Summer Is for Lovers (16 page)

But then her fingers tangled in his hair and he was pulled, quite forcibly, down to meet her lips.

Had he ever met a girl so determined to be ruined?

He tried to remain unmoved by her sweet assault. Kept his lips closed as she pressed her lush mouth against him. Forced his fingers to stay pressed flat against his own thighs, when what he wanted to do was lift his hands to grip her hair and yank her closer.

She gasped against his mouth, a small, feminine mewl of frustration.

He lost the battle for apathy with that sound, which so perfectly echoed how he felt. Lifting his hands to cradle her head, he scraped his fingers through her coiled hair and loosened an army’s worth of pins in the process. An astonishing array of scents greeted him as her hair came down, scents he was coming to associate with Caroline: ocean salt, vanilla, and something undefinable that went straight to his gut.

Even as he fought to retain some base measure of control, his body flared to life around the familiar, stinging taste of her. His cock rose up to greet the collision of flannel and wet wool, softness and heat. He coaxed her mouth apart and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. Showed her the rhythm that set up its inescapable beat in the primitive part of his brain. And then, though he knew he should not, though he had told her he
would
not, he gave her the moment she sought.

But he didn’t just draw her into in a sweet, sheltered embrace.

No, he cupped her arse, pulled her against his throbbing erection, and showed her why it was not a good idea to tease the beast he kept chained.

She ignored the warning. If anything, she pushed back against him.

Her flannel-clad core settled dangerously close to part of his body that wanted to bury itself in her. The friction of their bodies caught against the edges of that hateful robe, and it gaped open in places he suspected he would dream of for some time to come.

It proved an impossible invitation, one he didn’t have the intelligence or presence of mind to refuse. He lifted a palm to one of Caroline’s breasts, and she sighed into his mouth with pleasure. She might be small-breasted, but there was no lack of response. Indeed, it was as if every nerve ending was concentrated in space and time, straining for the touch of his thumb. He stroked her nipple, reverently at first, and then turned his touch harder, rolling the peaked nub between his fingers until she gasped, this time with pleasure instead of frustration.

The sound unearthed an answering, rumbling growl deep within his chest. He hitched her legs around his waist, where they wrapped, impossibly tight. He pushed her against the opposite wall, intent on providing her with the instruction she had demanded. But as his hands groped for leverage against the damp wood, his fingers caught on a rope of some sort.

A sound reached his ears then, a scraping along the outside wall. The kiss ended on dual gasps of surprise, and they both stared at the rope where his left hand still rested.

“Flag up, yellow box!” The distant shout echoed from shore, just discernible above the sound of the water and their own labored breathing.

His right hand, which had still been pressed against her breast, was greeted with a rush of cool air as she jerked away from his touch. Caroline exploded in a flurry of limbs and flannel, pulling the edges of the robe around her. “You’ve pulled the flag!” she accused.

“What flag?” He couldn’t think of anything except that in this moment, he would have agreed to any terms she wanted, if only she would kiss him again.

“The flag to call the bathing machine back in.” She pushed against him, her hands firm. “Go.
Go
.”

“Go where?” he asked, feeling trapped. He was confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere. Her lips were still swollen, and the skin along the collar of her robe was flushed pink. She still hummed with passion.

But a hint of panic had been inserted into the mix.

She reached a hand up to the shelf and dragged down a bundle of blue print fabric, then turned her back on him. He stared, transfixed by the sight of her curved spine as she shrugged off the robe and pulled her white shift over her bare shoulders.

Christ, but she was lovely.

“To the shore,” she snapped over her shoulder. “To the cove. Anywhere. Just . . . don’t be seen here, for God’s sake!” She yanked the shift down to cover her hips, not even pausing as it skimmed the water and became soaked through.

He started to turn toward the door, but paused. His thoughts were tumbling, but they were all pointing in the same direction. “You’ll meet me at the cove? In an hour’s time?” Despite the risk of discovery, his hand refused to turn the latch until he achieved an understanding.

She paused, her fingers halting in the process of pulling on her dress. “Do you agree to my terms?” she asked warily.

He strained against the demands of his conscience. Had she left him any choice? Hers was a reckless sort of spirit, and she seemed to either not understand or care that ruin hovered around this corner she was demanding to turn. Could he do what she asked? He needed only to ensure her virtue remained intact. He was no longer a lust-addled youth. Surely he could show her a taste of her body’s potential without taking the ultimate prize.

And if it kept her out the hands of a fumbling fool like Branson . . . well, mayhap there was honor to be found in that.

“Aye.” He turned the latch. “I agree to your terms. But only through Monday’s race, and no more.” He would not survive if she insisted on daily lessons through his leaving.

“Then I promise I will meet you there.” She chased her words with a brilliant smile that he was quite sure would have damned him to hell, had he not already surrendered that part of his soul eleven years ago.

The danger ratcheted up as David heard the sounds of splashing outside the box. The whinny of a horse reached his ears, followed by the snap of reins. He reached for the front door of the bathing machine, but paused as the house gave a lurch and started to turn.

Water swirled around their legs as the house strained against the current.

“Not that way,” she said, whispering now. She motioned toward the back door as the box gave another shudder and began to move forward. “The driver is on that side. The back door is now pointed toward the ocean.”

And then he was pushed out of the machine’s rear door, preparing his lungs for a long, underwater swim and an hour of frustration until he could see her again.

She had promised she would come. There was unfinished business between them.

And he had never wanted to finish something so much in his life.

Chapter 20

A
THRUMMING BEAT STILL
shimmered at the juncture of Caroline’s thighs a quarter hour later. If that had been her first lesson in the pleasures to be found beyond kissing, she could not imagine what her second lesson might reveal.

If David hadn’t pulled the flag, how much more might she have learned? She wanted to imagine he would not have taken her there against the wall of the bathing machine, but the urgency of his kiss and the primitive, vital response of her own body had quite shocked her.

How could she expect him to guard her virtue if her own feelings on the matter were so easily swayed?

Mr. Hamilton had joined them for the long, sticky walk home, drawing Penelope into a private conversation and leaving Caroline to fend for herself among the three remaining men. She breathed a grateful sigh of relief as they made their way up her porch stairs and came to a disorderly halt. At last she could count this ill-designed exercise at an end and find a way to slip out and meet David at the cove. She was already late, but there had been no choice but to return home first. The three men remained glued to her side from the moment she climbed, damp and disheveled, out of the bathing machine.

“Might I call on you for a walk tomorrow?” Duffington’s booming voice jerked her back to the hard reality of the parting niceties.

Branson elbowed his way closer and lodged a swift protest. “
I
was hoping to call on you tomorrow, Miss Caroline.”

To her surprise, given his seeming focus on Penelope, Mr. Hamilton was the next to pipe up. “It isn’t sporting to monopolize her time when there are also others who would enjoy a chance to call on her. I would like to call on her tomorrow, as well.”

Caroline tried to summon a smile, but it was hard to find one that fit the moment. The infantile verbal sparring between the men was starting to remind her of the gulls that squabbled over crusts of bread on the beach. Worse, they imposed on time she needed to preserve for David. She was going to need every second to teach him what he needed to know in order to win against Brighton’s more seasoned competitors on Monday.

And she was going to demand every second he owed her in return.

“I really must beg
all
of your leaves on the matter of a walk tomorrow,” she hedged, fanning her face. “I am unused to such . . . strenuous exercise.” She saw Penelope’s eyes round at bit at the lie. Not that she blamed her. After all, her sister was usually the one who had to explain the long walks Caroline took most afternoons to their mother.

When the last man had taken his leave and trooped off the porch, Caroline exhaled in frustration. “I am sorry, Pen. I do not know why Mr. Hamilton said he would call on me. He seems much more interested in you, truth be told.”

Penelope gave her a probing look as she opened the front door, her blue eyes serious beneath her shaded straw bonnet. “That is really neither here nor there. Not an hour ago you insisted that these men represented your b-best chance at finding an offer of marriage. That romance and love held no place in your decision. Yet you c-c-could have been contemplating which serving of spoiled fish to eat just now.”

Caroline held her breath against the dizzying scent of flowers that greeted her as she followed Penelope inside to the foyer. A great deal had changed in that hour, including, it seemed, the arrival of several more bouquets. But by far the most important change of the past hour had been her agreement with David.

Not that Penelope knew anything of that.

“They seem like fine young men, but the prospect of courting one of them is a bit daunting,” she admitted.

“Do you find any of them appealing?” Pen asked curiously as she placed her journal on the foyer table and began to remove her gloves. “Mr. Adams is p-passably handsome. And I admit some partiality to Mr. Hamilton’s red hair.”

Caroline shook her head as she tossed the hated parasol into the umbrella stand. “Not really,” she admitted. Indeed, based on the way these gentlemen made her feel, even Mr. Dermott might be a better choice. At least he had nice, straight teeth and made her feel a little light-headed, even when he tormented her. “But as I must marry,” she mused with an increasing sense of discomfort, “I can’t see my way around it.”

Penelope untied the ribbons of her bonnet and fixed Caroline with a stern look as she lifted the straw hat from her hair. “
Why
must you marry?”

The question startled her. “To ensure our futures. To return our family to respectability.” Her father’s last words teased at the scant edges of Caroline’s memory. “To take care of you and Mama.”

Pen shook her head as she placed the bonnet on the hat tree. “I refuse to be the reason you marry. I am c-capable of making my own way.”

Caroline stared at her sister in surprise. “But . . . I made a promise.”

Penelope threw up her hands. “To whom? To
Mama
? I cannot believe that. I d-do not believe she intends you to be unhappy. She married Papa for love. She would not d-deny you the same opportunity.”

Caroline’s toes twitched inside her half boots. Could Pen be right? She thought back to recent conversations. Mama had been fixated on the matter of a suitor’s title and financial security, sure enough, but it was also true she wanted to know how Caroline
felt
about things.

The noise of heels sounding on the floorboards overhead proved an unwelcome distraction. She glanced up, examining the old plaster molding that threatened to come apart with every footfall. No matter Pen’s claims regarding Mama’s intentions, Caroline wanted to deal with her mother’s scrutiny right now even less than she desired to have this conversation with Penelope. But she needed her sister’s help if she was to provide their mother with a logical excuse.

“I forgot I have an appointment this afternoon, Pen. Will you give Mama my apologies and tell her I shall miss afternoon tea?”

“An appointment with whom?” Pen’s voice rang in suspicion.

Caroline’s mind scrambled for purchase on some idea, and came up blank.

“I am not sure why you won’t confide in me. Haven’t I always k-kept your secrets? I did not tell Mama about that matter with Mr. Dermott, and I would not tell her about this.”

Her sister’s probing made Caroline squirm with guilt. “And what of y
our
secrets, Pen? You have not confided in me either. When did you progress from reading about the world to writing about it?”

“Perhaps I have something t-to write about for the first time in my life,” Penelope retorted, her face flushing a virulent shade of pink. “And d-do not try to turn this around. You are going to swim. Do not deny it.”

Caroline curled her fingers in empty frustration. The only way to keep Pen quiet on this was to make her an ally.

Then they would
both
catch it if Mama found out.

“Yes,” she admitted, wondering if she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Well, perhaps not the
biggest
.

She had kissed Dermott, after all.

“I am going to swim. In the cove where Papa used to take us to gather seashells when we were small.”

There.
She had given voice to this terrible, clandestine part of her life. It felt oddly comforting to confess the truth to her sister. But she was not, under any circumstances, going to tell her sister whom she was going to swim
with
.

“Isn’t that a tad reckless?” Penelope asked, her eyes rounding to the shape of marbles. “I recall the current there being ferocious.”

“Oh, it is quite safe,” Caroline rushed to assure her. She did not, under any circumstances, want Pen to feel compelled to take this information to their mother. “Nothing to worry about. Why, even the most novice of swimmers could manage it, if only they knew where to find it.” She laughed, negating the potential danger with a flippant hand. “I enjoy going there because it reminds me of Papa. Swimming was something he encouraged me to do, you know. Much like he encouraged your interest in books and the newspaper.”

Pen’s mouth opened wordlessly, then closed again. “Oh,” she said, before her face softened in understanding. “I s-s-suppose I could tell Mama you have gone to an appointment with the modiste on East Street.”

Caroline nodded, although new clothes were the furthest thing from her mind. “Thank you, Pen. I . . . well, I shall owe you.” She took a step toward the front door and the freedom that hovered just beyond. By now David would be pacing along shore, wondering where she was, and she still had an hour’s hard walk ahead of her.

A firm rapping on the very door she was aiming for sent Caroline’s stomach churning. It could be just another bouquet of flowers, she supposed.

Or it could be another blasted gentleman caller.

She cast a wild glance around the foyer, preparing to slip down the hallway and make her exit through the scullery door. Of course, that would put her in Bess’s path, which would be almost as bad as stumbling into Mama’s. But Penelope didn’t give her time to formulate a plan. She was already stepping around her and pulling open the door.

A smartly dressed woman stood on the porch. Her hair was the sort of vivid orange that could only come from a chemist’s shop, and her generous bosom was showcased by tucks and gathers in places Caroline would have never considered sending a needle and thread.

She regarded Caroline with a shrewd, assessing air, her eyes running the length of her frame from heel to hair. “
Bonjour, chérie
.”

“
Bonjour?
” Caroline replied.

Bess appeared from the hallway that ran to the kitchen. “Oh, Madame Beauclerc!” The servant wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. “I’ll fetch Mrs. Tolbertson straight away.” She headed up the stairs, muttering about pies and fittings and too many gentleman callers.

“Did you know about this?” Caroline hissed to Penelope.

Her sister shook her head, though her eyes sparkled with anticipation. Caroline couldn’t begrudge her that. It had been at least three years since either Caroline or Pen had been gifted with anything other than a made-over gown.

But why did it have to be
today
, of all days?

“I came as soon as I could,” the woman said, her French accent slipping as a hint of London’s East Side snuck in. She recovered well, though, affecting a very cosmopolitan sniff. “Mrs. Tolbertson’s missive on the need for my services seemed,
comment vous le dites
. . . frantic?”

The sound of Mama’s heels on the top of the stairs made Caroline’s insides shrivel. She could see the remainder of her afternoon coming like a runaway wagon down a narrow alley, and yet she could not steer herself clear of the pending wreckage.

Still, she had to try. David was waiting for her. And she had
promised
.

But Madame Beauclerc’s large frame blocked any hope of easy egress. “Um . . . please,” Caroline breathed, motioning with both hands. “If you could just step a little to the side . . .”

The dressmaker took a single, dramatic step to one side, one penciled brow cocked upward in amusement. “Are you sure,
chérie
?” She was trailed by a shopgirl bearing an armful of fabric samples and a covered basket with ribbons and lace peeking out of the top. “By the looks of that dress, I suspect you might be the one I have been summoned here to help.”

“Perhaps another day,” Caroline said, preparing to bolt through the open door like lightning.

But even as she gathered her skirts, her mother’s voice floated down from the last step of the stairwell. “Caroline Rebecca Tolbertson! If you take one more step toward that open door, you shall live to regret it.”

Caroline blinked up. Why, oh
why
couldn’t this be the day that Mama was confined to bed with a headache? “I have to go,” she protested. “Surely this can wait?”

Her mother descended the final step, her blue eyes flashing in excitement as much as annoyance. “No. I am very much afraid this
cannot
wait. There is not a minute to spare.”

Caroline looked between her mother and the modiste. “I don’t understand.”

Her mother’s skin flushed a pretty pink against her widow’s weeds. “Penelope was correct, it seems, in the matter of one invitation leading to more. You’ve both received an invitation to a ball tomorrow night, sponsored by Lord and Lady Traverstein. So I am afraid your afternoon walk will just have to wait.”