Chapter Four
“Am I a chaperone?” she asked as they walked outside and a breeze touched her skin. That surely explained the slight shiver.
“I do hope not.”
The next shiver was not due to the breeze.
The other couples melted into the shadows, so only the ghostly pale of the ladies’ dresses, soft talk, and laughter revealed their presence.
“I feel like a chaperone,” she said, trying to remind him of her advanced age. “Who is partnered with whom, and are the pairings acceptable?”
“Don’t fuss. I doubt anyone is going to be ravished.” He turned to her and added, “Who doesn’t want to be, that is.”
“Who would want to be?”
“All the men.”
It startled a laugh from her, and he grinned, looking much younger. Oh, Maria, do you know what you’re doing? When he guided her farther from the house, however, she did not resist.
Though the garden was not large, paths wound around bushes and trellises, creating illusions of privacy. Illusions only, as giggles, conversation, and the occasional squeal could be heard all around.
It was a sleeping garden, but someone had planted nicotiana and stock that perfumed the air, and the paths were studded with creeping herbs that released scents as they walked. The sultry air increased her awareness of folly. This was not necessary for her plan, though it fit neatly with his.
He was going to try to kiss her, perhaps even to ravish her, to prove that he was master. One of these matters of male pride that she recognized without understanding them at all.
The question was, what was she going to permit, and why?
He paused beneath a tree. “Would this be too early for me to beg for your hand in marriage?”
Ridiculously, her pulse began to race. “It would seem impetuous.”
“So. Be a wild, impetuous woman for once.”
The tone stung, and an overhead amber lantern laid harsh lines on his face, deepening the jagged scar.
“I eloped with Celestin,” she said, and relished startling him.
“Your family didn’t approve?”
“He was foreign and self-made.”
“You must have loved him very much.”
After a heartbeat, she said, “Yes, yes I did.”
It wasn’t a lie. Wild, impetuous love had driven her into Maurice’s arms—carefully created wild impetuous love as unreal as this mock devotion.
“Then have another adventure.” He took her hands. “Agree now to marry me. We’ll put the notice in the papers tomorrow and shock all London.”
She realized that he was speaking as if they might be overheard, and they might. She was vaguely aware of a couple nearby talking softly but earnestly about the meaning of freedom and love.
Ah, youth.
“Well?” he asked.
No point in hesitation. “Very well.”
He smiled. Even with the amber light it seemed warm. “You’ve made me very happy.”
“Have I?”
“But of course. Now I get to kiss you. But not here,” he said before she could protest. “That amber light is doing terrible things to your looks.”
That disconcerting thought allowed him to tug her into deeper, untinted shadows. Then she got her wits back. “You do not have permission to kiss me.”
“Are you going to scream?” He pulled her into his arms. “Wouldn’t that rather spoil the show?”
She braced her hands against his chest. “Stop this!”
Shockingly, however, his strength and hard body weakened her, as such things always did. Maurice had not loved her, but he’d been a good lover when he’d bothered, and he’d given her what most excited her.
He would turn up in the middle of an ordinary day, seize her arm, and march her to the bedroom. She’d been practically in orgasm before he had her clothes off, and he’d made sure she whirled into that madness two or three more times before he went on with his busy day, leaving her languid.
Satiated.
Conquered by her flesh.
And it had been a conquest, a matter of pride to him to succeed in everything. She’d known it, but never had the strength to resist.
Zeus, she didn’t need those memories now. Despite hot skin and aching thighs, she said, “Force a kiss on me, Lord Vandeimen, and our arrangement will be at an end. It will make you a thief of the money you’ve already spent, and I assure you, you won’t see a penny more.”
She couldn’t see his expression, but his arms neither tightened nor slackened. “You threatened me once before, Maria. Didn’t you learn that I don’t care enough? Send me to hell if you want. I’ll have my kiss.”
He knocked up her bracing arms and cinched her close, then captured her head and kissed her.
Ravished her.
Shock and remembered hungers opened her mouth and pressed her closer, betraying her utterly. It had been so long, so long, since a man had held her, kissed her like this. She’d told herself she was glad to be free of it, and known that she lied.
She found she’d thrust her hands beneath his jacket, and was clawing at his long, tight back through silk and linen. She stopped that at least, but her heart thundered and that betraying ache had become throbbing demand.
His lips released hers and slid down her neck.
She should stop him now. She should. Instead, she was fighting not to fall to the ground and tear his clothes off.
He pushed his thigh between hers. She heard her own sound of need, and finally dragged herself out of his arms. “St—”
His hand came hard over her mouth.
He was right. She’d been about to scream.
“Hush,” he said softly, “hush.”
No apology, just soothing sounds he might make to a frantic animal.
Animal.
Oh, God.
She closed her eyes, excruciatingly mortified to have reacted like that to the cynical attentions of a man more suited to be her son than her lover. Then she was in his arms again, being held quite gently, her face pressed to his shoulder, however, just in case.
Oh, to wipe out those foolish moments! To take frosty leave of him and never see him again.
You can, whispered a voice. Just give him the money and cut free.
She couldn’t. He needed more than money. He needed a clean break from corruption, and a helping hand back to ordinary, sane ways. The fact that he’d stolen that dishonorable kiss showed he was still deep in the pit. She suspected that soon he’d be ready to shoot himself over it.
She moved her head slightly to take a clearer breath, and he let her. His head rested against hers, however, and his arms were no longer imprisoning. Despairingly, she sensed that he was relishing this embrace. How often had he simply been in someone’s arms?
His mother and two sisters might possibly have held him if he needed it.
Mother and younger sister had died of influenza.
His older sister had died in childbirth round about the time of Waterloo.
His father had shot himself not long after, and perhaps the other deaths had been part of it.
It had mostly been the debts, though, and they had been Maurice’s fault.
There must have been women abroad, but had they been the sort to just hold him when he needed holding? The sort to whom he could confess fear and doubt? The sort to let him weep?
Did he ever allow himself to weep?
Her own eyes were blurring, tears ached in her throat, and she realized her hands were making stroking movements on his back. Motherly, she told herself. He probably could do with a mother substitute.
She wanted to burst into wild laughter.
She fought for composure and looked up. “I believe we are engaged to be married, Lord Vandeimen.”
She couldn’t really see his features, but that meant he couldn’t see hers either. The silence stretched too long, however, before he asked, “I should send the notice to the papers?”
She heard surprise. “Yes.”
After another silence he asked, “And then what? Do we go through the form of drawing up marriage settlements?”
“Why not? They will make a model for when I truly commit to marriage.”
He moved slowly away, then linked her arm with his and drew her back to the path and the amber light.
“I apologize for what happened,” he said, looking fixedly ahead. “You are being nothing but kind, and I attacked you, frightened you. Since you are kind enough to continue with this arrangement, I give you my word it will not happen again.”
Maria stopped herself from protesting. This was how it must be, and if he hadn’t recognized her reaction for what it had been, that was a blessing.
“Then we have everything settled. Now I would like to go home. You will escort me and my aunt?”
“Of course.”
But he paused beneath a bright lamp and deftly tidied her appearance, straightening her pearl necklace, adjusting her sleeve, and tucking a curl back into a pin.
Every brushing touch was flaming temptation, but she concentrated fiercely on the fact that he was being clever again.
There’d be enough talk without them reentering the house in disarray.
Presumably tidying up after garden embraces was part of the skills of a military officer.
“Were there many social events in the Peninsula?” she asked, and to keep the balance, reached up to adjust his cravat, thankful for her gloves. Even so, the sense of his skin, sleek over his firm chin, or the muscles and tendons of his neck, could drive her wild.
Heavens, but she wanted him. Rawly and demandingly wanted him.
“Sometimes,” he said, raising his chin for her. “In Lisbon, mostly. And Paris. And Brussels.”
The Duchess of Richmond’s ball, from which the officers had slipped away, many not to be seen alive again. Yes, doubtless he had experience at partnering respectable young ladies at balls, and occasionally slipping out for a kiss—or even more—in a garden.
Neglected wives and hungry widows. She knew how men saw these things. Maurice had told her that men, too, thought of women as heaven, purgatory, or hell, but in two different ways. They assessed brides that way, but they also used the terms to assess lovers.
In a potential lover, hell was diseased, or married to a suspicious, vengeful man, or tainted in some other way. No wise man chose such a lover, but she could hear Maurice laugh as he quoted that the way to hell was often paved with good intentions.