The Summer of You (22 page)

For a moment, Byrne couldn’t move.

He was too amazed.

They hadn’t even had tea, was all he could think. And then . . . then he started to laugh.

Lady Jane wanted him. She wanted him. There was no longer any dancing around the feelings they had, no longer would they hedge and skirt back to the edges of their acquaintance.

Because he wouldn’t allow it.

Go ahead, he thought, a wicked smile coming across his face. Go ahead and try to avoid me for a week again, Jane. I dare you.

Because somehow, someway, the oddest sensation was filling his chest. It was warm and light, and . . . joyous. It was joy.

And he’d be damned if he’d let her fear and cowardice snatch it back again.

THAT night, Jane could not sleep.

She turned over again, kicking at the light sheets that had gotten tangled around her legs. She could blame the weather that seemed to have reached temperatures beyond earthbound—Jane wouldn’t be surprised if Merrymere began to steam and boil if this continued. Indeed, the phenomenon was curious even to those beyond the district. Over supper, Mr. Hale had told them that they had met with a man from the scientific academy in London, who was traveling north with the hopes of studying the heat wave.

All well and good, but science could do nothing to rectify the situation at present. Because Jane could not sleep, and she could not blame the heat. Perhaps she could blame her brother, as was her habit and his use. After all, he had brought Charles and Nevill into the house at the most inopportune time. Charles and Nevill seemed to agree that it was inopportune, being relocated to the wilderness, and took advantage of every lull in conversation to complain about their situation.

“But there’s nothing to do!” Charles whined.

“I say, Jase, you mean there are no women in this town for us?” Nevill asked, as Charles dug into his lamb.

“There are a number of very fine young ladies in Reston,” Jane began but was interrupted by a laugh from Charles—affording her a delightful view of half-masticated lamb.

“We ain’t talking of fine young ladies, Lady Jane—we’re talking about—”

But luckily Charles himself was interrupted by Jason, who cleared his throat remarkably loudly.

“Jane,” he said, his face a burnished red, “er, commend the cook for me, please; this lamb is very . . . er, fresh.”

“Yes,” Jane said, as she shot her brother a withering look, “it was likely just recently slaughtered.” Much like you soon will be.

Jason, to his credit, looked slightly chagrined.

“Jase, while we’re here,” Nevill began, “what chance do you think we’ll have to run into a poet or two?”

“Poets?” Jason asked, throwing a glance to his sister, who shrugged. “I don’t believe Wordsworth or Coleridge are currently in residence.”

“Damn! I wanted to give those fellows a piece of my mind. All those tedious hours spent committing their words to memory, just to impress European women—some of whom didn’t understand a word we said in any case!” Nevill barked with laughter. “Honestly, did you read The Excursion? Never been so bored in my life.”

And so it went. Nevill and Charles continued to insult the town and area that was playing host to them, Jason continued to turn red, and Jane continued to see red. Jane knew she came to the lake this summer with no charity in her heart for the district or the town or the Cottage . . . but it was her region, her town, her Cottage! It incensed her beyond reason.

Hale and Thorndike, thankfully, spent the evening acting with grace and charity, and Jane could rely on them for sensible conversation. But Charles and Nevill . . . And Jason sat between the two sets of men, his attention swayed back and forth between his obligations and his amusements. Unfortunately, amusement, by virtue of its volume and mirth, seemed to be winning. He was engaged by Charles and Nevill, laughing at their bad jokes and matching them glass for glass for glass throughout the meal.

They hadn’t stopped yet. Jane could hear them from her room, the sounds of their laughter traveling through her open window, as they were in the south garden, trying to play some game that involved throwing horseshoes. The occasional clatter of metal striking metal and the laughter that followed was distracting, and Jane could have blamed her sleeplessness on that, certainly. If only she didn’t have a history of being able to sleep through the loudest thunder-storms.

No, the blame for her sleeplessness lay with Jane, and Jane alone. Although that wasn’t precisely true. It wasn’t her alone.

Byrne. Oh, heavens, Byrne Worth. He had rifled through her thoughts and nestled there, the memories of his hand on her back and his lips on her ear . . . keeping her too bloody warm for sleep!

What had prompted her actions that afternoon? Why had she even felt so compelled to go over to his house? She could have, should have, left well enough alone—and not dug into his secrets.

But . . . but he had let her in anyway. And in turn, she completely lost control over herself. Nay, truth be told, she had completely lost control, full stop.

It was happening again. That feeling of being . . . untouched had welled within her, strong and deep. Just the memory of the afternoon . . . of being near him, and being near him made her so very aware of the space between them.

Jane was ill equipped to handle such a man as Byrne Worth. Normally with men, they would meet in a glittering London ballroom, and she would flirt and play the coquette, and she was always, always in control. But here, at the lake, with Byrne . . . she didn’t play.

She didn’t flirt.

She didn’t even wish to flirt. She had let all pretense fall away, almost from the very beginning.

She just wanted to be near him, with him.

Touched.

That, of course, meant she would have to stay as far away from Byrne Worth as possible.

If only he would get out of her head and leave her in peace to sleep!

But still his low grumble of a voice, cynical and vulnerable, whispered over her skin: What else is there?

She knew—theoretically—there was so much more. And today, in that little attic, lost to sensation—that delicious, surprisingly powerful want that coursed through her body—she had been so very tempted to let herself discover the more.

And then she had seen the bed.

Oh! It was too bloody hot for thoughts like this!

Jane ruthlessly kicked back her covers, freed herself from the mattress, and found her feet. She stalked to the open windows, letting the slight breeze come to her.

It wasn’t terribly soothing.

Instead, Jane sought comfort in the soft lapping sound of the lake against the shore, the tranquillity of rhythm. It was probably nice and cool in the water. She wouldn’t have to go in very far, not being a strong swimmer, but maybe wading in would quiet her thoughts and calm her body enough to let her sleep . . .

Jane listened closely . . . she could no longer hear the raucous laughter of her brother and his friends. They must have given up on the pitch and gone back inside to cards and drink and food . . .

No one would see. No one would know. And maybe she could achieve some peace, Jane thought, as she turned away from the window, grabbed her wrapper, and silently moved to her door.

That night, Byrne Worth couldn’t sleep. And for once, it was not the pain in his leg keeping him awake.

He sat out on his small porch, the same position he had taken that morning when the entourage from the Cottage had come to call. But this time, he was at peace. Even better, he was planning.

Planning how to break down Lady Jane’s defenses, plotting how to seduce—seduce!—the daughter of a Duke.

A year ago—hell, three months ago—if someone were to tell him that he would be considering seducing a woman, let alone one of such esteem as Lady Jane, he would have laughed in their face. But here he was, and somehow, he was in it. For the first time in a very, very long time, Byrne wanted something. Something real, something warm. And his intention was to get it.

But this would take time and strategy. Of course, Byrne was very, very good at strategy.

He looked up at the stars, then back to the Cottage in the distance, a few rooms that still had candles blazing, and sound carrying over the water, telling him that some of the gentlemen were carousing till all hours. He had the advantage of proximity. The advantage that he knew she liked him. But he knew he had frightened her that afternoon.

And he had to rectify that.

Another disadvantage was her family. Her brother was not likely to be his champion. And his friends seemed no kinder. Byrne knew little about her father, but if he was anything like her brother . . .

It was little wonder she had done her best to not introduce him.

While Byrne pondered the positives and negatives that would allow him to burrow deep into Lady Jane’s heart, he saw an interesting sight. Out the front doors of the Cottage, heading down toward the lake, was a female figure wrapped in white.

He sat up in his chair. His eyes were good, but it was still a distance away . . . If he hadn’t already known that Jane was the only lady in residence at the Cottage, he would have still known it was her. The light from the front door momentarily caught the red braid that streamed down her back, as she snuck out the door.

Well, this was an interesting opportunity. He watched her tiptoe lightly across the dewy lawn and hesitate at the edge of the water. His eyebrows went up as she dropped her wrapper on the shore and edged her toes into the water.

A Very Interesting Opportunity. Byrne quickly did the math. It would take him approximately fifteen minutes to walk over there with the disadvantage of his cane, and by then, she would be gone. But that time was halved if he swam . . . and it would give him the element of surprise . . .

A smile spread across Byrne’s face. He was never one to pass up an interesting opportunity.

As Jane slid her toes into the water, one thought and one thought alone overwhelmed her:

This lake was cold.

Arctic, frigid. The heat of the past few weeks had done nothing to mitigate its icy temperature. Maybe she should go inside. Maybe this idea to float away her frustrations was not quite sound. After all, there were eels . . .

But what had she to return to? Tousled sheets and a sleepless night? Might as well try something different. Something new. After all, Byrne swam in this ridiculously frozen lake every day.

The unrelenting thought of Byrne Worth brought a flush to her cheeks. But it didn’t stay confined to her face, instead spreading down through her whole body in the oddest and most uncomfortable manner.

It must be quelled before it got entirely out of hand, she thought briefly, as she summoned all of her courage and ran into the water, submerging herself before she could change her mind.

Cold. Cold cold cold cold cold. But as she brought her head back above water, she began to relax. The shock of the initial impact was over, and her overheated skin began to enjoy the sensation of the hotter air breezing over her drenched self, her legs twining with the thin material of her nightdress as it danced about her under the surface.

She was standing in the water, about chest deep, feeling safe enough this far out. She glanced back at the Cottage. Candles still blazed in the dining and drawing rooms, and surely she was far enough away that no one would see her. So, quickly, she removed the ribbon at the end of her long braid and shook her hair out. Then, lazily, she leaned back, let her legs rise, and began to float.

Her hair spread out in a cloud beneath her head, listing with the rhythm of the water, choosing its own way. She moved her arms languidly, kicked occasionally, lifting her eyes to the stars. The night sky, so huge and overwhelming, made her feel tiny and insignificant. Which was a relief. She was so used to her actions being marked and scrutinized, to feel for once that she was unnoticed in the vastness of the world made her feel . . . free. To do anything.

Above the water, her nightdress clung to every hollow, every peak. The air cooled its fibers, causing the tips of her breasts to tighten and pucker with the sensation. Beneath the surface, the gown drifted and floated, pulling her down with its weight.

What if she went without it?

Suddenly Jane was overcome with the wicked idea. After all, who in the whole vast sky would notice? Or care?

She placed her feet on the mucky bottom of the lake floor, and glanced again at the Cottage. There was nothing to stop her. No one to scandalize. Oh, it had been so long since she had scandalized anyone. Well, proper adult Lady Jane was going to take a page from the Jane of her adolescence. And then, with a mischievous smile, one meant only for herself, she slipped beneath the surface and out of her gown.

She came up with the smile still on her face, raised her arms, free of the heavy, wet material. And then she heard it. A low, anguished, decidedly masculine groan. From behind her, in the lake.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Byrne growled, only his head and shoulders above the surface, a silent predator in the water, his eyes as black as the sky above them.

Jane found her scream silenced when he grabbed her shoulders and covered her mouth with a kiss.

Well, it was either kiss her or shove her underwater, and Byrne doubted she would take kindly to the latter.

But, damn, if he drowned now, he would drown happy. It was the most difficult thing of his life to keep his hands above her shoulders, above the level of the water. Because his fevered imagination knew what awaited underneath. If he just let his fingers drift down, he would graze the tips of perfection, then let his hands fall to her waist, her ass, pulling her full naked self up against him, and . . .

Thank God he’d decided it prudent to leave his trousers on.

Instead of torturing himself thinking of the parts that weren’t touching, Byrne concentrated on the parts that were. His hand resting gently against the cool, clean skin of her neck, the other lost in the thick morass of her wet hair. And her lips. She’d been shocked at first, of course, frightened and then forced to swallow a scream. But he could tell the moment she realized who it was that was kissing her. She didn’t relax, no. Nor did she fight him. Instead, her lips took on a kind of fire, a gasping nervous awareness that shot from her body through his, making him harder than stone, even in the ridiculously cold waters of Merrymere.