A Summer to Remember

Chapter 8

Gwendoline was playing the pianoforte while the Earl of Redfield stood behind the bench, turning the pages of the music for her. The countess and Aunt Clara were seated side by side on a love seat nearby, alternately listening to Bach and conversing with each other. Sydnam Butler was sitting on the window seat at the opposite end of the drawing room, where he had been ever since they had moved here from the dining room following dinner, slightly turned so that his right side was in the shadow of the heavy velvet curtains. What had happened to him? Viscount Ravensberg—Kit—moved about the room, smiling, genial, occasionally interjecting a remark into a conversation, but not becoming a part of any group, and never approaching his brother.

He looked restless, rather like a caged animal of the wild.

Lauren had spent almost the whole evening seated beside the dowager countess, Kit’s grandmother, close to the fire, though she had obliged the company by taking her turn briefly at the pianoforte. She had told the old lady about Newbury Abbey, about the weeks she had recently spent in London, about the few entertainments in which she had participated there. She had also listened. It was not easy to do when the dowager’s speech was halting, punctuated by long, painful pauses as she tried to form words. It was tempting to interrupt, to supply the words she knew were about to be spoken, to complete sentences whose endings she could guess long before the words were out. It was what the earl and countess tended to do, Lauren had noticed both at tea and at dinner. Perhaps they were embarrassed for her in the company of guests. Perhaps they thought they did her a kindness. But it seemed unfortunate to Lauren.

She listened, giving the old lady her full attention, keeping her expression bright and interested. Nevertheless there was a great deal of time in which to think and observe. She had been welcomed to Alvesley with meticulous courtesy but perhaps without warmth. But she had not expected warmth. Courtesy was enough. Kit had played his part well. He had looked so delighted to see her, in fact, that Gwen had been totally beguiled. She had come into Lauren’s room before they went down to tea together, hugged her, and beamed at her.

“Lauren,” she had said, “he is quite gorgeous. That smile! And when he kissed you for all to see as soon as your feet touched the ground, I could have quite swooned with the romance of it.” She had laughed merrily. “You said he could be quite outrageous.”

That last remark had not been a criticism, though the kiss, brief peck though it had been, had almost robbed Lauren of her poise.

There had been almost no communication between him and his parents since her arrival, she had noticed. All three of them had spoken with her, with Aunt Clara, with Gwen. But not with one another. They were very upset with him, then, over this betrothal when they had hoped for another for him? And perhaps none of them could forget that he had fought with his elder brother three years ago, presumably over the woman they had both wanted to marry, and that afterward the earl had sent him away and told him never to return. How bitter an experience it must have been for the earl to see his eldest son die and suddenly to have his exiled second son as the new heir. And how doubly bitter to Kit to know that his banishment had been revoked only because of his elder brother’s death.

Kit and his younger brother both behaved as if the other did not exist. And yet Kit had made a point of introducing them on her arrival, and it had seemed to her at the time that he was fairly bursting with affection for his horribly wounded brother. What had happened?

The Earl of Redfield’s family was certainly not a close or a happy one, she concluded. Suddenly the task ahead of her, the task she had taken on so glibly that night at Vauxhall, seemed daunting indeed. How could she help reconcile Kit with his family when the wounds were apparently both deep and long-standing? And when she was responsible for widening the gap, deepening the wounds? And when she was going to break off the engagement . . .

But her thoughts were distracted by the dowager countess, who had grasped her cane with the obvious intention of getting to her feet. Lauren restrained her first impulse to jump to her feet to help. She had not been asked for help, and any intrusion on her part might be resented. She smiled instead.

“Going to bed, Mother?” The earl was striding toward them. “Allow me to summon your dresser.”

“I am . . . going to . . . walk first,” she said.

“The evening air will not be good for your lungs, Mother,” the countess said, raising her voice. “Wait until the morning.”

“I’ll . . . walk now,” the old lady said firmly, waving her son away with her free hand. “With . . . Kit. And Miss . . . Edgeworth.”

“She will insist that fresh air and exercise are good for her,” the countess was explaining to Aunt Clara. “Though I am sure rest would do her more good. She insists upon walking along the terrace and back every day, rain or shine. But usually it is in the morning.”

Kit meanwhile had come to draw his grandmother’s free arm through his own while she leaned on her cane with the other hand. He was grinning his usual sunny smile.

“If you wish to walk now, Grandmama,” he said, “we will walk now. If you wish to dance a jig, we will dance a jig—until you have worn me out. Will you come too, Lauren?”

“Of course,” she said, getting to her feet.

And so five minutes later they had donned cloaks for warmth and were strolling slowly along the terrace, away from the stables, Kit’s grandmother on his arm, Lauren on her other side, her arms clasped behind her.

“Tell me,” the old lady said in her habitual slow, laborious manner, “how you . . . two met.”

Kit’s eyes met Lauren’s over the top of her head, his eyes dancing. “Grandmama is an incurable romantic,” he explained. “ You tell her, Lauren.”

But he was so much cleverer at such stories than she, Lauren thought. Gazing across a crowded ballroom, eyes alighting on her, heart skipping a beat, knowing that she was the one woman in this world meant for him—he could make it all sound quite soulful. Besides, it needed to be told from his perspective. She could, of course, describe . . . Her smile was entirely an inward one.

“It was in Hyde Park one morning,” she said and watched the laughter arrested in Kit’s eyes before she turned her head away and continued. “Lord Ravensberg—Kit—was in the middle of a fistfight with three laboring men while half the gentlemen of the ton cheered him on. He was stripped to the waist and he was swearing most vilely.”

She listened to herself in some amazement. Lauren Edgeworth never told such sordid tales. And she was never motivated in either speech or action by a sense of mischief.

The old lady surprised her with a bark of laughter.

“The men had insulted a milkmaid,” Lauren continued, “and Kit had ridden to her defense. He knocked them all down and then kissed the milkmaid as I was passing in company with my aunt and cousin.”

“Actually, Grandmama,” Kit said meekly, though Lauren could tell from his voice that he was enjoying himself, “it was the milkmaid who kissed me. It would have been ungallant to have taken the moral high road and turned my head away.”

His grandmother chuckled.

“And then our eyes met,” Lauren said, lowering her voice, “and it happened. Just like that.”

She had never suspected that she had acting abilities. She was almost convincing herself that there had been an element of fate in that first shocking encounter.

“Every . . . woman,” the old lady said, “loves a . . . rogue.” She chuckled again.

“Well, I was warned against him, ma’am,” Lauren said. “He has the most shocking reputation, you know. But when we met again at Lady Mannering’s ball and he wangled an introduction and asked me to dance with him, how could I resist? It was a waltz, you see.”

They had arrived at the end of the terrace. The daylight had gone, but the moon and stars prevented it from being a dark night.

“That is a rose arbor just ahead of us,” Kit explained. “I will show it to you tomorrow, Lauren.”

“I can smell the roses even now,” she said, inhaling their heavy, sweet scent appreciatively.

“The formal gardens are below it,” he said. “Beyond them are the trees. But there is a wilderness walk there with several pleasing prospects—all carefully planned, of course.”

“I look forward to seeing it all,” she said as they turned to stroll back to the house.

But when they had arrived there and climbed the steps and entered the hall, the old lady lifted her cane to summon the footman who was on duty.

“Your arm,” she told him, relinquishing her grandson’s. “Kit, you . . . must show . . . Miss Edgeworth . . . the roses.”

He bent his head to kiss her cheek, his eyes alight with laughter, Lauren could see.

“A tryst all carefully orchestrated in advance, Grandmama?” he asked. “Morning is your usual time for walking, after all. But we will not disappoint you. I will take Lauren to the rose arbor. Just so that she may smell the roses, of course.”

Lauren felt as if her cheeks were on fire.

Kit was laughing as they descended the steps to the terrace again, her arm drawn firmly through his. “I warned you that she is a romantic,” he said. “She sat there in the drawing room all evening observing her grandson and his newly betrothed, who have been apart for two weeks, constrained by a roomful of relatives and good manners into exchanging no more than the occasional polite observation and yearning glance.”

“I did not give you any yearning glances,” she protested.

“Ah, but I did you,” he said, turning in the direction of the rose arbor. “And of course, Grandmama had to devise a way to give me an opportunity to kiss you thoroughly before sending you off to bed.”

She was intensely embarrassed. “I hope,” she said primly, “I did not give the impression—”

“That you are deep in love with me?” he suggested. “I believe you did—to Grandmama at least. And then you told her that story of our meeting to confirm her impression. I did not expect that particular one.”

“My lord.” They were halfway along the terrace. “The charade is necessary only when we are in company with others. We need not go into the rose arbor. Your grandmother has gone to bed, I daresay, and will not know if we return immediately to the house. It is improper for us to be alone together like this. We are not really engaged.”

“Oh, but we are.” He moved his head a little closer to hers. “Until I hear otherwise, you are my betrothed. And what is this nonsense about our game being played only for the benefit of others? And why have I become ‘my lord’ again? I promised you adventure, did I not? And passion? We need to be alone together if I am to keep the promise. We are going to begin tonight in the rose arbor. You are going to be kissed.”

“Kit!” she said sharply. “I did not ask for passion. At least, not for kisses. I would never dream—”

“You asked for adventure,” he said, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath there. “For passion. In many ways they are interchangeable terms.”

“It would be most improper,” she said, truly alarmed. She did not like to remember their kiss at Vauxhall. She had tried to block it from her memory. It had been so very alarmingly . . . physical.

“I will try my best to see that it is,” he said with a soft laugh as he led her down off the terrace and through a trellised arch into the arbor, where the scent of roses instantly assailed their senses.

“Kit!” But the more indignant she became, the more on her dignity, the better he would like it, of course. She had learned that about him. He loved to tease. He would never take her seriously. She changed the subject. Perhaps he would forget this nonsense. “Was your father very angry when you came home?”

“Oh, Lord, yes,” he said. “He and Bewcastle—the lady’s brother, that is—had actually signed a marriage contract. I am more in your debt than you realized, Lauren.”

“The lady has been jilted, then,” she said, wincing. “I know how that feels. Is she hurt?”

“Freyja?” he said. “She had her chance three years ago. She is doubtless annoyed, which is a little different from being hurt. She is good at annoyance. All the Bedwyns are. But they have no right to be annoyed. My father had no right to plan a marriage for me without waiting for me to come home to give my consent.”

“Do they live far away?” she asked.

“Six miles.”

He led her to a rustic bench and she sat down. “Our betrothal has caused dissension, then, between neighbors,” she said. “That is unfortunate.”

He set one foot on the bench beside her and draped an arm over his raised leg—just as she remembered his doing at Vauxhall.

“But unavoidable under the circumstances,” he said. “I really did not want to be forced into that marriage, Lauren.”

“And yet,” she said, “you must have loved her three years ago.” She wondered if she would have a chance to meet Lady Freyja Bedwyn.

“Sometimes,” he said, “love dies.”

She did not believe that. Certainly it was not true in her case. But there was no point in feeling guilty. He did have a right to choose his own bride, and she could see that without this temporary betrothal he would be trapped indeed. This was the very reason for their bargain.

“What happened to your younger brother?” she asked.

He abruptly lowered his foot to the ground and turned away to bend over a nearby bloom as if he were examining it closely.

“War happened,” he said after a lengthy silence. “He insisted, against everyone’s advice and pleas, including my own, that our father purchase a commission for him in my regiment so that he could follow me to the Peninsula. The military life is the very last thing Syd was cut out for, but he can be remarkably stubborn when he chooses to be. I promised my mother faithfully—and foolishly, of course—that I would look after him and protect him from harm. Less than a year later I brought him home more than half dead after the surgeons and the subsequent fever had finished with him. It was touch and go whether he would survive the journey. But I was determined that if he was going to die, at least it would be at home. I can be stubborn too.”

She could just imagine how dreadful he must have felt. “But surely you do not blame yourself in any way,” she said. “In the heat of battle it must have been impossible for you to protect him.”

“It did not happen in battle,” he said curtly.

She waited for him to explain, but he said no more.

“Did anyone else blame you?” she asked. “Did he?”

“Everyone, including me. The judgment was unanimous.” He turned toward her suddenly and she saw the flash of his teeth in the darkness. He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “But that is all ancient history, Lauren, best forgotten. Syd survived. So did I. All is well that ends well, to coin a phrase that someone else must have coined before me. In the meantime we are wasting a perfectly decent moonlit night and the opportunity for romance that Grandmama has sanctioned.”

Best forgotten. But it had not been forgotten by either brother. Or resolved. It must have happened the same summer he had fallen in love with Lady Freyja and then fought his elder brother when she had accepted his offer instead. Little wonder he had been so upset, if both his brothers had turned against him. And his father too. Yet it was understandable that the earl had sent him away—he had caused both his brothers physical harm.

Now he had come back to Alvesley, and as far as she could see all the old hurts were still festering. And now they had been made worse by this business of a marriage contract and his betrothal to her. What a mess she had walked into. Would she be able to do anything to put any of it right?

But this was not the time for such thoughts. She had not diverted his mind or his intentions after all. He meant to kiss her. She turned away from him, drawing her hand free of his. There was no need for this. This was not what she had meant.

But he stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms about her waist from behind, and drew her against him until the back of her head was nestled against his shoulder. She could feel all of his warm man’s body against the curves of her back and thighs. And it felt good, she admitted with an inward sigh of resignation. It gave the illusion of romance, the illusion of closeness, of intimacy. So much of life, by its very nature, had to be lived alone. Some of it—too much—in loneliness.

She had asked for adventure. Impulsively, without any forethought. She had never known that she wanted it. And what was it exactly she had wanted? What had she meant by adventure? This? Had she wanted to be kissed again? To be held again? She had never craved physical closeness with any man. Oh, with Neville, perhaps. But with him it had been more . . . affection, companionship, comfort that she had sought. She did not know what made life a vivid experience for some people—like Lily. That was what she had wanted to discover.

Lauren closed her eyes as the old unwilling hatred washed over her. What did Lily have that she did not? What did Lily know?

She turned in Kit’s arms, setting a little distance between them as she did so. She looked into his shadowed face and saw that he was watching her closely. She could never be like Lily. She could never be comfortable with the sort of embrace that had happened at Vauxhall. She was afraid that all those unfamiliar feelings would overwhelm her—and more afraid that they would not, that she would feel nothing if he kissed her again, that she would discover with absolute certainty that she was frigid. That he would turn away from her with distaste. That he would regret his bargain with her almost before it had begun. That she would know beyond any doubt that she was forever unlovable, undesirable, unwanted.

“No, no,” he said softly, leaning his head a little closer, his hands at his back, “don’t retreat into that iceberg. I have worked out that it is a mere defense, you see. I am not going to hurt you. I am not even going to kiss you, in fact. I have changed my mind.”

How absurd now to feel her heart plummet with disappointment and humiliation. It was better that neither of them discover the truth about her. But—he did not even want to kiss her?

Both his hands came up to unbutton her cloak, and one of them tossed it onto the bench where she had been sitting. The night air was cool on her bare arms. His hands, in contrast, seemed to brand her with heat as he moved his palms slowly downward from the scalloped hems of her short sleeves to the backs of her hands. He clasped them as she shivered, curling his thumbs into her palms, and raised them to set on his shoulders. Then he rested his hands lightly on her hips.

“Lean your body against mine,” he told her. “From shoulders to knees.”

It sounded shocking indeed—the more so as she was the one required to make the move, not him. There was no suggestion of coercion in his hands. He would not force the issue, she knew. She would not have that excuse. She felt a sharp, pulsing ache in her lower abdomen and swayed toward him, bracing herself with her hands until the tips of her breasts touched his coat and then pressed against it. She closed her eyes and set her forehead against his shoulder. She could feel his muscled hardness and his body heat with all of her upper body. She could smell his musky cologne and the very maleness of him.

He still did not move. His hands remained on her hips.

She leaned her thighs against his, and her abdomen and hips followed. His hands slid around to her back then, but lightly, without threat. She could have escaped at any moment.

He did no more than that. Neither did she. But her body felt and adjusted itself to the planes of his, soft femininity against hard masculinity, while her emotions were in turmoil. Behind her closed eyelids she could see him as he had appeared in the park that first day, stripped to the waist, splendidly muscled in his chest, shoulders, and arms, slender hipped and lithe in his skin-tight breeches and boots. Vital and virile and male. The same body against which she now leaned. She could hear his heartbeat. She thought she might well be on fire.

Neither of them moved for what seemed a long time. But she knew one thing before she finally stepped away and bent to pick up her cloak. She had no experience with such matters, but she understood that physically at least he desired her. And she had discovered something else too. With her whole body—with her hot cheeks, with her tender, swollen breasts and pulsing womb and slightly trembling thighs—she felt her femininity. She knew that despite the discipline of a lifetime, she was not just a lady. She was also a woman.

He did not touch her or say anything, for which fact she was enormously grateful. She turned after a few moments to look at him, her cloak clutched in one hand. He was standing on the exact same spot.

“So,” she said in an attempt to restore some semblance of normalcy. “Your side of the bargain has been kept for one day. But I have mine to keep too, my lord. It would not do for us to be absent from the house any longer.”

She wished she could see his face more clearly as he regarded her in silence for a few moments. Then he bent to take her cloak from her hand, wrapped it about her shoulders and buttoned it at the neck, and offered his arm.

“Yes,” he said, his voice brisk and cheerful, “duty accomplished for one day. Tomorrow I will apply myself again. We will ride. Early. At sunrise.”

She fought disappointment again at his tone. Could he not have said something a little warmer, more personal? Had she only imagined . . . ? But it did not matter.

“I very rarely ride,” she said. “And I almost never rise early.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you will do both. I am going to give you an enjoyable summer if I kill both of us in the process.”

“How absurd,” she said.

“Tomorrow morning early,” he told her as they made their way along the terrace. “Appear voluntarily—and alone—or I will come into your bedchamber and get you myself.”

“You would not dare,” she said indignantly.

He looked at her sidelong. “That is one word that is inadvisable to use in my hearing,” he said, “unless you are quite prepared for me to take you up on it. I would certainly dare.”

“You are no gentleman,” she told him.

“Why is it,” he asked her as they ascended the marble steps, “that you still say that as if you had just now made the discovery?”