HE DIDN’T KNOW what he had done, just that he had done something. Besides being kissed by her, that is.
He wanted to inquire more, but they had only a few moments between the library and the drawing room, and he didn’t want to get into a discussion where anybody could see them.
It worried him; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking now. Her face looked as though someone had drawn a curtain down, her usual lively expression dimmed.
They stepped back into the drawing room, her slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back, just grazing the fabric of her gown with his knuckles. He wished they hadn’t ever left the library, that they were still there, kissing, or her teasing him about books and their laughing together.
“Jamie, you have been an age! What could you and Sophronia have gotten up to for so long?”
His mother didn’t mean to be shocking, of course; she never did. But all the same, most of the rest of the party smothered chuckles, except for Mrs. Green, who glowered.
She might be the most unpleasant woman he had ever met, but at least she was consistently unpleasant.
“As you are well aware, Mother, I am fascinating when I want to be.” He assisted Sophronia into a chair beside his mother. “And my betrothed finds me infinitely fascinating. Don’t you, Sophy?”
He grinned at her, hoping she would burst out laughing or say something cutting in response. But she merely lifted a brow and nodded, biting her lip. To stifle a laugh, or a rebuttal? And why was he feeling so torn up about what her reaction might possibly be?
“We were just discussing the plans for tomorrow,” the viscountess said. “Mrs. Green has suggested we make a game of finding a suitable tree for decorating. The team who finds the best tree has the honor of—well, what does the team have the honor of doing, Mrs. Green?”
The lady surveyed the house party with a considering air. “The winning team members will be allowed to stand under the mistletoe with the person of their choosing.”
Not bad, Mrs. Green, not bad at all. He would have to make sure he or Sophy won, just so he would have the privilege of kissing her in front of all these people.
Of staking his claim to her, even though they both knew—and only they knew—that the claim was a temporary one.
But meanwhile, he didn’t know if he could wait until tomorrow to kiss her again, now that he’d tasted the sweetness of her lips, and felt how she responded to him.
Actually, he did know if he could wait. And the answer was no, he couldn’t.
THE KNOCK CAME just after Maria had gone, leaving Sophronia in blissful anticipation of a comfortable book, a warm fire, and an hour before she thought she should try to be in bed.
Thankfully, Mrs. Green’s dictatorial ways extended to telling her guests when they should be tucked up in their rooms, and the lady insisted everyone get a good night’s sleep since the holiday tree-hunting expedition was likely to be strenuous.
Sophronia didn’t argue since it meant more time away from the lies they were telling, and Mrs. Archer, whom Sophronia found she liked more each time they were together.
Yes, the woman was talkative, and somewhat silly, but she had such a good heart, and she loved her son so much, even if she didn’t entirely understand him.
It made Sophronia feel even more terrible that she and Mrs. Archer’s son were lying to her face, and she knew that Mrs. Archer would be devastated when she learned that Sophronia had died. Even though it hopefully wouldn’t be true.
But that wasn’t answering the door, was it?
Of course she knew who it was on the other side; it wasn’t as though there was anyone else at the house who would be knocking at eleven o’clock at night. She walked to the door, tightening her wrapper but still feeling dangerously underdressed.
Not because he would necessarily get carried away, but because she would. She definitely had not expected that kiss to be so . . . meaningful. Important. Wonderful.
Yes, many words for describing one thing. As seemed to be the case when she thought about him, or that, or how this holiday was both the most wonderful and the most painful one she’d ever had.
She pulled the lock and opened the door, stepping aside to let him in. He wasn’t dressed for sleeping, as she was, but he was more casually clothed than before—he had removed his cravat and coat, and wore only his shirt and trousers. He had his hands full with something, but she didn’t notice that, because she was too distracted—now that his cravat was off, she could see his strong neck and a few tufts of hair peeking over the collar of his shirt.
Those hairs made her feel all sorts of new and strange feelings.
“What are you doing here?” Because she was fairly certain he wasn’t here so she could admire the hair on his chest.
He grinned and held up what was in his hands—two glasses and a bottle of wine. “I’m here to strategize how we’re going to win the tree-finding contest tomorrow.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “And for that we need wine?”
He shook his head and strode past her to place the wine and glasses on her bedside table, then sat down on the bed. Her bed. “The wine isn’t for strategizing, Sophycakes, it’s for fun.” He paused, then a sly grin twisted his lips. “We do know how to have fun together, don’t we?”
Sophronia immediately felt her face turn not pink, but thoroughly and absolutely red. She doubted a sunset at the end of a summer day was more red than she was at this moment.
He was watching her, and his grin turned into full-out laughter, but not as though he was enjoying her discomfiture, but as though he was gleeful about it all. About his being here, and them together, and their kiss from earlier before.
She could do this. Hadn’t she vowed to give herself permission to have fun? She went and plopped next to him on the bed, the motion pushing them together. “Well, open that bottle, then, and let’s strategize.”
HE DIDN’T THINK he had ever laughed so much in his entire life. His Sophronia—not Sophycakes, she’d informed him in a mockingly supercilious tone—turned out to be even more fun when he was alone with her.
That is, even more fun when he was alone with her and not kissing her. He still thought kissing her was just slightly more fun than making elaborate plans to lure their competitors to a sparse bit of forest. Not that they knew where said sparse bit of forest was, nor how they would succeed in luring the others there, but they had a stupidly fun time talking about it.
“And then, when you’ve done your job and brought them to where they’re all somewhere else, I’ll fell the best tree and drag it back to the house.”
She looked at him askance. “All by yourself?”
Jamie felt the sting of masculine pride. “You don’t believe I can handle a tree on my own?”
She took the last swallow of her wine, and he poured her another glass. “No, I don’t.”
He reached for her glass and set it on the table, then took her hand and put it on his bicep. And flexed.
At which point, her eyes widened, and his masculine pride was assuaged. But now other parts of him wished to be assuaged—namely, to have her run her hands all over him, not just on his arm.
“Uh,” she said, not letting go. If anything, squeezing harder.
It was difficult to keep his muscle flexed for so long, but if it kept that wondrous look on her face, he’d do it.
“Have I rendered you speechless?” he asked, feeling rather at a loss for words himself. Mostly because his mouth would prefer to be doing something else.
She scowled and dropped her hand from his arm, but then launched herself at him, knocking them both over onto the bed. She lowered her mouth to his and kissed him, this time with much more finesse than the first time.
His Sophycakes was a fast learner, it seemed.
He allowed her to take what she so obviously wanted, opening his mouth to let her tongue in, reaching his arm across her body and letting his hand rest just below her breast on her rib cage. Although that was not, technically, what she wanted, but he figured that if he wanted it, it was a likely thing she did, as well.
And oh, how he wanted it.
Clothed in her sleepwear, she was less unapproachable goddess and more . . . approachable. Although that was an inane thought, given that they were each doing plenty of approaching at this very moment.
She twisted so she was nearly underneath him, her hand caressing his back, her other hand in his hair. He felt her softness everywhere, and it was more amazing than he would have imagined.
So amazing, in fact, that he had to stop before it was too late, and they were betrothed in truth.
He reluctantly broke the kiss, hearing their gasping breaths in the otherwise silent room.
“What is it?” she said, a dazed look in her eye.
He knew how she felt.
“If we don’t stop, we might never stop, and then—” He paused, not quite sure how to phrase it.
“You’ll feel worse about killing me off?” she said in a dry voice.
He laughed, albeit somewhat uncomfortably. Being with her had ameliorated his restless spirit, for certain, but he still felt the pull of the unknown, of continually moving so he didn’t have to settle down. Or be anything more than he was.
Was that enough? Would it always be enough?
Or was there something more? Something . . . different that was possible?
Images of his father, how he’d just sat on the sofa and drunk wine—rather as Jamie was doing tonight, although on a bed, not a sofa—crowded his brain, making him acutely aware that this might lead him to that very same dissatisfied spot.
He rolled over onto his back, his body immediately regretting the loss of her. Well, his brain did as well, but his brain also shied away from that fact.
“It’s just I don’t wish to—” he began, only to have her cut him off.
“I know. I wouldn’t think you meant anything by it.” She gave a half laugh. “Besides which, it was me who made the first charge. None of this,” she said, and waved her hands in the air, “means anything. I know that. It’s just”—and he heard how her breath caught, and his throat thickened—“it’s just that it feels so wonderful.” She laughed softly. “And wondrous, and amazing, and all sorts of other words I’ve likely never heard of.”
He rolled onto his side, propping his head in his hand. She turned her head to look at him, and they were so close, he could see her brown eyes had flecks of green and gold within, and there was a very faint mole on her eyelid.
He wanted to kiss that mole. And everywhere else on her face.
“I feel the same way,” he said softly, surprised to find it was true. He’d never been with a woman who intrigued him as much when he was not doing inappropriate things with her as when he was.
“But I know I can’t have you forever,” she said. “Nor would I want to,” she added quickly, once again stirring up Jamie’s masculine pride. “I know you are restless, and I—I just want a place to belong.”
He wished he could give that to her. But he knew himself, and what’s more, he knew what she wanted—a cottage somewhere, a cottage he’d promised he’d give her when they’d entered into their bargain.
That sounded like slow death to him—staying in the same place, knowing the same people, seeing the same things.
It was better this way. It was.
He looked at her for a moment longer, then got off the bed and stood, gazing down at her. Her face was still flushed, her lips red and swollen, and he wished he were enough of a cad to take what she would likely give him, if he coaxed her.
But he wasn’t, and so she wouldn’t, and therefore he should go before the temptation of her outweighed the honor of him.
“Good night, Sophronia,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked quickly out the door, before he had the chance to change his mind.