Chapter Twenty-five
At the same time as Humber was sipping sherry with Lord Mason, Angus was walking stiffly beside Sylvie through the rather underwhelming garden at Mason House.
After the morning’s escapades with young Masie and the torture of sipping tea with devil only knew how many females, and Humber, he was feeling decidedly irritable.
Humber’s easy, jovial manner seemed only to highlight his gruff, awkward, ineptitude at social graces, and he was annoyed with himself.
Not that he harboured any ill will towards his friend. He knew Humber had only accompanied him out of a desire to put him more at ease. To fill the awkward silences. To keep the conversation light and flowing. It had always been the way between them, ever since the first day at boarding school.
“Hello,” the angelic little boy with the mop of dirty-blond hair had said, striding up to his bunk. “I’m Sebastian. What’s your name?”
To his mortification, he’d flushed in panic and instinctively balled his fists in readiness. He had been tall and broad even then, and most boys who didn’t shy away wanted to prove themselves by pummelling him.
“Oh!” young Sebastian had blinked, then grinned impishly.
“You know, if you ball your fist like this, see? No, no, don’t tuck your thumb inside, ‘cause you’ll break it when you punch.
Hurts like the devil, I promise you. I’ll teach you how to fight properly if you like.
You’ll be terrific… you’ve got a super reach, show me…
put your arm out. Ah, yes, splendid, and plenty of power behind it.
We’re going to be the greatest of friends, you and I.
Do you know that chap over there, Lucien?
He’s heir to the Duchy of Blackmoor, and I hear his father, the duke, is mean as the devil.
Shall we make friends with him too? Poor chap looks as miserable as sin itself.
He could do with two fine fellows like us to cheer him up. ”
Sebastian had always had an uncanny knack for seeing people — really seeing what lay beneath the surface — and he probably, whether Angus liked to admit it or not, knew him better than anyone.
Chalk and cheese they might be, but firm friends they had remained, and notwithstanding the lack of blood ties, Sebastian Humber was like a brother.
Though today, Humber’s easy charm and quick wit were irritating the life out of him — just as siblings can sometimes have a tendency to do.
“Mmm,” Sylvie murmured, intruding on his thoughts. “So, Lord Westland, a fine garden, do you not think?”
“Hm.”
“I agree,” she said brightly. “Though pray, do not tell Mama that you think her garden is lacking. She has spent a small fortune and convinced Papa it is the height of fashion.”
“Um…”
“I know!” she squeaked. “A hydrangea quercifolia ‘Snowflake’ as the centrepiece… I mean… truly… who would do such a thing?”
“Miss Mason… Sylvie,” he bit out, pulling her to a stop as he looked her directly in the face. “I said no such things,”
A little disconcertingly, however, it was exactly what he’d been thinking. But he wasn’t here to discuss damn hydrangeas. They needed to talk about her letter. “I, um, I was hoping…”
“Oh,” she sighed dreamily before he could finish. “Oh, yes, yes please…”
More than a little bamboozled and fast losing patience, Angus leaned a little closer. “I was hoping that we could…” He froze, blinking in disbelief as she swiftly rose onto her tiptoes and lunged towards him… her eyelashes fluttering shut, her lips puckering in readiness to…
“Oh, gosh,” she spluttered, her lips landing squarely on his shoulder as her arms shot around his waist to keep from overbalancing.
“Please, please don’t look at me, and for goodness’ sake,” she whispered hotly into his coat — her cheeks flushing even hotter, “at least pretend to give me a quick, yet warm embrace. Oh, blistering barnacles. They’re all watching from the window, aren’t they? ”
Angus stood stock-still, not sure whether he was more embarrassed for her or himself. Ah, gods! Now what was he to do? She was holding on as tight as a limpet. Her face squashed close against his chest. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Um, Miss… Miss Mason. Sylvie,” he mumbled, quite at a loss as to how to extricate himself without causing further humiliation to either of them.
His arms hung stiffly by his sides for several moments before he rolled his eyes, his gaze momentarily catching a glimpse of the drapes twitching.
Ah damn it, they are bloody watching, and he abruptly, awkwardly, found himself giving her three hearty pats on the back.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “That should do it.”
“Do what?” she spluttered, immediately relaxing her hold a little so she could gaze up into his face, “dislodge my innards?”
“I….” he spluttered, then exhaled heavily as he saw amusement twinkling in her eyes. “You are teasing me.”
“Oh, Angus, we really are quite abysmal at this, aren’t we?”
“This?”
Suddenly not looking quite so bold, she lowered her eyelashes and whispered, “Courting.”
“Miss Mason, ours is not…”
“Not that kind of acquaintance,” she mumbled despondently over the top of him.
“I know. I just thought after the last few weeks… as we seemed to be getting on so well, and you came to my rescue, and the dance, and the ring… such thought and care and… oh.” She took a breath.
“Oh, Angus, I just do not want to die without having ever been kissed and, and with you as inexperienced as I am, I thought perhaps you might want to try it too?”
“As inexp…” he expostulated, then snapped his jaw shut.
“You know,” she went on tentatively, her arms still loosely about his waist, her face slowly tilting up with hope gleaming in her eyes, “it is nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t know how to either, but I’m sure we could…”
“Don’t know how to!” Temper flaring, he instantly cupped her face with both hands and brushed his lips against hers before he had a mind as to what he was doing.
Stop this now, his head yelled, but his body wasn’t listening. Her lips were soft and warm beneath his, parting slightly as a little whimper escaped her. He kissed her again, teasing, testing. She moved closer, her fingers clutching his coat, her lips a little clumsily but eager.
His inner devil taunted — I’ll show her who doesn’t know how to kiss — and drew her closer, deepening the kiss, his mouth angling over hers, his lips coaxing, teasing, demanding.
He softly nipped her bottom lip, teasing her mouth open with his tongue.
She moaned in pleasure as his tongue swept against hers, and he abruptly withdrew to a little squeak of protest as he held her face so he could look at her.
She smiled up at him, dazed and dreamy, and before he could stop himself, he captured her mouth once more.
Hard and demanding, plundering her sweet, hot mouth, luring her tongue to follow his.
Greedily she responded, whimpering in delight, and he suddenly took stock of what he was doing and stepped back, taking his hands from her face.
She blinked and swayed, and he caught her around the waist for fear her legs would buckle. “Right, are we done now?” he said sharply, annoyed with himself for breaking his own rules. Irate with himself for letting her simple words taunt his pride and ego.
“Mmm,” she purred.
“Good. And about this wedding,” he bit out, taking his hands off her as if scalded, “we will marry three days hence. Family and friends. Luncheon at Westland House. Till then, Miss Mason.”
And without another word, he turned on his heels and marched from the garden in search of Lord Mason to inform him of his decision.
Not that it had been his intention earlier in the day, to be married by week’s end, but the sooner he was wed, the sooner he could bundle the damn woman off to Wales, as another day of this courtship — bloody torment — he could not endure.
* * *
Sylvie knew her legs were moving, but it felt as if she were floating — across the garden, through the house, up the stairs.
She sighed wistfully as she collapsed backwards onto her bed, her fingertips softly brushing against her lips.
Any moment now, the door to her room would burst open, and chaos would ensue, but for a few precious seconds, she wanted to savour her first, heart-pounding, toe-curling, exquisitely passionate kiss.
“Oh, Angus,” she sighed dreamily, “you really are my dream come true.”
* * *
Across town, half an hour later, Westland burst into Humber’s town house like a man possessed. “Humber!” he boomed, taking the stairs two at a time and crashing through the door of his friend’s study. “Sebastian, I need… good God, are you alright?”
“Mm,” murmured Humber, trying and failing to hide the wince of pain as he pushed himself upright on the chaise. “Shoulder is a little sore, tis all. Might have over-tested it a bit this morning. Oh, don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The I-told-you-so, look.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time. You never listen. Though I will say, if you don’t let it heal and continue writhing it about as you are, I’ll stand a better chance of thrashing you in the ring.”
“Hm. Much as I appreciate your concern, I doubt it was my shoulder that had you flying in here as if Lucifer himself was on your heels.”
“No. No. I’m… God damn it… I’m getting married!”
“Yes, old chap, I know… and?”
“Three days hence!” burst Westland.
“Ow!” choked Humber, jerking upright too fast. “What the devil!”