by Mary Balogh
“Tell me about your day,” he said, and then wished he had not started with that particular request. He did not wish her to think he was prying about Pinter’s afternoon visit. Not yet.
But she proceeded to give him an account of her walk in the park with Lavinia—Lavinia herself had declined to say more than that it had been by far the most pleasant afternoon yet of her stay in town—and to tell him how very much she liked his cousin.
“I felt guilty,” he said, “as if I had foisted her upon you, Sophie. She is not an easy companion with whom to have to spend a whole afternoon.”
“She is quite delightful,” she said, her voice warm and very obviously sincere. “She is an acquaintance I very much hope will develop into a close friend. We are only four years apart in age, you know. We are peers and share a great many ideas and opinions.”
“Sophie,” he said, unconsciously lacing his fingers with hers, “what am I to do with her? She is four and twenty, almost past marriageable age, and yet she will not recognize the urgency of finding a husband. I must confess that my concern is partly for myself—I do not know how I will endure her company for another six years—but mainly it is for her. How can she ever be happy if she never marries? Spinsterhood is a dreadful fate for a woman. And in her case there is no need of it. She is wellborn, wealthy, and damned lovely in the bargain—pardon my language. I forget myself.”
“What are you to do with her?” she asked. “Nathaniel, you do not have to do anything. Lavinia is an adult, and an intelligent one. She knows what she wants. She cannot yet do it because her father’s will has kept her fortune from her, but she knows. Perhaps you should simply trust her.”
“Trust her to turn down every respectable offer until there is not one unmarried man left in England to make one?” he asked.
She laughed softly. “Yes, if necessary,” she said.
“And what kind of advice is that?” he asked her, exasperated.
“Wise advice, I hope,” she said. “Most women by the time they leave the schoolroom wish for nothing but homes and husbands and families of their own. Your sister Georgina is one of them, I believe. She will be happily married before Christmas, I dare predict. I was one of them too. I met Walter, he offered for me, I accepted, and I thought that at the age of eighteen I had achieved everything necessary for my life’s happiness. But there are some women who are different, who feel that there has to be more to life than marriage to the first man who offers—or even perhaps to the one hundred and first. Lavinia is such a woman. Trust her.”
It was such very sensible advice that it was hard to admit to himself that he had not really considered the idea before. But trust Lavinia? She would make a disaster of her life if left to herself, would she not? But then he respected Sophie’s judgment. He had heard something else that had distracted his mind from Lavinia’s problems, however. He raised himself on one elbow, propped the side of his head against his hand, and looked down at her—his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark.
“Poor Sophie,” he said. “You thought to have had a lifetime’s happiness with Walter and yet all you had was—what? Six years? Seven?”
“Seven,” she said.
“And no children.” He had never really thought of Sophie’s childlessness until now. He smoothed the fingers of his free hand through the hair at her temple. “Did you long for them?”
“At first,” she said. “But we could not have subjected children to the kind of life we led and it was important that I stay with Walter.”
A thought struck him. Actually it was a thought that had been niggling at him ever since the night before last. “You know a way of preventing it from happening, then?” he asked her.
She smiled at him. “All army women know a dozen ways,” she said, “though most of us would not admit it even under torture, in normal circumstances.”
“I would not wish to get you with child,” he said.
“You will not.” She was gazing calmly back into his eyes.
“If I did—if I do—you would have to marry me, Sophie,” he said, “like it or not. I would not allow any argument.”
“It will not happen,” she told him.
He wondered then why she had not married again, why she had told him the day before that she had no wish to do so. Had the dreams of her eighteen-year-old self died in the ten years since then? Did she no longer want the home and husband and children that would have brought her lifelong happiness? Or was it just that the dream could never now come true since Walter was dead? She had seen to it that she did not conceive during the years of her marriage because it had been important to her to be with Walter. Did she wish now that there had been at least one child after all?
But he could not ask her. The question was too personal. He did not have the right. He was only her friend and her temporary lover.
He bent his head and kissed her, lightly at first, prepared to draw back his head if it became apparent that she was still not ready for intimacy. Her lips softened and parted beneath his. He slid his tongue past her teeth and deep into her mouth. She sucked gently and he could feel himself harden into arousal.
“I think we should remove a few more layers,” he said.
“Yes.” She waited for him to remove her nightgown but she lifted first her hips and then her arms to help him. She did not help him remove his breeches.
The awkwardness had gone. They had talked for perhaps half an hour, something that he would have expected to make the situation of their being in bed together more awkward still. But it had not. It seemed the most natural thing in the world now to turn to each other and begin the play that would bring them both sexual pleasure.
Not that Sophie knew a great deal about play. He supposed it was understandable that a respectable married woman would not even if she had been married for seven years. A man perhaps would not think of teaching his wife to give or receive pleasure. A marriage bed, after all, was seen by most men as the place where his children were begotten. Most men did their playing elsewhere. Though Sophie’s marriage bed had not been for that—Walter had died too soon, before they had had a stable home of their own. And Walter was definitely not the sort to have kept a fancy piece on the side.
But Walter was the last person he wanted to be thinking of at the moment. Indeed, he did not want to be thinking at all.
He gave her pleasure with his hands and his mouth. He knew soon enough by her tautened nipples and her soft sighs and the wetness between her thighs that she was pleased. He would not be demanding tonight, he decided. He would not bewilder her. He would teach her on another occasion how to use her own hands for both their pleasure.
“You are ready for me?” he asked her eventually, his mouth against hers. He parted folds with his fingertips, pushed one a little way inside her, and felt her close about him. “You want me, Sophie? Here? All the way inside here?”
“Yes.” She twisted against him, parted her thighs without coaxing as he came over her, made a cradle of them as he lowered himself, and lifted her legs to twine about his own. She thrust her breasts upward to rub her hardened nipples against his chest. Her eyes, he noticed when he looked down at her, were closed. Her mouth was open in an agony of wanting.
He had given her more than pleasure, he realized in that moment. He had aroused desire and need in her. He had seen it feigned in countless women. This was unmistakably the real thing.
He positioned himself carefully at the entrance to her body and pressed hard inside, watching her face all the while. She moaned and tipped her head back against the pillow.
Sophie. Oh dear God, Sophie.
He had intended to work her slowly as he had done two nights before, in order to give her more pleasure before he allowed his own release. But he realized suddenly that she was going to come to climax herself—if he gave her what she needed. But he had no experience ...
He pumped hard and repeatedly into her, giving her his full length, driving past the tightness of her inner muscles. But she co
uld not seem to let go and he did not know how to help her.
Oh yes, he did, though.
He slid one arm down between them, found the small area that he knew would help her, and rubbed his thumb very lightly over it.
Her climax came violently. She shouted out his name and shuddered against him quite out of control. He held still and deep in her, lowered most of his weight onto her, clasped both her hands tightly in his own, and set his cheek against the side of her head.
And this was Sophie? he said to himself in wonder over and over again. This was Sophie?
The collie was sniffling and whining softly beside the bed, he half noticed.
When she was quiet and relaxed and—yes, asleep beneath him, he lifted some of his weight off her again and worked to his own quieter, but utterly satisfying release. Before disengaging and moving to her side, he saw that her eyes were open, watching him sleepily.
“Sophie?” He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “It was good?”
She did not answer him. The side of her head burrowed warmly against his shoulder. She was asleep again.
This, he thought, lifting the bedcovers carefully with one leg and one hand so as not to disturb her, was vastly different from what he had anticipated. In accordance with his age and his present status as a respectable country gentleman with family responsibilities, he had expected a quiet affair, short on passion, long on coziness and comfortable satisfaction. Especially with Sophie.
When was it he had thought of Sophie as a woman incapable of deep passions? After he had bedded her that first time or before? Either way, he had still believed it when he had come to her tonight. He had been eager, yes, but he had not been expecting—this.
He was not even sure he wanted this.
There was something a little disturbing, a little frightening about it. There was the element of the unknown about it. And yet it was only his mind that felt unease. His body was wonderfully satiated. He turned his head and kissed the top of hers. Her fingers curled more warmly about his and she burrowed closer with soft sounds of satisfaction. She was still asleep.
The dog had returned to the hearth again and sighed almost in unison with its mistress.
It felt good, Nathaniel thought, to be just lying here like this, relaxed and warm and sleepy after a long cozy talk and after thoroughly good sex. With a friend—he half smiled. He felt more at ease than he had felt in months—years, perhaps.
Except that this was a little different from what he had planned for himself. This was not just sex. Not even just good sex. This was a relationship. And the thought was somewhat disturbing. But he was far too tired and far too contented to explore the thought now. He would think of it tomorrow.
“Come here, Sophie.” It was not a command exactly, although he had reached out a hand toward her. The words were softly spoken, almost as a question.
She had pulled her nightgown back on while he dressed and put on her dressing gown over it. She had not had a chance to tie back her hair again. It must look a dreadful mess. He looked immaculate again and somehow remote, as if he could not possibly be the same man who had been in bed with her most of the night.
He was standing by the window of her bedchamber fully clothed, though not so many minutes ago he had finished coupling with her again, slowly, thoroughly, wonderfully, the way he had done it two nights ago. Unlike the first time tonight. She did not know quite what had happened then. It had been wonderful beyond imagining but also embarrassing in memory. What must he have thought of her? She had completely lost control of herself. Was it about that he wished to speak? Or did he merely intend to kiss her good night—or good morning—before leaving?
She went to him and took his hand and lifted her face to smile at him. They had not lit the candles again, though it was still dark outside, but she could see him clearly. He was looking at her with those lovely slumberous eyes.
“Sophie,” he said, “tell me about Boris Pinter’s visit here yesterday afternoon.”
Ah.
Her stomach lurched. He had seen. Of course he had. How could he not have? And why had she been so gauche as to have lied? It had been so unnecessary.
“Oh that.” She laughed. “He came to pay his respects. He does so occasionally. He did not stay long. He would not even take tea with me.”
“Why do you receive him?” he asked.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Do you feel obliged to do so,” he asked, “because he made up those ridiculous lies last year to enhance Walter’s fame? He did it only to ingratiate himself with the ton, Sophie.”
“Lies?” she said.
“When he came to the Peninsula,” he said, “Pinter was already a lieutenant, Sophie. He was not an ensign.”
Ah, she had not realized that.
“Then it must have been Lieutenant Pinter, not Ensign Pinter, whom Walter saved,” she said. “Does it matter?”
“Only in that you owe him nothing,” he said. “He was never a pleasant character, Sophie. He had a particular grudge against Walter. You must stay away from him and certainly not receive him here. Ken told you last night, quite rightly, that any of the four of us will protect you anytime Pinter chooses to bother you. It would be our pleasure to be of service to you—mine in particular.”
It was Kenneth’s “protection” last evening that had cost her her wedding ring this afternoon, she thought. The price would not have been quite so high otherwise. And next time the price would be higher again—impossibly high.
She drew her hand away. “And since when,” she asked, “have you had the right to direct my behavior, Nathaniel? To tell me whom I may or may not receive in my own home? Since you became my lover? Do you now see me as your mistress despite your earlier denials? I am not your mistress, and I am not either Lavinia or Georgina to be given orders you expect obeyed instantly and without question. How dare you!”
She never lost her temper with people. Never. Not with anyone. She listened to herself, to the cold control of her voice, and knew very well what was happening. The terrible anger that was bottled up inside her was finding a small outlet. Nathaniel, who wanted only to protect her, was bearing the brunt of it. Appalled, she found herself even hoping that he would give her an argument.
He did not.
He tipped his head a little to one side and looked searchingly into her face. He glanced down at her hands, which were clenched into tight fists at her sides.
“You are quite right, of course,” he said, no anger, no hauteur, no chill of hurt pride in his voice. “I do beg your pardon, Sophie. Please forgive me?”
She nodded and closed her eyes briefly, letting the anger seep away.
“I do not see you as my mistress, Sophie,” he said quietly. “That was why I could not—make love to you when I first came tonight. You are my friend and my lover.”
Damn him—she unashamedly borrowed in her mind one of Walter’s phrases. She had wanted to have a screaming quarrel with him—but how did one conduct a screaming quarrel? Now she wanted only to sag against him and cry into his neckcloth. Independence could sometimes be a heavy burden. And gentleness and tenderness could sometimes undo one far more effectively than anger or arrogance.
She smiled at him.
“Promise me something?” he asked her.
She lifted her shoulders.
“Promise to come to me if you are in any kind of need,” he said. “Promise not to be too proud or too independent to ask.”
“That is two promises,” she said.
“Promise me?” He was not to be diverted.
Would you kindly lend me a princely sum of money with which to purchase the rest of the passionate love letters Walter wrote so indiscreetly to someone else? On the understanding, of course, that I will pay back every penny, though it may take me another sixty or seventy years to do so?
“Sophie?” He sounded hurt now. “Cannot you do even that much to set my mind at ease? Or go to Rex or Ken or Ede if you would prefer.
But one of us, Sophie.”
“Your mind does not have to be uneasy over me, Nathaniel,” she said. “I will promise to call upon you on any matter in which I believe you may help me. How is that?”
He reached out and took both her hands in his. He squeezed them tightly. “You minx, Sophie,” he said. “You have promised nothing at all. Do you wish to continue with our arrangement?”
She felt that lurching of the stomach again. “You do not?” she asked him, scarcely able to get the words past her lips.
“I do.” He moved his head closer to hers. “But you will never let me forget, Sophie—and quite rightly too—that this is a relationship of equals. I will not take anything for granted, then. May I come again?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “It is pleasant, Nathaniel. I would like it to continue.”
“Good.” He closed the gap between their mouths and kissed her.
She led the way downstairs a few minutes later, Lass padding along behind them, and he unbolted the outer door quietly.
“Good night, Sophie,” he said before opening the door. “And thank you, my dear.”
“Thank you, Nathaniel,” she said.
She saw his lovely smile in the light from the street as he opened the door. “And good night to you too, Lass,” he said.
Then she was closing the door behind him, bolting it slowly so as not to make too much noise.
“Back to bed, then, Lass,” she said. Back to recapture the warmth and the smell of him, to relive the events of the night—all of them, not just the physical parts.
She was not at all sure, she thought as she climbed into bed and lay where he had lain, pulling the bedcovers right up over her head, that she would have suggested this affair if she had known it would be more than the actual couplings. Those she might recover from—she had lived without them all her life, after all, except for that dreadful first week of her marriage.
But there had been more than that tonight. They had lain side by side, their hands clasped, and simply talked as friends, as equals. And then after that wildly wonderful—and embarrassing—coupling, they had slept together for several hours. She had half woken a few times and felt him against her side, warm and relaxed and asleep.