by Sarita Leone
With another small push, she tried in vain to go around him. When would she get it into her head that he didn’t intend to let her go until they had hashed things out?
“Holding women in the street? What has come over you? What on earth are you—” Understanding struck him like a bolt of lightning. She saw me talking to that woman, that Penny Something-Or-Other! That’s what is under her skin! “That’s it—you saw me on the street holding Miss What’s-Her-Name, didn’t you?”
Disgust turned Sophie’s pretty features hard. “‘Miss What’s-Her-Name’? You mean to tell me you don’t even know the poor girl’s name? Why, you’re disgraceful, Colin Randolph. Absolutely despicable!”
Forgetting a name was no sin. And any man, even one as taken with a woman as he was with Sophie, had his limits. The vehement disapproval being heaped on his head pushed Colin to his.
Leaning so close he could smell the lavender scent she used to rinse her hair, Colin growled, “Name-calling doesn’t suit you. And it’s not at all attractive, either.”
“You’re just angry because you were caught out with your red-headed companion,” she shot back. Then, a throaty growl of her own turning her voice husky with emotion, she added, “You have quite a penchant for women with astonishing hair, don’t you? Yes, you’ve got a real eye for a fantastic head of hair.”
How one who possessed such a keen mind could fly between ideas with no more direction than a seed tossed on a spring breeze was beyond him. Completely and utterly lost, Colin scowled. His frustration grew with each passing minute. It took all of his self-restraint not to simply lean forward and kiss the woman—if for no other reason than to make her stop speaking in riddles!
While kissing held a distinct lure, it would get them no closer to resolving their affairs. “What are you talking about now? What does hair have to do with all this?”
“It seems to have slipped your mind that only a few days ago you seemed smitten by Miss Wendy Wentworth—and her trailing blond curls. I suppose you’ve forgotten Wendy in favor of the red-headed woman I just saw you with.” Sophie clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head disapprovingly. “I never thought you were the fickle type, Colin. What a surprise!”
Swallowing hard, he released her and took a step back. With an exaggerated sweep of his hand, he gestured to the front door where, he felt certain, curious eyes watched their exchange. When Sophie took one step forward, bringing her ear directly in front of his mouth, he said, “And I never figured you for the jealous type, my dear.”
Without another word, Colin turned and walked away. Even a patient man has a breaking point—and she had just found his.
Chapter 13
Lord and Lady Atwell’s home had been festooned with red, pink, and white live flowers, feathers, bows, and paper garlands. There was so much decoration, the garlands hung so low and draped over every available surface that entering the residence felt like stepping into a huge pinkish puff. The effect was attention grabbing, if somewhat shocking, but once guests began to mingle no one seemed to mind pushing aside protruding bows or ducking beneath nose-height swags.
Rachel and Sophie had been quite breathless upon first witnessing the Atwell décor. Who wouldn’t have been? But by the time they emerged from the upstairs bedroom where they had done a last-minute check on their appearances, they were both focused on far more pressing interests than dangling carnations or overly large tissue-paper clouds.
Sophie had been awake nearly all the previous night. Staring at the ceiling above her bed, wondering hour after hour whether or not the mysterious gentleman she had met the last time she visited the Atwell home would once again be present for the Valentine’s Day dance should have left her feeling tired, but that was not the case. Thankfully, she felt as invigorated as if she had slept the effortless sleep of a babe in the cradle. So fully rested, there was a definite bounce to her step as she descended the wide staircase with Rachel at her side.
While her sister hadn’t said a word, and had actually been quieter than was her custom, Sophie suspected Rachel’s mind was concentrated on the charming fellow who had quite literally swept her off her slippered feet during the New Year’s dance. It seemed odd that they were both intrigued by men on the very same evening, but there was some logical sense to the fact, as well.
During their early years, the two sisters had often fallen into the same puddles together, so to speak, so tumbling heart first into masked strangers’ arms didn’t seem atypical at all. The difference when they were little girls had been their degree of wetness; usually one or the other of them was much more committed to exploring the depths of any puddle, and would generally spend more time splashing around. Consequently, one was always more soaked than the other.
Are men like puddles? Sophie wondered as she dragged her palm along the wide, polished balustrade. It seemed too simple a comparison, but she had learned that sometimes the most obvious explanations for the most complicated questions truly gave the simplest, and best, answers.
Rachel cut short her musing by giving her a sharp poke in the ribs. Her fingertip found little resistance between the scarlet gown and Sophie’s tender skin. The whalebone stays, as well as the voluminous underskirts, included in the original gown’s design had all been dispensed with. The fabric, so soft and shimmery it caressed Sophie’s willowy form like a silk cloud, draped attractively around her body without need of unnecessary structure or padding.
Sophie felt—and knew she looked—fabulous. The knowledge gave her a heady feeling, one she had not known before now. Always she had been the older, sensible sister. Now she felt daring and carefree.
Almost. She sighed, the memory of the harsh words she and Colin shared still stinging her mind and heart. They were a keen reminder that even the one she thought she knew best could unpleasantly shock her. The run-in also showed she had a less-than-agreeable side to her own personality.
She couldn’t wait to make up with Colin. Their disagreement cast a gloomy cloud on what should be a glittering moment.
“Look.” Rachel had better manners than to point. Instead, she tilted her head toward the corner of the room nearest the refreshment table. A loose group of men surrounded one young woman. Her mask concealed her face but the tinkling laughter gave her identity away. “Penny seems to have a whole legion of men falling at her feet.”
“She does at that,” Sophie answered absently as she scanned the room for a sign of Colin. To her dismay, she didn’t spot him. “I wonder—”
“How she gets men to flock to her the way she does? I’ve asked the very same question of her, and she insists she has no idea why—or how—she attracts so many men. Of course, Penny is as pleasant and interesting as anyone might be, and she is, obviously, very pretty, but aside from those attributes she is no more startling than any of the rest of us.”
Rachel stopped near the bottom step, forcing Sophie to pause beside her. A throng of newcomers was just passing below them, entering the large front parlor. Lady Atwell, once again sans mask, welcomed each visitor to Woodhaven before ushering them into the party.
With a resigned sigh, Rachel held her hands before her, palms open to the ceiling, and said, “Penny isn’t any more intriguing than the rest of us, yet she has men buzzing about her like bees around a pollen-filled bloom. It is, I suppose, just the luck of the draw that dictates a woman’s circumstance. Don’t you agree?”
She had been searching the newcomers for a hint that one might be Colin, so when the question came to her Sophie had to scramble for an answer.
“I—I…Well, I don’t know what I think right now, to tell you the truth. And you actually answered a question I didn’t pose, while cutting me off when I was about to go on. Honestly, you can be exasperating at times.” She smiled to show the love behind her words. “I wondered whether or not Colin was here, too, when I saw Penny. It doesn’t seem that he is—at least I don’t see him. Do you?”
After a fast glance at the figures near the bottom of the
stairs, Rachel shook her head. “No, I don’t. Perhaps he’s planning to arrive later on?”
“Or not at all.” They continued down the stairs, nudged forward by the sudden crush of descending women behind them. Apparently all the bedrooms set aside for last-minute hair and face ministrations were emptying out all at once.
“You two really did have a falling out, didn’t you?”
“We did. I hoped to smooth the waters with him, but it looks like I’m not going to get the chance.”
“You might.” They both smiled as they approached Lady Atwell. From the side of her mouth Rachel whispered, “Who knows? Colin may feel love in the air and be especially forgiving. Certainly on a night like tonight anything is possible, don’t you think?”
Saved from having to reply by the outstretched arms of their hostess, Sophie thought, Anything may be possible, but my finding love—tonight or any other night—seems wholly improbable.
It didn’t seem likely that even Cupid could untangle the mess Sophie had made of her life—especially not in one night’s time.
****
“If you tie that cravat any tighter you’ll strangle yourself.” The duke chuckled, and then put a gloved hand on the knot at his own neck. He gave it one quick tug before he cut the air with a slice of his outstretched fingers. “Honestly, you would think we were being granted an audience with the Queen instead of attending a little masked ball.”
The carriage rocked gently over the cobblestone streets, the team of horses clip-clopping in a cadence that would have ordinarily soothed Colin’s frayed nerves. Tonight, however, their steps felt so slow he fought the urge to lean out the window and spur them on with a loud yell.
A herd of elephants waltzed in his gut. Acid churned, scalding his throat, as he snorted before he replied.
“You should talk. I’ve known you for many years, yet I’ve never seen you take as long to dress as you did tonight. Did you see the look of astonishment on your valet’s face? He couldn’t believe you changed your shirt three times before deciding to wear the one he originally chose for you.”
John sighed. He couldn’t deny any of it.
“You have a point. I’ve been going to society affairs since I was in knee breeches, and none has given me quite the same feeling of unease as attending this silly dance has done. But that is false. I’m not feeling uneasy. It’s more a case of…oh, I cannot say but I know it is nothing I have felt before.” The duke would have raked his fingers through his hair, but a steadying grip on his forearm prevented such a disaster.
“Don’t do it, man. If you muss your hair, we will never get to the party.” Colin laughed, the tension inside him easing. “And I believe what you’re feeling is anticipation. You cannot hide it. You’re looking forward to seeing Rachel Teasdale again. A wise choice, if I do say so.”
Weeks ago Colin realized John felt more for Rachel than he had for any other woman, and had been glad to know it was the case. In his eyes, John and Rachel were perfectly matched and would make a highly compatible couple. Colin had thought so for quite some time, but playing matchmaker wasn’t something he ever intended to do, so watching two of his favorite people find each other on their own gave him great satisfaction.
“Thank you for that. I don’t want to arrive looking as if I rode beneath the carriage rather than inside it.” John shot him a grin. “And you’re right. Anticipation is the feeling I could not name. What about you? Have you made a decision about resolving the bumblebroth with your Miss Teasdale?”
Colin nodded, his nerves suddenly steadied by his resolve. “I have. There will be no more games, John. Tonight I will declare myself. One way or another I shall know whether or not Sophie will have me. My future—our future—will be decided tonight. Let’s hope she isn’t so peeved she won’t speak with me. If that happens, all is lost, I’m afraid.”
“Won’t she relent? Not even if you tell her how you feel?”
Colin didn’t know the answer, so he swallowed hard and shrugged his shoulders.
That is something I shall have to see when the time comes.
****
Without a snowstorm to keep people away, attendance at the dance far surpassed that of the New Year’s fete. Before the night grew old, the front parlor filled, masked dancers moving elbow to elbow through the stiflingly warm space. A plethora of perfumes scented the air, at times making it difficult to draw a breath.
Disappointment washed over Sophie in waves. Neither Colin nor the man she met at the previous Atwell function appeared at the party. Scanning the crowd proved fruitless so she had given the practice up, resigning herself to an evening devoid of both friendship and romance.
I have put my foot in it this time. Standing alone in one corner, having begged for relief after dancing the last two dances with a man whose charm matched his lackluster dancing ability, Sophie hitched a deep breath. Not even Mother’s beautiful red gown can save me from my life’s chaos. I could just stick my spoon in the wall now, and be done with it. A long life as a spinster does not appeal to me—better to be dead than alone for the rest of my days.
Rachel had been dancing with the man she met at New Year’s for the past quarter-hour. He had appeared before them not long after they left their respective partners at the end of the first round of dancing. Each woman had been hoping when she looked up from her punch glass that the long legs clad in evening breeches which suddenly stood before them belonged to the one who occupied her thoughts.
Only Rachel’s wish had come true. She happily traded her crystal glass for the arm of the dashing escort. Sophie had been watching them smile at each other since they found a place on the crowded dance floor. Now, with the overpowering scent of perfumed air filling her lungs and making her head spin, she could watch no longer.
A break in the crowd allowed her to squeeze between bodies without having to stop to speak with anyone. She pressed through as quickly as she was able, holding her hem off the ground with one hand while she held her mask in place with the other. It wouldn’t do to become unmasked, not now when she felt moisture pool in her eyes. Anyone who saw might speculate she was unhappy at being left standing in the corner while her younger sister danced the night away. That conjecture would be partly true. Of course Sophie would have loved to be dancing—with the right person—but the tear that slid slowly down her left cheek had more behind it.
Once out of the front parlor the crowd thinned. Small clusters of partygoers stood randomly in the wide hall, and while the chatter seemed loud, it was nothing compared to the din in the main room. Sophie was glad for the respite, but it wasn’t enough. She sought a quieter refuge, a place where she might pass some time until it was proper to take her leave.
To the left lay the Atwell’s library. On a previous visit she and Rachel had been received in the room. She remembered it being a cozy, welcoming space and in her rush to find refuge, didn’t hesitate to turn the doorknob and enter. Thankfully, the room was empty.
Crossing the floor in a few fast steps, Sophie dropped into one of the armchairs flanking the hearth. A small fire flickered in the grate, sending ribbons of light dancing across the walls, ceiling and furnishings. The flames’ reddish-gold hue bathed the room in a soft glow. It brought some measure of peace to her overwrought mind.
The only reason she could think of for Colin’s absence from the affair was their disagreement. It seemed pompous to believe that anything she might say or do would affect him to such an extent, but given the way she felt after their harsh exchange, it felt a rational explanation.
She had offended him, plain and simple. That had to be it—what else could keep him from the ball?
A palm across the silky fabric covering her brought a scowl. What a horrid waste of an extraordinary dress.
A door opened, letting a jumble of loud voices penetrate the library. She turned swiftly to the noise and saw out into the hallway where the crowd had grown—and obviously become more animated.
One figure entered the room. Sh
e recognized the man’s clothing, particularly his mask, instantly. She had met the gentleman on New Year’s.
With a careless hand, he pushed the door closed behind him. It swung nearly shut but failed to latch properly so a muted, although still substantial, version of the hallway babble followed him inside.
As she stood, he strode toward her. By his demeanor, Sophie knew he was aware she occupied the library.
Her tummy tingled. A sheen broke out on her temple.
Dropping into a neat curtsey, she murmured, “Good evening.”
He didn’t immediately return the gesture with a bow, standing immobile before her for a long moment before he bent at the waist. The firelight illuminated the cut of his jacket, showed the crease of his breeches and the tightness of his silk cravat.
“You look ravishing.”
Three words, but they made Sophie’s heart flutter. No man had ever spoken thus to her, and she didn’t know how to respond. Startled into silence, she stared at him.
Her gaze met and held his, making something in her midsection tumble dramatically. A flicker of recognition passed between them. It seemed deeper, and more profound, than just near strangers seeing each other again, but of course that was ridiculous. This was only their second meeting—how could they share anything more than a casual friendship?
The mask hid most of his face down to his chin, but she saw a tightening along his jaw line. He gave the impression he could stand and stare all night long, so she shifted from one foot to the other and wracked her mind for intelligent conversation. None came, so she opened her mouth and hoped for the best.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” His words were tender, and sent gooseflesh across her skin.
Sophie’s mouth felt filled with cotton, so dry it was hard to speak. No one save her family and close friends had wished her the salutation of the day. It was amazing how the words sounded so completely different when they came from a man’s mouth.
