“You can kiss me back,” he murmured against her startled, open mouth. “Like this.” His hands shifted to tilt her chin just so, and his tongue moved inside her mouth. She met his offering with a tentative touch of her own tongue.
Shattering became a very real possibility.
Thank God they were sitting in cool, shallow water, because she was sure her knees would have buckled and pitched her headfirst onto the ground had she been standing.
“Good, lass.” He breathed the praise into her mouth, and her heart glowed bright in response. “You’re a quick study.”
Dimly she realized her hands had crept up to grip his bare arms. She curled her fingers against him, wishing her spinning head was clearer. She had never touched a bare-chested man before. Not to put too fine a point on it, she had never seen a bare-chested man before. She wanted to savor the vitality of him, explore by touch the rough rasp of hair that seemed to cover so much of him.
But it was impossible to capture such thoughts properly. The sensation spiraling inside her left her grasping at memories that whirled away almost as soon as she made them.
The mortification she had been clutching during the first tentative seconds of the kiss slipped away, lost to the flood of emotions his touch unleashed. She gasped his name, and was rewarded by the sweep of his tongue down the sensitive column of her neck.
His hold on her head loosened as his attentions shifted lower. He lingered along her neck, his teeth nipping at the thin skin there. “Wait for that. Wait for a husband who kisses with a mind to bring you pleasure.” His words were breathed against the curve of her collarbone, and were followed by the press of his tongue there. “He should not stop until you are squirming with need.”
If he was looking to prove some demented point, he was performing admirably, because Caroline was indeed squirming. She had never felt this way. Had not imagined it, even in her most heated of dreams. She had imagined a kiss bringing only a simple, sweet happiness, such as could be found in a good iced dessert, or in the opening of an unexpected gift.
This feeling was not sweet. It was certainly not simple. It was closer in both form and function to one of the wild storms that sometimes ravaged the coast in summer and left all matter of flotsam littering the shoreline. She was tossed by it, broken into pieces, pushed under. She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t stop.
She gasped as David’s tongue found the damp edge of her chemise. She dug her nails into the skin of his arms and welcomed the warmth of his mouth as he traced the scalloped border of lace. The realization that men found pleasure kissing women in places other than lips was only just eclipsed by the simultaneous discovery that she enjoyed being kissed elsewhere too.
And then her mind skipped several spaces ahead. This was heading nowhere good.
What was she doing? What was she thinking?
She sucked in a breath, stunned by a painful clarity that intruded on the moment and demanded closer scrutiny. This interlude might be more pleasurable than her first two kisses, but it was also far more dangerous. David Cameron was not a marriageable sort of gentleman, by his own admission. He had expressed a distrust—indeed, an intense dislike—of the institution of marriage and everything that came with it.
And yet, wasn’t a kiss supposed to be an exploration of compatibility for just such an inevitability? Wasn’t it, if she was lucky and the man was a gentleman, supposed to be only a prelude to a betrothal?
She didn’t know. But her heart, naïve and eager as it was, told her it was not supposed to be just a desperate melding of tongues or a carnal fusion of breath or a gnawing ache inside her.
It was supposed to mean more than just the moment.
She kicked away from him then, found her feet and stumbled further ashore. She heard David scramble up after her in a clatter of rocks, heard him call out her name. She ignored him, trying to bundle the heavy mass of hair up into a knot against her neck as she lunged for her discarded clothing. Better to leave now, before something happened between them that spelled her ruin.
At that moment, a light appeared. It bobbed around the copse of high grass that bordered the footpath’s entrance to the cove. Her heart, which had been laboring to put some space between her body and the man who made it want so much more, hitched in the complete opposite direction.
“Oh, I say, this is a nice beach.” Dermott’s voice rang out behind the bright flare of a lantern. The light swung in an erratic circle, as if he was inspecting the place. “Why haven’t we come here before?”
“It’s a bloody hour’s walk” came a slurred male voice she didn’t recognize. “And we aren’t usually drunk enough to attempt it.”
“Does that mean you aren’t going to help finish off the bottle I brought?” came a third voice she thought might belong to the red-haired man with whom Penelope had spent much of the evening conversing.
“ ’Course not. There’s always room for another drink, you sodden fool.”
In an instant, David was beside her, sheltering her with his enormous, bristling presence. Her pulse rate kicked higher. She didn’t know whether to grab his hand for safety, or to strike him for putting her in this untenable situation.
Dear God, they could not be seen together. That would be an entirely different sort of ruin from the physical one she had just feared. As if in agreement, he pushed her toward the boulder where he had flung his jacket earlier. She fumbled her way toward it. The danger of discovery felt as tangible as the pressure of his fingers on the small of her back.
The glow from Dermott’s tilting lantern swung around at that instant and caught David in an indistinct sweep of light. She froze behind him, cornered like a small, hunted animal.
And then she was diving for the safety of the rock, all thoughts of kisses and regret overcome by the single, all-consuming urge to hide.
“SAY, IT’S CAMERON and some chap!”
David straightened and raised a hand, determined to draw their attention away from Caroline. Dermott came closer and held the lantern high, peering up at David’s face.
Thank God. If Dermott had directed the light a little to the left, he would have caught sight of Caroline’s hand snatching his jacket off the edge of the rock. A little lower, and he would have caught an equally suspicious eyeful. After all, David’s body was only just beginning to recede to a respectable degree.
“You look like you’ve taken a dip,” Dermott said. He appeared drunk, although not so drunk that he had either forgotten—or forgiven—the insult David had lobbed at him earlier. “Is the swimming here good, then?”
David struggled with dueling urges. On one hand, he was sorely tempted to correct the man who seemed determined to be the village idiot. The beautifully responsive woman who had been in his arms only moments ago was no “chap.” He had a flagging cockstand to prove it.
On the other hand, Dermott’s presumption that Caroline had been just another inebriated gentleman, out for a midnight swim, was a misperception worth encouraging.
“It’s not bad swimming tonight,” he admitted, the memory of his playful romp with Caroline simmering in the back of his head. “Of course, I wouldn’t recommend it unless you are a good swimmer. The current here is devilishly strong.”
“I took first in a swimming competition during one of my terms at Oxford.” Dermott came even closer, swinging the damned lantern and casting dizzying shadows far and wide. The smell of whisky-soaked breath assaulted David’s nose as the man sneered, “And I won Brighton’s annual race last year. Perhaps we should have a little race ourselves, here tonight.”
David sought a different diversion, one that wouldn’t take a drunken dandy out into the water. “Perhaps we should have a little drink, instead.” He prayed Caroline had the good sense to stay hidden through the negotiations. Her appearance right now might result in the sort of churlish behavior from Dermott that David would have to reward with a right hook.
Not that the thought of hitting a prick like Dermott didn�
��t carry a certain appeal.
“I imagine I could drink you under the table too,” Dermott said belligerently.
“Only one way to find out.” David snatched up his trousers and shirt and began the awkward business of pushing grit-covered limbs into them. Tonight, the thought of going on a whisky bender with Dermott and his friends was about as appealing as the idea of swigging a snifter of seawater. His answer seemed to appease Dermott, though. The man squatted and began digging out a pit in the pebble-strewn beach with his hands. One of his friends grabbed a piece of driftwood and began to arrange it for a fire.
David expelled a frustrated breath. How to extricate himself from this mess? If he and Caroline were caught out alone at this time of night, and in such a state of undress, she would be ruined. And he couldn’t offer for her, even if her reputation was shredded, even if there were some who would consider it the right thing to do. Being ruined was not the worst possible thing that could happen to an innocent like Caroline.
Being forced to marry someone like him was.
Besides, after their conversation this evening, he doubted the meager numbers in his bank account would qualify him as a respectable match, no matter that he was the second son of a baron.
“Where’d the other chap go?” Dermott tossed over his shoulder. “Hamilton here has an almost full bottle here he’s willing to share.”
David spared a glance for the gentleman with the bottle. It was the man who had provided Caroline’s sister with the cheroot, unless he was mistaken. Such illustrious company he was keeping tonight.
“He is . . . er . . . already heading back to town,” David improvised. From the corner of his eye, he saw Caroline sneak away from the rock, wrapped in the dark safety of his jacket. The thought of her damp, bare shoulders shrugging into it while she fumed about being called a “chap” brought a reluctant smile to his face.
Dermott’s head swiveled to the left and he spent a long moment staring at something on the ground near David’s feet. “Looks like he forgot something.”
David glanced down too. Dermott was staring at Caroline’s wadded-up gown.
He snatched it up, then tucked it into a ball beneath one arm. “I’ll return it to him in the morning.” David prayed they accepted his harried explanation. With any luck, none of the louts would notice he was holding a ladies’ gown instead of men’s clothing.
He went searching for his shoes. Found Caroline’s corset instead. Cursing under his breath, he kicked the thing beneath a scrubby bush and prayed the group didn’t decide go on a treasure hunt.
Behind the men, he could see a moving shadow that told him Caroline had made it to the western edge of the cove, where the footpath veered off. The quick flash of a long, bare leg extending below the hem of the coat drew his eye. He swallowed, willing his body to stop paying such close attention to her legs.
He had kissed her tonight for no reason other than to show her what a proper kiss could be, to shape her knowledge into something she could use in the future. His point had been made.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
She finally disappeared from view and he could breathe again. He wanted nothing more than to follow her. To make sure she made it home safely, to be convinced she understood the experience he had offered had been just that: an experience, with no expectation—or promise—of anything else. The sounds she had made, and her body’s eager response, had him worrying that she thought more of it than she should.
But he could not leave and risk this rowdy group following him. And so he sat cross-legged on the pebbled shore as the fire began to snap. Accepted the bottle of swill that Mr. Hamilton produced. Took a long, throat-constricting draught and tried not to think about her.
And proved a miserable failure at the exercise.
His body’s reaction during their kiss had startled him. He had progressed from interest to full-bore lust in the space of five seconds. If she had not stopped him, he couldn’t peg what the outcome of the evening might have been.
He was an idiot. She was a friend, for Christ’s sake. It had been her proximity and state of undress, nothing more. Dangerous, to be sure, but explainable.
Her body wasn’t even fashioned in a way that would normally interest him. He was more often drawn to women who were soft and pillowy, with curves one could ride into oblivion. He had always preferred breasts that fit in his hands, or better yet, that spilled over his questing palms. In contrast, Caroline was mostly lean muscle. He knew it by feel now as much as by sight; she had been devilishly hard to keep hold of when she had been squirming in his arms.
But despite his claims to the contrary, he hadn’t felt just . . . friendly when she had sighed into his lips.
History didn’t just poke a stern finger at him then, it clear kicked his feet out from under him. Tonight he had come very close to ruining an innocent young woman of gentle breeding. Had he learned nothing from his past? Dallying with her served no one’s interests, and conjured up dark parts of his soul he was determined to keep buried.
Caroline Tolbertson was not the sort of woman available for a quick tup against a wall. She would not be interested in the type of hard and fast coupling he specialized in, a storm of emotionless energy that would leave both of them simultaneously satisfied and empty. She was bound for marriage, a family, a future.
In short, she was bound for everything he had already destroyed in another.
He struggled through these punishing thoughts for a good quarter hour while the surrounding conversation centered on the sorts of things soused young men talked about by firelight. Whose horse had made a better showing at the Brighthelmston Races last week. Which barmaid at the Rising Sun pub would serve up more than just a pint.
But then, it veered into dangerous territory.
“I say, that was good fun at the dinner party tonight.” One of the men, who had been identified as someone named Branson, passed the whisky bottle to his left. “Shadow Buff is a brilliant game, Dermott. Wouldn’t have minded a go on the terrace with Miss Baxter. Lovely bubbies, she has.”
Dermott, who was sitting across the space of the fire, raised his hands, palms up, as if squeezing a woman’s breast in each. “More than a handful, sure enough. Which begs the question, Cameron. Why didn’t you pick her when you had the chance?”
Three pairs of whisky-lidded eyes turned to stare at him. David’s shoulders tensed. He recalled he had, for a moment, similarly weighed Miss Baxter’s attributes when faced with the need for a quick decision earlier this evening. Now he felt guilty for having ever considered them. “I chose the woman I found most interesting.”
Branson laughed, a harsh, flat sound. “Come on. You’re putting us on. If given the choice between Miss Baxter and Miss Tolbertson, I wager any sane man would pick the former.”
David raised a brow. “I promise you, I am perfectly sane. I would question, however, the intelligence of a man who might think the only thing worth admiring in a woman is the size of her tits. There is more to Miss Tolbertson than you might imagine.”
Branson fell quiet, though his eyes widened in surprise. Dermott, however, was not silenced. “You have to admit, Cameron, there is something a bit unnatural about a girl whose shoulders are broader than a man’s. She seems rather . . . athletic, after all.”
David’s lip curled up in a half smile. “Perhaps it is all a matter of proportion. For example, my shoulders quite eclipse Miss Tolbertson’s.” He should have stopped then, let the insult hang in the air, a well-deserved observation that the problem was less Miss Tolbertson’s statuesque physique than Dermott’s lack of one.
But then his mouth got ahead of his thoughts. “I like a tall woman,” he said, though in truth he had never given it much thought before tonight. A memory flashed through his head, of Caroline’s bare legs, just before she disappeared down the footpath. When they had been sitting in the surf he hadn’t given her legs much thought, but now he couldn’t imagine how he had overlooked them. They were
pale and slim and had stretched a good half mile from hip to heel before disappearing into a shift so short it should be banned on several continents. “A tall woman has longer legs, certainly.”
“You picked Miss Tolbertson tonight because of her legs?” Dermott sounded incredulous. “How could you even know what her legs might look like? She was wearing a bloody ugly dress. Never seen a frock so hideous.”
David shrugged. “Use your imagination, man. You haven’t seen Miss Baxter’s breasts either, and yet every one of you here is salivating over them. Imagine how long Miss Tolbertson’s legs are, beneath that ugly gown. Imagine what it would be like to be the one to discover them.” He paused, something mean churning in his gut. He wanted to box these young men about the ears. He didn’t want to imagine any of these three lusting after Caroline, but he also didn’t want to imagine her continued torture at their hands either.
“Think about it,” David told them. “When it comes to a partner, do you want someone delicate and fragile, or do you want someone who can handle a bit of bed sport without falling to a fit of the vapors?” He cleared his throat, realizing he might have gone too far. “Not that I have engaged in anything so improper as bed sport with Miss Tolbertson, mind you. She is a well-bred girl with proper ideas, after all. But she is the sort of woman a man would be proud to call wife. If she was on your arm, you’d never have need to look for a mistress.”
All three mouths opened in wordless surprise.
It occurred to David that these inebriated men were hanging on his every word. In fact, they almost looked envious that it had been he who had taken Caroline out on the terrace this evening.
Perhaps he hadn’t gone far enough.
Summer Is for Lovers Page 9
