by Mary Balogh
“Invite me inside again, Sophie,” he whispered to her.
“Come inside.” She spoke out loud—unmistakably in Sophie’s voice. He felt as if he were in the middle of a disorienting dream. He felt a moment’s thankfulness that he had never been fully aware of her attractions while Walter was still alive.
He lifted her leg over his hip, positioned himself, and slid deep into her wetness as they lay on their sides pressed together.
“Oh,” she said—a sound of surprise and pleasure.
He worked her slowly again so that they could enjoy at their leisure the physical sensation of coupling as well as the rhythmic sounds of the most intimately physical act of all.
“Is there a lovelier feeling?” he asked her.
“No,” she said.
She was moving with him, he noticed, as she had the first time, enjoying as much as he did what they did together. Was she as amazed as he, he wondered, to find herself here—with him? He was reluctant to finish. He prolonged the exertion as long as he could before holding her motionless and ejaculating deep inside her.
He moved her leg away from his hip after he was fully finished and rubbed it lightly to work any cramps from it. But he did not uncouple them. It must be very late—or very early, depending upon one’s point of view. Once they were uncoupled he must make a move to leave. He was reluctant to do so. Not just because he was warm and comfortable where he was—and sleepy again too.
No, not just because of that.
He was awake, of course. He had been awake when he had come to bed with her and had her the first time. But he had the uncomfortable feeling that once he left her house, once he breathed in fresh air, he was going to really come awake. And he did not care to contemplate what his thoughts might be when that happened.
For as long as he was here he could perhaps convince himself that she was simply a woman and he was simply a man and they had simply enjoyed a night of good sex. They had coupled together—realty together—two separate times. They had both enjoyed the experience. Immensely. But the trouble was that she was not just any woman. She was Sophie.
He did not know quite how either of them was going to feel about all this tomorrow. But he suspected that life was going to appear far more complicated in the morning than it had before he asked Sophie to invite him in for tea. Had he been mad? Had he really expected that he could treat her like a comrade tonight as he had always used to do? And how was she going to feel? Betrayed? He winced inwardly.
He set a hand beneath her chin, lifted her face, and kissed her lingeringly and openmouthed. Her softly parted lips pressed warmly back against his.
“Sleepy?” he asked.
“Mm,” she said.
“I am going to draw out of you,” he said, doing so regretfully, “and get dressed. Stay there where it is warm until I am ready to leave. Then you can slip on a robe, let me out of the house, lock the door behind me, and be back here before the bed has cooled. You will be asleep before I have reached the end of the street.”
She watched silently as he dressed in the dark, and then she got out of bed and walked naked to a wardrobe to withdraw a woolen dressing gown. She had a pretty body, he thought, his eyes moving over her before she drew on the garment and belted it about her waist. Not voluptuous, just—pretty. Her hair billowed down her back almost to her bottom. She led the way downstairs, holding the single candle she had lit in the bedchamber, and slid the bolts back quietly on the outer door. She turned and looked up at him without saying anything.
“Good night, Sophie.” He touched his fingertips to one side of her jaw. “And thank you.”
“Good night, Nathaniel,” she said. She sounded like the Sophie of old, calm and cheerful and practical. “I hope all goes well with your sister and your cousin. Remember not to call Lavinia a girl.”
“Yes, ma‘am.” He smiled at her, but she did not smile back.
He did not kiss her again. He was already feeling awkward about the whole thing. He stepped out into the chill early-morning air and walked away briskly. He did not look back.
Chill indeed. What the devil had he got himself into?
Viscount Houghton and his wife and daughter had persuaded Sophia to go to the Shelby ball with them. Sarah had declared her intention of simply dying if Aunt Sophie refused.
And so she would go. She would wear her best dark blue silk—the Carlton House gown. It would have to do for another year—probably longer. She simply must have new evening gloves, though. The old ones, which had been threadbare at the fingers for some time, had finally sprung an undarnable hole in a place where it could not possibly be hidden from view.
And so she would go shopping during the morning. She would call to see if Gertrude wished to accompany her. Although part of her wished to remain alone at home, she knew that fresh air and exercise would feel good once she had forced herself out. And Gertie’s constant chatter—always witty and interesting—would be good for her in a different way.
But as she was on her way downstairs, her bonnet tied beneath her chin, one glove on, the other half on, her manservant was opening the door in answer to a knock. There was no time to retreat out of sight even if she had wished to do so.
She smiled—her usual cheerful smile. “Good morning, Nathaniel,” she said.
He was immaculately dressed in what was surely one of Weston’s creations, a blue formfitting coat. He wore even more formfitting pantaloons with shining, white-tasseled Hessians. He looked handsome and elegant. He was unmistakably one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, those almost godlike cavalry officers she, together with almost every other woman in Wellington’s armies, had secretly admired.
Last night seemed quite unreal. Especially now that she was seeing him again in the light of day.
She saw from his expression when he looked up and locked eyes with her that it seemed unreal to him too.
“Sophie.” He made her a bow. “You are going out?”
“It is nothing that cannot be postponed,” she said. “Will you come up? Samuel, will you have coffee sent to the sitting room, if you please?”
“No.” Nathaniel held up a hand. “No coffee, thank you. I have just come from breakfast. But I would appreciate a word with you if I might, Sophie.”
She was not sure if she had expected his call today or not. Perhaps she had been afraid to expect it. Perhaps an unconscious wish to avoid it had given her the energy to plan her shopping expedition. How aghast he must have been this morning to remember with whom he had lain last night. As aghast as she should have been. She should have remembered who she was—a respectable widow—and who he was. She should have remembered that they had always been friends, with no hint of anything else between them. She should have been embarrassed at the very least to remember what indiscretion being alone together late at night had led them to.
But she would not lie to herself. She was not sorry for last night. She did not even feel guilty. No one had been harmed—except perhaps her.
She turned and led the way upstairs, drawing off her gloves as she went and untying the ribbons of her bonnet. She set them on a small table just inside the sitting-room door.
“Do have a seat,” she said, and gestured toward the love seat before she could stop herself.
But he had not noticed. He had crossed the room and was standing at the window, looking out. His hands, clasped at his back, were not still. She wished she could have avoided this. If she had only been five minutes earlier...
“I have no excuse, Sophie,” he said after a short silence. “And an apology would not even begin to suffice.”
She wondered if he really regretted what had happened. Probably he did; but if he did, she hoped he would not say so. A woman needed some illusions. Perhaps just one in her life. Surely it was not too much to ask. One would suffice.
“Neither an excuse nor an apology is necessary,” she said, seating herself on the chair that had been too distant from the love seat last night for the focus of his eyes
.
He lowered his head and she heard him draw an audible breath. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he asked.
“Oh no!” She leaped to her feet and was across the room without giving her reaction a moment’s consideration. She set one hand on his shoulder. “No, Nathaniel. This is not necessary. Believe me, it is not.”
He did not turn. She removed her hand when she realized where it was and closed it into a fist, which she set against her mouth.
“I debauched you,” he said.
“What a perfectly horrid way to describe what happened,” she said, putting on her usual manner with an enormous effort of will. “You did no such thing. I actually found it rather pleasant.” Rather pleasant! Just the most gloriously wonderful experience of her life. “I thought you did too. I did not expect to find you so conscience-stricken today.”
He turned to look at her and she could see that his face was quite drained of color. She smiled cheerfully at him.
“You are my friend, Sophie,” he said. “You are Walter’s wife. I never dreamed I could be capable of treating you with such disrespect.”
“Friends cannot sometimes go to bed together?” she asked him, though she did not wait for an answer. “And I am not Walter’s wife, Nathaniel. I am his widow. I have been a widow for almost three years. It was not adultery. Or seduction, if that is what you fear. I asked you, if you will remember.”
“You are so cool and practical about it,” he said. “I might have guessed it, I suppose. I feared I would find you distraught this morning.”
She smiled. “How foolish,” she said. “I am not a woman of loose morals, you know. I have never done before what I did last night. But I cannot feel distraught about it or even mildly upset. Why should I? It was pleasant. Very pleasant indeed. But hardly a catastrophic event that necessitates a marriage proposal and a hasty wedding.” Oh, Nathaniel, Nathaniel.
“Are you sure, Sophie?” He was searching her eyes.
Foolishly, she realized as soon as he asked the question, she had been hoping against all reason that perhaps he had asked because he had wanted to ask. Very foolishly.
“Of course I am sure.” She laughed. “I am the last woman in the world you would wish to be marrying, Nathaniel. And I have no wish to marry anyone. I have Walter to remember and I have this house and my pension and my circle of friends. I am perfectly happy.”
“I have never known anyone as serene and cheerful as you, Sophie,” he said, tipping his head to one side as he continued to regard her closely. “You really are contented as you are, are you not?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Of course.”
The color was visibly returning to his face. He was not good at dissembling. His sense of relief was patently obvious.
“I will not press my addresses on you, then,” he said. “But what happened will not affect our friendship, Sophie? I would hate to find next time we meet that there is an awkwardness between us.”
“Why should there be?” she asked him. “What we did we each did freely. We are adults, Nathaniel. There is no law that says a man and woman may no longer be friends once they have been to bed together. How would any marriage survive if that were so?”
He smiled for the first time. His slow, wonderful smile that had enslaved countless women.
“If you put it like that,” he said. He looked beyond her to her bonnet and gloves. “May I offer my escort to wherever it is you are going?”
She hesitated. She wanted desperately to be alone, but if she refused, then she would be setting up the very awkwardness she had just assured him would not exist between them.
“Thank you,” she said. “I am walking to the home of a friend just two streets away. I shall be grateful for your escort.”
She put her bonnet and gloves on again, her back to him as she tied the ribbons. And suddenly it seemed unbearable that it was all over almost before it had begun—her wonderful fling with a man around whom she had weaved painful dreams for years. All over.
One night—one glorious night—was more than she could ever have expected.
But it was not enough. If she had convinced herself that one night would be enough, she had been foolish indeed.
One night was far worse than none at all.
She turned to him with her usual smile and took his offered arm. “I am ready,” she told him.
SIX
THERE WAS SOME AWKWARDNESS between them after all as they walked, a certain difficulty in fixing on a topic of conversation. He commented on the weather—cloudy, a little chillier than it had been, though dry at least and with almost no wind—but there was very little she could say in response to his detailed report.
She really was small. Her head reached barely to his shoulder. He could not see her face beneath the brim of her plain, serviceable bonnet. He was very aware of her—physically aware. It felt strange to look down and see his friend Sophie, to remember the cheerful, placid, sensible way she had received him this morning. And yet to feel an awareness of the woman in whose bed he had spent several hours of the night before. It was strangely disorienting to know that the two women were one and the same.
He had realized almost as soon as he had left her last night, of course—or perhaps even before he had left—that he must come back and do the honorable thing this morning. He had enjoyed the night with her more than he could remember enjoying a night with any other woman, and he certainly liked her more than he had ever liked any other woman. But the thought of marriage with her had frozen his heart. And the prospect of having to force marriage on her had made him heavy with guilt. But he had no choice.
Trust Sophie to have treated the whole situation with her usual cheerful good sense. It had been very pleasant, she had said. Dear Sophie—he might have felt offended if he had not been so enormously relieved. Very pleasant. She had admitted that she had never before done such a thing, and he believed her. But she had found it only very pleasant?
“You have changed,” she said now.
“Have I?” He bent his head closer to hers. He wondered in what way she saw him differently.
“You have grown up,” she said. “So have Rex and Kenneth, I believe. Eden has not. Not yet.”
“Because I have become a staid country squire, Sophie?” he asked. “Because I have taken it upon myself to escort my sister and my cousin about town?”
“Because you are no longer comfortable with paying women for their favors,” she said.
The devil! Trust Sophie to come right out and remind him of that embarrassing moment at Rex’s. “I should have slapped a glove in Ede’s face,” he said. “In the Peninsula it was a different matter, Sophie. But in a genteel drawing room it was unpardonable of him to say what he said in your hearing.”
“But you are not ready for marriage, are you?” she said.
He grimaced. “I would readily—” he began.
“Oh yes, I know,” she said. “You are a man of honor, Nathaniel. Of course you would readily have married me once you had—oh, dishonored me, I suppose you would call it. But you are not ready for matrimony yet, are you?”
Did she wish him to persuade her? He did not believe so. He tried to see her face, but she kept her head down.
“You do not wish to marry,” she continued, “and yet you can no longer bring yourself to take the alternative.”
He stopped walking and drew her to a halt beside him. “Where is this leading, Sophie?” he asked.
When she looked up at him, she looked so much her usual self that he thought perhaps he was still sleeping and in the middle of one of those utterly bizarre dreams.
“I am not beautiful,” she said, “and I am not particularly attractive, though I do not believe I am exactly an antidote. Certainly you did not find me so last night. You enjoyed the experience as I did. Did you not?” For the first time she flushed.
He could not pretend to misunderstand her. “Sophie.” He dipped his head closer to hers. “Are you offering to be my mistress?”
“No,” she said calmly. “A mistress is a kept woman. I am my own mistress, Nathaniel. But I found it pleasant, I believe you did, and ...”
“And?” He raised his eyebrows. Thank heaven, a part of his mind thought, they were standing on a deserted street.
Her lips moved without producing sound. But she pulled herself together. “You will be in town for a few months,” she said. “You will be busy. So will I. But just occasionally ... Perhaps it would not be a bad idea ... I am not in search of a husband, Nathaniel, any more than you are in search of a wife. But—but I am a woman with a woman’s needs. Hungers. Sometimes. Not enough to send me endlessly in search of lovers. But ... But if you wish ... If it would solve a problem for you ...”
He understood in a sudden flash despite her seeming inability to complete a sentence. How easy it was to see Sophie’s good nature and not realize that there were deep and real feelings behind it. But he remembered asking her the night before if she was hungry as he was—hungry for passion. She had said yes. Her body had said yes.
“My dear.” He covered her hand on his arm with his own. “You miss Walter dreadfully, do you not? And we—the others and I—have made jokes of his posthumous fame. How heartless we have been. And insensitive. Do forgive me.”
She merely gazed into his eyes. “Shall we do it, then?” she asked him.
He wanted to, he realized in some surprise. It would be that affair between equals he had hoped to find and not really expected to find. He could have it with a friend, with someone he liked and respected and found attractive. It would be a relationship they would both find pleasant—he smiled inwardly. He would hope they would both find it more than just that. It would be a relationship that would hurt neither of them.