After Innocence Read online

  “I am smitten, but he is definitely not for me. Papa would never allow such a man to court me—and we both know it.” But Lisa’s dark eyes glowed. “Last night after everyone retired, he was with one of the women outside on the terrace. I saw them—it was shocking the way he held her. He was kissing her, Sofie!”

  Sofie was frozen. “Who?” She croaked. “Who was he with?”

  “You won’t believe me—I didn’t believe it either. It was Hilary Stewart.” Lisa leaned close. “J have heard that she wishes to marry him, too!”

  Sofie could not respond. It had finally dawned on her that the man she had spied on at the beach was Edward Delanza, and that in a very short time she would come face-to-face with him. Dear God, how could she possibly face him after what she had seen?

  2

  Standing on the balcony outside his bedroom, Edward Delanza lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then settled his hip on the banister of the wrought-iron railing.

  He glanced down at the perfectly groomed lawns. To his left were brilliantly colored formal gardens; far to the right he could just make out the edge of the tennis court. Directly ahead of him the cream and green dunes slid away from the lawns, and a lazy steel blue ocean swept in upon the beachfront in playful white-capped waves. In the west, unseen by him, the sun was setting on the other side of the house, turning the sky a dull, softly glowing pink.

  Edward enjoyed the view. It was peaceful. He had lived so precariously this past year that he appreciated even life’s quietest—dullest—moments. But not for long. It never lasted for long. In a few days, a few weeks, a few months, he would get that unquenchable restlessness again, a restlessness that had its roots deep in his past, and in his very soul. Sometimes he thought of it as an octopus, whose tentacles he could not shake, and stricken with his burden, he would move on.

  But right now he was happy to be just where he was, thank you very much. There was a helluva lot to be said for a peaceful smoke on a summer evening like this. He lifted his face to the still evening air, which was thick and humid and warm but nothing like a south African summer’s eve.

  Too well, as if it were yesterday, he recalled his last night in southern Africa, crouching down behind a mountain of crates in Hopeville not far from the rail depot, which was on fire, bullets banging and ricocheting all around him, explosions sounding not too far in the distance. The British and the Afrikaners had been going at it all night, and he had been caught in the middle. It had been endless. Edward vividly remembered craving a cigarette, but when he’d dug deep into his pockets, he’d only come up with two handfuls of diamonds.

  Right then, he’d have tossed every rock aside for a single drag, if he could have.

  The train from Kimberley had arrived two and a half hours late. Edward had gotten himself badly cut up getting through the barbed wire, and he’d suffered a flesh wound in his shoulder, too, shot by some soldier who’d seen him at the last moment as he dashed for the train. But he had made it. He’d leapt aboard the last coach, and when he’d arrived in Cape Town, greeted by a blood red dawn, he’d made the merchant vessel, too, just as she was slipping free of her moorings. He’d been bloody, hurting, and exhausted, but he had made it. With both pockets full of diamonds.

  He was never going back.

  Remembering, Edward smoked the cigarette right down to the end, until he’d burned his fingertips. He forced himself back to the present, and realized that he’d grown rigid with tension and was starting to sweat, a reaction he always seemed to have in response to the unpleasant memories. There was no hope for southern Africa: he’d realized that many months ago. The hatreds ran too deep and were far too complex. He was going to sell out just as soon as he could. There was no way he could enjoy being rich if he was dead.

  His gaze soaked up the pretty, peaceful lawn scene below him. Several guests had strolled outside, drinks in hand, in their black dinner jackets and jewel-toned evening gowns. Not for the first time, his regard wandered back to the balcony’s single chair, which was poised by the door to the bedroom. On it was an open notebook. Its pages fluttered slightly in the breeze.

  He was quite certain that the notebook belonged to the voyeur. When he and Hilary had returned to the house separately, taking different paths, Edward had found it lying abandoned in the sand in the exact place where she had crouched, watching him perform for her. His interest had been surprisingly acute. But that emotion could not compete with his surprise when he saw the rough sketch she’d made of him. He couldn’t help being somewhat flattered that she had drawn him, but there’d been a couple of other sketches in her book, too, of the Newport beach. The little voyeur was talented, he could see that.

  Not quite calm, Edward lit another cigarette, wondering about her. He had thought about her quite a bit since the incident earlier that day on the beach. The incident. He was still somewhat dismayed with his own behavior, which was thoroughly reprehensible. Of course, he hadn’t forced her to stay and watch. Now he realized she’d been drawing, her reason for being there in the first place.

  Still, most young ladies would have run away instantly. Not her. She had stayed, right until the end. Just thinking about it, he could feel his damn cock stiffen. Edward realized that, despite his many hair-raising escapades—and near brushes with death—he had become far more jaded and dissolute than he had guessed. The incident was proof. How else could he explain his own behavior? How to explain hers? They hadn’t even met, and yet, he was intrigued.

  He assumed that she was a guest of the Ralstons’; he hoped so. He found himself anticipating their next, real meeting with a mixture of both amusement and excitement. Surely he would find her downstairs with the other guests.

  Edward stood, aware of the fluttering in his chest, amused with himself. Goddamn, his blasted heart was beating twice as fast as usual. He couldn’t remember when the last time was that he had felt his pulse accelerate in response to the mere thought of a woman.

  Edward moved back into his bedroom, paused briefly to check his necktie and slip on a white evening jacket, then he hurried down the stairs.

  On the ground floor he slowed and entered the formal salon. The guests were clustered in groups of twos and threes, chatting amiably as they sipped before-dinner drinks passed about by servants in uniform. At least two dozen people were present; apparently neighbors had been invited to supper that evening as well. His glance skidded past everyone—including Hilary Stewart—and slammed to a halt. The voyeur stood alone in front of the French doors on the other side of the room.

  His heart seemed to slam, too. But his first thought was, no, this is impossible!

  She made a thoroughly nondescript figure of a woman, one he would not normally ever look at twice. Except he was more than looking twice at her now—he was mesmerized. He could not look away.

  She had a god-awful style. Her hair was drawn into a severe chignon, she wore no jewelry, not even earbobs, and the gray gown she was wearing was absolutely the worst color she could choose. In his imagination. Edward stripped her naked, fantasized alluring curves, saw her with her hair down. He imagined her wearing nothing but an oversized necklace made with his glittering diamonds while he made love to her, repeatedly.

  Rigid with new tension, Edward stepped into the room to take advantage of the salon’s electric lighting, certain that her appearance was deceiving. He could see her better now—and it was deceiving. She had no style, that was true, but she wasn’t homely, far from it. True, she was not his type—he preferred women who were obviously lush and startlingly attractive, not ones who hid behind ugly gowns and uglier hairstyles. But he was fascinated nevertheless.

  And she was staring back at him, too. Edward wondered how she had felt earlier that day, watching him with Hilary. He wondered how she was feeling now. What she was thinking. She had turned crimson. His heart beat harder, faster. Their gazes held. An eternity seemed to unfold before he could look away.

  Christ! He reminded himself that she was young. Very young. Far t
oo young for him. He doubted she was more than eighteen. Undoubtedly she had only just made her debut that year. Undoubtedly she was a very proper, very young, very innocent lady—except that he had just destroyed her innocence that day. Oh, God!

  Edward stood rooted near the doorway, flushing with sudden, real mortification as he finally comprehended the full extent of what he had done—and what he was thinking of doing now. He had purposefully made love to his mistress in front of a young lady just out of the schoolroom. And he was aching to make love to that very same young lady right now—to show her the glory of carnal passion, to introduce her to the pleasure, the agony, the rapture. In fact, he was anticipating it, not just with his body, but with his mind.

  Edward forced himself to look away from her. He was shocked with himself, shocked with what he had already done and what he wanted to do now. His heart was pounding so hard, he could hear it in his ears. What was wrong with him? Not only wasn’t she the kind of woman he dallied with, his interest was founded upon all the wrong reasons.

  His glance crept back to her, of its own volition. She was staring at him, still flushing right down to the high, tight collar of her horrendous gown, and she turned abruptly away when their gazes collided again. He was more than fascinated. He had a terrible inkling that he was out of control.

  But why? This woman was not and never would be appropriate for him. She was undoubtedly seeking a proper husband, would one day have a few children in her very proper home. His interest was futile, for Edward was a determined bachelor. He knew, firsthand, how rotten marriage could be. Lust could not hold a couple together, and Edward did not believe in love. His separated parents were living proof of that. As were the hundreds of married women who sought his bed.

  Hilary appeared at Edward’s side with another woman. “Hello, Mr. Delanza,” she said politely, as if they hardly knew each other.

  Edward forced a smile onto his face and bowed, taking her hand and kissing it. He spoke automatically, unable to rid his mind of the image of the proper young lady across the room. Or of other images of her, ones that were far from proper. “Mrs. Stewart, have you enjoyed your day in the sun?”

  Her long lashes fell. “Very much. And you?”

  “Mmm, of course.”

  “Do you know Miss Vanderbill?”

  “How could I forget?” Edward said with a smile, also bowing over her hand and lifting it to his lips.

  Carmine Vanderbill laughed nervously, but she was smiling widely, reluctant to drop her hand.

  As Hilary chatted, Edward responded when he sensed it was up to him, yet he kept one eye on the young woman on the other side of the room. After a few short moments he realized that something was wrong.

  She stood alone, completely alone, as if a pariah. But that, of course, was impossible.

  “Who is that young lady?” he asked the two women abruptly.

  Immediately Hilary and Carmine followed his gaze, and when they saw whom he had asked about, they were both wide-eyed with surprise. “That’s Sofie O’Neil,” Hilary said easily. “She is Suzanne Ralston’s daughter from her first marriage. But why do you ask?”

  “Because she’s standing alone, and obviously distressed because of it.” Edward’s dimples flashed. “I think I shall rescue her,” he stated, and with a nod, he left both women gawking after him.

  Edward crossed the room.

  He nodded at those he passed but did not pause to converse. He told himself that he was acting honorably, and managed to believe it. He failed to understand why no one had gone to Miss O’Neil’s rescue as of yet. Was he the only gentleman present? He was irritated with the assembly for their universal indifference. And he ignored the partly tumescent presence between his thighs.

  As he approached his quarry he began to assimilate many interesting details. She was of medium stature, but he suspected that her proportions were perfectly suited to her moderate build. He glimpsed traces of gold in her brownish hair, recalled how golden it had been in the sunlight, and saw that her skin had a warm tone not unlike that of apricots, which made her really quite remarkable. He wondered who had done her hair in such a severe and spinsterish style, wondered who had picked the awful gown, and found himself annoyed. She was not going to find herself a husband if she presented herself this way.

  Then he imagined her with another man, and his annoyance grew.

  She had seen him. He watched as her eyes grew wide. He had approached her in an unwavering, direct line. How he regretted his horrendous performance of the afternoon. But it was too late for regrets. She knew who he was—she had looked right at him. But she need never know that he was so unconscionable as to have been aware of her watching him. She would never know. And once the first tense moment of meeting face-to-face had passed, they would converse as if nothing untoward had ever happened. Maybe one day she would forget.

  She had eyes only for him. She seemed to understand his intentions. Her mouth formed an O. Her cheeks mottled red. She took a deep, desperate gulp of air. But she did not break and run.

  Edward paused in front of her, taking her tense hand in his, his smile warm. He was well aware that women found him irresistible—and he saw her eyes widen even more. “Miss O’Neil. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I understand that your mother is my hostess. Edward Delanza, at your service.”

  She stared in disbelief.

  Edward raised her hand and kissed it. There was no question that, despite her spinsterish disguise, she was pretty enough. Her nose was small and straight, her cheekbones high, her eyes wide, long-lashed, and the shape of almonds. Her face was a perfect oval, and her coloring was frankly exotic. Her eyes, he saw now, were an amazing shade of amber, like the best French sherry. He stared into them and she stared back, unblinking and mesmerized. For a moment he could not look away.

  She could even be a beauty if she really wanted to be, he thought. A golden beauty, not too flashy or too obvious but enticing nevertheless, a woman who would turn more than a few heads.

  “Mr. D-Delanza,” she said huskily.

  Edward regained his composure and cleared his throat. “Did you just arrive in Newport?” He had not seen her last night when he had arrived, for if he had, he would certainly remember.

  She nodded, her eyes still upon his.

  “It is wonderful to escape the city, is it not? The heat is unbearable just now.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Her breasts were heaving while her chin lined a notch.

  Edward wondered if she was shy, in awe of him—or perhaps still shocked by the incident. Inwardly he grimaced, imagining that the last was probably true. Outwardly he dazzled her with another smile. “Will you stay the rest of the summer, then?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her tongue flicked over her lips.

  Edward repeated his question, trying not to think nasty thoughts.

  She swallowed. “I don’t think so.”

  He was surprised. “Why not?”

  “I have classes. At the Academy.” She flushed and lifted her chin higher, proudly. “I am studying art.”

  He recalled her sketches, which were certainly talented, and had an inkling then, a sense that there was far more here than met the eye. “You speak with passion.”

  “I am passionate about my work.”

  He lifted a brow, genuinely curious. “Yes, I am beginning to see that. Are there many young ladies at the Academy?”

  “Perhaps a quarter of the class,” she said, and suddenly she smiled. “We are all devoted to art.”

  For a moment he stood very still, staring at her. He reassessed. Sofie O’Neil was beautiful, for when she smiled she lit up and glowed from deep within herself. Something stirred, and it wasn’t just his groin. For a moment he wished he were younger, more idealistic, and interested in a wife. It was a ridiculous notion.

  “That is admirable, Miss O’Neil,” he said, meaning it. He couldn’t help taking stock of her ugly gray gown again. He had never before met a woman who was not devoted to pr
etty gowns, jewelry and handsome beaux. She should be dressed in white silk, sporting pearls and diamonds, surrounded by eager young men. Why was he the only gentleman in attendance? He shoved the rude thought aside and smiled. “Soon, though, I suspect some handsome gallant will chase you down and earn some of that devotion.”

  She stiffened.

  “Have I said something wrong?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, glancing away.

  He could not fathom what it could be. Because soon some young gentleman would see past the old-lady hairdo and the awful clothing and win her heart; it was inevitable. Edward ignored a small but very real pang of regret.

  But the analogy was clear. She reminded him of the uncut diamonds he had carried back to New York from Africa, appearing dull and lackluster—but it was an illusion. Once cut and polished, even the most flawed became brilliant.

  She faced him again. “I intend to be a professional artist,” she said.

  “A professional artist?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze was unwavering. “I intend to earn my living by selling my art.”

  He could not help staring. Well-bred ladies did not earn livings, it was as simple as that.

  She wet her lips again. “Have I shocked you?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” he said honestly. “But I am rather liberal. Perhaps your husband will not be of the same mind.”

  She clenched the folds of her skirt. “Undoubtedly, should I wed, my husband would not allow me to earn my living from anything, much less the sale of my art.”

  Edward could hardly believe his ears. “You do not mean to tell me, do you, that you will not wed?”

  She nodded.

  It was one of the rare moments in his life when he was genuinely shocked. As he stared at her, seeing her classic beauty despite the absurd clothes and horrid hairstyle, he recalled that she had chosen to stay and watch him make love to Hilary. Then he thought about her excellent sketches. It struck Edward that he had never met a woman like this before. That she was hardly as she appeared. A keen interest seemed to creep over him and he trembled ever so slightly.