A Summer to Remember (22 page)

“Richard Lovelace, I believe,” she said. “One of the Cavalier poets.”

“Never believe it,” he said. “It is a lie.
Nothing
should come before love.”

“If you had made the other choice,” she said after a short silence filled with the howling of the wind and the lashing of the rain, “and if hundreds, perhaps thousands, had suffered as a result, Kit, you would never have forgiven yourself.”

He laughed softly. “I would not have needed to. I would be dead.”

“You did your duty,” she said softly. “It is all any of us can do, Kit.”

He kept his eyes closed and his forehead pressed to his fist. He allowed her words to envelop him, to soothe him, to comfort him, very much—for the moment at least—like absolution.

For the past several minutes Lauren had been feeling very much as if she were going to faint. She had always tried to avoid any sight or mention of violence, believing that ladies should have no dealings with such sordid realities. It had never been particularly difficult to do. Most gentlemen seemed to hold the same belief. She could remember an occasion when Lily, newly come to Newbury, had launched eagerly into a conversation about the wars—she had grown up in the train of the armies, first in India, then in the Peninsula, as the supposed daughter of an infantry sergeant. Lauren, consumed by secret hatred at the time, had tried to appease her conscience by instructing Lily in what would be expected of her as the Countess of Kilbourne. She could recall advising Lily that a lady did not speak of the wars or listen to any conversation about them.

She had been so very righteous in those days, so convinced that she was right. So much the perfect lady. So unbearably prim.

But now she could not shake from her mind the horrifying images of torture that Kit had conjured up, though he had given no details. Or the image of the regimental surgeon plying his trade, saw in hand, amputating a man’s arm. She could almost smell the blood.

At one point she had considered trying to change the subject, as she had done so successfully last night. But the two occasions, so similar on the surface, were in fact entirely different. Tonight the unfortunate incident in the drawing room with Sydnam Butler had ripped away everything he had put there to cover the gaping wound of his deepest agony. Tonight it would have been cruel, unthinkable, unpardonable, to have tried to stop him. Tonight he had needed to unburden his conscience more, perhaps, than he had needed anything else in his life
before.

And so she had sat straight and still on the wide velvet bench, her feet neatly side by side on the floor, her hands clasping the ends of her shawl, determinedly clinging to consciousness, fighting the ringing in her ears, the coldness in her head. The fact that she was a delicately, correctly nurtured lady was of no significance. She had resisted the urge to shift the focus of her hearing to the wind and the rain outside. She had listened carefully to every single
word.

She had not cringed or allowed herself to faint. She knew what it felt like to lock up everything that was most painful inside oneself, not sharing one’s hurt even with one’s dearest friend. She knew all about pain and loneliness and even despair. Perhaps that was why he had chosen her as his audience, even if it had not been a conscious choice. Perhaps he simply recognized in her a fellow sufferer.

There was no doubt that he had done what was right. She had told him that, and of course he must know it for himself. But she realized too that knowing it would not really ease his pain. She knew he would never forgive himself for not doing the wrong thing. It was pointless to add words to words. She sat quietly and waited, giving him all the time he needed. She was glad he had locked the gallery door behind them. There was no danger of anyone rushing in before he was ready to face the world again.

After a while, when she sensed somehow that the time was right, she got to her feet without speaking and closed the distance between them. She set her arms about his waist from behind and rested her cheek against his shoulder, intent upon giving him all the comfort of her physical presence, for what it was worth. She felt him inhale slowly and deeply. She both felt and heard the breath shudder out of him. And then he turned and caught her to him, crushing her against him with arms that felt like iron bands. She felt all the breath rush out of her, but it did not occur to her to feel alarm or to struggle to be free. He needed her.

Plainly and simply stated, he needed her. And it did not occur to her for a single moment to resist his need.

When his mouth found hers, it was hard and urgent, grinding her lips against her teeth, bruising them, pressing them apart. His tongue plunged deep into her mouth. One of his hands, spread over her lower back, jerked her hard against him, leaving her in no doubt of the sexual turn his need had taken.

She felt curiously detached. The part of her that was the Lauren Edgeworth, perfect lady, stood some distance away, coolly analyzing, admonishing her with the reminder that
this
was the inevitable consequence of all the impropriety that had characterized her dealings with him from the very start—from the very moment she had looked back over her shoulder at him in Hyde Park. This was the consequence of being repeatedly alone with him, having deceived her family and his into allowing it on the assumption that they were betrothed. This was the sort of unbridled, dangerous passion one must expect to be unleashed by the unseemly talk of violence she had allowed when they were alone together behind locked doors.

This
had to be stopped
right now.

The other, less familiar, formerly unsuspected part of herself that had been born at Vauxhall—or perhaps much earlier than that, in the park—stayed present in his arms and recognized that she was a woman, that he had need of her, that she had warmth and femininity and
humanity
to offer him in his need. And the freedom to give all if she chose. Choices again. Until recently—ah, until
now
—choices had never been difficult. She had always known, by the rigid code of gentility, what was right. She had never known the code of the heart. Honor or love? They were opposed, as they had been for him. But this time it was love that could—and should—triumph.

She chose love, though she did not perhaps use that word to herself since her thoughts were not verbal ones.

This, she thought quite clearly—
this
was what she had meant at Vauxhall. She knew it with a sudden blinding intuition.
This
was what she had meant. This coming alive to the woman who had been locked away all her life inside the lady who was Lauren Edgeworth.

His mouth was against her throat, on her shoulders, at her breasts. His hands were moving urgently against the flimsy fabric of her evening gown, pushing it off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her breasts. She did not flinch even though there were both firelight and candlelight to make her feel doubly exposed. She was a woman and he needed her. She would give, then. She needed too—she needed to be a
woman
. She shivered with mingled fright and excitement as his mouth closed warmly over one breast and suckled her, his tongue flicking over her nipple and suffusing her from head to toe in raw desire. She cupped a hand with infinite gentleness over the back of his head and set a cheek against his soft fair hair.

He moved his head to set his forehead against her shoulder.

“Stop me,” he said, his voice both rough and husky. “For God’s sake, Lauren, stop me.”

“No.” She lifted his head with both hands and looked into his face, her fingers gently stroking through his hair. “This is what I choose, Kit. What I freely choose. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” She could not bear it now if he did. “This is not just for you. It is for me too.” She feathered light kisses over his face as she spoke, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth.

He was holding her again then, just as close, and kissing her just as deeply as before except that the frenzied urgency had gone, to be replaced by hot passion mingled with what felt very like tenderness. As if she had become for him not just a woman, but Lauren too. Her naked breasts pressed against his coat.

She was giver and gift. He was gift and giver.

It was upon one of the velvet benches that he laid her down after another minute or two. It was quite wide enough to make a narrow bed, she realized. She reached up her arms for him, but he was raising her gown to her waist, removing her silk slippers, her stockings and her undergarments, unbuttoning the front flap of his breeches. His eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, roamed over her. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks flushed. He looked beautiful beyond belief.

Lauren Edgeworth, that disciplined lady, stood apart again for a moment and informed her other self that she was simply not
thinking,
that she would forever regret what would happen unless she put a stop to it
now
. But the point was that she
was
thinking. This was not mindless passion. It was not even passion, in fact. It was something more primal, more deeply emotional than that. It was something she knew with absolute certainty she would never regret.

He knelt beside the bench, kissing her face with light, feathering kisses. With his hands he fondled her, doing exquisite things with her breasts, holding them, stroking them, rolling the hardened, tender nipples between thumbs and forefingers. And then with one hand he fondled her
there,
his fingers nimbly probing her naked flesh, parting folds, stroking, lightly scratching, pulsing, finding the most intimate part of her and sliding inward.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

She knew what happened between a man and a woman. Aunt Clara had explained it to her before her planned wedding to Neville. She had sometimes tried to imagine it, though more often she had tried
not
to. It must be embarrassing, utterly distasteful, she had always thought. She had imagined it as a purely carnal thing, totally stripped of emotion or even of any tactile sensation apart from the humiliating penetration of her body that must occur.

She had never suspected that there would be this ache, this yearning, this eagerness to be penetrated, to be joined. This need—emotional as well as physical—to give and to be gifted. Was
this
passion? If so, it was not mindless at all.

“Lauren.” His mouth was warm over hers. “It is not too late to stop me.”

“Don’t stop.” She did not open her eyes. “Kit . . .”

He had removed his coat and waistcoat. His shirt felt warm and silky against her naked breasts. So did his breeches against her inner thighs as he pushed between them and spread them wide. His weight bore her down into the velvet cushions of the bench. It made her feel more defenseless, on the verge of alarm. Open and vulnerable. And pulsing with a heightened need that was almost unbearable.

She felt him then, pressed against the place where his finger had been just moments before. But much thicker, harder . . . She breathed in slowly as he came inside her, slowly, stretching her, filling her with a terrifying sort of exultation. There was no going back now, no stopping him. It was too late, and she was
glad
it was too late. She gripped his shoulders and concentrated upon not showing either fear or pain. There
was
pain. There was no more room. He was going to hurt her—but she had been
told
it would hurt. Then something tore inside her, something that for a moment threatened unbearable pain and then was gone, just as the barrier of her virginity was gone. He pushed deep.

“Lauren,” he murmured against her ear. “Sweet. So very sweet. Have I hurt you?”

“No.” Her voice sounded shockingly normal.

She should lie still and relaxed, Aunt Clara had advised, until her husband had finished.
Her husband.

Finished? Had he finished now?

He drew out of her and she felt a pang of regret. This was all? Once in a lifetime and it was over already, to be relived only in dreams for the rest of her life? Over so soon? But at the moment she expected him to withdraw altogether he pushed back inward. There was soreness. There was also an exquisite silken feeling and the knowledge that there were to be a few moments longer. She wanted to beg him to do it again, but even at such a moment she knew a lady’s reluctance to appear gauche or to make foolish demands.

He did it again. And again. She lay still, holding his shoulders as if they were the only anchor of her existence, quietly absorbing all the forbidden delights of her shocking fall from virtue.

She was
glad
. What reward had virtue ever brought her? Virtue was its own reward, she had always believed. But it was
not
. Virtue was no reward at all.

Did he know how good it made her feel, this repeated thrust and withdrawal, which had become smooth and rhythmic? Did he know? Was that why he did it? To delight her? But she could hear his labored breathing, and she could feel his increased body heat, and she knew that of course he did it because it delighted him.
She
delighted him.

She
delighted
him. She, Lauren Edgeworth. She smiled and focused all her thoughts, all her feelings, downward. She would drink this cup of pleasure to the very dregs. The memory would last her a lifetime.

His hands slid beneath her before she was more than halfway down the cup, holding her buttocks firm, tilting her upward, and his thrusts became harder, faster, deeper. A sharp ache of pure pleasure came swirling upward through her belly to focus in her breasts, but before it could be repeated, far too soon, it seemed—how greedy she was!—he strained deep into her and she felt a warm liquid gush.

Ah. He was finished.

And she was not.

Did women ever finish? Did they ever begin? Was there only the delight and the reaching for something beyond one’s grasp? But the delight was enough. She was not sorry. She would never be sorry. She would not allow her conscience to scold her later tonight, tomorrow, for the rest of her life. She was glad this had happened. It had been one of the loveliest experiences of her life. No—it was
the
loveliest.