Summer Is for Lovers (28 page)

Although having a busybody mistress who paid more attention to the latest gossip than to her own pet might explain the rest.

Miss Baxter’s eyes shone with admiration. “You’ve quite a way with animals, Mr. Cameron.”

David shook his head. “No. ’Tis actually my friend Channing who has a way with beasts. The thorn was just a lucky find.”

“Channing? Do you refer to Mr. Patrick Channing, from Yorkshire?”

“Aye,” David said suspiciously. He supposed, if he reached far back in his memory, he could recall that Patrick had claimed his family hailed from that part of Britain. “Are you acquainted with him?”

“Our fathers are good friends.” Two green eyes narrowed on him in a manner he was coming to associate with this woman’s nose for natter. “Is he in Scotland, then?”

David’s guard went up in an instant. “Mr. Channing is just Moraig’s veterinarian,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing to worry about.”

At least, nothing for
her
to worry about. He could not claim the same for himself, or his friend. Patrick had been quite closemouthed about his family since arriving unexpectedly in Moraig last November. If Miss Baxter’s prurient interest was any indication, Patrick Channing was hiding in Moraig for a reason.

And he was quite sure he didn’t want to know why.

C
AROLINE WAS BREATHING
hard as she burst through the door into Madame Beauclerc’s shop. The modiste rose in alarm as the door slammed shut, a tinkling bell the only indication that the door could, on occasion, herald the arrival of a more composed sort of patron.

“Have you come for the new dresses,
chérie
?” she asked, her painted brows drawn down in confusion. “We agreed this afternoon to finish them,
oui
?”

“
Oui
. I mean yes. I mean
no
.” Caroline shook her head against the trio of answers, none of which was the real reason she was staggering into this East Street dress shop so out of breath. “I’m here about the other thing.” She lowered her voice to a ragged whisper. “The
swimming
thing.”

“Ah.” The dressmaker’s face spread into a smile. “Wait here a moment,
s’il vous plaît
.”

She disappeared through a curtained door, where the dull murmur of other voices could be heard. Caroline refilled her lungs with the sharp, rich scent of a dozen types of fabric, wool and cotton and the peculiar dull odor of silk, and tried not to think about whom those voices might belong to. If she was to go through with this, she was going to have to be brave. The thoughts and opinions of a few shopgirls were going to be the least of her worries.

And then her heart began to pound as Madame Beauclerc returned and held out a . . . shift.

Not even a particularly pretty shift. It was starched stiff, and lacked all ornamentation. No ribbons, not even a lace border. It had longer sleeves than the shifts she was used to wearing, but in all other ways it might have been something she pulled from her own bureau at home.

Caroline groaned. The hope that had borne her feet all the way to East Street faltered. “I can’t wear that,” she said, shaking her head. “I thought . . . I thought you had fashioned something different. Something appropriate for swimming in public.”

“This is far more appropriate than those silly robes they give you for the bathing machines,” the dressmaker huffed. “There is no chance of this gaping in the front, or floating up at inopportune times. Of course, if you prefer something prettier, I might add a ribbon about the neckline.”

Caroline gritted her teeth. “Unless you are going to put an entire army of ribbons here”—she pointed to the chest area—“and here,” she added, gesturing lower, “I am afraid it will still be quite hopeless. I cannot swim in a shift today, not in public.”

She was willing to pit her skill against a group of men. She was even willing to flash an arm or show a bit of calf. But she was not going to present herself on Brighton’s eastern beach—the beach where all the fashionable people strolled—in a shift that when wet might as well be made of glass.

“This is no ordinary shift.” Madame Beauclerc’s lips turned down. “ ’Tis duck cloth. They will not be able to see through.” She held it out. “See?”

Caroline rubbed the fabric between two fingers. “Oh,” she said, understanding dawning. What she had presumed to be muslin was actually a thick, substantial linen. And whatever else it had been treated with, it wasn’t starch. “What has it been painted with?”

“Linseed oil, among other things. This seems to hold up to the seawater better than other things I have tried. The fabric is stiff enough so it will stand away from the body when wet. No one will be able to see through this.” The modiste smiled. “I told you,
chérie
. You will be a goddess.”

Caroline held it up against her, measuring it inch for inch against her own dress. It came down longer than her usual shifts, almost to mid-calf, and provided far more coverage than she was used to while swimming, but that didn’t keep it from being utterly scandalous. “It is a bit short, isn’t it?”

“You need the freedom to kick,
oui
?”

“
Oui
.” Caroline sighed. “I mean yes. I do. I . . . I am just not sure I am brave enough to be seen in this.”

“Are you worried about what the women will think? Or the men?”

“Neither. Both. I don’t know—”

The modiste patted her arm. “Let me tell you a secret about women. We are our own worst enemies. Do you think men object to the length of a woman’s skirts? The other women on the beach, they may gossip about you. They may turn their backs on you. But inside? Secretly they will want to
be
you.”

Caroline clenched the swimming costume in her hands, mesmerized by the dressmaker’s silken tones. “And the men?” she breathed.

“The men,
chérie
? That is a simpler matter altogether. Not a man who sees you in this will think poorly of you. Indeed, they shall be unable to tear their eyes away.”

Chapter 33

“I
T IS NOT
to be tolerated! Why, I would rather withdraw my application than swim against a . . . a . . .”

“
Fiancée?
” David broke in, enjoying the view of Dermott’s bulging eyes. The race officials had just announced their decision, and while a few of the competitors were uneasy, Dermott had chosen a more infantile response. “I believe that is the word you are looking for.”

“Woman!” Dermott barked, spittle flying. “I shall not compete against a woman.” He pointed at something, just behind David’s shoulder. “And most certainly not
that
woman.”

David turned around. Caroline was pushing her way through the crowd, which parted before her with an audible gasp. Her hair was up in that tight bun he was coming to dream about in his sleep. Somewhere, a sailing vessel was missing its foresail, having given it up for the purposes of dressing this woman today. She looked as if she might toss up her accounts at the slightest provocation. But God help him, she also looked beautiful.

The crowd found its predictable voice.

“It’s Miss Tolbertson!”

“What on earth is she wearing?”

“Swimmers, on the ready!” the race official shouted.

“You can see her ankles,” Dermott sputtered as Caroline took her place with the row of swimmers. He gestured to the crowd of onlookers lining the shore behind them. “There are ladies watching today, ladies whose delicate sensibilities should not be subjected to such a spectacle. It is unseemly!”

“We can see your ankles too,” David said, taking his own place in line. Truly, he had never seen anything like the costume Dermott was strutting about in, a suit of shapeless gray wool that, if one had the misfortune to peer too closely, was embroidered with some sort of songbird around the neckline. David had chosen to wear his trousers, though he had retained a shirt today for those delicate sensibilities Dermott was sputtering about.

“
My
ankles do not call my character into question,” Dermott said.

David turned on him. The man’s antics were getting tiresome now. “What is bothering you here, Dermott? The fact that her swimming costume is more attractive than yours? Or that she might best you today?”

Dermott’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “This is my betrothed, and I will not stand by and permit her to—”

“You shall not have a say in the matter,” Caroline interrupted. She might look bloody nervous—hell, David was nervous for her—but her voice rang clear. “I
want
to race. And when this day is over, I am still going to want to swim. So you shall either have to accept me as I am, Mr. Dermott, eccentricities and all, or you shall stand down.”

“On your marks!” the official said, raising a pistol above his head.

She turned toward the ocean, the skirt of her costume bunched in her hands.

David crouched. Water lapped at all of their feet as the line of competitors tensed, staring out at the buoy that marked their mid-way target. Finally, Dermott took his place in line, still grumbling about rules and women and ankles.

Then came a terrible noise as the pistol fired just over their heads. The race was on.

C
AROLINE DOVE INTO
the first row of breakers a few steps behind the rest of the swimmers. She held herself back, wanting to avoid the inevitable jostling that she knew from long observation of this annual event came at the start of the race. The group of swimmers pulled away in a fearsome froth of water, arms working like pistons, chests rising above the water only to come crashing back down.

David, clearly visible on account of his white shirt, was caught near the back, and was struggling to employ the stroke he had worked so hard to perfect. That was something they hadn’t planned on, the need for space to accommodate the full of extension of his arm. She could see now how a breaststroke might be preferred, at least until the swimmers started to scatter out a bit more.

Determined to avoid getting caught in that snarl of arms and legs, Caroline hugged the western side of the pier. The overhead shadows gave the water a dark, ominous appearance, and the motion of the waves against the structure pulled against her, but her experience swimming in the cove, with its underwater currents and myriad hidden hazards, served her well. Her lungs were burning as she broke out of the shadow of the pier and aimed for the bright red buoy tied off shore. Her fingertips brushed the hard, solid surface, and then she was past.

Now began the real race as the swimmers started toward home. She was five yards behind the last swimmer, a large distance to close. Her hesitancy at the start of the race now proved costly, and she wondered, for a moment, if she had the strength to do this. Pen and Mama were watching from shore, and the thought made her lungs squeeze tighter. She thought of Papa. What would he say, if he were here now?

Probably something wise. Something poignant.

Caroline smothered a smile. No, he wouldn’t. She had raced against her father, more than once, during their lessons in the cove. He had never let her win, not even once, urging her to try harder, reach deeper inside herself. If he were here now, he would not waste his words on gentle reassurances.

He would tell her to hurry it up.

Caroline kicked harder. She passed the first five stragglers, their mouths gaping like fish on land. Then another five. Where was David? She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, but the thought—the hope—that he was near the lead, battling it out with Dermott, drove her on.

It proved impossible to keep her thoughts focused on her stroke when Dermott was still ahead of her. The self-righteous prig. Could she bring herself to marry a man like that? Her muscles screamed at her, but her heart screamed louder.

Her mother was right. There were worse things than being a spinster.

And one of them was losing to the wrong man.

The shore seemed to loom above her now, and another six swimmers fell to her determined progress. Her brain felt fuzzy, but her gaze locked with certainty on a white shirt and a gray swimming costume, barely visible as their wearers sluiced through the water. She aimed for them, swimming harder than she had ever done in her life. Time was suspended, counted by strokes, not seconds.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

And then she was past them and the crowd was on their feet and cheering and Caroline staggered ashore, alone.

D
AVID EMERGED A
few seconds behind her.

She had done it.

Christ above, but he was proud of her, his own second place finish be damned.

He surged toward her, the crowd falling away around his determined stride. And then she was in his arms and he was kissing her, really
kissing
her. And she was kissing him back, her hands tangling in his hair and anchoring him to her as if she might drown should he let her go.

The roar that had erupted from the crowd when she had won the race paled in comparison to the noise that rose above them now. But beyond the excited shouts and whistles, Dermott’s angry voice rang out, bleeding through the haze of pleasure. “Get your hands off her!”

David pulled away from her with a reluctance he felt to his bones. He was, after all, kissing the woman Dermott still counted as his betrothed. A woman he had no right to touch, much less maul in such a suggestive manner, in such a public venue.

“Is this what you want?” David asked her, searching her eyes. “Is
he
what you want?”

Caroline shook her head. “You are whom I have always wanted. I love you, David Cameron. Whether you want me to or not.”

And then she was in his arms again, her lips finding his in a hard, quick kiss that nonetheless stole what little breath he had left.

“I love you too.” The words near tumbled out of him, tired of being denied for so long. He had not thought to ever love again, had thought himself unworthy of such a sentiment, and such a partner. But now that it had found him, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he didn’t want to ever take it back.

He raised his hands to frame her face, reveling in the privilege it was to touch her. “Every word I offered to Dermott and the others on the beach that night was true . . . I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. You are a woman worth holding, a woman who inspires loyalty and passion and deserves such things in return. You are my match, Caroline. My
true
match. I was an idiot to pretend you were not.”

A smile broke out on her face, a smile so luminous his body tightened around its brilliance. “Yes. Well. If I love an idiot, so be it.”

She pulled away and turned her attention toward the man who stood glowering at them two feet away. “Mr. Dermott, I am ending our betrothal because I love this man. I presume you have no objections?”

Dermott’s face darkened, if such a thing were even possible against the dusky rage that already held him in its grip. “Yes, I have an objection. You . . . you . . . you cheated during this race!”

“How did I cheat?” David heard the edge in Caroline’s voice. It was an edge that Dermott seemed to miss entirely.

Then again, the man didn’t know her the way David did.

“You
both
cheated,” Dermott’s face shone a mottled red. “That wasn’t a proper swimming stroke. No self-respecting Brit would swim like that. Why, at Oxford, that would have been an automatic disqualification.”

“This isn’t Oxford.” A woman’s voice rang out. A lady who could only be Caroline’s mother emerged from the crowd. Her blue eyes flashed indignantly, and she held her chin up with every bit as much spirit as he had come to expect in Caroline. “ ’Tis Brighton. And there is nothing wrong with that.”

“Indeed.” The voice came from behind them, and David turned to see Lord Avery, his daughter close by. The man offered an authoritative smile, but his tone brooked no argument. “There are no rules requiring a particular swimming stroke for this competition. I should know. I wrote them.” He paused, and then inclined his head toward Caroline’s mother, who turned a suspicious shade of pink at the viscount’s attention. “It is good to see you again, Lydia.”

Dermott sputtered another short moment, then careened off into the crowd. David waited to see which of the summer set would follow. He was, after all, their veritable leader.

No one moved except Lord Avery, and he only held out a stack of five-pound notes, neatly tied in a bundle. “It is my pleasure,” he announced, “to present Miss Caroline Tolbertson with this purse of five hundred pounds, and to declare her the winner of Brighton’s forty-third annual swimming competition.” He shook her hand. “Congratulations, young lady. That was quite the show you put on.”

C
AROLINE ACCEPTED THE
money with trembling hands. In the confusion of her last-minute entry, she had nearly forgotten about the purse.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Miss Baxter declared, bouncing with excitement at her father’s elbow, the small dog similarly bobbing in her arms. She beamed, the very picture of someone with a secret too delicious not to share. “Oh, I cannot
wait
to go back to London and tell all my friends I met Brighton’s famous lady swimmer.”

Caroline opened her mouth, prepared to correct the girl’s misimpression. After all, she was no lady, just the daughter of a Brighton businessman. But before she could form the necessary words, Caroline caught sight of her mother. She and Lord Avery had drifted to one side and Mama was laughing at something the viscount was saying.

And Caroline realized that while she might be the daughter of a businessman, she was also the daughter of a lady. A smile spread across her face. She would leave Miss Baxter to her gossip, and even her misinformed truths. She supposed, in some way, she had the girl to thank for this incredible turn of events. Not that she was inclined to acknowledge even a single positive outcome of Miss Baxter’s meddling.

One did not encourage bad behavior, even when applied to a worthy cause.

Caroline turned to David, the money heavy and reassuring in her hands. “I am giving half of this to you.”

David’s eyes crinkled about the edges, and he burst out in a hearty chuckle that had some in the crowd laughing along, though they clearly had no idea why. “I cannot accept it, Caroline. You earned it, ten times over.”

“Sharing the purse was our agreement all along. And you need the money every bit as much as my family does,” she protested. “I want you to have it.”

“Give it to your family,” he said, more gently now. “All of it. We don’t need it.”

Caroline’s thoughts narrowed on a single word, out of the handful he uttered. “We . . . ?”

He canted his head, his eyes warm. “There were some lucrative wagers placed on the outcome of this race. And I bet on
you
, lass.”

The air in her lungs seemed to leach out of her skin. “You bet on me?”

“Aye. We’ve no need to worry about money, not anymore.” He lowered himself to one knee, there along the shore, with the crowd pressing in and Penelope looking on with one hand clamped over her mouth.

David grinned up at her, sending her stomach into an inspired free-fall. “I know this is but one of a hundred proposals you have received this week, Caroline. And I cannot offer you the fine social connections or the extensive selection of dry goods that your other suitors have no doubt promised you. But I
can
offer you my heart, unencumbered by my past. So if it’s not too much trouble . . . and if you feel even a fraction of the love I feel for you . . . would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”