Pamela Sherwood Read Online Free Page A

gave a gurgle of laughter, as irresistibly bubbly as the champagne. “Only if we’re foolish enough to tell him! But you needn’t worry, Mr. Pendarvis. I’m enjoying this evening far too much to spoil it by getting tiddly.”
    Her frank admission made him smile as well. Nothing of the coquette about Sophie, he thought, nothing calculating or artful. Her face, her manners, and her conversation were open, candid, and unaffected, and all the more endearing for that.
    Did she have any idea of her own appeal? She’d a host of admirers, but he’d seen no evidence that she’d been flirting with any of them. Or with him for that matter.
    Which was all to the good, Robin reminded himself. In London, at some of the parties he’d attended, he’d had to discourage a few young ladies inclined to set their caps at him, once they heard of his expectations as Great-Uncle Simon’s heir. Nothing so stark as the truth, but enough to let them know he was not a likely candidate for matrimony at this time.
    Not until tonight had he found himself wishing he were. But he had no business hoping for—if not the impossible, then the deeply improbable, and no right to cry for the moon. Life was in the moment, and at this moment, seated beside this lovely, enchanting girl-woman, he felt he had all he could want. Let that be enough, for now.
    “It has been—a very pleasant evening,” he said aloud.
    “Hasn’t it?” Sophie smiled at him over the rim of her glass, her eyes glowing like jade. “I am so glad you’ve enjoyed yourself, Mr. Pendarvis. And even gladder that you accepted my brother’s invitation.”
    “As am I, Miss Tresilian.” Robin picked up his own wineglass to touch it lightly to hers. “To the New Year.”
    “To the New Year,” she echoed, and they drank the toast together.
    ***
    As expected, Sir Lucas Nankivell claimed Sophie for the dance after supper. Robin yielded her with a smile that concealed his mounting irritation. It was rare for him to feel such instant antipathy toward a person he’d just met, but something about the man rubbed him the wrong way—whether it was his too-perfect appearance, his supercilious manner toward Robin himself, or his rather proprietary air toward Sophie, though at least she’d shown no sign of encouraging the fellow. Indeed, she seemed genuinely regretful to part from him , which afforded Robin considerable comfort. He was further consoled by the knowledge that the dance was a Lancers Quadrille—lengthy, but providing far fewer opportunities for intimacy than the waltz he and Sophie had shared.
    Robin shook his head, deliberately putting all thoughts of Nankivell out of his head. This was one of the most enjoyable parties he’d attended, and he wasn’t about to spoil it by dwelling on the one unfriendly person he’d encountered tonight. Instead, he found himself a partner for the Lancers in Cecily Penhallow, even though she spent most of it talking about her husband and children. A pleasant, good-tempered woman, Robin thought as he escorted her back to the side of her adored Arthur, but lacking some of Sophie’s sparkle and fire.
    The evening hummed along agreeably. He participated in several more dances, including a polka with Sophie, as all her waltzes were now taken. The lively pace allowed little time for intimate conversation, but he enjoyed watching her romp, light as thistledown, through the set.
    Sometime later, he found himself beside the Christmas tree, nursing a glass of cider as he watched the couples on the floor. Sophie was in the midst of a schottische, twirling upon her toes with the grace of a ballerina. Robin sipped his cider and tried not to envy her partner too much.
    A voice spoke up from the other side of the Christmas tree, startling him.
    “—only seventeen. Not ready for marriage, by any means.”
    “Young ladies her age marry every day in London.”
    Robin stiffened. He recognized both voices: Sir Harry’s and that cool, cultured one that held