Only a Kiss

by Mary Balogh

  He had chosen what looked like a climbable route to the top while he was standing beside her, and strode toward the base of it. He noticed that he had picked a climb that was not too far left of the path, the unconscious idea being perhaps that if he got to a point at which there was no feasible way up, he would not have to find his way back down—perish the thought—but could edge sideways and walk the rest of the way to the top.

  He looked down when he was probably not much more than his own height above the beach and decided on the instant that he would not do that again. Neither did he look up except to his next hand – and foothold. Climbing, he discovered, was like a number of other concentrated activities. It was a moment-by-moment-by-moment thing—don’t look ahead, don’t look back, focus upon what must be done now.

  Terror started in his mind, then engulfed his heart and set it to pumping and thumping through his chest and up into his ears and his head, and then took up residence in every bone and muscle and nerve-ending in his body. At one point he was all pins and needles. At another he was so weak that he felt like a newborn babe. Everything in him screamed to stop while he was still safe. Except that he had never been farther from being safe in his life and stopping was out of the question. If he stopped, he would never move again—not until his tutor and a boatman arrived to pry him off the face of the cliff and carry him down to the boat.

  There was a wind, which he had not noticed when he left the house or when he descended the path to the beach. It roared about his head and his feet at what must surely be hurricane force. The rocks to which he clung were slick with ice, and the sun baked his back and the top of his head. And such imaginings meant that he was going out of his mind—which might be the best place to be at the moment. All the better if he could go out of his body too.

  Climb. Don’t think. Climb. Don’t stop. Don’t wonder how far you have come. Climb. Don’t wonder how far there is to go. Don’t wonder where Imogen is. Don’t wonder if that valet was murdered. Stop thinking and climb. Don’t wonder if Bains’s father was threatened and intimidated. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Don’t wonder if Barclay was lured to his death and if Imogen had escaped by the skin of her teeth. Climb. Don’t stop.

  At one point he looked down inadvertently. He knew the sea was not directly below him—the tide did not come in that far. Nevertheless, the sea was all he saw, gray and choppy and far, far below the hurricane that was roaring about his feet. He wished he had taken off his waistcoat. He wished all the bones from his knees had not migrated elsewhere. He hoped like the devil that he was not going to arrive at the top with wet breeches. He hoped like a thousand devils that he was going to arrive at the top.

  Climb. Don’t stop. Climb.

  He should have worn his other boots.

  A couple of times he was stuck with seemingly nowhere else to go. Each time he found a way. The third time it happened he was scared out of his wits—what was left of them. There was nothing there above him. There was nowhere else to go even though he pawed about with one hand to find solid rock. He crawled along a horizontal surface, still looking, and something came down flat on his back—a hand?

  “Don’t ever, ever do that again,” a shaking voice said, and for a moment he mistook it for an angel’s voice and thought perhaps he was crawling on his belly toward the pearly gates. “Not ever, do you hear me? I could kill you.”

  “That would be a bit of a shame,” he said to the grass on the cliff top—he was grasping two fistfuls of it, “when I seem to have survived the cliff face.”

  He rolled over onto his back, and she came to her knees beside him, and somehow—for some idiotic reason—they were both laughing. He wrapped his arms about her—they felt a bit like jelly—and drew her down on top of him while they snorted and shook with mirth.

  By Jove, he had done it.

  “By Jove, I’ve done it!”

  “Why?” she asked, rising to her knees again.

  Two bulging eyes, gazing steadily at him from his other side, asked the same question.

  “I have some dragons to slay,” he explained. “But first I had to slay the one at my back.”

  She shook her head and tutted but did not say what she obviously wanted to say. Hector merely looked.

  “Percy,” she said then, “you must be frozen.”

  “Frozen?” he said. “Are you sure someone has not shoveled more coals onto the sun?”

  She looked upward and smiled. “What sun?”

  Lord, but he loved to see her smile. He was glad he had survived just to see that.

  Clouds stretched unbroken from horizon to horizon. No sun. And what had happened to the hurricane?

  “What dragons?” she asked him. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

  “I called a staff meeting this morning,” he told her.

  “Yes. Mrs. Primrose told me,” she said, “though she would not tell me what it was about. She would only say it was business. You called it?”

  “I made it clear,” he said, “that my land and the beach below here are now and forever out of bounds to smuggling, and that no employee of mine will be involved in any way in the trade. I have allowed a couple of days for any voluntary resignations and for the removal of any illegal goods from the house and grounds while I look studiously the other way. Everyone has advised me to turn a blind eye, but I have not turned it.”

  She gazed steadily at him for several silent moments before leaning over him and kissing him on the lips. “When I first knew you,” she told him, “I would have said that you were as different from Dicky in every imaginable way as it is humanly possible to be. I would have been wrong.”

  It was not the best feeling in the world for a man to be compared to his lover’s dead husband, even if it was a favorable comparison—especially then, in fact.

  But her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  “That is exactly what he would have done,” she said. “You fool, Percy.”

  It was not great to have your lover call you a fool either.

  “I l—” She clamped her lips together and returned to the upright. “I honor you.”

  I love you? Was that what she had stopped herself from saying just in time?

  He covered the hands in her lap with one of his own.

  “I am a bit of a fool actually,” he said. “Having conquered the impossible heights, I now have to trot back down the path to haul up my belongings.”

  “There.” She pointed behind herself, and he saw both of his coats and his hat and cravat and neckcloth. They were even neatly folded and stacked. “How can you possibly walk around wearing all that, Percy? They weigh a ton.”

  “Because I am tough. A real man, in fact.” He grinned at her. “I knew the little woman would carry them up for me.”

  He caught her fist before it thumped against his shoulder and brought it to his lips. “I am sorry, Imogen,” he said. “I am sorry for all of this. You probably had other, more congenial plans for the afternoon.”

  “No,” she said. “I have given myself time off for this, and I intend to enjoy every moment that offers itself.”

  She bit her lower lip then, reclaimed her hand, and got to her feet

  Time off? From what? Her marble existence?

  I intend to enjoy every moment that offers itself. As though there were a time limit.

  As there was. That had been clearly agreed between them. He had set one for himself. He intended to leave here soon after the ball, probably never to return. She was going off to her reunion with that Survivors’ Club group.

  Was he too merely taking time off, then? From what, though? His meaningless existence? Was he going to go back to pranks and dares and mistresses and the occasional appearance in the House as a sop to his conscience?

  “Tonight,” he said, “I will make sure I come with enough energy to climb the stairs to your bed. And we will
make full use of it, Imogen, for hours and hours. Be prepared.”

  “Oh, I will be,” she said, but she did not look at him. She was busy pulling on her gloves as he stood up.

  And standing up, of course, put him in sight of the house over the gorse bushes and up the lawn. It would not do to pull her into his arms and kiss her. All the elder relatives as well as assorted servants might well be lined up in the windows gazing seaward.

  His legs were still feeling decidedly unsteady, and one glance at the long drop not far from his feet assured him that he still had a very healthy fear of getting too close to the edge. But by Jove, he had climbed up.

  They walked back to the dower house without talking, and he took her hand when they were on either side of the gate and squeezed it without raising it to his lips. He had not forgotten the look on her housekeeper’s face when she opened the door to him earlier.

  He feared that he really had stepped into some hornet’s nest this morning.

  “Until later,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He strode away across the lawn without looking back.

  * * *

  To her shame, Imogen was almost an hour later than usual rising the following morning. She intended walking into the village and calling upon a few people, including Tilly and Elizabeth. She was marvelously well blessed, she realized, to have two such close women friends—close in mind and temperament as well as in age.

  She was going to need them in the foreseeable future.

  But she would not think of that yet. She stretched luxuriously and turned her head toward the pillow beside her own. No, she had not mistaken. He had left something of the smell of his cologne behind.

  He had come just before midnight and not left until well after half past four. And, as he had promised, he had kept her very busy indeed during the intervening hours, with only brief respites for relaxation and snatches of sleep. They had made love four separate times. But making love with Percy, she was discovering, consisted not just in the joining of their bodies and the brisk activity that followed. It was also about talking—often utter nonsense—and laughing and touching and kissing and rolling about and—yes!—hurling pillows at each other and forgetting all about reserve and decorum and adult dignity. It was about sexual play that preceded penetration. But she had learned to give as good as she got in that aspect of lovemaking. If he could make her beg—and he could—then she could make him beg too. Oh, yes, she could.

  And the joining of their bodies! Ah, there was nothing more wonderful in this life after lengthy romping and even more lengthy sex play. And the hard rhythms of lovemaking, and the rhythmic sounds of wetness and labored breathing, and the gradual building of tension and excitement. And the release at the end of it all—the most wonderful moment of all, and the saddest, for following that moment, there came the gradual awareness of separation even while they were still joined, the knowledge that they were two.

  But there was the knowledge too that they still had some time left—more than a week.

  He had left after sitting, fully clothed, on the side of the bed and kissing her slowly and thoroughly as though the previous hours had not been enough, would never be enough.

  “Tonight,” he had murmured against her lips, “and tomorrow night and . . .”

  She had laughed then, for Hector had been peering over the side of the bed, his chin on the bedcovers, his eyes bulging. He was such an ugly, adorable dog.

  She had listened to them leave, to the sound of the key turning in the lock, and she had indulged in her usual little weep before falling so deeply asleep that she could not even remember if she had dreamed.

  And now she was late waking, though it really did not matter.

  Mrs. Primrose brought her breakfast to the dining room as soon as she came downstairs.

  “You was wise to sleep late, my lady,” she said as she poured Imogen’s coffee. “A nasty, dismal day it is out there.”

  It was too. Imogen had not noticed. There was rain on the windows, and they were even rattling in the wind. The sky beyond was leaden.

  “At least,” she said, “we do not have to run upstairs with all the pails to catch the drips.”

  She stirred her coffee and turned her attention to the letters beside her plate. One was from George, Duke of Stanbrook—she recognized his writing. Another was from Elizabeth—an invitation, probably, to some entertainment that included all the guests at the hall. Elizabeth had talked about it at their reading club meeting. The other letter was addressed in a round, childish hand. One of her nieces or nephews, perhaps? It had not happened before. She broke the seal of that one first out of curiosity.

  It was a totally untutored hand, a jumbled mixture of capital and lowercase letters, some large, some small, some cramped, most looping. Who on earth . . . ?

  You will perswaid that luver of your’s to leve here and stay away, it read, or you may cum to harm, yore laidyship. This is a frendly warning. Heed it.

  There was no signature.

  Imogen held the paper with both hands, both of them pulsing with pins and needles. She ought to have understood as soon as she saw the outside of it. More than ten years had passed, but she should have realized anyway. If she was not mistaken, the same person who had written the threatening letters to Dicky and herself before they left for the Peninsula had written this.

  Oh, Percy, she thought, what have you started?

  Imogen had learned a great deal about self-control and self-containment during the past eight years. She did not open her other letters, but she did eat her way through a whole round of toast and drink her coffee before folding her napkin and leaving it neatly beside her plate and getting to her feet.

  “I will be going up to the hall this morning,” she told her housekeeper. “You may let the fire die down in the sitting room.”

  “Take your umbrella, my lady,” Mrs. Primrose advised, “if you can keep it from blowing inside out, that is.”

  * * *

  Percy was in the drawing room, as was almost everyone else except the older ladies, who were at their meeting in the morning room. Percy was devising a tournament that included, among other things, card games, billiards, dart throwing, and a treasure hunt. Everyone was in high spirits despite the rain that was lashing against the windows. Everyone, it seemed, turned a laughing face toward Imogen.

  “You are just in time to join us, Lady Barclay,” Viscount Marwood told her. “You can be on my team. That will give us one more player than the other team, but the others have Percy, who really counts for two when it comes to games. Are you good at darts? You may pick off one or two of our foes, if you wish—as long as you do not do any permanent harm, I suppose. That might upset the other ladies.”

  And the bizarre thing was that she did join in, though the contest lasted a great deal longer than she expected. Indeed, there was even a break halfway through for luncheon, which was supposed to last an hour and actually lasted an hour and a half.

  Everyone was having a merry old time, including the older gentlemen. And even Cousin Adelaide, who did not participate, was looking less crusty than usual, though she did complain that too many of the activities were taking place beyond the drawing room doors.

  Cats darted everywhere. Bruce did not move from the hearthrug. Hector sat beside Percy’s empty chair, thumping his tail at any sign of action.

  It was all that a family house party ought to be, Imogen thought. The twins squabbled with each other at least half a dozen times, though they were on the same team. Leonard Herriott accused his brother of cheating during the treasure hunt and found himself at the wrong end of a blistering retort before their father stepped in to restore order and remind them that there were ladies present. But good nature and laughter prevailed every time, as well as a hotly competitive spirit, until finally everyone had completed every activity and the scores were added up by a c
ommittee of two—one person from each team—and it was discovered that Percy’s team had won by the slimmest of margins.

  Boos from the losers mingled with unruly cheers from the winners, and Aunt Lavinia rang for the tea tray, the ladies’ meeting having long ago come to an end.

  “Lord Hardford,” Imogen said, “may I have a private word with you?”

  It was perhaps not the best way of going about it, she realized too late. He looked surprised—and perhaps a little annoyed?—and everyone else looked a bit surprised too. Imogen flinched slightly as she noticed Mr. Welby winking at Viscount Marwood.

  “It is a matter of business,” she added.

  “But of course, Cousin.” He led the way to the door and opened it for her to pass through. He preceded her to the morning room and followed her inside before closing the door behind them.

  He looked a bit grim, she thought as she turned to face him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She took the letter from a pocket of her dress and handed it to him.

  He opened it and stared at it, then spoke a word she had only ever heard before in Portugal, on the lips of soldiers who had not realized they were being overheard by a woman. He did not apologize.

  He raised his head and looked at her for a long while in silence. “He could do with a few spelling lessons, could he not?” he remarked. “Not to mention penmanship.”

  “It is no joke, Percy,” she said.

  “No, indeed it is not,” he agreed. “Instead of threatening me, which I might have taken as a joke, he has threatened my lady and very seriously annoyed me.”

  She might have taken exception to that description of herself as my lady at any other time, but this was not any other time.

  He continued to look at her without moving for a few moments longer. “With your permission,” he said then, “I will summon a few more people here. Men. Shall I summon my mother too? Or Lady Lavinia, perhaps?”