A Holiday by Gaslight(39)

Oh my.

Sophie’s heart skipped several beats. A wall sconce outside the alcove flickered, casting a half shadow over Ned’s face. This was to be her gaslight kiss, then. Just as he’d promised her. “We can’t. Anyone might see.”

He brought his hand to cradle her face. “We’re quite hidden.”

She refrained from pointing out that her skirts were spilling out into the hall. At this stage it didn’t seem to matter. He wanted to kiss her. And she very much wanted to kiss him back. She raised her hand to curl about his neck, the movement unsteady and uncertain. “I’m afraid I’ll crush your cravat,” she admitted, a little sheepishly.

Ned’s expression softened with something like tenderness. “Never mind my cravat.”

And then his mouth covered hers.

Sophie’s eyes fell shut and her breath stuttered. For a moment, she stood still as a statue, just as she had the first time. But it was impossible to remain so. Not with her hand curved tight around his neck. Not with his arms moving to encircle her waist, drawing her flush against his chest.

Her lips softened beneath his, half-parting under the gentle, searching pressure of his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath. The clutch of his fingers at her corseted waist. And they kissed each other. There was no other way to describe it. They kissed each other. Like equals. Like partners. Both active participants in what had to be the most intimate experience of Sophie’s entire life.

“My God,” he breathed when they finally broke apart. It sounded like a groan. Or possibly a prayer. “My God, Sophie.”

She held his gaze, lips still half-parted as she tried to catch her breath. “Was that all right?”

Ned ran a hand over his face. And then he gave her a lop-sided smile. It was the smile of a much younger man. Smitten and foolish. A little rueful. It was utterly unlike any smile he’d ever given her before.

Sophie’s heart clutched. Had she finally managed to put the stern and forbidding Mr. Edward Sharpe out of countenance? To render him no more than a speechless schoolboy?

Or perhaps not so speechless.

“It was more than all right,” he said. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.”

It was the worst possible thing he could have said. Especially following Emily’s accusations of perfection.

Not that it ruined the moment. She didn’t think anything could. Still…

She’d rather he thought of her as a woman than some glorified feminine ideal

“I’m not perfect.” She backed away from him, or at least as far as the alcove would allow. “But I am obliged to you for the kiss.”

“And I to you.”

“Well, then.”

His lop-sided smile widened. “Well, then.”

The sound of musicians tuning their instruments drifted up the stairs. The ball was about to commence. “I shouldn’t linger. The guests will be arriving soon. My parents will expect me in the hall to welcome them.” She paused. “Will you escort me downstairs?”

“Er…you go ahead. I’ll stay here awhile.”

“You’re right. We’d do better to go down separately. We wouldn’t wish to be remarked.”

“No, indeed.” He caught at her hand as she moved to leave. “Sophie?”

She met his eyes. “Yes?”

He looked steadily back at her. “I mean to claim those waltzes.”

“They’re yours, Ned,” she said. But what she really meant was I’m yours. And, as she slipped out of the alcove and hurried down the hall, she suspected he knew it.





The ballroom at Appersett House was magnificent. It was also hot, stuffy, and overcrowded. The crystal gasoliers and the gas jets in the gilded wall sconces worked in concert with the guests to suck the oxygen from the room. Three ladies had already fainted. It was quite an achievement—and not at all a negative one. Indeed, no party was counted a success unless it was an absolute crush.

As the orchestra played the last notes of Ned’s final waltz with Sophie, he contemplated inviting her for a walk on the terrace. The snow would be a refreshing change from the cloying scent of men’s pomade, women’s perfume, and human perspiration. Besides, he wanted to kiss her again and the odds of finding any privacy indoors were next to nil.

She stepped back as their dance ended, returning his short bow with a shallow curtsy. “I told you I wouldn’t be a good partner. I must have trod on your toes three times.”

“Four times. Not that I’m keeping count.”

She gave him a laughing grimace. “How mortifying. I’m not usually so clumsy.”

“You’re tired, that’s all. The gentlemen have danced you off your feet.” Ned didn’t think she’d ever lacked a partner. She was a firm favorite with both the gentry and villagers alike.

“You’ve been no less popular.”

“I’ve been much less popular.”

“Nonsense. You danced with Mrs. Lanyon and Miss Tunstall and I don’t know how many others.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Were you keeping count?”

“You needn’t look so smug. I only noticed because Mrs. Lanyon fainted after the lancers.” Sophie cast a quick look around. “I hope she’s feeling better now. I don’t see her anywhere.”