The Summer of You (28 page)

Jane, having far more curiosity than any lady of quality should, once she ascertained her father was comfortable and Nancy had everything in hand, rushed to the chimney of the second-floor family rooms, where she hoped she would be able to catch a word or two of Byrne and her brother’s conversation.

She was not disappointed.

Jane had spent the majority of the afternoon and evening in a state of awe. Byrne, showing up out of nowhere, after she had been so terribly mean to him the day before, forcing together the two worlds that she had worked so hard to keep separate, exposing her sham.

And he had fit. She had no idea how difficult tonight was for him, but he never showed any strain, and he fit perfectly. He was kind and understanding but not pitying to her father. He was entertaining and charming with her guests. He saw her at her absolute wit’s end with the preparations for the party, and instead of running and hiding as anyone sane would do, he stepped in and helped. He took a look at the shape of her life, and contorted himself into the voids that she didn’t even know were there—but remained himself. It wasn’t some man intent to please her and win over her family, sending flowers and flirting artfully. It was Byrne. It was all Byrne.

She may have spent the majority of the day in awe, but it wasn’t until she was kneeling by a cold and empty fireplace, listening to her brother parse words with Byrne below, that she was at turns appalled by her brother, her face burning with shame, and then an overwhelming sense of protection and hope at Byrne’s words. And then, she knew.

She was in love with him.

She could hear the voices fade as they moved away from the fire. She strained, listening for the click of the door. Then she ran out of the room.

She reached the top of the staircase just as the front door closed behind Byrne.

She should run after him, shouldn’t she? She should fly down the stairs and try to catch him before he rode home.

But she didn’t. She held still, at the top of the staircase, with the realization of love falling like leaves around her, and she simply stared at the front door in complete shock.

As she stood there, she saw her brother emerge from the drawing room, cross and brooding. He didn’t notice her watching as he called out to one of the footmen. “Send Mr. Hale and Mr. Thorndike to me. I’ll be in the library,” he said authoritatively.

“Certainly, sir,” the footman replied. “May I tell them what you require of them?”

“I require them to show me the accounts!” Jason growled. “It’s what they’re here for.”

With that, the door to the library closed, and Jason in it. The footman abandoned the hall.

And Jane abandoned the stairs.

She fled the house, flying across the grounds. She could hear the men at horseshoes in the back of the house, but it gave her no pause.

She found the path along the shore with a lifetime’s worth of practice, knowing each footfall, every time to duck and avoid a branch. She moved so quickly, she came into the clearing of widow Lowe’s house in no less than ten minutes, guided by the moonlight, and did not stop moving until she stood before Byrne’s door. And knocked.

No one answered.

She knocked again. Again, no one answered.

Jane became very aware of the awkwardness of it all. What if he was avoiding her? What if he knew it was she and he didn’t want to see her? What if he had fallen asleep immediately? She couldn’t imagine walking back to the Cottage without telling him . . . without seeing him . . .

“Jane?” She turned and saw Byrne standing behind her, still in his coat, cane in hand.

She started laughing, relieved. “You took the creek path—the long way around?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “And you took the lake path.”

She nodded, smiling, her breath still coming in heavy gulps from the run over—which had caused her to beat him here.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his expression wary as he climbed the steps, came to stand right next to her, right above her. Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t been this near to him all day, and suddenly, Jane wanted nothing more than to get closer.

“I . . .” she said, her voice a rasp on the wind, “I came to kiss you good night.”

He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers, as he shook his head. “No.”

“No?” she squeaked.

The corners of his mouth lifted, as he pulled her to him and whispered.

“Not yet.”

THERE were words to be said. Simple words, holding words, words that turned lives on the point of a pin . . . but they would not be said tonight. Tonight, words felt cheap and gaudy. Words would not do for what was between them. Only action, and purpose, and the vast comfort of a blanket of stars.

They could only see each other. The night sky evaporated, the stairs under their feet. Byrne’s hand at the small of her back pressed her against him, but he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just looked. Looked into the face of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, luminescent, lit by stars. Watched her eyes change in the dark . . . go from wonder to confusion to desire in the space of a moment.

He couldn’t help but smile.

She smiled back.

Because she knew.

Their eyes remained locked as he slowly reached past her and opened the front door behind her. Jane had nothing to lose. She had exposed herself entirely, coming here. She had known full well the ending they had in store and rushed to greet it, and him, anyway. She wanted this. This look in his eyes, this deep focus on what he held, this strange and yet utterly familiar sensation that shot down from her shoulders and pooled where his fingers lay, where their bodies pressed together.

She took the step back, into the darkness of the little house. He did not let her go, and instead followed, leading her as if dancing. It was pitch-black in the small sitting room, and Byrne was certain he was going to bump into a side table or a chair, but his equilibrium and memory found him, maneuvered him and Jane to the base of the stairs that led to his spare loft. Not once did he let go of her, break contact. It would have destroyed them . . . cool air shattering them back to reality.

Byrne stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Paused. He reached out and touched the side of her face, and she leaned into his palm. But it was too dark, and he needed to see her. Needed to see if certainty still reigned in her eyes. Slowly, he hung his cane over the end of the banister, pulled at the knot of his heavy cloak, let it pool on the floor at their feet. He chanced his whole soul then and let go of her, removing his hand from her waist. She could pull away now, if she wanted. She could seek the sanity of space.

She didn’t.

He reached over and struck a match, the flare of light burning their eyes for the briefest moment. They both flinched away from it. He lit a candle that rested on the small shelf along the wall—useful for when you wanted to find your way up the stairs late at night, and useful now. The candle burned between them, and Byrne sought her eyes—and momentarily panicked.

Even in the candlelight, it was too dark. Her eyes too dark, the night too dark, the room too dark to read what she truly felt. All he knew was they were set wide, vulnerable. Intent.

Calm.

Then she took the candle from his hands. And in answer to a million unspoken questions and one in particular, her eyes never leaving his, she took the first step of the staircase. And the next. And the next.

It was a fractional second of unending relief, before the stark realization settled in that there was far too much room between them, and so he followed. Caught up. Breathed in that honeysuckle scent of her hair that proved more intoxicating that the sweetest liquor, the strongest medicine.

They reached the top of the staircase, the small loft, where the soft bed was made with patchwork quilts, a slight breeze from the open window the only reminder of the world beyond their own. Byrne and Jane were alone. None of the ordinary sounds—the creak of a servant’s footsteps on the floor or the rattle of carriage wheels could reach their ears and rip them from their cocoon.

The rush of noiselessness enveloped them, and Byrne could think of no reason not to kiss her any longer.

This raw want, from a day spent in her company, unable to reach out and hold, made him ravenous. As for Jane, the whole of the afternoon and evening, counting the times his arm had accidentally brushed hers, the number of moments she had caught him looking at her mouth, was finally, finally being acted upon. It wasn’t her imagination or her wandering daydreams. It was real, and what they both wanted.

It was more.

His mouth tore at hers, a configuration both normal and new to them. He lifted her off her feet, held her to him. She used her free hand to support herself on his shoulders, clinging with all the strength she had, holding nothing back. She squeaked once, jerked. Their heads broke apart, their nearness mourned for the space of time necessary to realize Jane had hurt herself—still holding the candle, their jostling had caused the wax to spill over onto her hand. Byrne set her on her feet, took the candle from her poor, injured hand. He kissed said hand gently, the white wax cooling rapidly on her skin, then placed the candle on the small table covered with books, by the stuffed chair. Then he returned his attentions to Jane.

Fumbling brought out their humor. Her nervous fingers danced lightly on his shoulders, pushing back his coat; his hands tried like hell to work open the ridiculously small buttons at the back of her dress. They stopped, caught their breath, sought each other’s eyes. And then they laughed. Giggled like schoolchildren caught at mischief. Little kisses on her eyes, the corners of her mouth—devouring her by inches brought them back to themselves, to the moment, the candlelight, and the patchwork bed in the corner of the room.

He danced her to the edge of that bed. Byrne felt his hands shake as he dropped them to his sides. He would not press her into the mattress, as every nerve in his body begged him to. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t have her here by his will; she had to be here by hers. She had come to his door, she had climbed his stairs, all on her own. And now, looking into her eyes, he asked her to take this next and last step on her own. He held perfectly still as she went on tiptoe and kissed him deeply, reverently.

And then, her eyes never leaving his, she sat on the bed, inviting him to join her.

The next came quickly. His jacket was thrown to the side. His cravat torn away, finally allowing him to take the deep, gulping breaths he desperately needed to fuel his blood. His shoes clunked to the floor, discordant sounds that made her grin. But when he knelt before her, her attention became fixed. The pinpricks of awareness stilled any smiles, because up until this point, she knew basically what to expect. Now, with the simple motion of kneeling before her, Jane came to the startling realization that they were headed deep into unknown territory.

She sucked in her breath as he removed her slippers. First one, then the other, he tossed them over his shoulder with a wicked smile. His finger ran over her silk stocking lightly, up from her ankle, to her knee, making her shiver. He found the garter, tied just above her knee, and slowly pulled at the ends. As his fingers caressed the now-naked back of her knees, he watched as Jane’s chest rose and fell rapidly . . . and when he slid the stocking down her leg, she stopped breathing entirely. Byrne couldn’t help but feel mildly triumphant. He’d been racking his brain, since the moment he’d seen her standing on his porch, trying to remember the flair and ease he used to have with women.

Stockings had always been one of his better tricks.

By the time he was done with the second stocking, Jane was certain she was drunk. She’d had too much wine with dinner. Too many sips of Charles’s port. Because her legs were inching open, allowing him access to her skin, as his lips replaced the brush of his fingers. On her ankle, her calf, her knee. He pushed her gown up, watered silk rasping against skin. And she felt every fraction. His lips reached her inner thigh, and she had to bite her lip from crying out at the intensity, the newness of it all.

As much as Byrne wanted to continue his journey up her leg, he knew she wasn’t ready. He could tell in the jolt of her flesh, the flicker of apprehension that stiffened her spine. Instead, he came to lean up over her, a predator ready to feast. He started at her throat, more confident in his seduction now, more certain of his effect on her. The small gasp that escaped her lips pulled him in, and even as he laid her back against the bed, he finally managed to work those damn buttons open on her dress. He rolled her with him, working her dress over her head, freeing her of its weight and him of its obstruction. She only wore her chemise now, a plain scrap of linen with lace on the hem.

Well, this wasn’t particularly fair, to Jane’s mind.

Buttons opposite what she was used to, it took more than one try to get his shirt open and off, but it fell away easily enough, with some assistance from him. She had, of course, seen his upper half naked before and even been close enough to touch—but then, in the water it had felt illicit. Stolen. Now, with time stopped outside the door, she could admire at leisure. She could feel the planes of strength that had come back to him in the recent months from exercise and health. The muscled flanks that roped around his sides. The springy hair that dusted his chest, at once silly and wholly masculine. And her hands could dance lower, to places she hadn’t seen, hadn’t had opportunity or courage to admire before.

As she let her hands burrow beneath his waistband, sought and found the curiously hard length of flesh straining therein, his head came up, and he grabbed her wrist. Slowly, his breath exhaling in one long, shaky sigh, he pulled her hand out of his trousers. Then, before she could make a sound of protest, he flipped her with ruthless efficiency, came to lie on top of her, trapping her wrists above her head.

She held his gaze, too surprised by his angry reaction to look away, too curious to see what would happen next. Slowly he released her wrists, bent to kiss her again. But this time, his lips trailed down as his hands slid up, pushing the chemise up from her hips to her waist, finally bringing it over her head. He caught one dusky nipple in his teeth, the sensation beyond bearing. Her hand wound its way into his hair, held him there. But no, he would not be deterred. He trailed lower.

Oh good Lord. Her head lolled back as he placed a kiss on the place where her legs joined. She forced herself not to snap them together, did not resist the easy pressure of his hand on her knee. This pooling of feeling, where his mouth touched, where his tongue reached . . . this was new. This was something she had not thought existed. She found herself being pulled toward something, lulled by her blood and skin and the air and his mouth . . .

But then he stopped.

No, he couldn’t stop.

Her head came up, any protest allayed when she saw he had backed away only long enough to remove his trousers and drawers. She came up on her elbows and could see in the dim candlelight as he sprang forth, but he was unconcerned by it. Instead, he was gloriously naked, as naked as she. But what would normally reduce Jane to blushing instead made her bold. They were both as vulnerable as could be in that moment, and yet it made them strong. She accepted him when he came back to her, his mouth dancing its way up her soft frame, one hand supporting her as the other dipped between them, tested her headiness.

She was slick with want, her skin pink with desire, as ready as they could hope her to be. He entered her swiftly, held his breath, and pushed forward. He felt the tightness of her, the small tear, her body giving way. She stiffened but did not cry out—no, instead, she bit his shoulder. He took it, took back the fraction of the pain he knew he had caused her. But the grating of her teeth on his shoulder had a lucky side effect. It kept him from losing himself entirely, from taking a running leap over that ledge that beckoned him. The pain was over. He had to hold himself together long enough to make sure she experienced the pleasure, too.

Lazily, with far more grace than he ever thought he’d manage, he slid his hand up her velvet thigh, cupped her rear, squeezed, pressed himself even deeper into her. Her whole body relaxed as she arched into him, a motion founded entirely on instinct but blindingly erotic. She hitched her legs higher around his waist. And they began to move.

They slid into the rhythm without any question or fear. He kissed her throat, her mouth, drugging her with sensation. She was being lured. Lured into rejecting everything beyond feeling. Slowly being dragged under by this incoming tide of heat and pressure. With every push and pull, she wanted what he had promised. She wanted more.

She wanted every inch of his skin to touch every inch of hers. Wanted his hands in places she hadn’t even known existed. Wanted his eyes. Wanted his mouth. Wanted it from the moment she had seen him emerge from the water, months ago. Her mind lost to everything else, it crystallized on this one thought: that this night, this act, was the consummation of all that came before. That she had wanted him from the beginning. After all, they had known each other instinctively, before they ever had the opportunity to know one another, before they ever spoke. She could spot him at a thousand paces, and he her.

And suddenly it was all too much. The tide swallowed her whole, and she cried out, lost entirely to this shuddering sensation, this burst of life that racked her body and had her laughing out loud. He gripped her to him as she convulsed, tiny little shivers throughout her entire body that left her sated and breathless.

Byrne kissed her as he continued to move, faster now, urgent in his own need, his own breath ragged. He gripped her shoulder, his hand raked her back. She bit his lip, toyed with his ass, her hand finding that ugly mangled scar on his thigh. She pressed him into her as he finally shuddered and found his own release.

It was some moments before either could move, could bring their heads up and open their eyes. When Byrne did, the first thing he saw in the faint glow of the dwindling candlelight was her shoulder. She wore his marks. Her freckled, sensitive skin was indented and burned by his rough fingers. But instead of regretting them, he felt a surge of pride, as if with those ugly, delicate scratches he had claimed her as his.