That Scandalous Summer Page 13

  “I would call them likely prospects,” suggested Mrs. Hull.

  “Men of good character,” said Miss Mather.

  “Lovers,” said Elizabeth.

  The single word provoked shocked coos from the other women. Her smile widening, Elizabeth looked from them to him—hoping, he supposed, to reap his scandalized reaction as well.

  He met her eyes and held them. “I do admire a woman of frankness.”

  Her smile faltered.

  “Though if your lover is guided by a rulebook, I would suggest you aim higher.” His glance dropped to her mouth.

  Her face flooded with color. She looked down into her lap, plucking at a half-folded flower.

  Yes, he thought. Don’t forget how well you liked my lips once.

  “Perhaps”—she paused to clear her throat—“perhaps we’d best discuss other things while Mr. Grey is here. We should not like to bore him.”

  “Oh, I’m far from bored.” He rose, causing Miss Mather and Mrs. Hull to blink up at him, startled. Elizabeth missed his movement, her attention still on her hands.

  He walked past her, deliberately brushing against her skirts as he reached for the teapot.

  “Oh, let one of us,” Mrs. Hull said, but it was Elizabeth who sat nearest—and when she looked up at him, she made no move to help.

  “Would you like to hear my rules?” he asked softly—too softly for the others to hear.

  Her lips parted. She stared at him, and he stared back. What other choice did he have? Her eyes were the most extraordinary sight he’d ever beheld. In every light, they seemed a slightly different color. Just now they were a vivid green, the precise shade of her gown.

  This friendship business was not going to work.

  “Or perhaps I should first hear your rules,” he said. Lifting his voice, he continued, “Go on, Mrs. Hull. What else do you have?”

  Elizabeth glanced beyond him, toward her friends, who had gone silent.

  “I find ‘lover’ a very distasteful word,” Mather said after a moment. “But I agree, perhaps ‘men of good character’ is too clumsy. Or exclusive,” she added in a mutter.

  “Why not ‘eligible bachelor’?” Mrs. Hull chirruped. “Liza invited several of them, you know!”

  He fumbled the teacup. Elizabeth reached out to catch it. For a brief, burning moment her fingers brushed his.

  Not since he’d been thirteen had such an innocent touch knocked the breath out of him. Everything in him tightened in response.

  Lovely. Just what he needed: the beginnings of an erection in this music box of a room, with three women looking on. Through his teeth, he said, “I’ve got it.”

  Elizabeth sat back again. He felt her attention lingering on him as he poured the tea. He was tempted to deliberately splash some on his skin. A burn would distract him, all right.

  “Now, there’s a rare sight,” Miss Mather commented.

  Good God. Surely she didn’t mean—

  “One rarely sees a man pouring tea,” she went on, and he exhaled and set the pot carefully back in its place.

  “Too true,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps one of the rules should address a man’s usefulness.” Her voice brightened, becoming brisker; she was recovering her composure. “Isn’t it lovely when a man can be of use?”

  Michael smiled to himself as he returned to his seat. “There’s a fine ideal,” he said. “Cheers to that.” He took a sip of the tea. “Very fine oolong.”

  “What nonsense,” said Mrs. Hull. “Mr. Grey might pour his own tea, but the gentlemen to whom these rules apply are not of a class accustomed to doing for itself.”

  Mrs. Hull grew more annoying by the minute. “Really?” Michael asked her. “Do you find the men of the upper class such a sorry lot that they lack the aim to land tea in a cup?”

  “It isn’t that they lack the aim, sir. It’s a very different life, you know, among our sort. Men simply do not pour tea for themselves. Indeed, I think men rarely drink tea, save when in female company.”

  He almost choked on his mouthful. “Indeed,” he said. “Liquor for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, is it? And water, is that also reserved for mixed company?”

  Mrs. Hull gave him an indulgent smile. “You would be amazed,” she said. “You’ve no idea how a man can indulge himself, given the time and means to do so.”

  Dear God. He began to wonder if one reason so many marriages failed to thrive was a generalized female ignorance that men, too, belonged to the human race. “Then I do have a rule to suggest, Mrs. Hull. Any man of worth must pour your tea when you request it.”

  Mrs. Hull laughed—a high, tinkling sound which she belatedly muffled with her palm. “Mr. Grey! I think you misunderstand the purpose of these rules.”

  “I quite like the suggestion,” said Miss Mather. “A fine test of chivalry.”

  “Now, now,” said Elizabeth. “At least demand that he add the cream and sugar, too.”

  Mrs. Hull tsked. “Well and good for a man who works for his living, as Mr. Grey does. But what Elizabeth and I require are men of breeding. Of refined tastes and standards! Not someone versed in how to be a menial.”

  A brief, uncomfortable pause opened, in which Mrs. Hull’s remark echoed, becoming an unmistakable insult to him.

  Then Elizabeth recovered her smile—bright, very bright as she directed it first toward him, then to the other women. “Have I told you how marvelously Mr. Grey managed with Mrs. Broward? What a fortunate day for Bosbrea when he decided to settle here!”

  Murmurs of agreement from Miss Mather and Mrs. Hull—but nothing capable of reinvigorating the conversation.

  He took pity on them, and rose. “I must take my leave.”

  Elizabeth stood, too. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Her transparent relief did not improve his temper. Once in the hallway, he said, “It’s no matter. I can make my way from here.”

  “But I feel—” She sighed, linking her hands together at her waist. “I feel as though we’ve insulted you. That was not at all Jane’s intention, I promise. A silly remark, spoken without thinking—”

  “No, not at all.” Now that he was out of that cloistered little closet, it struck him how absurd this was: not only his masquerade, but also this farcical moment in which she apologized to a duke’s son for accidentally reminding him of his low station.

  “I’ve never been ashamed to work for my living,” he said. Indeed, for the first time in his life, he actually was working for his living. And as a result, for the first time, he felt . . . entirely certain of his own capabilities.

  Here was something to thank his brother for. The thought lightened his heart. He offered her a real smile. “Truly,” he said. “I took no offense.”

  Her hand rose, then hesitated, her fingers curling as they fell back to her side. Telling moment, that: a silent acknowledgment that there could be no simple touches between them. “You must let me make it up to you anyway,” she said. “Will you come to dinner on Tuesday night? To meet my friends?”

  “All the eligible bachelors, you mean?” Weston among them. Weston was highly eligible by any measure. Damn his eyes.

  She hesitated, a small frown on her brow. “I—well, yes. I suppose some of them would count as such.”

  “Will you tell them of the rules you’ve made for them?” Stop, he commanded himself. You are not in competition for her. “Hand out the list at the door, perhaps?”

  Her frown deepened. “The rules are for ladies,” she said. “Reckless ladies who might be too quick to give away their hearts.”

  “As you were,” he said. “With this cad whom you’ve yet to name.”

  A queer look crossed her face. She stepped away from him. “You don’t know him,” she said. “What difference would it make to know his name?”

  What difference? His patience snapped. He would show her what difference it made.

  He stepped forward too quickly for her to respond. Seizing her by the waist, he lifted her into the wall and laid his
mouth on hers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The press of his lips briefly paralyzed Liza. Her tame doctor, who had sat in the boudoir letting himself be poked like a housecat, had suddenly turned into a tiger. She tried to speak—to turn her face away; to call him back to his wits—but he would not have it. His palms framed her face, gripping her so she could not move, and his tongue penetrated her mouth.

  As simply as that, she melted. Her muscles unraveled. Her bones dissolved. His large, broad body surrounded her, his grip demanding but not painful, his lips insistent and full of intent. He would have her mouth. And she had no say in it. That was the message of his mouth and his hands.

  She let herself be had. With two women in the room behind her and her staff wandering the halls, she relaxed into his hold and returned his kiss. He tasted of the tea, of the sweetness of sugar; he tasted like a very bad idea that she would soon regret, but not now. Never now, while he kissed her yet.

  His hand skimmed down her body, shaping her breast. She opened her eyes and discovered him watching her, so blue his eyes were, and his palm over her stiffening nipple suddenly seemed to carry a message, too. The audacity of his touch, paired with the frank boldness of his look, made her laugh from sheer delight.

  She felt him grin against her mouth. His hand slipped farther yet, seizing her by the waist and pulling her more solidly against him. Her joints felt like melting waxworks, incapable of supporting her. She flung her arms around him and let him have all of her weight—and hit the wall harder yet as he stepped straight into her. Now she was doubly pinned, the tight, taut planes of his body as unyielding as the plaster behind her.

  Again he kissed her, harder yet, as though trying to convince her of something. What? What was the aim of his persuasion? She kissed him back eagerly, for did he not see? She was already convinced. She found his hair, soft and a touch too long, where it brushed against his collar. The skin beneath was hot and smooth. Her palm wrapped around his nape, and as she gripped him, she shuddered. This need felt elemental. Like hunger or thirst.

  From the entry hall far below came the sound of voices. They froze. Her eyes snapped open. His were so very, very blue.

  Someone would see them. They stood in plain view.

  His face turned into her neck. She heard, felt, the great breath he drew. Very low, against her skin, the roughness of his jaw abrading her, he spoke.

  “Friendship is not what I want.”

  Her hands broke free of her caution. They found his back, gathering in handfuls the soft wool of his jacket. Think. There were reasons, very good reasons, to discourage him. Money: he had none. Power: he had too much over her. He simply didn’t realize it.

  She would never tell him. He was a good man, but he was a man. She had learned not to offer a man weapons on the slender hope that he would never use them.

  “You . . .” You aim too high was the reply that would snap him back to his senses. Remember your station. Effective set-downs. She could not speak them.

  She lowered her forehead to his shoulder. As they stood pressed together, she grew aware of the small tremors that moved through him. A savage triumph swelled through her. It felt far from feminine. Too wild. Too expansive and hungry. She wanted . . .

  She wanted to be responsible for everything that touched him. Her station was above his. And she . . . liked that. Whether he shuddered beneath her touch or laughed at her wit—God help her, when he took a sip of tea and pronounced it excellent—she wanted to know that she was the author of all of it. What delicious power, to grip this man, so much taller and heavier than she, and feel him tremble! But not to humble him—she would never do that. He was too beautiful, too capable, too strong. Like that night when he had put the baby into her arms, she wanted to be woven into everything he did, all of it so worthy. She wanted to aid him in all those endeavors.

  But she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t. She was not the carefree woman she’d been ten months ago. She had fewer choices now. And none of them included him.

  “Listen,” she said hoarsely. “This isn’t safe.”

  His sigh burned her earlobe. “Yes. I know.”

  In stages they separated: first his hands loosened, then slipped away. She let go of his nape, her palm sliding down the suggestion of his spine, coming around his lean waist before falling to her side. He took a step back, and her head lifted from his shoulder.

  Their eyes met. Her heart jumped once, violently. Then something in her seemed to settle, like a key turning in a lock.

  One encounter. She could manage that. She could have that for herself.

  “My guests arrive the day after tomorrow,” she said. “If I could slip away beforehand . . .”

  Some subtle transformation changed his face: his attention, which had been focused so wholly on her, grew more intent yet.

  “The christening tomorrow,” he said. “Will they”—he nodded toward the boudoir—“accompany you?”

  “No, but . . .” She bit her lip. His glance fell to her mouth. Heat blazed through her. She sucked lightly, then ran her tongue over her lip.

  His indrawn breath was a hiss. “Do that again and we’ll find a room here.”

  Her doctor was a savage. She adored that. She smiled at him. She wanted to applaud.

  “The christening,” he repeated.

  “I had not planned to attend.” But suddenly . . .

  “You’re the godmother,” he said.

  She stared at him, temptation battling with cowardice. Since her mother’s funeral, she had not set foot in that church. But it was past time. And with such a reward to motivate her . . . “I’ll go,” she said quickly, before she could think better of it. “And—afterward, there is a cottage by the lake, for the gamekeeper . . .”

  He picked up her hand. She watched, breathless, as he took her index finger between his teeth.

  His tongue flicked out, a hot, wet, lazy stroke that made her stomach fall.

  “Till then,” he said, his eyes burning. He planted a kiss in her palm, then carried her hand very gently back to her side before taking a single, oddly formal step back.

  He did not bow before leaving her. She stood motionless as he walked away, his shoulders straight, his gait limber and easy as he went down the stairs. Her country doctor moved with the arrogance of a prince.

  And she was either braver than she knew, or the greatest idiot on earth. But tomorrow, at long last, she was going to live up to her reputation as a merry widow.

  • • •

  After two weeks of sunshine, the skies clouded over for the newest Broward’s christening. Michael arrived late, taking a seat in the last row of pews. The windows had been left open to permit entry to the freshening breeze, and restive feet shushed and scuffed against the flagstones around him. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t slept much. Impossible to sleep, knowing what would come after this event—not simply lovemaking, though God knew that was the main event, but also . . . a moment of truth.

  Knowing nothing of his real identity, Elizabeth wanted him. It amazed him when he thought on it: one of England’s most famous beauties, drawn to him without even the barest apprehension of his true station. But despite that strange pleasure, he could not, in good conscience, lie down with her until she knew everything.

  So he would tell her. And once her shock faded, he imagined—he hoped—she would think it a very good lark. This was, after all, a woman who threatened to scream at stars; a widow of some infamy, who felt comfortable dallying with country doctors. He’d give her a marvelous on-dit to share with her friends when they arrived. And Michael would greet them by her side, as her lover.

  Yes, the plan seemed sound in all regards. Pleasure for them both, and a reply to Alastair, who had planted that story in the newspaper as a transparent taunt. Michael had waited too long in the countryside for his brother to act. By revealing himself, he would ensure that word reached London, the message clear: You want a chaste, demure bride? Behold the woman with whom
I’m keeping company: a notorious widow . . .

  That was a proper goad, all right. That would bring his brother out of his priest’s hole. For Alastair would never approve of a woman like her.

  Even as he reasoned it, the idea perversely angered him. He did not like to think of her being so judged. No matter what happened, he would never permit Alastair to speak poorly of her.

  Michael leaned left and right, trying for a glimpse of her. But he could not see anything of the activity at the baptismal font save the broad shoulders of Mr. Broward and some cousin who would stand as godfather.

  The baby began to wail. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the parishioners. They came to their feet, all in their finest summer linens, to sing a hymn. Michael followed suit, though he did not recognize the song—an oversight that in other circumstances might have scandalized the people around him. Instead they had only smiles to offer. Since Mary Broward’s recovery, he had learned what a true Cornish welcome felt like: everywhere he went, strangers stopped to speak to him, to offer their respects.

  The melody was beautiful. He closed his eyes, at first to admire how well the music matched his anticipation. But then the smell of the stone, and damp paper and candle smoke, teased out a memory of his childhood, in the time before his parents’ quarrels had grown public and their congregation had ceased to welcome them. He had loved the Sunday service then, for it had been the only occasion on which his behavior had won his parents’ vocal approval. He could still hear his mother’s exasperated remark to his brother, made with weekly regularity: Why can you not behave more like Michael? See how still he sits!

  When he opened his eyes again, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and the single stained glass panel above the altar was shedding pools of gold and blue over the bowed heads in the first pews. The beauty made his heart catch. He traced a particular ray of light down to where it made delicate contact with the crown of a summer bonnet trimmed in pewter ribbon. The bonnet turned, revealing a profile so pure that his heart clutched harder. He’d never had any defenses against beauty encountered by surprise.