Summer Is for Lovers (3 page)

Caroline shuddered. “Sounds lovely.”

“Truly?” He sounded surprised.

“No.” She shook her head. “I confess I would rather play shuttlecock. And shuttlecock is a game I despise.”

That had him laughing again. “If not shuttlecock, what then? We’ve established you don’t mind a bit of impropriety. Do you still swim, mermaid?” he teased.

And just like that, the desire to direct the conversation away from her eccentricities circled full round to take her by the throat. He might not have heard the rumors about her recent ill-considered kiss, but he had once seen her swim. Even if it had occurred eleven years ago, even if it was something they had both sworn to silence, that kind of secret was dangerous to a girl like Caroline, who already hovered on the outer fringes of society.

And while she was not sure she wanted to be accepted by the summer set, Mama expected her to act like a lady, even if she couldn’t actually claim such a title.

“No.” Caroline squirmed against guilt. In Brighton—indeed, in Britain—a lady did not swim. She might stroll along the shore, as long as she remained bundled to her chin in sweltering layers of wool and lace. She might partake of a seawater treatment in one of the ridiculous wheeled bathing houses that ensured privacy and propriety. If she were very brave, or very desperate for a “cure,” she might even don a flannel bathing costume and venture out to take a medicinal dip in open water before scrambling back to the safety of those wooden walls.

But a lady did not
swim
. Not if she wished to be considered a lady.

“You don’t swim here?” he asked, looking perplexed. “Or at all?”

For a moment she contemplated changing her answer, telling him the truth. But how to explain that, despite her knowledge of Society’s expectations, Caroline’s soul—nay, her
sanity
—cried out for something different? The ocean might pull and push her. It might occasionally threaten to kill her.

But it did not degrade her.

She felt
whole
amid the waves, in a way she never did among the crowd.

And so she swam in secret. Furtively, like one of the silver-finned fishes that darted among the rocks, escaping the larger toothed fish that sought to consume it whole.

“Ladies do not swim,” she told him, weakly to her own ears.

His brow lifted. “You used to swim very well. You had an unusual stroke, if I recall, but it was quite effective. ”

The warm day and the uncomfortable bent to the conversation made the perspiration break out along her forehead in what she had to presume was a most indelicate sheen. The swim she had come for, the swim that was now out of reach, would have helped restore her to rights. But the reality of her circumstances stopped the words from lifting off her tongue.

David Cameron seemed to like her. Why would she destroy that with a bit of uncalled-for honesty?

“You were drunk that day,” she pointed out. “You probably don’t remember things very clearly. And I was never very experienced. I doubt I could manage much more than a bit of uncoordinated splashing now.”

He nodded, as if her lie made all the sense in the world, when it didn’t even make sense to her. And just like that, the idea of telling the truth shriveled into something unrecognizable.

He believed her. It was a pity too. The heat of the day was pooling, damp and ominous, in the space between her breasts.

Well, the space where her breasts
should
be.

“I never told anyone, you know,” she murmured.

“That you used to swim?”

“That you could not. I never told anyone about that day, not even my sister, Penelope.”

He inclined his head, a physical acknowledgment of the courtesy she had shown. “That is a long time to keep a promise. I would not have faulted you if circumstances had compelled you to share such a secret.”

“I think someone’s word is the most important part of his character,” she told him. “A promise is something you must keep.”

His mouth flattened into a thin line. “An admirable sentiment. I wish I could claim to keep my promises half so well.”

For a moment, fear knocked the base of her spine. “You mean you told someone about me?”

He shook his head. “No. I was referring to another promise I made once. A long time ago.”

When he made no move to explain further, Caroline wiped her damp palms on her skirt. The sun mocked the awkward silence. It was always this way, next to the white chalk cliffs, an unexpected blast of blinding color and energy. As a result of this peculiar convergence of sun and wind, she was tanned in places a proper lady should not be, just from her daily swim. She could feel her nose burning now.

It occurred to her, in a flash of annoyance, that Miss Baxter’s yellow parasol would come in very handy in a place like this.

Oh
. Miss Baxter. The invitation for the dinner party.

She had been so shaken by the excitement of seeing David Cameron—indeed, by the thrill of revisiting the past—she had forgotten about the unfortunate state of her future.

“I must go,” she said in a rush, already turning toward the footpath. If Miss Baxter had actually sent the threatened invitation, her mother would be searching for her in every corner of the house. “Mama will expect me home for tea.”

“Will I see you here tomorrow?” David called after her, breaking the silence that had engulfed him since his last peculiar statement.

Caroline hesitated. While his unexpected appearance had stirred her hopes, it had also interrupted today’s opportunity to swim. As long as she could remember she had come to this hidden cove with her father, first to collect shells, and then, in the years before he had died, to learn to swim. And despite this man’s easy smile, despite the fact he had already seen this beach, she did not want to share it with anyone else.

Not even David Cameron.

“I don’t come here every day,” she hedged. “But you can call on me in town, if you prefer, and we can walk on the Marine Parade, or along the Steine. My house is the large Georgian with red shutters, the first one you encounter on the footpath back.”

He grinned, whatever melancholy that had gripped him tucked away for another time. “I shall do that.”

For a maddening moment, a moment she could not regret, but which she wished she could control, her stomach churned its agreement. Did he mean to court her, then? Eleven years of yearning, secret dreams stretching from childish fancy to adult curiosity, rose up in hope. No one, not even Mr. Dermott, had ever called on her at home before.

And then he ruined it. Took her swelling hope in his hands and pressed it flat, as if her dreams were a whimsical castle made of sand and he was the inevitable tide.

“After all,” he said, as if the matter of Caroline Tolbertson receiving a gentleman caller was not an astonishing thing. “If I am going to resist my mother’s harried matchmaking efforts this summer, I suspect I am going to need a good friend in Brighton to make it through unscathed.”

Chapter 3

C
AROLINE ARRIVED HOME
just in time to see a uniformed messenger step off her front porch.

The sight sent her pitching over the last stretch of shoreline in a panic. Her lungs protested as she pushed herself into a full-bore sprint.

Why, oh why, couldn’t the afternoon’s conversation with David Cameron have concluded about five minutes earlier? She could not regret their meeting, or even the loss of her precious swimming time. She was still overwhelmed by the unexpected direction of her afternoon. All the way home, her thoughts had skipped ten paces ahead of her feet. But if the pleasure of conversing with her childhood obsession had ended five minutes earlier, she would not be catching the backside of the courier who had with certainty just delivered Miss Baxter’s invitation.

And more importantly, she would not be left with the bitter declaration of friendship echoing in her ears, from the mouth of the man who had shaped every womanly thought she had ever entertained.

She took the weathered wooden front steps two at a time, hurtling past the porch railing with its peeling paint, tripping over her exuberant shell collection that grew larger every summer. She flung open the door and skidded to a halt across the parquet floor, fingers itching to snatch up whatever had just been delivered and escort it to the rubbish heap.

Her sister, Penelope, was standing in the foyer. A letter lay open in her hand, and excitement widened her eyes. “Oh Caroline, you’ll never g-guess!” She waved the piece of paper. “We have been invited to a d-d-dinner party tonight.”

Caroline’s stomach turned over. She had thought to keep the dreadful thing out of her mother’s hands. She had not considered what greater calamity it would be for the invitation to fall into her sister’s.

“It’s mine, Pen.” She shook her head. “And I did not plan to accept.”

“But it was addressed t-t-to me too. I would not have opened it otherwise.”

For a moment, her sister’s words rattled around Caroline’s head. And then she realized she had been outmaneuvered. Miss Baxter must have realized that the only way to ensure Caroline appeared at the sacrificial altar was to extend the invitation to her sister.

“Pen, it isn’t what you think.”

“I think I should wear my pink striped taffeta with the flounced hemline. I’ve always felt that color complemented my complexion.”

“You always look lovely.” And it was true. Penelope, with her fair hair and kind—if overserious—blue eyes, had a quiet beauty about her. Not that any of the summer set had ever taken the time to see it.

“Oh, say you’ll go,” Penelope pleaded. “You know Mama won’t let us go unless we serve as each other’s chaperone.”

Bess, the family’s maid-of-all-work, emerged from the depths of the house like a well-timed wish, bearing a tea service and clucking to herself. When she caught sight of Caroline standing in the foyer, she heaved a relieved sigh. “Lord, child, there you are. Wasn’t sure how I was going to explain your absence again. You know you promised your mama you would try to be on time today.”

Caroline cringed at Bess’s well-meaning words. The kindly, stooped servant had been with them for ages, and was as much a household fixture as afternoon tea. “I told her I would
try
, Bess. But sometimes I . . . er . . . get a little lost on my walks.”

“Hrmph.” The servant’s snort was all too audible over the clatter of porcelain. “Distracted is more like it.” She headed down the hallway balancing the overfilled tray, the smell of fresh baked scones wafting behind her.

“Do not tell Mama,” Caroline pleaded as she and Penelope followed Bess into the parlor. She received no definite answer from her sister, but she did attract the notice of their mother, who was already seated on the threadbare blue settee.

Mrs. Tolbertson’s gaze swept her Caroline’s windswept hair, and her mouth tightened like a drawstring. “Tell me what? And heavens, child, your hair is an absolute fright. Why you insist on taking a long walk every afternoon is beyond me.”

“I enjoy my walks.” Caroline reached up a hand try to smooth the humidity-snarled wisps at her temples. Her mother had never understood Caroline’s desire to walk about.

Then again, her mother rarely left the house.

As per usual, Mama was dressed today in a high-necked black bombazine gown, though it was nigh on sweltering in the house. Her blond hair, which was showing just the beginning streaks of gray, was still as perfectly curled this afternoon as it had been at breakfast. She might head a family who had not been able to afford a London Season for either daughter, but she nonetheless insisted on appearances, even if there was no one to see her but family.

And in the area of appearances, Caroline was usually a disappointment.

“Did either of you happen to see today’s
Gazette
?” Penelope asked as she removed the day’s wrinkled newspaper and a small mountain of books from her favorite chair. “Someone should speak with the editorial d-department. It was an absolute d-d-disgrace, full of grammatical errors and lacking any direction. Papa would have never permitted such shoddy editing when he was alive.”

Their mother’s lips thinned into the usual line that accompanied any mention of Penelope’s interest in anything bookish. “I hardly think that is an appropriate topic for afternoon tea,” she reprimanded. “Home should be an oasis of tranquillity, not a nest of critical thinking. It upsets the digestion, dear. Why, in London, my mother would never have permitted such a topic of conversation during tea.”

Determined to avoid being drawn into the agony of reminiscing about Mama’s London upbringing, Caroline leaned forward. “I heard a bit of news today. The royal family might take up residence this summer.” The memory of Miss Baxter’s soliloquy on the virtues of dancing until dawn sent an indelicate shudder across her spine. “If it goes the way it did when the queen visited this February, I imagine Brighton will be quite overrun.”

“It d-does seem as if there are more visitors down from London than usual.” Penelope cleared her throat. “I imagine there will be a great many parties to celebrate.”

Irritation twisted beneath Caroline’s skin at her sister’s obvious intent. “Pen . . .” she warned, low under her breath. “I do not want to go.”

“Go where?” Mrs. Tolbertson glanced up from the task of pouring the tea. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Er . . . go to visit the new modiste on East Street,” Caroline improvised. She picked up her cup and took a tentative sip, stretching for time to think. “Madame Beauclerc. I believe she’s French.”

“French?” Their mother’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Why, when I first moved here from London after marrying your father, there were still fish nets being laid out every day on the Steine. It is hard to believe Brighton now has a French modiste.” Her gaze settled on the old dress Caroline still wore. “I confess I am surprised to hear you noticed such a thing, dear. As I always say, a well-dressed lady stands a far better chance of making a good match than a woman dressed like . . . well, someone from
Brighton
.”

The old familiar pattern of anger and guilt set up its dependable beat inside Caroline’s skull. She had been born in Brighton, as had Penelope. Mama might have been raised in London, and once upon a time been presented at court, but she had chosen their father, and in doing so had chosen this town. What was so wrong with Brighton?

Or, for that matter, with her?

“I think we should procure the services of the new modiste, Mama,” Pen said. “We could have new dr-dresses made for this summer.”

Their mother shook her head. “You already have three dresses apiece. Now that Caroline has finally stopped growing, it would be wasteful to spend money on new clothing when you have a wardrobe in hand.”

“I am not suggesting replacing our wardrobe,” Penelope clarified. “B-but maybe a formal gown or two appropriate for parties.”

Their mother’s brows formed a deep furrow between her eyes. “You know money is dear, Penelope. I hadn’t wanted to say anything, but . . .” She sighed. “The truth of the matter is we have less than a hundred pounds remaining in our savings. I am afraid it will only stretch so far.”

Caroline cringed to hear their financial situation explained in such bald terms. They had lived off Mama’s small inheritance for so long, it sometimes seemed as if it might stretch on forever. Of course, that was a childish fancy. She had known their finances were tight, but this was the first time in memory her mother had put an actual figure on the amount they had left.

She squirmed in her chair, reminded anew that she was not keeping the promise she had made to her father. Oh, she watched out for Pen, and tried to obey Mama when she could. But in the matter of ensuring their financial security, she had done little to fulfill the promise she had made her father.

“P-perhaps just one gown?” Pen asked wistfully. “Mayhap we could even sew it ourselves.”

“I am afraid that spending what little we have left on dresses for parties you will not be invited to would be a dreadful mistake.” Their mother sighed.

Penelope placed her cup and saucer on the little table at her elbow as precisely as if they were live ammunition. She drew the invitation out of her pocket, avoiding Caroline’s glare. “But that is just it, you see. We received an invitation for a d-dinner party tonight. From Miss Julianne Baxter.”

Their mother picked up her quizzing glass from the chain around her neck to give the proffered note a thorough perusal. She turned it over to examine the seal.

“And if we make a g-good impression tonight,” Penelope added, “additional invitations might follow.”

Their mother’s finger smoothed over the broken red wax imprint. “Miss Baxter is the Viscount Avery’s daughter?”

“Yes,” Caroline replied. “Do you know the family?”

“I knew Lord Avery, once upon a time. I had read that his wife passed, about a year ago. They must be out of mourning then.” Mama’s eyes narrowed in thought. “It was kind of Miss Baxter to include you, although it is odd that the invitation only arrived today.”

Yes, it was odd, Caroline wanted to scream. And telling. They were an afterthought. They were not being invited to enjoy the entertainment, they
were
the entertainment.

“If the peerage imagines the royal family will be in residence here, it stands to reason that many Londoners will choose to come to Brighton this summer,” their mother mused. “I must say, our current financial circumstances would be much ameliorated by a good match for one of you.”

Caroline suppressed a groan. This was rapidly devolving into a situation so much worse than a single humiliating dinner party.

“You know I have always regretted not being able to afford to give you a come-out in London. But if the Season comes to
us
. . .” Their mother tapped the invitation on her outstretched palm, her forehead creased in thought.

“There will likely b-be a score of eligible young men there tonight,” Penelope added, a bit too helpfully.

Their mother rose in a flutter of black skirts and rosewater essence. “You are quite right Penelope. It is already past four o’clock, the invitation says dinner is at seven, and we don’t have much time. Caroline, for pity’s sake, you don’t have time to wash your hair, but you
must
brush it properly for once. And you’ll have to make do with your current selection of dresses for tonight, but I am inclined to agree that a ball gown apiece might be a wise investment this summer.”

“Mama, will you come with us?” Penelope asked.

Caroline couldn’t fault her sister for trying to draw her mother out of her shell, but they both already knew the answer to Pen’s hopeful question. Her mother lived a reclusive existence, at best. She had been this way ever since Papa’s death, although the oft-repeated stories of her time in London painted a gayer picture of her life before.

Their mother’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no, dear. Lord Avery . . . well, I am sure his daughter does not mean to invite me.” She rubbed a telltale hand against one temple, a sure sign of an impending headache. “I am feeling a little off, truth be told. And the invitation suggests this is a young persons’ party. You are both of an age and capable of serving as each other’s chaperones. And after all, we are in Brighton, not London. The rules are more relaxed.”

And then she was gone in a swirl of dark skirts, translucent excitement trailing in her wake. Perhaps she was recalling the single Season she had enjoyed before marrying their father and moving to Brighton, or dreaming of happier days before Papa died and left them in genteel poverty. Or perhaps she was hoping that this, finally, was going to be the key that unlocked her daughters’ futures.

Whichever it was, Caroline didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a farce.

Penelope picked up her cup and saucer and offered Caroline an apologetic smile. “I am s-s-sorry, truly I am, but I’ve never attended a dinner party before.”

Caroline responded with a terse nod. She didn’t blame her sister. She didn’t blame her mother. She didn’t even blame Miss Baxter, although she really, really wanted to.

No, she blamed Mr. Dermott. This was really well played of him. It was as if the scheming man could see inside her head to her most hidden vulnerabilities, and knew just how to capitalize on the knowledge.

It had been taken out of her hands, and so she would go. She would brush her tangled hair and put on a false smile. She would endure the whispers and try to protect her sister from the sorts of veiled barbs and hidden insults she herself had grown used to over the past two weeks.

But whatever else she did, she would not enjoy it.

B
Y THE TIME
he had made his way back up the rocky coastline and sighted the line of houses and hotels lining Brighton’s Marine Parade, David was ready for nothing more stimulating than a quiet evening and a hearty dinner. Instead, his mother pounced as soon as he walked through the door to their lavish Bedford Hotel suite.

“Where have you been?” She set aside a tray of untouched food and dismissed her ladies’ maid with a nod. “You are filthy,” she told him. Her face pinched with worry beneath her halo of gray hair. “And
late
.”