The Memory of Your Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  While Sydney applauded the prince’s celebration of genuine heroes, she deplored his use of such celebrations to shore up his own political interests—especially as so often he seemed to be trying to belittle his estranged wife in the process. The grand affair at Carleton House had started in early afternoon on a very hot day. Military men in full dress uniforms were forced to stand in parade formation for long periods of time. Many of them suffered heat stroke—all because one self-important buffoon wanted to show off, Sydney thought, but she wisely forbore voicing this opinion aloud.

  In order to accommodate the hundreds and hundreds of guests, giant tents had been erected on the lawn. The whole affair was incredibly crowded. And what a waste of money, she thought. All those lobster patties, rich pastries, and champagne for people who had probably never known what it was to be hungry, while even within the city—let alone the country at large—were thousands who were this very instant experiencing hunger pangs. Moreover many of them were members of the newly demobilized army the regent was so intent on honoring.

  Sydney had arrived at this affair on the arm of one of those being honored, Major Zachary Quintin. She knew the Rangers had come under duress; but a sovereign’s invitations amounted to a royal command that could not be refused. The guest of honor was, of course, the Duke of Wellington, who appeared in a resplendent army uniform with medals and colorful sashes awarded by both domestic and foreign entities. Nevertheless, the duke’s attire seemed starkly simple next to that worn by the English Prince George, the Prussian King Frederick, and the Russian Czar Alexander.

  As they waited in a long line to present themselves to the dignitaries, the Rangers talked quietly among themselves.

  “I hear Prinny had that uniform made especially for this extravaganza,” Lieutenant Harrelson said.

  Ensign Gordon snorted. “A puffed-up uniform to fit his puffed-up claims of having actually led troops into battle.”

  “Careful, Gordie,” McIntyre warned. “You’ll have us thrown out of here before we meet the royals. Then what will you tell your grandchildren one day?”

  “That I served honorably with men of honor,” Gordon replied.

  “Hear. Hear,” Captain Richardson said.

  When they at last reached the dignitaries, instead of merely acknowledging Major Quintin and the Rangers with a nod and a handshake as he had others, Wellington, in a booming parade ground voice, said, “Ah, Quintin, I see you brought most of your Rangers home. Saved me writing those letters, for which I heartily thank you. Great job, all of you.”

  Sydney felt Zachary’s arm tighten under her hand as he said in a controlled, neutral tone, “Thank you, your grace.”

  There was murmuring among other guests at the great man’s singling out these few and for the rest of the evening, the Rangers were singly and collectively much admired. Sydney was proud of her friends, especially Zachary, but she was anxious for this evening to end and she knew they were too.

  As she and Zachary waited for their carriage, Sydney was glad to see two very welcome faces: those of Allyson and Nathan.

  “Can you imagine what the Fairfax sisters could do with what this grand show must have cost?” Allyson asked rhetorically.

  “Allyson, enough, my dear,” her husband admonished only half-jokingly.

  “But, darling—”

  “No. Enough. Much as you’d like to do so, you cannot save the whole world and you cannot deny others their right to be extravagant and ostentatious if they so choose.”

  “I agree with you,” Sydney said to Allyson in a stage whisper. “An army of hungry poor people might be fed on this night’s leftovers.”

  Nathan threw up his hands. “I surrender. I cannot fight two of you. ’Tis a pity we have no women in Parliament.”

  Their carriage finally arrived and Sydney sank into the seat with a sigh of relief as Zachary gave the driver instructions then climbed in beside her. She was keenly aware that not since the Vauxhall Gardens excursion had they been so alone together, for McIntyre, who had accompanied them here, was leaving later with Gordon. A carriage lantern offered only muted light, but never had Zachary looked more attractive to her.

  He slipped an arm around her to draw her closer. “Now, about that unfinished business between us,” he murmured and kissed her. She had anticipated this, had wanted this for days. He was not comforting a distraught friend this time. He was seeking, needing, and claiming a lover’s response. One she eagerly gave him. Her lips parted and the kiss deepened. When his hand moved to cradle her breast, she gasped at the flood of desire that swept through her.

  She pulled away, albeit reluctantly. “Zachary, we—”

  “Too much too soon?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Good.” He settled his lips on hers again, thus reigniting that incredible desire.

  She felt almost deliciously helpless, but found herself able to withdraw again. “Zachary,” she said, suppressing a soft laugh, “I am not making love with you in a rolling carriage.”

  In a pretense of thinking this over, he said, “Hmm. Am I to assume you object to the location, not the idea of our making love?”

  She felt herself blushing, but she answered boldly. “Yes. You may assume that.”

  He grinned. His kiss this time was more subdued, but full of promise. “I can wait.”

  In the next few days, Zachary saw Sydney only intermittently and fleetingly. He sent her a fresh bouquet of violets with a one-word, unsigned message, “Waiting.” His sister and her family were still in town. Also, his younger brothers had come for the celebration and insisted he join them for rounds of fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon and to inspect horses at Tattersall’s market. His mother so enjoyed having all her children around her that Zachary hadn’t the heart to disappoint her by skipping out on family dinners. His younger sister Delia, who had made her debut just this year, demanded that he escort her to Almack’s.

  Sydney was also at Almack’s, along with her aunt and her cousin—and the ever-present Trevor Harrelson. Zachary thought Sydney might be bowing to the strictures of the patronesses, for she wore the silver gray gown she had worn to the theatre when he had first arrived in town. He was able to persuade her to one dance, but not the waltz that he so dearly wanted. Later, he overheard someone comment on the phenomenon of seeing Lady Paxton on the dance floor and counted himself privileged.

  Another time, he talked with her briefly as he escorted his mother on a morning call at Rodham House.

  In addition to family duties, two other matters occupied him in those days following the Carleton House reception. The first was selling his commission. He had mostly enjoyed his stint with the army. It had given him a sense of achievement, but it was time to move on. He needed to devote himself not only to the business he would one day inherit from his father, but also to the affairs of the young Earl of Paxton. Richardson and McIntyre were also selling out. Harrelson hadn’t made up his mind yet, but Gordon was staying in.

  And he met with the lawyer, Phillips.

  “I am concerned that Percival Laughton may somehow manage to cheat the hangman and continue to present a threat to my ward.”

  “I think the chances of that are so remote as to be impossible,” Phillips assured him. “If he cheats the hangman, it will be because one of his former cohorts wants to send a message to other debtors and has Laughton killed in prison. Happens all the time. Newgate is a cesspool.”

  “At the risk of seeming to dance on another’s grave, I suppose there is something to be thankful for in that,” Zachary said.

  Phillips nodded his understanding, then said, “As mastermind of that bit of unmitigated evil, Laughton is done for. Now, the other two might get off with being transported, but it would be for at least twenty years—and I don’t see either of them being able to afford passage back to England at the end of that time. No, I think your young ward is safe.”

  “I am sure his mother will be glad to hear that.”<
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  Then—finally—Zachary was able to be alone with Sydney from time to time. He invited her for a drive in the park. Soon the drive turned into a regular occurrence. They met at a variety of social functions—a dinner party, a ball, a musicale—sometimes by chance, sometimes by arrangement. They were often seen with their heads together in heated or laughing discussion. They attended theatre productions, but always with family members or friends. He was delighted that they had regained the simple companionship of their sojourn in Bath and he restrained himself from pushing her lest he break the spell. They rediscovered mutual interests, though—just as in Bath—they did not always agree. He did not press her, but he did send her another bouquet with the note, “Still waiting.”

  One morning in late August, Zachary came down to breakfast to find only his mother there before him. She waited until he had filled his plate, poured his coffee, and sat down next to her before she said, “All right, Zachary, are you or are you not going to marry that girl?”

  “Who?” he asked, stalling.

  “Whom,” she corrected, “and don’t play games. Lady Paxton. The two of you spend an inordinate amount of time together.”

  “Her year of mourning is not up,” he said, still stalling.

  She rolled her eyes. “It almost is. Besides, given the nature of her marriage and the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death, I doubt anyone would look askance were she to push the clock ahead a bit. Well, not anyone who matters.”

  “I’ll take your views under advisement.” He leaned close to kiss her on the cheek.

  That afternoon when he called at Paxton House, he found Sydney in the library, struggling with some ledgers the steward had sent on from Windham. “Do look at these figures,” she said. He did so and they quickly sorted out what had seemed to be a problem. “I need a break,” she said, flexing her shoulders. “Come. Walk in the garden with me.”

  They strolled aimlessly for a while, then sat on a stone bench that was secluded from the house by surrounding trees and bushes—a tiny oasis of nature in the heart of the city.

  “Lady Paxton!” He pretended shock. “You lured me out here for a tryst.”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” she said, “but it is a good idea, is it not?” She lifted her face invitingly.

  “A very good idea,” he whispered, beginning a gentle assault on her mouth.

  They sat quietly for several minutes, just holding each other and relishing the closeness. Then she spoke hesitantly.

  “Zachary, you’ve told me much about Lucas and what a delight he is in your life. Tell me about his mother. Tell me about your wife.”

  He felt himself go very still. Here was a moment of reckoning. He pulled away slightly and twisted so he could see her reaction to what he said. “Elena was not my wife. She might have been. She would have been, but she wasn’t.”

  She held his gaze steadily. “But Trevor told us—”

  “The Rangers agreed to help me protect Lucas. They all know the truth. My parents know. And now you.”

  She was quiet for a time and he noticed the birds twittering in the trees around them. Then she said, “Tell me about Elena.”

  “Where to start. She was a bit of a paradox.” He grinned. “Perhaps most women are. She was sweet and generous and loving. Fiercely loyal. Beautiful. The French called her La Belle Diable. The beautiful devil. She did not hesitate to kill in cold blood when she thought doing so would serve the cause of Spain.”

  “She sounds very strong.”

  “She was that.” He still held Sydney loosely in his arms and nuzzled her neck. “’Tis my lot in life to love strong women. My mother is a strong woman. So are you.”

  She slanted her head to allow him better access to her neck. “Did you love her?”

  “Yes, I think I did. But I have to admit that a saucy English girl with gray-green eyes often got in the way—even though she was utterly lost to me.”

  In response to this, she turned to kiss him fiercely.

  Sydney was pleased that Zachary had chosen to confide in her. And he had almost admitted to loving her! She understood fully his wish to protect Lucas from the pain a sanctimonious society could cause an innocent child. If only such a ruse could have saved William from some of what the future might have in store for him. Still, many a prominent family in England had members who had, as it were, been born on “the wrong side of the blanket.” Some of those offspring had become valued members of society and made positive contributions to the nation.

  Ah, but those were hardy souls who could hold their own against all comers, she told herself. Well, William would have to become one of those. She fervently hoped that love and family support would be enough. Meanwhile, she mustn’t borrow trouble from an unknown and unpredictable future.

  Three days later, Zachary arrived in civilian attire—a brown jacket and doeskin breeches—to take Sydney on an excursion away from the city. She wore a sprigged muslin frock in soft blue-green and carried a matching parasol. Zachary lifted his eyebrows in appreciation when he saw her and she felt deliciously scandalous in going off with him alone even for just an afternoon outing. But, after all, she was not some green schoolgirl who needed to be watched and protected constantly.

  He had arrived in a curricle drawn by a team of matched grays. On the seat in the back where a boy servant—a tiger—might normally sit, a large basket was strapped into place.

  “A picnic? We are going for a picnic?”

  “Ah, see what you’ve done already,” he cried in mock despair. “Gone and ruined my surprise, she has.”

  “I love picnics,” she said.

  They drove in relative silence as he maneuvered them through London’s hectic midday traffic with everything from elegant coaches to farmers’ carts vying for road space and trying to dodge careless pedestrians darting hither and thither. Once they were out of the city, with newly mown fields on either side of them, she breathed deeply of the fresh country air.

  “Nice,” she said.

  They left the main thoroughfare and turned onto a country lane that consisted of two ribbons of sand with a runner of grass between them. They passed a large, well-kept stone farm house with a thatched roof and attendant outbuildings.

  “Are we trespassing?” Sydney asked.

  “No. My father owns all this land.” He made a sweeping gesture and then chuckled. “He thinks its value will triple, at least, when the city expands out here.”

  “Does he not mean if it expands?”

  “No, he is adamant—when.”

  “It is a lovely location,” she said. “I hope it remains fresh and pristine.”

  “I used to spend entire summers out here. Mother would move the family to the farm and Father would ride back and forth every day. It was a long ride, but he said it was worth it.”

  He now guided the team across an open field to a copse of birch and elm trees next to a small river. He jumped down to tie the team in a shaded grassy area, then reached to help her down. His hands lingered at her waist and he drew her close to kiss her lightly—at first. That it deepened to something more intense was not his doing alone.

  They drew apart and she asked, “Did you bring me out here to seduce me?”

  “Well—yes—that is—partly—if you are willing. If not, we will just have a nice meal and drive back to town.” His gaze seemed to say, The choice is yours.

  “I—uh—see. You are tired of waiting.”

  “Oh, I can still wait—if I have to.”

  She looked away and said in almost a whisper, “You won’t have to.”

  He uttered a whoop of triumph and whirled her around as they kissed again. He carried the basket to a patch of grass under a giant elm hanging over a pool in the river. He took a blanket from the top of the basket, spread it on the ground, and moved the basket to the edge of the blanket.

  “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to remove your clothes and jump into that pool with me,” he said.

  She gave him an arch
look. “You suppose exactly right.”

  “Well, at least take off your shoes and stockings and we’ll wade along the edge.”

  He was already removing his boots and socks. Her unruly mind reveled in the implied intimacy.

  He gave her a questioning look as she still stood at the edge of the blanket. “Do you need help?”

  “No.”

  She sat abruptly, kicked off her slippers, and reached beneath her skirt to loosen a garter. She felt suddenly shy, but this was Zachary and wherever this was going, she welcomed it. The task accomplished, she wriggled her newly freed toes and laughed in delight. He reached for her hand to help her to her feet and continued to hold it as they walked the few steps to the water’s edge. The grass felt cool and sensual against her bare feet. She released his hand to use both hers to keep the hem of her dress out of the water.

  “This is wonderful!” she said. “I’ve not done this since I was a little girl.”

  “Perhaps next time you will agree to our baring more than our feet and we will jump in the pool.”

  The idea of such a “next time” caused her heart to jump.

  “I can’t swim,” she said.

  “I’ll teach you.”

  They splashed around at the edge of the water for a while, then retreated to sit on the blanket. Zachary rummaged around in the basket and came up with two crystal glasses and a bottle of champagne.

  As he struggled briefly with the cork, she said lightly, “You take this seduction business very seriously, don’t you?”

  He did not answer as he filled the glasses then set the bottle aside. He lifted his glass in a salute. “Today, I do.” They kissed and sipped and kissed again. He took her glass and set it aside along with his. He took her hand and said, “You may recall that I said I brought you out here partly to make love with you.”