Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  Ignoring her question, he stared owlishly at her. “What are you doing here, Amelia – I mean, Miss Burcott? Surely it cannot be morning yet?” His gaze drifted from her face to the floor and back. “Why are you in your dressing gown?” Suddenly he sat up. “You must leave! At once! I am not so far in my cups that I do not know you cannot be here with me, dressed like that!”

  “Will you not tell me what troubles you? Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but my nurse always said if you shared a problem, you would halve it. Mayhap I can help; and since I am here and wide awake...” She allowed her voice to trail away and waited.

  Hugo – Lord Raftesbury, she reminded herself; it would not do to think of him in any other way, no matter what her misguided heart wished – sank back in his chair. After a long moment, he raised his hand and as lightly as a dandelion clock drifting over a grass leaf, curled his fingertips around a tendril of hair which had escaped from her night-cap.

  “It is not wise for you to remain here. I have always prided myself on being a gentleman, but my present mood is one of melancholy. I am also a great deal more than foxed and may choose to take your well-intentioned sympathy as an offer of something else.”

  Amelia stiffened and edged backwards, preparing to flee. It had indeed been foolhardy to linger. What did she know of him after all? He was a soldier and shocking reports of the dreadful conduct of the military, including rape, looting and murder, following the siege of Badajoz, had filtered back even into the country districts of England. Her instincts might tell her there was no reason for concern, yet so she had thought once before…

  She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His eyes were closed and his head had tilted sideways. Ignoring a prickle of guilt, she studied his face, absorbing every detail to recall and hold close through the lonely years ahead. He did not move; not even a flickering eyelid upset his stillness. This was not a man to commit debauchery and worse against a woman. His breathing was even, his mien all at once had relaxed and she assumed he had fallen asleep. She smiled, feeling much as she did when observing her young charges in their slumber. Touching her forefinger to her lips, she hesitantly reached out, only to pull back when the cadence of his respiration shifted. She held her own breath for a lengthy pause before repeating the kiss to her finger and extending her arm again, then to trace it over his brow, barely skimming his skin. It would have to be enough.

  Rising slowly, she tiptoed across the thick, red Aubusson carpet to the door. As she lifted the latch, a surviving relic from the house’s Jacobean birth, his voice reached her, so quiet it was barely audible.

  “I cannot read.”

  Chapter 4

  “I beg your pardon. I cannot have heard you correctly.”

  After a stunned silence, she had come back into the room to face him. The gentle fragrance of lavender had returned with her. It was soothing. When she had knelt before him, he had felt instantly calmer, although her nearness was intoxicating in a manner entirely different from that of the brandy he had stupidly consumed.

  She looked startled and yet, at the same time, did not appear to be shocked. What had possessed him to blurt his secret out in that foolish fashion? Had he become such a maudlin sapskull that he must needs squeal like a stuck pig at the first sign of sympathy, or was it merely a result of being half-sprung?

  “I can read hardly better than Edmund,” he found himself qualifying and cursed inwardly. He, who had avoided feminine company wherever possible, due to an inability to speak socially with any degree of sense, seemed suddenly affected with not only a desire for this woman’s presence, but a looseness of tongue unprecedented in his entire life. “That is to say—”

  He reached out to the ear of the chair to steady himself. The brandy fumes seemed more potent at his full height. She, Amelia – for surely he could think her name – came forward in a rush of crisp cotton and took his arm. The lavender swirled about him, a fresh waft assailing his nostrils each time she moved. It seemed to emanate from her hair and he had a shameful urge to rip off that idiotic cap and bury his face in her silky brown tresses.

  “You should repair to your room, my lord. I should think your head must be pounding fit to burst after all that brandy and on top of the wine you drank at dinner.”

  She had misconstrued the reason for the groan that had escaped him, but her assumption was still too close to the wind for comfort. He would, of a surety, suffer on the morrow for his weakness. The question was whether he could mount the stairs without assistance. His valet, Catchpole, who had been his personal servant in the army and knew all his secrets, would, no doubt, be awaiting the summons to assist Hugo to bed, but he was reluctant to allow this moment to pass. Pushed gently in that direction, he sank down into the chair and allowed his blurry gaze to rest on her sweet, heart-shaped face. Her hand lifted and dropped to her side again. To his surprise, the smile which curved her shapely mouth was one of complete understanding.

  “Perhaps some strong coffee first, would be advisable, my lord. Wait there; I will be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

  Perhaps he dozed, he could not be sure, but it did not feel as though much time had elapsed when she returned to his side in a fresh wave of lavender. He stifled another groan; she was affecting him in a profound and basic way which owed little to his current state. She carried a large, wooden tray, which she set down on the table beside his chair, carefully removing the decanter and glass in the process. The tray held an assortment of items which he felt might or might not prove to be instruments of torture.

  She selected a cup, minus its saucer, for which he was inordinately grateful and handed it to him. Wisps of steam rose from the brew it contained, giving off a vague, mildly pleasing aroma of apples.

  “Drink that, my lord. You will find it soothing and far more beneficial than coffee at this time of the night.”

  “What is it?” he mumbled suspiciously.

  “Chamomile. I found a bunch in the kitchen. It will soothe your head and help you sleep.”

  He took a cautious sip. Even if it were the vilest concoction ever to pass his lips – and it could hardly be that if he considered what he had been forced to suffer, in the name of survival, in the various rat-holes the army laughingly called billets – he would swallow it, if only to keep her goodness by him a little longer. Managing a wry smile in answer to her concerned glance, he reflected that it would not be one he would choose again in a hurry. Indeed, the flavour of a rat’s urine aptly summed it up.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Amelia take a cloth from the tray and immerse it in a bowl. He shifted uneasily in his seat. Why was the sight of a woman with a cloth so unnerving? Did it perhaps stem from the small boy who lurked inside every grown man, the one whom forever embraced being grubby? She wrung out the cloth, folded it into a pad and without warning, placed it on his brow. Lavender once more assailed his senses.

  “Keep your head back, my lord,” she directed. “You will soon feel more the thing.”

  “Hugo,” he muttered, aware of a need to reclaim control. “Call me Hugo.”

  She did not reply, but something flickered in her face; a flash of pain or perhaps sorrow, he could not tell in the candlelight. Taking up a second cloth, she busied herself in the bowl for a few moments before exchanging the fragrant compress for the one upon his forehead, a procedure she repeated several times. He began to feel sleepy and lost track of time.

  He heard her move away; subtle sounds of rustling, soft thuds and the occasional light ring of metal on metal informed him she was making up the fire. For all it was summer, the air had noticeably cooled. Sensible girl, was the last thought to cross his befuddled mind before a void of nothingness claimed him.

  ~*~

  Amelia awoke feeling cramped, stiff and, for a moment, a little disorientated. Thin sunlight touched her face and shied away again, like a small boy teasing his sister with a feather. This was the first anomaly, for the sunlight did not enter her bedchamber until later in the day. Th
e second was the roughness of the pillow beneath her cheek. This brought her more fully awake and she sat up, rubbing her eyes in shock.

  She was lying on a sofa, with a quilt covering her, before a wide, stone fireplace in which the glowing embers of a fire continued to burn. She was still in the library and attired in her night clothes. Memory came flooding back. Hugo had been here, in a fit of drunken despond… Jerking her head around so fast she cricked her neck, she surveyed the room. It was empty; both Hugo and the tray she had fetched had disappeared. Amelia felt her cheeks fill with heat. How could she have been so brazen as to impose on his privacy at such a time, especially when thus improperly dressed? Whatever must he have thought? He must, at the very least, have conceived a disgust of her morals; he might even be thinking it had been her intention to seduce him! Oh, goodness gracious!

  The clock in the hall chimed five times; beyond the window panes, the pale shadows danced over dew-flecked grass, waltzing on a light summer breeze. She had been here all night! Whatever would she do if he dismissed her? She had been lucky to find this position; many hopeful mamas would not consider taking on a young female as a governess in case she inspired feelings of a romantic nature in their sons and husbands. Amelia had always felt this reflected more on the morality or otherwise of their menfolk than the poor governess, but could not, of course, express that opinion. Nor would she entertain the notion that Hugo – Lord Raftesbury – might be of the same mind as such weak-willed gentlemen. She must apologize at once! She must explain that she had had no thought beyond assisting him in his malady…

  She threw back the coverlet and swung her feet to the floor. Her nightgown had twisted in her sleep, leaving her legs uncovered to above her knee. At that very moment, as if conjured by her thoughts, Hugo entered the room. His glossy raven hair ruffled in glorious disarray, as though he had been raking his fingers through it, his appearance made her heart jump and jink. Something told her it had nothing to do with the suddenness of his entrance, for in truth, his ingress had been in keeping with his customary manner. As a military man, he moved with an economy of effort and smooth grace, each step, each gesture, each look controlled and precise.

  He paused on the threshold, one hand on the latch, the other supporting the same tray she had culled from the butler’s pantry earlier. In his ripe and ready state, as her father would have phrased it, he had revealed his secret, the conundrum which had been teasing her. He could not read. There were many men who could not read, even in these modern times, but few of Hugo’s standing. She understood, now, why he had been so despondent. Had he remembered that he had told her? He was staring at her in what appeared to be dismay, his fingers fidgeting uncomfortably with the latch. His gaze fluttered away but seemed unable to settle on any one object. Something melted inside her. While she desperately wished to help him, she had no wish to cause him any further discomfort and therefore must act as though no such confidence had occurred.

  “Oh. You are… awake. Yes… ah… good.”

  Was that a flush staining his cheeks? Surely not! He now seemed to be staring fixedly at the fire screen. It was a handsome enough piece, an embroidered hunting scene on an iron frame, but hardly worthy, she would have thought, of such a concentrated perusal. Hating to witness his obvious perturbation, she glanced down and to her horror saw that her legs were still uncovered. Blushing furiously in her turn, she dragged her nightgown straight and pulled her robe together. After a moment, Hugo came in and closed the door. Roughly clearing his throat, he put the tray upon a nearby side table.

  “Ah… good morning… ah… Miss Burcott.” Keeping his attention on the tray, he set a cup on a saucer with a slight rattle. “I… wish to thank you for your good offices last night. I am… ah… pleased to report my head is clear…” He coughed, arranged another cup and then continued in a more assured tone, “I would thus appear to have escaped any evil consequences of my foolish actions. In recognition of your solicitousness, therefore, I have brought tea. I thought you might care for some.”

  “You are most kind, sir, but I think perhaps I—”

  “Have no fear; it is early yet. Not even the kitchen boy is stirring.”

  Even though the smile he gave her was practiced, it had a devastating effect on her pulses. Her blood, normally a well-behaved, smoothly flowing substance, scurried and leaped like a hare on the run in immediate response. Lifting a white teapot decorated with bouquets of roses, he filled a cup with the aromatic liquid and passed it to her before retaking his original seat in the wing-backed chair. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his thighs and gazed at the floor. The silence stretched and stretched.

  He was going to send her packing, she thought, and being the gentleman he was, was seeking a kind way of doing it. She sipped her tea and tried to compose herself, whilst at the same time attempting to control the swelling knot of fear inside her. Whatever would she do? She was down to her last few pounds and with nowhere to go, no future, what would become of her—?

  “Miss Burcott? Amelia!”

  She looked up sharply at the urgency in his address. His expression was concerned and yet determined. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and swallowed.

  “I… I need help. Specifically, I need your help. Please?”

  A tear prickled in the corner of her eye. She understood how hard it was for him to admit he needed anyone, especially a woman and, most especially, a woman in his employ. Gentlemen of his social standing were brought up from birth to believe themselves of superior intellect than a woman. It had surprised her that he had insisted on a governess for all the children, not just for the girls.

  “Of course, sir,” she replied. “What do you need me to do?”

  He reached inside his coat and pulled forth a letter. She recognized it at once as being the one from the casket. Rising, he came towards her and to her astonishment, dropped to his knees.

  “This was written two-and-twenty years ago by a very unhappy boy and buried by him in the hope that some day in the future, retribution could be made. He no longer wishes for retribution, but rather that his experience should neither have been in vain, nor yet forgotten. I think it will explain matters far better than I could.”

  He placed the letter in her lap and crossed to one of the tall, walnut bookshelves. Keeping his back turned, he ran his fingers slowly over each of the books she had returned to the empty shelf the night before. Her hands trembling, she broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet of discoloured paper.

  Today I was beeten, not for the first time, for my lazyness, so Father Bertram says. He hit my face with his swich. It hurt fowly and I bled. I try to tell him words are like snaykes, but he will not lissen. Father does not lissen. Mother cares ownly for hunting and partys. I have a poney, dogs, a boat and crikkit bat, but wish I had none. To be poor wood be better for then I shood not haff to read. I wood be happy…

  Amelia closed her eyes against the tears threatening to pour down her cheeks. There was more, written in the same, painstaking and heart-breaking hand. Her heart went out to him, that poor, poor little boy, so clearly intelligent, yet misunderstood and maligned, as well as mistreated. She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her dressing gown and dabbed at her face.

  “Oh, my dear sir,” she sniffed.

  Hugo returned to her side. He was holding a book in one hand. It was bound in scarred, brown leather with fine gold lettering embossed on the spine.

  “I did not intend to distress you, Miss Burcott. Forgive me. I wished only for you to understand…”

  “I understand most clearly, sir!” She stood up, her sadness turning to righteous anger on behalf of the small boy he had once been and the troubled man he had become. “I understand that persons who should have had your best interests at heart allowed you to be punished for suffering an affliction, for that is surely what it is! It has ever been my opinion, and experience, that a child learns best when relaxed and happy. Reading is a pleasure and a skill; the seeds o
f learning should be nurtured into bloom, not vanquished by the use of a heavy-handed spade.”

  “Most eloquently put, Miss Burcott. I believe the spade was used with the intention of banishing the devil, but the truth is it was wielded by the son of Beelzebub.”

  “Harsh words, my lord.” They were standing barely a foot apart; his scar was a whitish, raised and ragged line puckering his flesh. He had reason for his antipathy, but it would not help him overcome his difficulty. Without thinking, she lifted her hand towards it, fortunately recollecting herself in time and changing direction in order to adjust her cap. “Should you desire to improve your reading, and you are to succeed, you would do well to put aside that feeling, however justified. Is that a book you wish to read?”

  He looked down at the volume in his hand, turning it over before meeting her gaze. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened and the shadow of a smile lifted one side of his mouth.

  “My elder brother was wont to read this to me. I quickly learned to memorize passages, so that I could pretend to read them. It was a useful skill to acquire and it has served me well. I should like to be able to tell the stories to Edmund and Robert. It is about pirates, you see.”

  He showed her the lettering. A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates, was the lengthy title, the author proclaimed as Captain Charles Johnson. Amelia wondered if he were a ‘pyrate’ too. She turned her attention back to Hugo, who was speaking again.

  “…in the Peninsula, a fellow officer read aloud to us from a rather shocking novel about a foundling called Tom Jones. He had but the first volume. I thought to order it and the second with the books I am purchasing for the schoolroom. I wish to be able to read it, without stumbling over every other word and without relying on Catchpole or my secretary or anyone else.” His hopeful gaze met and held hers. “I wish to know how the tale ends… My dear, would you be willing to help me? I know it is a great deal to ask…”