Chapter Eighteen
That evening when Scarlett walked to the gig that would take her and Mr. Brown back to the hunting lodge, she was preoccupied with many thoughts.
First, she was worried about her sister.
And she had more than a little bit of reproach for herself in the matter.
She had been so distracted these past days by her obsession—and there was no other word for it—with Malcolm Brown that she had hardly attended to what was happening between Tilly and George.
However, as that display in the drawing room made clear, George had just effectively declared that Miss Gertrude Wallington was far from nothing to him. It couldn’t be what Tilly wanted to see. And her face had reflected that. She had gone absolutely white.
Second, Mr. Malcolm Brown had announced that he thought Tilly the most handsome woman of the party—and she was fairly sure he had done so because she had urged him to it.
It was what she had wanted, after all, and what she had hoped to wordlessly communicate to him.
She couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t merely how he felt, but the way he had looked at her had suggested comprehension of her desires.
No, indeed, she was nearly sure of it.
Lost in thought, she had not spoken a word to Malcolm. He seemed aware of her preoccupation and had said little himself.
When they arrived at the place where the gig usually waited, they found it empty.
“I will go inform the footmen,” Malcolm said at once.
“Is that necessary? It’s not a long walk.”
She did not want to wait any longer to set out from the house, and the prospect of speaking to him alone was, at this moment, very tempting. They had not had a conversation alone, truly alone, since the closet.
“It is a short walk and the path is flat. I am happy to escort you if you are equal to the exertion—and if you think it is proper.”
The idea of anything being proper when it came to her and Malcolm Brown struck her as ridiculous. “It probably isn’t. But I am not a girl of Tilly’s age—and I don’t know why anyone may ever know.”
Surely, the man with the gig who had been derelict in his duties would not announce his absence to anyone. And who else would know or care that they had walked back to the hunting lodge together?
He smiled. “You will hear no objection from me.”
He offered his arm. She took it, and they set out.
After they had walked a while in silence, she found the courage to speak. “Thank you,” she managed. “For choosing Tilly.”
“I won’t deny that I thought it was what you wanted me to do.”
She smiled in the dark. She had been right, then.
“I wasn’t sure if you understood.”
“I thought I did. I probably shouldn’t speak of it—but also it seems absurd to deny what we all know to be true.
You are all here because George wants to select a wife.
He has been set on your sister from the beginning.
I thought you might feel worried for her after his—uh—attention to Miss Wallington. ”
She saw no point in pretending she didn’t understand what he spoke of—not when she had already essentially admitted it to him in a message he had, evidently, very much received.
“She has been so pleased in his interest, and I believe it is no secret that she would like to become his wife. Usually, it is improper for a lady or her family to breathe a word of such things, but George and Tilly have something like—”
She thought of the kiss she’d witnessed and blanched. Perhaps, she had been a very poor chaperone indeed.
“An understanding,” he supplied.
Gratitude filled her. His assurance reminded her that she hadn’t imagined the pact between Tilly and George.
“Yes, exactly. I wondered if, perhaps, she was growing closer to Mr. Westmore, but she denied it. But then tonight, with Miss Wallington, I was surprised by George’s actions—and I am sure Tilly was too.”
“It may be that George did not want to humiliate Miss Wallington. To let Severn return the handkerchief would be an admission that he did not care. He always was a good-hearted lad. It would be in his character.”
“Perhaps,” she said, remembering the way George had snatched the little piece of silk from his brother’s hand with unmistakable violence. “But it seemed like more.”
“Yes. It did.” He said the words carefully, as if he feared hurting her with them. “And I know with Tilly’s heart at play, you must be very nervous for her.”
“I am.”
“You are a very good sister.”
A lump rose in her throat. “She is the only family I have left. I have Vera, too, of course. But she is my stepmother. Tilly is my sister—it is different.”
“I understand. I feel the same way about my own siblings. For a long time now, they are all I have had in the world. And it has made all the difference. It is how I came to live and work here, after all.”
Here, she was aware that he skated close to a difficult subject—his illegitimacy. The bastard brothers of Mr. George Salisbury fell into the category of acknowledged natural children in society. But some whispered that their father had never acknowledged them in his lifetime.
“When was that?”
“After my father’s death. My sister had taken over matters—she was very young, but George was younger still, only a boy, and Mrs. Salisbury knew little about estates or farming. Beatrice has always been … well, you saw her tonight,” he said with a laugh. “She has always been precisely like that.”
The marchioness was certainly formidable. She had been an unconventional match, to say the least, for her husband. But the story was that she had so utterly conquered his heart that he would do anything for her.
“Did you know your father?”
He shook his head. “Barely. It was Beatrice who brought us all to Parkhorne after his death.”
So, it was true, then. If Malcolm and his siblings were acknowledged as natural children, it was by their sister and brother and Mrs. Salisbury, not their father.
They had reached the hunting lodge, and he held open the door for her. The entryway was dark, except for a single lantern left out for them by the maids. When they stepped inside, the confined space made her aware of his peculiar scent, the woodsy, earthy one, that reminded her of cedar.
She sucked in a deep breath and prepared to bid him adieu for the evening, as she had in the nights since their rapprochement after the balloon incident.
And then she felt his hand close around her wrist. “Wait, please, Miss Perkins—Scarlett.”
He dropped her wrist, but she turned toward him, and in the close space, they were almost touching.
“I wanted to make something clear. Because I fear that it—that it might not be.”
Her stomach dropped. Here it comes, she thought. She knew what he was about to say. He would reassure her that he had no intentions with her of an amorous variety. That he did not see her in such a light, despite what had transpired between them. She was sure the words were on his tongue.
“If I had answered my sister’s question honestly tonight, I would have said your name.”
This declaration was so the opposite of what she expected that she gasped.
“I think you’re the most beautiful woman of the party,” he clarified unnecessarily. “I have thought that from the first moment I saw you. I was struck—tremendously struck—by you.”
She tried to open her mouth to speak, but she found she could form no words.
She didn’t even know what she would have said.
She was stunned. For a moment, she wondered if he was making fun of her.
If he was mocking her. But his expression was so ardent that it beggared belief. No, he was being sincere.
“Perhaps you already knew that,” he continued. “It is probably obvious.”
“No,” she finally managed. “I didn’t know.”
“Oh. Then I am glad I said it.”
She wasn’t sure why he was glad. It didn’t seem an obviously positive development if they weren’t supposed to be involved with each other any longer.
“I wouldn’t want you to have the wrong impression. Of my feelings for you.”
She looked up at him then and her lips parted from pure desire.
She wondered if she looked as hungry, as needy for him, as she felt.
She wasn’t brave enough to say to him what he had said to her.
She didn’t have the courage to state boldly back, When I met you, I thought you were the most handsome man I had ever seen.
It felt like too far to leap in such a short span of time.
But she had less trouble, for some reason, suggesting through look or action her lust for him. That felt safer, somehow.
He leaned forward, his green eyes glinting in the dim light. She wanted to run her fingers through his blond hair, which he kept far too long, and which she knew he slept with unbound at night. She wanted to once more feel small in his arms.
He didn’t move forward any farther. He seemed held back by something—a reserve that hadn’t existed in the closet.
But then she realized that in the closet, she had essentially begged him to touch her.
She couldn’t beg him now. She didn’t have the surge of fear driving her.
However, she could do something.
She reached out and found the button on his waistcoat. She fingered it and then laid her palm flat against his chest and looked up at him.
He could take no more, apparently.
His lips were on hers, and she found herself pushed up against the wall of the entryway. His leg found the space between her own. She let out a little moan of satisfaction—at how solid he felt, how strong.
The kiss wasn’t tender or sweet but full of hunger. His hand found the side of her face and clutched it, and she returned his intensity. His body grew harder against hers, and she felt the insistent press of his cock once more.
Yes, she wanted to whimper.
She remembered how that cock had felt between her legs, in those dreamy moments when sleep had become reality, and how she had thought so often about what it would be like to have it actually inside her since.
Instead, she drank him in, reveling in the way he held her a little roughly, almost clumsily, to him. He didn’t have the practiced hands of a libertine. But it didn’t matter to her. Every indelicate gesture only made her want more.
His hand found her waist. He drew her into him, bringing her closer, and the exquisite friction created between by the pressure of his solid thigh had her panting into his mouth.
“Please forgive me,” he murmured.
She thought he was about to pull away. But instead, he reached down and cupped her breast over her bodice while kissing her neck, finding a sensitive hollow and sucking on it. He swore and grew harder against her.
“You’re perfect.”
It felt so good to be touched, to be enjoyed, by this man. After the end of her engagement seven years ago, she thought no one would ever take pleasure in her body but herself. And now here was this ardent, handsome man, clearly enjoying it, enjoying her.
Why not enjoy it?
Why not seize more?
It wasn’t right that she should languish while she still had youth and feeling left.
“Yes,” she breathed, as he worried her nipple through the fabric. “Please.”
And then an audible creak sounded on the stairs, and he sprang away from her.
A light edged over the last few steps of the stairwell, and she heard an uncertain voice asking, “Miss?”
It was her maid. The poor girl had been waiting up for her, of course.
“Yes,” Scarlett managed, wiping her hand over her mouth, her heart still pounding. “I am just coming in. I’ll be up directly.”
The girl did not move, however. She had no suspicion on her face. She merely seemed intent on doing her duty. Scarlett realized she had no choice but to go upstairs herself.
“Goodnight, Mr. Brown.”
“Goodnight, Miss Perkins.”
Later that night, after she had dismissed the maid, trying not to be in a pet with the girl for her intrusion, she wondered if she should knock on Malcolm’s door. What would he say if she did? Would he welcome her? And what would happen on the other side if she made it there?
She was tempted, sorely. But she could not find the courage. He might regret their hasty kisses in the entryway.
Still, she thought of his kisses, of his big hands cupping her breasts, and made herself come thinking of it.
Even as she did so, she resolved not to let this opportunity vanish.
He found her comely. Beautiful was the word he had used.
Their relationship couldn’t last longer than these few weeks of summer—she understood that.
But why couldn’t she enjoy him while the house party lasted?
She contemplated that question for far too long.
When she fell asleep, the darkness outside her window had started to lighten.