Summer Is for Lovers (14 page)

David’s eye fell on the list the man pushed toward him. As suspected, Dermott’s name was first on the list. A memory came to him, of Caroline admitting how Dermott had kissed her, then spread the tale far and yonder. Something dark twisted inside him as his finger hovered over the man’s proud, boastful flourish.

“Promises to be quite a race,” the clerk said helpfully. “Mr. Dermott won the purse last year, if memory serves.”

“Did he indeed?” David’s finger curled into a fist. Manners prevented him from smashing Dermott’s face without good cause. But perhaps there was another way.

With a vehemence that startled him, David picked up the pencil and signed his name with a determined scrawl. He placed the pencil down with a firm
snick
, gripped the edge of the counter, and leaned closer. “Well, should you see him, you can tell the duffer I shall enjoying thrashing him in such a public venue.”

The clerk’s eyes widened, and the sound of the clerk’s chair scooting back a half inch reached David’s ears. “Yes. Er . . . certainly, sir.”

All thoughts of a medicinal bath vanished as David offered the man a curt nod and strode toward the door. His decision cemented into place, courtesy of the competitive avarice Dermott conjured in him. No, he was not going to waste his time this afternoon being pampered in mineral salts. If he was going to take a dip today, it was going to be somewhere he could hone his swimming skills.

David stepped out of the bathhouse and headed east. His body felt stretched like leather over the barrel of a drum, taut and eager and ready for action. A renewed desire to compete in this race settled in his gut, as much for the pleasure of besting Dermott as winning the purse. But to have any sort of a chance, he knew he needed a great deal more practice with the new stroke he had just started to master.

Yesterday, when things had still been easy between them, Caroline had agreed to meet him at the cove at one o’clock every day. David wasn’t sure if such a promise held water anymore after last night, but if he was to make it there by the appointed time, he needed to leave now. He turned toward the white cliffs that ran like a chalk line to the east, but just as he passed Broad Street, his attention was snagged by a crowd of young people near the Marine Parade. The mob appeared mostly male, but at the center towered a familiar head of brown hair beneath the shade of a blue parasol.

His knees locked up tight at the sight of Caroline in the middle of all those men. The group was pointing west on Madeira Drive, walking in the opposite direction from where Caroline was supposed to be heading to meet him. The evidence of her rebuff felt like a blow to the head. Or maybe that was just the breath-robbing sight of her. Her hair was pulled back in that severe knot she preferred, and she was wearing a cotton print dress that did nothing to highlight the sensual body he now knew lurked beneath the yards of fabric.

But judging by how they hovered at her elbow, the men around her seemed all too aware of the potential she hid from the world.

Last night he had encouraged Caroline to consider other gentlemen. Hell, he had pushed her back out on the dance floor. But the full repercussions hadn’t seemed so clear at the time. Now that she was surrounded by a jostling group of young men, men who were no more trustworthy than he, his feelings on the matter shifted.

He, at least, held honorable intentions toward her. And he, thank God, was no longer a twenty-one-year-old youth incapable of self-control.

Did she even understand the potential danger? Not that he could be sure any of these men might have plans for her beyond the afternoon walk, but they were men. He, of all people, knew how their minds worked. If he was to both win the race and protect her from fops who were contemplating how to toss up her skirts, he needed to speak with her and convince her that it was important to continue their lessons.

But how to gain a private moment if she was caught in this snarl of suitors? The wolves were circling, even if they were of the fumbling, juvenile variety of predator.

And for all that she was hiding beneath an ugly dress, Caroline Tolbertson was tempting prey.

Chapter 18

A
S THE SUN
slipped past flush overhead, Caroline’s feet started to itch.

This was the time of day she usually gave serious consideration to whether a swim might be possible. Not today, though. Today she was accompanied by three solicitous gentlemen and a sister who spent much of the half-hour walk scribbling notes in a leather-bound journal.

Best behavior
, Caroline reminded herself. There was too much at stake to even flirt with the idea of swimming. One of these men might be her future husband.

Or her next failed kiss.

But the stern reminder couldn’t stop her from stepping away from the group of men when their collective attention was caught by a vendor selling paper kites. She stared out at the sailboats dotting the horizon, the heated breeze brushing the damp curls on her neck. A short distance to her right, the Chain Pier rose like an ominous black spider, stretching out to deeper water. She studied it for a moment. The packet boat to Dieppe was docked alongside it, boarding passengers to France, but it was the water beneath the pier, not the well-dressed passengers on top, that pulled her attention.

This section of ocean, from the western side of the Chain Pier running east to the Stone House, would be the site of Monday’s swimming competition. It looked to be a calm piece of surf, with no visible eddies or rocks to snag an unsuspecting swimmer. However, the water rushing in a circular motion about the iron pilings of the pier brought to mind the current in her cove.

Most competitors, she knew, would stay far to the right of that turbulent bit of water in their sweep around the pier. If she were swimming, she would hug the line of the pier on the way out, both to avoid the frenzied rush of the other competitors and to gain a few yards’ advantage in the race to the finish line.

Of course she
wasn’t
swimming. It was an exercise in futility to even imagine it.

And after the way things had gone last night, she had to question the sanity of continuing her lessons with David Cameron. No matter his reassurances to the contrary, she had thrown herself at his feet, while he had made his lack of intentions quite clear.

Not the sort of situation that lent itself to platonic swimming lessons.

“Fancy a swim, Miss Caroline?”

Caroline jumped at the words that threaded into her left ear and reached for her throat. Duffington had broken away from the others and now stood but a few inches away.

“I beg your pardon?” Caroline searched her memory with an increasing degree of panic. Had she said something inappropriate to Duffington during their dance last night?

Surely she wouldn’t have forgotten
that
.

He waved a fleshy hand toward the wooden bathing machines that littered the lower shoreline. “It is the same with Mother. The day warms up, and all her thoughts turn to sea bathing and the pleasures to be found there.”

Caroline unclenched her fists, one finger at a time. He was talking about sea bathing.
And his mother.
He seemed incapable of engaging in conversation without some mention of the woman.

“Indeed.” Caroline forced herself to stand fast and not take the instinctive step away her feet demanded. Of all the suitors this morning, Duffington had been the most persistent, hovering near her arm, monopolizing the conversation to the point that even the vociferous Mr. Branson appeared something close to mute.

She fastened her reluctant gaze on the row of small, wooden houses lurking in the shallows, their giant wheels mocking the very idea of deep water. The thought of four solid walls crowding in from every side was the farthest thing from pleasure in her mind.

Not that she could let Duffington know that.

“C-Caroline quite enjoys swimming.” Penelope’s broken voice intruded on the moment. Her sister had an innocent smile on her face and held her pencil aloft, as if she had just written that same titillating bit of slander down in her journal.

Although Caroline supposed it didn’t count as slander, given that it was true.

Still, how could Pen say such a thing? How could she even
know
it? Caroline felt a bit as though Pen had taken her parasol and given her a good whack about the head. She had never mentioned her swims to her sister. Not even once.

Caroline reached for a bit of plaster to repair this new crack in the wall that housed her secret. “My sister is mistaken.” She laughed, fluttering a dismissive hand in the direction of the bathing houses. “I’ve never even set foot in one of those terrible machines.” She affected what she prayed to be a weak, frightened look, although she suspected she looked more like a biting midge was stuck in one eye. “Why, I am quite done in by the thought of them.”

There.
The solution was at hand. If Pen would be quiet about this, Caroline still might salvage the morning. Although there was no question she was going to give her sister an earful when next they found a private moment.

Duffington’s fingers plucked at Caroline’s sleeve. “ ’Tis not a frightening experience, truly. They are said to be good for the constitution, even for those of delicate strength. Mother takes a sea bath at least once a week while we are in Brighton.” He leaned in, warming to the topic. “Why, you won’t even get your clothing wet, because they provide a robe. Permit me to call one of the machines up for you.”

Caroline blinked at the large man. Out of all the suitors, his status as the third son of an earl made him the man who could most easily save her family. And he was a nice enough fellow, she supposed, if a bit hairy and attached to his mother.

How to encourage his interest, while discouraging this ridiculous idea?

“Thank you, but I think not.” She searched for another reasonable explanation, given that her facade of fear didn’t seem to be working. Sea baths cost money. Not
much
money, perhaps two or three shillings. But extra shillings were something the Tolbertsons didn’t have.

Not that one admitted such a thing to a prospective bridegroom.

Caroline patted the edge of her empty reticule. “I’m afraid I neglected to bring any coins with me.”

A hearty laugh shook Duffington’s frame. “Nonsense, Miss Caroline. It shall be my pleasure to purchase a day’s ticket for you. Why, if you like it, I would strive to procure you an entire month’s subscription.”

She was quite sure she gaped at him then. Was that even appropriate? A gentleman might purchase a lady flowers, or even a light refreshment while out for a walk.

But a subscription for sea baths?

The sound of arguing made itself heard over the din in her head. The other two men had left the kite vendor and were crowding closer. Mr. Adams had a green paper kite beneath one arm. Mr. Branson’s hands were empty but he sported a thunderous look on his face.

He shoved his way in front of Duffington and offered Caroline a stiff, proprietary arm. “This morning’s walk has become a bit crowded for my tastes, Miss Caroline. Why don’t we take a private turn on the Chain Pier?”

Mr. Branson’s unexpected demand sent her head spinning. As backdrop to her first lackluster kiss, the Chain Pier was not somewhere she wanted to visit on the arm of a gentleman.

“Good God, man, have you not been following the conversation?” Duffington blustered. “She is going to take a sea bath with me.”

“Not
with
you,” Caroline protested. The houses were segregated by gender, and men and women bathed on different sides of the beach.

Mr. Branson’s cheeks flushed red. “Perhaps she would prefer to take a walk with
me
, Duffington.” The two men looked close to fisticuffs.

Adams crowded closer, clutching his kite. “I was hoping you would want to fly this kite with
me
, Miss Caroline,” he objected.

Caroline looked between the three young men. The itching of her soles turned into a full-fledged burn. And was it any wonder? The genial group walk Penelope had proposed as a solution to the problem of too many suitors had come to a flaming end. Dousing it in water seemed just the thing.

“I suppose I should choose the sea bath over the pier or the kite,” she muttered. That, at least, promised a measure of privacy.

Anything to get away from the lot of them.

Duffington raised an eager, beefy hand and snapped his fingers in the direction of the bathing machine attendants. Branson and Adams began to bicker over which part of Brighton’s beach was better for sea bathing.

“The eastern beach is too close to the outflow for the sewer line,” Mr. Branson argued. “It muddies the water, especially after a hard rain.”

“ ’Tis still better than the western beach, where the day-trippers down from London tend to congregate,” retorted Mr. Adams. “The eastern edge is closer to the Steine and therefore preferable among the fashionable crowd.”

“But she’ll be swimming in
shite
,” Branson protested, seeming to forget their mixed company.

Penelope looked up from where she was scribbling something down in her journal. She placed her pencil in the seam and closed the leather-bound edges with a decisive snap. “Do take note of whether you see any of
that
,” she said. “I might like t-t-to write about it.”

That severed the last of Caroline’s thin thread of control. She grabbed her sister by the arm and dragged her several feet away. “How?” she whispered to Pen, anger heating the very word. “How did you know that I swim?”

Pen offered Caroline a smile that lacked any hint of apology. “I am more observant than you give me credit for. You c-come home quite damp most afternoons. So there is no point pretending you do not swim.”

Caroline took a step backward, stunned to temporary silence. She felt as if her cloistered world was being ripped apart, board by board. “Do not say anything more,” she begged. “We need these men to
like
me if I am to have any hope of an offer by the end of the summer.”

Pen’s mouth pulled down. “Why must it be this year? Or one of these men?” She leveled an assessing stare toward Duffington, who was counting out money to a white-frocked bathing attendant. “You cannot tell me you love any of them.”

“I do not need to love a prospective bridegroom. Such a fantasy has no place in real life.” Caroline swallowed, refusing to acknowledge that she believed there was the potential for it with David Cameron, if only he was free to love in return. “I just need to find the man tolerable.”

“Tolerable. Like boiled p-pudding, you mean, when you could have a nice strawberry tart.” Penelope crossed her arms, her journal clutched in one hand. “How romantic.”

“I don’t have time for romantic,” Caroline snapped as Duffington arrived with the attendant in tow. “I have a sea bath to take.”

The bathing attendant escorted Caroline toward her designated box, all the while explaining the pertinent details of sea bathing. The machine would be pulled out into deeper water by a team of horses. Caroline would have a half hour to bathe in privacy, and then the machine would be brought back in.

“Some women are quite frightened by the ferocity of the waves, miss,” the attendant explained as he opened the door to the yellow box. Up close, the bathing machine appeared even less hopeful than it had from a distance. The paint was peeling off in large swaths, revealing tedious, weather-beaten wood beneath.

Even the horses hitched to the front appeared bored.

The man motioned to a red flag that lay against the outside of the house. “If you become overwrought, you needn’t stay out your entire allotted time. Just pull on the rope inside to signal the flag, and we’ll send the driver out, straight away.”

Oh dear heavens. The man was quite serious. Caroline chanced a fidgety look back at the group along the parade. Was there any chance of backing out of this now, before she became “overwrought” by a few meager waves? Branson appeared to be pacing the shoreline in a positive snit, and Mr. Adams was working to get the kite aloft. Penelope was conversing with the red-haired photographer, Mr. Hamilton, who had materialized from somewhere along the Marine Parade. She noted with a frisson of gladness that the man seemed quite interested in what her sister was saying. Perhaps there was something positive brewing there.

But Duffington, the man who was sponsoring this ill-considered excursion, the man who Caroline
ought
to place high on a list of potential bridegrooms, was leaning over the iron railing that divided the Marine Parade from the beach, watching her. When she caught his eye, he nodded, as if in encouragement.

Caroline sighed in resignation, handed her reticule and parasol to the attendant, and then clambered up the steps of her assigned bathing machine. The back door swung shut, and her eyes began a slow adjustment to darkness.

So
this
was how ladies were required to enjoy the ocean. It almost made her glad not to be a lady.

The only light came through a small, unglazed window, but it was enough to see the squalor. There was no hint of the hopeful yellow paint on the inside of the box. The contraption smelled of mildew and rot, and condensation shone against the peaked ceiling. The planks of the wooden floor were spaced several inches apart, and it appeared the water would flood the lower space of the machine as it was pulled out into the surf.

Apparently a concession for people who were too afraid to venture out into the real ocean.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, just as the machine gave a jerk and she was tossed against one slick wall. She righted herself to the sound of splashing and the firm chirrup from a driver, and then the box began to move.

With some difficulty, given that her dress buttoned up the back, Caroline slipped out of her dress, shift, and stockings and placed them on a high shelf as water began to seep up through the floor. On that same shelf, she found a gray flannel robe, as damp and musty as the house itself. She examined it a full half second before pushing it back on the shelf in disgust.

It wasn’t as if anyone was going to see her. She wasn’t going to set foot outside this thing, for heaven’s sake, not with Duffington straining for a glimpse of her from shore.