Forever Mine (The Forever Series #2)

by Cheryl Holt

  “Can a girl lead on a man? I don’t think so. Besides, she looked quite young, and you’re how old? Thirty?”

  “Yes, thirty.”

  “Then let’s not rewrite your history with her. I wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

  “If I keep my appointment with her next Saturday, will you be jealous?”

  She stared directly at him and lied. “Why would I be jealous? I barely know you, and I have no claim on your affection.”

  “You wouldn’t fret over it? Seriously? What if you watched me sneaking off into the trees with her? Wouldn’t you be incensed?”

  “My having the evening free was highly irregular. I work on Saturdays so I won’t be at any future dances. I won’t have to watch you flirting.”

  He leaned nearer and rested a palm on her thigh. “Stroke my ego and admit to me that you’d be jealous.”

  “No. You’re much too vain, and your ego hardly needs to be inflated.”

  “Yes, it does. As a male, I require constant reassurance that I’m marvelous.”

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “All right, yes, I would be devastated. I would waste away. I would pine and mope and tear out my hair. I would be forever crushed by your lack of devotion to me.”

  He smirked. “That’s more like it.”

  “I guess I like you, but I’m trying to deduce why.”

  “You’ve never met anyone like me before. I fascinate you.”

  “Yes, that might be it. I’m fascinated, but I’m not certain it’s for a positive reason.”

  “Women pretend they despise libertines, but deep down they all yearn to shackle themselves to one.”

  “To libertines? You really assume we’re that illogical?”

  “Absolutely. You can line up a dozen men in a room, and a female will automatically gravitate to the reckless rogue. Stable, solid fellows leave them cold.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “You suppose? Trust me, it’s completely true. What about you? Aren’t you dying to marry the man of your dreams?”

  “No. I don’t intend to ever wed.”

  “But you’d make a very fine wife. Why aren’t you desperately plotting on how to bring it to fruition?”

  “I have no dowry so I could never attract the type of spouse I would demand to have.”

  “What type is that?”

  “I’d want someone handsome and dashing and fun and kind.”

  “Dashing and fun?” He snorted. “I must warn you you’re tiptoeing out into libertine territory.”

  “No, I’m not because any swain would have to be madly in love with me, and libertines don’t usually fall in love.”

  “It could happen,” he insisted.

  “Not in my world. It’s a fairytale, and if a beau wasn’t wild for me, I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

  “So you’re a romantic at heart?”

  “I hadn’t thought so, but it appears I am.”

  He poured a glass of wine and offered it to her. She drank out of the glass and so did he. They fed each other nibbles of food from his plate, the interval seeming very intimate.

  Vividly, he recalled why he’d been so struck by her the previous night. She was so beautiful, and he was always bowled over by a pretty face, but it was much more than that. She was educated and poised and pleasant and elegant, and her comportment had him wishing he could marry her instead of his very rich, but very immature cousin.

  He couldn’t bear to consider fornicating with her, sharing their marital bed or anything else. The realization left him sick with regret.

  Miss Barrington instantly noticed his change of mood. “You’re frowning.”

  “Yes, I was thinking about my brother,” he lied.

  “The younger one who’s a wastrel?”

  “Yes. He’s why I was late.”

  “I figured you’d simply forgotten me.”

  “I didn’t forget you,” he said. “You’re unforgettable.”

  “And you’re a flatterer.”

  He studied her, wondering if she blabbed openly like every other female, but he was sure she didn’t. “May I confess an appalling secret about him?”

  “Certainly, but only if you feel it would be appropriate for me to hear it.”

  “He has a horrible gambling problem.”

  She reached out and squeezed his hand. “It’s such a scourge in families. I had a cousin who succumbed to it with devastating results.”

  “I can’t get him to stop. It’s like an addiction.”

  “Yes, you’ve described it exactly.”

  “He’s adrift in his life, and he doesn’t have any goals or ambition.”

  “Can you hope he’s merely wallowing in a low phase? Might he grow out of it?”

  “I don’t believe it’s a phase. I’d like to purchase a commission for him in the army. I enjoyed my years as a soldier, and it would be extremely beneficial for him, but it’s so expensive.”

  “You’re reminding me—and yourself—that you have to wed an heiress in a hurry, yet you’re sitting here with me at this picnic. You’re socializing in the wrong place.”

  “I’m having fun though. Perhaps that’s all that really matters.”

  “Well, fun does matter, but so do the funds to buy an army commission for your brother.”

  “I must sound like an ungrateful cur.”

  “No, you sound like a devoted brother.”

  “If only that were true,” he murmured.

  Andrew had come home—intoxicated—after the sun was up. He’d been in a brawl. His clothes were torn, his eye blackened, and his purse was missing. Luckily, he never had any money so if he’d been robbed the brigand didn’t receive any profit.

  “Don’t fret over him,” she said. “Not now—when we have limited time to be together.”

  “You’re right of course.”

  She refilled their wine glass, and they drank it down. His confiding in her had altered their relationship. It made them seem even closer, as if he’d known her forever, as if she was his fiancée and he’d selected her because they were so compatible.

  He’d been planning—after his wedding—to retain a mistress. He would require one to satisfy his physical needs, but his emotional needs too.

  How would Catherine view such a role? Might he be able to persuade her? Once he had his cousin’s fortune, he could be incredibly generous. She was much too remarkable to toil away and earn her living, and he could rescue her from her paltry, stifling existence.

  How would she react to such an illicit proposal? At the current moment, she’d likely slap him and never speak to him again. Yet what if he continued to see her? As he chipped away at her moral defenses, might she ultimately agree?

  It was nearing seven o’clock, and over at the pavilion a line was forming. People were folding up blankets, picking up baskets, and heading to the building.

  The festivities started earlier on Sunday and ended earlier, with the last set concluding at ten. Actually, it was a mystery that the facility was open at all on a Sunday, but it was summer and the warm nights were balmy and long.

  He motioned to the pavilion. “Will you dance with me?”

  “It’s almost seven, isn’t it?” she replied. “I intended to leave by now.”

  “I refuse to let you.”

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “But I only arrived a bit ago. You can’t deprive me of your stunning company. Not when you keep saying you won’t be here next Saturday.”

  “I’d come if I could.”

  He grinned. “You’re crazy about me already.”

  She smiled a smile he felt clear down to his toes. “I might be a little crazy about you.”

  “Perfect.”

  He stood and offered his hand, and she hesitated. Then she shrugged and grabbed hold. He tugged her to her feet, and they walked over and joined in the merriment, spending two hours dancing and growing
too fond for words. Finally, the orchestra played a waltz, and when it was over they were hot and winded, and they went outside to stroll in the cool night air.

  He led her away from the crowds and the lamps, and she didn’t complain. He left the path and guided her into the shadows where they wouldn’t be observed.

  “I can’t believe I let you bring me out here,” she whispered.

  “You’re happy I did. Admit it.”

  “I might be glad. It depends on how naughty you are and how long I stay.”

  “I asked you once if you’d ever been kissed in the moonlight, but you didn’t answer me.”

  “Yes, I’ve been kissed in the moonlight,” she said.

  “You vixen! I wanted to be the first.”

  “You’re not the first, but I’ll hope you’re the best.”

  “Ha! I’m the best at everything—as you’re about to discover.”

  He dipped down and touched his lips to hers. She sighed with pleasure, and he sighed too, thinking the embrace was too delicious to describe.

  He deepened the kiss, pulling her to him, and on feeling her lush, alluring body crushed to his, he was practically weak in the knees. He was an experienced roué who’d kept mistresses and reveled with trollops so he considered himself to be jaded in the ways of love.

  Typically, he didn’t like kissing all that much and engaged in it simply as a means to an end, a step down the road to where he ultimately yearned to be. So he couldn’t recall ever being quite so riveted.

  He flicked his tongue against her lips, asking, asking again, and she understood what he was requesting. She opened wide and welcomed him inside.

  For an eternity, he reveled, neither of them inclined to stop. He was captivated by her, by the heat of her skin, by the scent of her hair. There was another aroma too, one that was more subtle, as if he’d delved to her very essence. It was like a dangerous drug, leaving him with the distinct impression that he could never get enough of her.

  A feral impulse swept through him, urging him to throw her to the ground and take what he craved like an animal. He forced himself to slow down, to draw away. She leaned into him, her slender fingers clutching the lapels of his coat.

  “You’re as good at kissing as you are at dancing,” she said. “I should have guessed you would be.”

  He shook his head. “Catherine, Catherine, what shall I do with you?”

  “I don’t know, but I have to go.”

  “No, you don’t. Not yet.”

  “I told Libby I’d meet her at the pavilion at ten. I’m certain it must be later than that by now.”

  “Even if she claimed she’d be there, I doubt she will be.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s fixated on Mr. Swift and determined to wring a proposal out of him.”

  “Will she?”

  He scoffed. “No.”

  “No matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  “Should I warn her about him?”

  “She’s aware of what he’s like. She wouldn’t listen.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, and she rose on tiptoe and initiated a kiss of her own.

  “I’m glad we did this,” she said. “I’m glad I let you corrupt me.”

  “Are you feeling corrupted? I hope not.”

  “No, actually I’m feeling extremely grand.”

  “So am I. When can I see you again?”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that the exact line you used on that girl last night?”

  His cheeks flushed with chagrin. “I wasn’t serious with her.”

  She laughed again. “Be careful or you’ll begin to sound ridiculous.”

  “You can’t intend that this will be the only occasion we’re together.”

  “I don’t want it to be, but it’s impossible between us.”

  “Don’t think that. In my view, nothing is impossible.”

  “Oh, my sweet man. What is it you envision happening? I’m a penniless lady’s companion, and you’re hunting for an heiress. Where could I ever fit in that depressing scenario?”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. The sole route for me would be to disgrace myself with you—but there could be no advantage for me at the end.”

  He decided he would ask her to be his mistress. Then he would be able to buy her beautiful clothes and expensive baubles. He would purchase a small house for her and fill it with luxurious furnishings and doting servants. He merely needed sufficient time to convince her it was what she desired too.

  “I’m not married yet, Catherine. I haven’t even started courting.” It was a huge lie, but a necessary one. “There’s no reason we can’t pursue a close friendship.”

  “There is a very good reason.”

  “What is it?”

  “You would pressure me to continue sneaking off, and you would push me into giving you much more than I should.”

  “You’d enjoy it,” he pompously stated.

  “Your comment reminds me that you’re very loose and very fast, and I have no business socializing with you.”

  “You liked kissing me. Don’t deny it.”

  “I don’t deny it. I’m delighted that I had the chance to learn what it was like to be with you.”

  “I will kiss you again in the future—so when will it occur?”

  She placed her palm on his chest and rubbed in a slow circle. “If we ever cross paths—and I doubt we will—it will be purely by accident.”

  He studied her, and her resolve was clear, but he had ways to garner what he sought. Miss Markham was the first method he would utilize. She owed him several favors, and he would call them in.

  “Will you come to other picnics?” he asked. “Will you come for the dancing? If you’d tell me when you’ll be here, I’ll attend too.”

  “I won’t be coming again. My life isn’t my own, Mr. Wakefield.”

  “It’s Christopher, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “What is your address? I’ll send you notes, apprising you when I’ll be at the theater or other events. You could meet me.”

  She gazed at him forever, assessing his idea, then she said, “It’s such a tempting suggestion, but I can’t. Would you escort me to the pavilion?”

  “I’m not ready to part with you. Especially if you insist this will be our final rendezvous.”

  “I shouldn’t walk alone.”

  “Miss Markham won’t be there.”

  “Even if she’s not, I’ll leave without her. She doesn’t have to get home, but I do.”

  She waited for him to take her arm. When he didn’t, she spun and marched off without him so he had to relent and accompany her.

  Much too quickly, they approached the pavilion. The orchestra was packing their instruments, people dispersing. Various groups loitered in front of the building.

  To his surprise, Miss Markham was there, tapping her foot and impatiently scanning the crowd for Catherine. Nicholas was nowhere in sight so either he hadn’t dallied with her or the disreputable pair had quarreled and he’d left. Christopher didn’t much care which it was.

  Catherine saw Miss Markham, and she halted and stepped away from him.

  “I can make it the rest of the way on my own,” she said.

  “You don’t want Miss Markham to know you were off in the woods with me?”

  “Of course not. What woman would?”

  He snorted at that, and he peered down at her. She looked at him too, and there was a painful charge in the air, as if Fate was mourning their separation.

  “I’ll see you again,” he said. “I promise.”

  “I won’t plan on it, but if it transpires I will be very glad.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. He lingered, refusing to drop it, and she yanked it away.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  For a moment, she ta
rried as if there was a profound remark that needed voicing. But she didn’t utter it. She whirled away and went to Miss Markham, turning her so she didn’t see Christopher where he was lurking in the shadows.

  “Libby, there you are,” Catherine said.

  “And there you are,” Miss Markham replied. “I had the worst evening. Can we go?”

  “Yes, let’s go.”

  He hovered, expecting Catherine to glance back or wave, but she and Miss Markham kept on toward the entrance.

  Feeling like an idiot and a fool, he whipped away and stomped off in the other direction.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Where are you off to this morning?”

  “Where do you think?” Priscilla Bolton glared at her Aunt Gertrude. “I have dress fittings with Madame LaFarge at eleven.”

  “You must be back by four,” her aunt said. “We’re having supper guests at six, and I don’t wish to greet them on my own.”

  “When have I ever not been on time?”

  “How about on nearly every occasion where I’ve needed you? You’re chronically late, Priscilla. Don’t pretend you’re not.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “Why would I care if I’m late? People can wait on me. It won’t kill them.”

  They were in the small dining room, breakfast cleared away. Her Aunt Gertrude ran the house, and since Priscilla’s father rose early and left for work by seven, Gertrude felt everyone’s schedule should revolve around his.

  In Priscilla’s view, her aunt’s rules simply created more chores for the servants. Priscilla never woke to eat with her father so her maid had to bring a tray up to her room. It would be easier if the food was kept hot for the moment Priscilla descended the stairs, but Gertrude wouldn’t hear of it.

  Priscilla’s mother had died when she was two, and Gertrude had come to stay and manage things for Priscilla’s father. Her methods were ingrained in the machinery of their lives, and there could be no changing it or her. Luckily, Priscilla wouldn’t have to put up with her persnickety aunt much longer.

  In September, she’d be a bride and would have her own home to supervise. If she chose to get out of bed at three in the afternoon, her servants would have to serve breakfast when she demanded it.

  It was a main distinction between herself and her aunt. Gertrude had no money of her own and believed in thrift and economy. But Priscilla was rich and spoiled, and she couldn’t understand the point of wealth if it wasn’t used to pleasure herself.