Mary Balogh - A Summer to Remember

When she did not immediately answer, he sighed soulfully. The music, he sensed, was about to end.

“Come strolling with me,” he said. “With the others for propriety, of course.” If he could not escape their chaperonage once they were away from the environs of the pavilion, then he would have lost his touch indeed.

The music drew to a close, and they stood facing each other while all about them couples made their way back to the boxes.

“You hesitate because I swam in the Serpentine wearing only my pantaloons?” he asked her.

“You make a joke of everything,” she said. “I wonder if anything is serious to you.”

“Some things,” he assured her. Ah yes, some things. “Walk with me.”

“Very well,” she said at last. “Provided everyone else agrees to accompany us, my lord. But I will not tolerate either flirtation or dalliance.”

“I promise neither to flirt with you nor to dally with you,” he said, smiling, his right hand over his heart.

She looked unconvinced.

“Very well,” she said again.

Lauren had always loved beauty. The park at Newbury Abbey was beautiful, especially on a sunny summer’s day when the wind off the ocean was not too blustery. It was the inner lawns and flower gardens that she loved best, though, those parts of the park that had been tamed and cultivated. Those parts that were civilized. She had never really liked the wilder valley and beach, which were all a part of the park. They were untamed and disordered. Sometimes they frightened her in a way she could never quite explain. They reminded her, perhaps, of how little control humankind has over its own destiny. Of how close we always are to chaos.

She was terrified of chaos.

Vauxhall Gardens was a sheer delight. Nature had been tamed here and made lovely. The forest was lit by lamplight and traversed by wide, well-illumined paths with sculptures and grottos to add interest and elegance. The paths were crowded with strollers, all of whom were behaving in a perfectly civilized manner.

And yet she was aware of danger. Miss Merklinger and Lord Farrington, Miss Abbott and Mr. Weller, walked ahead of them, talking and laughing among themselves. Lord Ravensberg made no attempt to join in their conversation even though Lord Farrington was a personal friend of his. And every minute set the two of them at a slightly greater distance behind the other four.

Every so often narrower paths wound away into the trees. They were darker, lonelier than the main thoroughfare.

Lauren could almost read Lord Ravensberg’s mind. He intended that they take one of those side paths. Just the two of them. She shivered. She could increase her pace and close the distance with the others. She could herself join in their conversation. Or she could, when the time came, firmly refuse to leave the main path. He would hardly try forcing her to comply with his wishes, after all. The fact that she was even having this inner debate with herself bewildered her. Lauren Edgeworth had always known what was what, and it would certainly not be the thing to go off with a virtual stranger along a deserted path when he could have nothing but dalliance on his mind.

But she was horrifyingly tempted. What was it like—dalliance? It must be different from simple flirtation, certainly. One could flirt in company with other people. One needed to be alone with another in order to dally. She had never wondered about it before. She had never been even faintly curious.

But tonight she was.

“The path grows crowded,” Viscount Ravensberg said, dipping his head closer to hers. “Perhaps you would like a quieter, more leisurely stroll along one of the side paths, Miss Edgeworth?” His eyes, dancing with merriment, mocked her. He knew, of course, that she knew. Did he know too that she was tempted?

She felt as if she had come to some crossroads in her life. She could and should say no and there would be an end of the matter. Or she could say yes. She could simply say yes and risk . . . what? Detection? Exposure? Scandal? They would be unchaperoned. Did he intend to steal a kiss from her? It was a shocking thought. She had only ever been kissed by Neville. She was six and twenty and had only ever been kissed—chastely—by a former betrothed. Perhaps he intended more than kisses. Perhaps . . .

“Thank you,” she heard herself say before she could talk herself into making an acceptance impossible. “That would be pleasant.”

He turned without further ado onto a narrow path to their left. The other two couples strolled onward, unaware that they had been abandoned.

The path was narrow—only just wide enough for two people to walk side by side if they were close together. Lord Ravensberg pressed her arm firmly against his side so that she had no choice but to rest her shoulder just below the level of his. It was the path that gave her no choice—the path and the tall, silent trees that grew to its very edge and met overhead, almost totally blocking out the moonlight. The only light came from the occasional lamp in a tree.

She ought not to have agreed to this, Lauren thought. There was a feeling of even greater aloneness and intimacy than she had expected. The sounds of voices and music seemed to grow instantly fainter. There was no one else on this particular path.

Why had she agreed? Curiosity? A desire to be kissed?

She wished he would say something. She thought of all sorts of things she might say—she was adept at making polite social conversation, after all, but any topic that came to mind would have sounded ridiculous under the present circumstances.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in a voice that was so calmly conversational that for a moment his meaning did not quite penetrate her mind. It was her heart that comprehended first as it thumped uncomfortably against her rib cage, half robbing her of breath.

What would it be like, being kissed by a man who was not Neville? Being kissed by a notorious rakehell? By Viscount Ravensberg? And why had she not spoken up instantly with a firm and frosty refusal?

“Why?” she asked instead.

He laughed softly. “Because you are a woman—a beautiful woman—and I am a red-blooded male,” he said. “Because I desire you.”

Lauren wondered if her legs would continue to support her. They seemed suddenly turned to jelly. This was dalliance?

. . . I am a red-blooded male.

Because I desire you.

His choice of words paralyzed her mind with shock. Yet they strolled onward as if they had just exchanged comments on the weather. He did not just wish to kiss her. He desired her. Could she possibly be desirable? Was she really beautiful? Was it possible after all that this was not simply dalliance? Or was she turning into the mindless dupe of an experienced rake?

They stopped walking as if by mutual consent, and somehow they were standing facing each other. The faint light of a distant lamp danced across his shadowed features. He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his knuckles feather-light down one side of her jawline to her chin.

“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and nodded—as if being unable to see and giving no verbal answer somehow absolved her from responsibility for whatever would follow.

She felt his hands coming to rest on either side of her waist. They drew her forward so that, even though she did not move her feet, her bosom brushed against his chest and then pressed closer. For balance she lifted her hands to grasp his shoulders—and felt again the strange intimacy of being with a man who was no more than two or three inches taller than she. She opened her eyes and saw his face very close to her own, his eyes intent upon her mouth. And then his own covered it.

His lips were parted. She felt with shock the moist heat of the inside of his mouth and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. For a few moments she was lost in wondering contemplation of sensations more carnal than she had ever suspected possible. And then she became aware of two other things simultaneously. His tongue was tracing the seam of her lips, causing a terrifyingly raw sensation to rush aching into her throat and down into her bosom and down . . . And one of his hands was spread firmly behind her waist—no, below it—and had drawn her against him so that her thighs rested against his and . . .

She pushed away from him and fought the chaos of unfamiliar sensations and emotions that whirled through her brain. How much sense it made that unmarried ladies were never allowed to be alone with a man until they were betrothed. But she had felt none of these things with Neville. Neville had been . . . a gentleman.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, relieved at the calm coolness of her voice, quite at variance with the turmoil of her emotions. “That will be quite enough.”

“Miss Edgeworth.” He was regarding her closely, his head tipped a little to one side. He made no attempt to grab her again. He was not even touching her. His hands were clasped at his back. Even so she would have taken a step back to set more distance between them if the trees had allowed it. “Would you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

What? She stared at him, speechless. His question was so unexpected that her mind could not grapple with it for the moment. This was not dalliance, surely. He had asked her to marry him.

“Why?” The question was out before she could curb it.

“I saw you across Lady Mannering’s ballroom,” he said, “and knew that you were the woman I would marry—if you would have me.”