The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

  “I win,” he said.

  “That’s not fair,” she cried.

  “Not fair?” he echoed. “As in, say, entering the maze before the start of the contest, or squiggling through rabbit holes instead of following corridors?”

  “I don’t recall anyone saying anything that prohibited a creative strategy,” she said with as much dignity as a woman suspended in the air can muster.

  He came to his senses with a jolt, realizing he was still holding her with the negligent ease of long familiarity. Gently, he swung her up more fully into his arms preparatory to returning her feet to the ground and made the mistake of looking into her upraised face. His chest tightened. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her. Instead, he lowered her carefully to her feet and reached up, ostensibly to push aside a low-hanging bough, but in reality grabbing a hard hold of the branch, physically bracing himself against the urge to snatch her up and finally discover the flavor of her mouth.

  “Now there’s specious reasoning,” he said, striving for a normal tone.

  Her brown silk curls tumbled in disarray around her shoulders, a leaf caught near her temple. A thin red scratch marked her cheek.

  “It is the reasoning of a winner,” she countered.

  “But you didn’t win,” he pointed out. He reached out with his free hand and dislodged the stowaway leaf from its berth. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on his, but a faint wash of color flowed up her neck and into her face.

  “Only because you used superior physical strength to prevent me from doing so,” she said. Her breath came rapid and light. “My little maneuvers did not impede you in any way.”

  “Is there any possibility I shall get the best of this conversation?”

  “It’s doubtful.”

  “Ah, I see. I thought as much,” he said. “And may I presume that since you are convinced that I have wronged you, you believe I should concede you the victory?”

  “It would be the sporting thing to do,” she conceded.

  His lips twitched. “Allow me to apologize, Lady Lydia”—her eyes brightened with anticipated victory—“for my lack of sportsmanship. But . . .” He leaned toward her, lowering his head so that they were eye level, his hands still hanging tight to the bough above him. This close, he could see the lighter striations in her amazing irises, the dark indigo and brighter, almost lavender hue.

  “I still win and you still lose.”

  She stared, startled, and then abruptly grinned and graciously inclined her head. “Indeed, you have, Captain,” she said. “Now what is the winner’s portion you would have from me?”

  She could have demurred or refused or taken any of a dozen courses to wheedle her way out of the bargain. She instead proved herself honorable, bright, and unfortunately all too obviously innocent of man’s baser impulses. Damned innocent. God, he loved her. “Your hand,” he whispered.

  She blinked, startled, and he grasped that without realizing it he’d spoken aloud his heart’s desire. But he had no right, he hadn’t told her yet that his pockets were to let, his family stood within a stone’s throw of dun territory, and that he had few prospects but many responsibilities. So he held out his free hand, holding as tight to his principles as he did with his other hand to the bough overhead, and gave his words another meaning.

  Her brow furrowed as her gaze fell on his hand dividing the space between them. Her gaze rose to his face and her scowl deepened with some emotion he could not name.

  “That is it?” she asked. “All you ask is a handshake ?”

  “Why, yes,” he replied with admirable aplomb. “What would you have asked for?”

  She looked straight up into his eyes. “A kiss, for goodness’ sake!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lydia’s sorriest fear was confirmed; she was a trollop.

  From the moment Ned had looped his arm around her waist and spun her off the ground, even though he was simply manhandling her in order to win the contest, the delicious ease with which he controlled her stoked her imagination with all sorts of wanton thoughts. And they, in turn, took her breath away.

  So when he’d stuck out his hand and she realized the prize he meant to have was a sportsmanlike shake, a devil of disappointment and longing let loose the truth.

  A deep blush stained her cheeks and her gaze dropped. She could not bring herself to witness his reaction. Ned was the consummate gentleman. At the very least, he would be embarrassed for her—

  “Lydia.”

  She turned and his mouth gently descended on hers. His lips were soft, much softer than she would have imagined, and firm. He angled his head so that his lips parted softly around her top one. She sighed, her eyes drifting, as the pressure increased. He tugged on her lip before releasing it and his mouth glided to her bottom lip to kiss it in the same manner.

  She melted toward him and rested her palms on his chest, vaguely aware that except for his lips, he was not touching her at all. But his mouth . . . ! Oh, his mouth made up for the oversight. He lingered in the kiss, moving gently from her top to bottom lip and back again, softly exploring every inch, probing, pulling, and polishing. Her ragged breathing mingled with his and she grew light-headed under the sensual onslaught.

  She swooned closer, bracing herself against his chest, her forearms resting against its heavy rise and fall. He was warm and hard, like heated stone, and she was like melted wax, pliant and yielding. The tip of his tongue slipped along the seam of her lips and her knees turned to liquid. Unmoored and incapable of pulling away, she curled a hand around the broad back of his neck and clung, her lips parting to admit his tongue.

  A shudder raced through his big body. From far away she heard a feminine sound of surrender and longing, and she realized it was her own. His tongue delved deeply into her mouth, warm and muscular and forcefully masculine.

  She heard something snap.

  And just that abruptly, the kiss was over.

  Ned lifted his head, breaking her hold on his neck and straightening. For a moment he stared past her, his breathing heavy, his nostrils flaring with each exhalation. Whatever his interior vision, it brought him no pleasure. Grave and unsmiling, he looked down at her.

  “Lady Lydia—”

  “Do not apologize,” she warned him in a soft, shaky voice.

  He looked at her soberly. “But I must,” he said. “I have taken advantage of the remoteness of this place, a child’s wager, and a lamentable lack of restraint on my part to impose on you. I promised myself I would comport myself in a manner that honored you and now I have . . .” His jaw bunched and he shook his head slightly, overwhelmed by what he saw as his own objectionable idea.

  God. If he thought for one moment that she had purposely maneuvered him into a situation where he would be forced to make her an offer—

  “I do not consider myself compromised,” she blurted out.

  “Nor do I,” he answered quickly, his expression frustrated and confounded. “You misunderstand me.”

  “Then pray make yourself understood,” she said, substituting ire for mortification.

  “Before I can speak of matters you have every right to expect me to address, and which I want above all things to frame, as a gentleman I must make certain things known to you.”

  “If you feel it necessary,” she said stiffly.

  He swallowed, looked away, then back at her. He squared his shoulders slightly and broadened his stance, his hands still clasped firmly behind his back, like a captain about to enter close quarters with an enemy vessel. “My circumstances are not felicitous.”

  Whatever she had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. “Felicitous?”

  He nodded. “My name is an old and honorable one, which I have always borne with pride. Josten Hall, my family seat, has been a symbol of my family’s nobility and endurance. For a dozen generations, it has elicited admiration and approbation from all who have visited there.” He looked at her. “I am telling you this because I am hoping you might understand my attach
ment to what is just stone and mortar and earth.”

  “I do,” she said. “You once said that you had come home. A home represents solace, does it not? A place from which one draws strength and security? I appreciated them very well. Those are things I depend on my friends to provide if not any one place.”

  “You would do much to preserve your friendships.”

  They were all she had left. “Indeed, yes. As would you your family’s home.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed quietly, then shook his head at some troubling thought. He took a short, deep breath and went on. “When I arrived home from sea, I was informed that Josten Hall was endangered and unless some remedy was found it would need to be sold.”

  “Endangered? By whom?”

  “By extravagances and poor management, crop failures, a post-war economy, Corn Laws, and the wretched excess of my unfortunate kin,” he said calmly.

  The import of his words crashed in on her. No. Oh, no. Oh. No. How bad was it? Maybe his idea of difficulty meant selling off a few carriages. . . . “Your family is . . . in financial difficulties?” It was unconscionably bold of her, but she had to know.

  He smiled ruefully. “My family is flat broke.”

  She had no warning. One moment she was standing facing him, the next her knees buckled and she was landing in a puff of material on the grass. He leaned over and held out his hand, but she was too intent on getting an answer to her question and ignored it.

  “But you personally have resources at your command,” she said, looking up at him. “The captain’s share of all those ships you took, and you would be conservative in your financial dealings. . . .” She trailed off.

  His hand dropped and he shifted back into that battle stance. “I am afraid that other than my name, massive financial obligations, and a disastrously profligate family, I have nothing to offer any young lady”—he paused, swallowed—“except myself.”

  My God, he is as poor as I. She stared up at him thunderstruck, her thoughts whirling like a gyroscope, unable to countenance how in such a few short minutes life had gone from so tantalizing to so terrible.

  “I have a duty to do what is in my power to preserve that which generations of my forefathers fought and struggled to make and keep,” he said. “Still, I could not—” He broke off abruptly, other than a certain tension in the set of his jaw there was no sign his confession had been painful to make. “I cannot say more until I hear your reaction.”

  Another realization broke in upon her: He did not know she, too, was “flat broke.” And why would he? She had made every effort to keep anyone, including him, from knowing. He must think her outrageously wealthy. . . . Dear God. He had been searching for a rich spouse, the same as she.

  No, no, no. Her eyes closed and she started to laugh. She couldn’t stop. She buried her face in her hands and tears flowed from her eyes, and she could not tell if she was crying from the tragedy of it or the absurdity.

  “Lady Lydia. Lydia,” she heard him say, concerned and confused. “Lydia?”

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m fine. I . . .” She pressed her knuckles into her forehead. It had all happened so fast. The kiss, his suggestion that he would like to propose, his disclosure . . .

  “Lydia.” Ned’s voice, taut with anxiety.

  She opened her eyes. He hovered over her, his gaze intent but without hurt or even recrimination, only concern. She had to pull herself together. She had to say something.

  “Captain,” she said from where she still sat at his feet, “I fear we have spent these weeks plotting the same course and with the same destination in mind.”

  “Forgive me for being obtuse, but I do not take your meaning,” he said, his brow furrowing.

  “I, too, have been victim of, how did you so succinctly phrase it? ‘Extravagances and poor management, crop failures, a post-war economy, Corn Laws, and my own wretched excesses.’ In other words, Captain”—she smiled weakly—“if your family is living in dun territory, I am the next address over.”

  “I see.”

  He handled the news with far greater aplomb than she. He didn’t fall flat on his bum. His brows drew together before quickly smoothing out again. Hardly surprising; Ned was the ideal of self-possessed gentleman. But this time she did not appreciate his deportment. She hated how easily he accepted the end of their never-to-be relationship. But, then, perhaps his heart was not engaged so much as hers.

  She had no doubt he had tender feelings for her. But to what extent? As much say, as Eleanor had for her spaniel—which, granted, was a fair amount, but when the dog began soiling the Oriental carpet Eleanor certainly hadn’t resisted moving her to the farm. Or perhaps as much as Sarah seemed to have for Prince Carvelli, over whom she insisted on making such a cake of herself?

  There was no sense in speculating. Ned wasn’t going to ask her for her hand, not when he had just told her why he wanted it. At least he wouldn’t unless he felt himself obligated. And she wouldn’t accept it if he did, no matter how much she might be tempted, because when all was said and done, she was no fool.

  Such a marriage could be . . . agreeable, even if such a marriage meant a lady must live apart from her friends in unfamiliar surroundings, but only if a lady was certain of her husband’s affection and that she had been asked for her hand in marriage despite her poverty, not because a man felt duty bound to do so. But if a gentleman did not love a lady, wholeheartedly, passionately, and devotedly, it would be horrifying for a lady to marry him knowing that by wedding her, a gentleman was forfeiting his honor and turning his back on those he did love. And then she would be truly alone.

  She looked up. He was regarding her intently, waiting for her to speak. “Yes, well. You can appreciate the humor of it, can’t you? Both of us hunting for a spouse who can extradite us from our financial woes and ending up . . . here.” Her bright tone didn’t quite last through her final word. No matter.

  She tucked her feet beneath her and pushed off the ground. At once, he was beside her, taking her hand in his, the other still behind his back in a courtly attitude as he lifted her to her feet. She bolted upright and backed away, flustered by a surge of potent attraction.

  Dear God. She was worse than a trollop.

  He stepped forward, following her and lowering his head slightly to better read her expression. He would be looking for some sign that she considered there to be an “understanding” between them and being a gentleman—Lord, she was beginning to loathe that term! It allowed a man to conceal so much beneath a facade—he would be quick to see and quicker still to act if he perceived she did. A gentleman did not lead a young lady into supposing an offer would be forthcoming.

  She had to make sure he didn’t see too much of what she felt in her face. And though she had years of practice keeping a pleasant countenance in place, she did not trust herself now. She had never been in love before.

  “Well, Captain,” she said conversationally, occupying herself by looking down and brushing uselessly at her ruined skirt. “As disappointed as we both are bound to be, at least some comfort must be taken in the fact that love was never mentioned.”

  His head snapped back an incremental degree. Her pulse began galloping.

  “And thank heaven no one’s more passionate sentiments were stirred,” she said, trying to sound suave. Did he have passionate sentiments for her?

  Long seconds passed before he answered. “As you say, ma’am.”

  But what if they were? What if he proposed? What would she say?

  She did not know, she realized in amazement, and hard on its heels came panic. Would she say yes? No. No. She would not. Dear God, Sarah’s madness must be contagious. She could not believe she was entertaining such fantastical notions. He needed a rich wife; she required a rich husband. They weren’t two islands, alone and adrift at sea. They had obligations, others who depended on them, and lives that precluded their being together. That had been her first thought because it was the obvious thought.

  Even
if he did love her despite her poverty and asked for her hand, how long would it take before he began to resent his choice and the fact that in marrying her he’d consigned his family to penury? He would never show his resentment, of course, he was a gentleman. But she would always wonder.

  To love passionately and wholly and not know whether that love was returned would be terrible. The only thing worse would be to know for a fact it was not. Her thoughts flew unwillingly and unfailingly to Caro Lamb.

  She chanced an upward glance. Ned wore a polite and respectful expression, nothing more. She needn’t have worried. Either way, she was not going to know. Unaccountably, her throat closed.

  “Isn’t that a blessing?” she asked in a thin voice.

  He inclined his head. “Ma’am.”

  With each of his deferential replies, her composure became more unraveled. She was at odds with herself. She wanted . . . Oh, damn and blast, she did not know what she wanted! What she did not want was to lose his—

  “We are still friends, are we not?” Her words tumbled out in a rush. How ironic. Just an hour earlier she had been depressed by the idea that this might be all Ned wanted of her; now the thought of losing his friendship frightened her beyond imagining.

  “I beg pardon, Lady Lydia?” His brows drew together, his gaze growing more intense. Or was it just her imagination?

  “I wish above all things that we are able to meet again without discomfort or awkwardness and as friends.”

  “Friends,” he repeated in an odd voice.

  “Yes. I value our camaraderie and I hope you value it, too.”

  “Of course.”

  His gaze flowed over her face, studying her. Lydia could not tell what he was thinking. She did not want to lose him. If she could not have him as a spouse, she must have his friendship.

  “We are surely sophisticated enough that we won’t allow our amusing mutual misunderstanding about each other’s nonexistent wealth to endanger that?” She couldn’t stop herself.

  He smiled. “But of course.”