Chapter 13
“We’ll be dining en famille,” Gussie had said. “Very informal!” And very informal it was, Nicholas discovered when he arrived. Gussie met him in the doorway to the parlor and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, tucking her hand into his arm and pulling him into the room.
The parlor was familiar, a room in crimson and mahogany. The occupants were familiar, too: his nephew Harry was good-naturedly teasing a shaggy half-grown dog that clearly had mongrel origins; Mrs. Westin sat beside the fireplace, conversing with Lucas Washburne; and Lady Isabella sat on one of the sofas, Grace on her lap and Timothy leaning over the back, both children talking excitedly, and a familiar ginger-striped kitten playing with the ruffled hem of her gown.
Harry laughed and the dog uttered an answering bark. An adolescent cat with only half a tail mewed plaintively at Nicholas’s feet. He scooped it up. “That’s Badger,” Gussie said. “His... ah, whiskers are slightly out of kilter due to the arrival of young Saffron.”
Nicholas rubbed beneath Badger’s chin. He was a fluffy creature, wiry beneath his fur, with striking golden eyes and a patchwork coat of black and white. Nicholas glanced around the room a second time, taking in the noise, the laughter, the children, the pets. I want this.
Badger began to purr.
“Sir!” Harry said, noticing him. He came across the room to shake Nicholas’s hand. The dog trailed at his heels. It had a rough brown coat, short legs, and bright, mischievous eyes.
“Who’s this?” Nicholas asked as the dog realized it had a new acquaintance to make and reared up, planting its front paws on one of Nicholas’s knees.
“Tam,” said Gussie. “Down!”
The dog obeyed, sitting on the carpet and beginning to scratch beneath his chin with great determination. His tail hit the floor loudly with each jerk of his paw.
“The flea-ridden puppy?”
“No longer flea-ridden,” Gussie said. She scratched her elbow absently, as if remembering a forgotten itch.
Nicholas laughed. Badger paid no attention to either the dog or his laugh. He continued to purr.
“Sir,” Harry said urgently. “I really must ask you about Badajoz. Mayhew said—”
Badajoz was blood, it was slaughter, it was not what he wanted tonight. “Later,” Nicholas said.
Gussie clapped her hands. “Grace, Timothy, time to go upstairs!”
The children clambered eagerly off the sofa. “I want the story with Prince Adelei,” Grace said, tugging at Lady Isabella’s hand.
Nicholas stood aside from the doorway as Gussie and Lady Isabella and Timothy and Grace—with Saffron now clasped tightly to her chest—exited the parlor, followed by Tam. The clamor of upraised children’s voices faded down the hallway. He looked across the room and met Lucas Washburne’s amused gaze.
Nicholas put the cat down and walked across to make his bow to Mrs. Westin.
“Claret?” Lucas asked.
Nicholas nodded, and took a chair alongside Mrs. Westin. Badger jumped up on his lap. He turned around once, kneaded Nicholas’s knee briefly, and curled up, purring.
Nicholas accepted a glass of wine from Lucas. “How are the kittens?” he asked Mrs. Westin. “Getting up to mischief?”
“Mischief? Yes.” Mrs. Westin uttered a sigh. Not such an animal lover as Lady Isabella, he deduced. “One of them made it downstairs this morning. Such a pother! The house was turned upside down, looking for it.”
Nicholas laughed. He glanced down at Badger, contentedly asleep on his knee. His purr rumbled faintly. “I gather they’re not the first litter your cousin has raised.”
Mrs. Westin shook her head. “Isabella is forever collecting strays,” she said. Then, to Nicholas’s surprise, her thin cheeks flushed and she broke eye contact.
A sudden, awkward silence fell. Nicholas sipped his claret and wondered what in their conversation had embarrassed Mrs. Westin. He gave a mental shrug and changed subjects. “Tell me, Mrs. Westin, what is your opinion of Kemble?”
From actors, they moved to playwrights. Mrs. Westin had much to say about Shakespeare. She preferred the Bard’s tragedies; his comedies, she said with censure in her mild voice, were too vulgar and immoral for today’s modern audiences. “Fornication and deception! Women dressed as men!”
Nicholas, who numbered Twelfth Night among his favorites, diplomatically did not disagree with her.
“And as for A Midsummer Night’s Dream!” Outrage gave Mrs. Westin animation, bringing color to her cheeks. “Have you read it, Major?”
Nicholas nodded, bemused.
“Such a shocking play. That wicked elixir.” She shuddered. “Liaisons with beasts! And—” as if this were more dreadful than anything else, “—a daughter’s disobedience to her father is rewarded!”
Nicholas bit the inside of his lip.
Mrs. Westin folded her hands in her lap. “It is a woman’s duty to obey her parents in all matters. Especially marriage.”
Abruptly he remembered Harriet. The urge to laugh deserted him. He glanced down at Badger, curled up asleep on his knee, and managed—barely—not to frown.
It was with relief that he heard Gussie and Lady Isabella enter the parlor. Dinner couldn’t be far away.
When it came time to move into the dining room, Nicholas found himself with Lady Isabella on his arm. He cast Gussie a suspicious, narrow-eyed glance. Was she trying to matchmake?
Gussie met his gaze blandly.
Dinner was an agreeably relaxed and informal affair. With only six at the table they talked freely around it. When the ladies had risen, Nicholas leaned back in his chair and yawned.
“Brandy?” asked Lucas. “Or port?”
“Brandy,” Nicholas said. He looked across the table at Harry, also leaning back in his chair now that the ladies were gone. “What are you doing here, young whelp? I thought you were in Mayhew’s pocket.”
“Lieutenant Mayhew has an engagement tonight,” Harry said, with dignity.
And Gussie needed another man to even the numbers.
He glanced at Lucas, pouring from a decanter, and debated asking him whether his wife was indeed matchmaking. He decided against it. However hard Gussie tried, she couldn’t succeed. He had settled upon Miss Whedon as his bride, and Lady Isabella was determined in her spinsterhood.
Nicholas accepted the glass Lucas held out to him. He frowned. Spinster. Such an ugly little word, so wrong for her. It conjured up an image of a dried-up stick figure of a woman, withered and shrunken, the exact opposite of Lady Isabella, who was so lush, so—
“Not to your taste?” Lucas asked.
Nicholas looked up. “Wool-gathering!” he said and swallowed a hurried mouthful of brandy.
“Sir,” Harry said, leaning forward. “I must ask you about Badajoz! Is it true that—”
“Since when have you been interested in the military?” Nicholas asked, amused.
Harry flushed slightly. “Mayhew’s been telling me about it.”
“Tales of glory?” Nicholas raised his glass again. This time he sipped slowly, savoring the brandy, letting the heat and the smokiness linger in his mouth. “There’s more mud than glory, you know. And fleas—”
“And blisters and boils and lice. Yes, sir, I know! Mayhew told me all about it.”
Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “Did he?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry pushed his brandy glass aside and leaned forward. “But what I particularly wanted to ask you about was Badajoz.”
“Badajoz?” Nicholas repeated, regarding his nephew with something close to surprise. He’d never seen Harry so animated. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. “What about it?”
“All of it, sir!”
Nicholas stroked his cheek thoughtfully, his fingertips sliding over the ridges of the scar. He’d promised his brother to say nothing to encourage Harry to join the army. Was this breaking his word?
He tapped his cheek, remembering. The battle to take Badajoz had been bloody, the loss of life appalling, and the aftermath, the sacking of the town, the raping and the murder—
No, Badajoz would scarcely encourage Harry to purchase his commission.
Nicholas lowered his hand. “Very well,” he said. “Badajoz.”
* * *
Isabella sipped her tea. “Have you finished that book I lent you, Gussie?”
“Pride andPrejudice? Yes. Very droll! Would you like it back?”
“Please. I have a . . . a friend who would like to read it. I’m hoping it will raise her spirits.” The tomes Harriet read to Mrs. Westin were morally uplifting, but they were scarcely of the sort to cheer up the girl.
She glanced across the drawing room. Major Reynolds stood leaning against the mantelpiece, talking to Lucas Washburne. About horses, judging from the words she caught.
A good-looking man, taller than Washburne, leaner. And Harriet thought him ugly? Foolish girl, to be blinded by a scar.
“Shoo!”
Isabella’s attention jerked away from the men. Badger was on the tea table, sniffing the cream jug.
Mrs. Westin clapped her hands. “Shoo!” she said again. “Away with you!”
The cat jumped down. He sat for a moment on the carpet, his tail twitching in affront, then stalked across the drawing room, sat down in front of the fireplace, and proceeded to wash himself.
“Wretched creature!” Gussie said, with a laugh. She stood. “It’s in the library. Is there anything you’d like to borrow?”
Isabella rose to her feet, following Gussie from the drawing room. “What did you think of Mr. Collins?”
“Mr. Collins? A beautiful combination of pomposity and stupidity!”
“I have to confess, he was my favorite character,” Isabella said as Gussie opened the door to the library.
The library had dark paneling and heavy armchairs upholstered in brown leather. A man’s room, Isabella thought as they entered. And yet it was Gussie who used it most.
“Here are the first two volumes.” Gussie walked over to one of the tables. “Now where did I put the third one? Oh, hello, Nicholas. Would you like to borrow a book?”
Isabella turned her head. Major Reynolds stood in the doorway. “Perhaps,” he said, stepping into the room.
“I can recommend this,” Gussie said, holding out a slim calf-bound volume. “But it’s Isabella’s and she’s lending it to someone else.”
Major Reynolds took the proffered volume. “It’s good?”
“Extremely!”
He opened the book, turned to the first chapter, and read the first line silently. His eyebrows lifted fractionally. He glanced up at Isabella. She saw in his eyes that he had recognized the passage.
Isabella bit her lip.
Major Reynolds looked down at the page again. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,’” he read aloud.
Memory of last night was suddenly vivid in her mind: the terrace and the darkness, their conversation. And after that I let him kiss me.
The major lifted his gaze to meet hers again.
Isabella felt herself blush. She looked down at the carpet, a particularly fine Axminster in red and brown.
“Where did I put the third volume?” Gussie muttered. “Oh, it’s upstairs. Excuse me, I won’t be a moment!” She trod briskly from the room.
Major Reynolds closed the book. “Good,” he said. “I’d hoped to be able to speak with you alone.”
Isabella looked up from her perusal of the carpet. “You did?”
“Yes.” Major Reynolds placed the book on the table. “What I said this afternoon about kissing. I’m afraid you misunderstood me.” His gaze was as direct as his voice.
“I did?”
“What I meant was that, without the punch, it should still have been good. Just not that good.”
Isabella crossed her arms over her chest. “It would have been like it was with Roland.”
“No,” Major Reynolds said. “It would have been better than that.”
Isabella shook her head. “Perhaps kissing is different for men than it is for women. Men enjoy it more than women.”
An expression crossed the major’s face. She recognized it belatedly as frustration. “No,” he said. “Lady Isabella—” He took a step towards her, and halted abruptly.
It was one step only, but awareness of him shivered over her skin, making her heart beat faster. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Major Reynolds felt that frisson, too. She saw it in the widening of his eyes, in his stillness.
For long seconds neither of them moved or spoke. Then the major cleared his throat. “It should be enjoyable,” he said quietly. “For both participants. A kiss should bring heat to one’s senses. It should make you want more.”
More. It was what she’d wanted ever since those moments in the gazebo. She wanted it now. The heat that had spiraled in her belly was there again, the tension and the craving that had made it impossible to sleep.
Isabella dug her fingers more deeply into her arms. I am not kissing him again. She was not that weak, that foolish.
But without the punch it would be like it had been with Roland. Not repugnant, but not pleasant either. Something she could live without.
Then prove to yourself that you don’t need it. Let him kiss you again.
Isabella moistened her lips. She heard the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. “Major—”
“Lady Isabella—”
They spoke at the same time.
Major Reynolds opened his hand. “You first.”
They had been about to ask the same question. She knew it; Major Reynolds knew it, too. She saw the knowledge in his eyes, saw it in his mouth, in the smile hovering on his lips.
Her throat was suddenly too dry to speak. Her heart began to beat even faster.
Major Reynolds waited a few polite seconds, and then spoke: “Let us try again. Let me prove to you...”
No, let me prove to you.
Isabella swallowed. “Very well.” She uncrossed her arms. “But only once.”
“Only once,” the major agreed.
He stepped close and stood for a moment, looking at her; his eyes were vivid green, and yet somehow hot and dark, too. “As before,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Tell me if you wish me to stop.”
Isabella nodded, her gaze fixed on his.
Major Reynolds inhaled a deep, slow breath. His hands reached to cup her face. Her skin tingled beneath that light touch. Such strong hands, so warm.
Her heart kicked in her chest as the major bent his head. She closed her eyes.
His lips touched hers. There was nothing repugnant about it, but neither was there the madness of last night, the pleasure sweeping through her, the sense that she was losing control of herself.
Isabella began to relax. I was right and he was wrong.
Major Reynolds licked her lower lip. She shivered, aware of a prickle of treacherous pleasure. He licked her lips again and murmured something against her mouth. Her ears couldn’t make out the words, but she parted her lips instinctively, wanting more.
No, this is wrong. I don’t want—
But he was inside her mouth and she couldn’t pull away, she could only kiss him back, leaning into his body, hungry for his mouth. Heat rose inside her, pleasure spiraling, and she felt alive, filled with urgency and want.
* * *
There was no punch, no Faerie music swirling around them, and yet the intoxication of last night, the arousal clouding Nicholas’s mind, were the same. He stifled a groan and drew Lady Isabella closer, sinking into desire, into bliss. The softness of her skin beneath his hands, the sweetness of her lips, the taste of her mouth...
Her mouth. Dear God, her mouth ...
Nicholas lifted his head and stepped back, releasing her, dragging air into his lungs, striving for a semblance of control, of sanity.
They stared at each other. Lady Isabella’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes dark, her lips rosy. The sight of her mouth arrested his attention. He almost stepped forward again, almost kissed her again.
“We should stop,” he said. His voice was unaccountably hoarse. “Gussie will be back any moment.” The words were more for himself than for her. Stop. Stop now. While I can.
Lady Isabella didn’t answer for a moment. He thought she was trying to catch her breath. Her expression was aghast. “You said last night was an aberration. You said it wouldn’t be like that again!”
He shook his head, trying to deny what had just happened. But there was no denying it. And without the punch this time, a worried voice in his mind pointed out. Without the music. “It shouldn’t.”
“Then why—”
He shook his head again, still staring at her, at the temptation of her mouth. What had just happened? And why her? Why now? “I don’t know.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. “I found it.”
Nicholas turned hastily away from Lady Isabella. He reached for the first volume of Pride and Prejudice and fumbled it open. His heart was beating loudly in his ears. He heard Gussie speak again, heard Lady Isabella reply.
He swallowed and tried to slow his breathing, his heartbeat, and to concentrate on the page he was looking at. It was upside down. Hastily he turned the book the right way up.
Gussie plucked the book from his hand and ruthlessly closed it. “You may read it later,” she said.
Nicholas groped for a suitable retort and failed to find one. His mind was fogged with passion, and not a little panic. What had just happened between himself and Lady Isabella?
Mutely he followed the ladies from the library. An aberration. It had to be an aberration. But not caused by the punch. We are the aberration, the two of us.
It wasn’t love; it was a mindless, physical desire. Her mouth and mine fit together. Would their bodies fit together, too?
He hastily shoved the thought aside.
An aberration. An anomaly. Something between just the two of them.
Something not to be repeated,he told himself firmly.
Back in the drawing room, Lucas Washburne proposed riding out to Richmond on the morrow.
“A picnic!” Gussie said, clapping her hands in delight. She turned to Lady Isabella. “Do say you’ll come.”
Lady Isabella acquiesced. To his ears she still sounded shaken. Her face, flushed in the library from his kiss, was now pale. She avoided meeting his eyes.
Mrs. Westin demurred. So, too, did Harry. “I’m engaged with Lieutenant Mayhew,” he said.
Lucas turned to him. “Nicholas? Will you join us?”
“Perhaps,” he said, with a glance at Lady Isabella’s averted profile. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Or perhaps not.
Mrs. Westin rose to leave not long after that. He wondered if she’d sensed her cousin’s agitation.
Nicholas bowed and politely bade them good night. Lady Isabella murmured something unintelligible in return.
Nicholas resumed his seat. He frowned at the polished toe of his shoe.
Gussie came to sit beside him. “Do say you’ll come tomorrow,” she said coaxingly.
Nicholas looked past her to the empty doorway. I owe Lady Isabella an apology. He made an abrupt decision. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”