Masquerade

by Sarita Leone

  There was no turning back, only moving forward. And forward looked promising. Hopefully this time he treated Sophie like a woman, she’d react like one. He closed his eyes and saw for what felt like the millionth time, the sight that haunted his dreams. Her slender form running from him, her dress swirling about her legs and giving him just the slightest glimpse of delicate ankle before disappearing from view. She’d refused to see him after that night, but no refusal could erase the taste of her lips from his heart.

  They had known each other since they were children. He and his younger sister, Penny, had played side by side with Sophie and Rachel. When they were very young, Colin had never had any particular interest in either of his neighbors. However, as they grew older that changed in a very big way.

  These past few years he had been smitten, his heart lost to a woman who was not aware of his existence as a man—a living, breathing man with heartfelt feelings that underscored every word, look, and friendly touch he bestowed upon her. Sophie saw him as a playmate, and he knew it. In her eyes, he was someone to dance with her when she had no other partner, a person who, through the years, had shared her laughter and tears, but who might never, ever, be someone to induce romantic thoughts.

  Somehow, Colin had to find a way to make Sophie aware of his feelings. It was a sticky wicket; he did not wish to lose her friendship altogether, either by insulting her or embarrassing himself. Losing Sophie, in any capacity, would break his heart but having her near without being able to voice his views was already taking its toll on him.

  He’d managed to get her into his arms—as more than a childhood friend—on one occasion. Just knowing how she felt pressed against him was incentive enough to find a way to put her back in his embrace. Their time apart hadn’t dimmed the memory. It didn’t diminish the effect she’d had on his body, either. Desire swelled more than Colin’s heart, and he wished his trousers had extra room for moments such as these.

  One way or another, he and Sophie would have to find a common ground. Colin hoped the spot they found would be large enough to hold them both. And, more importantly, he prayed she would find it the very spot she wished to occupy—with him, of course!—for the rest of her life.

  But, first things first. She must notice him if he was to entertain the hope of her pondering a future by his side.

  “Colin, how nice to see you.”

  Sophie’s voice washed over him like warm creamery butter melting onto a hot flaky dinner roll. He absorbed her presence, allowing it to chase the day’s chill from his bones. He also gave himself the barest instant to compose his features. Letting her see the unfiltered feelings he was sure must be written across his features would make him look foolish. He’d already made a spectacle of himself, falling like a schoolboy at her feet. He had no intention of doing so again.

  Deliberately keeping his features bland and suppressing a shudder of delight, Colin turned toward the doorway.

  Now that Sophie stood only a few feet away, he was quite tongue-tied. It was not normally the case, but being as he had just been mulling over the possibility of his future melding with hers, he almost felt like he had been caught red-handedly raiding the family’s biscuit tin. Could she have any idea what he had been so recently thinking?

  Moreover, had the evidence of his arousal subsided enough that she wouldn’t suspect? Hard to tell, with his blood on fire.

  Her smile seemed genuine, touching her eyes and making the green irises he loved so much come alive. Her upper lip curled at the corner. Was she just pleased to see him—or did she guess the state of his pants?

  They knew each other so well they often finished sentences, one for the other, or prematurely laughed over half-completed jokes and riddles. Was it possible that Sophie knew his mind so well that she guessed his intentions?

  Damnation! Get hold of yourself, man! She is a woman, not a fortune-teller, nor a mind reader. She cannot possibly know just the sight of her thickens your cock or makes your blood race.

  “Happy New Year.” He bowed when she curtsied, taking a deep breath before he straightened. Whisking desire aside, and reminding himself they were at the heart of it, friends, he grinned. There was no better way to begin a fresh calendar year than by passing some of the earliest moments in the company of someone so dear to the heart. “You look well this morning.”

  “The same to you. And you look no worse for having greeted a new year yourself. But why are you dripping? Didn’t you wear your greatcoat?” She gave him a look he had received countless times before in his life, so he knew exactly what the thin-line set of her lips, pulled-tightly brows, and flashing glints in her eyes meant. He was in the pot, beside the goose, and in trouble.

  Sophie walked over to where he stood, placed a hand on his shoulder, and then, when she found it as wet as it apparently appeared, tsk-tsked as she turned him about and pushed him closer to the hearth.

  “You are soaked! Goodness, Colin, how can you be so impractical as to go out in this weather without the proper clothing? We will be lucky if you do not catch a chill—and wouldn’t that be an auspicious beginning to the New Year?”

  Still soggy from walking home after last night’s New Year’s Eve services at St. Paul’s in Covent Garden, his one and only greatcoat lay dripping before the hearth in his own house, three doors down. Had it been suitable protection against the sleety morning gloom, he would have left the carriage at home and walked over to bestow his good wishes.

  Just getting the horses hitched had gotten his shoulders slicked with a thin layer of moisture. He would have been better off hoofing it; even minus his outerwear he would have been drier had he run the short distance.

  As if on cue, Colin sneezed. Not once, but twice.

  He allowed himself to be pushed down, until he occupied the seat closest to the fire. The feel of Sophie’s hand, forcing him onto the cushions, sent his heart flip-flopping dangerously inside his chest. It was a sensation that was both exciting and frightening, all at once. How could one woman have such a direct influence on a man’s heart? It made no sense, but there was no time to examine the event further.

  “God bless you! Oh, Colin, how could you go and take a chill? Really, you are almost as irresponsible now as you were when we were eight.” With a worried expression that made him regret he had sneezed, she leaned down and stared into his eyes.

  The examination, albeit brief, was sheer heaven. Her nearness sent a whiff of lavender into his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. It was, he knew, the rinse she used when she washed her hair. The scent had been one of his favorites from his earliest recollection. Now, he closed his eyes and took a second long whiff.

  “You don’t look unwell, but that sneezing…A chill, that must be it.”

  She reached out and laid a hand across his forehead. The pulse in her tender wrist beat steadily against his brow, sending his hammering heart nearly into convulsions. It was too much for any man to bear, so he pulled his head stubbornly away and scowled.

  “I have not taken a chill,” he said as he dug in his back pocket for a handkerchief. Sophie was quicker, producing a lace-edged square of linen from the cuff of her frock. She pressed it into his palm.

  “Here, take this. It is clean.” She straightened, ignoring his expression. “Stay put. I shall be right back with some hot tea.”

  Colin watched her leave, the long, full skirt of her plain brown morning dress swishing with her every step. He had seen the outfit countless times before, had heard her comment that it suited her purposes but would never be seen on the pages of The Lady’s Journal, and had watched, when she thought no one spied her, as she wrinkled her pert nose in distaste at the pleats near the waistline of the frock. While it mattered not to him whether she wore a barrel or a ball gown, he recognized her lack of regard for the item, and it made him want to take her shopping.

  Sophie deserved to wear brilliant colors, not the serviceable drab ones she favored simply because they could stand repeated washing and wearing.

  Some
day I will find a way to give Sophie all that she deserves—and more.

  He put her delicate hanky to his nose, but he did not blow. Instead, Colin relished the warmth of the item, still heated from lying atop Sophie’s wrist. He could not help himself; he breathed in the fresh-as-spring scent of lavender and vowed anew that somehow he would find a way to give her every trifle her woman’s sensibilities wished for. The promise came from his heart, although his mind, with its logical inclination, wondered how on earth a man of little means was ever going to be able to afford female fripperies.

  And how in hell he was going to find a way to touch the skin beneath those same fripperies.

  Would that he were a peer of the realm rather than a tutor, life would, indeed, be much simpler and his options clearer.

  ****

  “Why are you so worried?” Rachel exchanged a glance with Louisa, their cook. Then, she frowned at Sophie. “So, he is damp from the sleet. I am sure Colin is perfectly fine. You know as well as I that he has the constitution of a draft horse. Always had—and always will, most likely.”

  “That is not the point. He should not have put himself in danger of taking ill on our account. Why on earth didn’t he stay home where it is warm and dry instead of venturing out without the proper clothing?” Colin’s sopping hair and dripping shoulders, coupled with the sneezing, had given Sophie a small, yet steady, headache. The vein in her left temple thrummed steadily, each dull thud making her want to smack him for being so ridiculously unaware of his own health.

  “Colin is neither a fop nor a coxcomb. He does not put on airs or dress excessively.” Rachel stuck a fingertip in the jam pot, and then licked the raspberry jam daintily from her skin. Before she spoke again, she pulled her finger from her mouth with a large popping sound that made Louisa turn and glare disapprovingly. Rachel paid no attention whatsoever, and went on thoughtfully. “Would you rather he acts as a Corinthian? Honestly, Sophie, we both know that Colin will never be overly fashionable! If that is what you are looking for, Colin is not the man to fit that bill.”

  Sophie placed the teapot on the trolley with more force than was necessary. Flatware tinkled as knives clacked against forks, and spoons tumbled across a stack of napkins. “I am not ‘looking for’ anyone! And I would not change Colin for all the tea in China. You know that, so stop acting so silly. Besides, I believe that is one of the qualities I most like about our Colin. He is what he is, without artifice. He does not try to be someone he isn’t. He is wholly himself, without need for pretense. Yes…that is definitely one of the most becoming traits our Colin possesses, I’m sure of it.”

  Rachel grinned mischievously from her perch on a high wooden stool beside the kitchen counter. Her mood had improved considerably once they discarded the leftover sugar and water solution, and tucked the spare cotton strips into a drawer. She hardly seemed like the same squeaking woman she had been a scant half hour earlier.

  “Our Colin, eh? I would think that by now you and Colin would have come to some kind of agreement, dear sister.” Rachel paused, as if weighing her words. Then, with a toss of her head that sent her tawny curls bouncing atop her shoulders, she said, “It makes absolute sense, you know. Penny and I have spoken about it so often it is nearly boring to consider it yet again.”

  The teakettle began to steam on the stove so she swallowed the impulse to reach for Rachel’s throat and, instead, lifted the kettle. Not trusting herself to speak, she concentrated on making tea. The silence in the room was heavy, but it gave Sophie a chance to gather her thoughts.

  When she had warmed the teapot, then discarded the warming water, she packed a small silver ball with tealeaves before dropping it into the pot. She filled the pot to the top, put the lid in place, and then set the nearly empty kettle back onto the stovetop. She turned, put her hands on her hips, and asked, “Am I to understand that you and Penny have been discussing—” She lowered her voice, just in case sound from the kitchen might travel through the heavy oak door, down the hallway, and into the front sitting room. Rather than have Colin hear one tidbit of the utterly insane conversation, she spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “Colin and me? Is that what you are telling me?”

  “Of course, that is exactly what I’m saying. And who else should Penny and I discuss, if not my sister and her brother? Oh, don’t be coy. It is clear as day that you and Colin would make a perfect match. Penny and I have known it for years! I believe there are others who see it, too.”

  Sophie opened her mouth to speak, but her sister cut her off. It was not an altogether unfortunate incident, since Sophie had no idea what—if anything—she might say in her own defense. It occurred to her that the brow shaping might have somehow altered Rachel’s thought processes. Temporary insanity, perhaps? Surely, there had to be some explanation for the preposterous turn this conversation had taken.

  “You know, I daresay you and Colin are the only ones who have not yet realized the sensible nature of such a match. You are well suited to each other, from soup to nuts, and would make such a happy union. Very satisfying, I would think.” Rachel grinned. “In the drawing room and everywhere else, I’d say.”

  No need to ask what she meant. The implication was clear.

  Sophie couldn’t stand another moment of nonsense. She raised a hand, sharply curtailing the flow of words. Rachel’s rosebud mouth snapped shut, giving her the look of a fish caught on a hook, which inspired within Sophie a small jolt of satisfaction.

  Let us not forget who the eldest sister here is, Sophie thought smugly. Too bad Penny and Rachel have been acting merry as grigs. It is time for them to remember themselves.

  “I will not abide such talk, not from you and Penny or from anyone else for that matter. It is unnecessary, uncalled for, and completely undeserved.” Sophie pushed a canary-yellow tea cozy down onto the Brown Betty teapot and went on, “Colin and I are just friends, nothing more. We have never been otherwise, and the arrangement suits us both quite well. All I ask from you and Penny is some respect, Rachel. You cannot speak so flippantly about hearts and attachments. I realize you want everyone to find a match, but if I ever decide to find a parti for my own heart, I will need no assistance from either you or Penny. Do you understand?”

  She directed the tea trolley toward the closed kitchen door. Before she pushed through into the hallway, however, she waited for a reply.

  Rachel, looking younger than her years, said softly, “I do, and I am sorry if I have angered you.”

  A long sigh, then a shake of her head. “I am not angry, dear. I just don’t wish to be the object of anyone’s—not even yours or Penny’s—speculation.”

  “I understand.” Then, lightening considerably as Sophie pushed the trolley into the hallway, Rachel asked, “Has Colin said whether or not Penny is going to tonight’s dance? She is, isn’t she?”

  “I’m sure Colin will tell you, if you ask him,” Sophie called over her shoulder. “Why not join us for tea? Then you can see for yourself just how reckless our dear friend can be on the first morning of the New Year!”

  Chapter 2

  Sophie was grateful to have made it to the Atwell home in one piece. Call it providence, fate, or the hand of God; something had pulled them through the snowy evening in relative safety.

  There had been moments during the short ride when the five occupants of their carriage held onto each other for dear life as the horses’ hooves sought safe footing on the icy, snow-covered cobblestone streets. Their father and Brian had attempted to reassure them, but neither their mother nor the two sisters had been able to put aside their prayers for a safe journey long enough to hear the men’s words. At one point, their carriage tilted to one side, throwing them all into an untidy heap against the door. Somehow the driver coaxed the horses onward and out of the rut to continue on.

  It was no surprise, then, that their father intended to convey his family home at an hour earlier than he would have done if the weather had not been so thoroughly inauspicious. Sophie was all in fav
or of turning around and heading home this very minute, but she had been outvoted. They had made it this far, the others reasoned, so why not stay for at least a short while?

  Elbow room was not in short supply in the upstairs bedroom that had been readied for ladies, so she did not feel selfish sitting before the looking glass for an extra few minutes. Her primping had been done at home and her hair curled and sprayed so well it had hardly moved despite the harrowing journey, but she still sat and stared at herself, lost in a reverie, while Rachel fussed beside her.

  “Oh, I do hope the snow lets up some,” Rachel wailed. She licked a finger, and then slicked a wispy tendril near her right temple back into place. Deftly, she inserted a hairpin, effectively securing the wayward strand. “I wondered if Father might turn the carriage right around when the horses drove us into that rut. We are fortunate we did not break a wheel, or worse.”

  “What could possibly be worse than standing outside in a snowstorm waiting for a carriage wheel to be replaced?” To her knowledge, their old, hardly-ever-used carriage did not possess a spare wheel. The ones that were on it were the only ones they could afford. If one had broken, they would be left quite without resources, but she did not point that out.

  “But, Sophie, we could have spilled out the door and onto the snow when the carriage tilted. We would have been wet, our dresses ruined beyond repair, and the evening truly spoiled. That would have been much worse, I dare say!”

  Rachel pinched her cheeks, bringing a rosy tint to her skin. With a snort of annoyance, she rummaged in her bag. It was a tiny evening bag, with a dainty drawstring closure, and as such should not have been able to hold a preponderance of items. Still, Rachel determinedly pored through its contents until she found what she wanted. With a victorious cry, she held up a tiny vial of Pear’s Liquid Blooms of Roses. In seconds, Rachel’s cheeks looked in full bloom and a satisfied smile pulled her lips upward.