last. When she caught sight of Sophie, she smiled and exclaimed, “Why, Sophie. I didn’t expect to find you here. Why ever aren’t you downstairs having your dinner?”

  Her courage fleeing like rats before a cat, she blurted out, “I need to speak with you, my lady.”

  “Surely it is something that can wait until after you have dined? A young gel like you needs nourishment to keep up her strength.”

  Sophie shook her head, feeling all the worse at her ladyship’s fond tone. “If I wait until later, I most probably shan’t have the courage to say what I must.”

  The marchioness frowned, but not unkindly. “As you wish, but you must promise to seek nourishment and rest afterward. You look terribly pale and tired this evening.”

  “I am tired,” she admitted miserably. “I was awake all night worrying about your son and stewing about what I must tell you.”

  “But of course you were worried about him,” her ladyship muttered beneath her breath.

  Sophie creased her brow at her odd response, but didn’t ponder its meaning. She was far too busy searching for a way to begin her confession. Finally deciding on directness, she bowed her head and said, “It was I who put the tarts on Lord Lyndhurst’s tray.”

  “Indeed?” The word was uttered softly and without the slightest inflection.

  She nodded, swallowing the growing lump in her throat as she did so. “I knew nothing of his problem with pineapple. Truly I didn’t. I simply saw that there was no sweet on his luncheon tray and took it upon myself to remedy the situation. I know how he loves fruit, so I thought he would enjoy the tarts.”

  When her ladyship didn’t immediately reply, she hastened to add, “I know it isn’t enough to say that I’m sorry, but I am. Wretchedly so. When I think of how ill I made poor Nic — uh — Lord Lyndhurst, I-I — ” Her voice faltered, strangled by her remorse.

  As she struggled to regain her speech, she heard the rustle of silk, then felt her ladyship’s hand on her shoulder. “Sophie — “

  “Please forgive me, my lady,” she whispered, her voice raw and bleeding with emotion. “I speak the truth when I say that I would sooner hurt myself than you or your family. You have all been so kind to me and — and — ” Again her voice failed her, this time overpowered by a wrenching sob. Before she knew what was happening, tears spilled forth and she shattered beneath the weight of her anguish.

  “Sophie. Look at me,” her ladyship softly commanded, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

  When she didn’t obey, too caught up in her heartache to do so, the woman clasped her chin and lifted her face for her. Forcing her to meet her gaze, she said, “I understand that what happened was an unfortunate mistake, and of course I forgive you. Anyone can see that you are genuinely sorry. However, it isn’t my forgiveness you should be seeking, but my son’s. It is he who suffered from your mistake.”

  Sophie froze, taken aback by her suggestion. After a beat she smiled. “There is nothing I would rather do than apologize to his lordship,” she fervently whispered, and it was true. There was nothing she wanted
more than to see Nicholas and assure herself that he was truly all right.

  “Well, in that instance, you shall find him in the forcing house.”

  “The forcing house?” Sophie echoed in dismay. She had assumed that she would meet him somewhere in the manor, somewhere less private than the forcing house was likely to be at this hour.

  The marchioness nodded. “He was restless from sleeping the day away and insisted on checking on a new strawberry plant he is cultivating.”

  Sophie smiled weakly and returned her nod, though, in truth, she had no intention of going to him. She dare not be alone with him. She simply hadn’t the strength to resist her desire for him.

  As if sensing her reluctance, her ladyship said, “It is dark outside. Would you like me to send John with you?”

  John? Perfect! Nothing was likely to happen with the footman present. Relieved, Sophie looked at her mistress to accept.

  The woman stared at her again in that queer, unsettling way.

  “Why don’t I wait for you here?” John said, halting in the center of the brightly lit palm court.

  Sophie tightened her grip on his arm, alarmed by his suggestion. “No … please. Don’t make me face him alone.”

  The footman smiled. “What is this? A case of the nerves?”

  “Yes,” she admitted quietly.

  He patted the hand on his arm. “I can assure you, my dear, that there is no need for it. His lordship is a most kind and understanding man. I am certain that he will forgive you for putting those tarts on his tray once you explain your reasons.”

  “I-I suppose you are right,” she reluctantly admitted. Everyone in the household knew Nicholas to be of a fair nature, thus making it impossible for her to argue John’s logic.

  “Of course I’m right. Just as I’m right in saying that it’s best to get these things over quickly.” Nodding his encouragement, he pulled his arm from her grasp and nudged her toward the pavilions.

  “But I-I — ” she sputtered, scrambling for a new excuse to keep him by her side. Suddenly remembering Nicholas’s tale of being lost among the mangosteen trees, she finished, “As much as it shames me to admit it, it isn’t fear of his lordship that makes me wish your company, but my dreadful sense of direction. I’m afraid that I shall become hopelessly lost in here while searching for him, and never find my way out again.”

  The footman chuckled. “Well, as far as I know, no one has ever become permanently lost in here. However, since I do not wish you to be the first, I shall naturally escort you.” He offered her his arm again. “Shall we?” Almost weak with relief, she took it. With John by her side, she had only to apologize to Nicholas and accept his forgiveness, and that would be that. There would be no seductive sense of intimacy between them, no sizzle of excitement in the air, and not a single word or look to inflame their burgeoning desire. There would be nothing but safe formality.

  As they made their way through pavilion after fragrant pavilion, her relief firmed into confidence …

  Confidence that splintered the instant she spied Nicholas. So pale yet heartbreakingly handsome did he look as he examined the fruit on a small bush, that she was forced to grip John’s arm with both hands to keep herself from running to him and throwing herself into his embrace.

  “John. Sophie,” he greeted, looking up with a smile.

  Oh, heavens! His dimples showed, his lovely, tempting dimples. Unbidden, the memory of the feel of his cheek, so warm and smooth beneath her lips as she kissed his scar, sprang to mind, and she was possessed by a sudden, almost irresistible urge to explore those dimples in a like manner. Just the thought of doing so made her knees go weak with pleasure.

  “My lord.” John bowed as best he could with her attached to his arm. “Please pardon our intrusion, but Miss Barton has a matter she wishes to discuss with you.”

  “Does she indeed?” Nicholas’s gaze was on her face now, his dark eyes glowing with sensual fire as they slowly bore into hers. Their impact was instantaneous, and she gasped aloud as a salvo of heat exploded within her. Holding her helpless captive with his gaze, he murmured, “You may leave us, John.”

  Leave them? Her mind screamed in protest, while her heart cried yes. As for her mouth, it became caught betwixt the battle of nays and yeahs, and simply refused to work.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Sophie felt a tug on her clutching hands as John bowed. That tug broke the spell of Nicholas’s gaze and promptly restored her senses. With the return of her senses came her panic.

  Apparently she looked as frightened as she felt, for John smiled gently and said, “Everything will be fine, child. I promise.” A reassuring pat on the cheek. “I shall wait for you in the palm court to escort you back to the house.”

  “No need to wait,” Nicholas interjected. “I will see to Miss Barton.”

  “No!” she gasped, before she could stop herself. Instantly regaining herself, she hastily added, “You are exceedingly kind, my lord, but I do not wish to trouble you.”

  “It is no trouble, I assure you,” he countered, a faint frown creasing his brow. “I was about to return to the manor when you appeared.”

  “Very good, my lord.” John bowed again, giving the arm she clasped a meaningful tug in the process.

  Seeing no other choice, she released it.

  Within moments he was gone.

  There followed a long, tense silence during which she looked everywhere but at Nicholas. Finally he sighed and said, “I believe you wish to speak with me?” His voice was utterly bland, as if they spoke in the presence of his mother.

  Surprised, she glanced at his face. It was as neutral as his voice. So neutral, in fact, that she wondered if she had imagined the heat in his gaze. Had it, perhaps, been nothing but a wishful illusion created by her infatuation for him?

  She was certain that such was the case in the next moment when he frowned and snapped, “Well?”

  Rather than be relieved by his lack of desire, Sophie felt strangely bereft. Almost crushed. Could it be that their kiss had meant nothing to him after all? Devastated by that possibility, she bowed her head and said, “I — I put the tarts on your tray.” Her voice quivered as if she were on the verge of tears, which she was.

  “Indeed?”

  She nodded, a tear seeping from the corner of her eye as she did so. “They looked so lovely, and well, I know how you love fruit. I didn’t know that — ” a broken sob escaped her ” — that the pineapple would make you ill.”

  “Sophie.” The word was uttered softly, edged with …

  Tenderness? She sniffled. Blasted imagination.

  She heard the scrape of his leather mules against the floor as he moved nearer, then he commanded, “Look at me, Sophie.” When she didn’t obey, he added, “Please?”

  There was something in his voice as he whispered that last word, a queer huskiness, that made her do as he asked. The instant her tear-blurred gaze touched his face, he smiled and said, “Thank you for the tarts.”

  Her eyes widened at his unexpected response, allowing several more tears to escape. “But — but, I don’t understand,” she choked out, wondering if he could be sicker than anyone realized. “Everyone said that the tarts made you terribly ill.”

  “They did.”

  “Then, why are you thanking me?” It was all she could do not to step forward and lay her hand on his cheek. He had to be fevered to be saying such things.

  “I’m thanking you because you care enough about me to want to please me. That was the reason you gave me the tarts, wasn’t it?” The warmth was back in his eyes.

  She nodded, not quite certain what to make of that warmth. Was it due to fever or fondness?

  His smile broadened, again displaying his dimples. “Ah. And here I have been thinking that you no longer like me.”

  “What?” Fever. It had to be fever. “Whatever would put such a notion in your head?”

  “It could have something to do with the way you run the other direction ev
ery time you see me. I was beginning to think that I had either offended or repulsed you with my kisses.”

  “What!” She practically shouted the word in her surprise. After the way she had responded to him, how could he possibly believe such a thing? “You most certainly didn’t offend me.”

  His smile faltered a bit. “I see. Then, I repulsed you.” “Of course not.” Frowning, she moved toward him. “Are you quite sure that you have fully recovered from the pineapple?” She laid her hand against his scarred cheek. It felt cool.

  “The pineapple, yes. Your kisses, no. Don’t you know what your kisses do to me?” he whispered, again capturing her gaze with his.

  So intense, so naked with tender emotion were his eyes, that the fragile wall of her resistance crumbled and she softly confessed, “Yes. I do know, because they do the same thing to me. In truth, it frightens me how much I desire you.”

  “My sweet, innocent, Sophie,” he murmured, pulling her into his embrace. “Desire is to be savored, not feared,”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t help being a bit afraid. These feelings are so new … so strange,” she replied, resting her chin on his chest to continue staring into his expressive eyes.

  Smiling tenderly, he lowered his face and rested his forehead against hers. Returning her adoring gaze in kind, he whispered, “Don’t you know that I would never hurt you?”

  “Yes.” She more sighed than uttered the word.

  “Then, trust me.”

  “I do.” And it was true, she did trust him. He was a man of honor, a true gentleman. As such, he was no more likely to use a woman for a casual game of daisies than the pope. Emboldened by her faith, she stood on her tiptoes and coiled her arms around his neck, declaring, “I not only trust you, Nicholas Somerville, I love you.” With that, she pressed her mouth to his.

  He groaned once, then returned her kiss, his lips first caressing, then nibbling, now molding and shaping hers. The resulting sensation made her tingle all over, and she moaned in fevered response.

  He, too, moaned and pulled her nearer. Settling his mouth more firmly on hers, he slid his tongue between her lips and lightly traced their inner shape. Once, twice, then again and again, he traced them, delving deeper with every pass. At last his tongue slipped all the way into her mouth and twined with hers.