grinned. ‘How did you hear about the Serpentine?’
‘The same way the rest of England did—in the papers. I dare say I’ve heard of every scrape you’ve been in since you were fifteen.’
‘Good Lord, I hope not. Some of them were never meant for ladies’ ears.’
‘No one has ever had cause to call me faint-hearted,’ she said with pride. ‘You know I’ve never cared for what people say of me. You never did either.’
The challenge hung in the air between them, and Sophie held her breath. For a moment she thought she had done it, that he would tell her what haunted him, but then he grimaced and the light in his eyes died. The mask was back.
‘Now I do,’ he said, his voice harsh, ‘and it is past time you did too.’
‘I never thought to see the day I could say this with honesty. I don’t like you, Charles. I can’t abide the person you have become. You are closed, cold, and cruel.’
‘Good. It’s better that way.’ His voice was as remote as his expression.
‘Why are you trying to drive me away?’ she whispered.
His eyes closed. He was fighting some inner battle while she waited alone. He knelt and took her hands. His were warm. He smelled of masculine things, smoke and expensive cologne and raw male sensuality. ‘Things have changed,’ he said gently. ‘You are right, I’ve changed. We cannot be to each other what we once were.’
‘Why not?’ She had to fight to keep the anguish from her voice.
‘Don’t, Sophie,’ he said, dropping her hands and rising. ‘If you only knew how hard it has been.’ He was pacing now and she was shaking. ‘And you come along and make it so much more difficult.’ He turned to her. ‘You’re not…I cannot…’ It was panic in his voice and on his face. Something out of proportion for the situation as she knew it. He began to pace again.
He stopped. ‘Listen, Sophie, let’s agree to be friends, then. I cannot offer any more. Please.’
He was hurting and, in some way she didn’t understand, it was her fault. She wanted to ease his pain, wanted to know what it was that frightened him. ‘We have always been friends, Charles. We always will be.’
‘Thank you.’ His relief was palpable.
Confused, she bent back to her forgotten task. The tiny pearls blurred as she fought the tears that threatened.
‘Here, let me help you, then I shall escort you to Mother.’
She blinked furiously. He didn’t truly wish for her friendship either, he just wanted to be rid of her.
They worked quietly for a moment before he said, ‘I believe there are some still trapped in the creature’s jaws.’
Sophie struggled to regain some semblance of herself. Never would she allow him to see the depth of her humiliation. She summoned a smile from some buried vein of strength she didn’t know she possessed. ‘Shall I leave them to you, then?’
He made a face and knelt down, picking a jewel from the crocodile’s teeth. ‘You always did leave the nasty work to me.’
‘How can you say so?’ she protested, leaning back on her heels. ‘I believe it was I who pulled the leeches off you when you would go into the South Bog after those berries.’
‘Very true,’ he returned, ‘but who had to muck out the gardener’s shed when you decided to raise a goat in there?’
Her smile was a true one this time. At least they had not lost this, the ease they felt together. It had been present since their first meeting and was the part of their relationship that she would have mourned most. Perhaps she could be content with this. ‘Poor William,’ she sighed. ‘He’s still a terror, you know.’
He made a strange, strangled noise. ‘William!’ He began to chuckle. ‘I’d forgotten the goat’s name.’ He began to laugh in earnest again. ‘Because Billy was undignified!’ he whooped, and set himself off again into gales of laughter.
This time she joined in, because it was easier to laugh than to cry.
‘Ah, Sophie,’ he said a minute later as he wiped his eye, ‘we always laughed, didn’t we?’ He leaned in close to pass her his handful of pearls, his gaze suddenly serious and locked with hers. ‘I’d forgotten how much I missed it.’
Now it was her turn to experience a twinge of panic. He was close, so close. He looked relaxed, almost happy now that he had settled her firmly in a distant sphere.
Biting her lip, she asked herself just what it was she wanted. She scarcely knew. She’d come to London telling herself she only wanted to renew their friendship. Now he offered just that and she felt—what? Disappointment. Dissatisfaction. She yearned for that connection that lit her insides, ignited her passion, made her feel whole.
Very well, she breathed deep. She would take what was offered. For now.
She schooled her expression and lifted her gaze to meet his.
But didn’t.
Because his was locked on her mouth, and the atmosphere had suddenly, subtly changed. She could almost feel the hot touch of his gaze as it travelled down the column of her neck and across the expanse of her shoulder. The air between them danced with the hard beat of her pulse.
Slowly, his hand rose. Sophie’s eyes closed as, whisper-soft, his fingers brushed along her collarbone. Her head tilted as he caressed the one heavy lock that lay against her nape.
It was the tinkling of the scattering seed pearls slipping through her fingers that allowed sanity to intrude. Just in time, too, for once she was released from the sensual spell of Charles’s touch, her brain began to process what her ears had been trying to relay.
‘I’m sure he must be in here, dear, I left him here gathering up the jewels from my dress.’
Lady Dayle. Right outside the door. Sophie only hoped it was the proximity of the viscountess that caused the horrified expression on her son’s face as they both clambered to their feet.
‘There you are, my darlings.’ Lady Dayle had a distinctly sour-looking Miss Ashford in tow. ‘Haven’t you found all those pearls yet? I was just telling Miss Ashford about our plans for a picnic, Charles, and felt sure you wouldn’t mind if I invited her along.’
‘What plans are those, Mother?’
Charles walked away without a second glance, and Sophie had the distinct impression that that look of horror would have been there even had his mother not appeared.
Chapter Five
Perfect morning light, a soft haze of chalk dust, the quiet scratch of a pen—it was a recipe for contentment. Alone in her room, enveloped in her beloved things, Sophie should have been content. Ecstatic, even.
She wasn’t, because the air also hung with the heady fragrance of lilacs. He had remembered her favourite flower. A glorious full vase of lilacs rested on her dressing table, their scent teasing her, their beauty distracting her, the card that had accompanied them tempting her to read it just one more time.
Friends, then.
That was all it said, all he offered.
Sophie flung down her pen and gave up her work as a lost cause. It was time she was honest with herself, she thought as she began to pace the room. Her real problem, the true source of her agitation, was the certain realisation that what he offered was not enough.
She wanted the old Charles back, him and their rich, easy friendship. She wanted the laughing, carefree Charles, the one who, when left alone with a pretty girl, would have gone far beyond one burning caress.
She pressed one hand to the spot he had touched and dug her other palm into her brow. She was mourning the passing of a rake! She