Page 56 of To Woo and to Wed
She swallowed. “You would have changed your mind eventually—youwillchange your mind,” she corrected. “You can’t mean to be a monk.”
“If I have done so for the past four years—and then close enough for the three before that—then I don’t have any notion of what I mean to do,” he said evenly.
Her frown deepened. “But then—” Her eyes widened.
He waited, ignoring the ache crawling up his leg.
“You have not—that one night—”
“Afternoon, really,” he said. “But yes.” He hesitated. “There were—during the years that you were married, once I recovered, there were other women. Not frequently, but when I… I couldn’t bear it.” He’d closed his eyes, and tried not to picture her face. “But after that afternoon… there’s been no one.”
“Butwhy?”
“Because,” he said simply, “you had ruined me.”
And then he leaned down and kissed her.
There was less hesitation in this kiss than there had been a few nights earlier, on Lady Worthington’s terrace; their bodies remembered each other now, and fell back into the rhythm that had once come so naturally to them: his hand cupping her cheek, their tonguestangling together, her fingers curling around his neck. Time seemed to slow, and all he was aware of was the feeling of her warm body pressed against his, the silkiness of her hair in his hands.
Another feeling, however, was slowly beginning to crowd in around the edges, an arc of pain lancing up through his leg as he rested more of his weight upon it. It had been a long day, and he’d gone riding that afternoon, and his leg was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it did not appreciate this treatment.
“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked, pulling away from him in response to some infinitesimal signal from his body. She was flushed and utterly lovely, her golden hair mussed and slipping out of its coiffure.
“No,” he said, and reached out to pull her up out of her seat. She tugged him by the cravat and drew his mouth down to hers.
This time, she controlled the kiss, and he was happy to let her; he, who had to be in control in so many other aspects of his life, who kept himself so perfectly contained at all times, was pleased enough to relinquish that control here, where there was no one else to see. Her hands were at his cravat still, hastily unknotting it, and soon she had it loose and the warmth of her hand was at his throat, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He shrugged out of his coat, and then her hands were at the buttons on his waistcoat and he was sliding it off a moment later, and then she was unbuttoning his shirt, and her fingers were greedy on his skin, the muscles of his abdomen tensing under her whisper-soft touch.
They stumbled drunkenly backward, West drawing her with him through the doorway that connected to his bedroom. It was darker in here, fewer lamps burning, and the low light made her eyes look like dark pools, drinking him in as she broke their kiss and surveyed him for a long moment.
She stepped back, her gaze on him hungry, and he felt himself grow harder under her scrutiny.
“Why do you look… likethat?” she asked, gesturing at him in indignation. She sounded almost annoyed, and also appreciative, all at once.
“I started an exercise regimen, when I was recovering from my accident,” he said. “In an attempt to regain my strength. I found I liked the way it helped me… stop thinking.” Of David, and his death, and his own terrible, overpowering grief and guilt; of Sophie, at first, when all he’d wanted to do was think of her, and doing so was a constant agony; and then, later, when his longing for her had become less all-consuming, he’d come to appreciate the way his mind went blank ofeverythingwhen he was physically exhausted. It was a relief, when he could allow the rest of the world to fade away, even for a little while.
But there were other ways to do that.
Ways that he’d once loved—once made a very frequent habit of.
Ways that had lost their appeal, once he’d lost her.
Until now.
He shrugged off his shirt and walked toward her; when he concentrated, he could control his limp, make it nearly unnoticeable, even if doing so caused him an added degree of pain. Now, however, his limp was heavy, but nothing in her face indicated that she minded it. That she was thinking of the man—nearly a boy—she’d once loved. Instead, appreciation for the man before her was written in every line of her face.
“Now your shoes,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest, regarding him with some anticipation.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and tugged at his shoes; a quickglance at Sophie confirmed that she was watching this display with some appreciation.
“Now your trousers.”
“Are you planning on joining me at any point?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Eventually.”
Something about that look on her face, and the curtness that crept into her tone when she ordered him about, sent more blood rushing south, and he fairly flung off his trousers and smalls and a moment later he was sitting before her, entirely nude. He rose to his feet and took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to stay him.
“Sophie—”
