by Betina Krahn
“The truth about you. About why a young woman of twenty would take on the responsibility for her family’s reputation.”
“Twenty-two. Just. I passed my birthday a few weeks ago.” She squared her shoulders. “So you know now: I’m mutton dressed as lamb. Overripe. Beyond the first bloom.” The twinkle of disbelief in his eyes seemed more intimate than his hands on her skin. She suddenly wanted to let it all out, to have someone listen and truly understand.
“I came because I am the whole reason our reputation was tarnished.”
“Ah.” He nodded, turned, and began to walk again.
“Ah?” She stalked past him to plant herself in his path. “What does that mean?”
“It means there is probably more to it,” he said with an earnestness that was infuriating.
“Aren’t you clever.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.
“What could you possibly have done that disgraced your family and imperiled your sisters so?” he asked, his gaze speculative as it sank over her.
How much had he already guessed?
“Good question,” she said. “I bet you’ve even thought of an answer.”
“Just possibilities.” He studied her as openly as she had him.
“Such as?”
“You smiled too much. Probably at gentlemen.”
“I am a friendly person.”
“You laughed too freely,” he charged.
“A body can’t help laughing when the mood takes her.”
“You rode too fast and too well.”
“Where I come from, riding well is considered both necessary and admirable. Some of the finest ladies in England are devoted horsewomen.”
“You danced with too much enthusiasm.” He took one step closer, then another, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And you kissed too many fellows.”
She took a step back, annoyed by his smug half smile.
“I’ll have you know,” she said with more heat than she wanted, “you are the only man I’ve kissed in five years. I did not bewitch, enthrall, or seduce the precious sons of the Four Hundred. I barely even spoke to one.”
“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Zounds! Imagine how you’d kiss if you weren’t out of practice.” When her mouth dropped open, he added: “Not that there was anything wrong with your efforts. I’m just thinking you could probably start a fire with wet tinder when you’re on your game.”
“You—”
She whirled and stalked down the path, blinded to the twists and turns she negotiated from memory. How dare he? Her heart pounded. He was purposefully . . . teasing her. The warmth and hints of humor in his—She slowed her flight, feeling embarrassed by her touchy reaction.
After a few turns, she found herself at the heart of the maze, staring at a stone bench and the rose-draped arbor that shaded it. There was space for two on that seat . . . a place for lovers to meet and talk and kiss. She had planned to bring Arthur here to prove that her temptation-plagued nature could be made to focus on him and him alone.
Instead, she was here with the brother of the man she intended to marry... the one man she was coming to crave with every nerve and impulse in her being. She felt him enter the maze heart behind her and she headed for the bench, seating herself in the middle to leave no room for him.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the light fragrance of the roses covering the bower. When she leaned to inhale more deeply, her hat brim banged the side of the arbor and she opened her eyes. He was standing in front of her, watching, and a second later he removed her hat and held it out to her. She snatched it from him to clutch against her.
“Scoot over,” he said, lowering himself into the impossibly small area left unoccupied. “Make room, Daisy. Unless you’d prefer that I sit on your lap.”
Chapter Nineteen
She moved. Glowering. Her heart began to make those little skips that created a disturbance in her pulse and sent a shiver through her. She was pretty sure he noticed.
For a time she sat in silence, awareness of his broad shoulders and strong legs slowly replacing her irritation.
“I behaved like a hussy,” she finally said, watching for a reaction. He turned to look at her but said nothing. “I wore trousers beneath my skirts so I could ride astride and I rode with the men of the Bellington Hunt. Dancer and I took every fence in half a county—led the pack the whole way. And afterward, when a gentleman offered me a sip from his flask, I took it.” She explained wistfully: “It was fine Kentucky bourbon. The best there is.”
“Sounds like eminent good sense to me,” he said with a wry twist that looked like it could turn into a grin at any moment.
“You don’t understand,” she said, thinking of the gulf between society’s expectations for unmarried women and unattached men. He had probably never considered the constraints of a young girl’s life—except perhaps to enjoy the reckless females who failed to abide by them.
“So, enlighten me.”
“By all accounts you’ve spent your time outside the realms where pale young debs are led around ballrooms like prettied-up ponies out for bids. In such places, doubts about a girl’s virtue are akin to eternal damnation.”
“And your behavior”—he reached for her bare hand and traced it with his fingertips—“led to doubts about your virtue.”
“That was the excuse. Mrs. Astor and her clutch of biddies are always looking for one.” She met his gaze briefly. There was no cleverness or teasing in his expression; his earlier earnestness was back. “My stubborn, selfish behavior gave them the perfect excuse to exclude us. Brazen, they called me. I was too forward, they said, and I knew too much. As if ‘knowing’ somehow tainted my soul.” She looked down, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “My mother was devastated. She had worked so hard to polish our rough edges and get us into the right circles. I didn’t see the reason for her endless rules and cautions until it was too late. I thought she was just being . . .”
She halted and it was a few moments before she swallowed the lump in her throat to continue.
“Passing judgment on others makes them feel important. We got to town after they did, so we had to be shown our place . . . beneath them.”
“What makes you think it is any different in England?” There was gentle chiding in his tone.
“Oh, I’ve learned it isn’t, believe me. You Brits are just as stuck-up—‘superior’ you call it—and hide-bound as the old crows of the Four Hundred.” She wanted to wipe her eyes, but refused to forfeit the comfort of his hand on hers. She took a ragged breath instead.
“But your society is old enough and worn down enough to have to face a few hard facts . . . like . . . when money is needed badly, exceptions must be made. American girls have married English noblemen before. We Americans might not be considered prime breeding stock, but when we have the money you need, you’ll hold your nose and admit us to the family.” Determination welled up in a bracing rush. “I’ll do what I have to do. I intend to see that no one shames or belittles my family ever again.”
“Daisy, Daisy . . .” He shook his head and ran his gaze over her heated face and liquid-rimmed eyes. “Only a stupid, ignorant, black-hearted jackass would judge you to be anything but remarkable.” He leaned closer and she thought he was going to kiss her, but at the last moment, his hand came up to wipe away tears that had finally been dislodged and were drying on her cheeks. His touch was so gentle and the look on his face so tender that she sought his gaze with hers. His hand lingered to caress her cheek and at that moment, he smiled into her very soul. It was a rare moment of connection, of knowing and being known, that filled her with a kind of pleasure she had never experienced. He took her hand in his again, resting it on his thigh.
“So tell me about them,” he said thickly, seeming as affected by that contact as she was. “Your mother, your sisters. What are they like?”
It seemed the most natural question in the world.
“There are three more Bumgarten girls
,” she said, smiling softly at the memories that tally summoned. “Frances, whom we call Frankie, is the next oldest. She’s a pistol . . . never saw a puzzle she didn’t try to solve. She’s a wizard at mathematics and has a memory like a bear trap. Then there is Claire—we call her CeCe—who is a devil of a fiddle player and sings like an angel. Sarah is the youngest—cute as a bug and full of mischief. She’s got a way with horses and most other animals that’s downright spooky. They’re all sharp as tacks and a little stubborn—though, I’m probably the worst in the family for that.
“Our mother is Elizabeth Strait Bumgarten.” She gave a tuneless whistle. “Now there’s a woman who demands respect and a wide berth. She’s rail straight, tenacious, and tough as boot leather. Oh, and she reads the Bible. Got a verse for everything and an opinion on everybody.”
“It would be interesting to see her take on Aunt Sylvia.” He grinned.
“It would indeed.” She met his expression with a smile of her own. “She talks tougher than she acts, though. As angry as she was with me, she never once mentioned sending me back to Nevada or disowning me. I know she cares about me, and she’s only trying to do her best for us girls. I just wish I had seen that sooner.”
“I believe that’s what they call ‘wisdom.’” He rubbed her hand with his thumb. “It comes with age. And sometimes experience.”
At that moment a strange, calming warmth enveloped her. She looked to him and wondered what hard-won wisdom he had gained from experience.
“What about you? What was growing up like for you?”
He drew a deep breath and summarized.
“Lots of hungry nights in those early years. I was sent to bed without supper much of the time. Never knew my mother—she died soon after I was born. My father lasted a bit longer. At seven I was shipped off to school, where the gruel was as cold as the showers and the Latin masters had a perverse fondness for the rod. Small wonder we were little savages when they released us to the playing fields. I was pretty good at pitching and batting. Cricket,” he explained. “I actually liked running—everything troublesome fell away when I ran.” He rubbed a thigh with his free hand.
“And you stuck up for your brother,” she said before she censored it.
“Where did you hear that?”
“From your old school friend, Reynard Boulton. We met at a dinner party in Oxford, and he told me that you defended Arthur when he was bullied at school. Surely that wasn’t a secret.”
“What else did he tell you?” His hand tightened around hers.
“Are you worried that he revealed your scandalous past?” It was her turn to tease.
“My flaws and mistakes are no secret. But the Fox is given to sensationalizing events. In fact, it’s his stock and trade: making close-kept secrets into outright scandals.”
“So I was warned. By him, no less,” she said, surprised by his discomfort at the possibility that Reynard Boulton might have told her things about him. “He asked me about you . . . what I thought of you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Fishing for compliments?”
“Daisy”—he was instantly more serious—“he is not a nice man. He’s trampled good names and ruined relationships and futures all over London.”
She searched his face with surprise. “You’re truly concerned.”
“I said I have . . . I would hate for you to come to harm because of your association with me.”
“You’re more gallant than you admit,” she said.
“I wouldn’t use that term.”
“And you’ve a broad streak of integrity running along your spine. Must be inconvenient at times.”
“You’re trying to turn my head,” he said dryly.
“The mamas look at you and see the one they wished they’d hooked. And the papas look at you and wish they’d had half your charm and good looks. It’s no wonder they can’t bear to have you around their daughters.”
It was his turn to stare in surprise.
“You and Boulton must have had quite a chat.”
“He is a gossip, after all. It wasn’t that hard to get him to talk.” She raised her chin. “He gave a great deal more than he got, however. I’m an American, not an idiot. People here do seem to confuse the two. I knew better than to tell him I think you’re smart and principled and considerate . . . and funny at times. And that I like you a great deal more than I should.”
She felt his hand tighten on hers, but quickly looked out over the clearing to avoid his gaze. The last thing she needed right now was a bone-melting kiss. She’d find herself on her back with her knees in the air before you could say “whoa Nellie.”
“Which brings me to something I’ve been wondering about.” She cut a sidelong glance at him. “What are you still doing here?”
He frowned, turning toward her. “Clearly, the earl invited me.”
“I don’t mean here at Marlton, I mean here in England. You’re unmarried, unattached, and probably have access to means. Why haven’t you struck off in search of adventure or a fortune of your own?”
He was silent for a moment, then turned to face the clearing.
“I have thought about it,” he said slowly, as if the confession were being dragged from him. “But the ‘means’ aren’t exactly plentiful and there are the family obligations.”
“Ah, yes. The duties of ‘the Spare.’” She nodded gravely. “Remind me what they are again? Something about waiting . . .”
“You wicked girl.” He turned to her with genuine surprise.
She laughed softly, enjoying this turnabout.
“Why don’t you go to New York and find a rich wife and become a pillar of the community? Ooooh—or a professor. I imagine Harvard or one of those fancy colleges might find room for an Oxford man. Professor Huxley would write you a reference, I bet. Then you could find the rest of my ancestors . . . or maybe write the history of your former colonies.”
* * *
Ashton bit his lip, staring at her as if she were morphing into something strange and terrifying. Like a praying mantis. The next second, that thought appalled him; it was something that would occur to insect-obsessed Artie, not him. And didn’t female praying mantises devour their mates?
“Stop this, right now,” he ordered.
“Or what?” Her chin tilted up, her eyes took on a provocative smoke.
“Or . . . I’ll . . . have to leave.”
“Go ahead,” she said, her voice full of sensual challenge, “if you can.”
He dragged his gaze from hers, dropped her hand, and would have stood if his body responded to halfhearted orders. Whatever happened, he wanted these few moments with her, wanted to tell her how she haunted his dreams and that he wanted her more every time he saw her. He wanted to tell her . . .
Then she nestled against his side and put her head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and drank in that simple contact like a touch of the divine. In his mind he saw her again as she was that day in the cow shed—glowing with a uniquely feminine pleasure at bringing new life into the world. That was when it started . . . this breakdown in his commitment to his mission . . . this sense that he could not, would not ruin her without also destroying something good and vital in his own soul.
She was good-hearted and earnest and protective of those she loved—all things Artie needed but probably wouldn’t recognize, even if they were offered to him on a silver platter. Marrying him, she would be throwing away the possibility of so much more in her life.
He disturbed her long enough to put the arm she leaned against around her and draw her tighter against his side. They sat for a few minutes in silence before he turned and pulled her full against his chest. This—he thought, staring into her eyes and feeling her warmth and sensuality flooding his senses—is probably as close to Heaven as I’ll ever get.
And he kissed her.
* * *
“Daisy!”
“Daizeee girl, where the devil are you?” Red shouted as he trailed La
dy Evelyn between the rows of maze hedges.
“Daisy Bumgarten, are you in here?” Lady Evelyn called, quickening her pace. Frantic with concern, she wrung her hands, halted, and turned to Red. “That’s his horse out there. Daisy and I saw him ride out on it earlier. He has to be in here.” She looked stricken. “If she’s here, too . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to speak of such horrors.
“She’s got more sense than a house full o’ congressmen,” Red declared, scowling. “We’ll find her.” He struck off toward the next obstacle, bellowing: “Marguerite Bumgarten, where are you? You better speak up, girl, or you’ll be in a world o’ trouble!”
* * *
Ashton clamped a hand over her bee-stung lips and read the panic in her eyes as Red’s voice wafted through the hedges and paths. She was astride his lap and wrapped around his body as tight as a birthday suit. Both of them were breathing hard and having difficulty reacting to the danger bearing down on them.
A blink later, she slid from his lap, stood, and straightened her skirts with trembling hands. One look at her rumpled skirts, flushed skin, and swollen lips would tell even the most sympathetic observer that she had been indulging in something forbidden. Instinct kicked in.
“We can’t be found here together,” she said.
“We have to go,” he whispered feverishly, thrusting her hat into her hands as they both scanned the heart of the maze for an avenue of escape. She spotted the second opening and pointed. But as they neared the opening she glanced back and spotted her shawl on the bench, falling toward the rear.
“My shawl!” She groaned and he saw it in the same moment. He raced back for it and picked it up just as Red’s voice broke into the heart of the maze. Wide-eyed, he waved her to go on without him and plopped down on the bench, tucking the shawl beneath him.
Daisy’s heart was pounding as she slipped through the maze, trying to recall how the exit path was structured. She heard voices behind her, but they faded as she navigated the hedges’ twists and turns. By the time she reached the maze’s second opening, she was able to slow and walk at a sensible pace, despite her urge to run for the shelter of Marlton House.
