A Summer to Remember

Chapter 14

The sun was shining the next day and it was possible to seek amusement outdoors. Lauren herself did not go out until afternoon—if one discounted a walk with Kit back to the house from the gamekeeper’s hut at a little after six in the morning. She helped the countess look over her plans for the birthday celebrations and offered to take over some of the responsibility for the daytime events. She spent an hour in the nursery at Nell Clifford’s invitation. And she sat conversing for a while, first with her grandfather and then with the dowager and Lady Irene.

A group of the younger people had agreed to go riding in the afternoon. They were loud in their insistence that Gwendoline and Lauren accompany them. Gwen was quite firm in her refusal, but Lauren’s objections were overridden.

“Oh, do come,” young Marianne Butler begged. “I want to see your riding habit. I’ll wager it is ravishing.”

“Ladies do not make wagers,” her brother Crispin reminded her and won for himself a rude, cross-eyed stare, which Lauren pretended not to notice—and which she was surprised to find amusing.

“Of course you will come,” Daphne Willard said briskly. “If it is to be just the very young things, I will have no one sensible to talk to.”

“And Kit will pine away if you are not there,” Frederick Butler added, “and likely fall off his horse.”

“We would have to carry him back on a door,” Phillip Willard said, adding to the nonsense.

“Of course Lauren will be coming,” Kit said with a grin. “I have promised to make this summer more enjoyable for her than any other she has known. How can one enjoy oneself if one does not get out for at least one respectable gallop?”

She looked reproachfully at him, but he was his usual merry-eyed self today and there would be no reasoning with him, she knew. Her stomach fluttered with awareness when she remembered that she had spent the night with him, pressed against his warmth, listening to his deep, even breathing the few times she surfaced to near-consciousness. She had slept with him. How much more scandalous could her behavior become this summer? And how much more enjoyable, added a little inner voice that she was beginning to recognize as her emerging rebellious self. It had been the most wonderful night of her life.

“Oh, very well,” she said weakly. “I will ride. But I will not gallop, Kit. The very idea! I would be the one coming home on a door.”

Kit winked at her and the cousins chose to find her words amusing. The dowager and Aunt Clara, both of whom were present, smiled indulgently.

The pace set by Claude Willard, who led the way out of the stables, was reassuringly sedate. Lauren rode between Marianne, who lamented the fact that she did not have the figure to wear anything as divinely elegant as Lauren’s riding habit, and Penelope Willard, who wanted to know—among numerous other things—if the gentlemen in London were more handsome than those in the country. It was a novel, rather pleasant experience to Lauren to be the admired idol of young girls who were not yet “out.”

Kit was riding a little way ahead, in the midst of a group that was indulging in a great deal of laughter. He did glance back quite frequently, though, to smile. And to check to see that she was still firmly planted on her horse’s back? Lauren wondered. But she was beginning to enjoy both the ride and the company.

Until, that was, Lady Freyja Bedwyn and Lord Rannulf hove into sight, also on horseback, and chose to join the party after exchanging loud greetings with the group, with all or most of whose members they appeared to have an acquaintance.

Suddenly, and without knowing quite how, Lauren found herself riding between the two of them.

“You really do ride, then, Miss Edgeworth,” Lady Freyja observed, controlling with consummate skill her magnificent, spirited mount, which was clearly accustomed to a far quicker pace.

“And with a remarkably elegant seat,” Lord Rannulf added, his mocking eyes sweeping over her and making of his words a double entendre.

“I expected to find you at Alvesley, hard at work on your sampler,” Lady Freyja said.

“Indeed?” Lauren replied coolly. “How very peculiar.”

“You are exposing your ignorance, Free,” her brother told her. “Even I know that only very little girls work on samplers. Miss Edgeworth doubtless graduated long ago to tatting and weaving and lace-making and knitting and knotting and all those other fascinating accomplishments that true ladies spend their time so usefully about.”

“Oh, do you do all those things, Miss Edgeworth?” Lady Freyja asked. “How you put me to shame. I always find them so dull.”

“Fortunately,” Lauren said, “the world offers enough variety of activities to suit every taste.”

“Well, my taste does not run to crawling over the earth’s surface when I have a good mount beneath me,” Lady Freyja said. “If we were to go any more slowly we would be in danger of going backward. Race with me, Miss Edgeworth. To the top of that hill?” She pointed with her whip across the pasture they were traversing to a hill maybe a couple of miles distant—Lauren rather thought it was the hill behind Alvesley on which the wilderness walk came to an end.

“I am afraid I cannot oblige you,” Lauren said. “This pace suits me admirably.”

“I must confess, Miss Edgeworth,” Lord Rannulf said, lowering his voice, the mockery in his eyes turning to laughter, “that a slow ride can occasionally be every bit as satisfying as a vigorous gallop to the finish. Provided the mount is worth the effort of restraint, that is.”

He could not possibly mean . . . But Lauren had no chance to digest her shock.

Lady Freyja had raised her voice to command the attention of the whole group. “Miss Edgeworth will not race against me,” she cried. “Will no one accept my challenge? Kit? You could not possibly say no. Though on that horse you would not be able to beat a mule to the top of the hill.”

“Ah, a challenge,” Lord Rannulf murmured.

Kit was grinning. “You are going to have to eat those words within a few minutes, Freyja,” he said. He made an extravagant gesture with one arm. “Lead the way.”

A few of the cousins whooped with enthusiasm as Lady Freyja dug her spurs into her horse’s side and, bent low over her sidesaddle, went streaking off in the direction of the hill. With a laugh, Kit went after her.

“She always was an outrageous hoyden,” Daphne Willard remarked cheerfully.

“And more often than not Kit’s equal,” Lord Rannulf added.

Lauren watched them go in a race that had been deliberately orchestrated for her benefit, she knew. It did not matter. They looked just as she had imagined them that day up on the hill with Gwen. They were galloping side by side, flying like the wind. They looked magnificent together.

They would be magnificent together once this summer was over and they were both free and under no pressure to make a dynastic alliance. They were each other’s equal in passion and daring.

She did not mind, Lauren told herself. She had no claim on Kit herself. She had no wish to have any claim on him. She wanted only to be free herself. But she could not stop remembering last night—the shared stories, the gentle, shared laughter, the rhythmic squeaking of the rocking chair, the lazy wonder of waking to find him lifting her out of the chair and laying her on the bed, the cozy comfort of sleeping with her body pressed against his.

The racers were sitting side by side at the bottom of the hill when the rest of the group came up to them. Their horses were grazing untethered nearby. Lauren met Lady Freyja’s glance and saw challenge and triumph and faint malice there.

“Well, who won?” Claude Willard called.

“Kit did,” Lady Freyja called back. “He would have pulled back at the end to let me win, but I told him I would shoot him between the eyes if he ever stooped to such condescension.”

“What was the prize, Kit?” Lord Rannulf asked.

“Alas,” he said, getting to his feet, mounting his horse, and riding toward Lauren, “we did not agree upon anything in advance. Now, if no one has any objection, my betrothed and I would like a little time alone together.”

Lauren turned her horse without comment and rode off with Kit while Daphne behind them was suggesting that they all climb the hill and rest on the summit.

“Were Freyja and Ralf annoying you?” Kit asked.

“Not in any way I could not handle,” she said.

He looked across at her, a smile in his eyes. “No,” he said. “I have realized that about you. Has this afternoon brought you any enjoyment at all?”

“Of course it has,” she assured him. “I like all your relatives, Kit. I like their company.”

“But it has not been the sort of memorable stuff I promised you.” He grinned at her. “We will pass sedately through that gate into the pasture, and then we will see.”

“Kit!” she protested. “Please don’t get any ideas. I am quite perfectly happy as I am.”

But he would only chuckle.

“Now.” He closed the gate behind them a couple of minutes later and gazed off into the distance—it seemed a vast expanse of distance. “There is another gate at the other side, which you may remember even though it is not visible over that slight rise in the land. We will race to it.”

“Kit!”

“And this time,” he said, “we will agree upon a prize in advance. A kiss if I win. And— what if you win?”

“There is not even any point in naming anything,” she said indignantly. “ Of course you will win, or would if I were to be foolish enough to accept your challenge. I never race, Kit. I never take a horse to a gallop.”

“Then it is time you did,” he said. “I will be sporting about it, though. I will give you an early start. I’ll count slowly to ten.”

“Ki-it!”

“One.”

“I will not do it.”

“Two.”

“You will not be satisfied until I have broken my neck, I suppose.”

“Three.”

She took off.

She knew her horse could gallop at least twice as fast as it did. She did not by any means give it its head. Even so, it felt to her as if the ground were flying by beneath its hooves, as if the wind would whip off her hat despite the pins, as if she had never done anything nearly as dangerous or exhilarating in her life before.

He did not pass her. It was quite a while before she realized that he was just behind her left shoulder—in position to catch her if she fell? She started to laugh.

By the time the gate came into sight—reassuringly close once they had topped the rise—she was laughing helplessly, and she could hear Kit laughing behind her.

“I am going to beat you,” she shrieked with just a few yards to go. “I am going to—”

He went past her as if her horse were standing still.

She bent forward until her nose almost touched the horse’s neck. She could not seem to stop laughing.

“If you would just raise your head,” he said at last, “I could claim my prize.”

“Unfair!” she said, straightening up. “You were just toying with me. I should be the one putting a bullet between your eyes. Oh, Kit, that was such fun!”

“I always thought,” he said, riding up alongside her until one of her knees was pressed against his thigh, “nothing could be lovelier than your eyes. But they can be lovelier than themselves when they sparkle, as they do now.”

“Oh, foolish,” she said at the silly flattery, warmed through to the very center of her heart by it.

And then his mouth was on hers, firm, warm, his lips parted. He took his prize with slow thoroughness while she thought again of the loveliness of last night and realized in some shock that she was in danger of coming to care rather too much for comfort.

“There!” she said briskly when he had finished. “The debt is paid, you foolish man.”

She expected him to grin. He smiled softly instead.

“Foolish,” he murmured. “Yes, I suppose I am that.”

She was in grave danger indeed.

The family gathering in the drawing room that evening was a merry one. Two tables of cards had been set up for the older people. Several of the younger people took their turn at the pianoforte while others gathered around the instrument to listen, to sing, to joke, and to laugh. Still others stood or sat in groups, sipping their tea, catching up on family news and other assorted gossip.

Kit’s grandmother was at the heart of it all, in her chair beside the fire, nodding and contented despite the fact that she had used to enjoy playing cards. Lauren sat on a stool beside her, massaging her bad hand, as had become her daily custom. She was a pretty child, the old lady told her, not for the first time.

“Hardly a child, ma’am,” Lauren said in her usual quiet, matter-of-fact way. “I am six and twenty.”

“But very definitely pretty, Grandmama,” Kit said from his standing position before the fireplace. “I am in full agreement with you on that point. Not on the other, though. What, might I ask, would I want with a child bride?”

His grandmother chuckled. She had become deeply attached to Lauren already, he knew.

Baron Galton was at one of the card tables, partnered by Kit’s mother, while the Dowager Lady Kilbourne and Uncle Melvin Clifford pitted their skills against them. Lady Muir was conversing with Sydnam in the window embrasure, his usual spot in the evenings.

Kit dared to feel contentment. Lauren’s family fit in well with his. He liked all three of them who were here, and they all appeared to approve of him. None of them had spent any time in London during the past year, of course, to have had their opinions tainted by the reputation he had courted there. Kit smiled as he remembered the interview Baron Galton had requested on the day of his arrival. He had subjected Kit to a far more thorough grilling than Portfrey had, asking about his military credentials, his present aspirations, and his future prospects. Kit had even found himself—rather foolishly, under the circumstances—asking the old man formally for Lauren’s hand. Just as formally Baron Galton had granted it.

She really would be a perfect wife for him, a perfect countess, a perfect member of his family. He had become convinced during the past few days that he could find contentment with her. As for passion—well, passion had never worked for him. At best, it had never lasted longer than a week or two; at worst, it had caused him intense misery. He would be able to trust contentment, relax into it, grow old with it. With her. If only he could persuade her during the next week or so . . .

But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of young Marianne’s voice, demanding everyone’s attention. They simply must have dancing, she declared, her hands clasped to her bosom, her pleading gaze directed at Kit. The other young cousins gathered about the pianoforte murmured their support and also gazed hopefully at Kit.

“Dancing? A splendid idea.” He grinned and strode forward. “Why has no one thought of it before tonight? We do not have to wait for the birthday ball, do we? We will have the carpet rolled back immediately.”

The murmur rose to a faint cheer, and his grandmother smiled and nodded.

While Kit supervised two footmen in the task of rolling back the Persian carpet, Marianne wound her arms about her mother’s neck and wheedled her shamelessly into providing the music.

Eight of the cousins began the dancing with a vigorous jig, which aroused much laughter among them and applause from the spectators. The next dance was to be a Roger de Coverly, Aunt Honoria announced from the pianoforte. Kit extended a hand for Lauren’s and winked at his grandmother.

“Come and dance with me, Lauren,” he said. “We will show these young sprigs a thing or two.”

They led off the set, which boasted six couples this time. He had only ever waltzed with Lauren before. But she was an accomplished country dancer too, he soon discovered. She smiled and her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled as they moved down between the lines, she along the gentlemen’s side, he along the ladies’, twirling each member of the line about alternately with each other. It was only after they had led the lines around the outside of the set and had formed an arch with their hands for everyone else to pass beneath that he realized all other activity in the room had been suspended—the card games and the conversations. Everyone was watching, not just the dancers in general, but him and Lauren in particular. The newly betrothed couple. Kit with his beautiful bride-to-be.

He sensed approval and affection emanating from them. And he felt something a little warmer than contentment as he remembered her helpless laughter, her flushed cheeks, and her bright eyes this afternoon—and her softly acquiescent kiss.

He really must prevent her from breaking off their betrothal.

They were at the far end of the line again when the dance ended, close to the windows. Young Crispin Butler, fresh down from Oxford and fancying himself an experienced man-about-town, was already demanding a waltz tune of his mother, and the dancers were eagerly taking new partners.

“Miss Edgeworth?” Sir Jeremy Brightman, Doris’s betrothed, took her hand to lead her into the dance.

“Lady Muir?” Kit bowed to Lauren’s cousin, who was still sitting on the window seat. Too late he remembered her limp and hoped he had not just embarrassed her unpardonably. But she smiled and rose to her feet and set her hand in his.

And then Cousin Catherine came dashing up, all bubbling energy.

“Sydnam,” she demanded, grabbing his hand with both of hers, “do come and dance with me. You surely cannot intend to sit there all night.”

Kit froze. Catherine had never been known for tact or tender sensibilities, but even for her this was a howler.

“I beg to decline, Catherine,” Syd replied. “Ask Lawrence. He needs the exercise.”

“I can dance with my husband any night of the year,” she said. “I want you. You were always a divine dancer, I remember. Do come—”

“Catherine!” Kit spoke far more sharply than he had intended, unconsciously addressing her as he might have addressed a recalcitrant private in his regiment. “Can you not take a civil no for an answer? Syd cannot dance. He—”

“Yes. Thank you.” Sydnam was on his feet, his face pale and set, his voice quivering with barely suppressed fury. He bowed to their cousin and completely ignored his brother. “Thank you, Catherine. On second thought, I suppose I can shuffle about with sufficient competence to avoid banging you into furniture or other cousins.”

It was a tense, nasty moment, a brief flaring of passion, most of it unspoken, which had attracted the attention of everyone in the room. Kit was well aware of the awkward silence behind him, and then the rush of sound as everyone pretended they had not noticed anything untoward.

He closed his eyes briefly. He felt suddenly dizzy and even nauseous. He had been trying to help, to protect Syd from embarrassment. But he seemed to have accomplished just the opposite—and had been soundly rejected in the process. Again! The prospect of turning around to face the room, of smiling at Lady Muir and dancing with her as if the past minute had never happened, was so daunting as to be quite impossible.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, bowing hastily to his partner. “Please excuse me.”

He turned and hurried from the room without looking at anyone as he passed.