Candice Hern (16 page)

"Not very much, I fear. I play the pianoforte a little, but mostly I like to embroider. I create my own designs," she said with a proud tilt of her chin.

"Do you? And what sorts of designs are they?" He turned the team into the small grove of trees and pulled back on the reins.

"Flowers, mostly. I love floral borders with twining leaves and vines, and central medallions of individual flowers."

"I shall be pleased to see your work," he said as the team came to a halt.

"Oh! We've stopped." She turned her head in every direction, as though trying to determine where they were, and then up at him inquiringly. "Why have we stopped, sir?"

"Tilt your parasol in that direction, will you?" He indicated the busier area of the park where they had been driving before. She would be somewhat shielded from view.

She looked a bit startled, but did as he asked. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilted her face up so he could dip his head beneath the brim of her bonnet, then kissed her.

He felt her stiffen, so he kept it simple. He moved his mouth over hers, slowly exploring, giving her time to accept him, and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. They did not part. In fact, they tightened, whether out of fear or modesty he could not tell. It was discouraging enough, though, for him to pull back.

So much for being more aggressive. One touch of his tongue and she'd closed up like a fist.

He kept his hand on her chin as he looked into her eyes, trying to read her emotions without much success. Was she offended? Embarrassed? Aroused? Frightened? He could not tell.

"Am I moving too fast, my dear?" It was a foolish question. He could hardly move slower.

She flushed a rosy pink and lowered her eyes. "No, sir."

"Do you like it when I kiss you?"

"I suppose."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement. He did not believe she was offended, and she certainly did not seem aroused. Adam decided she was either frightened or embarrassed or both. "Perhaps this is too public a place for kissing."

"Yes."

He released her chin. "Then I must beg you to forgive me. You simply looked too pretty to resist."

She offered a thin smile and turned away. The poke of her bonnet hid her face from view, but her back remained ramrod straight and her hands folded demurely in her lap.

Blast. That had not gone well. He hoped she was not one of those frigid women who did not enjoy physical intimacy. What kind of a marriage would that be?

Hell and damnation. Life in the tedious countryside with a cold fish for a wife. What a dismal future. Should he put a gun to his head now, or wait until after the wedding?

* * *

"And so, it is to be Sherwood?"

Adam sat loose-limbed and languid in the chair beside Marianne's, his long legs stretched out toward the hearth. It was a chilly night, and they had pulled the chairs close together to share the warmth of the fire.

Marianne was glad neither of them had engagements that night. She had placed the orchid on the balcony in hopes he would be home and come over to visit her. Adam had been busy squiring Clarissa about town and there had been no time for cozy evenings in her sitting room. She supposed they would become less frequent as the Season wore on, and finally cease altogether when he married. She would miss them. She would miss Adam.

She had become too dependent on their friendship. Clarissa's mother would not be the last person to misunderstand it. If Adam went through with a marriage to the girl, Marianne would have to learn how to live without him.

But they had tonight. It was raining and dreary outside and Adam had become soaked on his climb over the balcony. His coat was hung on the back of a chair to dry and he sat in his shirtsleeves. His neckcloth, limp with the damp, had been discarded as well. Their close friendship was no secret, but many would be shocked to know how often he sat in her private sitting room, her boudoir, in a state of such dishabille. His throat was bared by the loosened collar of his shirt, which revealed a hint of brown chest hair.

Marianne's recent preoccupation with ideas of sexual intimacy had heightened her awareness of such things, making that glimpse of bare skin more tantalizing. She had always found Adam extremely attractive, had long harbored a vague sort of infatuation with him, intrigued by his reputation with women. Those suppressed notions had taken on new life of late. All that frank discussion with the Merry Widows continued to have its effect.

He turned his head lazily against the back of the chair and looked at her in question. Marianne realized she'd been woolgathering and had not answered him.

"Lord Julian? Yes, I am hoping he is to be the one. He hasn't said anything, and of course, neither have I. But there is something in the air between us." There was something in the air between Marianne and almost every man she met these days. Her sensibilities were attuned to one thing, and it colored every encounter. But it was strongest with Lord Julian. Almost as strong as it was with Adam.

"No other gentlemen are in the running? It is down to Sherwood?"

"For the moment. You would not believe, Adam, how unsatisfactory some of those men on my list have turned out to be. It has been extremely disappointing."

Adam cleared his throat and turned away to look into the fire. He seemed to have a bit of a cough. She hoped he was not coming down with something.

"Well, then." Adam rolled his head back in her direction and smiled. "Sherwood it is, the lucky devil. He suits all those requirements you listed?"

"I believe so. He is handsome and charming and discreet."

"And he is not after marriage?"

"I doubt he thinks of me in that way. I am an older woman, after all."

"Yes, and such a dried up old hag. Can't imagine what the man is thinking."

Marianne reached over and poked him playfully in the ribs. He grabbed her hand, gave her a look of mock apology, and kissed her fingers.

"And he is not after your fortune?" he asked, absently stroking the back of the hand he had not relinquished.

"Lord Julian hardly has need of my fortune," she said, enjoying the warm comfort of his touch. The undercurrent of sexual attraction was still there, but less powerful tonight. Instead, his touch made her feel cozy and snug, relaxed and languorous. "He may be only the younger son of a duke, but you know that he inherited a sizable fortune from his grandmother, including the estate at Ossing Park. No, he is not after my paltry fortune."

"Then he is only after your body. A discerning young man of excellent taste. I salute him."

Marianne laughed.

"I mean it, my dear," he said. "I applaud his good judgment. I hope he shows himself worthy of yours."

"Thank you, Adam. I hope so, too. I appreciate your support. I had begun to think you so strongly disapproved of the plan that you would never accept any man with me who wasn't David."

"It
is
somewhat difficult to imagine. For so long it was always 'David and Marianne', a single unit. It is hard to uncouple the two of you in my mind, even though he is gone. But he
is
gone, and you must carry on. I do not disapprove, Marianne. Never think that. I just don't want you to be hurt."

He gave her hand a squeeze and she returned it. "Thank you, Adam. And I won't be hurt by Lord Julian, I promise you. I am not in love with him, you know. Only very much attracted to him."

Adam uttered a soft groan, then fell silent again. He continued to absently stroke her hand, and after a few minutes, he said, "There is, however, one thing that still puzzles me. What set you off on this quest in the first place? I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with the other trustees of the Benevolent Widows Fund."

Good Lord, had he heard something about the pact? Had one of the Merry Widows revealed their secret? Or was he simply guessing? Marianne would never break their confidence, however, even to Adam. A pact was a pact.

"I just wanted to experience a bit of pleasure, that is all. It has nothing to do with anything or anyone else."

"You miss him. David."

"Of course I do, but this has nothing to do with David."

"Except that you are missing the pleasure he gave you, missing that physical closeness you shared with him. It is understandable, my dear."

The soothing warmth of his hand, the gentle way his fingers absently stroked hers, had a calming, restful effect that somehow encouraged her to tell him the truth.

"That is not quite how it was," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"David and I were as close as two people can be, I suppose. We truly loved each other. But ..." She was not sure now that she could say it aloud.

His eyebrows lifted. "But?"

She took a deep breath and looked him square in the eye. He needed to know the truth. Marianne sometimes thought Adam's admiration of David a bit too worshipful. Adam often referred to David as the perfect man, the perfect husband. He knew him too well, of course, to truly believe in such perfection. David was only human, after all.

But perhaps if Adam could be forced to acknowledge that there were certain areas in which David was less than perfect, it would be easier to accept her desire to find a lover. She took a deep breath, and plunged forward.

"But there was no physical passion between us."

Adam's mouth fell open in shock. "Good God."

"I didn't realize it at the time. I didn't know there was anything missing in our relationship. It was not until I heard other women tell of the passion they shared with their husbands that I discovered I had never known such passion. And I have decided it is something I want to experience, even if only once in my life."

Adam released her hand and rose to his feet. He walked to the window overlooking the street and watched the raindrops trickle down the glass. They might have been tears for his shattered illusions.

He could not believe what she'd just said. David Nesbitt had always been the man who had everything. A good man, an excellent man, who deserved every ounce of good fortune in life. Adam had loved him and envied him. For his intellect, his character, his marriage. For his wife. And yet this man who met success at every turn had failed at the one thing Adam could now admit he'd envied the most. God!

"I do not know what to say." He could not look at her. She would see the torment in his eyes. The torment of knowing she had never experienced the full passion of sexual intimacy. The torment of knowing that someone else would be the one to introduce her to it.

If David Nesbitt weren't already dead, Adam would wring his foolish, imperfect neck. The man had wasted a good woman.

"I am sorry if I shocked you," she said, "but I wanted you to know the truth. I am not looking to recapture something I have been missing these last two years. I am looking to experience it for the first time. Just once."

Just once. With someone else.

He took several long breaths before he turned to face her. "You have taken me by surprise, my dear. I always thought you and David had the ideal marriage."

"It was ideal. Except for that one aspect."

"It is not a small thing, Marianne. It saddens me to know what you missed. You cannot imagine how sorry I am to hear it." He began to pace in front of the window. "Damn it, I was always so jealous of him. He had everything — looks, brains, charm."
You.

"He was not perfect, Adam."

He snorted. "Apparently not."

"He always wished he was more like you."

Adam stopped and stared at her. "What are you talking about? He was a prince among men. There was nothing about him I did not envy. How could he possibly have wanted to be more like me? Oh." He raked agitated fingers through his hair. "Oh. You mean in the bedroom." His tone grew sarcastic, caustic. "The one area in his life that was apparently not as perfect as the rest."

He should not be so surprised. As a very young man, David had never been as voraciously experimental as Adam and many of their friends had been. In fact, he could probably count on one hand the number of women he knew David to have been with, and still have a couple of fingers left over. Even while they'd traveled throughout Europe for most of a year, when Adam had developed a taste for exotic, sensual women, David had been circumspect in his behavior. His excuse was always that he had his fiancée, Marianne, waiting for him and he didn't need other women.

Adam had admired his friend's restraint, but apparently it meant he'd come to Marianne's bed with little skill and no finesse, leaving her wanting. Damn the man.

"That is not at all what I meant," she said, "though I suppose he might have envied you for that, too, for all I know. I do know that he envied your recklessness, your sense of adventure, the way you were always up for any bit of mischief, willing to try anything once. And yes, he envied your amorous exploits as well. Not that he would ever have been unfaithful to me. It was not in his nature. David was too responsible, too serious-minded, too cautious, to be as carefree as you were. Don't you remember how he hung on every word of your escapades, how he made you repeat them over and over?"

"So he could laugh at me and have fun with my name. Casanova, he called me. I was a great source of entertainment, I am sure."

She smiled. "Yes, you were. But he did envy you. He loved to hear of every gamble, every curricle race, every love affair, every risk taken, because he would never do such things. He lived a vicarious life of adventure through you. Did you never realize that?"

"No." He frowned and shook his head. "No. I never imagined there was any aspect of my life David could possibly envy."

"Well, he did. And if you want the whole truth I will tell you that I, too, secretly wished he was more like you."

What?
She had wanted upright and steadfast David to be like Adam had been — anchorless and with no direction, capricious, wayward, impetuous, secretly attracted to a woman he could never have? She had wanted such a man?

"Not all the time, of course," she said with a grin. "That would have been exhausting. But he never did anything that wasn't absolutely proper and upstanding. He never did a single outrageous thing in his life. I used to wish he would, sometimes. I used to wish he could be a bit more adventurous."