Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  He kissed her again, soothing her with hands and voice, then began to move within her, building up a gradual rhythm that eventually drew her in. They rocked together, a gentle rise and fall like a ship riding at anchor, while sensations welled up between their joined bodies…and crested at last, hurling them both into the torrent.

  Gasping and shaking, they clung together as the storm broke around them. Then, limbs heavy with lassitude, they slept in each other’s arms—for the first of what would be many nights in their long life together.

  Thirty-Two

  He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed,

  Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed.

  —Robert Browning, “Rhyme for a Child Viewing

  a Naked Venus in a Painting of the Judgment of Paris”

  Two days later, Amy presented herself at Half Moon Street, much to the surprise of Sheridan’s housekeeper, and was shown into the studio to await the artist’s return, as he’d reportedly stepped out to buy some new brushes.

  Alone, Amy breathed in the familiar, almost comforting scents of turpentine and linseed oil. Elizabeth Martin’s portrait seemed to smile at her from the wall, wishing her the best of luck in winning the heart of their extraordinary man.

  “Your sister told me you’d have wanted him to be happy,” Amy murmured to the portrait. “I don’t know if you’d have approved of me, but I mean to do my best to make him so.”

  Happier than the likes of Lady Crowley could, at least, she added to herself.

  Turning from the portrait, she reviewed her plan of action. Honor and friendship mattered deeply to Sheridan; she understood that now. As long as he believed her bound to James, he would make no move to claim her. Even now that she’d freed herself, he might still hesitate. Just as well that she was a brash, pert, forward American set on having what she wanted. A veritable pirate, after all; she would board his ship and demand his complete surrender. The image made her smile, and quelled the butterflies rioting in her stomach. Emboldened, she set to with a will.

  It took less time than she’d expected to get ready. Her Liberty silk gown was so easy to don—and remove, especially when one dispensed with petticoats and corset, as she had today. She pulled the combs out of her chignon as well, letting her hair tumble down her back, then arranged herself upon the sofa, draping a sheet around her in graceful folds. The day was quite warm, fortunately, so she did not feel the least bit chilled.

  Her pulse quickened when she heard his step in the passage. She wondered just when she had come to recognize it. Then the door opened, and she turned a smiling face in his direction.

  “Amelia!” Sheridan stopped abruptly, swallowed. “Miss Newbold,” he resumed in a painfully neutral tone. “Might I ask what brings you here?”

  “Cornish Railways,” she said brightly. “I arrived in London yesterday.”

  He flushed, still something of a novelty to see. “That is—not what I meant.”

  “No?” She feigned surprise. “Well, then I wished to consult you about my portrait.”

  “Your portrait?” he echoed, dumbfounded. “You still want—”

  “I want you to finish your commission, of course. I trust myself to no one else’s hands.”

  He turned away, setting down his brushes. “You might be better served by another artist.”

  “Oh, I doubt that, very much.” When he turned back, she let the sheet drop just a little, exposing one shoulder, and saw his throat work as he swallowed again.

  “Your Liberty gown,” he husked, after a moment. “Shouldn’t you be wearing it?”

  “I was wearing it when I came. But I’ve changed my mind about its suitability. Perhaps you can suggest something else?” She lowered the sheet still further, showing more bare skin.

  A muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw. “Miss Newbold, you shouldn’t be here. The future countess of Trevenan—”

  “But I’m not going to be a countess,” she informed him blithely.

  “Not going to be…” His eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

  Much as she enjoyed teasing him, she sensed it was time to speak in earnest. “James loves Relia—and she loves him too, as it turns out. So I’ve called off the engagement and wished them both happy. The wedding may take place as soon as next month, I’m told.”

  Sheridan appeared thunderstruck. “James is marrying your sister—and you don’t mind?”

  “Why should I? I suspect they’ll be very happy together. They really are much better suited than he and I,” she added. “If I hadn’t been so blinkered by my own ambitions, I’d have seen it a lot sooner, but at least I saw it in time.”

  He frowned. “Are you quite certain? I can’t imagine many women being pleased at having their plans for the future overturned, especially not one about to become a countess.”

  “As it happens, I’m considering a new plan for my future.” At his inquiring look, she explained, “Being a countess would have been very grand, but I think it might be grander still to marry—the person you love most.” The words felt strange but oddly right on her tongue.

  He stilled, absorbing what she had said. “I thought you didn’t believe in romantic love.”

  “Something’s—happened to make me rethink my position.” Amy paused, feeling an unaccustomed shyness. “I told myself over and over that I didn’t want to be that vulnerable. That I didn’t want to risk my heart or my peace of mind. Except,” she looked directly into those fathomless green eyes, “it wouldn’t be just me taking the risk—would it, Thomas?” Something moved in his eyes—she didn’t think it was aversion or indifference—so she continued, “And maybe, two people taking a risk for love—is what makes it all worthwhile.”

  “Amelia,” Sheridan began, and stopped. But the way he said her full name, the caress of his tongue against the syllables, gave her the courage she needed for the rest.

  “Would you marry me, Thomas? I know I’m a little vain and more than a little frivolous, and probably fonder of Society than I should be. But—I’m even fonder of you. I,” she swallowed and tried again, “I believe I love you. Which I’ve never said to any other man, so you see, you must mean a great deal to me. And I think, perhaps, you care for me as well?”

  His eyes warmed. “More than you know—and for longer than you know,” he said at last. “You call yourself vain and frivolous. Well, I don’t deny your faults, but heaven knows I’m no paragon! You are also loyal, generous, and brave. Entirely worthy of being loved.”

  “Oh,” Amy breathed, feeling the strangest melting sensation in the region of her heart.

  “What has grown between us,” he resumed, almost haltingly, “is not something I expected or sought, any more than you did.”

  “Because of James? Or—Elizabeth?” She spoke the second name with some trepidation.

  “Both, really. James is my closest friend. And Elizabeth had been a part of my life and my dreams since we were children. I never expected any woman to take her place in my heart. Or to make a place for herself there that would become just as essential—as you have.”

  Her eyes as well as her heart now felt full to overflowing; she stretched out her hand, but Sheridan still hung back. “I’m not a peer of the realm, nor ever likely to be,” he warned.

  “Oh, that!” Amy waved a dismissive hand, and the sheet slipped down a little more, which Sheridan ignored like a perfect gentleman. “You’re a great artist, which, in my opinion, is far more impressive. You’re also clever, kind, honorable, and never dull, which is the real reason I proposed to you.” She paused, shaking her head in bemusement. “I proposed to you! I may never live that down, Thomas. Must I ask you to kiss me as well?”

  Sheridan’s severe mouth curved in that wonderful smile. “No,” he replied succinctly, then crossed the room and took her in his arms, sheet and all.

  The kiss was all she had hoped for: tender and passionate at once, sweeping all doubts before it. Wrapping her arms around Sheridan’s neck, she lost herself in his embrace, the heat of
his mouth on hers, the lean hardness of his body against the softer contours of her own.

  She did not remember when the sheet slipped to the floor, but the drift of his hands over her bare skin roused her to new heights of sensual pleasure. His hands, with their long, tapering artist’s fingers…she bit back a gasp as they skimmed over her breasts, teased her nipples erect and tingling, and cried out when his mouth replaced his fingers, sucking gently at the peak. And still his hands moved, sweeping down to caress the slight rise of her mound and finally the hidden bud within her cleft. A moan broke from her throat as he rolled his thumb over that spot in deepening circles, and the sensations swirled ever higher, spilling over at last in a surging flood that coursed through her body, leaving her limp and breathless in its wake.

  When she came back to herself, the sheet once again covered her from neck to knee. But Sheridan lounged beside her on the sofa, a lazy smile on his face and his shirt fully open—had she done that?—over his bare chest. His eyes had gone the tender green of new spring leaves.

  “All right, sweetheart?” he inquired, stroking her face.

  “Mmm,” she sighed, snuggling closer to him. “That was lovely. Why ever did you stop?’

  His arm tightened around her. “Because, my lady pirate, for all your wiles, you’re still an innocent. And because I’ve no intention of exhausting my repertoire before our wedding night.”

  She pulled back to look at him. “Our wedding night? So you’re accepting my proposal?”

  “It would appear so.” Sheridan threaded his hands through her hair. “You and your sister,” he mused. “What man stands a chance against either of you?”

  Amy smiled. “Just as long as you remember that.” She reached up to draw his head down to hers. “And now that that’s settled, would you kiss me again?”

  He obliged, combining his vast experience and newfound ardor in a kiss the likes of which neither had ever known. And, after a while, the sheet slipped quietly to the floor again…

  Epilogue

  Aura Lea, Aura Lea,

  Take my golden ring;

  Light and life return with thee,

  And swallows with the spring.

  —W.W. Fosdick, “Aura Lea”

  Six weeks later

  Cornwall had seen its share of beautiful brides, but few could recall one as dazzling as the new Countess of Trevenan. And fewer still noticed the fading scar on the bride’s cheek or the slight halt in her step as, escorted by her father, she paced down the aisle of the Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Truro. Many noticed her gown, a simple but stunning creation of cream satin and lace—made in Paris, the more knowledgeable guests whispered—that complemented her fair coloring perfectly. But all of them noticed her smile, which outshone the sun on this glorious summer day, and Lord Trevenan’s expression of dazed delight as she neared the altar.

  A sumptuous wedding breakfast was held at Pentreath, the earl’s estate, to which nearly everyone of consequence in the county was invited. Other notable guests included extended relations of the former Miss Newbold, come all the way from America, and an elegant Frenchwoman of middle years who had befriended the bride during a lengthy sojourn abroad.

  The bride and groom were to spend the wedding night at Chenoweth, the house the earl had owned as plain Mr. Trelawney, before embarking on a honeymoon tour of the West Country.

  “I’m still amazed you don’t want to go someplace more extravagant for our wedding trip,” James told Aurelia as they enjoyed a private moment in the garden, gazing out over the sea, brilliantly blue in the distance. The muted roar of the waves drifted up to them from the beach.

  She smiled. “I’ve been to Paris and the Riviera, James. And Germany, of course. All lovely places, but unless you have a burning wish to go there yourself, I’d just as soon we stayed in England. You made the West Country sound so wonderful when you described it to me.”

  “Well, loveday, if you’re sure. The Continent’s not going anywhere, after all.” James took her hand, smiling at the rings shining on her finger: the sapphire she’d admired in Wickes and Taylor, and the simple gold band he’d given her mere hours ago. “Come to that, I’m even more amazed that you didn’t opt for a lavish double wedding in New York with Amy.”

  Aurelia shook her head. “Oh, that wouldn’t have suited me at all! I never wanted a grand show. I just wanted to be married to you. This,” she gestured toward the house behind them, still filled with laughing, chattering guests, “was more than enough for me. Amy and Mr. Sheridan are more than welcome to my share of the limelight.”

  James chuckled. “Poor Thomas! Even he might find a big Society wedding in New York a trifle overwhelming.”

  “He might take it in stride,” Aurelia countered. “Think of all the material he’ll find there for his paintings. Although it’s possible they’ll marry sooner, rather than later. Amy told me she’s eager to discover the extent of Mr. Sheridan’s repertoire—whatever that means.”

  James suspected he knew exactly what that meant, but he wasn’t about to share that insight with his bride. Although, talking of eagerness…he slipped an arm around Aurelia’s waist. “Well, there are advantages to an early wedding. Not having to wait, for example.”

  She colored, and another smile, at once shy and oddly secretive, played about her lips. “I was thinking the exact same thing. And early weddings can help conceal certain—indiscretions.”

  James stared at his wife, as the import of her words sank in. “Aurelia,” he husked at last. “Dear heart, are you sure?”

  “Almost sure,” she confessed, her eyes glowing like the sapphire in her engagement ring. “Certain signs are there, though I’m feeling perfectly well. I suppose a doctor could confirm it more quickly, but…I may be carrying your heir already. Are you pleased?”

  For answer, he drew her into his arms and kissed her until they were both breathless. Then, his arm about her waist, his other hand clasping hers, the Earl of Trevenan guided his wife into a gentle waltz beneath the summer sky, with no other accompaniment than the sound of waves lapping against the shore and two hearts—soon to be three—beating in perfect time.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  So much goes into the making of a book that it would probably take years to name and acknowledge everybody who was involved, even peripherally. But special thanks are due to the following people.

  To my agent, Stephany Evans, for her encouragement, patience, and willingness to soldier through multiple drafts. And to Becky Vinter, also at Fine Print, for last-minute suggestions that made the manuscript stronger.

  To my editor Leah Hultenschmidt for loving Waltz with a Stranger from the start but still thinking of ways to make it better, and to Aubrey Poole and the rest of the Sourcebooks team for putting together such a beautiful book.

  To Angela, friend and beta reader extraordinaire, for pushing me through this one by insisting on knowing what happened next.

  To Jules, Suzanna, Jean, and the rest of the After Hours crew for your support and camaraderie over the years. I am a better writer, especially of romance, because of you guys.

  To Elizabeth and Lisa, for wanting to say they knew me when. Well, you did—and I hope you’ll agree I’ve improved since then!

  To readers past, present, and to come—thank you all.

  About the Author

  Pamela Sherwood grew up in a family of teachers and taught college-level literature and writing courses for several years before turning to writing full time. She holds a doctorate in English literature, specializing in the Romantic and Victorian periods, eras that continue to fascinate her and provide her with countless opportunities for virtual time travel. She lives in Southern California and is currently at work on her next book. Visit her on the web at http://pamelasherwood.wordpress.com.

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  2.
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