After Innocence (51 page)

Sofie wanted to cry. She nodded and thanked him again instead. If Benjamin realized that she loved Edward from looking at her work, would everyone else realize as well? Tomorrow they were getting married. Perhaps it was a natural assumption. Perhaps if everyone thought they were marrying for love, the scandal of her having had his child out of wedlock would quickly fade away and die. Either that or everyone would realize the truth—that poor Sofie O’Neil was hopelessly in love with a scoundrel and a rake.

Suzanne tried to gain her attention again. “Sofie, dear, please.”

Sofie glimpsed her white face and anguished eyes before turning her back on her. She thought about Edana and let her anger at Suzanne carry her a safe distance away. Trying not to feel mean and cruel for rejecting her own mother—reminding herself that Suzanne had wanted to do far more than reject her own granddaughter.

Sofie fought for her composure. How could she have failed to consider that Suzanne would show up today? Sofie could not help wondering if her mother still disliked and misunderstood her art. She told herself that Suzanne’s opinion no longer mattered the way it once had.

“Sofie,
chérie,
I think this is going to be a big success,” Jacques cried in her ear, having come up behind her.

Sofie turned and smiled somewhat wanly. “I don’t know. I think some of the ladies here are disgusted because of who I am and how I’ve lived and that I’ve portrayed Edward so frequently when he is the father of my child. I think they have come to gawk so tomorrow they might have more gossip to spread around town.”

“Ahh, maybe so, but the press and the critics love the romance of your story! For it is
la grande passion, n’estce pas?”

Sofie looked away.
La grande passion?
It was hardly that, and she could not help feeling more than sad, but bitter and cheated as well.

Then she felt herself being stared at. Sofie started when she met the intense golden gaze of the same man who had watched her during Lisa’s engagement party. She gripped Jacques’s arm. Something was bothering her now, very much so. “Jacques, who is that? Do you know that man?”

Jacques followed her gaze. Seeing that he was the object of their attention, the stranger turned and faded into the growing crowd. “Ahh—he bought two of your works anonymously just after you left for Paris last year.”

Sofie was shaken and very disturbed. “Who is he? I must know!”

“Chérie
—you know that if a buyer wishes to remain anonymous, I cannot—”

“I must know!” Sofie cried.

“His name is Jake Ryan.”

“Jake!”

Jake froze, then ever so slowly, he turned.

Suzanne gripped his sleeve. Her eyes glittered wildly. They stood by the front door of the gallery, but they were hardly alone, because the exhibition was packed. “You would dare to come here!” she accused.

He had not seen her since they had spent the afternoon making love in the salon of his mansion, almost two weeks ago. But Jake was well aware that Suzanne had tried to see him on several occasions. He had said all there was to say, and he had left orders that she was not to be admitted into his house—that he was not home should she come calling. Now he looked at her and saw a somewhat maniacal woman, one who might have been attractive if her eyes were not so wild. But he felt nothing for her at all. It was hard to understand the fierce desire he had felt for her that day, a desire he could so easily blame on drinking but would not,
knowing better. “I had to come. I could not miss Sofie’s greatest day.”

“And will tomorrow be a great day, too, when she marries that bastard who seduced her and gave her his child?” Suzanne spat.

“I think it will be an even better day,” Jake said quietly. “Delanza is head over heels in love with her. He’ll make her happy.”

Suzanne blanched. “Don’t tell me he is your friend, too!”

Jake nodded.

“You are mad!” Tears filled her eyes. “You have told that horrid valet of yours that you will not see me, haven’t you?”

“Suzanne—what is the point?”

“You cannot turn away from me like that—you cannot! Jake—God—I can’t stop thinking about you—about us!”

Heavily he said, “There is no ‘us.’ It’s over, Suzanne. Over.”

“No!”

He turned his back on her.

She lashed out, gripping him so hard that he stumbled backwards. Her strength had been unnatural. Warily he faced her. “Suzanne?”

“Do you know that sometimes I hate you more than I love you?”

He watched her uneasily.

“I want you back, Jake.”

“No.”

She hissed. Her expression was at once livid and sly. “I did it once—I’ll do it again!”

The hairs on his nape prickled. His whole body tensed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She laughed, triumphant. “You don’t, do you? You never did. You never knew!”

“I never knew what?”

“That there was no visiting British dignitary!”

Jake stared at her. He was filled with a horrible, impossible inkling—and sick dread. “What?”

“Fifteen years ago. There was no visiting British dignitary!”

His mind began to spin. Fifteen years ago. The winter of 1887. There had been a blizzard that year—it had been one of the worst winters of recent memory. Eighteen eighty-seven. The year he had been recognized at a public gala by a visiting British dignitary. Lord Carrington. Sheer coincidence. Mad Fate. Recognized, identified, and forced to flee the country—his wife—his child. His eyes wide with horror, Jake stared at his wife.

Suzanne laughed. “It was me! It was me! I turned you in! Me!”

Jake felt the floor tilting beneath his feet. It was hard to breathe—even harder to believe what she was saying. “Why? Dear God,
why?”

Tears filled her eyes and she glared at him. “I hated you for that dance-hall girl.”

Jake stared at her, barely comprehending what she said. A dancer? Had there been another woman? He could not remember. He had been faithful to her for so many years despite her infidelities, but he seemed to vaguely remember that he had finally sought solace with another woman. Dear God. Jake closed his eyes, sick to the very bottom of his soul.

It hadn’t been sheer coincidence. It hadn’t been fate. It had been Suzanne, the woman he loved—his malicious, vengeful wife.

“You stupid fool!” Suzanne screamed. “It was me! I turned you in then—and I’ll turn you in again! I will! Take me back, Jake!”

Jake opened his eyes and stared. Then he turned and ran out the door. Running—once again.

“Sofie,
chère!”
Jacques cried, rushing to her. “Look at the crowd! This is already a great success!”

“Is it?”

“It is!” he assured her excitedly, pulling her close. “Everyone is most admiring of your work, and several big buyers have expressed interest in acquiring some of the canvases. More importantly, Louisine Havemeyer is enamored of
After
Innocence.
She told me if I sell it to anyone else, she will never buy from my gallery again.”

Sofie inhaled, shocked. Louisine Havemeyer and her husband were two of the greatest, most influential collectors in New York, if not the world. If the Havemeyers bought one of her works, soon other collectors would look at her with interest, too. And rarely did the Havemeyers buy a single work from an artist—usually they collected that artist with a frenzy. “Oh, Lord,” Sofie whispered, crossing her fingers behind her back.

“She must convince her husband. They feel that they can not hang such a work in their salon. Come. The press is here. And several clients wish to speak with you!”

Sofie followed Jacques in a daze as he rushed her across the room.

“First we will meet some of my best clients,” Jacques told her. Immediately he introduced her to a German baron who resided in New York.

“I am enthralled with your work,” the baron said, bowing over her hand, several oversize gems glittering on his fingers.

“And I just love your oils which feature that handsome young man,” a well-dressed young lady put in eagerly.

“Your colors are so bright and bold and always surprising,” a gentleman chimed in. He smiled at Sofie. “I have bought the pastel,
Man at a Café.”

“Thank you,” Sofie whispered, dazed now with success.

“Miss O’Neil?”

Sofie turned, smiling.

The lean gentleman extended his hand. “I am Rob Green, with
Harper’s.
Can we set up a time for an interview? I’m going to do a feature on you.” He smiled at her.

Sofie blinked at him, nodding. A feature news story in
Harper’s.
It was too good to be true, all of it. Sofie felt as if she had just become Cinderella. And then she glimpsed Edward striding towards her through the crowd, which was parting for him like the Red Sea for the Jews. She forgot the reporter, forgot the three admiring fans, forgot Jacques. Reality reclaimed her. She was not Cinderella—and Edward was not a prince coming to claim her with his love.

He paused in front of her, taking her arm proprietarily in his. He gave her a look so warm, it was blinding. Sofie froze. Edward was smiling at her, not only with his mouth, but with his eyes—with his heart. “Hello, darling,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”

Sofie was very dazed when, a few hours later, Edward guided her up the red-carpeted steps of the Savoy and into the spacious lobby. She was so exhausted that it was hard not to lean against him as he moved her across it and to the elevator. She made no protest as he ushered her inside without relinquishing his hold on her arm.

But she was not in a complete stupor from the fantastic day. She was aware of the way he was looking at her now, with smoldering warmth—which was the exact same way he had been regarding her all afternoon. In effect, he was acting as if he truly were her admiring bridegroom. Where was his anger? His hostility? What was going on?

Worse, how could she defend herself from him in this kind of circumstance? Her bones felt as if they had turned into a molten mass long ago. Her heart fluttered unsteadily in her chest. He was up to something—she was certain of it. But was seduction the first or the last of his intentions?

He propelled her down the hall and finally released her in order to unlock the door to the suite with his key. Sofie quickly walked inside ahead of him, hoping to bar his entrance. Her heart beat harder now and her mouth was cotton-dry. But he sidestepped her and said to Rachelle, who was playing with Edana on the blue rug on the floor, “Why don’t you take Edana out for an hour or two?”

Sofie cried out in a very feeble protest—because her racing pulse and sensitized body were giving her quite contrary instructions.

Rachelle jumped up, looking at both of them, smiling. A moment later she was gathering up Edana. Becoming more weak-kneed with every moment, Sofie held on to a beautiful Chippendale table in order to support herself. He could not do this, she told herself. He could not prance into her suite and take her to bed just because he felt like it.

But oh, how glorious it would be to make love with him now after such a magnificent day.

Sofie lifted her gaze to his, her cheeks heated, and was incapable of any further resistance. For his gaze was promising her every single one of her wildest dreams—and the moon and the stars, too. She gripped the table harder. Her blood seemed to roar in her veins. Lust had taken over her lower body the way a devil takes over saints. She was mesmerized by what was about to come.

“We will be gone for a while,
chérie.”
Rachelle said, a bundled-up Edana in her arms. Her expression was bland, but her eyes sparked with sly delight. A moment later she had brushed past Sofie and was gone.

Sofie could not move. She was afraid to look at Edward again. But she did.

“Come here, love,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

His smile was gentle. “You can’t run from me anymore, Sofie.”

Sofie felt very close to collapse.

He smiled again. “Besides, we’re getting married tomorrow, remember?” He moved towards her.

She found her voice. “To—Tomorrow. A-And we n-never did discuss the ex—exact nature of our m-marriage.”

He laughed softly, eyes dancing and gleaming at once, his hands closing on her arms. Sofie did not stiffen as he pulled her up against his body, which was firmly aroused. In fact, she turned boneless and pliant, melting against him. “There is nothing to discuss,” he whispered, his gaze searching hers. He smiled again and brushed a kiss on the tip of her nose. Sofie shuddered. “You’re going to be my wife,” he murmured, and his mouth brushed her eyes, one by one. Sofie bit back a whimper. “A very beloved wife,” he added huskily, this time kissing her mouth.

Sofie jerked. “Wh-What?” Her hands pressed against his chest as he now feathered kisses to her cheeks, her chin, and lips.

“You heard,” Edward said, his tone deepening to a growl. “I love you, enchantress. And I’m going to show you—right now.”

Sofie gaped at him, clutching the lapels of his jacket, incredulous. “I. I don’t understand.”

“No?” He grinned very wickedly, anchored her hips, and shifted his loins against her. “Then let me explain.”

Sofie gasped when he swung her up into his arms. “Edward—what are you doing?!”

He laughed, carrying her towards the master bedroom. “How can you even ask?”

Sofie looked up into his handsome face, a face of strong, beautiful planes and high, precise angles, a face dominated by vivid blue eyes and a strong, classical nose, a face that would always mesmerize her, haunt her, enthrall her. “Please don’t lie to me,” she cried.

He tossed her onto the bed. “The one thing I’m not,” he stated, slipping off his tie and tossing it to the floor, “is a liar. Darling.” He smiled and his jacket followed his tie.

Sofie scrambled up into a sitting position, watching him unbutton his shirt a bit too slowly. He continued to smile, watching her, revealing his magnificent physique inch by inch. She pressed her thighs together, trying not to hyperventilate, a prisoner of extraordinary lust—a prisoner of love. “What are you saying?” she croaked, all the muscles in her body knotted tight.

“I love you, dammit.” He threw the shirt behind him and pushed his wool trousers down over his lean hips, his gaze on hers. His thigh-length drawers were pale blue silk, finely woven and hardly concealing Edward’s very visible and very large erection. “I’ve loved you since the day I first saw you—and I’m going to love you until the day I die, dammit. And maybe even afterwards, too.” His gaze was lancing. “If there are such things as ghosts.”