“Is my virtue threatened?”
“Not by me,” he said quickly, one hand lifted to his heart in what was likely supposed to be a reassuring matter. But this very conversation was rather rakish, and more fitting of a Sir Clement Wetherby than a Lord Orville. A Mr. Elliot rather than a Captain Wentworth. “But that you don’t think of it. That you go fishing and hike your dress up as if you were still a girl. And as if I were not a man.”
“As if you were not a man?”
“As if I were immune to the sight of well-formed ankles and the glimpse of smooth skin above stockings.”
She blanched. Went hot and then cold. Gaped at him and then frowned. She had not once thought of her lower limbs. Thought herself so on display.
“I mean it not as an insult but as a compliment. And no disrespect to Miss Smith’s teaching. In the drawing room at night, you do great credit to her. But here, outdoors, it is as if there is a different Bianca. One who is freer. A woodland nymph.”
“A dryad?” she offered, still reeling from his comment about her limbs.
“Just so.”
He leaned forward, and though the distance he was crossed was ever so slight, her stomach fluttered as if he had taken up all the space between them. She hovered there on the edge of being that freer Bianca, the one who wished to lift her skirt ever so slightly more.
She looked so pretty with that pink flush staining her cheeks, lashes sweeping over her cheeks. He wasn’t entirely certain what had come over him. But it was as if her teasing, her light flirtation, had awakened something in him, some instinctual male need to let her know of his interest. To make her see him.
He had asked her to call him Luc because every time he heard her call him Mr. Dore, he was reminded of the deception he played upon her. And because he thought of her as Bianca.
“Look at him,” she said, and it took him a moment to realize she was referring to Thomas. A safe topic. Hardly full of the charged intensity of the last few minutes. He wanted to touch her chin, draw her gaze back to his. Tell her it wasn’t just her eyes he admired, or her limbs, but her rosy lips, too. “He’s doing so well. Three months ago we thought he might die.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, her expression pained. Perhaps not such a safe topic after all.
“Was he as ill as that?”
“Yes. Henrietta almost returned home.” Derision was thick in her voice and he understood. How could a mother leave her son when he was near death’s door? His own mother would have hovered until he improved just to make her go away. “But the doctor thinks his asthma was merely a phase.”
“I thought it an intermittent but chronic illness, gradually sapping away at a person’s strength?”
“Sometimes a child grows out of it,” Bianca explained. “We are hoping it is so for him.”
“I shall hope so as well. Illness aside,” Luc said, “remaining at home an extra year or two is a good thing. Many boys don’t even go until their thirteenth year. The youngest boys always receive the brunt of the pranks and tricks upperclassmen like to play. Much better to attend when one is strong enough to fight back.”
“You make Eton sound like torture.” She sniffed, wiped at her eyes, and then smiled. A watery sort of smile, as if she weren’t entirely past the emotional turmoil of thinking about her brother’s recent illness.
“Well, I wouldn’t know, but my first year at Harrow, at the age of ten, was only alleviated by my friendship with Reggie, whose humor and knack for schemes had made him much in demand, and my great height.”
“Your great height,” she repeated with a laugh. “Surely that alone would have been enough to daunt the fiercest antagonist.”
“Or attract his attention. There was this one boy, he thought if he trounced me, it would prove he was the strongest in the school.”
“And what happened?”
“He would have won, because I hadn’t yet learned to make a proper fist. I assure you, it is a skill I have now attained.” In fact he had dedicated himself to learning the art of fisticuffs after that day. “Reggie came to my rescue. Lessened the tension in the entire situation. Made everyone laugh.”
“He is charming. When he’s not pushing us to insanity!” She shifted, so that her legs were no longer tucked under but stretched out before her. A flutter of white petticoat revealed equally white stockings over shapely calves. Her knees shot back up to her chest and she yanked the hem of her dress down to her heels. A blush stained her cheeks again.
His own were hot.
Though they were outside and space was limitless, the air between them was thick.
“Thomas,” Bianca called out, breaking the tension. “It’s time to return to the house.”
She avoided him the rest of the day and the next. Of course, she couldn’t entirely as there was dinner and breakfast and all sorts of moments when their paths crossed. But she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and when they occasionally did, her cheeks burned red.
Like the inside of his eyelids as he closed his eyes against the light pouring through his unshuttered window. Still unused to fending entirely for himself, he had forgotten to pull the curtain closed. But the light seemed brighter, more yellow. The quality of a late summer morning.
He reached for his watch. Damn. He should have been at breakfast a good quarter hour ago. As it was, he might very well miss Bianca and then it might be hours before he had a chance to see her again. He quickly stood and went about the process of making himself presentable.
She was nothing like he had imagined. Beautiful, yes, but he was getting used to that. No longer thrown into stunned silence every time he saw her. Now he noticed all the little details. The slight bump on the bridge of her nose, the slightly asymmetrical tilt of her face.
But what shocked him most was that she was Bianca. It was silly, but it was somewhat of a revelation to realize she was more than some Pygmalion’s statue come to life. That she had a willful nature and a sense of humor, often biting. That she had a strand of bitterness running beneath the calm surface. Hidden depths.
It both intrigued him and daunted him. There were moments when he thought she noticed him, as more than her brother’s tutor. Like that day when she had confronted him and then teased him when he’d blurted out some faradiddle about her eyes. How he had expired with embarrassment! And yet, the way she looked when she teased . . . she sparkled, had a beauty utterly different from that created by her still features.
But then there were moments when she treated him so cavalierly, so utterly unlike the way one would treat a lover.
Or so he imagined.
Not that he was her lover.
Yet.
He wanted to be.
He wanted to be everything to her.
He had been here for almost a fortnight. Had, after the first three days, contrived to spend as much time as possible with her. But none of that was enough. Each glimpse of who she was made him want to know more.
He hurried down the stairs. This time of year, breakfast was taken in the morning room to take advantage of the summer sun, and once he reached the ground floor, he used the newel post for momentum the way he would have as a child and headed down the hall.
He saw her form, her head of honey curls farther down the hall, past the open door of the morning room and likely on her way to the library. He was too late.
But he wanted to see her face. To carry the image of her countenance with him throughout the day. He passed the morning room, picked up pace when she turned the corner, and then followed her into the library.
He was only a few seconds behind her, but she was bent over a side table next to her favorite chair, placing a cup down.
Her favorite chair. Her favorite cup. And he spied the spine of the leather-bound tome in her arm, her favorite book.
He could have listed her preferences even without Thomas’s help. She looked so lovely, so domestic, so . . . comfortable, that he had a sudden image of their life in the future, in his home, side by side, their
children about them.
“Bianca,” he said, but no sound actually came. He was so filled with emotion, with the beauty of that vision, that he could hardly speak. Yet in his head he was saying everything. Come here, my sweet lady. Come here, let me kiss you. Let me love you.
“Bea.” She whirled around. There was Luc, calling her by that intimate name. He’d watched her so carefully. Knew her habits. Now here they were, alone, quite improperly. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her heart raced in her chest. Yet what she felt was not quite fear.
She opened her mouth to say something, to say anything that would make sense of this senseless moment. She noticed little things, like his hand that clenched and unclenched as he took a step closer. A step that started to crowd out the air between them, that made her gasp.
“Bianca, you must know—”
She’d taken a step forward, too, and the realization made her pause. She needed to think, reason, remember who she was and where she was, but all that seemed to matter was the line of his jaw, the warmth of his gaze, and the shape of his mouth.
“What must I know, Luc?” The husky timbre of her voice surprised her, but then there was no more room for surprise. No more room for anything but a strong, male embrace, for being enveloped by his warmth, for the touch of his lips on hers.
Lips.
Stunned, she parted her own and then all conscious thought was gone.
Instead, she felt. Felt the sweep of his tongue, the rasp of his teeth. It was hot and all-consuming, and the sensation radiated straight down to the tips of her fingers and toes. There was a rhythm to his movements, and after a moment she followed, matched him, danced with him, even though their feet were still.
She stumbled back a step, the rush of air between them cooling her heated skin. Still dizzy from the embrace, reeling from pleasure, she stared up at his face. At first glance she had thought his features broad and plain, but now the angles and shadows were clearer to her, even if nothing else was.
Except the understanding that this kiss had been forbidden, should never have happened. That Luc had taken an enormous impropriety. She lifted her hand before she even consciously knew what she was doing. The slap resounded in the air.
She took another step back, aghast at the violence of her actions, even if it were the proper response for such effrontery.
He, too, seemed shocked.
“I shouldn’t have . . .”
“No, you shouldn’t.” But she couldn’t imbue her tone with the same severity as that slap. Her lips tingled and her mouth wanted desperately. He’d awoken a physical hunger inside of her, one that had little to do with the romances of her favorite books. This then was the passion that poets lauded and men fought wars over.
“Will you forgive me?”
“No.” She shook her head at the words, wishing he hadn’t asked them, that he had simply taken her in his arms again, that she could feel once more.
He looked stricken. He wasn’t some devil-may-care seducer. She’d known that from the start.
“For I’m glad you did. Even if it should never happen again.”
He looked confused, and well he might for she, too, was confused.
“Now I know,” she continued, “what I am missing, and what this should be like.”
His brows furrowed but she didn’t want to explain more, talk about the future husband she’d likely have, who would not be him. Not that he was even suggesting such a thing. She sighed, shaking her head at her foolishness.
“Bea?”
Her name now sounded like an endearment, and when she looked at him, he felt so familiar, so known. With that one kiss he had changed everything between them, forever obliterated any distance of class or propriety. Yet, it should not happen again.
But his lips were so enticing, as if they were water and she were parched in some foreign desert. As if she had been some Sleeping Beauty, and awake, all she cared about was touching things with her own lips. Touching his.
“You must have kissed many women,” she said, trying to stop herself from taking that one illicit step forward back into his arms.
He flushed. “I was forward, I know, but please, don’t think that this is . . . that I kiss women lightly. Yes, I have kissed before, but I wanted to kiss you. Indeed, that one kiss has obliterated for me the memory of any other.”
Obliterated. He had used that word, too. As if their desire for each other was so all consuming, so powerful, it could explode resistance to it.
Resistance that was weakening in her.
“It was my first kiss,” she admitted, and then she stepped forward, lifted up on her toes, slipped her arms around his neck, and met his lips with hers. Because there were a host of things she “should” not do, had she determined to live solely on her own terms.
Today, that meant kissing Lucian Dore one more time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
But it wasn’t one more time. August was a blur of kisses. Stolen moments in the early morning or late afternoon, or on outings with Thomas when they were certain he was preoccupied with other things. They kissed in the schoolroom, and the conservatory, the greenhouse and the library. By the stream and the folly on the north lawn. After she’d slammed his ball into the hedges during a game of pall-mall. And in the upstairs gallery that they’d appropriated for a short and disastrous game of rackets, which he’d learned how to play during his days at Harrow years before. They kissed over breakfast and dinner, though those lasts were only the remembrance of kisses past and the promises of kisses to come.
Their gazes met again and again, sharp with electric pleasure, before, secret smiles on both their lips, they looked away.
And every time they did, every time they hid their growing love from the world, a little part of Luc’s soul died.
Because he wanted more than stolen kisses.
He needed to speak with Bianca, know he had her heart, and then speak with her father. But at the same time, if he spoke with Mr. Mansfield, that might very well be the end of everything. The man might stay true to his ridiculous decision that Kate marry before he even considered a suitor for Bianca. Or he might be swayed but furious at the deception Luc played. This last was a new terror for him. But he refused to countenance it, to entertain any regrets, because these last weeks had been the most amazing time in his entire life. The moments with Bianca were more delightful than any he had experienced anywhere else on his tour. He knew now that the “love” with which he had been struck that day weeks before had been merely an appreciation of her beauty, thin and likely to fade away. But the love that had grown in recognition of her inner beauty, her kindness and humor, even the rougher edges of bitterness and despair, this was an eternal love.
As he sat at lunch with the Mansfields and Miss Smith, his gaze slid again to Bianca. As usual, she was dressed in the plainest of frocks. How he longed to give her all of her dreams, the opportunity to see the world, to wear the finest clothes and the brightest jewels. He had the means to do so. She would do credit to the Dorlingsleys, and he had no doubt his parents would welcome her into the family with cheer.
All of this was why he was going to spend his afternoon off visiting Reggie instead of seeking out Bianca. He needed a strategy. He needed to clear his head and take action.
But then she met his eyes with her blue ones and his breath caught. The left corner of her lip curved up before she looked away.
“What do you think of this house party Kate has proposed?” Mr. Mansfield said.
The table went silent. Bianca’s expression froze, and then settled into that stoic one he was used to seeing whenever talk of Kate came up.
“I had no idea she had,” Bianca said slowly. “When and why?”
Luc, too, waited for the answer with bated breath. Because the event could change everything. Could endanger everything. The outside world pressing in, invading their idyll, cutting short their affair and the time he had to make things right.
“Henrietta wro
te me of it,” Mansfield said. “I was certain Kate would have said as much in her letter. Did she not write to you?”
“I would not know,” Bianca returned. “I no longer read her letters.”
“A foolishness you will now regret,” Miss Smith admonished.
“I do not like such strife,” Mansfield complained. “I don’t know why you girls cannot get along. When you were children you always clung to each other.”
“Will I get to attend? How long will it be?” Thomas asked, ignoring the undercurrent of tension as he always seemed to do. For the first time, Luc wondered what the boy thought of the discordant dynamics of the family.
“For one week. In two weeks’ time.”
“So soon as that?” Bianca said faintly.
“Yes, but you should be pleased,” Mansfield said. “I’m certain you will enjoy meeting people.”
“Pleased?” Bianca said, her voice suddenly louder and more forceful, as if she’d recovered from the initial shock.
“Yes,” her father interrupted her. “And because I knew you would be concerned about such frivolous things, I thought you might wish to join me this week when I go to take possession of my new thoroughbreds. I’m certain Eastbourne has a dressmaker that would meet your tastes.”
“You’re trying to bribe my compliance.”
Mansfield laughed. “Yes, I suppose I am. But come, be my good girl and let it work.”
A small smile lifted Bianca’s lips. “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice about the house party. Kate wishes it and so it shall be.”
Luc left lunch morose and pensive. Kate wishes it and so it shall be. Mansfield hadn’t denied his daughter’s words, and it held ill portent for Luc’s chances of a successful proposal. Beyond that, now Bianca would be away for several days. And then, there was only a short amount of time before society descended on the house. Before his masquerade might be discovered. Which meant he had very little time left indeed.
Kate was coming home. For a house party. Even thinking about it, Bianca’s breath caught in her chest, which seemed terribly small. She couldn’t get any air. Of course, Kate would return home in several months for Christmas, but for the last two years, she had flitted from town to town, country house party to country house party, following society as it moved across England. Not once in two years had Kate attempted to bring that society home.
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