having tried to play stickball with the boys down the lane. Sophie had always wanted to do everything any other kid did. But the other kids hadn't wanted her around.
Had they understood she was different from them? Smarter? Wiser? Or had her mother's ruffled dresses and superior attitude put them off?
"You weren't quite such a prude back then, as I recall," Sophie interjected. "Not so proper."
"I was sixteen."
"You were fun."
His thoughts hardened, but at the same time his pulse began to throb. He glanced at her mouth. Her lips parted and his blood surged when her gaze drifted low. Taking a towel, he wiped the shaving cream from his face, and though he told himself to turn away, he could do little more than toss the linen aside, then reach for her. He touched her mouth, just barely, his fingertips over the fullness.
Her lips moved with half-uttered silent words.
"Was I?" he asked in a whisper.
Confusion creased her brow.
"Was I fun? Ever?" He waited for her answer, needing to hear it.
Her expression softened. "Yes," she whispered. "But you were more than fan. You were strong and kind."
His fingers slid into her hair, cupping her head. He pulled her to him as if he had no will of his own, and pressed her close. He wanted to curse, wanted to scoff in response to her answer. It was weakness that made him care. He knew it. But the words meant too much.
"Sophie," he said softly against her hair.
Her fingers flattened against his chest. He tipped her head and looked into her eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, but didn't know how. Words, half-formed in his head, disappeared like smoke before he could grasp them. He only knew that, for better or for worse, he couldn't let her go.
The decision was made. He would marry her.
He kissed her then, slowly, languorously, until she moaned. And that was his undoing. Running his hand down her back, he could feel the tremor that raced through her body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance. When she opened to him, her arms came up and wrapped around his neck. She held on to him as if she, too, didn't know how to let go. The thought filled him with satisfaction. After all these years she wasn't indifferent to him.
He grazed her tongue with his teeth, and he felt her breath. Like oranges in winter. Delicious and sweet, but rarely tasted.
His hands ran up her sides, then he brought one palm up to cup her breast. With that touch, everything changed.
"No," she gasped, flinging herself back, her eyes flashing wildly.
But just as quickly, she calmed herself, as though she had turned a page in a book and become a new character.
"Now, Grayson," she all but purred, though there was a tremor in her voice, "you're the proper one here. I don't think I need to spell out why I shouldn't be standing in a bathroom with you half-naked. I simply wanted to thank you for helping me with the dog. It was kind, and I couldn't have done it without you."
She didn't wait for a response. She left as unexpectedly as she had appeared, leaving him alone to stare at the empty doorway. Who was Sophie Wentworth?
He turned away and found his reflection in the mirror. Who was
he
?
Once, life had been different. Once, he would have tried to save that dog. But life had changed, and he had changed along with it. She had credited him with attributes that he didn't deserve. He hadn't saved anything.
He would have left the dog to die—and never would have known that souls wounded beyond repair could be saved.
Chapter Seven
Smoothing the voluminous folds of her taffeta skirts, Sophie felt the thrill of anticipation wrap around her as she stood in her father's palatial home. The house brimmed with two hundred of Boston's elite, all of whom were there to see her.
A grand party in her honor.
She searched the faces for Grayson, then scowled when she realized what she was doing. She hoped he didn't come. He had completely unnerved her in the bathroom of Swan's Grace. The kiss. The intimacy.
It
Had they understood she was different from them? Smarter? Wiser? Or had her mother's ruffled dresses and superior attitude put them off?
"You weren't quite such a prude back then, as I recall," Sophie interjected. "Not so proper."
"I was sixteen."
"You were fun."
His thoughts hardened, but at the same time his pulse began to throb. He glanced at her mouth. Her lips parted and his blood surged when her gaze drifted low. Taking a towel, he wiped the shaving cream from his face, and though he told himself to turn away, he could do little more than toss the linen aside, then reach for her. He touched her mouth, just barely, his fingertips over the fullness.
Her lips moved with half-uttered silent words.
"Was I?" he asked in a whisper.
Confusion creased her brow.
"Was I fun? Ever?" He waited for her answer, needing to hear it.
Her expression softened. "Yes," she whispered. "But you were more than fan. You were strong and kind."
His fingers slid into her hair, cupping her head. He pulled her to him as if he had no will of his own, and pressed her close. He wanted to curse, wanted to scoff in response to her answer. It was weakness that made him care. He knew it. But the words meant too much.
"Sophie," he said softly against her hair.
Her fingers flattened against his chest. He tipped her head and looked into her eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, but didn't know how. Words, half-formed in his head, disappeared like smoke before he could grasp them. He only knew that, for better or for worse, he couldn't let her go.
The decision was made. He would marry her.
He kissed her then, slowly, languorously, until she moaned. And that was his undoing. Running his hand down her back, he could feel the tremor that raced through her body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance. When she opened to him, her arms came up and wrapped around his neck. She held on to him as if she, too, didn't know how to let go. The thought filled him with satisfaction. After all these years she wasn't indifferent to him.
He grazed her tongue with his teeth, and he felt her breath. Like oranges in winter. Delicious and sweet, but rarely tasted.
His hands ran up her sides, then he brought one palm up to cup her breast. With that touch, everything changed.
"No," she gasped, flinging herself back, her eyes flashing wildly.
But just as quickly, she calmed herself, as though she had turned a page in a book and become a new character.
"Now, Grayson," she all but purred, though there was a tremor in her voice, "you're the proper one here. I don't think I need to spell out why I shouldn't be standing in a bathroom with you half-naked. I simply wanted to thank you for helping me with the dog. It was kind, and I couldn't have done it without you."
She didn't wait for a response. She left as unexpectedly as she had appeared, leaving him alone to stare at the empty doorway. Who was Sophie Wentworth?
He turned away and found his reflection in the mirror. Who was
he
?
Once, life had been different. Once, he would have tried to save that dog. But life had changed, and he had changed along with it. She had credited him with attributes that he didn't deserve. He hadn't saved anything.
He would have left the dog to die—and never would have known that souls wounded beyond repair could be saved.
Chapter Seven
Smoothing the voluminous folds of her taffeta skirts, Sophie felt the thrill of anticipation wrap around her as she stood in her father's palatial home. The house brimmed with two hundred of Boston's elite, all of whom were there to see her.
A grand party in her honor.
She searched the faces for Grayson, then scowled when she realized what she was doing. She hoped he didn't come. He had completely unnerved her in the bathroom of Swan's Grace. The kiss. The intimacy.
It
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