That Scandalous Summer (18 page)

The press of his lips briefly paralyzed Liza. Her tame doctor, who had sat in the boudoir letting himself be poked like a housecat, had suddenly turned into a tiger. She tried to speak—to turn her face away; to call him back to his wits—but he would not have it. His palms framed her face, gripping her so she could not move, and his tongue penetrated her mouth.

As simply as that, she melted. Her muscles unraveled. Her bones dissolved. His large, broad body surrounded her, his grip demanding but not painful, his lips insistent and full of intent. He would have her mouth. And she had no say in it. That was the message of his mouth and his hands.

She let herself be had. With two women in the room behind her and her staff wandering the halls, she relaxed into his hold and returned his kiss. He tasted of the tea, of the sweetness of sugar; he tasted like a very bad idea that she would soon regret, but not now. Never now, while he kissed her yet.

His hand skimmed down her body, shaping her
breast. She opened her eyes and discovered him watching her, so blue his eyes were, and his palm over her stiffening nipple suddenly seemed to carry a message, too. The audacity of his touch, paired with the frank boldness of his look, made her laugh from sheer delight.

She felt him grin against her mouth. His hand slipped farther yet, seizing her by the waist and pulling her more solidly against him. Her joints felt like melting waxworks, incapable of supporting her. She flung her arms around him and let him have all of her weight—and hit the wall harder yet as he stepped straight into her. Now she was doubly pinned, the tight, taut planes of his body as unyielding as the plaster behind her.

Again he kissed her, harder yet, as though trying to convince her of something. What? What was the aim of his persuasion? She kissed him back eagerly, for did he not see? She was already convinced. She found his hair, soft and a touch too long, where it brushed against his collar. The skin beneath was hot and smooth. Her palm wrapped around his nape, and as she gripped him, she shuddered. This need felt elemental. Like hunger or thirst.

From the entry hall far below came the sound of voices. They froze. Her eyes snapped open. His were so very, very blue.

Someone would see them. They stood in plain view.

His face turned into her neck. She heard, felt, the great breath he drew. Very low, against her skin, the roughness of his jaw abrading her, he spoke.

“Friendship is not what I want.”

Her hands broke free of her caution. They found his back, gathering in handfuls the soft wool of his jacket.
Think
. There were reasons, very good reasons, to discourage
him. Money: he had none. Power: he had too much over her. He simply didn’t realize it.

She would never tell him. He was a good man, but he was a
man
. She had learned not to offer a man weapons on the slender hope that he would never use them.

“You . . .”
You aim too high
was the reply that would snap him back to his senses.
Remember your station
. Effective set-downs. She could not speak them.

She lowered her forehead to his shoulder. As they stood pressed together, she grew aware of the small tremors that moved through him. A savage triumph swelled through her. It felt far from feminine. Too wild. Too expansive and hungry. She wanted . . .

She wanted to be responsible for everything that touched him. Her station
was
above his. And she . . . liked that. Whether he shuddered beneath her touch or laughed at her wit—God help her, when he took a sip of tea and pronounced it excellent—she wanted to know that she was the author of
all
of it. What delicious power, to grip this man, so much taller and heavier than she, and feel him tremble! But not to humble him—she would never do that. He was too beautiful, too capable, too strong. Like that night when he had put the baby into her arms, she wanted to be woven into everything he did, all of it so worthy. She wanted to aid him in all those endeavors.

But she couldn’t.

She
couldn’t
. She was not the carefree woman she’d been ten months ago. She had fewer choices now. And none of them included him.

“Listen,” she said hoarsely. “This isn’t safe.”

His sigh burned her earlobe. “Yes. I know.”

In stages they separated: first his hands loosened, then slipped away. She let go of his nape, her palm sliding
down the suggestion of his spine, coming around his lean waist before falling to her side. He took a step back, and her head lifted from his shoulder.

Their eyes met. Her heart jumped once, violently. Then something in her seemed to settle, like a key turning in a lock.

One encounter. She could manage that. She could have that for herself.

“My guests arrive the day after tomorrow,” she said. “If I could slip away beforehand . . .”

Some subtle transformation changed his face: his attention, which had been focused so wholly on her, grew more intent yet.

“The christening tomorrow,” he said. “Will they”—he nodded toward the boudoir—“accompany you?”

“No, but . . .” She bit her lip. His glance fell to her mouth. Heat blazed through her. She sucked lightly, then ran her tongue over her lip.

His indrawn breath was a hiss. “Do that again and we’ll find a room here.”

Her doctor was a savage. She adored that. She smiled at him. She wanted to applaud.

“The christening,” he repeated.

“I had not planned to attend.” But suddenly . . .

“You’re the
godmother,
” he said.

She stared at him, temptation battling with cowardice. Since her mother’s funeral, she had not set foot in that church. But it was past time. And with such a reward to motivate her . . . “I’ll go,” she said quickly, before she could think better of it. “And—afterward, there is a cottage by the lake, for the gamekeeper . . .”

He picked up her hand. She watched, breathless, as he took her index finger between his teeth.

His tongue flicked out, a hot, wet, lazy stroke that made her stomach fall.

“Till then,” he said, his eyes burning. He planted a kiss in her palm, then carried her hand very gently back to her side before taking a single, oddly formal step back.

He did not bow before leaving her. She stood motionless as he walked away, his shoulders straight, his gait limber and easy as he went down the stairs. Her country doctor moved with the arrogance of a prince.

And she was either braver than she knew, or the greatest idiot on earth. But tomorrow, at long last, she was going to live up to her reputation as a merry widow.

•   •   •

After two weeks of sunshine, the skies clouded over for the newest Broward’s christening. Michael arrived late, taking a seat in the last row of pews. The windows had been left open to permit entry to the freshening breeze, and restive feet shushed and scuffed against the flagstones around him. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t slept much. Impossible to sleep, knowing what would come after this event—not simply lovemaking, though God knew that was the main event, but also . . . a moment of truth.

Knowing nothing of his real identity, Elizabeth wanted him. It amazed him when he thought on it: one of England’s most famous beauties, drawn to him without even the barest apprehension of his true station. But despite that strange pleasure, he could not, in good conscience, lie down with her until she knew everything.

So he would tell her. And once her shock faded, he imagined—he hoped—she would think it a very good lark. This was, after all, a woman who threatened to
scream at stars; a widow of some infamy, who felt comfortable dallying with country doctors. He’d give her a marvelous
on-dit
to share with her friends when they arrived. And Michael would greet them by her side, as her lover.

Yes, the plan seemed sound in all regards. Pleasure for them both, and a reply to Alastair, who had planted that story in the newspaper as a transparent taunt. Michael had waited too long in the countryside for his brother to act. By revealing himself, he would ensure that word reached London, the message clear:
You want a chaste, demure bride? Behold the woman with whom I’m keeping company: a notorious widow . . .

That
was a proper goad, all right. That would bring his brother out of his priest’s hole. For Alastair would never approve of a woman like her.

Even as he reasoned it, the idea perversely angered him. He did not like to think of her being so judged. No matter what happened, he would never permit Alastair to speak poorly of her.

Michael leaned left and right, trying for a glimpse of her. But he could not see anything of the activity at the baptismal font save the broad shoulders of Mr. Broward and some cousin who would stand as godfather.

The baby began to wail. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the parishioners. They came to their feet, all in their finest summer linens, to sing a hymn. Michael followed suit, though he did not recognize the song—an oversight that in other circumstances might have scandalized the people around him. Instead they had only smiles to offer. Since Mary Broward’s recovery, he had learned what a true Cornish welcome felt like: everywhere he went, strangers stopped to speak to him, to offer their respects.

The melody was beautiful. He closed his eyes, at first to admire how well the music matched his anticipation. But then the smell of the stone, and damp paper and candle smoke, teased out a memory of his childhood, in the time before his parents’ quarrels had grown public and their congregation had ceased to welcome them. He had loved the Sunday service then, for it had been the only occasion on which his behavior had won his parents’ vocal approval. He could still hear his mother’s exasperated remark to his brother, made with weekly regularity:
Why can you not behave more like Michael? See how still he sits!

When he opened his eyes again, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and the single stained glass panel above the altar was shedding pools of gold and blue over the bowed heads in the first pews. The beauty made his heart catch. He traced a particular ray of light down to where it made delicate contact with the crown of a summer bonnet trimmed in pewter ribbon. The bonnet turned, revealing a profile so pure that his heart clutched harder. He’d never had any defenses against beauty encountered by surprise.

As though his thoughts called to her, Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps it was a trick of the light that made her expression look troubled. When their eyes met across the dim interior of the church, he felt a smile break over him, and after a brief beat, she returned it before turning again toward the font.

The crown of her bonnet riveted him. It looked so . . .
typical
. Exactly the kind of hat that should be worn by a demure matron, a staid and passionless widow. What fantastical camouflage! And in a few hours’ time—perhaps less—he would be unpinning that bonnet. Loosening her hair.

By God, he could already feel it through his fingers. The morning of their first meeting, he’d viewed it in its glory. It had seemed a cruelty then to be unable to touch her. He had not anticipated how much harder that act of restraint would become.

Not long, now. Luncheon at the Browards’, and then . . .

The ceremony concluded. Those around him stayed seated to let others exit. First came the Broward children, and then Mr. Broward, his arm around Mary, who was still weak but walking well. She clutched her child to her chest, and when her glance grazed over Michael, she looked back immediately, beaming at him. He nodded to her.

Now came the gentry, Elizabeth at their head, retreating down the narrow central aisle in a single line.

Foreboding touched him. She did not so much as glance in his direction.

•   •   •

Liza stepped out of the church, blinking in the noonday sun. People streamed past her, dressed in their Sunday finest, laughing and chattering. The christening concluded, the celebrations would continue now at the Browards’. But Liza did not fall into step toward the road. She had an appointment with Michael . . . though her mood had rather turned. She feared he would not find her good company.

Discreetly wiping her eyes, she took a breath and made herself face the place that had occupied her thoughts during the baptism.

The graveyard lay a short walk down the gravel path. It had stormed the day they’d buried her mother there.
Amid the gloom and the gale, with rain beating into her face like needles of ice, Liza had felt the
wrongness
of it so sharply that she had wanted to scream.

But from this vantage, the graveyard looked shockingly peaceful, even cheerful—the grass thick and green, the headstones awash in roses.

She could no more approach it than she could the moon.

Passersby threw her smiles, curious glances, nods. She was accustomed to such interest, though the variety here felt more benign than in London. Nevertheless, and not for the first time, she wished the fashion were for veils. Everywhere she went, people stared and whispered. She was tired of always smiling for them.

She lifted her face to the sky, making the pretty array of clouds an excuse for her sudden detention.

A hand closed on her elbow. She ripped free and spun around, appalled even as she did so by the gracelessness of her response.

Michael stepped back from her, palms up and out, the ancient gesture to show no harm was intended. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She had the most appalling impulse to seize his hand—fall into his arms—put her face into his shoulder to block out the sight beyond him. As though that would solve anything.

Instead, stupidly, she said, “You came.”

He frowned—rightly so. They had seen each other inside. “Of course. Did you imagine I would miss it?” He laughed softly. “God, what would
that
have taken? Some natural disaster, I promise you.”

Yes, of course. No man would have turned down the harlot’s invitation she’d extended yesterday.

No. That was not right; her ill temper was unfair. She had wanted this meeting as much as he had. Only, after the ceremony . . . now it seemed somehow wrong.