Summer Is for Lovers (10 page)

The idea had grown teeth almost since the moment he had seen Caroline staring at the poster with undisguised longing in her eyes. Despite his teasing, he knew it was an impossible idea for her to compete. But if Brighton refused to acknowledge the admirable young woman he was coming to know, it at least deserved to see the stroke she wielded with such skill.

He had no doubt of his capacity to win if he devoted himself to the exercise and Caroline showed him her secrets, and the Scottish side of him delighted in the idea of proving a foreign swimming stroke could outpace a perfectly constructed English crawl. It would also be a convenient way to remove Caroline from harm’s way, given the fumbling interests of the boys of summer.

He promptly squashed the unwelcome thought that it would also permit him to spend more time with her.

Alone.

The only sticky part was convincing her. And at the moment, she looked far from convinced.

As her expression shifted from surprised to cautious, it occurred to him, like a sudden slap to the face, that she looked different today. The dress she was wearing this morning was not the reason—like all the dresses he had seen her in, it was cut in a less than flattering style, as if fashioned for a woman two inches shorter. But the bonnet on her head was trimmed with a pretty blue ribbon, and her white kidskin gloves looked utterly proper, if a bit too warm. There was even a reticule looped over one of her wrists, some beaded bit of frippery that would have looked at home on any of the other ladies prowling Shop Street.

Somehow, on Caroline, it all looked out of place. The image he carried with him, the image he preferred, was that of a woman in ill-fitting clothes, her freckled nose turned up to the sun, daring Mother Nature to do her worst. Had Caroline added these fashionable accoutrements for Branson, then? The thought sent his fingers curling, even though he had spent the prior evening drunkenly encouraging just such a possibility.

“You want me to teach you to swim?” she asked, her eyes wide.

He nodded, encouraged by the fact that she was no longer handing him a vehement no. “You’ve a brilliant technique. And I would like nothing more than to beat Dermott using it.”

Her eyes flew wider still. “Dermott is entering again this year?”

David permitted himself a careful, casual shrug. “I would imagine. The man is quite the swimmer, to hear him tell it. The braggart challenged me to a race last night even though he could scarcely put one foot in front of the next. I cannot see him forgoing such an opportunity.”

Caroline’s jaw tensed. “The competition is less than a week away,” she told him, though her voice had turned breathless. “That is not enough time.”

“Lucky for you, I am a quick study.” David chased his words with one of his most rakish grins, enjoying the flicker of emotion that his words conjured on her face. He had offered her almost the same phrase last night, during the middle of their kiss—the kiss that, if he was brutally honest with himself, he wanted to repeat. The mere memory of it sent his body perking up in interest. He quelled it with a muttered oath. He needed to stop going down this perverse path. If she agreed to this bit of proposed lunacy, they would be engaged in swimming instruction, nothing more.

“We would have to practice every day,” she warned, her lips finally tipping upward into a smile. “Including today, we would have only five opportunities until the day of the competition.”

The tension ebbed from David’s shoulders. She was going to do it. He had to reach for the bit of maturity it took to not rub his hands together in anticipation as he imagined the look on Dermott’s face when he was bested.

Or the look on this woman’s face when he provided her with the financial means to carve out an independent life.

“Given that I suspect you swim nearly every day, I can’t imagine it will be too much of a hardship.” He nodded toward Branson, who had ceased his animated conversation with the haberdasher and was now scanning the street in confusion. “Five lessons, including Sunday. We can start this afternoon, as soon as you inform your admirer his company is no longer needed.”

Or welcome
, he added silently.

“He’s not my admirer.” Caroline sighed, stepping out from behind the carriage and raising a hand to snag the man’s attention. “I don’t know why he wanted to walk with me in the first place. He seems far more interested in the potential of an empty shop than the thoughts I might keep in my head.”

“He seems to be interested enough in you right now.” David couldn’t help but notice the way the boy’s face lit up like Christmas morning as his gaze fell on Caroline.

“He will want to tell his father about the empty shop. I shall claim a headache and have him take me home, then encourage him to run along and speak with his father.”

David nodded, his eyes fixed on the young man. As if summoned by David’s stare, Branson began to walk toward them, the merest hint of a swagger infusing his stride. Damn it, the fop looked all of sixteen years old. No matter his encouragement of the young buck last night, this was not the man David would choose for Caroline. Hell, this was not a
man
at all.

And what sort of gentleman abandoned the lady he was walking with to peer moon-eyed through empty windows?

“Will you be able to meet me on the beach in an hour?” The thought of leaving her alone with Branson for even the quarter hour it would take for the man to return Caroline home chafed, but David could see no way around it.

She nodded. “My mother is used to me going for walks most afternoons. It will not be a problem to slip away. And with the store as an excuse, disengaging Mr. Branson’s company should be a simple enough matter.”

David forced himself to step away and put a more respectable distance between them as Branson rounded the side of the cab. Yes, it should be a simple enough matter.
Today
.

But as the sandy-haired swain approached Caroline with a bright, besotted smile on his face, David had a sinking suspicion that convincing this suitor to permanently cry off was not going to be anything close to simple.

Chapter 13

I
T SOON BECAME
clear to Caroline she hadn’t given proper thought to the mechanics of a swimming lesson with David Cameron.

Oh, she’d had an hour’s hike to sort out how she would teach him. She intended to go about it the same way her father had taught her, starting him off on the rocky shelf about two dozen yards from shore, where he could get his feet under him if he ran into trouble. She would have David practice the overhand stroke first, then work on his kick after he became accomplished at the arm motions. Eventually, she would test his skills against the wrath of the ocean, working him first at low tide and progressing to deeper and more dangerous waters.

Only, in agreeing to this plan, she had neglected to consider the necessary matter of clothing. Or rather, the
lack
of clothing.

David was waiting, still dressed, when she arrived. But as she approached, he tossed the leather satchel he was carrying onto the shore and began to shrug first out of his coat, then his shirt. Seeing him strip on this very beach under the moonlight had been a lung-crushing enough experience. But seeing him emerge now, under bright sunlight, every glorious imperfection highlighted, was something else entirely.

Today she could see a small scar that traversed his left rib cage. The tiny lines at the corner of his eyes reminded her that this man was older than she, and far more experienced. The whorls of hair on his chest sent her imagination hurtling downward to where the trail disappeared into his trousers.

Trousers that even now were being unbuttoned.

“You should leave them on,” she objected.

He offered her a tilted grin. “You saw me in my unutterables last night.”

“Nonetheless. It was dark last night.” Her voice pinched within her throat. “And you did not give me a choice.”

His grin turned rakish, but his fingers fell away from the buttons. “So I’m to sacrifice a perfectly good pair of trousers to preserve your delicate sensibilities?” His voice softened, though his gaze remained sharp. “Clothing is expensive. You should know this isn’t just a lark for me, Caroline. I need the money every bit as much as you do.”

His admission of his financial state was jarring, but not enough to smother her desire to see him clad in something more than smallclothes. “When you win, you shall be able to afford a dozen new pairs of trousers,” she pointed out. “But you shall not win without my assistance, and you shall not receive my assistance without some degree of modesty.”

He heaved a sigh, and made a great show of stepping toward the ocean with his trousers on, hands up and out, offering his bare back as penance. “At the risk of pointing out the obvious,” he called back to her, “how do you propose to teach me if you remain trussed up in a corset?”

“Do not worry about that,” she shouted, startled by the thought as much as the blasted man’s phrasing. The gown she had on buttoned in the front, at least, or else she never would have attempted this. She glanced toward David, who was standing, knee-deep in the surf. “Face the horizon. Stretch your muscles vigorously. Your body should be limber before you attempt to swim.”

A low chuckle reached her ears, but he began to make a great show of flapping his arms.

When she was satisfied the lout at least knew how to follow instructions, she crouched to pick up the discarded satchel, turning over his words in her mind. Somehow, in spite of her mother’s probing questions on the matter, she had presumed David solvent. Given her family’s own precarious finances, she could appreciate his desire to pursue this opportunity.

But this was a lot of pressure to place on her shoulders, which were already weighed down by the promise she had given her father. Worse, his frank explanation of the matter established, in no uncertain terms, how unsuitable a match with him would be, no matter his father’s title, and no matter how the sight of his bare chest made her body flush hot.

Not that it mattered. He had made it quite clear he was not interested in her that way.

She was here to teach David Cameron how to swim, not to convince him to offer for her. If he did not look at her with longing, there was little she could do about it. At the very least, he looked at her with respect, which was more than Dermott had ever offered. And so she would relish the moments of friendship he offered. She would try to be brave.

Or at the very least, try not to be nauseous.

Caroline stepped behind the large rock that dominated the shoreline and undressed down to her shift. She ran her hands over the fabric, testing the weight of the cotton and finding it woefully lacking. Her lack of curves might have been hidden by shadows last night, but there would be no missing their absence today.

Still, he was right. She couldn’t very well teach David to swim while encumbered by crinolines and corsets. She would be dragged under the water the minute she stepped into the ocean.

Caroline opened the lid of the satchel and rummaged a moment. Slippers, gown, corset. Leftover reminders from a night that should not have happened. But she could not bring herself to regret the experience, not when David had guarded her reputation by gathering up her lost things, and not when she was here with him again.

She pulled out the navy serge dress in her hands, contemplating her options. It still bore traces of sand and crushed shells, remnants from her brush with stupidity the previous evening. It didn’t even fit her properly, having been fashioned some years back before her shoulders had sprouted. She had worn the dress to Miss Baxter’s dinner party like an unattractive shield, hoping it would protect her against the slashing talons of the summer set. The fabric was a winter weight, thick and substantial.

Even wet, David would not be able to see through it. And he
had
sacrificed his trousers.

“Do you happen to have a penny knife?” she called out to the man she prayed was still standing to his knees in water.

“In my coat pocket, lass.” His brogue came rumbling over the sound of the waves, doing delicious things to her insides. She peeked over the top of the rock, and when she was satisfied he still had his back turned, she scrambled for the knife.

Wielding it in her right hand, Caroline set about removing as much excess fabric from the old dress as discretion permitted, then stepped into the ruined garment. It was still not ideal. The bodice was too constricting for deep breaths. The ragged hemline swung somewhere around her knees, leaving her legs free for the necessary movements but revealing too much skin for comfort.

But it was better than nothing, and nothing would not do.

Perhaps this, in the end, was why ladies didn’t swim. Not because of a lack of ability, or a dearth of want, but because of a preponderance of fabric in all the wrong places. As near as she could tell, a lady determined to swim in the presence of a gentleman had only two options: death by drowning, or expiration from embarrassment.

Either would do a girl in right quick.

H
AD
C
AROLINE
T
OLBERTSON
been born a man, she would have made a brilliant drill sergeant.

She wrangled David’s limbs into ruthless formation as she barked her commands. She declared Britain’s revered breaststroke “a waste of time and energy” and made him practice the new steps over and over again, pitting him against the hellish current, positioning him to meet the fury of the ocean head-on. It was exhausting work.

And yet, it was over far too soon.

He’d barely begun to wrap his head around it, barely begun to imagine he might be able to apply these skills in an actual race, when she nodded for shore. “That’s enough for today. Your stamina is not quite up to the demands of open water yet.”

David coughed, his chest burning as much from exertion as from the multiple mouthfuls of seawater that had found their way inside his lungs. He had only four more lessons to master this stroke, and he was beginning to realize that for all she made it look easy, Caroline’s unique style of swimming required a degree of skill that he wasn’t sure he possessed. “I’ll have you know I can march twenty miles a day in full military regalia,” he choked out.

“I would question whether such a skill is useful even on land.” She began wading toward shore, leaving him to follow. “Endurance is the key to this race, David,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Success in open water requires more than brute strength. It’s more a matter of using the current to advantage than defeating it outright. And you’ve yet to experience the threat of this inlet at the point of high tide. If you’re to have any hope of winning next week, you must be able to swim no matter the tide cycle.”

David pushed after her. He couldn’t deny the logic. They hadn’t even left the rock shelf once this afternoon, and he had been grateful every time his toes scraped against the bottom. His arms and legs felt none too solid, and he found himself relieved she hadn’t put him to the test.

Yet
.

But there was no doubt that test needed to come soon. The more she had drilled him, the more hopeful he had become regarding the prospect of winning. His portion of the prize money would be the equivalent of two or more years’ salary for someone like his friend Patrick Channing, who eked out a respectable living as Moraig’s veterinarian. Or it would be six months’ blunt for a London dandy like Mr. Dermott. That amount of money would not solve his financial problems, but it would carry him to a place where his investments began to pay out.

And now that he had met Caroline, now that he had brushed up against her innocence and been reminded so forcefully of his own shortcomings, he was more determined than ever to avoid the sort of hell that would come from marrying a naïve young chit to solve his financial questions.

“What comes next?” he asked as he dragged himself from the surf, half fearing she would direct him to perform more calisthenics while she jeered at his lack of endurance.

This time, she offered him a smile instead of an order. “I usually dry out a bit before attempting to dress.”

David eyed the shingle beach at his feet. Surely she didn’t stretch out and sun herself there. That mermaid bit was a jest, after all. Although, the thought of an hour’s walk back to Brighton, with coarse sand and crushed shells rubbing beneath wet clothing was about as appealing at this moment as another go in the surf.

Caroline clambered up onto the big rock that rose up about ten feet back from the water. She pulled out her hairpins, shook out her damp tresses, and settled into a self-conscious sprawl, tugging her altered dress as low as it would reach. Then, with her eyes closed, she turned her face up to the sun.

And David, once he had fully recovered his breath, could do no more than stare in stupid wonder.

During this morning’s conversation on Shop Street, he had enjoyed her company immensely. But much of that enjoyment had been cerebral in nature, the pleasure of sparring with her well-equipped mind. The ill-advised urge to kiss her again had been there, hovering below the surface, but it was easily tempered on a public street with Branson serving as a bloody spectator. During their swimming lesson she had been covered to her neck in water and her lips had been issuing such terse commands that more pleasant options for her mouth were the last thing on his mind.

But now, the barely clad creature sunning herself on the rock clear snatched every thought from his head save one: Caroline Tolbertson was bloody beautiful.

The water-soaked remnants of what had been a hideous gown skirted the contours of her lithe body, meandering along gentle curves that stretched the eye and the imagination. The sunlight dazzled his eyes, gathering momentum from the white cliffs and bouncing off the sparkling water. That light fell on thick, waving hair that he could now see wasn’t just brown, but shot through with a hundred shades of gold and umber.

Had he a rope and enough nerve, he would have bound her hands, just to keep her from bundling those damp, vibrant tresses back up into the stern knot she preferred.

Then, of course, there was the problem of her legs. There were yards and yards of them, stretching from beneath the hem of her torn-off gown. As his eyes skimmed the neat indentation in one of Caroline’s calves, it occurred to him that before last night, David had never given much thought to a woman’s legs. He’d only blathered on and on about them to foster his drunken comrades’ imaginations. Today, presented with such a delightful view of Caroline’s, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

It was as if last evening’s whisky-inspired soliloquy had brought this nightmare to life and now he was destined to think of nothing else.

Despite a reminder to behave, despite even a stern mental curse or two, his lower body stirred at the sight she presented. Damn his imagination to hell and back. He sent up a prayer of thanks that Caroline’s eyes were tightly closed against the sun, because he was quite sure he would give her an eyeful should she choose to look.

David settled himself on the rock beside her, welcoming the distraction of the sun-warmed stone beneath his bare shoulders. He kept his gaze trained on the cliffs that stretched above him, counting the swallows and admiring their dizzying acrobatics, probing the crevices that peeked down from hundred-foot walls.

Anything to keep his eyes off her legs.

Gradually, the beauty of the place shoved its way in front of his humming awareness of her. His senses felt assaulted. The stinging warmth of the sun was eclipsed only by the pungent smell of salt and vegetation and the constant, earthy rumble of waves. His gaze settled on the high watermarks visible against the white chalk walls. He lingered there a moment, admiring the artistic contrast of dark against light.

But then he sat bolt upright as the meaning of those marks registered in his sun-fogged head. She had not been exaggerating when she said a high tide could be dangerous in this inlet.

He turned over onto his stomach and examined the cliff walls more closely. The bird’s nests that dotted the haggard natural landscape were constructed no lower than five or six feet from the ground, suggesting the swallows understood the danger of the little cove far better than he had. He cast a searching glance toward the ocean. They seemed to be at a mid-point in the tide cycle at the moment. But in a few hours, he wondered if even this rock might be surrounded by roiling surf. Did she swim here at high tide too? The thought made his fists clench.