Finally she felt his sweet breath on her cheek, her lips. Cinnamon and tea...
“Mia Sophia, ti adoro,” he whispered, and the warm breathy words sent shivers up her neck.
She felt the faintest whisper on her lips.
“Shhh... Don’t move....”
She kept her eyes closed, overwhelmed by his nearness, the heady smell of his shaving tonic, the aching inches between them.
His mouth gently rested on hers, featherlight. “What do you feel,amore mio?”
She managed to breathe, “You...”
His lips moved softly, slowly against hers, dampening, gently pressing.
Suddenly he pulled away, and her eyes flew open in surprise. Disappointment.
“Don’t move,” he repeated, and stepped quickly to his easel, picking up palette and brush, staring at her face, her eyes, her mouth....
By the end of that evening, her lips were tender, and her hair a mess. And he had long ago quit trying to capture her expression. Instead he had captured her body and soul.
Sophie knew she should resist. Wait until they were married. But she wasn’t overly worried. Wesley Overtree was a gentleman and he cared for her. He would protect her as well. And God would forgive them, she justified, once they were married. At least she hoped He would.
As the weeks together passed, she imagined a bright future for them. Creating side by side. Traveling with him. Living with him as his wife. A longed-for escape from her stepmother’s home and father’s studio. A life of being cherished by the man she loved.
He hasn’t actually said he loves you, or plans to marry you, a quiet voice whispered in the back of her mind.If he did, he would wait.
If only she had heeded it.
But hehadcalled heramore mio—my love—and so many other endearments in both English and Italian. And she had come to trust him, to believe he would stay with her. Marry her.
She could not blame Wesley alone. She was naïve but not completely ignorant. She had known the risk she was taking, and had taken it anyway. Certain he would catch her if she fell.
Now she realized that perhaps he would have, after all. She folded his letter even smaller. Had she misjudged him? Had Stephen? Even if she had received Wesley’s letter soon after he’d posted it, it would have been too late. She had already eloped with his brother.
Sitting there in the Overtree Hall morning room, Sophie held her head in her hands. She had realized it would be difficult when Wesley returned home at some future point after his travels and met his new sister-in-law—the woman he had left behind to search for a newla musa.She had known it would be awkward. Embarrassing. But she’d thought if Wesley had not wanted her himself, how could he complain if his brother had decided to marry her? The awkwardness would pass soon enough, she’d told herself. She’d hoped.
But if Wesley still had feelings for her, longed for—even expected—to continue their relationship where they had left off, only to find she had married another? And worse yet, his brother? She shook her head, and a groan escaped her.
Fortunately, Wesley was not expected back from Italy any time soon. Perhaps he would have found his new muse by then. Maybe he had already met a dark and vivacious Mona Lisa and was even now regretting having written this apology—this olive branch—to a quiet and pale painter’s daughter. There was a chance that had happened. A hope.
Though the thought brought little comfort.
chapter 21
Wesley Overtree asked the driver to let him off at the end of the lane. He would walk from there. He wanted to stretch his legs and see the old place from a distance. When the horse and gig stopped, Wesley gave the man a half crown and thanked him for the ride from the coaching inn. It was a relief to walk on solid, familiar ground after the tedious sea voyage followed by hours on the dusty, pitted road.
The whole long journey had been a waste of time. He had not even stepped foot on Italian soil. Storms had plagued them, followed by a dead calm that delayed their progress. And then the ship had turned back at the island of Sardinia. The captain heard reports of Napoleon’s escape and imminent return and insisted on turning around before war broke out and made the sailing route dangerous or impassable. Of all the bad luck... Or perhaps it had not been luck at all, but a sign. Or a punishment. God telling him to quit running and go home.
A part of him had been oddly relieved. He would see Sophie even sooner than he thought. He hoped she had received the letter he’d posted, and had accepted his apology.
Reaching Plymouth about a month and a half after he’d left it, Wesley traveled overland to Lynmouth by stage coach, rehearsing what he would say to her. Imagining, anticipating her smile. Her shy lovely eyes shining with surprise and happiness to see him back so much sooner than anticipated.
When he’d alighted at the Lynmouth coaching inn at last, he claimed his bags and strode along the harbor, a spring in his step. How he’d missed her. He could not wait to take her in his arms.
He drew up short. The Duponts’ place was dark and empty. AClosednotice sat propped in the lower window, printed with Mr. Dupont’s Bath direction, for those who wished to contact him there. Wesley frowned and squinted through the glass. He knew Dupont had returned to Bath. But where were Sophie and that sniveling Maurice? He knocked, in case the lazy young man was sleeping midday.
No answer.
