The Summer of You (23 page)

She inched back, barely, opened her mouth to catch her breath. And Byrne, former soldier that he was, took advantage of her tactical mistake, slipping his tongue inside her mouth. And dancing.

He didn’t know how she’d react. He didn’t care. For once, he was not thinking five steps ahead in their dance, trying to decipher her next move. But what he did not expect was to have her press that luscious, slick, very naked body against his own.

The minute her chest pressed against his, Byrne was certain this was hell. Oh, he had stood among the bleak ruins of a battlefield, sat stupefied in dens of iniquity, even fought his enemy while everything around him burned, but never had he been so tortured than by this girl and the feel of her skin against his.

But it was when her soft body fell against a certain . . . rigidity about him, that her eyes flew open. She remembered herself. And she pulled away.

Away as in fifteen feet away. She ducked underwater and did not surface until she was so far out of arm’s reach, Byrne had to chuckle. Just a little.

“Jane,” he drawled, but he was cut off with a vehement shushing.

“My brother and his friends are still awake,” she stage-whispered, gesticulating toward the Cottage, where indeed, if he listened closely, Byrne could hear the echoes of male laughter and clinking glasses.

“Well, I think you’ll have to come closer if you want to whisper.” Byrne grinned, but Jane, only her nose and eyes visible above the water, shook her head, adamant. Byrne felt his face fall; he glided in the water, slowly closing the gap between them. “I did not intend to scare you. I won’t hurt you.”

“It is not that,” she replied, her voice a quaver of nervousness as she backed away as he advanced. “It’s . . . it’s just, I think I felt an eel.”

He threw back his head in laughter then. Goodness, this laughing was becoming a chronic condition.

“Shhh!” Jane said, throwing a look up to the house before pushing a splash of water toward him. It fell several feet short.

“That wasn’t an eel, Jane.” He grinned at her, enjoyed watching her wary, doelike gaze peer out from just above the surface of the water. Who’d have thought Lady Jane Cummings would be such a shy thing? “Your body responded to me,” he explained matter-of-factly, “and mine responded to you.”

“I’m aware of the mechanics of attraction, thank you,” she snapped, obviously hoping to cut him off before he went further.

“So you admit it, then?” his face split into a wide, predatory smile.

“Admit what?”

“That you’re attracted to me.” He knew triumph when she splashed him again. He slid silkily through the water, like a crocodile on the Nile, advancing on the unsuspecting. “It’s completely natural; you shouldn’t be ashamed,” he continued blithely.

“Yes, well, regardless,” she muttered, her skin turning pink in the moonlight, as she stepped backward, “you stay over there . . . and I’ll stay over here.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m naked!” she hissed and then ducked underwater, only her eyes above the water level, darting back to the Cottage when one of the lights was put out in the room on the ground floor, followed by raucous male laughter.

She turned back to him. “Why are you here?”

He answered soberly, “I saw you going into the water. And I didn’t know if you would have the courage to call on me again, or if I would be barred from your house if I came to call on you, and I wanted to talk to you.” Then he sighed, frustrated. “But I can’t talk to you while you’re all the way over there, and I’m all the way over here.”

“I believe we’ve covered the reasons I’m not coming any closer to you,” Jane answered pertly.

“This is ridiculous,” he replied, exasperated. “I feel like I’m yelling down the length of a dining table for you to pass the salt.” He glanced around, his eyes falling on a pool of white cloth floating like foam about twenty feet away. He swam for it, Jane’s eyes burning into his back as he did so. He picked up the nightdress, the finest of linens made heavy by water, and swam back. When he got close enough to do so, he tossed it to Jane, the dress landing near her shoulder with a hearty splat.

It wouldn’t do any good. The linen was so thin, and being wet made it practically transparent. But if she felt safer with it on, if she felt as if that barest of materials was going to protect her like armor and allow Byrne to get within whispering distance, who was he to mention its uselessness?

He watched as Jane slipped the gown over her head, the skin of her shoulders luminous with the faint glow of the still-lit candles from the house and the stronger light of the nearly full moon. When she turned around, she had struggled the material on and stood in the shoulder-deep water, as prim and demure as a nun in church.

Byrne slowly advanced. She didn’t retreat. When he got about four feet from her, just out of arm’s reach, she held up her hand.

“That’s close enough,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” he replied. Not only was he now close enough to hear her at the pitch she wished to speak, but if he got any closer right now, he’d be too intoxicated by her to say what he came here to say.

But before he could summon his speech, Jane spoke first.

“Why do you think you’d be barred from my house?”

He blinked twice and then shrugged. “Your brother dislikes me. You might balk at entertaining the notorious highwayman in your drawing room.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she replied, as she began to tread water. He circled her, and she circled with him. Dancing with him in the water.

“As ridiculous as it might seem . . . there are any number of a hundred things that made me think I would not be welcome in your home.”

Jane stuttered a moment, then whispered back, “You are welcome in my home, Byrne . . .”

He watched her closely. “But . . .”

“But . . .” she conceded, “we have a half dozen guests, half of which I didn’t know about, and people calling all the time, and ever since my mother died, my father has been . . . particular.”

Byrne thought for a moment that she might go on about her father, how he would disapprove of an untitled gentleman such as himself for his daughter, but she simply shrugged and whispered, more to herself than to him, “Maybe I don’t like being in my home.”

He nodded solemnly and fought the urge to frame her face in his hands and pull her to him, give her comfort. Instead he held back, far too aware of what she was feeling.

“I couldn’t stand to be around my family either,” he replied quietly. At her curious look, he went on. “Right after the war ended. Right after a bullet went through my leg.” She didn’t jolt at his direct speech. Instead, she continued their circling, their dance, but moved infinitesimally closer to him.

“They loved me, petted me, tried to make me well again,” he continued, then grimaced. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t fit anymore. My brothers, Marcus and Graham, they were so bloody normal, except for how worried they were about me. They kept wanting me to be the old version of myself.”

“But you weren’t,” she finished for him.

“And therefore, home wasn’t really home anymore.”

“What did you do?” she whispered, her voice no more than breath on the water.

“I ran as soon as I was able. First, to places that for a few coins would let me forget. I let myself get lost. Then, when I ran out of money and energy, I came up here.” He looked at her. “I don’t recommend going to the first places I mentioned. And I know you feel trapped by your family and guests now . . . But if you ever need to run, you can run to me.”

She nodded. Then, whether she was aware of it or not, her circling moved her closer to him again. Byrne could have reached out and touched her easily. But he didn’t. Not yet.

“Why . . .” She swallowed, looking up at him with those drowning eyes, black in the darkness of the night. “Then why did you think I would be a coward and not come to see you?”

He stepped toward her deliberately now. “Because I scared you. And I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry for what caused it.” He gently, quietly reached out and found her hand underwater, grasped it, and tugged her forward. He played with the edges of her sleeve, as he said what he came here to say.

“I wanted everyone in Reston to be afraid of me. So they’d stay away. Until you. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

He paused; his breath caught. The moonlight caught her eyes, he was close enough now to see their reflection, and she didn’t pull away. In fact, she brought her other hand to meet his elbow, pulling herself even closer.

“What do you want, then?” she asked, raising her eyes to his face, her gaze dropping just for a moment to his lips. So his dropped to hers. And suddenly, he was entranced by the way her tooth snagged that full bottom lip.

“You want . . .” she prodded again, her gaze unmoving, as her tongue darted out for a moment.

“I want . . . to be your friend,” he breathed, lowering his head slowly, painfully slowly, to meet hers.

“You are,” she replied in a whisper. He was so close now, he could feel the linen of her nightdress dance across his body under the water.

“Good,” he sighed, then grinned. “I always wanted a friend with freckles.”

“I don’t have freckles,” she replied. She tried to be sharp, but instead all he heard was the whisper of a challenge.

“I beg to differ,” he responded. “Here’s one.” He laid his lips against her cheek, where her freckles glowed against her moonlit skin. “Here’s another.” He kissed the corner of her eye, felt the thick lashes fall blissfully. “Another one.” It was just on the end of her nose, making her giggle against her will. And then, “This one’s my favorite.” He let his lips dance just above her lip.

This was not the quick, hard kiss he had given to silence her. The grappling, surprising need from his loft. This kiss was seduction.

Byrne used to be good at this. The number might have been exaggerated by rumor and innuendo, but the Blue Raven’s reputation as a lover had been earned—and no small source of pride for Byrne. However, over a year and a half now of being utterly wretched and lost to pain and unhappiness, his skills were just rusty enough to have his heartbeat quicken in nervousness.

But he felt clean now, real. Better than he had in months. In over a year. And Jane deserved a good deal of the credit.

Hell, she deserved to be rewarded.

He deepened the kiss as he let his fingers dance over the dampened neckline of her nightdress, stuck to her skin like glue. Gently, ever so gently, he peeled it back, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone to his touch. His other hand tangled with fabric underwater as he clasped her waist, pulling her closer.

Jane leaned into him, letting her arms come up and wind around his neck, her hands threading through his hair. Her feet came off the lake floor, and he lifted her as if she was weightless, and the sheer linen of her gown danced up around her waist, and she pressed her full length up against his.

Byrne smiled against her lips.

“What are you smiling about?” she whispered against him.

“Oh, nothing,” he whispered back, “I simply guessed correctly.”

“Ah . . . about what?” she asked, her head falling back in bliss as he let his mouth drift to the delightful line of her collarbone that his fingers had so carelessly abandoned.

“That your nightdress would prove practically worthless.” And with that, he let his hands find her buttocks and lifted her higher against him.

Jane sucked in her breath. His hands were on her bare ass, pressing her most intimate parts into his arousal. And in the most natural way, to gain balance, her legs opened and began to twine around his.

Byrne couldn’t believe the water wasn’t boiling around them. The strength of Jane’s slim thighs pressed into his flanks, holding on tight. The soft flesh she gave him access to. He let his hand drift to her cleft, and she squeaked sharply, pulling herself closer to him. Her lips found his again and ignited fire.

He did all he could to hold himself back, to keep from overwhelming her with his need . . . but, God, when she let go of what she was supposed to be and indulged in sensation, she was . . . undeniable . She demanded, teased with her mouth, her breasts rubbed against his chest, the wet material of her dress doing absolutely nothing to disguise their hardened peaks.

He was drunk. Drunk on Jane and grasping for purchase, and there was nothing, nothing better in the world, as he prayed that he had the strength to hold out and not embarrass himself when suddenly, he found himself underwater.

They had toppled with a splash, and underneath the smooth black surface, he lost her. She had broken away from him, left him reaching out unsuccessfully for the barest hint of a linen nightdress dancing underwater.

He surfaced with a great gasp, sputtering for air. He whipped his head around and found the frightened, deeply aroused gaze of Jane, her own breathing deep and unsteady.

“You see,” she said, shivering slightly, “I’m not afraid of you.”

He reached out to touch her, but she swam back, out of his grasp.

“I’m afraid of me.”

FOR a moment, the only sound was Jane’s own unsteady breath, and it seemed to hang in eternity. Byrne looked at her, his ice blue eyes darkened by desire in the moonlight. Her body was still vibrating from his touch . . .

“You’re afraid of yourself?” Byrne repeated, confusion coloring his voice. “I don’t understand. I thought . . . today in my loft . . .”

He didn’t understand? How could he not understand? Jane gave a great burst of disbelieving laughter. “Good Lord, Byrne.” She shook her head. “Do you think I . . . I plaster myself against every man I meet with while swimming naked at midnight?”

He shot her a quizzical look, then his face broke into that devilish grin. “Well, considering I doubt you have ever met with another man while swimming naked at midnight, I’d have to wager that yes, you do plaster yourself against every one you’ve met.”

She laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Well, fair point.”

Byrne laughed, too, and took advantage of her distraction to come close to her again, to stand before her.

“Foolish girl,” he murmured softly. “You stayed away, thinking that by ignoring me you could ignore your feelings.” He shook his head. “It won’t work—I don’t stall as easily as that. And neither do you.”

But when he reached out and cupped her jaw gently in his hand, she could not let the moment hold.

“We’re going away,” she blurted out, and felt his caress still on her jaw.

After a beat, he asked quietly, “When?”

“Soon enough, I expect.” She shrugged. “This is a summer residence for my family; we have never stayed at Merrymere very long into autumn.” She paused, met his gaze. “And already it is the end of August.”

He withdrew his hand from her then, let the water fill the space between them. Then, slowly, calmly, he nodded. “So this . . . is just a summer idyll for you. When the weather changes, you go back south, to your grand life. To the next dance, with the next Earl or Marquis whose family name matches yours.”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his face. “But that doesn’t make our”—she searched for the appropriate euphemism—“friendship any less . . .”

“Any less what?” he asked, taking another step closer. “Reckless?”

“Important,” she supplied softly, and watched his eyes change from fire laced with anger to shock at her honesty. “Now do you understand? You ask me to be your friend, but we both know it’s more than that. And I cannot keep you, Byrne. Come the end of summer, I’d have to give you back.”

Time held still between them again, and Jane held her breath as Byrne took in everything she had told him. Their relationship would be short-lived. Her life was crammed and complicated.

And for one frightening, frozen second, Jane thought he would swim away. Simply stiffen his spine, bow over her hand, and leave, and she would never see him again. It would be the right thing, of course. A man like Byrne would never be content with just the crumbs of her life.

But instead, he took her hand and brought it to his lips, reverently.

“Jane,” he said, his thumbs toying over the soft skin of her palm, “I have long since determined to live my life day by day. You speak of weeks from now as if they arrive tomorrow. But now, here and now, Jane, what do you want?”

Jane didn’t know whether to flush with pleasure or go numb with fear. His lips played over her hand, and he gave her that look—that deeply wicked, laughing look—and all she could think was . . .

I want you.

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Was it any wonder that she was afraid of herself?

But . . . God help her, she didn’t have the strength to swim away.

After all, she reasoned, didn’t she deserve to have a little fun this summer? Not a great deal, not so much that she lost all sense—and virtue—but didn’t she deserve to have one thing that made her happy?

Her voice was annoyingly timid when she rasped, “You’ll make no demands?”

“What you want is what I want,” he replied soberly. “What you would want to do . . . or not do . . . is up to you.”

She leaned up and kissed him then, light and leading. He pulled her closer to him, teased her lower lip with his teeth.

“However, I reserve the right to try to persuade you.” He grinned between kisses, nipping at her, making her drunk with his smile. “Not that you’d need much persuasion, I think,” he added, only to be answered by an outraged gasp and a splash of water to the face.

“Yes, well, we can guess at what you’d like to persuade me to do,” she said smartly.

“Teach you to swim properly, of course,” he answered, all mock innocence. “Why? What did you think I’d try to persuade you to do?” Then, lasciviously: “What idea did you have floating in that wicked mind?”

That just earned him another splash of cold water to the face. So, playfully, he splashed her back.

She shrieked and giggled. And there, under the stars, in a lake called Merrymere in the quiet county of Lancashire, Lady Jane Cummings and Mr. Byrne Worth engaged for some minutes in that most indecorous of activities, the splash fight.

Completely unaware of the attention they attracted.

Jason needed some air.

It had been several weeks since he had last seen Charles and Nevill, and he had forgotten just how much stamina night after night of drinking required. Strange, he never really thought much of it before.

Although before, he would sleep away the afternoon and not have to rise early in the morning to begin the process of going over the duchy’s accounts with his pair of stewards. Although perhaps he could put it off, as at least one of them was proving to be as merry as his friends. Jason doubted Mr. Thorndike would be up at the appointed hour, as he was still in the dining room drunkenly discussing the finer point of throwing horseshoes with Nevill. Indeed, when they had taken the man out to the pitch his father had put in the back gardens years ago for their mother’s annual summer ball, Thorndike had nearly turned apoplectic with glee. Then he had proceeded to cheer himself to victory so loudly, Jason had to be the one to shush them, lest they wake the whole household.

Shushing his guests. Had he really become such a stick-in-the-mud?

Apparently he had, because when he managed to usher the party back inside to the dining room, he had been the one to hint at ending the festivities. To no avail, of course. Nevill tended to think any time more than two people were together, it was a party and must last as long as possible. Charles, meanwhile, had removed to the drawing room to look for a deck of cards and had passed out on the settee.

And so, while Nevill and Mr. Thorndike discovered they were absolute best of long-lost friends, Jason had stepped out on the balcony to take the air.

At first, he had seen nothing but the stars in the sky. The moon was strong, but it did not detract from the veritable ocean of swirling stars, the Milky Way like a brushstroke on the inky background of the sky. A bare moment of peace in a disturbingly loud evening.

A bare moment of peace interrupted by the sound of a splash. Then another, then another.

Jason glanced down. At first, he didn’t see anything in the water. It was too dark out there, and too bright by the Cottage. Then he caught sight of a strip of white in the water.

And then a flash of red hair.

Was that . . . ?

Jason leaned over the railing of the balcony.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be Jane. She didn’t swim. Hadn’t since he taught her as a child.

But that was her laugh. And there was someone in the water with her. Someone male, someone with dark hair . . .

And that, he thought as he narrowed his eyes, was Mr. Worth.

Suddenly, a great deal became clear to Jason. Such as where Jane took her walks in the afternoons. Why she was so adamant that he shake hands with Mr. Worth at the assembly. Not to subvert any violence, oh no . . .

And why Jane argued so vehemently for Mr. Worth’s innocence just last evening. She convinced Sir Wilton to hold his lynch mob back, to protect her secret lover.

And her interest in the good Dr. Berridge? The scales fell from his eyes, as he realized that any interest was a fiction, one she used cunningly to divert Jason’s attention from the real object of her dogged pursuit.

Jason felt vaguely ill, watching his sister from afar as she splashed and flirted and played. The brandy he had been sipping all evening was going to return on him if that blackguard got one inch closer to Jane . . .

When Mr. Worth caught Jane up, and she shrieked with laughter as he lowered his face to hers, Jason couldn’t stand it anymore. He ducked behind a convenient potted shrubbery, breathing hard through his nose as he willed himself not to retch. That was his sister. Sisters weren’t supposed to make moany noises while kissing a . . . a . . . highwayman in the water. And certainly brothers were not meant to hear it. Jason pressed his hands over his ears, but it did nothing to quiet his imagination, and a shudder of revulsion raced down his spine.

Oh, the indignity of the situation! Here he was, crouched behind a potted shrubbery, trying not to listen to his sister have a liaison with a man of such low character he had quit London only to have an entire village against him. Jason had the presence of mind to wonder briefly why Mr. Worth had quit London, but that thought was interrupted by a larger, louder, angrier thought. Jane was a hypocrite.

She had been running around with Mr. Worth, having her fun, but she had been appalled that he’d gone out to a tavern when they first arrived, and she was angry as a cat that he’d invited Charles and Nevill. Never mind that Jason himself was beginning to rethink having his friends to stay; it was the principle of the thing!

In the house, Jason could hear Nevill and Thorndike laughing again. In the water, the splashing and (ugh) giggling had resumed. It seemed everyone was having a jolly time except Jason himself. Oh, their father would lose his mind if he ever discovered Jane was dallying with . . .

A sharp pang of bleakness came over him.

His father had already lost his mind.

And Jason knew, in that moment, that there truly was nothing more terrifying than realizing he was the one in charge.

He should run out there right now, run into the water and put a stop to her foolishness before someone should see, or before—God forbid—circumstances progressed too far. And Jason had just enough alcohol in his system to do it.

But he was also just sober enough to realize that such behavior would only cause Jane to become insufferable. She always had to have her way, and if he called her out on this relationship, he would have to hold her under lock and key to keep her from making further mischief.

He realized that the splashing was lighter but also somehow closer. Jane must be wading her way toward shore. He chanced a peek over the top of the shrubbery. Yes, Mr. Worth had disappeared, and she was coming toward land. He ducked down again quickly, thinking that his only chance to remain undiscovered was to stay still. He waited in the shadows and soon enough was treated to a flash of white as Jane swiftly and silently ran up the steps and into the house. The look on her face . . .

Well it was only a flash, and Jason was halfway inebriated, but he could have sworn that Jane looked . . . blissful. Happy in a way he hadn’t seen on his sister’s features in over a year.

Or his own.

But he shook off maudlin thoughts as he stood, stretching his stiff legs, and assessed the situation at hand. Jane could not be allowed to continue her dalliance with this man. But long experience taught him he couldn’t force her to his will. He could send her away . . . but that would upset Father, and besides, he needed to keep his eye on her.

So perhaps it was time he made some mischief of his own.

And Jason knew exactly where to start.

It was luncheon, and Victoria was about to tear her hair out.

She couldn’t call her father for help—oh, no, he was out, having met with Mr. Cutler and needing to discuss—again—the implications of Mr. Worth’s behavior the previous morning. Her mother, on the other hand, had no need to spread such gossip. She had spent all day yesterday doing just that, dragging Victoria along with her to every house, every shop. Today, Lady Wilton had taken Penelope and the girls (Mr. Brandon having gone back to Manchester to attend to his business) to Mrs. Hill’s to purchase some new material for the children’s dresses—because Michael and Joshua had decided to use the laundry hanging on the line as rope to swing from the tree into the river. These clothes included the girls’ Sunday church garments.

It seemed that Joshua’s near-death experience had done little to temper the boys’ enthusiasm for mayhem. In fact, he was quite annoyingly recovered. Right now, they had Victoria’s sewing box and were spread out in the drawing room, rifling its contents, throwing whatever they didn’t need onto the floor, where various pins, buttons, and bobbins of thread bounced and scattered under tables and sofas.

“What are you doing?” Victoria cried, coming upon the scene of the crime.

The two criminals looked up from their work, innocent as angels.

“We need thread,” Michael said.

Victoria glanced down at the half dozen spools of thread that had rolled to various corners of the room.