Chapter Nineteen
Malcolm couldn’t believe that he had had the audacity.
He had kissed Miss Scarlett Perkins.
No, he had more than kissed her.
He had caressed her, too, and moaned hotly in her ear.
Yes, of course, they had been intimate before this moment.
But in the first case, he had been largely unconscious.
And in the second, the heat of the moment had been so intense, and her fear so searing, that they had been acting on pure instinct.
This time, however, he had chosen to kiss her.
Even though he knew she didn’t want to marry him. That they couldn’t be more than friends to one another. He had taken an action that, all his life, he had refrained from—he had acted the part his father had so often played, the scoundrel who took favors from a lady who was not his wife.
But she had looked up at him with such a beseeching, searing expression. She had not asked for him to kiss her. And yet he did not think it possible that a lady could look more like she wanted to be kissed than Miss Scarlett Perkins had in that moment.
And that was before she had touched him, her fingertips just scraping the fabric of his waistcoat.
He had been unable to resist.
He had wanted to bellow when they had been interrupted.
Even though he knew it was for the best.
Who knew what other liberties he would have taken if they hadn’t been?
He hardly need mention what happened when he returned to his room.
His furious, frenzied strokes had been an inadequate substitute for the pleasures he had taken from her in the entryway. That gasping release was nothing in comparison to actually being allowed, in full possession of his wits, to kiss and hold Scarlett.
When he awoke, he groaned—at the memory of the night before and what awaited him this afternoon.
Today, his sister and Mrs. Salisbury had planned an excursion down to the spring pond on the edge of the property.
As he crested the ridge now, he took on the pond itself. It was a rather large pond, almost an acre, and the water was deliciously pure—it was one of the best features of the property. He saw it as a special haven, and he hated the idea of it being invaded by the visitors.
And even though he had grown used to many of the festivities and frivolities attendant to a house party, he still dreaded the enforced hilarity and silliness that would be attendant upon such a scene.
Still, he had to admit, as he looked down at the partygoers, that everyone looked quite picturesque spread out on the green grass, the pastel shades of the ladies’ gowns making them look like so many summer flowers.
In the water itself, there floated several small wooden boats, which confirmed that Beatrice had made good on her threat to introduce boating as an activity.
He glimpsed Scarlett, sitting with Tilly on a blanket near the water, in a light-pink frock. He could imagine how, up close, the sun must make her skin shine, and her plentiful curves would tempt him. God, already, he wanted to strip that dress off her and claim her for himself.
He was half hard at the thought.
He needed to master himself.
He needed to keep his distance.
“I hope you were not affronted, brother, by the question I asked you yesterday evening.”
He startled, having not heard Beatrice approach.
“Affronted is not the precise word I would use,” he grumbled.
“You answered gracefully,” she teased, “if not truthfully.”
A spike of irritation went through him. “Who is to say that I wasn’t truthful?”
“I believe only a few days ago, you referred to anyone of Miss Tilly Perkins’s age as a child.”
Oh. He had said that to Beatrice, damn her.
“But the young lady doubtlessly appreciated it, given George’s little display over Miss Wallington.”
“A display that only happened because you baited them. I am not sure it was right, Bea.”
“I wanted to know how George felt for Miss Wallington! I had no idea he’d take it upon himself to rip her handkerchief out of Severn’s hand. He did that all himself.”
She had a smile of sly amusement on her face.
“It embarrassed Miss Perkins.”
“Which one? No, don’t answer. I’d wager both felt it. And I am sure your little act of kindness was appreciated by the Miss Perkins you truly wanted to impress.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please, Malcolm. I know you have a fancy for Miss Scarlett. Your eyes nearly come out of your head whenever you look at her.”
“Enough.”
She raised her hands and laughed.
Right now, he was so irritated with his sister that he regretted the day he had accepted her invitation to come to work at Parkhorne Hall. She hated their father as much as he did, but sometimes she rivaled him for devilry. Malcolm did not know how her husband dealt with her. God save the man.
“You needn’t be cross. And I don’t see why you shouldn’t pursue her.”
“I said enough.”
“I think she would accept you.”
He snorted. Little did she know that he had already been refused.
No, he didn’t need Beatrice encouraging futile dreams. His sister had always been lucky.
Nowhere more so than in her marriage. Most women who fell in love with marquesses didn’t become their wives.
But, of course, his sister had somehow managed it with very little trouble to herself.
“Before you shout me from this hillside,” she continued, “I should warn you that my mother is hoping Miss Marburry will catch your eye.”
“Miss Marburry?”
“Is it so shocking? She is at least not a child, as you say.”
It was true that Miss Marburry was older than some of the youngest ladies here. She must be closer to Scarlett’s age, although he had never considered the matter closely.
“She has a decent dowry. It is not a terrible idea.”
“I could not marry Miss Marburry.”
“Yes, well, not when you look like that at Miss Perkins.”
“Kindly tell your mother that I’m not interested.”
“I can try. But she can be surprisingly obstinate. I merely warn you of her schemes so you do not find yourself … confused.”
“Thank you.” He was still annoyed at his sister, but he couldn’t deny that this information was helpful to have.
They both stared down the hill.
“I am glad Mrs. Westmore is here today,” Malcolm said, desperate to switch the conversation away from himself. “It must be a struggle for your mother to not have her as near as she is used to.”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
It had been Malcolm who had informed Beatrice, ten years ago, of her mother’s relationship with Mrs. Westmore. He had seen them kissing one afternoon. Beatrice had had no idea before he told her.
The relationship between the two older women had always moved him—their love was a quiet, steadfast one that existed despite the strictures of society.
It was the exact opposite of the relationships his father had with any of the women in his life, especially the mothers of his bastards.
Whereas he had been untrue and fickle, his ardor evaporating under the reality of how society viewed these connections, Mrs. Salisbury and Mrs. Westmore remained true year after year, risking much to be what they were to each other.
He understood that Mrs. Salisbury hoped to move to Mrs. Westmore’s estate after George’s marriage. A new mistress of Parkhorne provided a valuable pretext, even if the move would still be seen as somewhat unusual by society.
“Come, brother,” Beatrice said. “We must join the festivities.”
He sighed. “I suppose we must.”
“Don’t pout,” she said as they walked down the hill. “Miss Scarlett will be pleased to receive your attentions, I’m sure.”
“Bea,” he snapped.
But secretly, he hoped she was right.
Unfortunately, by the time they had made their way down the hill, Scarlett had removed herself from the blanket and was superintending her sister’s transfer to a boat manned by George.
Malcolm took it as a good sign that George was about to paddle about with Tilly.
Perhaps his interest in Miss Wallington’s handkerchief had merely been a fluke, some form of horn-locking between brothers, rather than a genuine expression of interest in his favorite’s rival.
The other boat was already out on the pond and held Severn and Miss Wallington herself.
It was true, Malcolm reflected, that those two made the natural pair.
And even he, raw countryman that he was, knew that Severn would do well to win Miss Wallington, especially given the size of her dowry.
He would never have to worry about money or establishment again.
And whereas Malcolm doubted Philip’s ability to win any of George’s heiresses, Severn did not seem to have any problem earning the admiration of ladies.
“Would you like tea, Mr. Brown?”
He turned and realized that Miss Marburry sat beside him.
She looked up at him with an uncertain smile.
He would not have noticed a faint twinkle of something in her eye if it weren’t for what Beatrice had said.
But now he saw it clearly. He wondered if Mrs. Salisbury had puffed him up to her. He hoped she hadn’t.
He didn’t pity Miss Marburry exactly. She was undoubtedly pretty. She would make some man a very nice wife. He just knew, without a doubt, that man would never be him.
“Very well. Yes,” he managed, and she beamed.
Christ. He needed Beatrice to disabuse Mrs. Salisbury of this fantasy immediately.
“Malcolm,” Beatrice said next to him, grabbing his arm. “What is happening with Miss Larchman and Philip?”
He turned and looked in the direction she indicated.
There, on the edge of the water, near where the boats launched, stood Philip and Maven.
That side of the pond was the deepest, quickly descending to almost ten feet, and so Malcolm had advised Beatrice to have the boats set off there so they would not bottom out.
That was not all. The two were clearly arguing. Philip had his face contorted in what appeared to be sardonic anger and, although her back was to them, Maven was gesticulating wildly.
“Ah, I am not sure,” he whispered, hoping no one else in the party noticed. “They have seemed to be—at odds recently.”
“You have seen this before?”
“I saw that they were having a … disagreement. Outside of the church.”
Beatrice frowned. “That is very unlike them.”
He looked back toward the pond.
“She isn’t going to … she wouldn’t—” Beatrice began.
Malcolm realized what was going to happen before it actually transpired.
Not that Philip was about to fall into the water.
Philip was about to fall into the water.
That was clear because Maven had just pushed him toward it. And Malcolm wouldn’t have vexed himself about that. He was sure Maven had her reasons.
And after all, his brother could swim.
No, what he realized before it happened was that Philip was going to take Scarlett into the water with him. She was crossing back toward the picnic party just as Philip fell. Philip was not a small man. And he collided into her as he hurtled toward the water himself.
“Bollocks,” he swore, rising immediately to his feet and bounding toward the pond. All he could think of was reaching her. There, the water was deep, and even a light summer gown might weigh her down.
As he ran, he saw she had not reemerged. Panic filled him. Philip bobbed up and looked around, seemingly disoriented.
When Malcolm hit the water, the cold sliced through him. His feet left solid ground, but his arms enclosed around her nearly immediately, helping her to the surface.
She spluttered, and he hauled her the short distance to the shore.
Now, he could hear the screams of those sitting on the picnic blankets—and Tilly shouting, “Scarlett!” from the boat.
She was in his arms, on the bank of the pond, coughing and gasping.
“Are you well? Can you breathe?”
Their embrace was completely improper. He was aware of that. And yet he couldn’t let her go. Not when he was unsure if she was all right.
She coughed. “Yes. I’m fine. I just fell in—and then my skirts—they were very heavy.”
“Goddamn it.”
He wanted to kiss her, to hold her closer, but he knew he couldn’t. Not with everyone watching. So, instead, he pulled her to her feet.
“Ah!” she cried out.
“What’s wrong?”
“My ankle.” She winced. “I must have twisted it going in.”
Without thinking, he swept her into his arms.
“What are you doing? You’ll hurt yourself!”
He snorted. He worked with his body every day. Or at least he had before this infernal house party had taken over his life.
“I am taking you to the gig. And then back to the hunting lodge. Where is your stepmother?” he said, scanning the party for Mrs. Perkins.
“She isn’t here,” Scarlett said faintly. “Really, I can walk—”
“No.”
George and Tilly had reached them in the boat.
“Scarlett, are you hurt?” Tilly shouted.
“Just my ankle,” she called back. “Don’t disturb yourselves, please. I am only going to go back to my room.”
“I’ll come with you,” Tilly declared.
“No, don’t,” Scarlett said with force.
Malcolm knew what Scarlett must be thinking. She didn’t want Tilly to end her afternoon with George—not when their courtship appeared to have resumed its normal tenor.
“I will assist her, Miss Perkins,” Malcolm managed, trying to seem dull and respectable so that Miss Perkins would not object to him carrying off her sister.
Mrs. Salisbury appeared at his elbow. Malcolm informed her of what had happened and his plan.
“Take one of the maids,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t be right otherwise, Malcolm.”
He nodded, gritting his teeth. He didn’t want one of the maids. Not when he had Scarlett in his arms.
But he had no choice. A maid, the very same one who had interrupted them last night, followed them back up the hill—and seated herself next to Scarlett in the gig.
Malcolm tried not to groan.
And then he realized that Scarlett’s water-logged, pink dress was half translucent.
He could see the exact shape of her breasts in her corset.
God save him.
But he knew, as he was unable to keep his eyes off of her perfect, half-bared body, that he didn’t deserve salvation.
He was a dog, a cur, a beast of the lowest form.
And worst of all, he had no desire to be anything else.