Mary Balogh - A Summer to Remember

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?”

Kit was out in the stables when Lauren appeared there. It was only a little after six o’clock in the morning. Before leaving the house he had sent his valet to instruct her maid to wake her, but she must have been up already to have arrived here so soon—and looking like elegance itself in a forest green riding habit with a matching hat set just so on her carefully styled dark hair, its lavender feather curling invitingly about one ear.

He had been looking forward to going to wake her himself. He would have dared. Her outrage would have been something to behold.

“Good morning.” He grinned at her. “I have had the quietest mare in the stables saddled for you. The only tamer animal would have to be lame in all four legs. I will be riding beside you. You have nothing whatsoever to fear.”

“I am not afraid of riding,” she said. “I just do not enjoy it as an exercise. I resent this, you know. You are supposed to give me an enjoyable summer—enjoyable to me—not force me into doing things I distinctly dislike, like rising at this hour to ride.”

“No, no,” he said, chuckling. “I promised you a memorable summer, and I always keep my promises. But if it will make you feel better, I can tell you that we will be riding only a short distance. I have something altogether more pleasurable planned for you. We are going to swim.”