He moved then, supernaturally fast, one second the prescribed distance for renewing an old acquaintance, the next plastered up against her in an intimacy that would be permitted to no one in public—not husband, not brother, not child.
“Soap! What are you—?”
He slipped one hand about her waist and whirled them, as if in a waltz, behind the curtain and into the workroom. Sophronia’s feet never touched the ground. Soap had always been strong, but now she was nothing to him—biscuit light.
Before she could get her bearings, his other hand reached up to touch the side of her face, a peculiarly Soap-ish gesture. She fixated on the fact that he hadn’t lost the calluses on his fingers. They had come with him into eternity. He was marked forever by a menial upbringing.
She loved those calluses.
Unthinking, Sophronia turned her face into his hand. Then she remembered how off this all was. How impossible. She moved as Captain Niall had taught her, a dip and twist, using leverage rather than strength to break his grip. It worked, but only because he was surprised.
“It’s not only lemon and rose. You smell delicious.”
Werewolf ability. Am I food? Sophronia wondered.
She felt Soap lean in close enough for his breath to muss her curls, the ones skillfully arranged by Petunia’s French maid to fall over one ear.
“No more friendship, Sophronia. That boiler is dry.”
“What, then? We can’t be more.” Her voice almost hitched, and she forced it to steady. “There’s no future for us.” They could never marry, not even if the dewan blessed the match and permitted Soap to come out into supernatural society. Right now his metamorphosis was closeted. The dewan kept his cards close, and a new werewolf was an ace in the hole. Or is that ace in the closet? I’m getting my metaphors mixed up. She wasn’t sure on his reasons.
Sophronia blamed her distracted thoughts on the persistent heart flutters that Soap’s proximity caused. Or was it excitement from their verbal sparring? Must be that.
“I can hear them, you know.”
“My thoughts?” Sophronia panicked, suspecting unreported werewolf abilities.
“No, silly, your heartbeats. Gives me hope.”
“I didn’t think they were that loud.”
Soap tilted his head at her. “Supernatural hearing, remember? At first it was so strange. I had no idea there were so many small sounds all the time, everywhere. It took me months to function in the outside world and hear only what was important. And that’s not the half of it. Now I understand why new pups need an Alpha to guide them.”
His speech patterns were so refined. Part of his werewolf training? Sophronia wondered.
He drifted his hand over her cheek, sure but slow, as if gentling a horse. His old familiar grin lit up his face.
“Soap, this is most unseemly.”
The hand dropped.
“And you could kill me in a thousand different ways if you wanted to.”
“Not anymore.”
“Lost your ability?” Soap could not believe that.
“Mostly trained for humans, remember? You’re a werewolf. I’ve only got about three ways to kill you in my repertoire. They’re good ones, though, so take care.”
He tugged her in so she was flush against him again. He was warm, which surprised her. She had thought an undead creature would be cold.
“So I can court you?”
“What did I just say?” Sophronia was terrified by the inevitable end of any romance between them. Her parents were not so progressive as to permit their daughter an alliance with a werewolf, even a landed Alpha, let alone one who was lowborn, newly made, and black. Safer not to start. Then she might get to keep a small part of him.
Soap was not so easy to put off. “Blast the future.”
“So says he who has too much of one.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Sophronia winced. Her shoulders sagged.
Soap clearly regretted this accusation. “I don’t blame you.”
Which was part of the problem. You should. My plan put you in danger. Then I took all your choices away from you because I was too much of a coward to let you go. And now everything is confusing and messy and impossible.
“I know.” Sophronia turned to leave.
“I’m going to change your mind about us, Sophronia.” Unusual statement, for Soap never said her name, and he now had twice. Things really had changed.
Sophronia shot back, tartly, “I’d like to see you try.”
“Done.”
Annoyed that her addlepated heart had allowed her mouth to give him an opening, she snapped, “What do you want, Soap?”
“Now, why would you think I wanted something more than this?” He grabbed her hand and raised it to kiss. Even through her gloves, she swore she could feel the softness of his lips.
She gave him a long-suffering look.
Soap let her go, tipped off his top hat, and dug about in the inside band, producing an embossed card. He flourished it. “He would very much like you to see you. Saturday evening.”
It was an invitation to attend a dinner party and theatrical production. Sophronia glanced at it quickly before tucking it down the side of her décolletage. “I’m not out yet. It may be difficult to convince Petunia.”
“I think she’ll make an exception in this case. The invitation is directed at you and your chosen guests. If your sister wishes to attend, she cannot come without you.”
“Will you be there?”