Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “I would question whether such a skill is useful even on land.” She began wading toward shore, leaving him to follow. “Endurance is the key to this race, David,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Success in open water requires more than brute strength. It’s more a matter of using the current to advantage than defeating it outright. And you’ve yet to experience the threat of this inlet at the point of high tide. If you’re to have any hope of winning next week, you must be able to swim no matter the tide cycle.”

  David pushed after her. He couldn’t deny the logic. They hadn’t even left the rock shelf once this afternoon, and he had been grateful every time his toes scraped against the bottom. His arms and legs felt none too solid, and he found himself relieved she hadn’t put him to the test.

  Yet.

  But there was no doubt that test needed to come soon. The more she had drilled him, the more hopeful he had become regarding the prospect of winning. His portion of the prize money would be the equivalent of two or more years’ salary for someone like his friend Patrick Channing, who eked out a respectable living as Moraig’s veterinarian. Or it would be six months’ blunt for a London dandy like Mr. Dermott. That amount of money would not solve his financial problems, but it would carry him to a place where his investments began to pay out.

  And now that he had met Caroline, now that he had brushed up against her innocence and been reminded so forcefully of his own shortcomings, he was more determined than ever to avoid the sort of hell that would come from marrying a naïve young chit to solve his financial questions.

  “What comes next?” he asked as he dragged himself from the surf, half fearing she would direct him to perform more calisthenics while she jeered at his lack of endurance.

  This time, she offered him a smile instead of an order. “I usually dry out a bit before attempting to dress.”

  David eyed the shingle beach at his feet. Surely she didn’t stretch out and sun herself there. That mermaid bit was a jest, after all. Although, the thought of an hour’s walk back to Brighton, with coarse sand and crushed shells rubbing beneath wet clothing was about as appealing at this moment as another go in the surf.

  Caroline clambered up onto the big rock that rose up about ten feet back from the water. She pulled out her hairpins, shook out her damp tresses, and settled into a self-conscious sprawl, tugging her altered dress as low as it would reach. Then, with her eyes closed, she turned her face up to the sun.

  And David, once he had fully recovered his breath, could do no more than stare in stupid wonder.

  During this morning’s conversation on Shop Street, he had enjoyed her company immensely. But much of that enjoyment had been cerebral in nature, the pleasure of sparring with her well-equipped mind. The ill-advised urge to kiss her again had been there, hovering below the surface, but it was easily tempered on a public street with Branson serving as a bloody spectator. During their swimming lesson she had been covered to her neck in water and her lips had been issuing such terse commands that more pleasant options for her mouth were the last thing on his mind.

  But now, the barely clad creature sunning herself on the rock clear snatched every thought from his head save one: Caroline Tolbertson was bloody beautiful.

  The water-soaked remnants of what had been a hideous gown skirted the contours of her lithe body, meandering along gentle curves that stretched the eye and the imagination. The sunlight dazzled his eyes, gathering momentum from the white cliffs and bouncing off the sparkling water. That light fell on thick, waving hair that he could now see wasn’t just brown, but shot through with a hundred shades of gold and umber.

  Had he a rope and enough nerve, he would have bound her hands, just to keep her from bundling those damp, vibrant tresses back up into the stern knot she preferred.

  Then, of course, there was the problem of her legs. There were yards and yards of them, stretching from beneath the hem of her torn-off gown. As his eyes skimmed the neat indentation in one of Caroline’s calves, it occurred to him that before last night, David had never given much thought to a woman’s legs. He’d only blathered on and on about them to foster his drunken comrades’ imaginations. Today, presented with such a delightful view of Caroline’s, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

  It was as if last evening’s whisky-inspired soliloquy had brought this nightmare to life and now he was destined to think of nothing else.

  Despite a reminder to behave, despite even a stern mental curse or two, his lower body stirred at the sight she presented. Damn his imagination to hell and back. He sent up a prayer of thanks that Caroline’s eyes were tightly closed against the sun, because he was quite sure he would give her an eyeful should she choose to look.

  David settled himself on the rock beside her, welcoming the distraction of the sun-warmed stone beneath his bare shoulders. He kept his gaze trained on the cliffs that stretched above him, counting the swallows and admiring their dizzying acrobatics, probing the crevices that peeked down from hundred-foot walls.

  Anything to keep his eyes off her legs.

  Gradually, the beauty of the place shoved its way in front of his humming awareness of her. His senses felt assaulted. The stinging warmth of the sun was eclipsed only by the pungent smell of salt and vegetation and the constant, earthy rumble of waves. His gaze settled on the high watermarks visible against the white chalk walls. He lingered there a moment, admiring the artistic contrast of dark against light.

  But then he sat bolt upright as the meaning of those marks registered in his sun-fogged head. She had not been exaggerating when she said a high tide could be dangerous in this inlet.

  He turned over onto his stomach and examined the cliff walls more closely. The bird’s nests that dotted the haggard natural landscape were constructed no lower than five or six feet from the ground, suggesting the swallows understood the danger of the little cove far better than he had. He cast a searching glance toward the ocean. They seemed to be at a mid-point in the tide cycle at the moment. But in a few hours, he wondered if even this rock might be surrounded by roiling surf. Did she swim here at high tide too? The thought made his fists clench.

  He was behaving well today, keeping her relegated to the status of “friend” that their circumstances required. He had not tried to kiss her again, though his thoughts had flown there on more than one occasion. During their lesson, he had not even tried to touch her, beyond what was necessary to the process of learning where to place his hands and feet in the water. He had reminded himself—several times—that she was not what he wanted, and he was not what she deserved.

  But that did not make the thought—nay, the fear—of losing her any less staggering.

  “I don’t want you swimming here alone anymore, lass.” The words ejected themselves from his mouth before he could think better of it.

  Though he would have expected a far more visceral reaction—an uppercut, possibly—she struggled to sitting and gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is too dangerous.” He was going to be stubborn about this, apparently. He lifted an accusing hand to the watermarks along the cliff walls.

  Her lips settled into a thin line. “I do not take unnecessary risks, David.” Her eyes sparked at him, a thousand small mirrors reflecting the beauty and the danger of the place.

  “That in itself is a dangerous, naïve presumption. Swimming alone, especially when you do not have to, is a completely unnecessary risk.” The words pushed out of him, hard and unrepentant. They were true, even if they were not kind. “Promise you will not swim here without me.”

  Color suffused her cheeks. She shook her head. “I told you, I think a person’s word is one of the most important things they can offer. And while I appreciate the concern, I cannot make such a promise, especially to someone who is only here for another week or so.”

  Irritation made him imprudent. “I could reveal your activities to your mother.”

  But she was already sliding down off the far side of the rock, disap
pearing from sight. From the frantic rustling that reached his ears, he presumed she was getting dressed. Her voice, when it floated to him over the rock, was clipped and angry. “Yes, you could. But as she never leaves our house, there is little she can do to stop me either.” She paused, then peered over the edge of the rock. “I have shared my secret with you, David, though it could easily ruin me. I hope you will not betray that trust.”

  Shame coursed through him then. But hadn’t he warned her he was not a man to be trusted? History, certainly, had painted him as such, and he had come to believe it.

  He jumped down from the other side of the rock and picked up his shirt. He shook off a small crab that was hiding in the collar before sliding his arms in the sleeves, one angry jerk at a time. He was still buttoning it when she stalked around the edge of the rock, her legs respectably covered in lavender sprigged muslin and her hair ruthlessly pulled back.

  She paused in front of him, holding out a boot he had not yet realized he was missing. “I would have your word that you will not divulge my secret, David. As a gentleman.”

  He accepted the offering, his fingers tightening over the worn leather surface. “I thought we established such a title does not fit.”

  “There is honor in you. I feel it. And I would have it directed toward this matter.”

  David wavered, uncomfortable with her presumption, but unable to let her leave angry. He pulled his foot into the boot and started on the other. “I will not tell, if you will promise that while I am here in Brighton, you will let me swim with you.” He did not add that he would discard whatever he was doing to accompany her and ensure her safety. He straightened and offered her a half grin, willing the suspicion to lift from her eyes. “After all, I need frequent practice if I am to win for us on Monday.”

  The tense line of her shoulders softened. “I suppose I could promise. But only until the race. I will not promise anything beyond that.”

  Relief settled over him, but it was tinged with regret. What was he doing? And what was she doing to him? Beyond the swimming competition on Monday, Caroline Tolbertson was not his concern. Or at least, she was not supposed to be his concern. They were committed to this course now, their futures pinned on the promise of a purse he could see he was going to have to work hard for.

  But there was more at stake than money.

  He knew he should limit his time with her. He was leaving for Scotland in ten—no, nine days now, for Christ’s sake.

  And yet, as he handed her the leather satchel containing the rest of her clothing, he found his treacherous heart asking, “Will I see you tonight? I hear there is a band playing at the pavilion. I would have you save me a dance, if you are willing.”

  “Oh yes. The band. I had quite forgotten about that.” She sighed, and her mouth turned down in a frown. “My mother expects me to attend. I imagine she will be quite insistent now that Mr. Branson has declared some interest.”

  The reminder of how he had unleashed the swain on Caroline grated like sand in places best left unmentioned. “You know, when I win this race, you will have two hundred and fifty pounds,” he offered as they began to walk toward the footpath that would carry them back to Brighton. “Perhaps you would not have to marry.”

  Indeed, he was banking on that same outcome for himself.

  “When you win? That’s quite hopeful of you, isn’t it?” she asked in amusement.

  David shrugged. “With your swimming stroke, I don’t see how we can lose.”

  “Not to deflate such a hopeful sort of pride, but unless you improve significantly in both form and speed in the next four days, I very much doubt my chances for a reprieve from marriage.”

  “You don’t think I can win?”

  “I shall withhold judgment until I see how you progress in our next lesson.” She offered him a resigned smile. “But even if, by some miracle, you are able to win this race, I cannot see how half the purse would be enough to delay my search for a husband. I am afraid I am still bound for the altar, David. And there is little you can do to change my course.”

  Chapter 14

  THE MUSICIANS PLAYING at the open-air pavilion that evening wielded their French horns like weapons, aimed at the ears and hearts of Brighton’s summer visitors. As if they too had been imbued with hopes of seeing the royal family, the band opened the evening’s festivities with a rousing tune of “God Save the Queen.”

  Even if lacking an actual queen.

  Caroline was beginning to wonder if Miss Baxter was either an outright liar, or just grossly misinformed.

  Undeterred by the obvious lack of royalty in attendance, the crowd roared its approval, and the band responded by swinging into an infectious military rhythm that had couples pairing off to dance in short order.

  Caroline stood on the outskirts of the pavilion’s mayhem, a flute of champagne clutched in her hand. Though she still felt out of place, she felt better much here than she had at last night’s dinner party. The salt-kissed breeze coming off the ocean soothed her discomfort, and the sheer volume of people in attendance made it easy to stand in the shadows. She did not yet see David among the crowd, though she had scrutinized every man on the dance floor taller than herself. The process had taken all of a minute, given how few men could lay claim to that bit of fame.

  Mama had remained home again, depending on Penelope and Caroline to serve as each other’s chaperone, although this time she had sent them off with stern instructions against forays onto darkened terraces. Penelope was pulled almost immediately onto the dance floor, and so there was no one to judge Caroline if she was not partnered for a dance, or if she indulged in one glass too many.

  As if to test the theory, she tipped the flute to her lips and drained her third glass of champagne. She wondered if she should have a fourth. She was still feeling parched, and her first three glasses had rapidly fallen to the sort of desperate thirst that came from a too-long day of sun and swimming. Not that she regretted the day. It had been a revelation, both in the enjoyment of David’s company and the realization that, despite his loutish delivery, he had cared enough for her to express a great deal of worry. Cared enough for her, even, to demand she swim only with him. It was hard to be angry with such a man.

  He had made her hope again, even if that hope was a fragile thing, cupped in hands as likely to shatter the emotion as nurture it.

  Caroline placed the empty flute on a nearby tray and scanned the crowd, looking for her sister’s familiar face. There. On the far side of the pavilion, spinning around the room in Mr. Hamilton’s arms. She had lost Penelope to the persistent red-haired reporter within minutes of arriving in the crush, and she had been pleased by Mr. Hamilton’s apparent shift in affections. In fact, Penelope’s behavior of the past few days was nothing short of astonishing if one considered the years of bookish intensity and painful stammering that trailed her sister like an unfortunate cloud.

  But there was no cloud in sight tonight, either in the sunset-tinged night sky or in Penelope’s bright, excited smile. Beneath the blazing lanterns that hung from the ceiling of the open-walled pavilion, Penelope looked more than happy—she looked transformed. Caroline could admit to herself that attending Miss Baxter’s dinner party had been a good thing, for at least one of the Tolbertson sisters.

  A rustling at her elbow sent her heart pounding, and Caroline turned, pleasure already loping ahead of her brain. But instead of David Cameron, a gentleman she didn’t recognize stood a foot or so away. He had brown eyes and a crooked nose. Though he couldn’t have been much older than twenty, his brown hair was already thinning on top, but it curled around his ears in a hopeful fashion.

  “Good evening,” he said, as if he approached too-tall wallflowers every day. “We have not yet had the pleasure of a formal introduction. My name is Gabriel Adams.”

  “Miss Caroline Tolbertson,” she said, trying to push her confusion out of sight. He seemed familiar, and as she searched her memory, she landed on the disturbing image that placed him i
n her mind. Mr. Adams had been at Miss Baxter’s house party.

  And he had been taking a deep, appreciative drag on the end of a cannabis cheroot.

  Before Caroline could recover her composure, which had quite flown to the far corners of the room at his unsolicited approach, he offered her a smile that had the misfortune of making him appear even younger. “Might I request the pleasure of your company in a dance, Miss Tolbertson?”

  DAVID ARRIVED JUST as the band shifted from some sharp patriotic march to a high-stepping waltz. He craned his neck, searching for the woman whose head he knew would be easily visible among the rest of the crowd.

  He spied her almost immediately. She was still wearing that ill-fitting dress with the little purple flowers on it, and it struck him that she didn’t seem to own a single gown that fit. But then all thoughts of dresses and flowers disappeared, and the anticipation that had followed him to the pavilion turned to annoyance as he realized she was dancing.

  To his surprise, given her general awkwardness at other social niceties, Caroline appeared to be quite a good dancer, sure-footed and quick through the intricate steps. David didn’t recognize the gentleman she was dancing with, but he recognized the look on the man’s face. A nearly identical expression was stamped on Mr. Branson’s face, on the other side of the dance floor. The boy was staring at the couple, shifting from foot to foot, looking for all the world like a puppy without a stick to chase.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cameron. You seem remarkably focused on the music, for someone not dancing.”

  David tore his eyes away from the vision of Caroline and her dance partner to find Miss Baxter standing next him. She too was staring at the couple on the dance floor. And she too had a perplexed and not wholly pleased look on her pretty face.

  “The fact that I am not dancing seems less problematic than the fact that you are not, Miss Baxter,” he pointed out. “How is it that so many gentlemen have squandered such a rare opportunity?”