Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

It was one of the few benefits to being a woman with a scandalous reputation. She did not have to lower her eyes and pretend that she wasn’t struck nearly witless by his appeal. She could, instead, openly appreciate the male form approaching her with thoroughly masculine feline grace.

Sophie blew out her breath. Her childhood friend had grown into a man well worthy of the many hours Society dedicated to discussing him. He had always been an avid sportsman and his physique proved that he still was. His dark blue velvet jacket required no padding to enhance his broad shoulders, and his breeches were just tight enough to reveal powerful thighs, muscular calves, and…

She blinked.

Good heavens! She should not be staring there, scandalous past or not.

Jerking her gaze upward, Sophie focused on his lips instead. They were somewhat thin and given his inclination for…imperiousness…she had remembered them being rather stern. But they were nothing of the sort. Instead they were shamelessly sensual, curved in a way that teased a woman to make him smile. Or whisper shocking things.

Sophie’s problem was that she enjoyed shocking things. They were much more fun than nonshocking things, hence the present state of her existence.

The moment he came to a halt before her it became extremely difficult to breathe properly. She bowed her head as she curtsied, hiding her confused frown. After all these years, he still unnerved her.

With a furtive gaze, Sophie watched as the marquess charmed her grand-mère into blushing, then he returned his attention to her. She hoped that she managed a semblance of a smile, but with her heart racing, she could not be sure.

“Lady Sophie,” Fontaine murmured, lifting her gloved hand to his lips. “A pleasure to see you again.”

She took note of his voice, which was deeper now and warm, so at odds with his rather formidable, icy exterior. How like him to be so starch-stiff and formal. And how like her to be so irritated by it. His composure had always goaded her to do rash things to break through it, and tonight was no exception. She set her hands on his chest for balance, lifted to her tiptoes, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You look well, my lord,” she returned, meeting his shocked gaze directly. Her lips tingled, forcing her to wrinkle her nose. She recalled suffering similar reactions to him when she was younger, which had prompted her to tell him that she was allergic to his arrogance. His reply, if she remembered correctly, had been a snort.

“Shall we?” the dowager marchioness asked, gesturing across the hall to the dining room.

For a moment longer, Fontaine stared at Sophie with a narrowed gaze, then he gave a curt nod and offered his arm to the countess.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of casual discourse and more serious discussion regarding Lord Hastings and India. The meal was impressive and served over many courses. From the marquess’s jest comparing the meal to the prince regent’s now legendary banquet at the Brighton Pavilion back in January, Sophie collected that his lordship recognized the aim to keep them seated and talking as long as possible. She wondered how he felt about her visit and if he realized, as she did, that they were being paired. She needed to speak with him privately to know, and also to enlist his help. The dissuading of the countess and dowager was too great a task for one individual.

And so it was that Sophie found herself pacing outside Fontaine’s private rooms after everyone retired. As apprehensive as she was about meeting with him alone, she forged ahead out of necessity. There was no other solution. She required his assistance in extricating them from this shameless matchmaking. They could not marry-a man of the marquess’s station would never accept a woman in her circumstances, regardless of their past friendship-but neither could they simply point that out and be done with the business. The dowager and the countess knew everything, and it apparently had not swayed them. But if Fontaine was willing to work with her to prove her point, they could prevail.

She sighed and came to an abrupt halt before the door.

Fontaine was known for his impeccable deportment and faultless manners. She could not predict how he would respond to the gross deviation of propriety she had committed so many years ago. He had been polite and dryly charming at dinner, but they had witnesses then. Now they would be alone and perhaps his true feelings would be aired. She had suffered and survived malicious gossip and been ostracized. But Justin…

Sophie swallowed hard. Dear God, how would she bear it if he was cruel?

Of course, there was only one way to find out.

Sophie lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and knocked on the paneled door.

The moments that passed after Sophie knocked seemed an eternity. She forced herself to breathe in and out with slow, deep breaths and wait, rather than scamper back to her room and find another way. Finally the door was opened by a manservant who was most likely Fontaine’s valet. The smile she gave him was both a greeting and an expression of relief.

“Good evening,” she said cheerfully. “I wish to speak with his lordship, if I may.”

There was a pause as the man blinked wide eyes at her, then a large hand curled around the top of the door and pulled it open further.

Fontaine came into view looking even better than he had at dinner. Then he had been fully, faultlessly dressed. Now he was sans coat, waistcoat, and cravat, the opening at his collar revealing honey-colored skin and a light dusting of pale blond hair. He looked relaxed and far less rigid than he had earlier, a softening her female sensibilities enjoyed far too much.

“Lady Sophie,” he murmured, in the deep voice of a pure male. “An unexpected pleasure, to be sure.”

“Might I come in, my lord?”

“This is my bedchamber,” he pointed out.

She gave him a wry look. “Yes, I know.”

His mouth twitched at the corners. “If you wish to compromise me, I must tell you that asking permission first is a rather odd way to go about it.”

Sophie blew out her breath and tapped her foot impatiently. “Why must you always be so difficult? Have you any notion-”

He reached out and hauled her into the room.

Dismissing his valet, he then shut the door, enclosing them in a space that smelled strongly of him, a delicious blend of bergamot and tobacco that stirred her in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

Needing distance between them, she stepped farther into his space. Her gaze drifted across the large, well-appointed chamber. Decorated in dark woods and shades of gold and brown, it reminded her of a lion’s den and suited its master perfectly, as did the two matching, fully grown mastiffs who approached her.

“You’ve no need to fear them,” he assured her. “They are quite gentle.”

“Well, hello,” she greeted, extending both hands. The massive fawn-colored beasts pressed their great muzzles into her palms and sniffed. Apparently finding her acceptable, they welcomed her with copious amounts of viscous drool. She glanced over her shoulder at the marquess. “What do you call them?”

“George and Edward.”

“Truly? How unusual.”

“They share their names with the two gentlemen who were with me when I purchased them as pups. Since both men felt the need to jest at length about salivating animals, I deemed them appropriate monikers.”

“Lovely!” Sophie laughed, pleasantly surprised by his sense of humor, which she did not remember ever seeing much of.

She watched him step behind the screen in the corner and when he returned, gratefully accepted the damp cloth he offered to wipe her hands. “They are beautiful dogs.”

“I think so,” he said easily, watching her with a stare that made her feel slightly breathless. His intensity had always frightened her a little, although she could not collect why. He would never hurt her; she knew that like she knew the sun would rise in the morn.

Moving to one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fire, Sophie sat and tugged a footstool closer so she could set her slippered feet upon it.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he teased, taking a seat opposite her. The way he filled the chair caught her attention. He did not sit with any sort of straightness to his spine, as she would expect. Fontaine lounged like a king of the jungle, his long legs stretched out and his back angled into the groove between the chair back and the wing. George and Edward studied him a moment, then shuffled over to the footstool and set their giant heads atop each of her feet.

“They like you,” he said.

“I like them.”

“I thought you hated dogs, or were afraid of them. Some such. You could not tolerate Lady Cardington’s pet. His name eludes me now…”

“Max, and he was a beast. I like dogs, truly. But Maximillian was not a dog; he was a demon. He chewed up my best shoes and lifted his leg on my bedpost at every opportunity.” She smiled suddenly. “But I am grateful for him now, because he works in our favor.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Grand-mère refused to see how horrid that animal was. I tried to tell her, but my complaints fell on deaf ears. He was wickedly clever and always on his best behavior for her.”

“So you invented a fear of canines?” The chastising shaking of his head was tempered by obvious indulgence.

“The feigned phobia served its purpose,” she said. “And now it will be one of the many points of contention between you and me.”

He grinned, and she was riveted.

Tilting her head to the side, Sophie contemplated her old friend with new eyes. How dashing he looked in his inelegant sprawl with his throat revealed to her gaze. He had always been uncommonly handsome, but the intimate pose made him seem overwhelmingly so. Where once he had been lean and youthful, he was now large and mature. His features were more angular, his gaze more knowing. Sophie could not shake the feeling that she had just walked into a predator’s lair.

“So we are to be contentious.” His lips twisted wryly. “I am not certain how to feel about so much effort being expended to avoid marriage to me.”

“Relieved?” she suggested blithely. “If I left the matter to you, you would most likely pronounce that you’d never marry a woman such as me, and that would goad them to dig in their heels. I am saving you endless trouble.”

“You believe I would never wed you,” he repeated, frowning.

Sophie drummed her fingers restlessly against the end of the armrest. “Of course not. I would drive you to insanity.”

“Perhaps I would like that.”

“Stuff,” she scoffed.

“Hmm…”

“Hmm?”

“Never mind. So tell me, how are you faring, Sophie?” The low, intimate timbre of his voice was slightly distracted, as if part of his mind was occupied with other thoughts.

She offered a small smile. “As well as can be expected, my lord.”

“Justin,” he corrected.

“Justin.” Her gaze lowered to his throat, which she could not seem to resist looking at. “How are you? You look…well.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I am.” There was a short pause, then, “How is your son?”

“Thomas is wonderful.” Sophie smiled at the thought of him. “He’s quite the loveliest thing in my life. But I shan’t bore you with the details.”

“If a topic interests you, it interests me. Does Thomas look like you?”

“No.” Sophie frowned, startled by the marquess’s words, which were delivered without inflection. “He looks like his father, thankfully. A blessing I appreciate immeasurably.”

Lifting her hand, she rubbed at the space between her brows where an ache was building. She had been plagued with megrims in the months after Langley’s passing, and the stress of her first outing and her unexpected reaction to Fontaine were bringing back echoes of that pain.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he murmured.

“Thank you.” Her hand dropped back into her lap. “But I have my son and I am tremendously grateful for him. He has been a brilliant light during a very dark time.”

She had been faced with people who intimated that it would have been better had she lost the babe. The very suggestion angered her in a way nothing else could. To propose that the loss of her child would have been preferable to the loss of social standing was so heinous she could not credit it.

“Where is the boy now?”

“With Langley’s younger brother-the current Lord Langley-and his family. Thomas visits with them often. He is a tangible piece of his father, and they cherish him.”

“You are very brave, Sophie.”

She studied Fontaine, attempting to discern if he was being facetious or not. She saw only sympathy. “No, I am not brave. Not at all. I have survived. That does not make me courageous; it is merely a testament of my stubbornness.”