Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

  And so he went on, telling them just what made Caroline Tolbertson so special, and what louts they were to not have seen it themselves. He couldn’t provide her what she needed, but he could pave the way for others to see why offering for her was something worth considering.

  She was going to make someone a passionate, though not biddable wife. And the man who had her, whoever he was, was going to count himself a lucky bastard.

  It just wasn’t going to be him.

  Chapter 10

  CAROLINE AWOKE TO the sound of a low moan, coming from her sister’s bed. Morning came early during the summer, but the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains held no resemblance to the cautious flow of dawn. It saturated the room she shared with Penelope, taking aim at the cracked space between her eyelids and bathing her face with agreeable warmth.

  Penelope, however, seemed to find nothing agreeable about it. “Oh please, make it stop,” she groaned, pulling the pillow over her face.

  Caroline bit her lip to keep from launching into a well-earned lecture. Though her recall of her sister’s antics last night did nothing to invoke a smile, knowing her sister was suffering this morning came close.

  Although, if she were honest with herself, Penelope was not the only one who had acted out of character last night.

  It all came back in a gut-twisting rush as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Miss Baxter’s dinner and the humiliating parlor game. The moonlit swim with David, and the soul-rending discovery that she had wanted the kiss he offered to mean much, much more. The profound mortification of being discovered by Dermott and his friends, though this was the one time she was grateful they had mistaken her gender.

  And finally, the ignominy of sneaking home alone, stumbling through darkness, wrapped in David’s jacket.

  She spied that jacket now, lying in a heap on the floor. The black woolen garment had hung from her shoulders last night. Each step had sent the oversized hem tangling about her bare legs. She had felt small in that jacket, a singular experience for her. It had been a visceral, constant reminder of how large David was.

  And how attractive she found him, blast the man.

  She snatched the garment up and shoved it beneath the mattress. Her stomach churned as she trudged toward the water basin. She tried in vain to scrub the memory of her poor judgment from her skin, along with the film of seawater that had dried there last night. Her hair was an absolute mess, stiff and brittle and still damp around the roots. She brushed it out and then twisted it into a bun at the nape of her neck, a severe style she knew was less than flattering but which was adept at hiding damp tresses. She had long since gotten used to such necessities as a result of her clandestine activities.

  But this morning her usual coiffure seemed painful to reconstruct. She didn’t want to hide her hair in a plain style, or her body behind an unattractive dress. David Cameron had made her feel beautiful last night.

  It hurt to return to her usual state of blandness.

  She was still sorting through her raw emotions as she jerked her best dress from the meager tangle of gowns in her wardrobe. Best, of course, being a hopeful euphemism, given how the thing pinched beneath the arms and pulled across her chest. She eyed the frock’s high-necked bodice and overskirt with embroidered sprigs of lavender flowers. “Pen,” she called out, knowing she would need help getting into it. “I need you.”

  A muffled groan was the only response her sister saw fit to deliver.

  Sighing, Caroline tried to find her corset. She nurtured hope that wearing her best gown would divert criticism and questions from her mother. A good defense, after all, required an excellent offensive strategy.

  And a good offense required a corset.

  Unfortunately, she belatedly realized that hers was still lying on the beach as a result of her mad dash for anonymity. “Pen.” She poked at her sister’s reticent body, still curled under the covers. “I need to borrow your corset. And I need your help fastening it.”

  When her sister showed no sign of response, Caroline snatched the pillow still covering Pen’s face and hit her with it. Sympathy was not chief on her list of emotions this morning. It felt good to unleash some of her annoyance in violence.

  “Ow!” Penelope cracked open a reluctant eye. “I am tired this morning. C-can’t you ring for Bess?”

  Caroline glanced toward the window, where unapologetic bright light streamed in. Usually they would have been roused by a maid an hour ago. “I am sure she is downstairs helping serve breakfast. It appears Mama has instructed her to let us sleep in.”

  “Well then.” Her sister yawned. “We shouldn’t disappoint either of them.”

  Caroline leaned in and sniffed her sister. “Are you sure you want me to ring for Bess? Or should I call Mama? Presuming she has recovered from her headache, I am sure she would be interested in learning why you are still abed and smell like a cannabis cheroot.”

  Penelope shook her head, and then pushed herself to sitting. “No, I d-don’t think that would be a wise idea at all.”

  Caroline put her hands on her hips. “I managed to get you into bed last night without attracting notice, but if we don’t make an appearance at breakfast this morning, Mama will be in here in a thrice, determined to collect every detail of our night.”

  Penelope eased herself from beneath the embroidered coverlet. “Breakfast sounds like just the thing.” She yawned, rubbing her eyes with a fist. “I wonder what we are having?”

  A quarter hour’s combined effort saw Penelope’s face washed, her hair untangled, and Caroline’s borrowed corset laced. Unlike Caroline’s own stomach, which had declared itself resentful of any expectation of sustenance, Penelope’s seemed none the worse for her brush with cannabis. She heaped her plate high with coddled eggs and sausage from the dining room sideboard, and indulged in at least three different varieties of jam on what seemed to be half a loaf of bread.

  Caroline sat down at the table and contemplated the meager slice of toast with quince jam on her own plate. Breakfast was poised to be a precarious thing, with the inevitable questions that would come. Worse, last night’s humiliation was tapping to be let out of its box. Her faithless stomach roiled in protest, and she wondered if the beef from Miss Baxter’s dinner party would make a return appearance after all.

  How was Penelope eating so heartily? Miserable, Caroline settled for a cup of tea, its warmth scalding her fingers as she lifted it to her lips.

  The sound of a fork being placed on a china plate disrupted the stillness. The copy of the Brighton Gazette their mother had been reading crinkled ominously as it was lowered to the table. “Well?” Their mother’s coiffure tilted as she regarded them, each in turn. “How was your evening?”

  “Fine,” Caroline said hastily.

  “Quite memorable,” Penelope added, impaling a fat sausage with her fork and inhaling it on a low, satisfied groan.

  Their mother frowned at Penelope’s plate. “I hope you didn’t display such a rabid appetite last night, dear. We strive to make a good impression. A lady should display a delicate appreciation for food in the company of others.”

  The urge to protect Penelope hit Caroline as squarely as the first sip of tea on her apologetic, empty stomach. “Pen is just hungry this morning because she ate sparingly at the dinner party,” Caroline said through gritted teeth. “As she knew you would want us to.”

  Although this line of questioning was preferable to the details of what else Pen might have eaten last night.

  Her mother turned her vivid blue gaze in Caroline’s direction, and probed the scant contents of her plate. “Then should I presume by your lack of appetite this morning that you indulged in heartier fare last night?”

  Caroline pressed her lips together. As if she could remember whether she had eaten at last night’s dinner party or not. Her entire capacity for memory was tied up in what had occurred after dessert had been served.

  At her lack of response, Mrs. Tolbertson sighed. “This wa
s an opportunity to shine, dear, to show everyone we are a family of substance, to begin the process of entering Brighton’s social scene.” She hesitated, then leaned forward. “Do you at least believe you made a positive impression with Lord Avery?”

  Caroline curved her fingers around her cup, wishing she had just feigned a headache and skipped breakfast all together. “Er . . . I can think of no reason why he should have formed a poor impression.” Given that he was not in attendance.

  Mama’s smile stretched wider. “Was Brandon Dermott present last night, perchance?”

  Caroline sputtered into her cup. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Dermott,” her mother pressed, passing down a napkin as if her youngest daughter had merely hiccupped instead of spewing already-sipped tea. “Pen told me about the young man who asked you to go walking after church a few weeks ago. The Dermotts have been coming to Brighton for years. I seem to recall he was a handsome youth. You could make a worse match.”

  Given that she was unlikely to make a match at all, Caroline doubted it.

  She clutched her cup’s handle as if it was a life ring. “I do not believe Mr. Dermott holds any romantic interest in me, Mama. He . . . only wished to offer his opinion on something.” Such as my kissing abilities.

  “She spent a long time speaking with David Cameron last night.” Penelope’s voice piped up with the efficiency of an arrow, finding its intended mark. “Mr. Cameron is the son of a Scottish b-baron.”

  “A baron?” her mother exclaimed. “Well, that is an interesting prospect. Is he the heir?”

  “A second son.” Caroline squirmed in her seat, realizing that she was admitting some knowledge of the man that went beyond a slight acquaintance.

  A frown pinched her mother’s face. “Is the elder son in town as well?”

  Caroline inclined her head, exasperated at the merciless probing. “I do not know, Mama. He mentioned that he was accompanying his mother here while she convalesced after a long illness. Why does it matter?”

  “The title, Caroline. Those Scottish baronies are a little murky, I’ll admit, but it is usually the eldest who inherits the caput. Although I suppose a second son is better than naught. Where is he staying?”

  “He mentioned taking rooms at the Bedford,” Caroline said warily. “And he serves as the magistrate in the Scottish town where he lives.” Why, of all things, could she remember such a trivial bit of information so clearly?

  You know why. It was the last thing he had said before he kissed her the first time.

  “Do you like him, dear?”

  The question caught Caroline off guard. Yes, she liked him. She liked him very much. But her feelings on the matter were not the point in dispute. “It hardly matters, Mama. Mr. Cameron is not interested in me that way.” She swallowed, desperate to halt this detour in the conversation. “He considers me a friend, nothing more.”

  The admission hurt, no matter that it was the truth.

  Penelope sighed dreamily. “I am not sure Caroline is correct. He chose her as a p-partner during the parlor games, and Caroline spent a few lucky moments alone with him on the terrace. And he is almost as handsome as Mr. Dermott, if I might make the observation.”

  Caroline set her porcelain cup down with enough force that it should have cracked. David Cameron, after all, was far more attractive than Mr. Dermott.

  “And what of the overlong conversation you had with the photographer, Pen?” she accused in return. “You seemed rather pleased with yourself when you returned from the terrace with him.”

  Mrs. Tolbertson’s brows jerked upward. Her incredulous gaze darted between both girls. “Terrace? Alone? What sort of party was this? Honestly, I depend on you girls to chaperone each other.”

  “Mr. Hamilton is ever so nice,” Penelope said. “He is not just a photographer, he reports on local events for the Gazette. He is knowledgeable about an astonishing number of things.”

  Like hashish, Caroline could not help but think.

  “Did you know he produces d-daguerreotypes of the natural settings around Brighton? He exposes a copper plate to iodine vapor, and the resulting silver particles create the image we see. It is a marvelous invention, and I—”

  “Penelope.” Mama sounded stern.

  “The p-potential for this process to revolutionize the printing industry—”

  “Penelope!”

  “Yes?”

  “It is a rare occasion that either of you meet eligible men. I hope you did not subject Mr. Hamilton to such verbosity last night. A lady would have listened patiently.”

  Penelope looked down at her plate, a flush marring her usually pale cheeks. “I am sure I listened well enough, if I can recall the nature of the pr-process in such detail.”

  “True,” their mother mused. “Although both of you have a remarkable capacity for speech that should be curtailed to some degree in the company of men.” She took a determined sip of tea. “Well, we must capitalize on your start last night. Bess mentioned there is a band playing at the pavilion tonight. You will go and make an appearance.” Her gaze penetrated the white lace of Caroline’s collar. “And I believe I shall send Bess into town this morning and make an appointment with that new modiste on East Street. Madame Beauclerc, did you say her name was?”

  “Mama, I do not believe . . . that is, the impression we may have made last night did not go quite as well as you think—”

  Caroline was interrupted by Bess, who entered the dining room, bobbed a curtsy, and delivered a card to their mother. “There is a . . . gentleman caller here for Miss Caroline,” the servant said, her voiced hushed in awe. “I left him in the foyer, although I could put him in the parlor if you prefer.”

  Caroline’s mouth fell open. Her pulse began hammering in her ears even before the desire to bolt from the breakfast table set in. After the disgraceful way she had departed, she had not expected David to call on her today, and certainly not so early. Surely he wouldn’t mention anything of their night in front of her family . . .

  Her mother fanned herself with one eager hand. “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “A gentleman caller. Why, I still recall the day I received three gentlemen callers. That was a day to remember.” Her eyes sparked with excitement as she took up the card and read it. Slowly, her hand lowered to the table, and she leveled a shrewd gaze in Caroline’s direction.

  “Well, my dear, you must have made a better impression than you realized, because someone named Mr. Peter Branson is here to see you.”

  Chapter 11

  CAROLINE UNDERSTOOD WHY Mama would be vibrating with excitement, given the fact they rarely received visitors, much less ones of the gentlemanly variety. But she couldn’t help but feel piqued by Bess and Pen’s bold curiosity in the proceedings. The pair followed her out of the dining room as well, speaking in noisy whispers.

  Mr. Branson was waiting in the foyer. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a straight arrow of a nose, sandy hair, and skin that showed the residual ravages of late adolescence. He was almost as tall as Caroline, and his brown eyes darted from right and left and seemed to settle, more than once, in the vicinity of her skirts.

  Heavens. Was he trying to see through her skirts?

  He was clutching a small bunch of flowers, which Caroline accepted with bewilderment before passing them to Bess. After all, she didn’t know this man. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know him. If she searched her memory, he looked a bit like one of the useless young gentlemen at Miss Baxter’s dinner party last night.

  Which wasn’t a point in his favor.

  “Thank you for receiving me this morning,” he said. The voice sparked an unfortunate memory. The words had been slurred, but he sounded very much like one of the voices from the nightmare of her almost-ruin last night.

  In lieu of a greeting, Caroline narrowed her eyes. What was this about?

  “Mr. Branson.” Her mother overcame Caroline’s lack of manners and greeted the young man with a smile and an outstretched hand. “We
are so delighted to make your acquaintance.” She was reminded that her mother, at least, knew how to receive gentlemen callers.

  “I am the one who is delighted, Mrs. Tolbertson,” he said, offering what on the surface appeared to be a genuine smile. The gesture revealed uneven teeth, and Caroline shifted her uneasy gaze to the ends of his collar, which had been starched to attention. His clothing was the absolute height of fashion, with a necktie instead of a cravat, and a striped waistcoat that would have put Mr. Dermott to shame. No wonder Mama was fluttering about like a moth that had spied a newly lit bonfire.

  Regardless of the state of his teeth or his skin, the man’s clothing bespoke money.

  “Would you care to step into the parlor?” Her mother launched into her role as hostess with practiced ease, as if her fumbling, stumbling daughters received callers on a daily basis. “It is early for visiting hours, but I could ring for some tea and an early luncheon.”

  Caroline gritted her teeth. For heaven’s sake. They hadn’t even finished breakfast yet. Neither could they afford to waste the perfectly good repast already laid out on the dining room sideboard.

  Mr. Branson, thankfully, answered with a shake of his head. “No thank you. I came so early because of the day’s temperature, you see. It promises to be devilishly warm later. I was hoping Miss Caroline would consider taking a walk with me this morning on the Marine Parade.”

  Caroline’s mouth fell open. Her only prior experience with such a thing had been with Mr. Dermott, when he had invited her to walk the length of the Chain Pier after church two weeks ago. Given the way that fiasco had turned out, she didn’t trust her voice to convey the appropriate sentiment.

  Of course, Dermott had orchestrated that scenario to win a wager. He had not presented himself formally to her family, or asked her in such a charming, confident manner.

  At the stunned silence that descended on the four women crowding the foyer, Branson shifted from one foot to the other. “I know this is sudden, and that you scarcely know me, but I hail from London. My father owns Branson’s Dry Goods, a purveyor of fine—”