Summer Is for Lovers (11 page)

He was behaving well today, keeping her relegated to the status of “friend” that their circumstances required. He had not tried to kiss her again, though his thoughts had flown there on more than one occasion. During their lesson, he had not even tried to touch her, beyond what was necessary to the process of learning where to place his hands and feet in the water. He had reminded himself—several times—that she was not what he wanted, and he was not what she deserved.

But that did not make the thought—nay, the
fear
—of losing her any less staggering.

“I don’t want you swimming here alone anymore, lass.” The words ejected themselves from his mouth before he could think better of it.

Though he would have expected a far more visceral reaction—an uppercut, possibly—she struggled to sitting and gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is too dangerous.” He was going to be stubborn about this, apparently. He lifted an accusing hand to the watermarks along the cliff walls.

Her lips settled into a thin line. “I do not take unnecessary risks, David.” Her eyes sparked at him, a thousand small mirrors reflecting the beauty and the danger of the place.

“That in itself is a dangerous, naïve presumption. Swimming alone, especially when you do not have to, is a completely unnecessary risk.” The words pushed out of him, hard and unrepentant. They were true, even if they were not kind. “Promise you will not swim here without me.”

Color suffused her cheeks. She shook her head. “I told you, I think a person’s word is one of the most important things they can offer. And while I appreciate the concern, I cannot make such a promise, especially to someone who is only here for another week or so.”

Irritation made him imprudent. “I could reveal your activities to your mother.”

But she was already sliding down off the far side of the rock, disappearing from sight. From the frantic rustling that reached his ears, he presumed she was getting dressed. Her voice, when it floated to him over the rock, was clipped and angry. “Yes, you could. But as she never leaves our house, there is little she can do to stop me either.” She paused, then peered over the edge of the rock. “I have shared my secret with you, David, though it could easily ruin me. I hope you will not betray that trust.”

Shame coursed through him then. But hadn’t he warned her he was not a man to be trusted? History, certainly, had painted him as such, and he had come to believe it.

He jumped down from the other side of the rock and picked up his shirt. He shook off a small crab that was hiding in the collar before sliding his arms in the sleeves, one angry jerk at a time. He was still buttoning it when she stalked around the edge of the rock, her legs respectably covered in lavender sprigged muslin and her hair ruthlessly pulled back.

She paused in front of him, holding out a boot he had not yet realized he was missing. “I would have your word that you will not divulge my secret, David. As a gentleman.”

He accepted the offering, his fingers tightening over the worn leather surface. “I thought we established such a title does not fit.”

“There is honor in you. I feel it. And I would have it directed toward this matter.”

David wavered, uncomfortable with her presumption, but unable to let her leave angry. He pulled his foot into the boot and started on the other. “I will not tell, if you will promise that while I am here in Brighton, you will let me swim with you.” He did not add that he would discard whatever he was doing to accompany her and ensure her safety. He straightened and offered her a half grin, willing the suspicion to lift from her eyes. “After all, I need frequent practice if I am to win for us on Monday.”

The tense line of her shoulders softened. “I suppose I could promise. But only until the race. I will not promise anything beyond that.”

Relief settled over him, but it was tinged with regret. What was he doing? And what was she doing
to
him? Beyond the swimming competition on Monday, Caroline Tolbertson was not his concern. Or at least, she was not
supposed
to be his concern. They were committed to this course now, their futures pinned on the promise of a purse he could see he was going to have to work hard for.

But there was more at stake than money.

He knew he should limit his time with her. He was leaving for Scotland in ten—no, nine days now, for Christ’s sake.

And yet, as he handed her the leather satchel containing the rest of her clothing, he found his treacherous heart asking, “Will I see you tonight? I hear there is a band playing at the pavilion. I would have you save me a dance, if you are willing.”

“Oh yes. The band. I had quite forgotten about that.” She sighed, and her mouth turned down in a frown. “My mother expects me to attend. I imagine she will be quite insistent now that Mr. Branson has declared some interest.”

The reminder of how he had unleashed the swain on Caroline grated like sand in places best left unmentioned. “You know, when I win this race, you will have two hundred and fifty pounds,” he offered as they began to walk toward the footpath that would carry them back to Brighton. “Perhaps you would not have to marry.”

Indeed, he was banking on that same outcome for himself.

“When you win? That’s quite hopeful of you, isn’t it?” she asked in amusement.

David shrugged. “With your swimming stroke, I don’t see how we can lose.”

“Not to deflate such a hopeful sort of pride, but unless you improve significantly in both form and speed in the next four days, I very much doubt my chances for a reprieve from marriage.”

“You don’t think I can win?”

“I shall withhold judgment until I see how you progress in our next lesson.” She offered him a resigned smile. “But even if, by some miracle, you are able to win this race, I cannot see how half the purse would be enough to delay my search for a husband. I am afraid I am still bound for the altar, David. And there is little you can do to change my course.”

Chapter 14

T
HE MUSICIANS PLAYING
at the open-air pavilion that evening wielded their French horns like weapons, aimed at the ears and hearts of Brighton’s summer visitors. As if they too had been imbued with hopes of seeing the royal family, the band opened the evening’s festivities with a rousing tune of “God Save the Queen.”

Even if lacking an actual queen.

Caroline was beginning to wonder if Miss Baxter was either an outright liar, or just grossly misinformed.

Undeterred by the obvious lack of royalty in attendance, the crowd roared its approval, and the band responded by swinging into an infectious military rhythm that had couples pairing off to dance in short order.

Caroline stood on the outskirts of the pavilion’s mayhem, a flute of champagne clutched in her hand. Though she still felt out of place, she felt better much here than she had at last night’s dinner party. The salt-kissed breeze coming off the ocean soothed her discomfort, and the sheer volume of people in attendance made it easy to stand in the shadows. She did not yet see David among the crowd, though she had scrutinized every man on the dance floor taller than herself. The process had taken all of a minute, given how few men could lay claim to that bit of fame.

Mama had remained home again, depending on Penelope and Caroline to serve as each other’s chaperone, although this time she had sent them off with stern instructions against forays onto darkened terraces. Penelope was pulled almost immediately onto the dance floor, and so there was no one to judge Caroline if she was not partnered for a dance, or if she indulged in one glass too many.

As if to test the theory, she tipped the flute to her lips and drained her third glass of champagne. She wondered if she should have a fourth. She was still feeling parched, and her first three glasses had rapidly fallen to the sort of desperate thirst that came from a too-long day of sun and swimming. Not that she regretted the day. It had been a revelation, both in the enjoyment of David’s company and the realization that, despite his loutish delivery, he had cared enough for her to express a great deal of worry. Cared enough for her, even, to demand she swim only with him. It was hard to be angry with such a man.

He had made her hope again, even if that hope was a fragile thing, cupped in hands as likely to shatter the emotion as nurture it.

Caroline placed the empty flute on a nearby tray and scanned the crowd, looking for her sister’s familiar face.
There.
On the far side of the pavilion, spinning around the room in Mr. Hamilton’s arms. She had lost Penelope to the persistent red-haired reporter within minutes of arriving in the crush, and she had been pleased by Mr. Hamilton’s apparent shift in affections. In fact, Penelope’s behavior of the past few days was nothing short of astonishing if one considered the years of bookish intensity and painful stammering that trailed her sister like an unfortunate cloud.

But there was no cloud in sight tonight, either in the sunset-tinged night sky or in Penelope’s bright, excited smile. Beneath the blazing lanterns that hung from the ceiling of the open-walled pavilion, Penelope looked more than happy—she looked transformed. Caroline could admit to herself that attending Miss Baxter’s dinner party had been a good thing, for at least
one
of the Tolbertson sisters.

A rustling at her elbow sent her heart pounding, and Caroline turned, pleasure already loping ahead of her brain. But instead of David Cameron, a gentleman she didn’t recognize stood a foot or so away. He had brown eyes and a crooked nose. Though he couldn’t have been much older than twenty, his brown hair was already thinning on top, but it curled around his ears in a hopeful fashion.

“Good evening,” he said, as if he approached too-tall wallflowers every day. “We have not yet had the pleasure of a formal introduction. My name is Gabriel Adams.”

“Miss Caroline Tolbertson,” she said, trying to push her confusion out of sight. He seemed familiar, and as she searched her memory, she landed on the disturbing image that placed him in her mind. Mr. Adams had been at Miss Baxter’s house party.

And he had been taking a deep, appreciative drag on the end of a cannabis cheroot.

Before Caroline could recover her composure, which had quite flown to the far corners of the room at his unsolicited approach, he offered her a smile that had the misfortune of making him appear even younger. “Might I request the pleasure of your company in a dance, Miss Tolbertson?”

D
AVID ARRIVED JUST
as the band shifted from some sharp patriotic march to a high-stepping waltz. He craned his neck, searching for the woman whose head he knew would be easily visible among the rest of the crowd.

He spied her almost immediately. She was still wearing that ill-fitting dress with the little purple flowers on it, and it struck him that she didn’t seem to own a single gown that fit. But then all thoughts of dresses and flowers disappeared, and the anticipation that had followed him to the pavilion turned to annoyance as he realized she was dancing.

To his surprise, given her general awkwardness at other social niceties, Caroline appeared to be quite a good dancer, sure-footed and quick through the intricate steps. David didn’t recognize the gentleman she was dancing with, but he recognized the look on the man’s face. A nearly identical expression was stamped on Mr. Branson’s face, on the other side of the dance floor. The boy was staring at the couple, shifting from foot to foot, looking for all the world like a puppy without a stick to chase.

“Good evening, Mr. Cameron. You seem remarkably focused on the music, for someone not dancing.”

David tore his eyes away from the vision of Caroline and her dance partner to find Miss Baxter standing next him. She too was staring at the couple on the dance floor. And she too had a perplexed and not wholly pleased look on her pretty face.

“The fact that I am not dancing seems less problematic than the fact that you are not, Miss Baxter,” he pointed out. “How is it that so many gentlemen have squandered such a rare opportunity?”

“If you must know, Mr. Adams was promised this dance, although his mind seems to have deserted him on that matter. Not that I blame him. Miss Tolbertson appears to possess an unexpected degree of grace on the dance floor.”

David’s instincts marched toward high alert. Miss Baxter was, after all, a part of the summer set that tormented Caroline. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, she lives in
Brighton
, Mr. Cameron. I would not have thought she had much opportunity to dance. And she is just so very tall. Mr. Dermott told everyone—”

“Mr. Dermott is an idiot who wouldn’t know a diamond from a horse apple.”

Miss Baxter’s eyes widened. She regarded him a pensive moment before her mouth twitched upward. “I shall have to remember that,” she said lightly, “because I am ever so fond of diamonds.”

David’s shoulders relaxed at the defused threat. Though her carefully coiled red curls came far short of his chin, Miss Baxter carried herself with confidence, a fact he could admire, even if the sentiment fell short of genuine attraction. She might not yet be an ally in his quest to change the summer set’s opinion of Caroline, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be.

He extended his hand. “Would you care to dance, Miss Baxter?”

Her cheeks went from pale to pink. She flashed one more pointed look toward the couple whirling by them. And then she placed her hand in his.

“I would be delighted.”

He was a heartless brute, truly he was. Because Miss Baxter was indubitably the most beautiful woman in the pavilion tonight. She was the daughter of a viscount, and no doubt had a dowry that would solve every financial problem he had ever entertained.

And yet, as he took two turns around the floor with this vibrant woman in his arms, he could think of nothing beyond a simmering annoyance that he could not get closer to Caroline. He listened with half an ear cocked toward the stream of chatter Miss Baxter was feeding him. Something about who had done what with whom and why it was important that they
not
do it again. And the entire time he tried to maneuver closer to Caroline, employing every military tactic he knew so that when the music finally changed, he was positioned right beside her.

As the band transitioned into the lilting strains of a new song, he all but shoved a surprised Miss Baxter into Mr. Adams’s arms, snatched Caroline up in his own, and set off at a determined clip. Caroline’s body flowed into his arms, sending his mind careening in a very dangerous direction as they began their own sojourn around the crowded dance floor.

Her mouth, however, did not follow the steps as well as her feet.

“That was a bit uncalled for.” There was a slight drawl to her vowels, telling David that whatever else Caroline was enjoying tonight, she had also enjoyed several glasses of champagne. “Mr. Adams was a pleasant dancer, and I was enjoying his company.”

“You don’t want a pleasant dancer.”

“Don’t I? Who are you to tell me what I want?” Her lips pressed against each other in irritation. It occurred to him, though he wished it had not, that he had kissed those lips the previous evening. They appeared harder now than the ones in his memory.

Then again, last night they had been framed by moonlight and murmuring his name.

David spun Caroline around with a tad more force than was necessary. “You spent the afternoon instructing me on technique, so turnabout is only fair. I offer my opinion on the matter so you do not make a mistake.”

“I know how to dance, David. ’Tis the one thing my mother taught me that stuck.”

He could find no disagreement with that. Indeed, she knew how to dance very well. He could feel her body moving in perfect time to the music, even through the layers that separated their skin. “Dancing is a bit like kissing. You can know the motions, you can even practice the steps, but choosing a partner who is your proper match makes all the difference in the encounter.”

She raised a dark brow. “Mr. Adams knows how to dance as well.”

“You described him as a pleasant dancer, which is not the emotion a good partner should conjure.” He leaned forward, until they were pressed indecently against each other, muslin to wool, breast to chest. “For example, would you label me a pleasant dance partner?”

Her body quivered in his arms. She tripped over a step. Righted herself. Shook her head. “Not precisely.”

“Mr. Adams knew the steps, but he didn’t make
you
forget them. You should be so caught up in the experience you don’t even think about the placement of your feet.”

She swallowed. “You seem to have mastered the effect.”

He nodded, satisfied she finally understood what he was trying to tell her. “
That
is what you need to look for in a match, Caroline. Do not settle for bland. You need a partner who can match your spirit if you are to find the lifetime of happiness you deserve.”

She searched his eyes, even as he did his best to ensure the room spun around them. “And if I believe I may have already found such a partner?”

This time, it was
his
turn to almost trip. Her words hit him in some deep, primitive part of his brain, but beyond the first glad flash of male-soaked pride, reason quickly took over. He realized, with sudden and startling clarity, that Caroline was staring at him with very much the same expression that Mr. Branson had on his face while watching her.

And while his pulse danced faster at her words, his head reacted in completely the opposite fashion. When Caroline was playing along nicely in the platonic role he had assigned her, it was easier to deny his own feelings. But now, when she was looking at
him
as if he might be an iced cake, his thoughts became panicked.

How could he not have seen it? How could he have so completely missed the sort of emotion she hoped for, emotions he could not admit even to himself? In the past eleven years, he had never let himself get close enough to a woman to risk this. He had convinced himself Caroline was a safe sort of danger to him, a friend with whom he could control his baser instincts.

Remorse didn’t just nudge him then, it cuffed him over the head.
Goddamn it.
How had this progressed from a bit of not-quite-innocent instruction to something far more precarious? There was no mistaking her suggestion. She believed him to be her match.

And there was no mistaking his necessary response.