Pamela Sherwood

by A Song at Twilight

  Robin was right; there was no point in making this situation uglier than it had to be. Sophie did not have to like her rival, but she could perhaps try to understand her. And do her part to improve things by whatever means possible. They would have to tread carefully, but there must be a solution with which all of them could live. She would not believe otherwise.

  The young Sophie, so sure in the sanctity of her love, rearing her head? Perhaps, but she might be a little wiser now—and more patient. Barely a week ago, she’d never thought this was possible. She’d resigned herself, four years ago, to a life without Robin—and now the promise of it was within her reach again. What lay ahead would not be easy, but then, if she had wanted easy, she wouldn’t have fallen in love with this man in the first place.

  She looked down at him again, love a warm weight inside of her: tender, passionate, and fiercely protective at once. Hers to cherish—and cherish him she would, till death did them part.

  He stirred in his sleep, a faint frown etching itself between his brows. Even as she watched, the frown deepened and his head moved restlessly from side to side on the pillow.

  Dreaming, she realized—and perhaps, to judge from his reaction, not particularly pleasant dreams. She reached out a hand, laid it against his cheek. “Wake up, dear heart.”

  His breath hitched, and his hand seized hers in a grip so strong she cried out in surprise and pain. Robin’s eyes flew open, and he stared wildly at her before recognition came rushing back into his gaze.

  “Oh, God!” He released her hand, instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, love! I don’t know what I was—”

  “You were dreaming,” Sophie told him soothingly.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “And—not a good dream?” she ventured.

  Robin exhaled shakily, tried to smile. “On the contrary, it began as a very good dream, about us. It just… took an unexpected turn.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, still studying him.

  “I’d—rather not, if you don’t mind. Thank you for waking me.” He caught sight of her surreptitiously rubbing her hand, and his eyes darkened with remorse. “Sophie—”

  “It’s nothing,” she assured him, showing her hand. “See? Not so much as a bruise.”

  He captured the hand, bestowed a gentle kiss on it. “No thanks to me.”

  “Hush! No one’s to blame for what happens during a nightmare.” Sophie stroked his hair. “But I’m sorry you had such a rude awakening.”

  “It’s over now—no need to dwell on it,” he said, with a firmness that reminded her a little too much of the old Robin, protective to a fault and secretive as an oyster. “Besides, I would much rather talk about last night than this morning.”

  She smiled, even as she recognized the diversionary tactic. “Last night was wonderful.”

  His expression eased. “For me as well. Everything I ever dreamed it would be.” He reached out to gather her in, and she snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

  Robin let a lock of her hair spill over his fingers. “Your hair smells like violets. The way I remember it.”

  She had combed a few drops of the scent through her damp hair after bathing. “I couldn’t bear to wear that scent for years,” she confessed. “Because of what it made me remember. But now… it seems only fitting to wear it again, and for you.”

  “Thank you.” He touched his lips to her brow. “I’ve always thought of violets as a—hopeful flower. A promise that spring is coming and the world will be made over. They took on a whole new meaning when I fell in love with you. No doubt it was sentimental folly on my part, but… every spring, I would find or buy some violets and keep them in my chamber, to remind me of you. And the time we had together.” He took a breath. “And perhaps, deep down, I was hoping that someday, somehow, you and I would have—a second spring.”

  Sophie swallowed, her eyes stinging. He’d never spoken so openly or at such length of their past and his own secret hopes. “We’ll have it,” she promised. “Another spring and every other season, for the rest of our lives.”

  His arms tightened around her. “What could be better than a love for all seasons?”

  “A love for all seasons, followed by breakfast?” she suggested after a moment.

  Robin raised amused brows. “You’re hungry again?”

  “Remember how we spent the night. You know I’m always ravenous after a performance. To say nothing of the encores!” she added mischievously.

  He laughed then, and gave her a quick kiss. “Point taken. And now that you mention it, I should be glad of breakfast myself. It must be a good twelve hours since we last ate.”

  “Well, then, let’s get dressed, and I’ll start breakfast,” she said briskly. “It seems only fair, since you made dinner for us last night.”

  “Dressed, washed, and in my case, shaved.” Robin rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “I’ll see you downstairs, then.” He kissed her again and sat up, tossing the bedclothes aside.

  Sophie watched from the bed as he moved about the room retrieving his garments. The morning light, stronger now and faintly tinged with gold, played along his lean, hard-muscled frame, illuminating angles and contours like the hand of a master painter. She feasted her eyes without shame: Robin, her lover now, in every sense of the word.

  Despite her present happiness, the look on his face and the shadows in his eyes when he’d awakened still niggled at her. Whatever lay at the root of that dream he so adamantly refused to discuss was clearly not some vague phantasm but something real and disturbing… that disturbed him still.

  She did not want to pry. Courtesy dictated that she respect Robin’s wish for privacy and not force the issue. But secrets had torn them apart before.

  “Robin,” she said, after he had pulled on his drawers and donned his shirt again.

  He glanced up from buttoning his shirt. “Yes, love?”

  She hesitated, then began, “You know you don’t need to protect me anymore, don’t you? Not as you did when I was seventeen.”

  His brows rose. “I know you have grown into a formidable young woman. But you must understand that it’s second nature for a man to want to protect the woman he loves.”

  “Yes, but it’s also second nature for a woman to want to support the man she loves,” Sophie countered. “To be his partner in good and bad times. After all these years, you should know that I’m not a fair-weather friend. Nor will I be a fair-weather wife.”

  Their gazes locked, and his fell first. “I do know that,” he said, not looking at her.

  “I am glad to hear it.” Sophie let her voice soften. “So, dear heart, if you should wish to discuss what was troubling you earlier, I am here. Ready to listen—and to help, if I can.”

  He looked up, his expression unreadable but a trace of warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. I will—bear that in mind.”

  Sophie smiled at him. “That is all I ask.”

  ***

  Robin stared at his lathered reflection in the glass as he shaved.

  Why couldn’t he tell her?

  This was the woman with whom he wished to spend his life. Intelligent, perceptive… He’d known since the earliest days of their acquaintance that Sophie would not stand for being shut out. That was why he had ultimately trusted her with the truth of his life.

  Trust had never been the issue. Was it that he feared to hurt her again, when he had hurt her so deeply before? That must be part of it, surely. She knew some of his life with Nathalie, but he’d tried to spare her the more sordid details.

  For whose sake—hers… or his?

  You know you don’t need to protect me anymore. Not as you did when I was seventeen.

  He grimaced, acknowledging the truth of her words. The innocent girl he’d once wished to shield from every harsh wind had grown into a strong, sophisticated woman who could hold her own on stage, in Society… and in bed. Thinking of how she’d matched him pass
ion for passion last night was enough to arouse him all over again.

  And remembering what he’d dreamed was enough to drive all physical desire away, as effectively as a freezing shower bath.

  Who are you really protecting with your silence—Sophie or yourself?

  The answer gave him no satisfaction. Mouth tight, he scraped the last of the shaving soap from his cheek and wiped his face clean with a damp cloth.

  Time to stop being a bloody coward, Pendarvis.

  He heard Sophie singing from the kitchen—a merry Gilbert and Sullivan air from The Mikado—when he came downstairs, and the sound lifted his spirits at once. Standing in the doorway, he watched her, fresh and pretty in a green skirt and lace-trimmed shirtwaist, as she put the kettle on to boil, then began to carve slices from yesterday’s loaf for toasting.

  She broke off in mid-chorus when she saw him and smiled brilliantly. “Good morning, dear heart! How many eggs would you like? It always seems a waste to dirty a fork on just one.”

  Robin returned her smile. “Two, then. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I have everything under control. Just make yourself comfortable over there.” She waved the bread knife in the direction of the table.

  He sat down, still watching her. “You were right, you know.”

  “Hmm?” she returned absently, reaching for the toasting fork.

  “My dream did disturb me. And I am—ready to talk, if you are still willing to listen.”

  Her gaze went to him at once, and she gave a tiny nod. Go on.

  “I said I started out dreaming about us,” Robin began. “Which was true. We were lying in bed, and you were wearing your pearls,” he added, smiling a little despite knowing what followed. “Except that as I looked at you, you disappeared… and Nathalie was there instead. Laughing at me. Taunting. Saying I’d never be free of her.”

  Sophie’s green eyes brimmed with sympathy. “Oh, Robin.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. Looking at her, I felt such rage. All I wanted was to wipe that smile off her face. She was wearing a necklace—this gaudy diamond pendant. I grabbed the chain and started to twist—” He broke off, swallowing convulsively.

  Sophie dropped the toasting fork and went to him at once, putting her arms around him. “It was a dream, my love,” she soothed. “Just a dream.”

  He leaned into her embrace. “I know. I know. And you woke me before I could… But it’s not something I can easily forget!”

  She stroked his hair, not saying anything, just letting him speak.

  The words spilled out of him, all the pent-up strain and longing of the last four years. “I said Nathalie and I weren’t living as husband and wife. That is entirely true. But one night, not long after you’d left Cornwall, she climbed into my bed while I was sleeping. Her scent awakened me, and thank God it did, because otherwise…” Robin shook his head, suppressed a shudder. “I got up and went to my dressing room. And barred my chamber door ever after.”

  Her arms tightened around him. “She meant to seduce you.”

  He nodded weary acknowledgment. “I can’t think why, though.”

  Sophie pulled back a little, her expression quizzical. “Can’t you? It seems to me that Nathalie had everything to gain if she’d succeeded. Security, respectability, power—and you.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “But she didn’t love me, nor I her.”

  “I wonder.”

  Robin glanced up sharply at her soft, almost musing tone. She raised her brows. “Why does the idea surprise you so much? I saw her face that night when she came back and found us dancing together. You say that she didn’t love you, and perhaps she never had. I may not have understood everything back then, but I can tell you this much: Nathalie did not like seeing me with you, not one bit.”

  “Her vanity was injured, nothing more.” He shrugged a defensive shoulder. “She probably hoped I’d turn into a sot or blow my brains out when she left me.”

  “Instead, you thrived,” Sophie pointed out. “Eventually, anyway. You returned to England, became a successful architect, inherited the Hall, and turned it into a profitable business. You are so much more than the boy she married and abandoned, the struggling young apprentice. You’re a man of means now—and a handsome one.” She paused, stroking his hair, then continued levelly, “She may not have loved you, but I think, on some level, that she wanted you. And you didn’t want her. That would have made you irresistible.”

  Robin shifted in his chair. What Sophie said made a certain degree of sense, even though he felt uncomfortable as hell admitting it.

  “Nathalie may have hoped that, in time, your marriage would become a complete one again,” Sophie continued, still sounding eerily composed, even detached. “Getting into bed with you may have been her most blatant attempt at winning you over. But I am sure she tried other means as well. Subtler ones.”

  A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. “Subtle and Nathalie were poles apart!”

  He remembered her swathed in frivolous bits of silk and lace, trying on him all the coquettish little tricks that had worked so many years ago—the pout, the fluttering lashes, the near-lisp he’d once found charming. And her barely concealed rage when they availed her nothing, culminating in the night when she’d got into bed with him.

  More memories bubbled up, like corruption from a poisoned wound: Nathalie taking over the music room he’d decorated with Sophie in mind, and playing would-be seductive French chansons on the piano in his hearing. (He’d refrained from locking her out only because Sara loved the music room too and had asked to have piano lessons.) Nathalie flirting with his neighbors and guests, always with one eye on him to gauge his reaction And he remembered the book of clippings he’d made, following Sophie’s career, and how he’d found it torn and damaged on the floor of his private study. No need to ask whose work that had been, and from that point on, he’d kept that notebook and any other news regarding Sophie under lock and key.

  “Come back, dear heart.”

  He surfaced, shuddering, aware that his face was damp with perspiration.

  Sophie’s gaze was compassionate. “Where did you go?” she asked, smoothing his hair.

  Back to hell. He managed a wan smile. “Trust me, love, you don’t want to know.”

  Sophie worried her lower lip, clearly tempted to argue the point, but much to Robin’s relief, the kettle whistled behind them.

  “Drat!” Sophie muttered, and went to rescue it. “Shall I make the tea, then?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she spooned tea into the pot, then poured in the boiling water; her brow was still creased in a frown that had nothing to do with her current task.

  Bracing his forearms on his knees, Robin took several composing breaths. There had been times, these last four years, when he’d felt as though he were living in an armed camp. But he was free now, and never going back to how things had been. Nor was he going to waste any more time dwelling on it, not when he was here, at long last, with the woman he truly loved.

  “Here.” Sophie placed a steaming cup of tea before him. “Drink this; you’ll feel better.”

  Robin took a careful sip, appreciating both the hot drink and the familiar ritual. “Forgive me. I never wanted to burden you with this.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Burdens shared are burdens halved. But I am sorry to see you in such distress.”

  Robin blew out a breath. “You’ll think it’s strange, no doubt, but I was more disturbed when Nathalie climbed into my bed than when I found her entertaining her latest lover in her own. Not that I enjoyed that,” he added, “but I didn’t feel… manipulated to the same degree.”

  Sophie said slowly, “You don’t think she… arranged for you to find her so? In hopes that you would be outraged or inflamed with jealousy?”

  “Perhaps she did—I don’t know. But if she was expecting some big dramatic scene, she was doomed to disappointment.” He felt his mouth crook. “In retro
spect, I think I felt mainly distaste, and some surprise that she showed such poor judgment in her choice of bedfellow.”

  Sophie fretted her lip. “Did Nathalie—seduce a guest at the hotel?”

  Robin smiled without humor. “Oh, nothing so commonplace as that, my dear. She set her sights much higher—or lower, depending on how one looks at it. Nathalie’s current lover is Sir Lucas Nankivell.”

  ***

  For a moment Sophie just stared at him, convinced her ears were playing tricks on her. Then, “Sir Lucas?” she echoed faintly.

  “None other,” Robin replied. “He’s held a grudge against me since the day we met. And I won’t deny it became mutual quite soon after that.”

  She reached behind her for a chair, sank down on it without looking. “Because of me?”

  “Oh, in part.” Robin caressed her cheek. “I won’t deny it, love. Nankivell’s wanted you from the first. Not that I blame him, but that certainly lent an edge to our dealings. It would have only got worse after we uncovered his slanders that summer.”

  Sophie pulled a face. “Oh, I doubt he was heartbroken over losing me—not that he ever had me to begin with! Any halfway pretty girl with a large dowry would have done for him, and yes, I figured that out a long time ago. Without my fortune, he’d never have approached Harry for my hand. Besides, didn’t he marry an heiress just a year or two ago?”

  “Yes, an industrialist’s daughter from Birmingham,” Robin confirmed. “But no one with eyes to see would mistake it for a love match. Not on his side, at any rate. His title, her fortune—that seems to be the way of things these days.”

  “If she does love him… poor girl,” Sophie said feelingly. “Especially now that he’s unfaithful.” She spared a moment to be thankful she’d never felt an attraction to Sir Lucas.