Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

She noted, quite insanely, his eyes were the same gray.

A hush surrounded them, as society noticed the Earl of Edgington was addressing Miss Hargrove. Whispers began, and she could imagine what they said, as they repeated the scandal to those who didn't know, as they wondered if she would be so stupid as to believe his lies once more.

Cheeks burning, she lifted her chin. She wouldn't allow such whispers to affect her. Not again.

Finally, the earl spoke. "Miss Hargrove, would you honor me with a dance?"

Fury exploded. Trembling with it, she clenched her fists as she fought to control herself.

He stood there with his impassive face and tall body and thought he could treat her as if nothing had ever happened? As if she had not been forced to leave this country, her home, because of his actions? A voice whispered she was not wholly blameless, but she ignored it.

Drawing herself to her full height, she poured every bit of anger she felt into her response, the only response she could possibly give. "No."

Then she spun on her heel and left.

LEFT STANDING IN THE middle of the ballroom, Edgington watched as Miss Hargrove--as Sofie--stormed off. She did not look back, quickly becoming lost in a crowd that tittered, gossiped, and stared.

Once he could no longer see the gree

n feather adorning Sofie's hair, he turned his attention to the shocked, thrilled faces before him. They'd given the gossips much to discuss tonight, and no doubt by tomorrow the tale of how Miss Hargrove gave the Earl of Edgington the cut direct would be all over town.

Lifting his brows, he stared them down. Most dropped their gaze, and those that didn't appeared suitably cowed. Satisfied, he took his leave of the ballroom, finding an empty chamber so he could let the facade slip.

Running a hand over his face, he exhaled. God. Sofie.

She was even more beautiful now than she'd been ten years ago. Her hair looked as silky as he remembered it; his fingers itched to bury themselves in the strawberry-blonde tresses. The smattering of freckles across her nose was the same, and she no longer attempted to disguise them with powder, which he found unbearably erotic. She'd held herself proudly, as if daring him to do his worst, and then she had cut him and carried herself away like a queen.

He'd wanted nothing more than to haul her against him and cover her mouth with his.

It was the same as ten years ago, the same rush of emotion clamoring through him. She made him feel ... The feelings were so big, he didn't know how to describe them. And he wanted her. Damn, how he wanted her.

That last night, he'd been desperate for her. They'd never kissed, never even so much as touched inappropriately, but he'd wanted to. Had been drowning in desire for her. Unused to restraint, he'd kept his baser instincts under ruthless control, terrified of scaring her with the strength of his passion. Then, she'd leaned over, her eyes sparkling, and her lips had brushed his so hesitantly. He couldn't have contained himself after that.

It had all gone spectacularly wrong. They'd been caught, and he should have convinced the gossips they saw nothing, should have used his privilege to ensure they spoke not at all. Instead, he'd been so caught up in Sofie he'd let them leave, and within moments Sofie's father had arrived to drag her away. From there, it had only been a matter of hours before it was the talk of the ton.

The next morning, he'd dressed to call upon her. He'd even gotten as far as her street before doubt crashed over him. What was he doing? He would ruin her, as he'd ruined everything else in his life. Panic had screamed through him, and he'd turned on his heel and left. He'd done her a favor, he told himself. She could not want him as a husband, not the disreputable Viscount March. When he'd heard she'd left for the Continent, he'd been certain he'd been correct. She was better off without him, and look how the years bore truth to his words.

Linking his hands behind his neck, he stared at nothing. He wasn't better without her. He'd always known that.

A sudden thought occurred. Why wouldn't she let him talk to her? It had been ten years. Surely, her anger should have faded by now, enough to listen to him at least. True, he'd been the wicked Viscount March and the blame for their disgrace could be laid upon him, but she'd agreed to meet him. She'd kept meeting him. She'd kissed him.

He needed to talk to her.

Turning, he left the room. She wasn't in the ballroom or any of the retiring rooms. She wasn't in the banquet hall or the foyer or anywhere else in the house.

Exhaling, he looked out the window of one of the dozens of rooms she wasn't in. Would she really go into the garden? It was freezing out there, the sky threatening snow ... but she'd always loved the gardens.

Procuring his coat and his gloves from a passing footman, he set out into the night. The cold hit him as soon as he passed through the door, slithering along the collar of his coat and pushing against his skin. Devoid of people, silence hung over the garden, a heavy expectation in the air ... or maybe it was his own thoughts that made it seem so.

Deep in the garden, deep enough the lights of the house had faded, he found her. Her back to him, Sofie gazed out over the Thornton's gardens, the emerald green of her gown a strip of color against the darkness of her cloak.

Stealing himself, Edgington approached her. "You always did like a garden at night."

Sofie's shoulders stiffened. She didn't reply.

Standing next to her, he laced his hands behind him. They stood silent, the faint strains of a waltz wrapping around them.

Finally, she spoke. "Why are you here?"