A Summer to Remember

Chapter 11

Lady Freyja has been hurt,” Lauren said. “No.” Kit took her by the hand and drew her arm through his. “I think not. Her pride has been bruised, that is all.”

They zigzagged their way along the gravel paths of the formal parterres, the hem of Lauren’s light sprigged muslin dress brushing against the floral clusters that spilled over from the borders. They were headed toward the wilderness walk among the trees, from which Kit had emerged a mere five minutes before with Lady Kilbourne and Lady Muir. His grandmother had walked as far as the rose arbor with them and had then tried to insist that they all leave her there to enjoy the fragrant air while they continued their walk. But Lauren had insisted upon staying with her to keep her company.

There was a quiet kindness about Lauren Edgeworth that one might well not notice unless one was observing closely. Kit was observing.

“Are you sure that is all?” she asked now.

They had spoken very little on the way back from Lindsey Hall, as if by mutual consent they had decided to keep their impressions to themselves until they had properly digested them. But now they had been thrown together again by his grandmother, who had insisted they stroll for a time while the other ladies accompanied her back to the house.

“We shared a brief romance three years ago, Lauren,” he said. “It was very brief after a lifetime of being simply friends and playmates. Then she betrothed herself to Jerome, I made an ass of myself by fighting both him and Ralf, and I went off back to the Peninsula, where I belonged. It would be absurd to imagine that she has worn the willow for me ever since. That simply is not Freyja’s way.”

“Is it yours?” They stepped beyond the parterres to cross the narrow stretch of lawn to the little humpbacked bridge spanning the stream that gurgled its way down over a stone-studded bed to join the river.

“Have I harbored a secret passion for her all this time, do you mean?” he asked. “No, of course not. It was briefly conceived, soon forgotten. Besides, Lauren, I would hardly admit to stronger emotions for her in your presence, would I? It would be in execrable taste.”

“Why?” she asked. “Our betrothal is only a temporary thing, after all. There is no need to hide the truth from me out of tact. Did you love her? Do you?”

His boots clattered over the boards of the bridge in contrast to her lighter footfall. Had he loved Freyja? He had called it love at the time, though he remembered his feelings now more as a desperate hunger to lose himself in the body of a woman who could perhaps bring him a moment’s forgetfulness. Not that their passion had ever been consummated, of course. She had more than once allowed him to come close, only to whisk herself away with laughter at the last possible moment. He had not thought of her as a tease at the time, but looking back now, he wondered if she had ever taken his attentions seriously.

“It is impossible,” he said, “to put a label upon remembered feelings. They are colored too much by all our subsequent experiences. I was desperate to marry her, to carry her off to the Peninsula with me. But I was a desperate young man in many ways that summer. And it all seems a long time ago. How could I love her now? She was unpardonably rude to you.”

He turned north with her in the direction that would take them uphill on a route that curved beside and behind the house. He had taken her aunt and cousin in the opposite direction earlier, on the shorter, easier route that ended at the riverbank.

“I was not offended,” she said. “I understood her motivation, having felt it myself. Though I was never able to bring myself to be that blatantly rude to Lily.”

But she had wanted to be? Because Kilbourne had hurt her?

“Were you offended,” he asked, “when I did not rush to your rescue this afternoon? I did rather cast you to the wolves, did I not? But if you cannot stand up to the Bedwyns on your very first encounter with them, you see, they will make a meal of you at every encounter thereafter. You acquitted yourself magnificently, by the way. And if you did not notice, you won the respect of Ralf even before we went upstairs, and of Bewcastle, Alleyne, and Morgan after we did.”

“She rides and swims and shoots and does all those things she asked me about, does she not?” Lauren asked. “She knows how to enjoy herself, how to have fun. She knows how to face life with vitality and passion. She is your perfect counterpart, Kit. I think perhaps you should use this time while I am here to consider your future carefully. It might be unwise to reject the idea of marriage with her just because you bear a grudge from three years ago.”

They were walking along a narrow, fragrant alleyway, whose walls were high rhododendron bushes. Tall trees beyond them on both sides offered a canopy overhead as shade from the late-afternoon sun. She had left her parasol in the rose arbor. She was gazing straight ahead up the path, Kit saw when he dipped his head to look into her face. Sometimes he almost forgot that theirs was not a real betrothal.

“Perhaps I should use the time wisely,” he said. “Perhaps I should woo you into making it a real betrothal.”

“No.” She shook her head. “We would not suit in any way at all. You must see that. No, Kit, I am going to be free when all this is over. Wonderfully free at last.”

It was rather humbling to realize that even if he employed all his very best skills to charm her, even if he should come to the point of really wishing to wed her, even if he should fall in love with her, she might truly prefer a solitary spinster existence to marriage with him. Freedom, as she called it. Well, it was hardly surprising, perhaps. Women had precious little freedom. And he was not such a prize.

“I think perhaps you misunderstood your father earlier this year,” she said. “You believe that he promoted a match between you and Lady Freyja purely for dynastic reasons, that he was demonstrating his power and showing no concern whatsoever for your happiness. But perhaps he thought to make you a peace offering with his plan, Kit. Perhaps he thought you would be very pleased indeed.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, frowning.

“Your mother said it this morning,” she said. “Kit, sometimes we just see things from the wrong perspective. Because you quarreled with the Earl of Redfield three years ago, and because he banished you, you cannot conceive of the idea that perhaps he loves you, that perhaps he wants your happiness.”

A peace offering? Or the autocratic assumption that a son, even one who was almost thirty years old, was subject to one’s will, with no right to feelings or preferences of his own? Two vastly different perspectives indeed.

Up ahead the main path continued its gradual curving rise toward the high point north of the house. But there was another path, narrower, steeper, and stonier, that branched off sharply to the right. It led to the top of a wooded hill and a ruined tower, which looked ancient but was in reality just another folly. Kit turned Lauren onto the steep path and slid his arm clear of hers so that he could grasp her hand the better to assist her in the scrambling climb. She gathered up the front of her skirt with her free hand and labored onward, as dignified as ever.

“Kit,” she asked, “was it a whole year after you returned to the Peninsula before your brother died?”

“Almost exactly,” he said. “He caught a chill. There was a solid week or so of torrential autumn rain and the river flooded close to some cottages, marooning their occupants and threatening to drown them all. They were not our own laborers, but Jerome rode to the rescue anyway. There were not enough boats, so he did a great deal of swimming and saved a number of lives. No one died, as it happened—except him, two weeks later.”

“Oh,” she said. “He was a hero, then.”

“Absolutely.” A damned hero, who had not even lifted his fists to defend himself before Kit broke his nose and had not fought back afterward. A bloody hero, who had not even waited for Kit to come home again before dying. A shining hero, who had stranded his brother on this side of the grave without first shaking his hand and making peace with him.

“Where is he buried?” she asked.

“In the family plot in the churchyard, I suppose,” he said abruptly. And no, he answered silently though she did not ask, he did not know exactly where. And no, he had no intention of visiting the grave. Ever. It had been a damned fool thing for Jerome to do, recklessly risking his life like that and losing it. He had not written one letter all that year to his brother in the Peninsula. Not one. Neither had Kit written to him, of course. The first word he had had from Alvesley after his banishment was the black-bordered letter addressed in his father’s hand.

He had walked out beyond the camp after reading it, out into open countryside, and he had howled at the empty sky and shaken his fists at the cruel, invisible God. And then, even though it was less than two hours since he had returned from one exhausting mission, he had volunteered for another. He had not stopped for sleep or even for food. Not even for a shave. In action lay some hope of control over this malevolent thing called life. And perhaps—though improbably—forgetfulness.

“Oh,” Lauren said breathlessly, stopping on the path, her feet firmly planted on a large, flat stone. “This is steep.” She turned to look back the way they had come. They were surrounded by trees, but the main path was visible far below and through the tree branches beyond it some of the brightly colored flowerbeds of the parterres.

“Catch your breath for a moment,” he said.

He wished they were back in London. He wished he had his own bachelor rooms to return to and his clubs to attend and his friends to spend his days and nights with. And Lauren to tease. It had been a mistake to come home, to believe that it would be possible to do if he brought a wife, or even a temporary betrothed, with him to somehow insulate himself from all that had set him adrift from his family and his boyhood self three years ago.

Jerome was dead and could never be brought back. And Syd . . .

“Why were your brother and Lady Freyja still not married after a whole year of being betrothed?” Lauren asked.

At first he had assumed that they had married, that Freyja was Jerome’s widow. It was only after he was back in England and had sold out that he learned the truth. He had been puzzled—and deeply shocked.

“I have no idea.” He shrugged. “A banished son is not fed a great deal of family information, you know.”

They resumed their climb. Lauren’s breathing was labored and her cheeks flushed. Her thin slippers must find the going rough underfoot. But she uttered no word of complaint. She was quiet dignity personified, he thought, and felt an unexpected wave of affection for her. He chuckled aloud at the memory of the wonderful setdowns she had dealt first Ralf and then Freyja. He had been very much afraid that like a lion with a mouse they would be able to devour her whole and spit out the remains.

But strength did not always show itself in boldness and physical action alone, he was discovering.

“What is funny?” she asked.

“Nothing is funny,” he replied. “Just joyful. It is July and a hot, sunny day. We are in a country that enjoys peace within its borders. We are young and in good health and surrounded by the beauties of nature.” His mood swung from depression to exuberance, and he tugged at her hand. “I want to show you something.”

“That tower?” she asked breathlessly, glancing upward. “I suppose it has one of those steep, winding stone staircases leading to the top, does it? And you are going to insist that I climb it. I would really rather not. Going up is always relatively easy. Coming down is sheer terror.”

“Not the tower.” He pointed. “The best view to be had is not from the top of the tower, you see.”

She stopped and looked, still laboring for breath. “Oh, no,” she said firmly. “No, Kit. I have never in my life climbed a tree. It looked dangerous when Gwen and Neville used to do it, and it looks dangerous now. Besides, it would be a childish thing to do. We are quite high enough for a view, thank you very much. I can see the roof of the house quite clearly from where we stand. I am not—I am absolutely, definitely not climbing that tree.”

It took all of ten minutes to reach the branch he had in mind. It was not as high up the ancient oak tree as he had often climbed as a boy, but it was definitely higher than the tower, and it was a broad, sturdy limb. It was easily reached by numerous perfectly safe foot- and handholds. But each move, particularly the first one that took them off the ground, had to be coaxed out of Lauren. He went up behind her, one arm linked about her waist, but she would not allow him literally to carry her up.

“I will do it myself, thank you,” she told him curtly the only time he tightened his hold and would have hoisted her upward when she seemed to be paralyzed with indecision. “This is not what I meant at Vauxhall, Kit. There is nothing remotely enjoyable about this.”

“But it is memorable, you must admit,” he said into her ear with a chuckle. “Swimming in your shift and climbing trees all on the same day. You are in sore danger of becoming a notorious hoyden.”

The branch was as broad as many of the trunks of lesser trees.

“You could not fall off if you tried,” he said not quite truthfully as he sat down on it, settled his back against the trunk, and drew her down to sit between his spread legs, her back against his chest, his arms protectively about her waist.

“I do not intend to try,” she assured him. “Kit, how are we ever going to get down?”

He could feel her heart thumping against his hand. She was overwarm and panting from the climb—and from fear too, he guessed. He noticed that her gaze did not move downward by even a single degree. She pressed her head back hard against his shoulder—her bonnet had been abandoned at the foot of the tree.

“Trust me,” he said against her ear.

“Trust the man famous or infamous for all sorts of reckless and foolish exploits?” she said, closing her eyes. “Trust the officer mentioned in several official military dispatches as a particularly daring spy?”

“But I came back from every mission in one piece,” he said.

Her heartbeat was beginning to slow to normal. She was beginning to relax. She was half reclined along the tree branch, her legs slightly bent, her feet flat. They were long, slender legs, clearly outlined by the flimsy muslin of her dress. Her feet were slim, her ankles trim. It was strange what a change an acquaintance with someone could bring to one’s perceptions. Lauren Edgeworth seemed far more youthful to him now than she had appeared when he first saw her. And less classically beautiful and more femininely pretty.

“If you can ever persuade yourself to open your eyes,” he said, “you will see that the view has made the climb worthwhile.”

“ Nothing could do that,” she assured him. But she opened her eyes and looked.

It really was an impressive vista. There was a clear view over the treetops to the stream and the parterre gardens, which from here could be viewed in all their geometric precision, and the eastern front of the house. But they were high enough to see far more than that. There were the cultivated, tree-dotted lawns surrounding the house, the river with the lake in the distance, the deer forest and the spire of the village church, the hills in the opposite direction, farmland in the far distance.

A feast for the eyes and the other senses too. There were birds singing. There was a suggestion of coolness in the slight breeze. And there were bars of sunlight and shade across their bodies from the branches and the sun, which was descending in the late afternoon sky. There were the heavy smells of heat and vegetation and . . . a soft, fragrant soap.

“Nothing could make the climb worthwhile,” she said severely, “though the prospect is a good one, I will concede.”

Well. Cool praise indeed. But a moment later she ruined the effect of her words. He felt a slight tremor beneath his hands, and then she was laughing softly. Lauren Edgeworth was laughing!

“I am up in a tree,” she said. “Gwen and Aunt Clara will not believe it even if I should tell them. No one who knows me would believe it. Lauren Edgeworth up a tree, without a bonnet.”

She seemed to find the idea enormously tickling. For a few moments her laughter was almost silent. But she could not contain it. She burst into peals of glee, gales of merriment. And Kit, holding her safe, joined her.

“And loving every moment of it?” he asked when he could.

“Now that I will never admit to,” she said and laughed again. But finally they were both quiet, and when she spoke again her voice held more wistfulness than humor. “I will remember today. All of it. For the whole of the rest of my life. Thank you, Kit.”

He settled his cheek against the top of her head— her hair was warm from the sunshine. The pleasures he had given her today— if they had given her pleasure—were such simple things. But she would remember them for the rest of her life? Strangely enough, he believed he would too.

He bent his legs at the knee, braced his feet against the branch on either side of her, and relaxed. When had he last done this? Just sat, that was, soaking up sunshine and heat, feeling the sheer comfort of another human presence? It seemed that perhaps he had never done it. Certainly not in recent years. He was always busily intent upon filling in every idle moment, avoiding every chance that he might inadvertently come face-to-face with his own thoughts. He even avoided lying in bed at night until he was too exhausted to do anything but fall into instant sleep. Though even then there were the dreams. . . .

But he abandoned all thought, all his cautious defenses, as he closed his eyes.

He had always favored small women, not being a particularly tall man himself. He had always been attracted to voluptuous women. And passionate women. He had had several affairs over the years, most of them tumultuous in nature, intensely satisfying, soon over. His summer with Freyja had followed much the usual pattern, though he had always denied it to himself, the only real difference being that his passion had not been satisfied physically and therefore had never been slaked. It had been over before he was ready to see it end. At the time he had thought he never would want it to end, that she was the woman to whom he could pledge his lifelong devotion. But had he not thought so with numerous mistresses before her?

Lauren Edgeworth was tall for a woman. She was slender. She was cool in nature. Not frigid. No, not that. But probably incapable of hot physical passion. She should have been unattractive to him despite her undeniable beauty.

But he desired her. He turned his head slightly, buried his nose in her hair, breathed in the scent of her. He desired her in an unfamiliar, controlled way. Without the usual burning need to mount her body to satisfy his hunger. It was a curiously uncarnal desire. And yet it was physical. It was desire he felt, not just admiration or affection.

He nudged her hair back from her face with his cheek and kissed her temple, her cheek, her jaw. He kissed her earlobe and sucked it gently between his teeth.

She sat motionless, her eyes closed again. Yet not quite motionless either. She tipped her head slightly toward his arm, allowing him easier access to the side of her face closer to him. He kissed her neck, nuzzling it softly.

She somehow fit him like a glove, he thought. A comfortable kid glove. And yet he felt definite desire—an invigorating surging of the blood and tightening of the groin. Desire mingled with tenderness, two feelings that had never coincided in him before now. He was on unfamiliar ground.

He settled his cheek against her head again and spread his palms over her waist and abdomen. They were flat, and yet soft and womanly too. He lifted his hands to cup her breasts lightly. He paused, giving her a chance to protest, to push his hands away, to break the drowsy spell of desire he was exploring. Drowsiness and desire as simultaneous feelings? Strange indeed! She spread her hands over his Hessian boots, just above the ankles.

They were small breasts, but firm and lovely. They fit his hands as if made for them. She seemed perfectly relaxed, yet her nipples, he found, touching them lightly with the pads of his thumbs, were peaked and hard. He lowered his head once more to kiss her in the warm hollow between her neck and shoulder. He opened his mouth, licking her, tasting her, breathing warm air against her silky flesh.

For the first time she made a sound—a soft whimpering sigh deep in her throat. She may not be a woman of passion, he thought, but she was certainly capable of desire. Loving her would be a somewhat tender experience. One would need to awaken her slowly, patiently, with gentle consideration. One would need to cherish her, to subdue one’s own need in order to nurture hers. One would need to make love to her in ways he had never before made love. There was something strangely arousing in the thought.

He slid his palms downward and curved the fingertips of one hand into the soft, warm juncture of her thighs. She drew in a breath, not noisily but with slow deliberation, and pressed her head more firmly back against his shoulder. The soft muslin of her skirt gave before the pressure of his fingers, and he rubbed her lightly.

It was as well, he thought, that they were where they were. They were not really betrothed. They were not going to be married. And though he was honor-bound to try to persuade her to change her mind during the coming weeks, he had no wish to coerce her. He would not violate her and so give her no choice in her own future. The knowledge of where they were was its own limit on how far he could carry this encounter. He ran his palm along one of her inner thighs but made no attempt to reach down for her hem to lift her skirt.

He wanted her. He desired her. It would feel good to be inside her body. And yet his desire was curiously lacking in physical urgency. It felt more like a yearning of the heart. For her innocence, perhaps? For the sweet, quiet discipline that could so easily be mistaken for cold passivity?

“Kit,” she said, “no. Really you need not.”

“ Need not?” Reluctantly he wrapped his arms safely about her waist again. “What do you know of my needs?”

“Enough to be quite certain that I am not the woman to satisfy a single one of them,” she said. “You have been wonderful to me today. Horrid but wonderful. I will remember swimming and climbing trees, you see. I will remember with pleasure. But I did not ask for passion, not of—not of this nature anyway. It is improper. We are strangers really, are we not? We will be strangers in future. If our families knew that we were not really betrothed, they would never allow us to be alone together like this. And it is easy to understand why. I have never . . . Kit, I have never done these things before. And I must not again. Please.”

“You must not be a woman?” he murmured against her ear. “Only a lady?”

She did not answer for a few moments. “Yes,” she said at last. “I choose to be only a lady.”

“You cannot be both?”

“Only if I were married,” she said. “To someone I loved and to someone who loved me in return.”

“You believe Kilbourne loved you?”

He felt her swallow. “He did,” she said. “He always did. We always loved each other. Not as he loves Lily or as she loves him, but . . . Kit, I do not want to be having this conversation. I cannot ever love you, that is all. And you certainly could never love me. Without love, what we have been doing is wrong. Even perhaps a little sordid, though it did not feel that way. Take me home, please. But how on earth are we to get down?”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, “how are we?”

She turned her head sharply to regard him with wide, dismayed eyes. He grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows.

“I am s-s-scared,” he wailed.

“Oh, Kit!” And she laughed again, as she had earlier, her whole face lighting up with glee as she punched his shoulder with the side of her fist. “Never fear. I will rescue you. I will open my mouth and screech for help.” She laughed again—no, she giggled. Like a girl. Like the child she had never been, perhaps. She drew breath as if she were an operatic soprano about to hit a high C, and he clapped a hand over her mouth.

“If it comes to a choice between breaking both my legs on the one hand and watching an army of gardeners charge up here to the rescue,” he said, “I think I will sacrifice my legs. Here we go, then. Hang on tight and trust me. Sir Galahad is my middle name.”

She laughed once more.