by Susanne Lord
“No.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Good. I find nothing sporting in a hunt, do you?”
He nearly smiled. Was it just his silence she disliked or everyone’s?
He surveyed the rolling hills, the clusters of woods, a sparkling ribbon of river cutting the velvet green with its crooked path. Then his gaze stole back to Charlotte, the view he always sought.
Her bonnet dangled from her fingers and the wind pulled strands of her hair across her cheek and set them flagging in the air before her. He’d never known how long her hair was. It would reach the curve of her back. And that dress was the plainest he’d ever seen on her, the hem muddied.
With her wild tresses and pink cheeks, she might have been a farmer’s daughter. A farmer’s daughter just ravished in a barn or against a tree or over a bale of—
Damn it. The blood plummeted from his head to lower regions, and he bent to brace his hands on his knees.
“I come here when I wish to be alone.” She plucked at the ribbons of her hat and flicked an expectant glance at him.
Clearly she was done being alone. Charlotte didn’t seem the solitary type, anyway.
A gentleman would utter some encouraging reply. Her vexed sigh carried on the wind and he scrambled to think of an appropriate encouragement.
“If you were wondering, Mr. Repton, I was contemplating marriage.”
She sounded almost embarrassed, so he put away the snarl twisting his lips. But not without difficulty. “I imagine that topic isn’t far from your thoughts these days.”
“I find it daunting.” She winced. “No, ‘daunting’ sounds terrible. Confusing.”
When he looked at her, the woman’s gaze lifted from his mouth and darted away. “What’s confusing you?” he asked without enthusiasm but with at least a modicum of patience.
“I have been told certain things about…well, love and so forth, that are at odds with my experience and—not that I would ever want to distress you as I did before, but perhaps if you were granted the benefit of foreknowledge—”
“Miss Baker?”
“Well.” Her cheeks darkened. “You will think me mad, but there is little time left.” She turned back as if preparing to pounce on him. “Would you grant me the favor of kissing me and not asking me why?”
He was glad he was already braced or he might have dropped on his arse. “Yes—no, I mean no. Absolutely not.”
She scanned his face uncertainly. “Not kiss me or not ask me why?”
“Both—neither. I’m a grown man. I’ll take no part in your parlor games.”
Her jaw dropped. “I’ve come to you with a sincere request for help.”
Tormenting woman! He shut his eyes, struggling for the patience he used to have.
And failed.
“And do ladies beg kisses from any available man?”
Her cheeks were flaming red, and for the first time, it appeared she would leave him with the last word. Mumbling beneath her breath, she crammed her bonnet atop her head and stomped away.
“Wait,” he called, but Charlotte continued her angry plod down the hill. He followed at her heels, like a damn dog. “Tell me why and I’ll consider it.”
“No.” She flung the word over her shoulder. “I don’t want you to consider it.”
His patience exhausted, he caught a swinging arm and forced her to a stop. Again her eyes dipped to his mouth and away. He was trained to notice details and bloody hell—“You want to compare us,” he grumbled.
“No.” Her chin dipped a fraction. “Not exactly. I only wish to convince myself I do not enjoy your kiss more than Hugh’s.”
“And why do you need convincing? He’s kissed you, hasn’t he?”
She nodded, looking miserable.
“Is he so terrible?”
Her eyes rolled. “This is impossible.”
Baffled, he watched her leaving again. “What?”
He started after her and nearly knocked her down when she came to a sudden stop. “Hugh professes to love me but there is something wanting in the physical expression of our affection. And you do not even like me—”
“I like you fine.”
“—but your kiss was…it was not unwelcome.”
He was beginning to understand the provoking woman. Too slow to avoid angering her, but understanding her nonetheless. Charlotte was conflicted over enjoying his kiss more than Spencer’s.
Well. The fact wasn’t unpleasant to hear. But it probably wasn’t kind to dwell on it with her suffering and all.
He frowned over a new thought. “I shouldn’t trouble yourself. It was one kiss under moonlight. Your romantic heart throbbed for the poor cripple dancing with you in the dark. It was pity working on your heartstrings.”
“And why should I pity a…a dog-hearted knot-head who lacks the feeling granted even a dog or a…a stupid—” She stopped, apparently at a loss for a sufficiently dim-witted animal. “You’re like a goat! But not…as clever or…”
Despite himself, he grinned. “Am I being insulted?”
But he doubted she heard him as she was already stomping down the hill.
“And I will remind you, Mr. Repton,” she tossed over her shoulder, “you yelled at me afterward. Quite ferociously. I am three and twenty now, and not swayed by stuff and nonsense such as moonlight. Hugh has kissed me in the willow garden, the Temple of the Muses, and on the nature walk—and that is a romantic setting that cannot be rivaled. He has kissed me in many romantic places.”
That erased the grin from his face.
The woman’s skirts billowed behind her, her small fists at her side.
Just let the mad woman go. Don’t torture yourself, don’t be an idiot.
The wind blew her bonnet off her head and she scrambled to retrieve it. A loud “bother it all!” floated back to him.
But it sounded all weepy.
Damn it. “Come back, Miss Baker.”
“No!”
“Please?”
She stopped and tilted her head in question. Even with her chin jutting out angrily, that was still bloody adorable.
“I’ll not tease you,” he grumbled.
“You will kiss me?”
“Evidently.” The nature walk…bloody hell.
She looked unconvinced, so he softened his countenance. She took a step toward him, stopped to smooth her hair, and was at last near enough for him to put his arms about her. But when he did, she tensed.
Protectiveness surged over him. “Is Spencer gentle with you?”
She nodded absently to the question and he released the breath he held. He drew her close. His shirt was damp with sweat and a momentary qualm rose over holding her in his state. But the feel of her body against his was too large an enticement to let go.
Why was she still tense? “Does your beau hold you at all? ” he barked, then breathed to start again. “Or does he just arrow in on your lips?”
“He holds my hand.” Her eyes met his. “Do you think that is the trouble?”
He shrugged, the movement jerky, arrested as he was by the blue of her eyes.
“An embrace would foster intimacy.” She slid her hands to his shoulders and he damn near swooned.
God, what was he doing? But Charlotte wanted her answer. She lifted her chin, shut her eyes, and pursed her lips. He had to press his own shut against laughter, but the impulse stemmed more from frayed nerves than amusement. “Shall I proceed, then?”
At her nod, he lowered his head but she dropped her chin, shying from him. His lips followed to slant across her mouth. With only the slightest pressure, she opened for him.
God bless her, it was like before. His body jolted with pleasure, and there was the added bliss of the wind teasing the perfume from her hair and tickling his cheek with those silken strands. But he wouldn’t lose control. Simply kiss her and let her go.
But there was nothing simple about this. Charlotte Baker was the sweetest woman he’d ever held, and she molded against him as if they’d bee
n halved by some divine hand.
She was a paradise to kiss…the softness of her mouth astonishing. He tightened the space between them. He couldn’t give her an inch—and she didn’t wish it. Even in his delirium, he knew she didn’t wish it.
The proof of his desire would be evident through the thin cotton of his trousers, but he was powerless to step back. And he should. He lusted for her and she was not his.
She was Spencer’s.
The thought was a plunge into icy water. He held her hips and put her firmly from him. But she didn’t open her eyes.
“Miss Baker?” His voice was clogged and resisted working. He squeezed her gently. “Miss Baker?”
Her eyes fluttered open. He couldn’t see where they focused, if at all.
Had he held too tight? Bending low, he scanned her face. Her cheeks were still pink, and her lips silken from their kiss.
She blinked and moved a step back, covering her lips with her fingers. “All right,” she whispered. “That was…”
“What?”
“Not the same.” She assessed their positions, his embrace. “Your arms are around me and Hugh—”
“—hasn’t held you?”
She shook her head. “If you do not object, perhaps you might kiss me without—”
Without holding you. He swooped to capture her mouth again. No hands. Fine. Simple enough direction.
Her lips were warm and pliant, and he kissed her as gently as he could manage. Still, he didn’t restrain his tongue and it twined lovingly with hers. The pulse in his neck throbbed thickly and his head whirled tasting her like this, suspended on her lips, floating with only her body to tether him to the earth.
Frustration flared when she retreated from him. He followed, not letting her mouth leave his. When she understood to stand still, triumph surged through him. She would never feel this with Spencer. It was impossible. She wasn’t meant to be touched by anyone else.
Forgetting her rule, he seized her about the waist.
It was a mistake. Instantly, she tore free and turned her back.
A fierce wind buffeted him—nature scolding him for his passion.
He waited, but there was only the low roar of the wind. Her hand lifted quickly to her face and he couldn’t see to know if she wiped her eyes or her lips.
And Charlotte wasn’t talking.
“That was not like Spencer?” he asked gruffly.
“No.”
Her voice was small, and instinctively he moved to comfort her.
But comfort wasn’t allowed. Comfort would lead to expectations and hope—hers, his. Neither could be offered.
He struggled for an air of indifference. “Now you’ve kissed two men. You’ll need at least a dozen for scientific study.”
“No. You are enough.”
Her lifeless tone unnerved him. But damn it, she’d asked him to kiss her. “Will you return with me?” Turn around, Charlotte. Let me see you.
“Please go ahead. I have kept you from your exercise.” She paused. “And…thank you. You have helped me to know my mind.”
So. She could accept Spencer’s lackluster kisses after all. If passion wasn’t in line with a gently bred lady’s expectations.
“At your service.” He cursed himself for the bitterness leeching into his words.
She was not to blame. And he should know better.
“Marry Spencer, Miss Baker,” he said. “Teach him what pleases you and passion will grow. Spencer has passed most of your tests. In time, he will pass this one as well.”
Before a vision of Spencer making love to Charlotte could take root, he turned, and for the first time in months, pushed his crippled leg into a punishing race back to the house.
* * *
She could not bear this for a week. Not a week or a day or an hour. She must accept Hugh immediately. She would be mad to refuse a viscount.
Why did she kiss Mr. Repton? Why did she test him? How could she lay open her heart and nearly ruin everything?
She barely remembered her ride from the hunting tower in her haste to find Wally. He would know what to do. He would remind her of her resolve and rein in her stupid, romantic schemes.
Voices spilled from the open door of the library, and she darted behind the stairwell. She must not be seen in her current dishabille. Wally’s voice wasn’t among the laughing group.
She spun around, moving to the next likely locale. The blue parlor. She pushed open the door and found him alone, reading in his chair. Without a word, Wally stood and closed the door. His arms were around her the next minute. “What is it, dear heart?”
Safe in his arms, tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks and there was no end to them. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“What has happened?”
She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.
“All right, dear heart. It’s all right.”
“I…Lord Spencer—”
“Ah.” Wally sighed. “You have decided against him.”
“No!” She pulled back. “I—why would—I will accept him when he offers and”—a short sob burst from her—“and I will be a true wife and…”
He raised a brow, waiting for her to continue.
“…and a devoted companion and”—she wiped her eyes, but the tears were streaming—“and do you have a handkerchief?”
Wally walked her to the divan and sat beside her. “Charlotte, breathe.” As he did when she was a child, he put his arm about her and pressed her head to his shoulder. “I think I must refuse my consent should Lord Spencer apply to me. I would oppose any marriage plan that appears fatal to your happiness.”
“No, when I am the viscountess, you and Lucy and Ben will enter Society again, and the children—”
“The children are fine. And you are not to worry about us. We are content in the company we keep.”
“But—”
“Do you love Spencer?”
She started to speak, but a hiccup cut off her word. Miserable, she shook her head.
“Then you do not marry him.”
Her vision blurred under new tears. And yet she could breathe again. And she was so tired. “Wally, do you ever wonder…?”
“What, dear heart?”
“If you had never met the earl? What our lives would be? If you had never loved him and he never gave us all we have? Our lives would be so…so ordinary. I think I may have liked that life.”
Wally was quiet.
“I’m sorry—I did not mean…I am glad you loved him,” she said.
“I wonder that all the time, dear heart.” He smiled. “But I see the woman you have become and feel only pride.”
“I never want to disappoint you.”
“How would you ever?” He hugged an arm about her. “I confess, I am not surprised about Spencer. Of late, I began to doubt his character.”
“How do you mean?”
“In that it never deepened upon familiarity. Shall I acquaint him with your feelings?”
Wally had discouraged several men on her behalf. Many who had abused him with insults during those exchanges, she learned later. And those men had extended little time or expense on her. But Hugh…
“I must tell him,” she said. “But I hardly know what to say after all this time.”
“You simply tell him marriage isn’t in accordance with your feelings.”
She closed her eyes, soothed by Wally’s hand stroking her head. “He does not love me. If he did, I would have known it. There would be such a depth of feeling, there could be no disguising it in his kiss or his arms, and no withholding it. And he would be mindful only of what brings me happiness, even if that brought him only suffering.” She looked at Wally. “I think love is like a madness. Is that how it was with the earl?”
Wally looked inward, perhaps remembering those too-short years with his love. Charlotte had been a child when Jacob Adamson, the Earl of Lynham, had come into their lives. She had not understood until years later that the man who
had married her sister, and took her and Wally from their cottage into the grand rooms at Windmere, was not Lucy’s lover, but her brother’s.
“I suppose it was a sort of madness,” Wally said. “Why else would we have done what we did to be together?”
Her eyes stung with fresh tears. For the first time, she truly understood Wally’s loss. “How did you survive it?”
“He loved me as I loved him, and there was not a day we let pass without telling each other that. It was in every embrace, every look. It was in every good morning and every good night.” His voice softened. “It was in his final words to me.”
Wally looked into her eyes. “When you find a love like that, dear heart, then is when you marry.”
Charlotte hugged him. “Yes…in every good morning and every good night.”
Buffered by a warm kiss on her brow, she returned to her room to repair her appearance. No matter the cataclysm wrought in her heart, a lady dressed in a manner reflecting the utmost courtesy to the gentleman—no, the future earl—she was to disappoint.
And yet…she had the strangest feeling Hugh would not be disappointed at all.
She feared he would not even be discouraged.
* * *
“Fresh air and a full stomach. I will sleep well tonight.” John Repton leaned back in his chair and stretched, the remains of their supper before him.
Will looked at his own plate without interest. Thank God most of Windmere’s guests had gone into the village for dinner. He was of no mind to be social. Those that remained, including the Reptons, were served meals in their rooms.
“We must have walked five miles today,” his mother said. “Isn’t that right, John?”
“Oh, miles and miles. Tomorrow we must tackle the labyrinth, Lizzie.”
Will considered the sense of setting his father loose in a hedge maze but said nothing. This was their holiday, after all.
His mum eyed him. “Are you unwell? You’ve not eaten.”
“I…uh, I ate earlier.” A harmless lie. He had no appetite. “Did I mention the Earl of Harlowe committed three hundred pounds to the return?”
