Edith Layton (5 page)

Astonishing
, Bridget thought.
They talk as though I’m not here
. Well, that was fair enough; she didn’t feel she was anymore. The whole thing was taking on the qualities of a strange dream, the disjointed half-real kind you had if you fell asleep in the afternoon. That notion gave her the courage to speak up.

“He knows I’m your cousin,” she said, “a member of your family. It may be he doesn’t see anything wrong with asking me to drive with him. There wouldn’t be, you know.”

They looked at her as though they’d forgotten she could speak.

“Yes. He hasn’t been back in London very long…,” Aunt Harriet said, her eyes narrowing as she thought about it.

Bridget felt her heart lift. She was going to be able to leave the house, go for a drive with a strange and wonderfully dangerous gentleman. But there’d be no danger. It would only be words and possibilities, and she was good with words and knew her future too well to consider his possibilities. Even if it was only for a few hours, and even though she knew better than anyone that he was a villain, it still would be a marvelous day. The threat of him would only make it more exciting, and more unreal.

“It may be he wants to ask Bridget about you,” Aunt Harriet told Cecily. “Perhaps he wants to know your tastes—he may have a gift or a surprise in mind for you and wants her advice. As you say, she’s older, certainly not marriageable, and obviously your chaperone. He
may feel uncomfortable asking me, but her? Yes, it is a possibility. We have to let her go.”

She turned to Bridget. “But hear me well,” she told her sternly. “I want no hint of impropriety. It’s not logical that he wants anything wicked, but he does have a certain reputation. Who knows what notions the man may have? Behave yourself, you understand?”

Any other time Bridget would have been so insulted she’d have said good-bye to her aunt and cousin and left them then and there, even if she had no idea of where to go.
Or at least I’d leave the room
, she thought more honestly,
and start writing letters to other relatives
. But not today.

Today she felt light and foolish with relief, and strangely flattered and thoroughly excited. She was still young, or almost so, she thought. She’d go, if only so she’d have a few wicked remembrances to cheer her old age. Cecily had been prepared for war; she herself was only looking forward to some fencing. And if he just wanted to ask about Cecily—which she strongly doubted—why, it was still a beautiful day, and she’d be out in it!

“Let me get my bonnet,” she said.

He didn’t like the bonnet. “You look like you’re wearing a coal scuttle on your head.”

“It’s the fashion,” she said.

It wasn’t anymore, of course. Cecily’s hat was the fashion. But Bridget thought her old bonnet was the best fashion for her, as it covered her face on all sides. He was sitting on her right, driving, and so if he could only see her profile, that was grand. She sat on the driver’s seat with him, so high from the ground she was terrified—at first. Then she found the thrill of it.

He drove a high-perch phaeton, delicate and gilded, with the driver’s seat fully six feet off the ground. It was the most dashing thing she’d ever seen, pulled by two matched black horses. The fragile carriage swayed and shook, and though it was well sprung, she felt every cobble in the road below. She loved it. She felt the wind on her face and imagined she was motion itself. They must be going at least eight miles an hour, she thought in delight.

There were coaches, carts, wagons, carriages, and other rigs crowding the busy roadway. But she was in the finest one, and he was the most elegant escort, and she knew she’d never forget this. He was a powerful presence as he sat steering the horses with confident ease. He wore a long driving coat with many capes at the shoulder, a high beaver hat, and luxuriously soft kid-skin gloves on his strong hands—she knew how strong they were because she’d held his hand as he helped her up into her seat—and he wore fashionably skintight tan pantaloons and high shining boots. And she was sitting next to him just as though she were a woman of some consequence, just as if she were really desirable, eligible, enviable. B
liss
.

“We’re heading toward the park,” he said, or shouted, because of the noise in the street.

She nodded, too thrilled to try to be heard over the sounds of heavy coaches rumbling over the cobbles, the hoofbeats of horses, and the shouted conversations of their riders, all mingling with the raucous clamor of street vendors crying their wares.

But the park loomed ahead, green and leafy—and surprisingly quiet once they rode along tree-lined roads.

“Better,” he said, “but it will be better still.”

He drove past other fashionable rigs, nodding here and bowing his head there. Bridget sat still and straight, very much aware that the passengers in those other carriages were trying to get a look at her face.

“I see,” he said with a smile in his voice. “That ghastly bonnet acts like a turtle’s shell, does it?”

“Yes, and it’s much better this way,” she replied.

She was suddenly aware they were almost alone. She saw few other carriages now. He’d driven to a shaded lane, and she could see water glittering ahead.
A lake and a secluded spot near it—trust him to know where to find a secret rendezvous in the heart of London
, she thought nervously.

It was quiet enough to talk now.

“Have you thought about what I offered?” he asked idly as the horses slowed.

She nodded. “Of course. I wish I could stop thinking about it. You’re right, you know,” she said, and had the pleasure of seeing him blink and swing his head to her. But she’d decided to be completely honest with him. It would be embarrassing, but lying would be foolish and futile.

“It would be an easy way to earn a living,” she admitted, telling him everything she’d told herself all day, “and probably would be a pleasure, too—if I were a different kind of person. But I’m not, so I can’t. I just couldn’t be any man’s mistress. I’m sorry—believe me. But there it is.

“You see, if I did—apart from the fact that I could never live in polite society again, or ever hold down any kind of respectable position again, or ever have my family talk to me again, or be able to look myself in the eye in the mirror each morning—there’s the problem of perhaps finding
myself less alone after you left me. And you would, of course, in time. I mean,” she said, because he looked blank, “I might have something to remember you by.” She swallowed hard. “A child.”

She looked away from his fascinated stare. “So, you see, it would be impossible for me to consider your offer. Although,” she admitted quickly, because he didn’t answer and she wanted to be fair about it, “I also have to say that—and it may be wrong to say this—I really do regret it, for many reasons. I do believe you don’t find me disfigured, and I do, of course, like to be appreciated, since no one else seems to do that. And my life is not a happy one. Plus you are attractive, as you are far too aware. I know all that, you see. But I know myself, too. I can’t, and there it is.”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked at them, because she was afraid to see his reaction.

He was too preoccupied with the horses to have a reaction yet. He stayed silent for a moment more, but only because he was angling his horses in under the canopy of a huge, spreading oak tree. When he’d stopped them, he braked the coach. He put down the reins, and then he spoke to her.

“You’ve been thinking it over, all right,” he said. “Well, I have to say I’m sorry—and surprised.” The dappled shade couldn’t hide his small smile.

“Surprised?”

“Most women don’t expect their husbands to leave them. Most like the idea of having children.”

She caught her breath. C
ruel
, she thought, because she’d dreamed of children. “Most women don’t like the idea of having to raise bastard children,” she said bravely, and went on quickly, “I suppose you’ll tell me I
could go someplace where no one has ever heard of me and say I was a widow, and you’d give me enough money to get by, but I don’t want to live a lie. Oh, what am I talking about? The answer is no, and no, and no again, no.”

“You
have
been thinking about it,” he said with pleasure. He turned to her casually, one hand resting on his knee. But there was nothing casual in his expression. His face held such tenderness that she caught her breath. “Bridget, sweet Bridget,” he said in his soft purr, “didn’t you hear me? I’m talking about marriage, my dear, and you can’t have been thinking about
that
.”

“You can’t have been talking about marriage!” she said with a squeak. “I’ve nothing, no money; I’m old; and I have—”

“The scar. I know. God, I know about the damned scar,” he said angrily. He put his arms around her and dragged her close. He tipped up her chin with one hand. “Blasted bonnet,” he murmured as she stared up at him, amazed. But it didn’t get in his way.

She took a long look into those hazel eyes, seeing green and gold and heat and desire and laughter there. She knew very well that she should draw away. But she discovered she couldn’t, because she didn’t want to. She closed her eyes. He was coming so close…. Her pulse was racing so hard she could scarcely breathe. Then she forgot about breathing altogether, because he put his warm, firm mouth on hers, and she couldn’t seem to think at all anymore.

His lips were warm, his mouth was hot. He touched her lips with his tongue. She startled and opened her mouth to ask why, and he gave her his tongue as an answer. So strange, so sweet, so shocking…but he
was intoxicating. He tasted dark and winey, sweet and astonishing. She felt the strength of his body against hers, his hard hands holding her still for his kiss. He didn’t need to. Her hands went to his wide shoulders, her mouth opened to him, her body yearned toward him.

“Yes,” he said triumphantly when his lips finally left hers, “it’s all there, everything I imagined. You
have
been thinking about me, sweet Bridget. Here, something else to think about,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers again.

She wanted to warn him someone might see, she wanted to tell him she didn’t do that kind of thing, she needed to say she was sorry, sorry…But she was floating. All she could do was drink in his kiss and try to get closer to the warm and solid reality of him, the worst man she could ever have needed so badly.

“Y
es,” Ewen breathed with satisfaction as he lifted his lips from hers again. But now the world was returning to Bridget, and he could see the worry springing into her eyes. He knew how to deal with that. He knew what he most wanted to do, too. They were the same thing. He bent his head to hers again.

“No!” she said quickly, blinking as though waking at last. “You mustn’t—” She stopped, because she really ought to have said “we mustn’t,” and she was shamed to realize it.

“Mustn’t I?” he purred, his lips on her cheek, his cheek against hers.

There were so many other denials she could make. But it was herself she had to plead with, not him.
One last kiss, just one, please
? she asked herself. She answered
herself by closing her eyes, tilting up her head, waiting for his kiss. He did something even more intimate.

She felt his fingers at her neck, by her breast. Her eyes flew open. It was done in a moment. He undid the string of her bonnet, took it off, and flung it away. She gasped, her hands flying to her hair. He put his hands over hers and cupped her head so he could look fully into her face.

“Lovely,” he murmured, gazing at the tumble of soft dark brown hair that rippled around her face. “Rich chocolate, with the sunlight finding cinnamon in it. Thick, lush—a crime to cover it. But if you must, we’ll find you something to set it off, not hide it.”

But she was near tears now. The sun was full on her face and she couldn’t cover her scar from him. He held her head so she couldn’t lower or turn it from his gaze. Her heart was surely in her eyes, she knew it had been in her kiss, and she couldn’t hide that from him anymore, either. She was exposed, completely. She writhed, feeling like some kind of insect of the dark suddenly revealed, attempting vainly to scuttle from the light of the day, as she tried to look away from the heat of his stare.

“Don’t,” she whimpered, looking for a place to hide her face. His chest was as good as any. Too good, she discovered when he held her close, crooning to her, stroking her. Too warm and strong, and scented too interestingly of clean linen, sandalwood, and Ewen. His big hand made slow, gentle circles on her back as he made soothing noises low in his throat. Too soothing. Too close. Too many wonderful sensations at once woke her to her situation.

She hadn’t been hugged in seven years, much less
held—and never like this. She tried to pull away, trying to pull herself together as well. He let her go at once. She accepted his wordlessly offered handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She hesitated to really use it, but had to, and was embarrassed by the forlorn honk she gave.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said.

“The name is Ewen, I thought I told you that,” he said with amusement.

She almost smiled, but tried for composure. She sat up straight and ran her hands over her hair, finally grabbing the mass of it, skinning it back, and winding it up in a knot at the nape of her neck. It began to fall apart almost instantly, of course. So did her composure when she saw the light dancing in his eyes as he sat watching her, but she still tried to be dignified.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.

“I’m not,” he answered, and clearly meant it, too. “I’m glad that’s over with and done.”

She hadn’t thought she could feel more embarrassed, but she’d been wrong. “Of course, it won’t happen again,” she mumbled in humiliation. She’d made a terrible mistake. Had she moved to him first? It hardly mattered. If a woman sat with her eyes closed and her lips near, a man might just be being polite.

“Oh, it will happen again, even more will happen,” he said, “but not just now. We have to talk. I meant I’m glad we got it out of the way so we could concentrate on other things. It was just as delicious as I thought it would be. Now that we know, you see, we can move on.”

“Yes, I think we should go home, too,” she said, her eyes cast down.

“Miss Cooke,” he said, “I’m trying to make a declaration. Why should you look so astonished? I invited you
out, I kissed you soundly, you won’t be my mistress, we’ve talked that through. So now I’m asking you if you’ll be my wife.”

“You’re joking!”

“I have a better sense of humor than that. Listen, my dear. I came to London in search of a wife, you know that. But now it seems I need one much sooner than I thought.” He looked down at the reins in his hands, uncomfortable for the first time. “My father’s been in poor health. The one thing he wants of me—and I’d do anything for him—is to see me marry again.

“I married young,” he said, concentrating on smoothing the separate strands of the reins on his knee as he spoke. “I married to please him. No, to be honest, I was a young fool, and thought one woman much the same as another. And so if the match pleased him, it suited me as well. Well, I wasn’t
that
noble. She was lovely. She was young, too, and obedient to her father’s wishes. It wasn’t uncommon for our class: an arranged marriage for the profit of our families. Still, I was attracted to her and thought it would work. It didn’t.”

He scowled down at his hands, “As it turned out, we didn’t like each other at all. Had she—had we had more years together, we’d have ended up detesting each other. So please don’t feel sorry for me or think I remained single so long after because I was looking for another like her. I was not. I am not.

“Truthfully, I never wanted to marry again,” he admitted. “But my father…My mother was an invalid. I was taught at home so I could be near her. When she died, my father became everything to me. With reason. He’s a good man, much better than I am, and I’m fortunate enough to call him friend as well as father. I came to
London to find a fiancée to present to him, because he’s sick and says he can’t rest easy until he’s sure there’ll be more of our line. He asks nothing more of me. I can’t blame him. My sole heir’s my uncle, but he’s old and even more foolish than I am.”

He looked up, smiling at her again. “My father asks only that I choose a woman with a good head on her shoulders and that I have enough sense not to pick someone altogether ineligible. So, I came to London, went to all the right parties, dances, and teas in my search for a bride. And yes, I’ve been to all the wrong places, too, in my search for…entertainment.”

His face grew suddenly grave. “I thought I had the whole Season, but I’ve just got word from home. His health’s deteriorating. I have to marry immediately, then go home and reassure him by introducing my bride to him.”

“You mean me?” she asked, astonished.

“I do indeed,” he answered, smiling at her surprise.

She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said, “but there are so many more eligible women. Almost any of them would have you. You must know that. Why, Cousin Cecily would snap you up, as would most of her friends.”

“I don’t care to be snapped up. I much prefer to do the snapping,” he said with a grin that made her wonder if she’d said something risqué—but then, he could make anything sound that way. “I know Cecily would have me. But in all seriousness, if you were a man, would you have her? Not only for your life’s mate, but even in your bed?”

She gasped. “That—that’s such an improper question. I can’t even imagine it.”

“Of course you can,” he scoffed. “A woman can see if a man might desire another female. Take a close look at your pretty little cousin. Is there any real passion in the girl? Yes, but only for her own advancement. That’s all right, I suppose; the best courtesans are the same.”

Bridget stared. No man had ever spoken to her that way—as though she were an equal. She was as shocked as she was fascinated.

“But she wouldn’t even pretend passion in a man’s bed, and that’s important to a man such as I,” Ewen went on. “She couldn’t, because there’s none in her. Not for matters of the flesh. She only has social ambition. Look hard and you can see her mother staring out of her eyes. Look at her friends, too. They act as though finding a husband is only a game to play against the other girls they know. The object? To win the man the others want most. There’s no passion there, and I won’t wed where’s there’s none—this time.”

“Surely there are older ladies, widows, any number of worthy women for the position—I mean, for you to marry,” Bridget said earnestly. Since he was talking to her as an equal, she found it easier to speak with him as such. The whole idea of marrying him was too fantastic for her to accept. She had to make him see that, she had to see it herself, because she was still afraid it was some strange, cruel joke.

“I’m penniless, Ewen. I’m…flawed, even if you don’t think so. I have nothing and can expect nothing. Why should you want
me
?”

“I want you in my bed,” he said, his eyes clear and bright as they studied her. “I want you in my arms. I realize there’s more to marriage than that,” he added as her eyes widened. “You do have more. I enjoy your conver
sation; you’re clever. I know you’re virtuous—after all, you resisted me.”

She gaped at him.
Of all the monstrous, self-important creatures
, she thought, but before she could say it, he went on. “I’ve asked about you, I’ve found out all. There wasn’t much to know. If you erred long ago, it hardly matters now. Did you, by the by?”

“Never!” she gasped.

He nodded. “I thought not. And so there you are. I find you desirable. Intelligent. Well-born enough to suit my father. Why should you be surprised at my offer?”

She took in a deep breath and let it out. Why should she be surprised? There were so many reasons that if she started telling him, they’d be there until nightfall. So she seized on the one reason that lurked beneath all the others, the one that hurt the most. “You feel sorry for me,” she blurted. “You feel that if you must marry, it might as well be a charitable act.”

He sat still. His head cocked to the side as he considered what she said. “And I am
such
a charitable fellow,” he said slowly, with a curling smile that made a mockery of the statement.

“I mean, you could get to know some other woman.”

“To what purpose? I have you. Or at least, I want to. On that score…” He leaned closer and spoke seriously, his eyes daring her to doubt him. “Don’t mistake me, Bridget. My choice has a lot to do with my desires. I’m called a rake because I enjoy women’s bodies and the pleasure a man and woman can share. I
was
a rake, that is to say. Because if we wed, I’d be as faithful to you as you are to me. That I promise. But don’t mistake me: I expect an eager partner in my marriage bed.”

“B-But…I…,” she stammered, blushing at even
the thought of the kind of eagerness he expected, “I don’t know how, I mean…”

“Maybe not the mechanics,” he said, watching her intently. “They’re simple enough, or else there wouldn’t be so many stupid people—or so many happy ones. But you already know the rest, in your heart at least. I’d swear it, and I’m not wrong in these things. It’s my field of expertise, so to speak,” he added wryly.

“You’re all banked fire,” he said. “It’s what I first sensed in you. I’ve felt it, too. Lord, have I felt it! You’re driving me to distraction, you know—you must know. I saw your reaction to me in your eyes when we met, I felt it in your kiss, I feel it when we so much as touch hands, for God’s sake! It took all my control not to try to tumble you that day on the island. I believe you’re just right for me in other things as well. I’d try to be right for you. And so?”

He sat back and watched her struggle with the question. Her emotions were clearly readable—that was why her desire was goading him so badly, making him act so rashly. Her thoughts came and went in her eyes—desire, fear, and doubt. And then he could see growing hope lighten her eyes and erase the line of concentration that had marred her smooth forehead, and at that moment he knew he’d won. She raised those clear gray eyes to his.

“I—I’d like to think about it…Ewen,” she said shyly.

“Fine. You have a day.”

“What?” she squawked. “You’re mad!”

“No, I told you I have no time. I need to wed you and go home immediately. It’s a long journey. Our estate lies on the border, remember?”

“But why can’t you marry there? Your father would certainly like it.”

“He may not live to see it,” he said harshly. “I’ll get a special license and we can marry at once, then I’ll send word to him by a rider with a swift horse as soon as it’s done. I can’t have it any other way.”

“Oh,” she said a little sadly, “so that’s why. You really
don’t
have time to find another lady.”

“I’ve been in London three months now and know any number of ladies, my dear idiot,” he said. When her head snapped up, he added, “That’s a form of endearment in Wales, you know.” Her eyes narrowed, and he laughed. “Welsh—yes, another thing I’ll have to teach you. Well?”

Surely the most unromantic offer any woman ever had, that “Well?” But she wondered if any woman ever had a more exciting one.

“May I let you know?”

“Certainly. By tomorrow. But as for today, let’s make the most of it.”

She braced herself for his kiss, excited but worried, wondering frantically if she should let him, because maybe it was all a lie to get her in his arms, or maybe he’d think she was—

She felt a jolt, and opened her eyes. The horses were moving again.

“No rain clouds yet, and the sun is still bright. Let’s take advantage of it. There’s a Punch and Judy show near the Serpentine,” he said, shaking the reins. They went rolling out of the shade and out into the sunshine. She sat back, now worrying about why something so respectable should make her feel so disappointed.

He paid a lad to watch the carriage and hold the horses while they got down to see the Punch and Judy show. He bought her an ice, and they watched the puppets, as
entranced as the children around them were. They strolled the park paths afterward, sharing the walk with children rolling hoops and chasing balls, old ladies and gentlemen out for their daily constitutionals, and nurses pushing babies in prams or invalids in rolling chairs. They smiled at the children and nodded to the old folks, just as if they were a staid old couple themselves.