After Innocence (10 page)

Two riders on horseback veered off the road and came down the driveway at a slow trot, interrupting Edward’s thoughts. He was relieved when he saw Hilary. Not only was she the diversion he now needed, he had left a sealed note for her, one that barely explained his hasty departure. He much preferred explaining his precipitous exit to her himself.

Hilary slid down from her mount, giving him a bright but inquiring smile. He saw that the pudgy young lawyer from Boston was her companion.

“Mr. Delanza!” Hilary carelessly handed the reins to a groom who had come running and approached Edward with a long, breezy stride. “Are you leaving us?”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “Good morning, Mrs. Stewart, Mr. Marten.”

“How very unfortunate,” Hilary murmured, no longer smiling. Her gaze was piercing. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. Just some business that I must take care of immediately.”

“Perhaps we will meet in the city after the summer,” she finally said. “In another two weeks’ time.”

“I count on it,” Edward returned, letting her know that he was not abandoning her.

Her smile flashed; she had understood. “Perhaps it will be even sooner,” she said, and after a few more polite words, free of innuendo, she took her leave of the two men.

Henry Marten had been silent the entire time, and now he stared after her wistfully. “She is very beautiful.”

“She is indeed.”

Henry turned to him, blushing slightly and frankly curious. “She likes you, you know.”

Edward shrugged.

“Do you think—I’ve heard—that she’s not quite, er—” Henry was beet red. “Is there something between the two of you?” he said in a rush.

Edward almost groaned. “I never kiss and tell,” he said truthfully, “and take my advice—neither should you.” Edward reached into the breast pocket of his off-white sack jacket and offered a smoke to Henry, who declined. “We should all be so wise,” he said, deciding not to light up again. Then he saw the carriage finally coming round, and his chest tightened. He did not want to leave, if the truth be known. And he was not thinking of Hilary Stewart.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter, if she likes you.”

Edward raised a brow.

“I mean—you have so many women running after you, don’t you?” Henry flushed. “I’ve heard all the stories, the diamonds, the women—you are a dashing rogue! Everyone knows.”

Henry was so obviously admiring that Edward could not take offense. Edward said nothing—what could he say? Undoubtedly the tales were exaggerated, but he was hardly averse to the secret envy of the men and the open yearning of the women.

Henry sighed. “My cousin thinks I should marry Miss O’Neil.”

Edward jerked.

Henry appeared somewhat downcast. “I am not like you, if you take my meaning. I do not have any woman running after me. I would be lucky to wed an heiress, even one with a small trust like Miss O’Neil.”

Edward was seized with anger, so much so that he did not pause to think of how irrational he was being. “So you will marry her for her money?”

“Doesn’t almost everyone marry for money? But I don’t know,” Henry said, gazing at his jodhpur boots, which were obviously brand-new. “I can’t decide what to do.”

“Why not?”

Henry met his gaze. “That dreadful limp—and she’s odd, too.”

Edward stared, his lips curling down. “So you find her distasteful, do you? But you might marry her anyway?”

Henry hesitated. Seeing Edward’s chilling gaze, he realized he’d made some faux pas, but could not fathom what.

“But you will marry her even though you find her repulsive?” Edward said dangerously.

Henry blanched. “Have I offended you, sir?” he squeaked.

“Answer my question and we shall see.”

“I do not know. I have no wish to marry a cripple. I was told she had the slightest problem, not a serious deformity. But even so, she is quite nice; she’s even pretty, don’t you think? But she is a recluse as well, and an eccentric, did you know? But I’ll probably never find another heiress. Damn! What a coil!”

Edward ground his jaw down. “I dislike the term ‘cripple,’ Mr. Marten. In fact, she is not crippled at all.”

“What?!”

“You heard me.” Edward stared down the young lawyer. “Her right ankle was set improperly when it was broken many years ago—that is all. She is talented and pretty and as normal in every way as you and I—but a far nicer person, it seems.”

“You—you like her?” Henry’s eyes bulged.

“Very much,” Edward said flatly. Then, softly, he said, “She shall be a most intriguing woman, I have no doubt.”

Henry Marten gaped for the second time that morning. When he realized that Edward had picked up his valise, he recovered. “I am sorry! I did not mean to offend you. I wish to be your friend.”

“Do not apologize to me,” Edward said, striding to the carriage. He ignored the coachman and tossed the bag into the backseat himself as if it were a weightless toy. “You owe Miss O’Neil the apology, Mr. Marten. I hope you are man enough to see that she gets it.”

He leapt in and paused. “And for God’s sake, don’t marry her. She doesn’t need your pity—she’s got enough of that as it is. She needs something far different than pity.”

Henry stared after the carriage and Edward Delanza’s linen-clad back as it drove away. He was reeling. Was it possible? Could it be? Edward Delanza, lady-killer without peer, diamond smuggler
extraordinaire,
a present-day pirate and a living legend if the gossip was true, was interested in Miss Sofie O’Neil?

Henry would swear that he was.

S
ofie felt much better the following morning, and her limp was far less obvious. She had slept deeply despite the madness of the day before. Now she found herself dressing with care. Instead of donning her habitual shirtwaist and navy blue skirt, she slid on a white cotton dress, the high neck trimmed with frothy lace, the billowy bodice ruffled, as was the hem of the flared skirt. As she put on her shoes, she strained to hear Edward’s voice from the many raised in conversation and laughter on the lawn just below her open terrace doors. Surely she would recognize his slightly sandy baritone the moment that she heard it.

She moved to the balcony, not venturing out on it. Below her a cricket game was in play. The women were so pretty in their pastel frocks, the men in pale linen jackets and trousers or knee breeches. Her smile faded. Edward was not a member of the group.

Then Sofie realized exactly what she was doing and she sat down hard on the closest chair. What was wrong with her?! She was acting very much like some young and green love-struck fool!

Sofie felt herself flushing. She was hardly love-struck. She was too sensible and too serious to be love-struck. Tomorrow morning she was returning to New York City, to her daily classes at the Academy, to the nightly solitude of her studio. After this day, she was not going to ever lay eyes on Edward Delanza again.

Still, she recalled the madness of yesterday and was amazed that any of it had actually happened. Sofie’s crimson color increased as she remembered the intimacy they had shared. Dear God, not only had he touched her weak
ankle, exposing it, he had so casually discussed it as if nothing were wrong. And in turn, she had almost told him her most private and most guarded thoughts, had almost shared her greatest fears. And he was a complete stranger.

Sofie reminded herself that last night had only been a flirtation for him, one of hundreds, no, thousands, in which he must have participated in the course of his life, Of course, for her, it would seem much more significant, as it was her very first encounter of such a nature. Still, she could not forget his kindness, his concern—or his so very devastating charm. He had not seemed insincere. To the contrary; he had seemed earnest and genuine.

Sofie dared not speculate any further. It was almost noon, and by now the guests were being summoned to the spectacular luncheon Suzanne always had on these weekend house parties. Sofie could hear them gathering inside the house on the floor below. As she crossed her bedroom, she avoided glancing at her reflection in the mirror, as was her habit. Then her feet grew leaden. Sofie paused. Last night Edward Delanza had asked her if she hid her beauty to avoid unwanted suitors.

Slowly, with some dread, Sofie turned to face the mirror, knowing full well that she was not beautiful and his words had only been another form of flirtation. Yet in her fancy summer dress she felt quite pretty, and last night she had almost felt beautiful. Sofie gazed at herself, trying to glimpse a trace of beauty in her appearance, but she was disappointed.

A pretty summer dress did not change the fact that she was prim and plain and that her face was only ordinary. She was not ever going to be a flamboyant beauty like Hilary or Lisa—and no amount of flirtation was going to ever change that fact.

She hurried from her room and down the stairs, almost tripping in her haste. She paused in the salon as pairs and groups of guests trooped in, laughing and chatting, progressing towards the dining room. Edward still did not appear. She wished her pulse would slow down from its rapid, staccato beat.

“Good day, Miss O’Neil.”

Sofie started. Henry Marten stood behind her, blushing slightly. Sofie managed a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Marten. Did you enjoy your ride?”

“Yes, I did, thank you, Miss O’Neil. Might I escort you in to eat?”

Sofie lifted a brow in surprise. Last night Henry had not said a word to her, either before or after supper. She wondered at his change of heart, but smiled. “Of course.”

Inside the dining room all the guests were assembled, awaiting their turn at the buffet Suzanne offered. Sofie was touched with dismay. “I wonder,” she said softly, her cheeks growing warm, “where Mr. Delanza is?”

Henry stared at her. “You did not know that he has departed? He did not tell you?”

Sofie thought that she had misheard—surely she had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“He has left Newport for the city. Miss O’Neil, are you all right?”

She could not respond. She was stunned.

“Miss O’Neil?”

Sofie inhaled hard, shocked. Her disappointment was vast. No matter how she had tried to dissemble to herself, she had looked forward to another shared flirtation with Edward Delanza. In truth, this time she had hoped to be more demure and less frank, more ladylike and less eccentric.

And she had secretly hoped that Edward would find her somewhat intriguing, and see her not as an object for his kindness but as a flesh-and-blood woman like any other.

“Miss O’Neil?” Henry gripped her arm, real concern in his tone.

Sofie realized just what a fool she was. Hadn’t she known all along that theirs had been an insignificant meeting for him, one single and casual flirtation? Sofie pulled herself together with great effort. She realized she was close to shedding tears. That was ridiculous, and instead, she smiled at Henry, hoping her dismay was not too obvious. She held out her arm. “If you would, Mr. Marten,” she murmured.

Luncheon proved to be endless.

*    *    *

Sofie sat upstairs on her bed, hands clasped, wondering at herself for her wild emotionalism.

She had teamed, at a tender age, to hold in her feelings. At least outwardly and publicly. Shortly after her father left, Sofie became fixated with painting. Her childhood art had been a wild and shocking explosion of color and line. She had missed her father tremendously and didn’t understand then why he had left her. In the beginning, she knew now, much of her art had been angry.

Sofie smiled slightly. When she had begun to study art in earnest, at the age of thirteen, she had been forced into the carefully circumscribed mold of classicism, of precise linear drawing and absolute adherence to realistic detail. It had not escaped her that recently her art was unraveling in a regression back to her early childhood years, that her use of line and color was rapidly becoming explosive again, although hardly primitive.

Sofie reached for the new sketchbook she had been working on last night. She flipped it open, staring at Edward Delanza’s portrait. Her use of line was so bold that his cheekbones and jaw stood out like slashes, yet the portrayal was astoundingly accurate. She gazed at his eyes, lit up as they were with suggestions she dared not even guess at.

It hurt. Sofie had to face it. He was gone and their social flirtation had meant nothing to him—unlike what it had meant to her.

Lisa barged into her room.

“What is wrong? God, you were as white as a sheet during the luncheon!” Lisa hurried to her, sitting down beside Sofie on the bed, putting her arm around her.

“I am fine.”

“You did not eat. Are you sick?”

Sofie sighed. “No, of course not.” And even if she could find the words to express her confusion and her disappointment to her stepsister, Lisa was the one who cried on
her
shoulder—not the other way around.

“Are your sure?”

She smiled at Lisa. “I am sure.” What had happened
was for the best, she told herself. She had been very close to taking wing on hopeful fantasy into a world that was closed to her. It was a good thing that Edward had left now, before she had lost her heart to him, perhaps even making a spectacle of herself as well. His precipitous departure was conclusive proof of just how insincere his charm and gallantry were.

“Come downstairs and walk with me and the others,” Lisa urged. “That lawyer is quite interested in you, you know.”

Sofie waved at her. “Mr. Marten was only being polite.”

“Sofie, must you be a recluse, always?”

Sofie blinked. She recalled Suzanne’s small lecture last night. “Do I really appear such a misfit?”

“Not a misfit, just reclusive. Sofie, I wish you would get out more. Gatherings are fun. When I debut, I hope you are going to come.”

“Of course I shall,” Sofie said firmly. Perhaps she should get out just a little bit more. Yet how could she complete her studies and her works in progress if she did? And she had never liked “gatherings”—that is, not until last night. Was she making a mistake in concentrating so wholly upon her art, to the exclusion of all else?