A Summer to Remember (9 page)

“Why were you swimming half clad in the Serpentine?” she was asking. “Why did you make such a public spectacle of yourself? Do you enjoy giving outrage wherever you go?”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “You have been told about that, have you?”

“And yet you expect me to allow myself to have my name linked with yours?” she added.

“You would not wish for the acquaintance of someone who makes a spectacle of himself in public places?” he asked her. “Someone who courts notoriety? I am desolate. But the child was wailing pitifully, you must understand, and his nurse was at the very tail end of her tether. I do believe she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her only remaining option was to smack him.”

“
What
child?” She turned a frowning face toward him.

He chuckled. She looked beautiful even when she was cross. “I might have guessed,” he said, “that those old tabbies would tell only part of the story. The child had a new boat, you see, which set off boldly and proudly for the distant horizon and held its course for all of one minute while he jumped up and down with glee and yelled loudly enough to do an infantry sergeant proud. And then it sank ignominiously without leaving so much as a bubble on the surface. It was several yards from shore by that time.”

“And you dived in to retrieve it.” Her tone held a mingling of incredulity and scorn.

“Not immediately,” he explained. “I waited until the nurse’s total incompetence to deal with the crisis became evident. It
was
a crisis, you see. What self-respecting captain can watch his ship go down without him and not throw a massive tantrum, after all? When there was no other course open to me but to witness a justifiably hysterical lad being cuffed by his insensitive nurse, I removed as many of my clothes as I decently could—though I understand there are varying opinions upon just how many that is—and dived in. I recovered the boat from its muddy grave. I thought my actions were rather heroic. So did the lad.”

She stared at him, obviously speechless.

“You see,” he explained, tipping his head to one side, “I was a boy once myself.”

“Once? You mean you have grown up?” She bit her lip—to hold back a smile? But there was telltale laughter in her voice.

“Lady Waddingthorpe and Mrs. Healy-Ryde swelled with outrage, like two hot-air balloons,” he said abjectly.

For a moment, even in the moonlight, he could see her eyes light with merriment. But—damn it!—before she could express it the exclamations of Miss Merklinger and Miss Abbott drew the attention of everyone in the boat to the fact that it was drawing in to the bank. Light shivered across the water from the many lamps strung in the trees of Vauxhall Gardens.

“Oh!” Lauren Edgeworth said.

“You see?” he said gently. “It
is
an enchanted land, is it not?”

“Magical,” she agreed with such warm fervor that he guessed she had forgotten her eternal—or infernal—dignity for the moment.

He handed her out, and they followed the others into the pleasure gardens, whose enchantment could weave its spell even over such jaded tastes as his own. The long colonnades, the extensive groves of trees, and the wide avenues would have made for pleasant strolling even during the day, he guessed. But during the evening all was transformed into a glorious wonderland by the colored lamps waving from the colonnade and from the tree branches, the moonlight and starlight like twinkling lamps in a distant black ceiling. The music of the orchestra wafting from the direction of the open-air pavilion wrapped itself about them and muted the sounds of voices and laughter from the dozens of merrymakers.

It was the perfect setting for dalliance.

And for a marriage proposal.

They took their places in the box Merklinger had hired for the evening, close to the orchestra and the wide open space before it where the audience stood during concerts and other spectacles and where the dancing would take place tonight. They ate strawberries and cream and drank wine and enjoyed the evening air. Miss Abbott flirted with Mr. Weller. Mrs. Merklinger courted Farrington for her daughter with single-minded devotion. Merklinger hailed almost everyone who passed in front of their box and engaged anyone who stopped in hearty conversation. Kit turned to Lauren Edgeworth.

“Will you waltz with me?” he asked.

“Oh,
yes
!” Miss Merklinger exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Let us all waltz.
May
we, Mama?”

Fortunately, Kit discovered when he looked at the young lady, rather startled, she had not mistaken the object of his invitation. Her sparkling gaze was fixed upon Farrington, who was climbing indulgently to his feet while the girl’s mother beamed benevolently upon them.

“A waltz,” she said. “You have not yet been given the nod of approval by any of the patronesses of Almack’s to dance it, my love, and neither has Amelia. But in Vauxhall I daresay the rules are not so strictly observed. Off you go and enjoy yourselves.”

And so they waltzed, Kit and Lauren, and the other two couples too, beneath the stars and beneath the swaying lamps, the evening breeze fluttering the lace of Lauren’s overdress and tousling Kit’s hair. The delicate arch of her spine had been made to fit his hand, he discovered again. And the waltz might well have been invented for her to dance. She performed the steps with elegance and grace. And she was more beautiful than he had had any right to hope.

She would make a perfect countess when the time came. His father could have no greater objection to her than the fact that she was not Freyja. How very different they were. . . . But he did not choose to pursue that thought. This woman would suit him well enough.

“Can there be anything more romantic than waltzing beneath the stars?” he asked her, his voice lowered for her ears only.

She had been gazing about at the trees and lamps, but she looked directly at him when he spoke. “I suppose,” she said gravely, “one’s answer to that must depend upon one’s partner.”

He chuckled. “I tremble to ask,” he said. “Can there be anything more romantic than
this
waltz beneath the stars?”

“There can be few activities more
pleasant
than this, my lord,” she said. A setdown if ever he had heard one.

“I could think of a few.” He deliberately dropped his gaze to her mouth and tightened his hand at her waist. And what the devil was he about, trying to annoy her when he should be wooing her?

“Why do you persist in flirting with me?” she asked him. “Have I not made it abundantly clear to you that I will not succumb to flattery? Does my reluctance amuse you?”

Her
primness
amused him—surprisingly. It should be annoying, he supposed, but it was not. He found her grave dignity almost endearing.

He twirled her without answering, drawing her closer when he saw another couple perilously close. But she was having none of it. She set the correct distance between them once more and looked into his eyes with steady reproach.

“There was a large bumpkin about to mow you down,” he explained. “That one. Oops.” The large young man he indicated had just collided with another couple. Kit chuckled. “I will take you strolling when the waltz is over. And before you say the very firm no you are drawing breath for, I plan to make all proper by suggesting that the others accompany us.”

She closed her mouth and looked warily at him.

“It would be a shame,” he said, “to come to Vauxhall and not see as much of it as possible, would it not? The paths are wooded and rural and unutterably romantic.”

“I did not come here for romance,” she said.

“There are other alternatives.” He smiled wickedly at her and twirled her again, and her neck arched back as she gazed up at the wheeling colors of the lamps. “Why
did
you come?”

When she did not immediately answer, he sighed soulfully. The music, he sensed, was about to end.

“Come strolling with me,” he said. “With the others for propriety, of course.” If he could not escape their chaperonage once they were away from the environs of the pavilion, then he would have lost his touch indeed.

The music drew to a close, and they stood facing each other while all about them couples made their way back to the boxes.

“You hesitate because I swam in the Serpentine wearing only my pantaloons?” he asked her.

“You make a joke of everything,” she said. “I wonder if anything is serious to you.”

“Some things,” he assured her.
Ah yes, some things.
“Walk with me.”

“Very well,” she said at last. “Provided everyone else agrees to accompany us, my lord. But I will not tolerate either flirtation or dalliance.”

“I promise neither to flirt with you nor to dally with you,” he said, smiling, his right hand over his heart.

She looked unconvinced.

“Very well,” she said again.

6

L
auren had always loved beauty. The park at Newbury Abbey was beautiful, especially on a sunny summer’s day when the wind off the ocean was not too blustery. It was the inner lawns and flower gardens that she loved best, though, those parts of the park that had been tamed and cultivated. Those parts that were civilized. She had never really liked the wilder valley and beach, which were all a part of the park. They were untamed and disordered. Sometimes they frightened her in a way she could never quite explain. They reminded her, perhaps, of how little control humankind has over its own destiny. Of how close we always are to chaos.

She was terrified of chaos.

Vauxhall Gardens was a sheer delight. Nature had been tamed here and made lovely. The forest was lit by lamplight and traversed by wide, well-illumined paths with sculptures and grottos to add interest and elegance. The paths were crowded with strollers, all of whom were behaving in a perfectly civilized manner.

And yet she was aware of danger. Miss Merklinger and Lord Farrington, Miss Abbott and Mr. Weller, walked ahead of them, talking and laughing among themselves. Lord Ravensberg made no attempt to join in their conversation even though Lord Farrington was a personal friend of his. And every minute set the two of them at a slightly greater distance behind the other four.

Every so often narrower paths wound away into the trees. They were darker, lonelier than the main thoroughfare.

Lauren could almost read Lord Ravensberg’s mind. He intended that they take one of those side paths. Just the two of them. She shivered. She could increase her pace and close the distance with the others. She could herself join in their conversation. Or she could, when the time came, firmly refuse to leave the main path. He would hardly try forcing her to comply with his wishes, after all. The fact that she was even having this inner debate with herself bewildered her. Lauren Edgeworth had always known what was what, and it would certainly not be the thing to go off with a virtual stranger along a deserted path when he could have nothing but dalliance on his mind.

But she was horrifyingly tempted. What was it like—dalliance? It must be different from simple flirtation, certainly. One could flirt in company with other people. One needed to be alone with another in order to dally. She had never wondered about it before. She had never been even faintly curious.

But tonight she was.

“The path grows crowded,” Viscount Ravensberg said, dipping his head closer to hers. “Perhaps you would like a quieter, more leisurely stroll along one of the side paths, Miss Edgeworth?” His eyes, dancing with merriment, mocked her. He knew, of course, that she
knew
. Did he know too that she was tempted?

She felt as if she had come to some crossroads in her life. She could and should say no and there would be an end of the matter. Or she could say yes. She could simply say yes and risk . . . what? Detection? Exposure? Scandal? They would be unchaperoned. Did he intend to steal a kiss from her? It was a shocking thought. She had only ever been kissed by Neville. She was six and twenty and had only ever been kissed—chastely—by a former betrothed. Perhaps he intended more than kisses. Perhaps . . .

“Thank you,” she heard herself say before she could talk herself into making an acceptance impossible. “That would be pleasant.”

He turned without further ado onto a narrow path to their left. The other two couples strolled onward, unaware that they had been abandoned.

The path was narrow—only just wide enough for two people to walk side by side if they were close together. Lord Ravensberg pressed her arm firmly against his side so that she had no choice but to rest her shoulder just below the level of his. It was the
path
that gave her no choice—the path and the tall, silent trees that grew to its very edge and met overhead, almost totally blocking out the moonlight. The only light came from the occasional lamp in a tree.

She ought not to have agreed to this, Lauren thought. There was a feeling of even greater aloneness and intimacy than she had expected. The sounds of voices and music seemed to grow instantly fainter. There was no one else on this particular path.

Why
had
she agreed? Curiosity? A desire to be kissed?

She wished he would say something. She thought of all sorts of things
she
might say—she was adept at making polite social conversation, after all, but any topic that came to mind would have sounded ridiculous under the present circumstances.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in a voice that was so calmly conversational that for a moment his meaning did not quite penetrate her mind. It was her
heart
that comprehended first as it thumped uncomfortably against her rib cage, half robbing her of breath.

What would it be like, being kissed by a man who was not Neville? Being kissed by a notorious rakehell? By Viscount Ravensberg? And why had she not spoken up instantly with a firm and frosty refusal?

“Why?” she asked instead.

He laughed softly. “Because you are a woman—a beautiful woman—and I am a red-blooded male,” he said. “Because I desire you.”

Lauren wondered if her legs would continue to support her. They seemed suddenly turned to jelly.
This
was dalliance?

. . . I am a red-blooded male.

Because I desire you.

His choice of words paralyzed her mind with shock. Yet they strolled onward as if they had just exchanged comments on the weather. He did not just wish to kiss her. He
desired
her. Could she possibly be desirable? Was she really beautiful? Was it possible after all that this was not simply dalliance? Or was she turning into the mindless dupe of an experienced rake?

They stopped walking as if by mutual consent, and somehow they were standing facing each other. The faint light of a distant lamp danced across his shadowed features. He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his knuckles feather-light down one side of her jawline to her chin.

“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and nodded—as if being unable to see and giving no verbal answer somehow absolved her from responsibility for whatever would follow.

She felt his hands coming to rest on either side of her waist. They drew her forward so that, even though she did not move her feet, her bosom brushed against his chest and then pressed closer. For balance she lifted her hands to grasp his shoulders—and felt again the strange intimacy of being with a man who was no more than two or three inches taller than she. She opened her eyes and saw his face very close to her own, his eyes intent upon her mouth. And then his own covered it.

His lips were parted. She felt with shock the moist heat of the inside of his mouth and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. For a few moments she was lost in wondering contemplation of sensations more carnal than she had ever suspected possible. And then she became aware of two other things simultaneously. His
tongue
was tracing the seam of her lips, causing a terrifyingly raw sensation to rush aching into her throat and down into her bosom and down . . . And one of his hands was spread firmly behind her waist—no, below it—and had drawn her against him so that her thighs rested against his and . . .

She pushed away from him and fought the chaos of unfamiliar sensations and emotions that whirled through her brain. How much sense it made that unmarried ladies were never allowed to be alone with a man until they were betrothed. But she had felt none of these things with Neville. Neville had been . . . a gentleman.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, relieved at the calm coolness of her voice, quite at variance with the turmoil of her emotions. “That will be quite enough.”

“Miss Edgeworth.” He was regarding her closely, his head tipped a little to one side. He made no attempt to grab her again. He was not even touching her. His hands were clasped at his back. Even so she would have taken a step back to set more distance between them if the trees had allowed it. “Would you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

What?
She stared at him, speechless. His question was so unexpected that her mind could not grapple with it for the moment.
This
was not dalliance, surely. He had asked her to
marry
him.

“Why?” The question was out before she could curb it.

“I saw you across Lady Mannering’s ballroom,” he said, “and knew that you were the woman I would marry—if you would have me.”

It was every girl’s dream, surely, to be singled out across a crowded room, Cinderella one moment, the love of Prince Charming’s soul the next. There was no more romantic myth. And despite herself, Lauren was not immune to it. But she was no girl. There was all the difference in the world between myth and reality. Life had dealt her enough doses of reality that she felt no doubt of that. She did not believe in love at first sight. She did not even believe in romantic love.

“Since then,” he said, “my regard for you has deepened every day. Every hour.”

“Has it?” She almost wished for the foolish girlhood she had never known—for the gullible belief in fairy-tale romance. She almost wished she could believe. “Why?” It was a question she seemed to have asked a great deal lately.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “You are elegant and graceful and dignified. You are a perfect lady, in fact. I have fallen head over ears in love with you.”

Those were the words that released her from her mental torpor. Men simply did not fall head over ears in love. Young girls might, but if love happened at all for men, it did so far more slowly and pragmatically. Lord Ravensberg was not the type to fall violently in love with any woman. He loved himself far too much, she suspected. And Lauren Edgeworth was not the type of woman to inspire soaring flights of emotion in any man.

“My lord,” she asked him, looking him directly in the eye and wishing there were more light, “what is your game?”

“Game?” He leaned a little closer and she turned sharply away and took a few steps along the path. She stood with her back to him.

“Is it my fortune?” she asked him. “Do you need to marry money?”

“I have all the wealth I need,” he said after a short pause. “And I am heir to a great deal more.”

“Then why?” She gazed ahead along the path and absently noted the shifting patterns of bluish light and shade cast across it by the distant lamp. “Why did you attend Lady Mannering’s ball? I have been told that you had been to no other before it this Season. Why did you dance only with me? You went there with that specific intention, did you not? You intended to offer for me before you even saw me. Am I right?”

“I had seen you in the park before then,” he said. “Remember? You are hard to forget.”

London during the Season was the great marriage mart. Viscount Ravensberg must be in his late twenties, perhaps older. He was heir to an earldom. It was perfectly conceivable that he had decided it was time to take a bride. But why her? And why sight unseen? She did not believe for a moment that he had conceived a passion for her during that brief meeting of their eyes in the park while he was holding and kissing the milkmaid. She did not believe he had conceived a passion for her at all. She turned to look back at him. From this angle his face was more in the light. There seemed less laughter there than usual.

“Your pretense of passion is insulting, my lord,” she said. “Lies are surely unnecessary. Why not simply the truth?”

His features looked hard and chiseled without the customary expression of good humor. She could imagine him now, as she had never been able to before, as a military officer.

“Insulting,” he repeated softly. “I have insulted you. And indeed you are right. I have.”

She had the distinct impression that her heart plummeted all the way down from her chest to her feet. She was right, then. He felt nothing for her. Of course he did not. And she did not want him to, anyway. She did not want his love or any man’s. Especially not his. But she felt suddenly chilled. She was
not
beautiful. She was
not
desirable. She was simply Lauren Edgeworth, perfect lady and eligible bride for an earl’s heir—as she had been all her life, unless the man happened to find a more appealing bride before it was too late. She turned her head to confirm what her eyes had seen earlier without really noticing—a rustic seat. She walked toward it and seated herself, arranging her skirts carefully about her so that she would not have to look at him. He moved closer, but made no attempt to seat himself beside her.

“Honor has always been enormously important to me,” he said, his voice so devoid of laughter that she scarcely recognized it. “There was a time—while I was commissioned—when honor meant more to me than life itself, even the lives of those I loved. But—” There was a short silence before he continued. “In all my dealings with you I have acted completely without honor. I am deeply ashamed and I beg your pardon. Perhaps you will allow me to escort you back to Mrs. Merklinger?”