Page 8 of Love Unraveled
Caught off guard, she’d said his name. Gaston could not possibly be familiar with English society, so there should be nothing to worry about. Still, as a spy for the Crown who worked on the perimeter of the law, Laurence could easily put many people in a dangerous position. She’d not cared about her own welfare, hadn’t for years. Not since she’d lost Gaston. But she was not immune to fear on behalf of others and usually spoke with caution.
“Laurence?” Gaston repeated the name, nudging her to respond, the scowl back on his face.
Once again, it made her heart soften slightly. He’d been wary. Perhaps even jealous. It was an emotion she could accept. And one she liked after all these years. For one could not be jealous of something one did not want.
“A friend who needed a place to stay. He will be gone soon.”
Gaston studied her, his brow finally relaxing as he took another sip of cognac.
Sophia watched him, expecting him to say something, but he did not. “Where have you been?” she finally blurted out, hurt and confusion melding into one emotion. She was happy he was here. He was alive. But what of the years in between? The long, lonely years?
Gaston leaned forward in his chair as though to speak, and a tap sounded at the door.
Sophia wanted to scream at Harris, but she did not. Instead, she put her glass down, stomped across the room, and yanked the door open. Harris’s expression was appropriately startled, then instantly contrite, and Sophia calmed. She would not direct her anger at him nor at Raimondo and Stefano, who hovered in the background and, in all probability, had put Harris up to interrupting them.
“The day is fading, my lady,” Harris said, quickly recovered. “May I light the lamps?”
He was, as always, right. The room was growing noticeably gloomy. The days were not yet long enough for Sophia. She far preferred summer, when the sun shone for a few extra hours into the evening. She held no fondness for nighttime—except for one night.
“Of course.” Sophia stepped aside so he could enter. “Vai via nonni,” she said, shooing Raimondo and Stefan. Despite the vexation still gnawing at her, she bit back a smile as they grumped away. They hated to be called grandpas.
She stood by the door until Harris was done, watching Gaston stare at the contents of his glass. In the wavering lamplight, he seemed a chimera, a fabrication of her imagination. If she pinched herself, would she awake to find him gone?
“Shall I set the fire, my lady?”
“No, it is warm enough. That will be all. I will ring if I need anything.”
Harris nodded and moved to step past her.
“Oh, you can keep my men out of my hair, no?”
“Yes, my lady,” he said without batting an eyelid.
How did the English do it? Keep such a wooden countenance? She could paint on an expression if needed for subterfuge, but she could not live like a marionette. No, she could not be a puppet for anybody. She’d pulled her own strings for years and would not hand the controls to anyone. She stared at Gaston.Anyone.
Sophia strode back to the sofa and sat, casually adjusting the folds of her dress, taking her time as though it was the only thing of importance to do. When she looked up, Gaston’s dark eyes peered into hers.
“I believed in you. In us.” She held his gaze, wondering if he could sense the pain behind her neutral tone. “Why did you not come back for me?”
Chapter Five
What did I feel that night? You are curious. How should I tell?
—Alfred Lord Tennyson, “Despair”
Sophie was aimingfor nonchalance, but even after such a length of time apart, Gaston could see the torment in her eyes, hear it in her voice. It was a knife in his heart. How many days had he pictured her ready for him by the window, the hours passing, the bitter disappointment she must have felt? Her distress. Her hurt. How many nights had he dreamed of making love to her, holding her, only to wake and find his arms empty?
“I do not know where to begin,” he said, running a hand through his hair. So much was embedded in his brain, but much was lost as well.
“I should think where we left off would be appropriate.” Sophie rested back against a cushion. Her finger tapping lightly on the arm of the sofa was the only indication she was not as indifferent as she was now trying to appear to be.
“Oui,” he said. “Où nous nous sommes quittés,” he said, repeating Sophie, his mind racing. How could he possibly convey all that had happened since? He could not relax like her. Instead, he set his glass down and perched on the edge of the chair. “After I left you the night we…” He struggled to put delicately into words the memories of that night. He cleared his throat. “The night we were together, I returned to the stables. I awoke in the morning to find out the news that Austria was to takeVenise. It seemed a good thing until I stepped into the streets. Napoleon’s men were raiding, destroying everything they could not take with them.”
“I know this.”
“Naturalmente.” He waved away Sophie’s interruption. “I say it only to remind you of what was happening that day.
“I need no reminders. I lived it, no?” She swiped at her dress as though irritated, then looked back up at him. “And not for a day. Too many days. It was a time of great fear, and I faced it alone.”
