Loved By You

She’s not here.

He didn’t know what he was meant to feel at that revelation. He’d been stoically standing at the edge of the sparkling ballroom for what felt like an interminable time, searching for a glimpse of her face. Keeping a firm hold on his polite mask of indifference he fought the urge to leave as the ton continued to pour in all decked out in their bejeweled, glittering glory.

James Masters, Marquess of Stonebrook hated each and every one of them in that moment. For, none of them was Sophia.

Sophia Wellington’s head begin to pound at the crush that was the Lewellen’s Ball. Always traditionally the opening for the season, everyone made an appearance on pain of being outcastes for the most coveted future invitations that would set the course for the ton’s amusements. Unbidden, the image of a young man with caramel brown eyes and a lopsided grin rippled across her memory, her breath sticking in her throat.

James had been a constant companion, even though he was her brother’s best friend. He was her tower of strength when her brother had succumbed to a severe illness that had divided her family; with the only male heir gone, Sophia, had to marry to pass on the titles and land that could only be bestowed upon her husband while her father was still alive. While he was still hale and hearty, her mother was intent on securing her comfort over that of her daughter’s, pushing to foist her off to the first man who would have her.

“Sophia.” The waspish tones of her mother accompanied a stale breath of the sweetmeats and cognac that had been alarmingly consumed in the carriage on the way to the ball. Sophie turned and watched her mother unabashedly adjust herself in full view of the dozen or so people brushing shoulders with them. Sophie closed her eyes, trying to block out the view of a half-drunk woman so enamored with her own selfishness she forgot basic decorum.

“Really, Sophia. You could try to look a little prettier.” The older woman tapped the back of her hand against Sophie’s corseted stomach. “Suck that thing in, will you? Otherwise, I’ll have no hope of marrying you off this season.”

Shock hit Sophie like a fist in the face, bringing instant tears to her eyes. “Mother,” she plead in a whisper.

“Not that we have much hope of that after that dreadful betrothal cock-up.” She threw out an arm, indicating the people milling about. “Might as well announce your spinsterhood now and save us money for the destitution we’re sure to be cast into soon enough.”

Her mother saw the drinks table and pushed past Sophie, effectively launching her into a nearby bunch of newly arrived couples. Sophie mumbled apologies, turning blindly into the crowd. More attendees piled into the ballroom like a sea of colorfully dressed humanity.

As the human ocean dumped her at the side of the ballroom, she almost hit the broad back of a tall, brown-haired gentleman who seemed to be eyeing the movements of those in front of him.

She took a moment to shelter behind the tall visage, hanging her head. Behind her teary eyelids, clear, gentle, caramel brown eyes swam up to haunt her yet again. Why was he suddenly in her thoughts? He was now married, had been for the past year. He had chosen another, leaving her to deal with the fallout.

Her vision began to dull. She had to get to a retiring room now.

She took a deep breath to calm herself and caught a whiff of the gentleman’s scent of sandalwood and basil. The potent smell from her youth had her leaning into him before she knew what she was doing. A group of ladies jostled past her, snapping her out of her faux pas. Cautiously, Sophie stepped slightly to the right to catch a glimpse of his profile, stifling a groan. She half-turned, ready to quietly make her escape when a nearby glass full of Champaign smashed on the ground, sending ladies and gentlemen jumping back and pushing Sophie into the broad back of James Masters.

James was jostled forward as he felt two small hands splayed across his back. He turned to find himself staring at a red-faced Sophie while a group of young bucks tried valiantly to save the ladies from getting their skirts wet in the pool of Champaign at their feet.

“I beg your pardon.” It came out a little sharper than he’d intended.

Sophie instantly straightened, that endearingly rounded chin pointed up toward him in that mulish way he knew always lead to a fight to the wordsmith’s death.

“You may beg all you want, my Lord, but you will not be pardoned.”

He caught a flash of what he could only call hurt flicker in her eyes before the shutters closed over her emotions.

He quirked an eyebrow, trying to hide his trepidation. “Was it not you who flew into me?”

“To fly would imply a deliberation of direction.” She gestured behind her as she continued, her voice subdued, “as you can see, that was not my intent.”

“What was, deliberation or direction to my person?”

He tilted his head as he watched her clench her jaw. That flicker of hurt was back in her eyes again, this time the flame was tempered with a frustration he was sure was aimed at him.

She battered her eyelids at him. “Well, my Lord, perhaps the deliberation here is the distinct dereliction of directive dialogue, for which, I am sorry to say, is lacking about your person.”

Despite the discomfort beginning to make a long, slow crawl up his back, he couldn’t help noting how luminescent she looked. Like a siren beaconing him to crash against the sea’s rocks for a while.

“You’re point, Sophie?”

“What are you doing here, Stonebrook?”

His eyebrows rose at the use of his title. “What happened to James?”

She looked down at her clenched hands. He had to strain to hear the words she muttered under her breath, but he distinctly caught, “that’s what I’d like to know.”

Pretending not to have heard, he said, “Excuse me?”

She gritted her teeth. “Another excuse? For what transgressions now, my Lord?”

She rocked on the balls of her feet and crossed her arms under her pert breasts, pushing them further up over the top of her low, violet-laced neckline. That distinctly male part of him wanted to growl at the sight, distracting him from the ludicrous conversation.

Usually, he didn’t mind the distraction. Tonight, however, he felt distinctly out of step. As if he was missing some vital piece of information where she was speaking one conversation, and he was speaking another.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sophie.”

“That’s Miss Wellington to you.”

“Surely Miss Wellington knows her riddles are not austere enough for this Marquess to comprehend.”

“Bugger off, Stonebrook.”

That slow crawl of uneasiness turned into a horse race that galloped his heart and turned his palms to water. He turned on as much of the innocent charm in his arsenal while he replied, “Is that a straight answer, or another of your infamous double entendres?”

He watched as the healthy glow faded from her cheeks, seemingly to deflate in front of him, a bleakness flashing across her expressive green eyes.

He frowned, concern lacing his voice. “Sophie-“

“Go back to your wife, Stonebrook.” She slid her way past him, facing the direction of the double doors that lead onto the terrace outside. “I’m sure she’s looking for you.”

“She’d dead.”

Sophie stopped mid-slid and turned toward him. Her new position brought her perilously close to his tall, warm body encased in black velvet. Her mouth opened, yet nothing seemed forthcoming. Nice. Best get it over with and just stick your whole foot in your mouth.

He looked so… matter of fact. As if this kind of thing happened daily. Which, really when she thought about it, it did, somewhere in the world-

“Sophie. Stop overthinking.”

She took a deep breath, giving him a ghost of a smile. His was the last face left on earth that was truly dear to her.

The thought was sobering.

“I’m sorry, James.” She swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat. “Now it is I who must beg your pardon.”

His smile was gentle. In the crush, he brushed the back of her hand with his own. “It’s fine.”

Panic crashed over her head like a tidal wave, and if she didn’t get air, she was going to rip this bloody bodice off herself and cause a stir the likes of which the ton hadn’t seen since James had spectacularly thrown her over for another woman.

A woman who was now dead.

Her vision greyed as Sophie headed for the French doors heralding the back exit. The darkness of the terrace beckoned like a lover, throwing its dark arms around her, shielding her from the prying eyes of those on the edge of the ballroom. She knew some had seen her with James, their collective gossips ears pricked like a predator sensing its next meal.

Silent tears began to fall. She felt so overwhelmed; her father’s depressive disinterest, her mother’s bitterness that Sophie was the child that lived. Now, seeing the one man who showed her that true love wasn’t only for fictional characters in fairy tales was the last straw in a haystack of problems.

“Sophie.” His soft voice in the darkness caused the muscles in her back painfully stiffen. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

She managed a taut shrug. “But you succeeded in setting me in my place. Well done.”

He made a noise of frustration. “That was not my intent.”

She turned and looked up at the dark shadow of his face. “Then what was?”

He paused; she sensed his mind working to create a plausible story in the face of her forthrightness. She stepped closer to him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

She was angry now. She wanted to shake him, to beat her tightly bound fists against his broad, hard chest and get him to be honest with her, for once.

“Don’t make up some cock and bull story to sooth my female sensibilities. Be straight with me, for once in your life.”

He stretched to his full height; a clear indicator to her she’d hit him square in the lie.

His voice came out on a low growl. “You are addressing a peer of the realm, Miss Wellington.”

“No, I’m addressing the man who was my brother’s best friend, and until 18 months ago, was my betrothed. Or is your instep so far up your ass, you’d forgotten that?”

 He swung away from her, his heavy steps echoing in the night. He swung back toward her.

“That was a mistake.”

The breath left her lungs. She forced out the words, “Which do you mean? Being a friend, or feigning the love of said friend’s sister?”

He shook his head. “I never pretended to love you.”

“Bullshit.”

Sophie turned toward the short steps outlined by the faint sliver of waxing moonlight. She heard him swear under his breath as she made her way into the garden.

“Sophie, don’t walk away from this because you're afraid.”

She stopped, turning on her heal so hard she dug half her shoe into the soft lawn. This time, she gave in to the impulse to hit him. She slammed her fists into his shoulders and he reflexively grabbed her wrists in his hands.

“You quoted bloody Shakespeare to me you shit!”

She struggled to escape from his grip, all the while he moved close enough that their thighs touched. She instantly stilled.

His voice low, he leaned into her. “Sophie, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Then, why?” Her question came out on a sob.

James stared down in the tear-stained moonlit face of the only woman he’d ever loved. His jaw clenched. There was so much he wanted to say, yet none of it was forthcoming. Not the marriage contract his father had trapped him into, nor the mountain of debt his father had racked up that had forced James into marriage with a socially ruthless woman that had made his life a living hell. With his father still alive, and out there now searching for another willingly wealthy female body to fill the vacated position of ‘wife’, he desperately wanted to be the one to choose for himself who he wanted to potentially spend the rest of his life with.

The only woman who came to mind was Sophia Wellington.

God, in his head, he sounded as ruthless as his father.

He couldn’t find the language to tell her any of this.

The language of a kiss would have to be enough for now.

James pulled her toward him, bringing her lush body flush with his own. He groaned at the contact, dipping his head and taking her lips in a kiss that exploded the lid off the pent-up desire he’d had for her since their aborted marriage engagement. The softness of her full lower lip as he ran his tongue over it sent fireworks shooting though his body to pool heavy between his legs. Shifting closer, he partly bent her over the arm he had curled around her back, his hand splayed over the supple muscles bunching between her shoulder blades.

For a suspended moment, Sophie leaned into his kiss, her whole being singing with desire and joy that this man was finally in her arms. Then he shifted his stance, bending her slightly backward as he seemed more to plunder than give. She tore her mouth from his, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts as she peered up into his shadowed face.

She knew that steady, assessing gaze of his was searching her face. She swallowed. She couldn’t do this again; couldn’t be humiliated by him when he walked away from her to marry someone else.

“No.” Her breath was as light as the breeze that had gently picked up around them, rustling the leaves on nearby trees.

He held her for what felt like a lifetime in a heartbeat, then straightened with her, his arms hanging loosely around her waist as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

She took a deep breath, willing her emotions to remain under her control as she held eye contact with him. “We need to be realistic.”

His voice came out on a half-laugh. “I believe that was as realistic as it gets.”

“Don’t jest, James.” Sophie stepped away, wrapping her arms around her stomach in a vain attempt to stop that inevitable bereft feeling when she wasn’t around him. Only this time, it was sharper, like the pain she felt when she was bucked off a newly broken-in horse; that sensation of falling through nothing before the sudden smash of body and bone hitting the hard ground.

He ran a hand through is hair, its ends sticking up at odd angles. “God, why is this so difficult?”

She tipped her head back as the wind picked up, swirling her dress back and forth, cooling her skin. She imagined consigning the memory of his touch to the wind; could almost see the vapor of his kiss swirling around her feet till it created a funnel around her, taking with it every hurt, every want, every need that had to do with the man in front of her and gifting it to the stars above.

No tears, no feeling enveloped her as she calmly looked toward him.

“My Lord, if you find such an exchange so difficult, I believe you had best seek an easier exchange in another garden with another person on another night.”

This time, she turned back toward the party, head high, shoulders straight, leaving him to his own. She could see her drunk mother teetering on the edges of the party, another drink in her hand, her grey-streaked hair beginning to fall around her shoulders. Stepping through the French doors, Sophie ignored the avid glances of the gossips as she made her way to her mother.

She spoke to her mother as she brushed past her. “I’m leaving.”

In her drunken stupor, her mother blinked and totted after her, shrieking, “But I haven’t married you off yet!”

Sophie didn’t stop as she took the few steps up toward the entrance where her hosts stood, their mouths hanging open at the brazen speech. The music had died on the proclamation as hundreds of guests hungrily watched the exchange. Sophie turned on the top of the stairs to look down at her odious relation. Over her mother’s shoulder she could see James had returned to the ballroom, looking like he’d had a musket fire in his face. There was no question as to whether he had heard the comment that had brought the ton to a standstill. For a moment, time slowed as his gaze on her became intent, twin flames of determination as he made his way toward her on the stairs.

Instead of facing what was surely a set down, or worse, a marriage proposal, she made her way to the front exit, a servant with her violet shall in hand scurrying to catch up as she made her way outside. It wasn’t until she got in the carriage, asking the coachman to just go before she sat back in the faded cushions without a clue as to where to go or what to do now. As she’d left her mother to fend for herself at the ball, she wasn’t in the mood to go back to the house and face questions, if any from her father. Instead, she leant out the window, directing the driver to Dover. Wherever she was going, she was going for herself, by herself.

Blessedly alone.