More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
He teetered perilously on the brink of falling head-over-heels in love with Lady Sophronia Sorrow.
So Rafe did not spend hours talking with Lady Sophie, as he wished. He did not bask in the warmth of her smile, or imagine a life where he could call upon her tomorrow. Instead, he . . . panicked.
Lord Rafe stared at her from across the ballroom. Her heart leapt into her throat, pounding like a crazed beast, as if trying to escape her chest and run to him—
Her eyes darted back to that extended hand. Taking it would be a declaration of war. A glove slap to both their parents.
Sophie’s entire body hummed like a plucked violin. How was it that the world appeared more brilliant when on Lord Rafe’s arm?
“I figured our night would not be complete without a meeting behind a curtain.” He grinned down at her, grasping her hands in his.
He fell asleep to the vision of a life with Sophie.
Just when Rafe thought his hatred could not deepen—that the duke could not fall any lower in his estimation—the bastard revealed an entirely new country for Rafe to rage through.
A sinking sense of dread that his dream of Lady Sophie would remain just that—a dream.
Someday, Rafe vowed. Someday he would stop being that fish, pinned in place, thrashing against the knife in his chest.
Maybe his mother had required his escort today. Perhaps an emergency had arisen. Mayhap the Duke of Kendall, in a fit of imperious pique, had forbidden Lord Rafe from ever seeing Sophie again, banishing him from the country— Sophie rolled her eyes at the last thought. How gothically melodramatic. They lived in 1815 not 1518, for heaven’s sake. Lord Rafe would have a good explanation when he called tomorrow. But he did not call the next day. Nor the next.
Sophie, for all her intelligence, was still an idiot. Lord Rafe would never be coming for her. Sophie had been taken for a fool. How could she have been so featherbrained?
Jamie’s Tartan, they called it—bands of cross-hatch color against a black ground. Red for blood spilt. Yellow for hope. Green for growth. And white for the purity of their hearts.
Rafe hated this feeling of helplessness, of being unable to relieve her suffering.
He hated this powerlessness, this endless game of having to choose which evil he would tolerate.
“Come along, yer lofty lordship. There’s a fair amount of fun yet tae be had tonight.”
Jack was gone. Remaining angry at him only hurt herself. Do not give him any more of yourself. Live your life free of him.
What was it an older matron had once said? Men need to be needed, but women want to be wanted. Sophie had long pondered the wisdom in those words.
In her more honest moments, she still dreamed of finding a true husband, a man whom she loved and who loved her in return. In short, Sophie wanted to be wanted.
But . . . perhaps her heart was too battered for hate, the pieces still too scattered. Because standing here, facing him . . . . . . she only felt a great welling of anger-tinged hurt.
Why had her spark vanished? Where was the quirky woman of his memory? The more Rafe studied her, the more distressing it became. Where had she gone, his Sophie?
He liked her. As in . . . . . . definitely, decidedly, emphatically adored her. How could she take such risks with something he so adored?! The very cheek!
This woman. Instead of crumbling into a weeping heap, she swallowed, pinched her lips together, and rallied. And damn if he didn’t admire her all the more for it.
Because despite how his heart panged and thumped in his chest—emphatically insisting that Lady Sophie was everything to him—she was, in fact as she said . . . truly no one. He had no claim on her, no right, and, worst of all, no freedom to change the situation. And that was the greatest tragedy of all.
Fortunately for him, she made a habit of rescuing helpless things. Even half-drowned rakes.
Sophie swallowed back the bitterness that threatened to swamp her. Enough. Enough of Jack. Do not give that man any more of yourself. Yes . . . she wanted to be wanted.
This was intended to be a journey of healing and rebirth. Not one of confused emotions and unfulfilled expectations.
analyzing behavior was Sophie’s specialty. Of course she saw through him. In hindsight, it seemed almost inevitable. And he cared enough to want her to understand all of him. It felt Fated in a way, that he would give every part of his soul to this woman.
Would Lord Rafe ever stop being this man to her? The one who undid her, unraveled her heart and made her yearn for things she had given up years ago. Even now, he was unearthing bits of her soul—hope and desire and longing that she had thought broken beyond recovery—and offering them to her, encouraging her to rebuild. But . . . she had trusted him once, and he had shattered her.
it seemed every last second with this woman ended up imprinted on his very bones. Sophie had become part of his actual biology.
How was he to answer? Our kiss is all I can remember. You are blazoned on my very soul.
His Sophie was— Ah, bloody hell. His Sophie. He had gone and done it. He was thinking of her in possessive pronouns. Words like his and mine and us. A man was done for when a woman started to alter his very grammar.
He willed her to believe him, to trust that she was wanted then. Hell, she was wanted now. Desperately. Achingly. Thoroughly. How he wanted her. Some days he could scarcely breathe for sheer wanting.
But now . . . what was he to say to her? I love you and my father took you away. You are more wanted than you can ever know. I would give anything to make you mine.
Both of them, off to find Dr. Ross, as if he were some wizard in a tower who could grant both their wishes simply for asking.
“Never doubt the sincerity of my intentions that night, Sophie.” Something hot and painful lodged in her throat. She heard his unspoken words clearly. Never doubt that you were wanted.
The quiet scholar, Sophie realized, was the true man. As was the man who, twenty miles outside York, immediately hopped out of the chaise to help push a mired coach out of the mud, uncaring as to his status or the cleanliness of his ghillies. He saw a need and helped where he could.
But it is far easier to hate a wastrel husband than to feel all the horror of one’s poor choices, the pain of one’s insecurities. And so I loved my hate. I fed it and stoked it because it shielded me from a mountain of personal pain. But once I had removed the shield—or, as I said, a dam, if that metaphor works better for you—emotions flooded me, hurt and pain and such bitter regret.”
And so I took that hate and molded it from anger into tenacity and strength and, most importantly, into forgiveness—forgiveness toward myself for being so incredibly foolish.
“Your father isn’t worth your hate,” she said. “Your hate is a reaction to his behavior. Another way in which he owns you, another way he controls you. Do not give him the satisfaction of such emotion.”
I loved my hate. I fed it and stoked it because it kept me from a mountain of personal pain. Your hate is a reaction to his behavior. Another way in which he owns you. “If hate and anger are fuel,” he began, voice low, “I have enough of it tae energize an army.” “Then motivate that army. Pour that rage into hope, into determination to fight free of him. Take back your future. Do not give him any more of yourself. Your soul is too precious to squander on that man.”
Take back your future. Was that even possible at this point? Your soul is too precious . . . Did she really mean the implications of that? That his very soul was something she prized?
I still feel unwanted and unloved. Rafe’s heart cracked at the thought. How could Sophie not know how desperately he loved and wanted her. Oh! The want of her! It ate at him, consumed him until, at times, he felt unequal to breathing because of it.
“I cannot forgive him,” Rafe whispered, “because he denies me you.” “Me?!” “Aye.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “How can you think yourself unwanted? Undesired? I desired you then.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I desire you now. That has never changed.”
“Lord Mainfeld has been a good father to me. The best of fathers.” She felt the truth of it spread through her chest, a glimmering blossom of light. “But I have so longed to know you—” Her voice cracked at the end.
She watched the dementia claim him—one tiny piece at a time—until he was a stooped elderly man again, no recognition in his eyes. It was agony to witness, to know the brilliance that John had once been.
She didn’t have a lack of fathers . . . Selfish, foolish woman. She had an abundance.
Love did not need similarity of thought or interest. Love required only attention and care, thoughtfulness and generosity of soul.
Love took many forms and needed to be accepted as it came. To do otherwise was to risk a life of eternal disappointment.
He blinked and shook his head. But . . . she was still there, beside him. His beautiful, brave bird. He reached out and traced a finger down her cheek. Solid. Real.
