Mary Balogh - A Summer to Remember

She finally lay still and hot and damp on him. Now, finally, he was free to complete his own pleasure. He moved his hands back to her hips and braced his feet more firmly against the ground—and paused a moment, gritting his teeth.

Then he lifted her off him and turned to set her gently on the towel beside him.

“Mmmm.” The sound was a satisfied purr from deep in her throat as she rolled onto her side and curled in against him and promptly fell asleep.

Kit lay back down and breathed deeply and evenly, clenching and unclenching his hand on the side farthest from her. Several minutes of sheer agony passed before his erection began to subside. He chuckled ruefully when the worst of it was over. In her innocence she doubtless was quite unaware that she was the only one who had completed the act.

As probably he had been last night.

He might well have impregnated her last night. Only time would tell. But if she had escaped during that encounter, then she was still safe today. She would still have choices left when the house party ended. She would still be free to leave him.

He set one arm over his eyes and sought and found her hand with his other. This must not happen again. They were not really betrothed—by her choice. And Lauren Edgeworth was not the sort of woman with whom one indulged in an illicit affair.

Last night she had given to him in his need.

This afternoon he had returned the favor.

That was all. It was completed, this unexpected physical bond forged of both their needs.

Yes, it was completed.

He drew in a slow lungful of clover-fragrant air and let it out on an almost audible sigh.

The following morning presented Lauren with an opportunity to talk privately with Sydnam Butler, something she had not accomplished before. He was not often visible during the day, and during the evenings he invariably sat in the drawing room window, his very posture discouraging company. She had no real wish to talk with him at all, but she had come here to help Kit be reconciled with his family. The deepest hurt of all, she had discovered two nights before, involved his younger brother.

A number of the men and boys had gone fishing with Kit, Lauren’s grandfather among them. Several of the ladies, including Gwen and Aunt Clara, had gone into the village to see the few shops and to view the Norman church. Lauren had stayed behind to wander among the flowerbeds and through the hothouses with the countess and help her make final plans for decorations for the birthday. When that task was completed she accompanied the dowager on her morning walk to the rose arbor and back.

Mr. Sydnam Butler was riding alone up the driveway, Lauren saw as they slowly climbed the steps on their return to the house. He appeared to do it very well considering the fact that he had only one arm. She felt very sorry for his disabilities, but she did not feel particularly kindly disposed to him. He had been unfair to Kit.

The dowager took the arm of her favorite footman, a stout, good-natured young man, for the climb up the stairs to her room. Lauren excused herself and went back outside. She hardly knew what she intended to do as she stood on the steps again, her eyes on the stables. Kit’s brother came walking out onto the terrace a few moments later. He limped ever so slightly, she noticed, perhaps as a result of stiffness from his ride. The limp disappeared after a few steps. He hesitated for a moment when he noticed her, and then came onward.

“Good morning, Miss Edgeworth,” he said when he was close enough. He touched the brim of his hat with his whip.

“Mr. Butler.”

She felt dislike—and guilt. But why feel guilt merely because he was maimed? She did dislike him. He had consigned Kit to a sort of permanent hell for no good reason. Yet Kit still loved him.

He smiled his crooked smile when he came to the foot of the steps and would have gone on past.

“Mr. Butler, will you walk with me?” Lauren asked.

He looked at her in evident surprise. He drew breath—to offer some excuse, she guessed. But he closed his mouth again, bowed, and turned to walk with her across the terrace and out onto the wide lawn on which the cricket match had been played the day before.

“The weather is not quite as lovely as yesterday,” he remarked.

“No, there are some clouds today.”

She almost lost her courage. But their bargain aside, she was concerned about Kit. She cared about him—she cared for him. Much too deeply for comfort. She clasped her arms behind her and drew breath.

“Mr. Butler,” she asked, “why will you not forgive him?” It did not occur to her that perhaps he would not know what she was talking about.

“Ah,” he said softly. “Is that what he has told you? Poor Kit.”

“Is he mistaken, then?” She frowned.

He said nothing for a while as they strolled diagonally in the direction of the trees. Then he sighed.

“It is far too complicated an issue,” he said at last. “You need not concern yourself with any of it, Miss Edgeworth. And you need not fear that I will be here indefinitely to blight your happiness and Kit’s. I will be leaving within the next month or so, I believe. I will be taking a post with the Duke of Bewcastle.”

“As a steward?” she asked. “That upsets Kit, you know. He tells me you were not made for such a life, that you were— are—an artist. He loves you. Do you not realize that?”

He stopped walking and gazed at the grass ahead of them before turning his head and looking directly at her. Lauren was shockingly aware of how very handsome he had been, of how terribly disfigured he now was. But her dislike of him had not waned.

“And you think I do not love him?” he asked her.

“I think you cannot,” she said, “or you would offer him some comfort. Do you believe he has not suffered just because he does not carry around your wounds?”

He was angry then. Furiously so, judging by the sudden hardness of his eye and tensing of his jaw and flaring of his nostrils. But he brought himself under control before he spoke again.

“Yes, I believe he has suffered,” he said curtly. He turned to look back at the house. “This walk was not a good idea, Miss Edgeworth. Not unless we agree to talk about the weather. I like you. Very much indeed, though I realize the feeling is not mutual. You are kindness and patience itself with my grandmother. You are gracious and amiable with everyone else. You have an obvious affection for my brother. I wish you happiness—both of you. But I must leave. I doubt you will see much of me once I have gone. It will be best for everyone that way. Shall we return?”

But she had heard more than his words alone conveyed. She had heard another sad and lonely soul, too far withdrawn into himself for happiness. Kit, for all his deep misery, had found an audience in her two evenings ago and some comfort. In whom did Sydnam Butler confide his deepest griefs? Was there anyone? He seemed such a very solitary figure.

“There is one thing I am good at,” she told him, ignoring his gesture back in the direction of the house. “I am good at listening. Really listening, instead of hearing only what I want or expect to hear. Tell me what happened. Tell me your version of what happened.”

Kit had told her facts. She did not believe he had lied or tried in any way to mislead her. But sometimes even facts did not tell the complete story. Sometimes there were unconscious omissions or shadings that could change the whole perspective on an event. Get three people to tell what had happened on some tumultuous occasion—her wedding at Newbury, for example—and the chances were that one would get three similar but essentially different stories.

He looked steadily into her eyes for a few moments before turning to continue their stroll away from the house.

“Yes, I was the artist,” he said, “the dreamer, the little brother who was small for his age until he shot up to a gangly height at the age of fifteen. I wonder if Kit has ever noticed that I grew taller than he. Jerome was the solid one, the responsible one, the one who would inherit and be earl one day. He was confident, active, strong. Kit was the mischief-maker, the daredevil, the one at the center of any trouble, the one most often summoned to our father’s library. He was the charismatic one, the bright, laughing one. My boyhood hero. I adored him.”

Lauren said nothing. A largish cloud had just moved off the face of the sun, and there was a flood of welcome brightness and warmth.

“I was everyone’s favorite,” he said. “Sweet little Syd, the gentle dreamer. The one to be protected against all danger, all potential enemies, all punishments.” He chuckled suddenly, and Lauren realized that he had almost forgotten her presence. “One time when I took the boat out and did not secure it properly on my return so that it drifted off into the middle of the lake—even taking it out unsupervised was strictly forbidden, you must understand—Kit confessed to the misdemeanor and was caned. Then after I had heard about it and insisted upon telling the truth and was feeling rather proud of my own stinging rear, Kit got caned again for lying. They both did it—Jerome and Kit. They were forever protecting me. But I was a dreamer, you see, not a weakling.”

“They were overprotective?” Lauren asked.

“Yes.” They had reached the little stream that bubbled over its uneven stony bed on its way to join the river. They turned to walk beside it. “Because they loved me, of course. Love can be an infernal nuisance, Miss Edgeworth. Did you know that?”