“Oh yes,” he said leaning in a little closer, and I was conscious of how wonderful he smelled, all of clean linen, and once again of the odd sensation in my stomach. “An excellent thing. Regretfully, though, I really must go. And … Gwen?”
“Yes?” I looked up at him.
“This shall be quick, I’ll make sure of it.”
And with that, he brought me back up the steps and, with a few words of explanation to Mother, kissed my hand, and was gone. Just like that. Leaving me feeling foggy and perhaps a little resentful. This grown-up Milburn seemed to evoke in me an unsettling mixture of fear, anticipation, and confusion. And oddly, I wanted more of him.
Papa dozed, and Mama and Violetta ignored me entirely as I joined them in the family carriage for the ride back to Axton House and the wedding breakfast. At home we were greeted with a sumptuous repast, of which I could eat nothing, but I smiled, and smiled, and smiled. And then smiled some more, as I endured both good wishes and what was surely an unnecessary number of jokes on the subject of hastily abandoned brides.
Myrtia and Cecy and her husband, Simon Hounslow, Lord Barings, stayed nearby, and I was grateful for what they did not ask. My brothers were, of course, odious, James saying, “Scared ’im off already, have you, Gwen?” And Richard suggesting that what Milburn deserved was a good pummeling: “Abominable to ill-use you so on your wedding day,” he said, with a heartening amount of indignation.
James nodded. “Pity Cambourne’s not here. Always was about the only person who could knock some sense of responsible behavior into Milburn.”
“Where is he, anyway?” Richard asked, looking around as though expecting Cambourne to pop out of the champagne fountain. They both looked at me.
“I don’t know,” I replied. His absence was odd, certainly, but hardly seemed my most pressing concern at the moment.
“He must have been needed elsewhere,” suggested Barings. “Crucial vote or something.”
“Should think it’s something like that. Ain’t as though he despises you, after all,” Richard added, unhelpfully, in my opinion, since he managed to sound surprised that someone might not.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied. “Cambourne and I get on very well.” And then I wondered if I had spoken the entire truth. We did get on well on the face of it, but it was indisputable that we had never been as easy together as Milburn and I were.
When our paths crossed in town, as they inevitably did, he always danced with me or brought me lemonade—in short, did the proper. But it was easy to see that his heart wasn’t truly in it. And that I could well understand. I mean, why spend time dancing attendance on a girl you have known since childhood—who is your brother’s fiancée, to boot—when every gathering is inevitably filled with much more intriguing women tripping over themselves for an introduction?
“I don’t know,” Richard mused. “Fellow gets spliced, his brother should be there. Giving him courage in his final moments. I’d do it for you,” he said to James.
I disregarded my brothers entirely in favor of continuing my musings on my relationship with my new husband’s brother. Naturally, there were rumors where he was concerned. Everywhere Cambourne went, gossip seemed to eddy in his wake: He was paying marked attention to this eligible young lady, or had been most flirtatious with that dashing young widow, or was said to be wooing the ravishing new opera dancer. It’s true that he was a favorite with women. Handsome young earls are not exactly found under every rock, and everywhere that he went, any number of women made it only too clear that they were happy to be accommodating.
But if even half of it were true, he would have had to be the busiest man in England. And since I knew that he spent a good deal of time seeing to his holdings outside of London, and an awful lot of time in Parliament when he was in London, I always suspected the rumors of being a tad overblown.
Oddly, Cambourne was a reliable correspondent. Much better than Milburn, and I had more than the occasional letter from him. And that Cambourne, I was comfortable with. The one who wrote to me that Mrs. Endicott and Lady Halstead were feuding again, this time because the vicar preferred Mrs. Endicott’s flowers for church of a Sunday. Lady Halstead was furious because her younger son was taking orders to become a vicar, and she would think that she knew a pious flower when she saw one! Thank you very much!
He wrote when Bertie’s favorite mare had birthed a promising foal, or to tell me that the weather was uncommonly fine this spring or that Mrs. Odderly’s second daughter up Sussex-way had, finally, after six years of marriage, given her a vigorous grandson. When I put down a sheet of vellum, crossed by his bold but orderly handwriting, I could almost smell the familiar church, or the spring rain at Hildcote, and often was assailed by a quiver of homesickness.
I was recalled to my surroundings by James, saying, “But it’s a pity all the same. Doubt Milburn would’ve managed to slope off that way if Cambourne were here.”
“Milburn had urgent business,” I reminded them both, coldly. “He did not slope off.”
And don’t think for a moment that I missed the concerned glance that Cecy and Myrtia exchanged, supposing it to be behind my back. “Of course,” Cecy said in soothing tones.
“Hah. He sloped off all right. Since when does Milburn have any business at all, let alone urgent?” Richard scowled. “Trust me. It will turn out to have been a race or a mill or some such. Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “Excellent fellow. Just not much in the husband line.”
“Well, he is now,” I said coldly.
Richard raised a skeptical brow.
“Before he left, he told me that I bring him to his knees,” I could not resist adding. I did, though, restrain myself saying, so there! Why is it that brothers manage to reduce you instantly to your schoolroom days?
“He said that?” said Myrtia. “Milburn said that?”
Did she have to sound quite so surprised? “Is it that shocking then?” I asked, surveying their faces, “that I could have that effect on my husband?”
“Dashed right it is,” Richard replied, as Myrtia hastened to say, in a kindly way, “Of course not. It’s just that it’s a bit, well, rather not like Milburn. But a man can change a great deal in two years, I daresay,” she hastened to add.
“Milburn ain’t changed. Mark my words,” Richard said, most unhelpfully. “Likely too polite to mention where he really felt knocked.” He smirked. “And it ain’t got much to do with knees.”
“You odious little—” I began, but James put a restraining hand on my arm. “There is no accounting for taste,” he said to Richard. And then to me, “Milburn said that? Really, Gwen?” Our eyes met in shared understanding of how uncharacteristic it was.
I nodded. “Yes.” And then, before we could explore the subject further, Mother came and dragged me away, scolding me for the shameful way in which I was neglecting my guests.
“I know it for a fact that you have yet to greet the Hampshire cousins. And, moreover, Violetta assures me that you have all but ignored the Countess Esterhazy, which I cannot like, and my goodness, where is your father?” She frowned and then steered me firmly in the direction of the Hampshire cousins.
And so it went for no small amount of time. I did the polite, wondering all the while where Milburn had gone, until, able to bear it no longer, I slipped out for a moment of solitude. I was stealthily crossing the front hall when I saw a footman swing the door open. I stepped back into the shadows, my heart quickening. Surely this must be Milburn? And surprisingly—as these things so rarely turn out as one hopes—it was. As I watched him step inside, I was struck again by how intriguing he had become. He had always been handsome, but his face was more interesting than it had been before. There were hollows and shadows and lines that made one want to look at him more intently.
He handed his hat to the footman and pushed his hair off his forehead. He looked somber. Thoughtful. And, trust me, thoughtful is something that Milburn is not and never has been, so my curiosity increased. I was also very glad
to see him.
Just then, he looked in my direction and saw me. He smiled and his thoughtful air evaporated. “Hello,” he said, walking toward me. “Why are you skulking out here?” He stopped. “Are you well?”
I tried for a smile. “Only tired, I think. Is your business dispensed with successfully?”
He looked at me for a moment before replying. “I devoutly hope so,” he said, and he sounded tired, also. “But perhaps you need to tell me: am I forgiven?”
And to my surprise, he truly seemed to be waiting for an answer. Forgiveness I had always assumed would be an oft-needed commodity for one married to Milburn. “Of course,” I replied automatically.
“In that case, shall we steal away after all?” he asked. “Or would that be unforgivable, do you think?”
“Unforgivable,” I replied, with a smile to show him that I was not serious. “At least until you have stood in there for hours smiling and enduring jokes on the defects in personality that could cause a new bridegroom to be abandoned by his bride at the wedding breakfast.”
But he didn’t laugh and tell me that it was no more than a shrew such as myself deserved. Instead he tipped up my face with his gloved hand, and said, “My poor love. You do know that I would not have abandoned you, despite the defects in personality, had there been any choice?”
“Er, of course,” I managed, even more perplexed by this odd new Milburn.
“Let us go, then,” he said, sounding more lighthearted as he took my arm. “And since you have been so abominably ill-used by the guests, we shall do it without so much as taking our leave.”
I allowed myself to lean against the warmth of his arm for just a moment. I felt unaccountably better. Less weary, and immeasurably attracted by the idea of slipping out with no farewells. “Mama, I should warn you, is already in something of a taking as, among my sins, I have sadly neglected not only the Hampshire cousins, but also the Countess Esterhazy.”
“Ah well, as she is already distressed,” he said, and I looked up at him, fascinated, as his beautiful lips formed the words, “we may as well make it worth her while.” I tore my gaze away from those mesmerizing lips and met his eyes. They were full of devilment now, and it occurred to me that he was likely aware that I was, of a sudden, fascinated by his mouth. “Shall I go in after all and give the cut direct to a few cabinet ministers?” he added, pulling me a little closer.
His eyes were wicked and his bantering, lighthearted, but there was indisputably some kind of current between us that felt hazardous. And at the same time, sort of intoxicating. I boldly leaned even a tiny bit nearer, which he seemed to like, as he bent to me. “As long as you are set on observing the social niceties, I’d suggest you not neglect the Hampshire cousins,” I advised him.
“Oh, but you are wrong,” he said, his voice low and intimate for my ears alone. “I am not at all set on observing the social niceties.” And there was something about the way he said it that made me even more aware of him, of the fact that he was so close that all I would have to do was sway the tiniest bit more toward him, and our bodies would be touching. Merciful heavens! What was I thinking? He let go of my arm to retrieve his hat and my wrap and bonnet from the footman, and broke the spell.
A moment later we were settled in his trim little curricle. Truly, I was almost feeling comfortable with him. Or would have been, if not for the oddly heightened awareness of his physical self that I seemed to have developed. The way he looked, the clean way he smelled, the heat from his body, the amount of space he took up, all occupied my mind at various moments in a rather worrying fashion.
I was tying on my bonnet with the smart little demiveil, and he was taking up the reins, when a crowd began to gather at the door. Apparently word had got about that we were departing, and so we drove away into the cool, unusually clear January afternoon, much like any other couple: amidst a hail of cheering and good wishes.
Conversation was desultory as we traversed the crowded streets. Milburn was, for once, concentrating on his driving. For which I could not help but be grateful, as I still carried, with a great deal of clarity, the memories of previous driving expeditions over the years with him. He had always been an enthusiastic driver, but at times that enthusiasm had overreached his skill, resulting in some hair-raising moments.
“You are driving very well,” I said, trying to radiate approval as he neatly, with apparently little effort, avoided a milk cart to the left and a pair of mettlesome bays to the right.
He slanted me an amused look from beneath his hat. “Thank you,” he said, gravely. “I think.”
I was casting about for conversation, trying to reestablish the ease between us and banish the unease over what was soon to come, and that gambit had certainly not got me far. “Did you, er, drive much on the Continent?”
“No,” he said.
Hmm. “It’s a pity that your father’s leg injury was so severe as to keep him from traveling,” I tried. “Although he is fortunate that it was not more serious. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he said. “To both.”
“I think he would have enjoyed the wedding.”
“Indeed.”
“And your mama, too. She—”
“—would have enjoyed the wedding,” he finished for me.
“Yes.” I was starting to feel a little cross with him. But I was determined all the same to make polite conversation. “We are fortunate to have such a lovely day. I did think yesterday that rain looked—”
But then I stopped short as Milburn said, “Ah hell.” And, suddenly, he drew the curricle to a halt so we came to rest right there in the middle of South Audley Street. Fortunately, there was a lull in traffic, or we without a doubt should have had some extra horses and some irate people planted in the back of the curricle.
There were any number of sharp remarks on the tip of my tongue, but they all seemed to slip away as he, at that moment, was rather expertly untying the ribbons of the aforementioned smart little bonnet. “It is true,” he said, “that my mother would have enjoyed the wedding. She was planning to wear her new primrose silk. And it is a pity she did not have the opportunity as primrose, she informed me, looks most becoming on her. The day was lovely, it did look like to rain yesterday, and we are fortunate indeed that it did not. There.” He took a breath.
I sat, silently, a little insulted. Someone had to bear responsibility for not letting us lapse into dead silence.
He flashed that wicked smile that I had never before realized he possessed. He leaned closer and said, as he removed the untied bonnet, “And I cannot kiss you with this fetching, yet entirely ridiculous, thing on your head.”
Oh. He was going to kiss me! He had said so. Was I supposed to do something? I waited, hoping I didn’t look as stupefied—or as eager—as I felt.
And then he laughed and dropped the bonnet to the floor. With one hand still on the reins, he tipped my chin up with the back of the other. I sat, waiting, for his lips to come down on mine. But for a long, aching moment, they didn’t. “Gwen,” he whispered, and I felt the soft brush of his warm breath, and then his lips moved briefly over my eyelids and skimmed down my cheekbone, unhurried, as though we had hours. Heat seemed to roll through me at his touch, and he trailed his lips along my jaw, and then, finally, brushed them over the corner of my mouth.
I could scarcely breathe from the heat of what he was doing. “I knew it would be like this between us,” he said, roughly, and I understood that what I was feeling was there for him to see.
He bent his head again, and this time, his lips brushed mine. I gave a little squeak of surprise. And he laughed against my mouth, and said, his lips still on mine, “Kiss me back, Gwen,” as his one available hand cupped the side of my face.
And what can I say? He was my husband. The kiss was long and slow, and the tip of his tongue moved lazily across my lips, making me gasp into his mouth. And then, in the next instant, his mouth was feather-light again, teasing, making me lean into him to keep the con
tact. And then the kiss turned hot, and thorough, and I began to understand why I’d been so captivated by his lips all day. He threaded his hand through my hair at the nape of my neck and levered me closer, and, slowly and deliberately, opened his lips over mine. Heat swirled through my dazed body.
I was pulled out of the moment when a cheer went up from the crowd that had gathered. Milburn slowly lifted his mouth from mine. His breathing was rapid and his eyes were the darkest I had ever seen them. He rested his forehead against mine for the barest moment as we both struggled to catch our breath. I glimpsed the crowd, over his shoulder, and flushed, but he only laughed. Digging into his pocket, he produced a handful of coins, which he tossed into the air.
Another cheer went up. “Now,” Milburn said, “that we have that out of the way, I can think again. And am entirely at your disposal to engage in frivolous conversation. As I believe I had already responded to all of your sallies, shall I throw out the first pleasantry?”
The problem, though, was that he might now have been able to converse with equanimity, but I was not certain I could. That kiss had left me shaken to my bones. Never in my wildest imaginings had I supposed, one, that there was such a kiss, two, that if such a thing existed, Milburn would know how to do it, or, three, that I would have reacted to him this way.
I shivered. He had kissed me on a curricle in the middle of Mayfair, with one hand on the reins, and I was almost a puddle at his feet. I had been perilously close to shamelessly begging for more. But somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew that it would simply never do to let Milburn—Bertie, who had once put frog spawn in my tea!—know that he suddenly had that kind of effect on me. He might have known it would be like this, but quite honestly, the thought had never before occurred to me. Of course, to be fair, I had not known that like this even existed.
“Do you offer because you are concerned that were I to begin the conversation, it would not be with a pleasantry at this moment?” I said, pleased with the tart note of my voice.
His gaze skated lazily over me, and he smiled with entirely too much complacency for my liking. “No,” he said. “Not at all. I only offer to be polite, you understand.”
The Accidental Duchess Page 4
