Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

  His eyes narrowed on hers. “That sounds like an indecent sort of proposition.”

  “You told me last night you weren’t celibate. That means you grant your favors to other women.” Her stomach churned, whether from the constant, shuddering movement of the bathing machine, or the nature of what she was asking, she couldn’t be sure. “I want you to share some small measure of those favors with me. One friend to another.”

  He began to pace in the narrow confines of the bathing machine, although circling might have been more apt description. Two steps carried him from one end of the house to the other. His movements set the timbers of the little house shaking.

  “Have you not heard a word I have said?” His words swung wildly, but still found their mark. The honor she sensed lurking beneath David’s skin, the honor he denied he possessed, insinuated itself front and center. “You are more than ‘other’ women to me. You are asking me to ruin you, and then wrap it in a nice bow as if it’s some kind of perverted gift.”

  “Don’t I deserve to know what I should be seeking in a husband before I make the wrong choice?” she countered. “And I have not asked you to do anything of the sort. I do not require the whole of the experience. Just enough to properly inform my decision.”

  He paused facing away from her, trapped in one narrow corner of the box that seemed to have shrunk about three sizes. She heard him swallow, even over the rush of the ocean. “How much of it?” he rasped.

  “Not all of it. But more than kissing.” She had already had that from him, and while she was looking forward to repeating the experience, she wanted to know more.

  His shoulders tensed beneath the wet fabric of his shirt, and she could see his fists clench and unclench. “You do not know what you are asking of me.”

  “I do.” And she believed, with every fiber of her being, that he was the only man who could accomplish it. “I want this, David.”

  “You want the experience.” He swung around to face her. “It does not have to come from me.”

  Caroline studied him, frustration shaking her with sharp teeth. She did not want to marry someone like Branson or Duffington without first exploring the sort of emotion that made her heart spin on its axis. “Are you suggesting I should ask someone else to show me? Mr. Branson, perhaps?”

  He took a heated step toward her, his eyes flashing. “God, no. Do not even consider taking such a careless risk to your reputation.”

  Her knees locked at his terse reminder. He was right—she was skirting ruin here, and not just in the physical sense. She considered what had happened as a result of her single, ill-considered experience with Mr. Dermott . . . and that had been nothing more than a kiss. If someone found out about this, her reputation, fragile thing that it was, would be shattered. She did not want to disappoint her family, just to find some narrow piece of happiness.

  But she also wanted a memory that would buffer her through the increasing likelihood of a cold, loveless marriage. And she wanted that memory to be shaped by David Cameron.

  Despite his claims to the contrary, there was honor in this man. She trusted David to preserve her reputation. Who better to protect her than a man so determined not to ruin her?

  And who better than she to show him what potential lurked in his heart?

  Caroline shook free the misgivings that sat heavy on her shoulders. “I do not want to ask another man to show me this, David. I want it to be you, precisely because I know my reputation is safe with you.”

  And then, before he could lodge another protest, before he could shove her, once again, into the realm of mere friendship, she stepped forward and kissed him.

  DAVID FOUND HIMSELF knocked off balance, this time by Caroline herself. The impact of her body and their wild tumble against the salt-slicked wall left him so stunned that for a moment he wondered if she had hit him with something more solid than just her frame.

  Not that he wouldn’t deserve it.

  But then her fingers tangled in his hair and he was pulled, quite forcibly, down to meet her lips.

  Had he ever met a girl so determined to be ruined?

  He tried to remain unmoved by her sweet assault. Kept his lips closed as she pressed her lush mouth against him. Forced his fingers to stay pressed flat against his own thighs, when what he wanted to do was lift his hands to grip her hair and yank her closer.

  She gasped against his mouth, a small, feminine mewl of frustration.

  He lost the battle for apathy with that sound, which so perfectly echoed how he felt. Lifting his hands to cradle her head, he scraped his fingers through her coiled hair and loosened an army’s worth of pins in the process. An astonishing array of scents greeted him as her hair came down, scents he was coming to associate with Caroline: ocean salt, vanilla, and something undefinable that went straight to his gut.

  Even as he fought to retain some base measure of control, his body flared to life around the familiar, stinging taste of her. His cock rose up to greet the collision of flannel and wet wool, softness and heat. He coaxed her mouth apart and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. Showed her the rhythm that set up its inescapable beat in the primitive part of his brain. And then, though he knew he should not, though he had told her he would not, he gave her the moment she sought.

  But he didn’t just draw her into in a sweet, sheltered embrace.

  No, he cupped her arse, pulled her against his throbbing erection, and showed her why it was not a good idea to tease the beast he kept chained.

  She ignored the warning. If anything, she pushed back against him.

  Her flannel-clad core settled dangerously close to part of his body that wanted to bury itself in her. The friction of their bodies caught against the edges of that hateful robe, and it gaped open in places he suspected he would dream of for some time to come.

  It proved an impossible invitation, one he didn’t have the intelligence or presence of mind to refuse. He lifted a palm to one of Caroline’s breasts, and she sighed into his mouth with pleasure. She might be small-breasted, but there was no lack of response. Indeed, it was as if every nerve ending was concentrated in space and time, straining for the touch of his thumb. He stroked her nipple, reverently at first, and then turned his touch harder, rolling the peaked nub between his fingers until she gasped, this time with pleasure instead of frustration.

  The sound unearthed an answering, rumbling growl deep within his chest. He hitched her legs around his waist, where they wrapped, impossibly tight. He pushed her against the opposite wall, intent on providing her with the instruction she had demanded. But as his hands groped for leverage against the damp wood, his fingers caught on a rope of some sort.

  A sound reached his ears then, a scraping along the outside wall. The kiss ended on dual gasps of surprise, and they both stared at the rope where his left hand still rested.

  “Flag up, yellow box!” The distant shout echoed from shore, just discernible above the sound of the water and their own labored breathing.

  His right hand, which had still been pressed against her breast, was greeted with a rush of cool air as she jerked away from his touch. Caroline exploded in a flurry of limbs and flannel, pulling the edges of the robe around her. “You’ve pulled the flag!” she accused.

  “What flag?” He couldn’t think of anything except that in this moment, he would have agreed to any terms she wanted, if only she would kiss him again.

  “The flag to call the bathing machine back in.” She pushed against him, her hands firm. “Go. Go.”

  “Go where?” he asked, feeling trapped. He was confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere. Her lips were still swollen, and the skin along the collar of her robe was flushed pink. She still hummed with passion.

  But a hint of panic had been inserted into the mix.

  She reached a hand up to the shelf and dragged down a bundle of blue print fabric, then turned her back on him. He stared, transfixed by the sight of her curved spine as she shrugged off the robe and pulled her white shif
t over her bare shoulders.

  Christ, but she was lovely.

  “To the shore,” she snapped over her shoulder. “To the cove. Anywhere. Just . . . don’t be seen here, for God’s sake!” She yanked the shift down to cover her hips, not even pausing as it skimmed the water and became soaked through.

  He started to turn toward the door, but paused. His thoughts were tumbling, but they were all pointing in the same direction. “You’ll meet me at the cove? In an hour’s time?” Despite the risk of discovery, his hand refused to turn the latch until he achieved an understanding.

  She paused, her fingers halting in the process of pulling on her dress. “Do you agree to my terms?” she asked warily.

  He strained against the demands of his conscience. Had she left him any choice? Hers was a reckless sort of spirit, and she seemed to either not understand or care that ruin hovered around this corner she was demanding to turn. Could he do what she asked? He needed only to ensure her virtue remained intact. He was no longer a lust-addled youth. Surely he could show her a taste of her body’s potential without taking the ultimate prize.

  And if it kept her out the hands of a fumbling fool like Branson . . . well, mayhap there was honor to be found in that.

  “Aye.” He turned the latch. “I agree to your terms. But only through Monday’s race, and no more.” He would not survive if she insisted on daily lessons through his leaving.

  “Then I promise I will meet you there.” She chased her words with a brilliant smile that he was quite sure would have damned him to hell, had he not already surrendered that part of his soul eleven years ago.

  The danger ratcheted up as David heard the sounds of splashing outside the box. The whinny of a horse reached his ears, followed by the snap of reins. He reached for the front door of the bathing machine, but paused as the house gave a lurch and started to turn.

  Water swirled around their legs as the house strained against the current.

  “Not that way,” she said, whispering now. She motioned toward the back door as the box gave another shudder and began to move forward. “The driver is on that side. The back door is now pointed toward the ocean.”

  And then he was pushed out of the machine’s rear door, preparing his lungs for a long, underwater swim and an hour of frustration until he could see her again.

  She had promised she would come. There was unfinished business between them.

  And he had never wanted to finish something so much in his life.

  Chapter 20

  A THRUMMING BEAT STILL shimmered at the juncture of Caroline’s thighs a quarter hour later. If that had been her first lesson in the pleasures to be found beyond kissing, she could not imagine what her second lesson might reveal.

  If David hadn’t pulled the flag, how much more might she have learned? She wanted to imagine he would not have taken her there against the wall of the bathing machine, but the urgency of his kiss and the primitive, vital response of her own body had quite shocked her.

  How could she expect him to guard her virtue if her own feelings on the matter were so easily swayed?

  Mr. Hamilton had joined them for the long, sticky walk home, drawing Penelope into a private conversation and leaving Caroline to fend for herself among the three remaining men. She breathed a grateful sigh of relief as they made their way up her porch stairs and came to a disorderly halt. At last she could count this ill-designed exercise at an end and find a way to slip out and meet David at the cove. She was already late, but there had been no choice but to return home first. The three men remained glued to her side from the moment she climbed, damp and disheveled, out of the bathing machine.

  “Might I call on you for a walk tomorrow?” Duffington’s booming voice jerked her back to the hard reality of the parting niceties.

  Branson elbowed his way closer and lodged a swift protest. “I was hoping to call on you tomorrow, Miss Caroline.”

  To her surprise, given his seeming focus on Penelope, Mr. Hamilton was the next to pipe up. “It isn’t sporting to monopolize her time when there are also others who would enjoy a chance to call on her. I would like to call on her tomorrow, as well.”

  Caroline tried to summon a smile, but it was hard to find one that fit the moment. The infantile verbal sparring between the men was starting to remind her of the gulls that squabbled over crusts of bread on the beach. Worse, they imposed on time she needed to preserve for David. She was going to need every second to teach him what he needed to know in order to win against Brighton’s more seasoned competitors on Monday.

  And she was going to demand every second he owed her in return.

  “I really must beg all of your leaves on the matter of a walk tomorrow,” she hedged, fanning her face. “I am unused to such . . . strenuous exercise.” She saw Penelope’s eyes round at bit at the lie. Not that she blamed her. After all, her sister was usually the one who had to explain the long walks Caroline took most afternoons to their mother.

  When the last man had taken his leave and trooped off the porch, Caroline exhaled in frustration. “I am sorry, Pen. I do not know why Mr. Hamilton said he would call on me. He seems much more interested in you, truth be told.”

  Penelope gave her a probing look as she opened the front door, her blue eyes serious beneath her shaded straw bonnet. “That is really neither here nor there. Not an hour ago you insisted that these men represented your b-best chance at finding an offer of marriage. That romance and love held no place in your decision. Yet you c-c-could have been contemplating which serving of spoiled fish to eat just now.”

  Caroline held her breath against the dizzying scent of flowers that greeted her as she followed Penelope inside to the foyer. A great deal had changed in that hour, including, it seemed, the arrival of several more bouquets. But by far the most important change of the past hour had been her agreement with David.

  Not that Penelope knew anything of that.

  “They seem like fine young men, but the prospect of courting one of them is a bit daunting,” she admitted.

  “Do you find any of them appealing?” Pen asked curiously as she placed her journal on the foyer table and began to remove her gloves. “Mr. Adams is p-passably handsome. And I admit some partiality to Mr. Hamilton’s red hair.”

  Caroline shook her head as she tossed the hated parasol into the umbrella stand. “Not really,” she admitted. Indeed, based on the way these gentlemen made her feel, even Mr. Dermott might be a better choice. At least he had nice, straight teeth and made her feel a little light-headed, even when he tormented her. “But as I must marry,” she mused with an increasing sense of discomfort, “I can’t see my way around it.”

  Penelope untied the ribbons of her bonnet and fixed Caroline with a stern look as she lifted the straw hat from her hair. “Why must you marry?”

  The question startled her. “To ensure our futures. To return our family to respectability.” Her father’s last words teased at the scant edges of Caroline’s memory. “To take care of you and Mama.”

  Pen shook her head as she placed the bonnet on the hat tree. “I refuse to be the reason you marry. I am c-capable of making my own way.”

  Caroline stared at her sister in surprise. “But . . . I made a promise.”

  Penelope threw up her hands. “To whom? To Mama? I cannot believe that. I d-do not believe she intends you to be unhappy. She married Papa for love. She would not d-deny you the same opportunity.”

  Caroline’s toes twitched inside her half boots. Could Pen be right? She thought back to recent conversations. Mama had been fixated on the matter of a suitor’s title and financial security, sure enough, but it was also true she wanted to know how Caroline felt about things.

  The noise of heels sounding on the floorboards overhead proved an unwelcome distraction. She glanced up, examining the old plaster molding that threatened to come apart with every footfall. No matter Pen’s claims regarding Mama’s intentions, Caroline wanted to deal with her mother’s scrutiny right now even less tha
n she desired to have this conversation with Penelope. But she needed her sister’s help if she was to provide their mother with a logical excuse.

  “I forgot I have an appointment this afternoon, Pen. Will you give Mama my apologies and tell her I shall miss afternoon tea?”

  “An appointment with whom?” Pen’s voice rang in suspicion.

  Caroline’s mind scrambled for purchase on some idea, and came up blank.

  “I am not sure why you won’t confide in me. Haven’t I always k-kept your secrets? I did not tell Mama about that matter with Mr. Dermott, and I would not tell her about this.”

  Her sister’s probing made Caroline squirm with guilt. “And what of your secrets, Pen? You have not confided in me either. When did you progress from reading about the world to writing about it?”

  “Perhaps I have something t-to write about for the first time in my life,” Penelope retorted, her face flushing a virulent shade of pink. “And d-do not try to turn this around. You are going to swim. Do not deny it.”

  Caroline curled her fingers in empty frustration. The only way to keep Pen quiet on this was to make her an ally.

  Then they would both catch it if Mama found out.

  “Yes,” she admitted, wondering if she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Well, perhaps not the biggest.

  She had kissed Dermott, after all.

  “I am going to swim. In the cove where Papa used to take us to gather seashells when we were small.”

  There. She had given voice to this terrible, clandestine part of her life. It felt oddly comforting to confess the truth to her sister. But she was not, under any circumstances, going to tell her sister whom she was going to swim with.

  “Isn’t that a tad reckless?” Penelope asked, her eyes rounding to the shape of marbles. “I recall the current there being ferocious.”

  “Oh, it is quite safe,” Caroline rushed to assure her. She did not, under any circumstances, want Pen to feel compelled to take this information to their mother. “Nothing to worry about. Why, even the most novice of swimmers could manage it, if only they knew where to find it.” She laughed, negating the potential danger with a flippant hand. “I enjoy going there because it reminds me of Papa. Swimming was something he encouraged me to do, you know. Much like he encouraged your interest in books and the newspaper.”