Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  “You ransacked my workshop.”

  “I was—” Julian stared down at his hands, cupped as though to carry water. “I do not mean this as an excuse. I don’t believe I behaved like a good or even sane man would. But I have come to realize that I clung to the notion of your guilt for my own benefit. To cure myself of you.”

  Julian looked up again, steady, sincere. “Sophie, I will never be cured of you. I will love you to my grave, whether or not I ever see you again, whether or not you can ever love me back.”

  “Julian…” Sophie hesitated, but he waited patiently, and she knew he would keep waiting. Forever. Unless she opened her mouth and put a stop to it. “I hated being in love with you. I was glad when it was over. I still am.”

  Julian stood. His expression shuttered.

  Sophie scooted off the desk and reached out to lay a gentling hand on his chest, but he backed away, out of reach. She offered a little helpless nod before wordlessly crossing to the door.

  “Sophie.”

  She paused with her hand on the knob.

  “You were happy.”

  “Maybe I was.” Sophie shrugged and opened the door. “But that’s not what I remember.”

  The look of utter devastation on Julian’s face lingered in her mind as she made her way through the dim corridors, like the imprint of a flame in one’s vision after the fire has been extinguished. She paused in front of a mirror to right her appearance, but Julian played lady’s maid as well as he did everything else—she looked just as she should.

  As she approached the public rooms she heard music, the chatter of conversation, glasses clinking. A surge of utter revulsion soured her stomach. She didn’t want to face the stares she knew were inevitable; could hardly spare a thought for William Allsop, who’d rendered himself permanently irrelevant to her at some point in the past hour.

  Quietly, she slipped into the courtyard. The number of dancing couples had gone down by at least half, and the seats pushed up against the walls were all empty. Sophie occupied an empty chair, thinking she’d take a moment to gather her strength before trying to mingle.

  “Would you like to know a secret?”

  Sophie started, turning toward the voice. The handsome stranger Julian had warned her to avoid sat right next to her, hands clasped between slightly parted legs. He was even more striking up close, with alabaster skin and luminous pale eyes.

  “Yes,” Sophie replied. “I would like to know a secret.”

  “That scar is your most beautiful feature.”

  That scar… what? Sophie raised her hand, prepared to deliver a hard slap to the man’s gorgeous, dramatically hollowed cheek. Cheek, indeed.

  “Go on, I don’t mind.” He turned his head to the side, giving her a greater surface area to strike at. “Do you know what happens to a man after he’s been slapped a few dozen times?”

  Sophie hesitated, arm frozen in the air. “No, what?”

  “Well, he—I, that is, I might as well be clear that I’m talking about myself—I cease to respond in the desired way. Why should I object when, thus far, every woman to slap me has raised her skirts for me mere hours afterward?”

  Sophie forgot about slapping him and stood instead. “I shall spare myself the pleasure, thank you.”

  “So you say,” he replied, unruffled. He didn’t sound as though he believed her.

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. By what definition could this be called seduction? “And how do you plan to change my mind?”

  “Well, it’s different for every woman, but in your case: Would you like to know a secret?”

  A small smile twitched involuntarily at her lips. A reflex, she would have said. She simply didn’t know how to react to such an affront. “You are vile.”

  “You didn’t wonder if I had ulterior motives? In any case, it’s true: The scar is your most beautiful feature.” The stranger leaned back against his chair, stretching his legs. His lean, muscular thighs were long enough to serve double duty as fence posts. Sophie quickly looked away, up into his knowing eyes. “I wager you were pretty enough before you had that mark. But I doubt you ever stood out.”

  Sophie cocked her head to the side. “Just so. But a defect that makes me ‘stand out’ is hardly my most beautiful feature. Unless you mean to tell me the rest have since diminished to equal hideousness?”

  “I love a pretty girl. I love ugly ones, too. I won’t lie: I’m not very discriminating. I don’t see the point.” The stranger smiled a small, bitter smile. “But we aren’t talking about me. The scar makes your face interesting. Beauty—well, one version of it, at any rate; there are many—is just the combination of interesting and pretty. That’s how you became beautiful—and that’s why your scar is your best feature.”

  Sophie was stunned. She couldn’t reply for a moment, but when she did it came from the bottom of her heart. “Thank you,” she said. “That may be the finest compliment I have ever received.”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows, thin, one of them a perfect arch and the other crooked. No wonder he had such a finely tuned notion of beauty. He was, himself, utterly magnificent—but bizarrely so. Some features exaggerated, others irregular. All of them extraordinary, in the sense of being… not ordinary.

  From the corner of her eye, Sophie saw Julian enter the room. He’d restored his own appearance to its former perfection, down to a fresh, elegantly tied cravat. That horrible devastated look flashed across his face again as their eyes met, then disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Guilt rippled through Sophie and, defiantly, she sat back down next to the stranger.

  Julian, his lips quite white, strode on out of the courtyard.

  “Ah. Clive got to you first. I should have guessed—you’ve a lovely flush to your cheeks.”

  Sophie whirled on the stranger, ready to deliver a stinging reply, only to be knocked sideways by déjà vu. The stranger, whoever he was, wore the same expression of despair she’d just seen on Julian’s face. Masked, as Julian had tried to mask it. But she’d been primed; she recognized it. “You’re very unhappy, aren’t you?”

  He seemed taken aback. Then, a strange, awful smile twisting his lips, he nodded. “Every morning when I wake I consider clawing my eyes out, and every night when I go to sleep I consider blowing my brains out.”

  Sophie swept the room with a considering glance. They sat in the torchlit courtyard. People had taken note of her tête-à-tête, and they would judge her. No doubt they’d already begun. But she wanted to reach out to this man as she could not to Julian; Julian would mistake her kindness for something more. The stranger might see it for what it was. “Would you like to dance?”

  The stranger’s smile widened. “Halfway.”

  “Halfway? You mean the set? We’ll wait for the next one to start.”

  “No, I mean I’m about halfway to convincing you to make love with me.” He blinked. “Would you rather I not tell you how I’m doing?”

  Sophie began to laugh.

  “Pity is a surprisingly effective aphrodisiac,” he continued, leaning a little closer to her.

  Julian returned to the ballroom and took the seat on the stranger’s other side, his posture relaxed and friendly. “Lord Kingston,” he said, not looking at Sophie.

  “Clive,” replied the stranger, nodding a greeting.

  “This conversation is over.” Julian smiled with great warmth. “You will stand up, bow, and take yourself elsewhere. If I see you speaking with Miss Roe again, at any time, for any reason, I will have you killed.”

  “You see how he tempts me,” drawled the stranger—Kingston—rising to his feet and bowing low over Sophie’s hand. He let his eyes linger very obviously on her bosom. “I’d die a happy man, Miss Roe.”

  He winked, nodded briefly at Julian, and promptly cut in on a dancing couple. He had no trouble stealing the woman away from her partner.

  Sophie stared at her lap, smarting from Julian’s intervention.
>
  “I won’t apologize,” said Julian.

  She squeaked and jumped to her feet.

  “Sophie?” Julian’s brows drew together. “Oh—Clive’s note. I beg your pardon, I wasn’t thinking.” He rose and stood at her side, shepherding her on out of the courtyard. “I’m sorry to insist, but Kingston has done terrible damage to the lives of undeserving women. I’d rather not count you among them.”

  Sophie nodded. She hadn’t felt like she was in any danger, but Kingston had seemed to understand her at a glance. Unnerving, to say the least. “Julian?”

  “Sophie?” He looked at her, his blue gaze expectant, open. Even still.

  Sophie’s heart squeezed tight. “I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

  “Your intentions are irrelevant.” Julian sighed, sounding tired. “Some things can’t be said kindly. In any case, I haven’t given up.”

  Sophie’s lips twitched.

  “It amuses you to contemplate the many opportunities you’ll have to cut me down?”

  “Of course not.” The twitch broadened into a smile. “But I hate to think that anyone could bring you low. Even me.” Sophie ducked her head. “Especially me.”

  “And so you see?” Julian shook his head. “Hope. My least favorite emotion. I suggest you find your aunt and uncle. They’re worried.”

  “You won’t forget about Clive the Ninth?”

  “Calculating thing, aren’t you?” Julian touched the garnet hair clip over her ear again. “That’s why we suit so well, you know. Of course I won’t forget the old duke. If you find any new clues, inform me immediately. I’ll do the same.”

  Julian continued on his way. Sophie, as instructed, sought out her aunt. A number of people stopped her on the way, to express their shock over William’s betrayal and offer support. Several told her, with seeming sincerity, that she’d never looked better—and with Lord Kingston’s compliment still ringing in her ear, she actually believed them.

  Perhaps the scar wasn’t as awful as she’d always thought.

  The mellow notes of a piano saved the rest of the evening. Sophie followed the sound to the music room, where chairs had been arranged in a few short rows around an array of fine instruments and guests had gathered to listen and perform. Sophie took a seat and kept quiet, clapping enthusiastically whenever Laura Tidmarsh played and with more moderate courtesy for the other musicians.

  The carriage deposited the Roes in front of Broadstone Cottage in the wee hours of the morning, tired and yawning. Sophie held her cloak tight around her body to conserve warmth as she picked her way along the path to the door, dreading the chilly bedsheets and looking forward to a deep sleep after warming them up.

  Malcolm fell back from his position at his wife’s side to drape an arm over her shoulders. “Quite a night for you, my girl.”

  Sophie laughed tiredly. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “Though I wonder that His Grace couldn’t have orchestrated a more private discussion. His taste for theatrics troubles me. Your aunt told me that he’d suspected you of some wrongdoing, with regard to his predecessor?”

  “He did,” Sophie answered. “But luckily we were able to clear that up. All is well between us now.”

  “Do you think the new duke will go looking for new suspects?”

  “Should he?” Sophie grasped her uncle’s forearm, let fear contort her features. “Do you suspect a murder, uncle?”

  “Oh, no, of course not.” Mr. Roe patted her hand. “I simply don’t relish the prospect of a scandalmonger holding court at High Bend.”

  “He’s only been back for a short while,” Sophie chided. “Give him time.”

  “You have a woman’s gentle heart, my dear,” Malcolm said warmly. “Everyone was so glad to see you tonight, I most of all. Rediscovering the life you should never have left.”

  Sophie bit back a tart reply. “I’m glad I attended as well.”

  “It’s good to be back on the right path, isn’t it?”

  It will be, Sophie thought. Once she found it.

  Chapter 15

  People made mistakes all the time. Little ones, big ones. Medium-sized, too. Mistakes came in all sizes, to suit every situation. For example, one of High Bend’s excellent servants had filled a beautiful stoneware bowl with unshelled walnuts and kindly, thoughtfully placed it on Julian’s desk.

  Mistake.

  Julian scooped up a handful of walnuts and threw one at a no doubt priceless, quite possibly ancient Chinese vase tastefully placed atop the mantelpiece of his clean, comfortable, well-lit study. He judged the vase to be a foot high. Orange and blue. Fish on it. The vase wobbled, fell from its perch, and shattered. Oops.

  What else was he supposed to do with unshelled walnuts? He didn’t have a nutcracker.

  Julian stood up from his chair, walnuts still in hand, and paced over to take a closer look at the shards. He stepped on the largest fragment, grinding his heel into it to break it into tiny pieces, and collected the walnut he’d thrown.

  Mustn’t waste.

  Julian left his study. He paused in the alcove where the chamber orchestra had played the night before and leaned against the ledge. By the time he’d awoken, the courtyard had been restored to its usual tranquility—potted plants, scattered seating arrangements, bare flagstones. This sort of seamless perfection had been out of his reach as a moderately paid eminence grise of the Crown, and he took a moment to appreciate it.

  The waltz hadn’t been a mistake. In an evening rife with disaster, it might have been the only thing he’d done right. He’d shown her something she hated to acknowledge, in a way that didn’t frighten her.

  In the old days, he’d tried teasing her about her poor memory:

  “Your memory isn’t as bad as you think it is, you know.”

  “You don’t understand, Julian. If I remove a necklace in the evening and don’t place it directly in my maid’s hand, it will be lost by morning. Every time!”

  “That’s one example, Sophie. Tell me this: Does your uncle form an open loop when he writes the letter ‘l’, or a closed loop?”

  “Closed,” she answered immediately.

  “What about your aunt?”

  “Open.”

  “When was the last time you saw a sample of either of their handwriting?”

  She looked up, panic already tightening her cheeks and forehead. “I don’t know. A few days—no—last week—maybe?”

  He’d checked her answers against actual writing samples, and she’d been right in both cases. She remembered when it mattered. He’d often thought Sophie fixated so intently on how much she forgot so she wouldn’t have to think about what, exactly, she cared to remember.

  She remembered loving him, she remembered trusting him. She remembered his body and how well they’d once fit together. She just didn’t want to.

  “Your Grace?” The polite, officious voice belonged to Vasari Jones, who stood at attention a few feet behind Julian. He’d dressed somberly this morning, at least by his unique standards, wearing brown tweed but for a red waistcoat that clashed horribly with his orange hair.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?”

  Jones coughed into his fist. “I’d like to speak about something that I could do for you, rather.”

  Julian raised an eyebrow, but Jones didn’t flinch.

  “If you have a moment to spare,” added the secretary, with a slow slide of his eyes from one end of the empty alcove to the other.

  “Why don’t we retire to my study?” Julian led the way. He took a seat behind the massive desk and leaned into the deep armchair, lacing his fingers over his belly. A picture of noble forbearance, he knew, and wanted Jones to see it as well.

  Jones unrolled a sheet of thick vellum and placed on the desk between them, blank side up. He’d positioned it close to his side of the desk, so that Julian couldn’t flip it over without leaning forward to grab at it, a sign of eagerness his posture had just promised he wouldn’t display.

  Damn. Nicely
done.

  “Go on,” Julian drawled.

  “I would like to thank you again for inviting me to attend last night’s festivities,” Jones began. “It was kind of you to think of me, and—”

  Julian interrupted. “Get to the point, Mr. Jones. Unless your goal is to bore me to death.”

  Jones ruffled his hair and then, nervously, shifted the face-down paper a few inches to the right. “Of course. I’d hoped to discuss a subject of a rather delicate nature, requiring some small preliminaries—”

  Julian sighed and let him blather on; interrupting just slowed the fellow down. He started counting, instead. If he made it to thirty and Jones hadn’t flipped over that cursed sheet of paper, Julian would do it himself.

  “It has come to my attention that you hold Miss Sophia Roe in very high esteem,” said Jones.

  Julian snapped out of his reverie. “I thought I’d asked you to cease your reports on Miss Roe.”

  Jones spread his hands, empty, hiding nothing. “I obeyed. I have no report.”

  Julian let the silence grow uncomfortable before he spoke again. “Choose your words carefully, Mr. Jones.”

  “Perhaps I would do better to abandon this attempt at delicacy and speak plainly.” Jones fiddled with the knot of his cravat. “If you seek Miss Roe’s hand in marriage, I can tell you how to obtain it.”

  Julian went still. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against his index finger, just to test his muscle control, and then leaned forward in the chair. He stared at the overturned paper, now, with barely restrained avarice. “I’m listening.”

  Vasari Jones flipped over the sheet to reveal a densely written document, which he pushed across the table. Large letters at the top declared it to be Mr. Harold Roe’s last will and testament. Sophie’s father. The date at the top read 1818, some five years before Harold and his wife Catherine had died in a boating accident, and it was every bit as perfunctory as could be expected. Harold would have been in his early thirties at the time, an age when drawing up a will must have seemed more like zealous housekeeping than an essential personal accounting.