“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.”
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