Anne Barbour (12 page)

His kiss was soft and undemanding at first. He embraced her fully and as his arms pressed her against his length, she arched against him involuntarily. His lips immediately grew hot and urgent and searching, and unknowingly, she raised her own arms to stroke the thick, soft hair at the back of his neck. She felt herself opening to him as a flower might bloom in the heat of a summer afternoon, and she cried aloud against his mouth. The feel of his hands on her back created a fire in her blood, and she moved against him as though she would crawl inside him.

A burst of feminine laughter nearby brought her to her senses, and with a horrified gasp, she stepped abruptly away from him. He made no move to restrain her, and for a shocked moment, she simply stared at him, unable to read his expression in the darkness.

“I should not have done that,” he said harshly.

“No,” she whispered numbly.

“On the other hand, I cannot say I am sorry it happened.”

“No,” she repeated, unable to gather her thoughts into a coherent pattern.

“We had better get back to the others,” he whispered, and putting his hand under her elbow, he guided her back to the crowd that still milled about the little amphitheater. They soon reached the place where Lady Edith and Meg waited.

“I’m glad you two are back,” caroled Lady Edith. “I was afraid you’d miss the fireworks.”

Chapter 9

“Oh, March, thank you so very much.” Meg skipped beside her brother as they emerged from Mrs. Vivier’s Confectionery Shop in Brock Street. She spoke thickly through a mouthful of pastry. “I know you must think me the veriest infant, but I am absolutely addicted to Mrs. Vivier’s meringues.”

“I believe you are not alone,” replied March, indicating a pair of fashionable young ladies who had left the shop ahead of them, each carrying a parcel of sticky treats. “Where to now?”

“I think,” Meg replied virtuously, “that we should execute our commissions first—Aunt’s writing paper and the new book at Duffield’s Library that she requested. Then we may consider our own enjoyment. A stroll along the river, perhaps, and tea at that new little place near Parade Gardens.”

“By which time you will no doubt be suffering from hunger pangs again. I shouldn’t be surprised if you will be fat as a flawn by the time you are twenty.”

“March! What a dreadful thing to say.” Meg glanced with satisfaction at her trim form, reflected in a shop window. “Aunt always says the Brent women hold their figures no matter what. And it is not,” she concluded loftily, “as though I gorge myself, like Jennifer Wilmont. If you wish to talk about flawns—”

“Never mind, you little cat. Here. Here is Duffield’s, You go and inquire about the book, and I shall find the notepaper.”

Casting him a mischievous look, Meg hurried to the counter where a clerk stood in readiness to assist the shop’s patrons. March turned away to the other side of the room. Giving a second clerk the order written down by his aunt, he strolled aimlessly among the books on display. The latest edition of the
Bath Chronicle
failed to hold his attention, as did an advertisement for a horse auction to be held three days hence in Lansdown. His vision, it seemed, was clouded this morning by a pair of magical blue eyes that constantly hovered before him, and his thoughts were wholly consumed by the events of last night.

When the propitious, if somewhat messy accident with the punch cups had brought Miss Fox in such close proximity, his first thought was that the gods were indeed with him. His second was an earnest desire to place his hands about that lovely, slender throat and squeeze the breath from her. He knew what he was going to do the moment she stepped close to him, but it was all he could do not to crush her body against him and grind her lips beneath his in a savage kiss. He was almost overwhelmed by a compulsion to violate her in as brutal a fashion as he could manage in such a public place. At the last moment, he found himself oddly reluctant to hurt her and, summoning all the considerable restraint at his command, he had instead brushed her lips with his own in a shy, lover’s salute. At the first touch of her mouth against his, he had almost lost control. God, how could evil be disguised in such sweetness? Her lips had been warm and soft, and the body pressed against his in such innocent compliance had been all womanly curves and enticing hollows. If he had not known better, he would have sworn her response was genuine and freely given.

He smiled. Oh yes, she had responded. She had returned his kiss with an unaffected ardor that surprised him. She had opened herself to him freely, and he had been stirred by a desire as urgent as it was unwelcome. If that peal of laughter had not interrupted them, God knows where that moment of passion might have led.

He must be more watchful of his emotions in the future, he mused. His plan had begun well, and with a little careful nudging. Miss Fox would be ready to fall into his arms within a week or two. Time then to savor the fulfillment of his little project. Time then to ...

“What?” March stared blankly down at Meg, who stood before him with two books in her hand.

“I said, Mr. Wooly Wits, that the nice gentleman over there”—she tossed her head to indicate the young clerk who stood at the counter in blushful reverence—”told me that
Pride and Prejudice
has just arrived. It is a newly published novel by the lady who wrote
Sense and Sensibility,
and Alison has been waiting and waiting for it. Shall we get it for her?”

“Of course,” agreed March casually. When they were once again out on the street, he asked, “Is Miss Fox a reader of novels then?”

“Well,” replied Meg thoughtfully, “I know she loves to read, and I think she amuses herself with novels—though not of the Minerva Press variety.” Meg flushed, for her own purchase had consisted of two Gothic romances, guaranteed, so her friends had told her, to keep her entranced from start to finish.

“What are her preferences, then?” the earl prodded. It would be prudent, he told himself, to know his enemy as well as possible.

“Oh, I don’t know.... She likes poetry. Coleridge, I think, and someone named Blake. She was quite beside herself when Aunt Edith gave her the complete works of Maria Edgeworth for Christmas. And I think I have even seen her with some of Mrs. More’s stuff, although why she would choose to immerse herself in a puddle of eternal moralizing, I can’t imagine. Lately, she’s been perusing a book by someone named Mary Woolen-something.”

“Mary Wollstonecraft?” March lifted his brows in surprise. “Good Lord!” Was she a disciple of that vigorous advocate of female rights? How odd—particularly if she was also partial to the works of the pious Hannah More.

“A woman of eclectic tastes, one must assume,” he murmured with an air of profound disinterest before turning the subject. Miss Fox’s name, however, surfaced again before the conclusion of March’s outing with his young sister.

“Oh, that was lovely,” Meg sighed later at the charming tea shop in Parade Gardens. She pushed aside the remains of a plateful of cream cakes and sipped her tea, gazing with satisfaction at the strollers who dotted the park’s green sweep. “I’m so sorry Alison could not have joined us.”

“Mm,” replied March in a carefully noncommittal voice. “Aunt Edith said something about her being indisposed this morning?”

“Just a headache. Aunt Edith rather thought it must have been all the excitement last night. Goodness, I hope my life doesn’t ever become so placid that a wild evening of music and fireworks will put me in bed.”

“I suppose,” said March, speaking almost to himself, “it depends on the nature of the fireworks.”

Indeed, unknown to March, such had been Alison’s reaction to the events of last evening that she had not fallen asleep until dawn. She had awaked a few hours later feeling as though a team of dray horses had taken up residence between her ears.

It was not as though she had never been kissed before. Even before she had left Ridstowe, she had been the recipient of attentions from some of the local sprigs. Mostly reverential, usually shy, their advances had consisted mainly of chaste salutes on cheek or lips. Only occasionally were they followed by a more demanding embrace. She had found some more pleasurable than others, but had never allowed any of them to go beyond what was proper. Nor had she ever wished to encourage her swains to more passionate encounters. But nothing in her previous experience had prepared her for the shattering effect of Lord Marchford’s kiss. She had known what he was about as soon as she had looked up into his eyes, even though all she could see in the lantern light was a faint, golden glitter. She should have stepped away right then. She should have let him mop his own shirtfront. She should have ... But no, she had allowed herself to sink into his embrace like the veriest light-skirt. At the first touch of his lips on hers she had melted. His hands, moving along her back, had created a trail of molten sensation, and if he had begun disrobing her right there, she would probably have helped him.

Dear Lord, what was she to do now? How could she face him again? When he had pulled away from her at the sound of laughter close at hand, she hadn’t even been able to voice a protest at his actions. He had led the way back to the amphitheater, and she had followed like an automaton, unable to speak, or even to think clearly. It was not until she had taken her seat again that she remembered the reason for her night. Luckily, when she’d sneaked a glance at where she had seen Jack Crawford, that gentleman and his party had left.

The fireworks, she admitted ruefully, had definitely been an anticlimax to the evening.

The house was quiet when she rose at last, and she remembered with some relief that Marchford had made an appointment with Meg for luncheon someplace in the city. She spent a quiet morning helping Lady Edith write invitations to a dinner party she was planning for a week hence, and after their rather spartan midday meal, the two ladies set forth for their daily sojourn to the Pump Room.

For the first time, Alison felt oddly restless as she followed Lady Edith in her travels about the chamber. She found herself unable to take part in the light conversations of scandal and fashionable gossip. When Lady Edith settled herself in a comfortable chair, her coterie about her, Alison drifted across the room to the pump fountain and dropped a few pennies into the attendant’s hand. Sipping absently at the small cup of the famed mineral waters, she moved to the window overlooking the King’s Bath and tried to amuse herself with the sight of plump ladies paddling decorously across the surface, garbed in heavy canvas gowns, and dyspeptic gentlemen manfully bobbing up and down in the steaming waters. When a voice spoke suddenly at her elbow, she started so violently that most of the healing liquid splashed from her cup to the floor.

“Alison! Alison Fox, it
is
you!”

With great difficulty, Alison resisted the urge to rush cravenly from the room, and she turned reluctantly to face the speaker.

“Hello, Jack,” she said calmly. “What brings you to Bath?”

He had not, .she thought, changed dramatically in the three years since Beth’s death. Molly had described him as distraught and haggard, but he was far from that now. He had regained any weight he might have lost, though his face was naturally thin. He was as she remembered him, dressed in the first stare of fashion, with his glossy black curls artfully arranged in a carefree Brutus. He wore a rather showy waistcoat of Turkish silk but his coat of dark blue superfine was a model of elegance, as were the biscuit-colored pantaloons that lovingly followed the contours of his well-shaped legs.

His black eyes sparkled audaciously as he pressed both of her hands to his lips.

“Why, what should I be doing here? I have come to take the waters.” He laughed engagingly. “Actually, I am visiting with friends in the area, but I could not tread the streets of this fair city without visiting the pump. Do you live here now, Alison?”

Alison stifled the unreasoning panic that rose within her. “Yes, I do. I am companion to Lady Edith Brent.” She indicated the older woman, seated with her group of compatriots.

Jack’s dark gaze perused Alison thoughtfully. “I’m surprised to hear that. I would have thought you married to some respectable country squire with a clutch of brats at your skirts. You certainly deserve better than to be at the beck and call of some rich old beldam.”

“I do not believe I wish to discuss Lady Edith with you, Jack,” Alison said with some asperity, “except to say that she has become my friend as well as my employer.”

Jack whistled softly, his expressive eyes alight. “No need to comb my hair, m’dear. I’m pleased to see that you’ve landed on your feet. I wondered what had become of you after—”

“Did you really, Jack? I am, of course, honored by your consideration. Now, if you will excuse me.” She turned to make a dignified exit, but Jack laid his slender hand on her arm.

“Alison, I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend you. Over the years, I have thought of you often and with great affection, particularly since Beth died.” A flicker of pain crossed his regular features, and his voice softened. “I know I was not a good husband to her, Alison; you and Molly were the only really good things in her life.”

The young man was obviously sincere, and a stab of pity shot through Alison, although it was quickly suppressed. Jack may truly have grieved for Beth, but he had obviously made a full recovery. She said quietly, “Yes, Beth was a good friend, and is very much missed.” Disengaging her arm from his grasp, she turned away again with a murmured, “I really must be going,” and moved toward Lady Edith. It was only when that lady ceased her conversation at Alison’s approach and glanced questioningly at a spot just over her left shoulder that she realized Jack had followed her across the room.

Alison whirled and intercepted the smiling nod Jack bestowed on the older woman. Lady Edith smiled graciously in return, her sharp old eyes traveling between the two.

Helplessly, Alison performed the introduction.

“John Crawford?” Lady Edith tasted the name on her tongue. “That rings a bell. Have we met?”