Julia London

by The Vicars Widow

  But he laughed, stroked her arm. “Don’t deny it, Mrs. Becket. You’ve wondered what it must be like to feel my body against yours. . . .” He leaned forward, so that his lips were against her ear. “Or in yours.”

  “I haven’t,” she said unconvincingly.

  “You have,” he insisted, his gaze dropping to her lips again. “And I further believe you have thought often about the kiss we shared, and perhaps wondered if it was real, or if your memory had played a trick on you and made it into something so spectacular that your heart took wings.”

  She gave him a saucy toss of her head. “You must be speaking of your own heart.”

  “Perhaps I am,” he said, slipping his hand beneath her chin and turning her face so that he could graze her lips with a kiss. “My heart did indeed take flight that night. But I am quite certain mine was not the only one, Mrs. Becket. I felt your heart beating just as rapidly against mine.”

  “You are trying to seduce me!”

  “No, madam, I am trying to love you.”

  Her lips curved with a soft sigh. “Are you not fearful of being seen?” she whispered, her gaze dipping to his lips.

  “I am only fearful of never kissing you again.” He touched his lips to hers.

  He felt her body stiffen with the first glance of his lips, and he moved closer, angling his mouth across hers, kissing her softly, just feeling the flesh of her mouth against his. But then he felt her rise up like a mist, so slowly and gently that it was almost imperceptible, until her body was touching his.

  Darien slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her into him, away from the obelisk, and kissed her like a woman then, not some maiden to be gentled, but a woman who had known the touch of a man and had gone without it for two years now.

  Mrs. Becket opened her mouth beneath his and drew his breath into her; he heard the clatter of the basket as it fell to the ground and hit a grave marker as her hands went around his neck. Her body felt firm and supple and alive against him; she was perfect in his arms.

  And then suddenly she forced her hand up between them and pushed hard against his chest, forcing him to let go. She stepped back, bumping up against the obelisk, blinking up at him.

  Darien refused to let go and merely smiled.

  So did Mrs. Becket. “That was a terribly wicked thing to do,” she whispered.

  “Yes, it certainly was. I’m a heel, a roué. A rotten bounder. But I adore you.”

  Her smile deepened with pleasure, and she playfully shoved him away. Darien let go, stepped backward. She slid down the obelisk and reached for her basket, carelessly tossing the flowers into it before rising again. “I must insist you not behave in such an objectionable manner again.”

  “Of course not,” he said, bowing his acquiescence.

  She smiled, righted the bonnet which had slid off the back of her head, and put the basket on her arm. “And now, I will take my leave of you, sir, for you cannot be trusted with my good virtue.”

  “You are quite right. I most certainly cannot.”

  With an impertinent smile, she began walking.

  Darien watched her for a moment, the smooth swing of her hips, and suddenly called out, “Kate!” He stopped her with the use of her Christian name, the first time he had ever uttered the name aloud, except to whisper it on those occasions when he longed for her the most.

  She did not turn round but slowly glanced over her shoulder. “My lord?”

  “Do you care for picnics?”

  She said nothing at first, turned halfway toward him, assessing him. After a long moment, she smiled again. “I do,” she said, and with a laugh, she turned and glided away from him, her basket swinging carefree in her hand.

  Chapter Six

  Lords Montgomery and Frederick arrived at the Wither-spoons’ May Day Ball, the two of them striding into the ballroom looking quite dashing in their black tails and black waistcoats over pristine white shirts.

  They paused just inside the entrance of the ballroom and casually glanced about, seemingly oblivious to the young debutantes who coyly eyed them from behind their ornate fans. Spying a group of men, the two proceeded forward to join them.

  On the other side of the dance floor, Emily watched Montgomery as he chatted with the other men, absently looking about, openly eyeing the ladies who twirled about the dance floor as well as those who lined the wall, not so fortunate to be standing up with their favorite beau.

  This was the second time in as many days Emily had seen the viscount. Yesterday, it had been in Hyde Park, where she had been riding with her mother. They had happened upon Montgomery, who was likewise on horseback, and Emily’s mother, sensing her interest, had invited him to join them for a leisurely ride about the park.

  That was how Emily learned he had not intended to be in London this season at all but had meant to be abroad, but that something had cropped up at the last moment, and he had remained in London. He claimed to be happy for it, as things seemed, he said, infinitely brighter this season. He’d been looking at her when he said so.

  Emily believed he intended to convey something personal to her with that remark, and after a full day of stewing about it, she was feeling rather confident about her prospects with Lord Montgomery and his forty thousand pounds a year.

  So confident that she took Tabitha by the hand and made her promenade about the dance floor with her, finally easing to a halt near the group of men who were laughing together at something one of them had said.

  Tabitha instantly realized what Emily was doing and hissed, “What do you mean to do?” as she self-consciously fidgeted with the pale blue ball gown Emily knew she’d wear.

  “Would you care to dance, or stand aside all night, looking quite indistinguishable from the pattern of the wall covering?” Emily hissed back.

  Tabitha was clearly taken aback by her remark and reluctantly nodded and bowed her head.

  Emily straightened, her back stiff as a board and pretended to watch the dancers while she tried to listen to the gentlemen’s conversation. Unfortunately, what with the music and din of conversation in the room, she could make nothing out but the occasional round of laughter. She moved slightly, turning her head just a bit, and therefore missed the approach of Lord Dillingham.

  The instant she realized that someone had joined her and Tabitha, she quickly extended her hand—but Tabitha’s hand was already in Lord Dillingham’s.

  “Miss Townsend,” he said, bowing over her hand and lingering there for a moment before slowly lifting his head and smiling warmly at her. “You look quite lovely this evening.”

  Tabitha nearly swooned.

  Emily cleared her throat; Lord Dillingham shifted his gaze to her. “Miss Forsythe,” he said, not quite as warmly. “How do you do?” He bobbed a little over her hand and quickly let go.

  “Very well, thank you, my lord,” Emily said stiffly.

  Lord Dillingham turned to Tabitha again with that warm smile. “Miss Townsend, would you please do me the great honor of standing up with me at the next dance?”

  Tabitha was at least as shocked as Emily by the invitation. Her mouth fell open; she looked at Emily and blinked like an old cow, then looked at Lord Dillingham again. “My lord! I’d be delighted!” she cried happily.

  He grinned. “Oh . . . hear it? They’ve just finished the quadrille. I believe a waltz will be next, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, my lord . . . I’d like,” Tabitha stammered, and with a beaming smile for Emily, she put her hand in Lord Dillingham’s. “Please excuse me, Miss Forsythe.” And she practically bounced off to the dance floor, her beaming smile now directed at her partner.

  Of all the . . . Emily mentally crossed Dillingham off her list of potential husbands. No loss, really—he’d been rather far down the list to begin with.

  But now that she was left standing alone, much like an old spinster, Emily tried to keep from fidgeting with her gloves and the ribbons of her gown, tried to keep her sights trained on something more appealing th
an all the other girls who were fortunate enough to dance. And just when she thought she’d go mad with all the trying, the gentlemen behind her moved forward, so that they were standing very near to her.

  Emily glanced at them from the corner of her eye. As fortune would have it, Lord Montgomery was standing directly beside her, and Emily seized her opportunity.

  “How do you do, Lord Montgomery?” she asked loudly.

  It worked—the gentlemen stopped their chatter and all five of them turned to look at Emily. Lord Frederick eyed her from the top of her head to the tip of her slippers, while a smiling Lord Barstow elbowed him and snickered. The fourth gentleman, whom she did not know, looked absolutely horrified by her boldness.

  Montgomery was the only one to smile at her; he bowed. “I am quite well indeed, Miss Forsythe. And how do you do?”

  “Very well,” she said, clutching her fan so hard that her fingers ached. “I was just admiring the dancers,” she said, and looked meaningfully at the dance floor.

  Montgomery looked at the dance floor, then at Emily, gallantly ignoring the sniggering at his back from Barstow and Frederick. “Would you care to dance, Miss Forsythe?”

  Emily’s heart winged almost free of her chest. “How kind of you to ask, my lord,” she said, and in her haste to put out her hand, lest he retract his offer, she dropped her fan. Montgomery stooped down and picked it up, put it solidly in her hand, then even went so far as to curl her fingers around it so that she did not drop it again, before holding out his arm to receive her hand.

  Emily laid her hand on his sleeve. He put his hand over hers, his fingers warmly surrounding hers, and she smiled brightly.

  He led her to the edge of the dance floor where the waltz was starting. Emily curtsied deeply; he gave her an amused smiled and bowed with a flourish before helping her up. With her hand securely in his, he stepped forward, put his hand lightly on her waist, and Emily sucked in her breath as she put her hand on his shoulder.

  As he pulled her into the dancing, she felt a thousand butterflies in the pit of her belly, waltzing about on their own as he smoothly led her in time to the music. He moved so elegantly, so expertly, all the while smiling down at her, his eyes warm and liquid, and the very color of fine tea. Oh yes, oh yes, this was the man she would marry!

  “And have you found the May Day Ball to your liking, Miss Forsythe?” he asked, his eyes never leaving her, one hand gripping hers firmly, the other riding high on her waist and covering her ribs.

  “Quite,” she managed to get out, unthinkingly staring at his remarkably full lips. Full and glistening and—

  “I’ve always found the spring season to be the best time of year for balls, as it is neither too cold nor too warm.”

  Actually, Emily felt a little warm. “It’s quite lovely,” she rasped. “Perhaps the loveliest of all that I’ve attended thus far. Yet I understand that the annual Charity Auction Ball is much grander than this. Have you attended in the past?”

  “I have, from time to time.”

  “Do you think it is more or less grand than the May Day Ball?”

  He chuckled at her eagerness. “In truth, I have not given it as much thought as that. I suppose I find all balls rather grand.”

  “Then do you plan to attend this year’s Charity Auction Ball?” Emily asked, immediately regretting her words, realizing how forward she must seem.

  As if to confirm it, he cocked one brow high above the other. “I have not as yet made plans,” he said politely.

  Anxious to cover her gaffe, Emily quickly stammered, “You . . . you are a wonderful dancer, my lord.”

  “How kind of you to remark. But I must give all credit to my partner, for she makes it quite easy to move about the dance floor,” he said, and twirled her around, pulling her closer as he did. Emily could only hope that her knees wouldn’t buckle with the force of her exhilaration.

  She stared at his perfectly tied neckcloth for a moment, trying to push the feel of his hands on her body out of the forefront of her mind. When she looked up again, she noted that his gaze had shifted away from her; he was looking at someone else. “My mother and I enjoyed our ride in the park,” she said quickly to draw his attention back to her.

  “Did you? I found it quite pleasant, particularly after the rain we’ve endured.”

  “Yes indeed . . . I am glad the rain has gone for the time being, but I’m rather impressed with the spring flowers that have begun to pop up. They are flourishing in the park.”

  “Quite right, Miss Forysthe. I am certain that in a fortnight’s time, the blooms will be a magnificent sight to behold.” He twirled her one way, then the other.

  “Yellow tulips are my favorite,” she added breathlessly, and had a sudden image of him on her doorstep, an enormous bouquet of yellow tulips wrapped in bright paper in his arms.

  “Mmm,” he said, twirling her around again.

  “Do you have a favorite flower, my lord?”

  The question seemed to take him aback; he blinked. “I don’t believe I have a favorite, Miss Forsythe. I like them all, I suppose. Including your yellow tulips.”

  Emily beamed up at him. He smiled again, then shifted his gaze above her head, and spun her into the thick of the dancers. He did not speak again, and Emily, having quite exhausted her repertoire of suitable things to discuss with a gentleman when one is dancing, could not seem to find anything to say. It was as if her mind was completely blank, save the incredible sensation of his hands on her body.

  As the dance came to its conclusion, Montgomery stepped back and bowed, and Emily curtsied, frantically thinking of how to keep his attention. As he escorted her from the dance floor, she could think of absolutely nothing civilized with which to keep him engaged, and in a moment of sheer insanity, she put the back of her hand to her forehead and said in a whimper, “I feel a bit weak.”

  Montgomery instantly put his hand on her back to steady her and grabbed her arm. “Are you quite all right, Miss Forsythe?”

  Not entirely, for she hadn’t thought past this bit of drama, and now she felt as if she’d gone too far with it. She didn’t know what to do—other than faint.

  Right into his arms.

  She heard the shriek of a woman, heard Montgomery bark for someone to clear the way, felt him pick her up, one arm beneath her knees, the other beneath her back, and carry her—carry her!—to the chairs along the wall. As he put her down in a chair, he pressed his palm to her face. “Miss Forsythe!”

  Emily slowly opened her eyes—he was kneeling before her, looking terribly concerned. She had not imagined a moment such as this could be so unbearably romantic and chastised herself for not thinking of it weeks earlier than this. What if she’d fainted at the church social? That would have sped things along quite well.

  “Dear God, Miss Forsythe, are you quite all right? Do you feel ill?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said weakly.

  “Stand aside, son—I’m a physician,” an old man said and leaned down before Emily. Dr. Hamblen’s face loomed so large as he peered into her eyes that she could no longer see Lord Montgomery. Blast it all, Dr. Hamblen was ruining everything! Even worse, several people had gathered round her and were staring at her with fright and concern. All but Tabitha, that was, who appeared on Emily’s left and gazed down at her with complete disdain.

  Emily ignored Tabitha and strained to see around Dr. Hamblen—who was now holding two fingers against the pulse in her neck—to see Montgomery.

  He was standing back, his hands on his hips, his legs braced apart, watching intently as Dr. Hamblen examined her.

  “Her heart is racing a bit, but I think it nothing to fret about,” the doctor proclaimed, straightening, and turning to Montgomery. “She’s a healthy young lady. I’ve seen this sort of thing more than once—young ladies just out become caught up in the sights and sounds of a ball, you see, but their tender constitutions are not mature enough to endure all the excitement.”

  “Thank God it’s
nothing serious,” Montgomery said and looked at Emily. “My dear Miss Forsythe, you gave me quite a fright,” he said kindly. “I should not have stayed with you so long on the dance floor.”

  “Oh, no!” she insisted weakly. “It is not your fault, my lord! I am certain it’s the heat—I find it rather warm in here.”

  “A spot of punch will cool her down,” Dr. Hamblen said.

  “I’ll fetch it,” Tabitha sighed wearily.

  Dr. Hamblen looked at Montgomery and smiled. “You need not fret, my lord. I suggest you go about your evening. I shall keep a close eye on her for a few moments and ensure she is suitably recovered.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, and Emily imagined kicking the good doctor in the arse.

  Montgomery nodded, stepped forward, and lifted Emily’s limp hand to his lips. “Thank you for the honor of your dance,” he said. “And promise me that you will be more careful of vigorous dancing in the future.”

  “It wasn’t the dance,” she said again. “I felt perfectly fine. More than fine, really.”

  He chuckled as he stepped aside so that Dr. Hamblen might put his hand to her forehead.

  A few moments later, when Tabitha returned with the punch, most of the onlookers had wandered off, including Dr. Hamblen, who had peered at her closely and proclaimed her quite recovered. Only two debutantes remained behind, their backs to her, but whispering to one another as they stole glimpses of Emily over their shoulder.

  Tabitha sat on the edge of a chair beside Emily and handed her the punch. “How do you feel?” she asked with a bit of sarcasm in her voice that Emily did not care for.

  “I am improved, but not fully recovered.” She sipped the punch.

  “I’ll stay until you are,” Tabitha said with a sigh, and leaned back in her seat, to have had a look around the room. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Look who’s come, will you? It’s that scoundrel, Lord Connery!”

  Emily looked to where Tabitha indicated. “The scoundrel?”

  “Have you not heard the rumors about him?” Tabitha asked, lighting up. “Do you recall that we were speaking of the vicar’s widow?” she asked excitedly.