left standing in the middle of the ballroom, Edgington watched as Miss Hargrove—as Sofie—stormed away. She did not look back, quickly becoming lost in a crowd that tittered, gossiped and stared.
Once he could no longer see the green feather adorning Sofie’s hair, he turned his attention to the shocked, thrilled faces before him. They’d given the gossips much to discuss tonight, and no doubt by tomorrow the tale of how Miss Sofia Hargrove gave the Earl of Edgington the cut direct would be all over town.
Lifting his brows, he stared them down. Most dropped their gaze, and those that didn’t appeared suitably cowed. Satisfied, he took his leave of the ballroom, finding an empty chamber so he could let the facade slip.
Running a hand over his face, he exhaled. God. Sofie.
She was even more beautiful now than she’d been ten years ago. Her hair looked as silky as he remembered it, his fingers itching to bury themselves in the strawberry-blonde tresses. The smattering of freckles across her nose were the same and she no longer attempted to disguise them with powder, which he found unbearably erotic. She’d held herself proudly, as if daring him to do his worst, and then she had cut him and carried herself away like a queen.
He’d wanted nothing more than to haul her against him and cover her mouth with his.
It was the same as ten years ago, the same rush of emotion clamoring through him. She made him feel.... The feelings were so big, he didn’t know how to describe them. And he wanted her. Damn, how he wanted her.
That last night, he’d been desperate for her. They’d never kissed, never even so much as touched inappropriately, but he’d wanted to. He been drowning in desire for her. Unused to restraint, he’d kept his baser instincts under ruthless control for her, terrified of scaring her with the strength of his passion. Then, she’d leaned over, her eyes sparkling, and her lips had brushed his so hesitantly…. He couldn’t have contained himself after that.
It had all gone spectacularly wrong. They’d been caught, and he should have convinced the gossips they saw nothing, should have used his privilege to ensure they spoke not at all. Instead, he’d been so caught up in Sofie he’d let them leave, and within moments Sofie’s father had arrived to drag her away. From there, it had only been a matter of hours before it was the talk of the ton.
The next morning, he’d dressed to call upon her. He’d even gotten as far as her street before doubt crashed over him. What was he doing? He would ruin her, as he’d ruined everything else in his life. Panic had screamed through him, and he’d turned on his heel and left. He’d done her a favor, he told himself. She could not want him as husband, not the disreputable Viscount March. When he’d heard she’d left for the continent, he’d been certain he’d been correct. She was better off without him, and look how the years bore truth to his words.
Linking his hands behind his neck, he stared at nothing. He wasn’t better without her. He’d always known that.
A sudden thought occurred. Why wouldn’t she let him talk to her? It had been ten years. Surely her anger should have faded by now, enough to listen to him at least. True, he’d been the wicked Viscount March and blame for their disgrace could be laid upon him, but she’d agreed to meet him. She’d kept meeting him. She’d kissed him.
He needed to talk to her.
Turning, he left the room. She wasn’t in the ballroom, or any of the retiring rooms. She wasn’t in the banquet hall, or the foyer, or anywhere else in the house.
Exhaling, he looked out the window of one of the dozens of rooms she wasn’t in. Would she really go into the garden? It was freezing out there, the sky threatening snow...but she’d always loved the gardens.
Procuring his coat and his gloves from a passing footman, he set out into the night. The cold hit him as soon as passed through the door, slithering along the collar of his coat and pushing against his skin. Devoid of people, silence hung over the garden, a heavy expectation in the air…or maybe it was his own thoughts that made it seem so.
Deep in the garden, deep enough the lights of the house had faded, he found her. Her back to him, Sofie gazed out over the Thornton’s gardens, the emerald green of her gown a strip of color against the darkness of her cloak.
Stealing himself, Edgington approached her. “You always did like a garden at night.”
Sofie’s shoulders stiffened. She didn’t reply.
Standing next to her, he laced his hands behind his back. They stood silent, the faint strains of a waltz wrapping around them.
Finally, she spoke. “Why are you here?”
His heart sank at the derision in her tone. “I wished to speak with you.”
“I do not wish to speak with you. Surely that was obvious.”
“It was.” How could he get through to her? “I wanted—”
She whirled around. “And your desires are more important than mine? Your wants? I do not want to speak with you. I want to be left alone. I am in England for two months, and I want that time to be pleasant.”
Two months? She needed to let him speak with her. She needed—
Making a sound of frustration, she made to turn on her heel. His brain shut down and, panic rushing through him, he grabbed arm.
Immediately, her expression closed. “Remove your hand.”
The coldness of her voice chilled him more than the winter night. Immediately, he let her go. “My apologies, Miss Hargrove. It was not my intention—”
She laughed without mirth. “It never is.”
“It was not my intention,” he continued, ignoring the thread of annoyance her dismissal caused, “to deprive you of autonomy. I only ask....” He paused. How to say? “I should like to explain.”
“I should think we are past the stage of explanation, Viscount March.” As if realizing her error, she flushed. “I beg your pardon. My lord Edgington.”
“Nonetheless,” he said, persevering despite her glare. “I should like to explain. You did not allow me the opportunity before.”
“I did not allow you?” she said. “I did not allow you? How, sir, was I to allow you when I was dragged off by my father, half-dressed and humiliated? Was I to allow you when you did not call upon me? When you did not, in fact, seek me out at all? Tell me, sir, when was I to allow you anything?” Her lips twisted bitterly. “I believe I allowed you enough.”
“I am sorry,” he said, unable to think of any other response.
She frowned. “What?”
He did not know how else to say it. “I am sorry. I should have handled it better. All of it.”
“And that is to magically erase the last ten years of my life?”
“No. It is merely how I feel.”
Still not looking at him, she picked up her skirt. “Well, I’m glad you’ve expressed how you feel. If you’ll excuse me.”
He couldn’t let her go. “Miss Hargrove. I have still not explained.”
“And I have said, I do not care for your explanation.”
“Please, Miss Hargrove.” He did not know how to make her stay, make her realize how much he needed to speak with her.
She hesitated.
An eternity passed while she decided. Finally, she inclined her head.
Relief rushed through him, and he held out his arm.
She looked at it and, very deliberately, did not take it. Making her way to a stone bench, she seated herself. “Very well, my lord. I will listen.”
Suppressing his admiration at her imperiousness, he said, “Miss Hargrove, perhaps we should go inside.”
“No. You’ll do this now, or not at all.” Though her cheeks were flushed with cold, she sat on the bench as regal as a queen while she waited for him to begin speaking.
And, of course, now he had her ear, he had no idea what to say.