Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  Sophie’s heart gave a throb, and the last of her anger against Clive slid away. Remember the man I wished to be, rather than the one I was. But he hadn’t understood. He had been both. He had been weak, yes. When he stole from her, and right up until the day he died. But she had never met a perfect person, and didn’t particularly want to. What would they have in common?

  “Instead of changing his mind,” Malcolm continued, “Clive immediately offered me a drink. I saw no cause for celebration, no hint of renewed fellowship in his demeanor. When he poured, he kept his back to me. So I took the glass he offered and only pretended to sip from it. At the nearest opportunity, I switched his glass with mine.

  “That’s all. If he hadn’t poisoned the cup he offered me, he would still be alive. He killed himself.”

  It would take a man like Malcolm to tell such a chilling tale in a tone of smug self-satisfaction.

  “I’d rather my papa were alive, and you were dead,” said Honoria, standing up. Her cheeks were wet, her voice thick. “I’d rather have married another man, if that meant Papa were still alive.”

  She gathered her skirts and ran from the room. Peter jumped to his feet and, with a panicked blubber, hurried after her.

  “You didn’t think of that, did you?” Fury frayed the Dowager Duchess’s throaty voice. “Making the poor girl step blindfolded over her father’s corpse to get to the altar. What bent and stunted tree will grow from bloodied soil?”

  Jenny pulled her hand away from her husband’s. “Tell us how we can make this right, Sophie. Tell us what you want.”

  But the words seemed to come from far away. Sophie knew she sat only a few feet away from her aunt, but it seemed like miles. As though the length of the table had expanded into a vast canyon, too deep to cross, too wide for bridges. She could shout and shout, but her aunt would never hear.

  “Nothing,” she said, standing up. “I want nothing to do with you.”

  §

  Sophie shut the door to her bedroom and limped over to the bed. She threw herself onto the mattress with a sensation of deep relief. She never wanted to see her aunt or uncle again. Never wanted to think about them, or hear their names spoken aloud. If she wiped them out of her life, they could never hurt her again.

  “You should have waited for me,” said Julian, slipping inside with a muted click of the door in its jamb. “Rather than walking all that way.”

  “I didn’t want to wait,” Sophie said. “Are they gone?”

  “Yes.” The mattress dipped as Julian sat down next to her. “They couldn’t leave fast enough.”

  “Good.”

  Julian smoothed his hand over her forehead and hair. “We know what happened, now. We can bring them to justice.”

  Sophie shuddered. She didn’t want justice. She wanted a loving family. She wanted to erase her aunt and uncle and replace them with new versions, designed according to her own imagination, the way she’d done with her parents.

  She could make them behave the way she wanted, like a pair of oversized puppets. If she demanded it, they would beg her on their knees for forgiveness. Anything to pacify a Clive.

  But they wouldn’t be sorry. Only afraid.

  “I can make them do anything,” said Sophie. “Except what I want.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “No.” Julian’s blue eyes gleamed. “It’s not fair. It’s never fair.”

  “Why are all the important things impossible?”

  “Not impossible,” he murmured, swaying over her, dipping down to nip softly at the base of her neck, stroke along her waist. Sophie shivered, rolling onto her side so that his quick fingers could work the fastenings of her gown. “For example…”

  Sophie snatched Julian’s cravat and shoved with a snarl. She fought free of her dress, leaving her in a loose corset and shift. “You’re always trying to distract me. What happens when I put you on your back?”

  Julian flattened himself against the bed, entirely compliant.

  Not breaking eye contact, clumsy because she had to work one-handed, Sophie opened the fall of Julian’s trousers. She reached through his drawers to clasp the hot, hard length of his penis. “You always know just what to do.”

  “Because I know—”

  “What?” Sophie squeezed and stroked, twisting her wrist so she could reach all the way to the root. Julian gasped, his lashes fluttering. Another pass and his cheeks hollowed. “What do you know?”

  He undulated, chest rising off the bed on a sudden inhale, throat stretching.

  “What happens…” Sophie let out a breath, startled when his hips rose to meet her fist.

  She’d never seen him like this.

  Loose. Relaxed. Given over to his own pleasure, his own sensations. I have misvalued you. Gall and vinegar, she had. She knelt over him and licked his pouty lower lip then kissed it, softly. All the while she kept her hand moving, matching the rhythm of her glide to the roll of his body. Every tremble of his lip cued her to repeat what she’d just done, to exaggerate it—to crank her wrist more, to squeeze tighter.

  He’d craved this. Being tended to, cherished. It was so clear.

  But he’d never asked.

  Her heart ached for him.

  “Help me,” she said, carefully crawling down his body. She paused when she’d reached the male part of him—cock, he called it, without even a blush. She stroked her thumb up the strap of muscle along the underside, marked the tracery of veins, the musky, astringent scent. And then she closed her mouth around the flushed, raw flesh of the flared head.

  He groaned. Low, anguished, relieved.

  She felt powerful, but she had expected that. When she sealed her lips around the thick girth of him and sucked, she stoked a need in him: for her, for the sensations her mouth and hands provided. The more she gave, the more he needed; a kind of devil’s trap. And she could satisfy or frustrate that desire on a whim.

  But she also felt… loving. Giving and generous. She had ears only for his grunts and moans, eyes only for his muted thrashing, a mouth only to minister to him. All her senses, attuned to Julian. All of her efforts for his pleasure.

  She could have cried. This was what he’d offered to her again and again, without a hint of resentment, ever. But his thrusts grew shallower, more intense. She tried holding down his hips, but he pulled her away and to the side, shoving her already loose corset down to bare her breasts. He wrapped his elegant fingers around the red, wet meat of his penis and began to stroke himself.

  “Talk to me,” he pleaded.

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His eyes dilated. “Tell you what?”

  “How much you wanted this.”

  “What?” He let go and reached for her. “No, Sophie. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “How was I supposed to know?” She grabbed his cock, holding it as he had, and squeezed hard. “I would have ended up just like him.”

  “Like who?” he panted, writhing in her grip. “Sophie. I don’t know. I don’t—”

  “Like my uncle,” Sophie snarled, planting her forearm across his neck as she rolled him onto his back. “You’d let me go on like that. Taking and taking and taking and I never even knew.”

  His eyes squeezed shut. “Sophie…”

  She pushed the sharp blade of bone in her arm up against his chin. “I am so angry. I am so angry at you.”

  He twisted, his hips straining toward her, his head turning away with a hoarse groan.

  He was so beautiful, the blade of his nose pressing into the pillow, his lips parted and round, a fringe of sweat-dampened hair plastered to his forehead. A profile bold and sharp and sweet, like the man himself.

  “How am I supposed to love you if I don’t know how?” Sophie demanded, close to tears.

  It made him come.

  “Fuck, Sophie.” He covered his eyes with his hand, breathing heavily. “Fuck.”

  She frowned. “You like
it when I say horrible things to you, don’t you?”

  “More than I should,” he agreed, the muscles in his stomach tightening into guttered squares as he raised his head up off the bed and peeked at the mess on his belly. He winced and then turned to her, suddenly serious. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know, Sophie. I didn’t know any more than you did. How could I?”

  “You did so much to help me. The menus, the servants…”

  “I want you to be happy,” he said.

  “I didn’t even notice,” Sophie whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Julian moved his hands—to gesture, she thought—dribbled a trail of semen across his flat stomach, and paused, nostrils flaring with irritation.

  “Wait.” Sophie scooted off the bed and searched around for a piece of scrap cloth, which she handed him so he could clean himself.

  Julian wiped the semen from his hands and belly, and sat up. “We’re in this together.” He looked up at her, eyes bright, something boyish and hopeful in his expression. He touched her nose and chin with a gentle, sticky thumb. “Aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her closer, between his knees, and rested his head between her breasts. His voice made the plate of bone there vibrate. “That’s all I need to know.”

  She looked down at the fine, silvery hair that capped his head and tickled her breasts with every breath. It was so strange to have him leaning on her, relying on her support. Her eyes filled with water again. “I can do better.”

  “We both can,” he murmured. He took a deep, slow breath. “God, Sophie. I’d have done anything to get here. Right now.”

  Her voice turned wry. “I believe it.”

  He laughed softly. “I’ve done enough, haven’t I? Thought I had to break something to get through to you. Break everything.”

  “You might have,” said Sophie. “If my family hadn’t done the work for you.”

  “Gallows humor,” said Julian. “Give it time, Sophie. Once you realize they can’t hurt you anymore, you’ll know what to do.”

  “My aunt and uncle? Do you really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  She raked her fingers through his hair. Soft, silky. Everything about him pleasured the senses. And he was hers. Really hers, for as long as she lived. How long had it taken her to realize that? “I hope you’re right.”

  Chapter 25

  Sophie stood back as the porter loaded the last of her workshop supplies onto his wagon. She stood with her arms folded over her chest, to stop herself from rushing at the crate to check the contents one last time. A key ring dangled from one finger.

  “Not to worry, ma’am,” said the porter, tipping his cap. “We’ll have it all unloaded safe and sound on Littlemoor Lane in under an hour.”

  Sophie tightened her arms and tried to smile. “Thank you.”

  The porter climbed onto the bench next to the driver, who clucked at his horses. The wagon rumbled away, all her jars and phials clinking. Sophie bit her lip until it wheeled around the corner, then turned back to her shop.

  The hawthorn bushes she’d had planted beneath the windows had bloomed, garlands of white flowers skirting the house like the frilled lace hem of a fine ball gown. The new tenants, a couple, planned to open a dry goods store. Perhaps they’d tend them.

  Sophie stepped inside the old showroom to take a last look, make sure nothing had been left behind. All the tables, cabinets, and counters had already been transferred to the old smelting works. It was a bare room, now, empty but for the dust on the floor. So were the storerooms, Charlotte’s workroom, and, at the end of the hall, her own workshop.

  Through the window, she could see the bare patch of grass where her little greenhouse used to be. It had been dismantled, the individual panes of glass wrapped in thick felt, and loaded onto the cart with all the gall liquor.

  The jangle of a harness called her back to the front door. She paused at the stoop to watch Julian wave away a helping hand and hop lightly down from the carriage.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Buried in correspondence. I’m going to have to visit London soon. Was the removal a success?”

  “I won’t know until I unpack the crates.” Sophie twirled the key ring, flipping the key into her grip, and swiveled around to lock the door. She could have sent Max to oversee these final tasks, but she’d been the first one in. She’d be the last one to leave, too.

  Then she rose up on tiptoes, arms extended, and unhooked the Iron & Wine sign from its bracket. The wood had turned rough from being out in the weather for so long, expanding in the heat, shrinking in the cold. She ought to have a new one made.

  “We don’t have to go,” said Julian. “You never have to speak to them again, if you don’t want to.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m worried about.” She tucked the sign under her arm. “Change is hard for me, that’s all. A month after I asked the Dawes to go looking for factory space in Derby, I was still too frightened to visit it myself. It’s hard to see the shop empty.”

  “You’re not moving far,” said Julian.

  “I just need time.” Sophie took a deep breath, steeling herself. “And now, we should go.”

  The carriage took them down the road she’d walked so many hundreds of times, all the way to Broadstone Cottage. The curtains in the upstairs salon twitched as they walked down the stone flagstones to the front door, and the footman opened the door before Julian could reach for the knocker.

  “Your Graces.” The footman bowed. “Mr. and Mrs. Roe are expecting you.”

  Aunt Jenny and Uncle Malcolm waited upstairs, side by side, pale as criminals awaiting execution.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Her aunt gestured them toward a sofa. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  Sophie took the offered seat. She smoothed her skirts, gray silk paired with a cashmere shawl the color of fresh cream, a conscious play on the serviceable wardrobe she’d so recently abandoned. “No tea, thank you.”

  “What if it’s poisoned?” Julian added, sitting next to her.

  Her uncle flinched.

  Sophie laced her fingers together in her lap. “I thought it would be enough to cut you out of my life,” she began. “I thought anything else would be too painful. But whenever I imagine the two of you carrying on as though you’d never done anything wrong… living off of stolen money, enjoying a freedom you don’t deserve… I can’t bear it.”

  Jenny bowed her head and nodded. “I understand.”

  “You don’t,” countered Sophie, without venom. “But you will.”

  Malcolm drew himself up taller, his mouth puckering.

  “You won’t like what Sophie is about to propose,” interposed Julian. “But the alternative is prison. If you don’t think your own niece would put you behind bars—let me assure you, I would not hesitate.”

  Jenny began to shake, and Malcolm reached out to steady her with a hand.

  Julian nodded to Sophie.

  “You are going to transfer all of your assets to me,” said Sophie. “Give what you like to Peter and Bettina first—I don’t hold them responsible for your crimes. The important thing is that you retain nothing of your own.”

  “What?” Malcolm sputtered. “That’s outrageous! I cannot believe—unjust and impossible—”

  “From that point on,” snapped Sophie, sharply enough to silence her uncle, “you will apply to me—or rather one of my intermediaries; I don’t intend to speak to you directly—for all your expenses.”

  Sophie paused. She met her uncle’s eyes, unafraid, and then her aunt’s. Anger deepened her voice as she continued. “You think I should have relied on your care. I want you to find out what it’s like to depend on someone you don’t quite trust. You think love is enough to make such dependence bearable. I think you will discover it is not.”

  “But this isn’t love, it’s a punishment,” objected Jenny. “We know what you’ll
do—starve us and stint, make us beg. We were never so cruel.”

  “I have no need to be miserly,” said Sophie. “And I want to make sure that Bettina doesn’t suffer. For her sake, at least, you won’t want for anything. Even luxuries. But you will have to ask. For every stocking, and every lump of coal.”

  “It will last for as long as Sophie wishes,” added Julian. “You may hope that she forgives you before she forgets you. In the meantime”—he stood—“I hope the both of you are deeply and sincerely unhappy.”

  He extended a hand, and Sophie took it, allowed him to help her to her feet. It was time to leave, but she had one more thing to say.

  “All the years I lived here, under your roof, I knew something was wrong. But I didn’t know what. As a result, I suspected everyone. Believed in no one. Expected disaster everywhere.”

  She had crept along like a crab, always looking for a bigger and better shell to hide herself in.

  “You think all you took from me was money, but that’s the least of what you stole. You cast a blight over my life.”

  And she was still finding her way clear of it. But they didn’t need to know about her future. They wouldn’t be a part of it.

  As Julian followed her out of the salon, down the stairs and out the door, she really did feel lighter. As though one of the strings that tied her to the past had been snapped, giving her more strength and energy with which to move ahead.

  A bee settled on one of the stone pavers on the lawn while they waited for the carriage to be brought round. Sophie reached for her little phial of honey and dropped to one knee. The bee didn’t fly away at her approach. It hardly moved at all.

  The poor creature was tired, but still whole. Sophie uncapped her honey and released a drop onto the warm stone. The bee approached at a sluggish walk.

  “A bee works as hard as any creature you’ll ever see. Bees work themselves ragged for the hive, to make honey, to live through the winter. I can save this one, but only for a little while.” She reached out and touched the tip of one finger to a transparent wing. “She’ll probably die working. It will probably be soon.”