by Cheryl Holt
He sighed with resignation. “Certainly.”
As he took her arm, he was glad that she let him hold it, and they strolled slowly, silently, back to the cottage.
When he stepped to follow her through the gate, she stopped him.
“Goodbye.”
“No, not goodbye,” he replied. “I’m planning to visit tomorrow.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why?”
“You make me wish I had a different life, but I’ve learned the hard way that it’s foolish to crave things that can never be.”
“But I want to kiss you again tomorrow.” He grinned, letting his fondness show in his gaze. “I’ve tried it once, and I can’t stand to suppose it will be the only time.”
“I would like that—very much—which is why we’re done seeing each other.”
“Fanny!” He sounded as if he was scolding her. “I’ll be here such a short while. Don’t ask me to stay away from you.”
“You know it’s for the best.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
“I’m not loose, Mr. Waverly, and I won’t pretend to be. I’m too aware of the dire consequences.”
“Would you call me Michael?”
“No.”
She went into the yard, putting many feet of distance between them, and she thoroughly assessed him, cataloguing his features.
“Thank you,” she finally said.
“For what?”
“For liking me.”
She raced away, but she didn’t go inside. Skirting the house, she hurried out behind it, and he moved down the lane, so that he could see what she was doing.
She stood in the grass, the breeze rustling her hair and clothes, and as she peered up at the summer sky, her anguish and confusion were visible. After a long interval, Thomas ran up to her, whooping with joy and talking a mile a minute. She concealed her distress, feigning composure, then they headed for the stream that meandered on the edge of the woods.
He spied on them as they threw stones in the water, as they pointed to birds, as they chased butterflies. Eventually, they entered the cottage by a rear door, but he continued to watch, hoping they might reappear. After a lengthy wait, it was clear they wouldn’t.
She’d asked him to go away and never come back, but she didn’t know him well enough to realize that he rarely did as he was told. The kisses they had shared had been too stirring, too tempting, and he wasn’t about to relinquish the chance to experience more of them.
He would see her again. He seemed to have no other choice.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I have no strength of will,” Fanny complained. “I should be whipped for my failings.”
Michael chuckled as the horse pulled the gig away from her cottage.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been bribed and bought like a crooked politician, and I’m happy about it.”
“It was amusing, wearing you down.”
“Have you no shame?”
“None.”
Fanny sighed with resignation.
She’d truly meant never to see him again. He was so magnificent, like an angel visiting from heaven, and when he was so marvelous, and she was so lonely, any contact between them was a recipe for disaster.
She’d had eight years of watching Camilla fall to pieces, and while she hadn’t been apprised as to how Camilla had begun her affair with John Wainwright, Fanny imagined it had probably started with a simple and wonderful kiss—just like the one she’d shared with Mr. Waverly.
Fanny wasn’t about to walk the road Camilla had trod. She wanted more for herself. If she couldn’t have a man who loved her, who could give her a home and a family of her own, then she wanted nothing at all. So she’d bid Mr. Waverly farewell, and in the process, she’d felt very sorry for herself.
But then, he’d sent flowers. And he’d sent candy. And he’d sent the most beautiful note of apology—even though they both knew he’d done nothing wrong. Ultimately, she’d relented and let him call on her again.
When she’d never had a beau, and her life contained so little pleasure, what was the harm in a brief flirtation? While the chances for temptation were great, she was an adult who could control her worst impulses, just as she could control her wayward emotions. She didn’t have to succumb to seduction; she didn’t have to fall in love. She could trifle and tease, then once he’d departed, she could revel in her memories.
“Do you always get your way?” she inquired.
“Yes.”
“What if I’d been stronger? What if I’d resisted?”
He grinned. “I’m very persistent. Eventually, you’d have capitulated.”
No doubt, she would have. He was a scoundrel and a cad, but she’d decided not to worry that he was.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“There’s a dance in the village. I thought you might enjoy it.”
“A dance,” she murmured, disheartened.
Obviously, he’d expected a more effusive response, and he scowled.
“You’re not a Puritan, are you? You do dance?”
“Yes, I dance. It’s just...”
“Just what?” he pressed when she couldn’t finish.
“I don’t usually go into the village, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Why not?”
She stared at the passing trees, the summer day quickly waning. He tugged on the reins, and the horse strutted to a halt. They sat in the quiet forest, listening to the evening sounds.
“What is it, Fanny?” he queried.
“I’m embarrassed.”
“Tell me.” He shifted on the seat, so that he was facing her, so that she had to look at him.
“People can be cruel. They say stupid things.”
“About you?”
“Yes. And about my sister. And Thomas.” She glanced down at her lap. “My father was their vicar. He worked among them for three decades. Their scorn hurts me, so I stay away.”
She could feel him evaluating her, could sense how he was weighing his reply.
From their one delicious kiss, it was clear that he was very experienced with women. He was a prosperous gentleman with a roving eye, and she didn’t know why it had landed on her. She was poor and friendless and miserable, and she couldn’t fathom why he’d invite her to something as commonplace as a country dance, but it was a bad idea to show up on his arm.
She had no chaperone, and the sun was setting. She trusted him, but in the village, her behavior would be deemed outrageous, would light the spark of innuendo that generally smoldered.
“Perhaps we should turn back,” she suggested.
“And miss all the merriment?”
“I don’t like dancing,” she lied, “and I’m not very good at it.”
“Really? Now I find that hard to believe. I’d pegged you as a woman who would thrive on the activity.”
He was studying her so fondly that it was almost painful to gaze at him, and he leaned nearer, his fingers on her neck, stroking in a soothing rhythm. She should have protested and moved away, but his touch felt so welcome that she could barely keep from purring with contentment.
“What are you afraid of?” he inquired.
“If you saw them being awful to me, I’d be mortified.”
“No one will insult you while I am by your side. If anyone tries, I’ll give him a thrashing he’ll never forget.”
She’d never had a champion before, and she was amazed at his bravado. “You make everything seem so easy.”
“How long has it been since you enjoyed yourself? Since you did something totally frivolous?”
She couldn’t recollect. “It’s been ages.”
“Then let me give you tonight.”
He kissed her again with an urgency he hadn’t previously demonstrated.
“I want to dance with you,” he murmured. “I want to have this night to remember. Say yes.”
He was so persuasi
ve, like a devil sent to entice her, and it was simply beyond her to refuse.
“If you insist,” she grumbled, “but promise we can leave whenever I ask.”
“I promise.”
As they started off again, their kiss had shattered any pretense of reserve they might have maintained. He flung an arm around her and drew her closer so she could rest her head on his shoulder. It was the sweetest, most romantic thing she could imagine, and much too rapidly, they arrived in the village.
As the first houses came into view, she straightened, putting a bit of distance between them, but he still kept his arm where it was, and she suffered a vain thrill, pleased that he had no qualms about being seen with her.
They found an empty spot to park the gig, and he walked around to help her out. He lifted her down, his hands on her waist, and she stood with him, hidden in the dark. He was so tall, so masculine, and she felt dizzy with delight. When he bent down to steal another kiss, she was glad to let him.
They strolled to the village green. There was a bonfire burning off in the corner, and a small stage had been erected. A pair of fiddlers played a lively tune, and dozens of couples promenaded down the center of the grass.
She passed through the crowd, seeing many acquaintances. Some greeted her; others ignored her. Occasionally, people whispered about her being accompanied by a stranger, but she paid them no heed.
When the next group formed, he pulled her into the line, and with his being from London, she was worried that he’d be confused by the steps, but he was very skilled and very light on his feet. They danced and danced, and she was so happy that if the world had ended at that very moment, she’d have died in ecstasy.
They continued until they were parched and exhausted. Then he sat her under a tree, and left her alone while he went to the refreshment table.
Briefly, she lost sight of him, and at the same instant, a shadow fell over her. She peeked up to observe two local miscreants, young men her own age whom she’d known since they were children. She could smell alcohol on them, and it was the precise sort of encounter she’d been dreading.
“Hello, Fanny,” one of them said.
“Hello, Roger.”
“I see you have a new beau.”
“He’s a friend, visiting from out of town.”
Roger elbowed the other man, and they both snickered. “Will you entertain him with some of the tricks your sister showed you?”
“You may be twenty years old, Roger, but you haven’t matured a day since you were ten.” She rose, wanting to get away from them before Mr. Waverly returned.
“You Carrington sisters are just alike, but then, the vicar’s daughters are always the worst!”
They snorted with glee, and with all the ways her family had been insulted, she seriously considered slapping him, when suddenly, Mr. Waverly was by her side.
He whispered, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but her temper was boiling. “Could we go?”
“In a minute.”
He loomed over Roger, but Roger was too drunk to be circumspect, and in a tone that brooked no argument, Mr. Waverly demanded, “Apologize to the lady.”
“Like hell I will. She’s like a loose cat, running through the neighborhood, trying to scratch her itch. Everybody knows it.”
Mr. Waverly moved so that he and Roger were toe to toe. Very quietly, he threatened, “If you ever speak to her again, I’ll kill you.”
“She’s a whore, like her sister, and she’s lain with half the county. Just ask anyone, and they’ll—“
Before he could finish the horrid sentence, Mr. Waverly punched him in the face so hard that he crumpled—unconscious—onto the grass. Roger’s companion looked as if he might intervene, but Mr. Waverly flashed such a virulent glare that he blanched and hurried away.
Fanny trembled with astonishment. In her entire life, no one had ever stood up for her. She was stunned and a tad proud.
“Now we can go,” Mr. Waverly said calmly, though he was rubbing his knuckles.
They started off as if nothing had happened, but as they approached the crowd, Roger’s father glanced over. At seeing Roger on the ground, he tried to block their path.
“What have you done to my boy?” he inquired, sounding as drunk as his son.
“I taught him some manners,” Mr. Waverly curtly replied.
He tightened his grip on Fanny’s arm, and they kept on. He was brooding, and she could tell that he was very angry. Without a word, he hoisted her into his gig, followed her up, and swiftly, they were away. His fury didn’t subside, and with each clop of the horse’s hooves, he seemed to grow even more irate, and she was heartsick over how the night had been ruined.
She’d known better than to push her luck by appearing in the village with him. Gossip would flare again, especially over his having fought with Roger.
Every despicable rumor about her family would be revived, when she simply wanted the old scandal to blow over. She struggled valiantly to fit in, to be accepted as she’d been in the past, before Camilla’s troubles, but in her selfish quest to spend time with Mr. Waverly, she’d wrecked everything.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, the wind and the noise of the wheels covering her comment.
“What did you say?” He peered over at her. The moon was rising, and his brilliant blue eyes glittered like diamonds.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come with you.”
A strange expression swept over him, and he cursed and yanked the horse to a halt.
They tarried, still not speaking, and she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.
Did he believe Roger’s slander? Oh, if he did, she’d just die!
“I apologize,” she repeated, shamed to her very core.
“You apologize?”
“I never meant for you to intercede on my behalf.”
He gaped at her as if she’d sprouted a second head, then he muttered another curse and leapt out of the vehicle. For a mad instant, she assumed he was going to stomp off and leave her alone on the deserted lane, but instead, he marched around the gig and held up a hand to her.
So...he would make her walk home. She’d never been more humiliated.
“It wasn’t true,” she declared from her perch far above him.
“What wasn’t?”
“What he said about me. It was a lie.”
“Get down.”
She didn’t try to further defend herself, but let him assist her in climbing down, and to her ultimate surprise, as her feet touched the ground, he enveloped her in a fierce hug and kissed her as if there were no tomorrow. She was so astounded that she didn’t know what to do but join in.
There was a desperation to the embrace, his fury having metamorphosed into hot passion, like soup bubbling up in a pot. He didn’t hurt her or scare her, but he was very demanding, and he made her feel desirable and wanton. His mouth moved over hers with subtle pressure, then more force. It seemed as if he couldn’t hold her closely enough, couldn’t kiss her deeply enough.
His hands were on her back, stroking up and down, until he was clasping her buttocks, his fingers where they had no right to be, but the naughty caresses were too beguiling to reject. He had pulled her to him, so that their loins were flattened together, his private parts meshed with her own.
Her body recognized the scandalous position, and she reveled in it, her pulse pounding, the woman’s spot between her legs growing wet. She ached for things she couldn’t name and didn’t understand.
The intensity increased.
He grabbed the ribbon that was tied around her hair and flung it away so he could riffle through the lengthy tresses. The sensation defied description, and she was so overwhelmed that she scarcely noticed as he began fondling her breasts, first one, then the other, circling the soft mounds of flesh in a delicious, decadent way.
She was a sight, with her hair hanging down, and her clothes askew, but as he abandoned her mouth to blaze a trail down
her neck, to her bosom, she didn’t care.
He rooted across her chest, until he found her nipple, and through the fabric of her dress, he bit and teased, the friction driving her to a precipice of anxiety. She felt as if her heart might simply quit beating, and it couldn’t possibly be safe to be so titillated.
She was just ready to draw away, when he released her, instead. He stood, a palm braced on the box of the carriage, his shoulders stooped, his respiration labored, as if he’d run a long race.
She didn’t know what to say or how to act. She would have liked to reach out to him, but if he brushed her aside, she’d be crushed.
“What is it?” she dared to venture. “What’s wrong?”
He was so silent that she was terrified he might tell her. Eventually, he murmured, “I didn’t believe that offensive lout. Not for a second.”
“I’m so relieved, Mr. Waverly.”
“Call me Michael.”
When she didn’t reply, he pressed, “I want to hear my name on your lips. I want you to call me Michael.”
It was an intimacy she was eager to bestow.
“Michael...”
Hesitantly, she extended her hand, and he clutched it tightly and dragged her to him, snuggling her to his side. He gazed up at the star-strewn sky.
“What the matter?” she queried. “Why did we stop?”
“My Lord, but you are so sweet.”
He sighed, unspoken emotion churning through him, and finally, he admitted, “I’m returning to London tomorrow.”
“Oh...” She felt as if all the air had left her body, and she sagged against him. “Will you be back?”
“No, I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again. Not like this anyway.”
“Are you angry because of what happened in the village?”
“No.”
He peered down at her with an enormous amount of visible affection, but he looked sad, too, as if he might truly miss her.
“I wish things were different between us,” he said.
“Different how?”
“I wish I were free to...to...love, to marry.”
He’d previously claimed that he wasn’t wed or betrothed, so she was confused about what he was trying to confess. Perhaps he actually was married, and he’d been lying all along, but she was too naïve to have known it.
