Desire in the Sun

by Karen Robards

  "What about the silver faille?" Betsy suggested, reaching around Lilah to find and remove the dress in question. Both girls stared at it with the eyes of connoisseurs.

  "It'll do," Lilah decided with a nod, turning away from the wardrobe to cross to the dressing table, where she leaned down to examine her face. "I'll need fresh underclothes, too. Oh, my, I'm a mess!"

  As she had feared, her elegant knot was barely anchored over one ear, and the cunning little curls had deteriorated into silvery wisps around her face. A smudge of dirt was on her forehead, and a long scratch marred the creamy skin of one cheek.

  "I look dreadful!" she said, appalled.

  "No, you don't. You couldn't look dreadful if you tried," Betsy replied placidly, placing the fresh underclothes with the dress on the bed. "You just wash your face, and we'll have you looking good as new in half an hour."

  "Half an hour!" Lilah almost wailed, bending over the washstand to splash water on her face. The cold water stung the scratch, but she didn't mind that. She just wanted to hurry downstairs.

  "It must be him," Betsy concluded with a chuckle. "I knew Cupid would get you with his arrow one day, Miss Lilah. And from the look of you, you've been hit real bad."

  "Don't be silly, Betsy. I told you I fell off the verandah, and I did. Anyway, I've just met the gentleman. I… like him, that's all."

  "Honey, you like butter on your biscuits. What a girl feels for a certain particular gentleman isn't called like. It's called love."

  Betsy began to untie the tapes of Lilah's stays as she spoke. When they were released, Lilah took a deep breath, the action as automatic as washing her face. She'd been wearing stays for years, and she'd grown accustomed to their strict confinement. Still, it was nice to breathe freely when she could. Next Betsy loosened the ribbons on her petticoat, and lifted the chemise over her head. In minutes Lilah was as naked as a babe, and

  Betsy was dressing her again from the skin out. The silver faille dress would be left until last, after Betsy had done her hair, so that it wouldn't wrinkle.

  "I bet he's handsome," Betsy observed as she pulled the pins from Lilah's hair. Lilah, seated in front of her dressing table, leaned toward the mirror to examine the scratch on her cheek as the silver-blonde strands fell in a shining mass around her face. Her hair reached down past her hips, and although it had to be coaxed to curl with curl papers it was wonderfully thick and shiny.

  "I don't want to talk about him, Betsy! Do you think I'll have a scar?"

  Betsy shook her head as she brushed out the shining strands. "From that little scratch? I can cover that right up with a little rice powder. No one will hardly know it's there."

  Lilah watched in the mirror as Betsy twisted her hair up into an elegant coil at the back of her head. The little curls that had framed her face so charmingly earlier that evening were irredeemably lost for the night. Her hair was as naturally straight as a poker. But the effect of this more severe hairstyle was just as pleasing, she decided, surveying her reflection from first one angle and then another. The cool upsweep of silvery hair enhanced the high-cheekboned beauty of her face, showing off her shell-like ears and the delicate lines of her features. Except for the angles created by her cheekbones and a certain pointiness to her chin, her face was a perfect oval. Her eyes were large with the faintest tilt at the corners, their soft gray-blue enhanced by the thick black sweep of her lashes (which, if the truth were told, Betsy usually darkened with the end of a burned stick). Her nose was straight and finely shaped, and her lips were full and soft yet delicately made. All in all she was quite happy with the face looking back at her-except for die scratch. She hoped Betsy was right about the rice powder.

  The silver faille dress was similar in style to the one she had discarded. Lilah stood before the mirror as Betsy pulled the dress over her head, then buttoned up the back. The long satin sash that passed just beneath her breasts to tie in a bow in the back was of a silver just a shade paler than the dress. The gown was styled in the fashion of the French empire that was so popular, with short puffed sleeves, scooped-out neck and high waist. The skirt was slim and devoid of ornamentation of any kind. It was a simple yet stylish costume that depended for its impact on the beauty of its wearer's figure. On Lilah, with her slender waist and hips and high, full breasts, it was breathtaking. Betsy smiled as she surveyed her mistress in the mirror.

  "He's gonna think he died and gone to heaven," she said with satisfaction, reaching for the box of rice powder.

  "I told you…" Lilah began severely, only to be interrupted by the hare's foot whisking over her face and returning to pass more carefully over her cheek.

  "I know what you tole me. I also know what I know."

  There was no point in arguing with Betsy, Lilah knew. The maid was exactly as subservient as she wanted to be, and no more. Lilah took one last look at herself in the mirror as Betsy clasped a single strand of pearls around her neck, and then she was ready.

  "Oh, Betsy," she said, as butterflies suddenly started to do cartwheels in the pit of her stomach. "I-I think I'm nervous."

  "It takes us all like that sometimes, Miss Lilah. You're just later getting to it than most."

  "I am, aren't I? Well, I must go." Taking a deep breath, amazed at the quivering anticipation that made her feel as if she were, in truth, sickening for something-she was normally the most serene person in the world-she went back downstairs.

  IV

  Lilah still felt absurdly nervous as she walked along the narrow back hall to the out-of-the-way room that her Uncle George used as his office. The door was shut. She hesitated for a moment, then she tapped softly and waited for an answer. When she didn't hear anything, she opened the door and stepped inside. For a moment she feared that he wasn't there. Disappointment struck her like a blow. Her eyes swept the candle-lit room with its cluttered bookcases and leather-topped desk. The remains of a meal were on the desk, but Jocelyn San Pietro was nowhere to be seen. Then she saw him as he got to his feet from a deep wing chair, and she felt a rush of relief.

  "I didn't think it would be possible for a woman to look any lovelier than you did earlier. I see I was wrong." He smiled slowly at her. Lilah returned his smile, feeling the magic spark the air between them again. She hadn't imagined it, it wasn't too good to be true. There was an attraction between them so strong that it drew her toward him like a magnetic force.

  "You're very good with compliments, Mr. San Pietro. It almost makes me think that you've had a great deal of practice handing them out." She held on to the knob of the open door to resist the urge to walk toward him. His smile broadened. He had shed his driving coat.

  The black swallowtail coat he wore clung to his broad shoulders and followed the line of his body down to his narrow waist. The knit breeches revealed slim hips, a flat belly, and long, muscular thighs. Lilah caught herself looking at him in a way she had no business doing. A blush stained her cheeks, and she jerked her eyes back up to his face again, hoping that her expression was not as self-conscious as it felt.

  "Can it be that you are accusing me of being a flirt, Miss Remy?" The easy banter was all on the surface. The real conversation was silent, and was conducted by their eyes.

  "I fear it may be so." Her voice was faintly breathless, despite her best intentions.

  He shook his head and came toward her, his walk as lithe as an Indian's. "I never flirt. I'm much too direct for that. If I see something I want, I do my best to get it."

  He stopped when he was very close to her, and stood looking down into her face. Lilah felt her pulse quicken at the obvious implication: he had seen her, wanted her, and would try his best to get her. She looked up at him, up at that dark handsome face bent toward hers, and had to fight the urge to sway toward him. He was tall and strong and handsome, and she was shocked at the sudden longing she felt to have him take her in his arms.

  "We-should go join the others. My great-aunt will be wondering where I am." That urge to be held by him unnerved her. She had ne
ver expected to feel such a thing with a man. Certainly she never had before. Ladies were supposed to be immune to that. Being alone with him was intoxicating, and being intoxicated with him could be dangerous.

  "Perhaps we should forgo joining the others."

  "Oh, I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "It-it wouldn't be proper. Besides…"

  "I have to be on a ship that leaves Washington harbor at dawn the day after tomorrow. I'd like to get to know you better, and if we're surrounded by dozens of people I won't be able to. I know that your relatives won't like the idea of you being alone with a man you barely know, but I can assure you that you've no reason to fear me. Whatever else I may be, I'm a gentleman-or at least I promise to be with you."

  "I know that," she answered, surprised because she did. Being afraid of him hadn't even occurred to her. He was wildly attractive, with those predatory eyes and that gleaming smile, but she'd sensed from the first that he'd never hurt her. As he'd said, he was a gentleman- at least with her.

  "Well then?"

  She hesitated. The idea of spending the rest of the evening with him alone was dazzling. Her aunt would scold for days; the assembled guests would gossip for weeks. But she suddenly found that she didn't care. She gave him a glimmering smile.

  "I suppose I could show you the rose garden."

  "I've always had an intense interest in horticulture."

  "All right then." She smiled at him again, feeling suddenly very carefree. She would show him the rose garden and be hanged to them all if they didn't like it. For once in her life she was going to do what she wanted to do, whether it was the proper thing or not.

  "How is it that you are living here at Boxhill with your aunt and uncle? Do your parents live here too?"

  "Shhh!" Half laughing, she held a cautioning finger to her lips. They were walking along the back hallway with Lilah in the lead. The sounds of dancing and laughter from the front rooms were faintly muffled, but clear enough so that there was no getting away from the fact that Amanda's party in her honor was still going on. Lilah felt absurdly guilty, like a child sneaking out of a schoolroom. This sensation of illicit freedom was delicious. She felt more alive than she ever had in her life, happier, even daring. Reckless…

  She took him out a side door to avoid Beulah and the kitchen maids. When at last they were safe outside, with the darkness all around them sheltering diem from prying eyes, she let out a breath of relief. He grinned at her, and she laughed back at him. They were partners in crime.

  "So show me the rose garden," he instructed, taking her hand and tucking it in the crook of her arm. Holding up her skirt, Lilah walked closer to him than propriety perhaps allowed, but she didn't care. Already she felt more at ease with him than she did with gentlemen she had known for most of her life. The solid warmth of him beside her felt right, somehow. She looked up at him, at the breadth of shoulder that was just about on her eye level, at the underside of the firm chin that was just faintly darkened as if it had been some hours since he had shaved. Usually she didn't care for gentlemen with mustaches; she preferred them clean shaven, but in his case… She caught herself wondering how that mustache would feel if he kissed her, and blushed.

  "Tell me about yourself," she said hurriedly as he looked down at her with a gleam in his eyes that made her think he had no trouble at all following the line of her thoughts.

  He shook his head. "You first. You never answered my question."

  "Oh, about my parents? I don't live here at Boxhill. I'm just visiting my great-aunt, and I'll be going home in a little more than two weeks."

  The possibility that she might never see him again after tonight occurred to her with stunning force. Her throat tightened, and her eyes widened on her face. She couldn't bear the thought of never seeing him again…

  "And where is home?"

  "Barbados. We have a sugar plantation there. It's called Heart's Ease."

  "Heart's Ease," he said, as if he were committing it to memory. "My ships sail to Barbados several times a year. I'll make it a point to be on the next one."

  "Your ships?" She watched with fascination the different expressions that played over his dark face. He was looking down at her just as intently, his free hand moving to cover the slim, cool fingers that rested in the crook of his arm. Lilah felt the touch of his bare hand on hers with a jolt of her heart. His skin was so warm…

  "I operate a shipping company out of Bristol, in England. Sometimes, when I have business somewhere, I captain one of my own ships. As I did to come here tonight. I must warn you, I am liable to be persona non grata when your uncle hears the nature of my business. He may very well order me off his land."

  "Uncle George would never do that. He's a very nice man, really. Is it your company that ships his tobacco to England? If so…"

  He shook his head. "My business with him is personal." His tone was faintly repressive. Lilah wasn't interested enough to probe further. His business with Uncle George had nothing to do with her. She was interested in the man, not what he did.

  Another couple strolled toward them. Lilah recognized red-haired Sarah Bennet with a gentleman she thought was Thorn McQuarter, and hurriedly tugged Mr. San Pietro down a bisecting path. She did not want to go through the process of performing introductions, and then have their tete-a-tete turn into a quartet. Knowing how sweet Sarah Bennet was on Mr. McQuarter, she guessed that Sarah would be grateful for her quick action.

  "This garden seems a trifle crowded," Mr. San Pietro observed with rueful amusement as minutes later they performed a similar dodging manuever to avoid another couple.

  "Yes. It's a lovely night." She echoed his regret. Then a thought occurred to her that was so daring that she was shocked at herself for even entertaining it. With any other gentleman, she would never have made the suggestion. And if the gentleman had had the bad taste to do so, she would have excused herself from his company and made her way back to the house. Mr. San Pietro might think her bold… But then she remembered that they had only this one night.

  "We could walk along the creek to the summerhouse, if you'd like."

  He looked down at her with a quick grin. The white gleam of his teeth in the darkness was dazzling.

  "I'd like that very much."

  The scent of roses faded behind them, to be replaced by the earthier fragrances of grass and woods and water. A mosquito buzzed around her head, and Lilah swatted at it. She would probably pay for her daring in the morning with a rash of insect bites.

  Put In Creek sliced through the property at an angle. Uncle George had built an open-walled gazebo of whitewashed birch where the creek formed a vee as it headed toward Chesapeake Bay again. This summerhouse, as everyone at Boxhill called it, had become a favorite retreat of Lilah's, though she had never before been there at night. Now she saw that it stood amidst the grove of rustling willows in which it had been built like a graceful lady ghost. More honeysuckles grew up around the elaborate scrollwork of the railings, their sweet scent lending a heady kind of enchantment to the night. In the creek a pair of ducks swam, their passing silent, marked only by rippling curves of water that gleamed in the moonlight.

  Lilah hesitated. She had not realized quite how isolated the summerhouse would be at night.

  "Mr. San Pietro…," she began.

  "Call me Joss. As I said earlier, my friends all do."

  "That's the trouble," she said with a nervous laugh. She made an instinctive move that put a little distance between them. Up to then she had been walking pressed almost against his side. He could not be blamed if she had given him the wrong impression. But though she had been carried away by the man and the moonlight, she was still bound by some proprieties. No matter what he might have been led to believe, beyond a certain point she would not go. "I'm not quite sure how good a Mend of yours you expect me to be. I confess I hadn't realized the summerhouse was so… so isolated."

  He let her hand slide away from the crook of his arm, let her put a few more p
aces between them until she stood facing him.

  "Don't worry, I know a lady when I meet one. You need not concern yourself that you'll have any reason to regret your trust in me. I won't take advantage of it, I promise. But I'd like us to be friends."

  She looked up at him a moment, wavering. What she saw in his face reassured her. He was no bounder who would take disgraceful advantage of her lack of discretion in bringing him to this isolated spot. For all his flirting and his roguish smile, he was, as he had assured her earlier, a gentleman.

  "Very well then. Friends."

  "Joss," he prompted.

  "Joss," she echoed, then preceded him up the summerhouse steps.

  "I hope you have no objection if I call you Lilah? I like it-it's unusual, and it suits you." He followed her to the opposite side of the octagon-shaped structure, which looked out over the creek. Lilah stopped there, her knees resting against the built-in wooden bench, her hands closing over the polished railing as she stared unseeingly at the creek. Her every nerve ending was focused on the man who stood beside her.

  "It's really Delilah," she said inconsequentially.

  "That's even more unusual, and suits you even better. Delilah. What a good thing such an enchanting name wasn't wasted on a pudding-faced little miss. Your parents must be people of rare discernment-or else you were an unusually attractive baby."

  Lilah smiled up at him fleetingly. "I don't think so. My mother died when I was small, but Katy, my old governess, said that I was the ugliest baby she ever saw. She said I was so ugly my father nearly cried when he saw me."

  Joss grinned. "Time has certainly wrought a miracle, then. Because you are the most beautiful young lady I've ever seen. "

  "There you go, flattering me again."

  He shook his head. "Not a bit of it. May God strike me dead on the spot if I'm lying."