Mischief by Moonlight (16 page)

The power to initiate and to stop. The power to leave him helpless with yearning, the way he'd left her.

Her eyes fixed on his, she took a step closer to him, and he backed up a little between the brougham and the wall.

She only had time to see his brow furrow before she crushed her lips against his. With a gasp of surprise, he opened to her, and his tongue met hers.

Heaven.

She lifted shaking hands to touch the sides of his chest, the taut muscles telling of heavy lifting and hard pushing of tools against wood, of work. He growled as her hands moved up over the wideness of his rib cage, and it struck her as an animal sound. That was what he made her feel: animal urges, the wants of a creature for touching and rubbing.

But he was leaning away from her. “We can't. It's too risky, and you don't want this.”

“Don't tell me what I want,” she said and kissed him again.

He inhaled sharply, as if he were caught in some way, but he seemed to accept what she was doing, because he pushed his hands up along the curves of her waist and groaned in pleasure.

She shouldn't be in here with him, shouldn't be doing this, but she wanted him almost desperately. She'd forgotten the anger that had pushed her to pursue this, because beneath it was something in her that had lifted up so gratefully when he'd said all those things to her. He understood her. And she needed him in some fierce way she didn't comprehend.

Surely she could allow herself a moment of indulgence in this incredible pleasure?

He kissed her back with gentle thoroughness and slid his hands over her shoulders and up the bare skin of her neck with a slowness that told her she had all his attention. His touch made her shiver, and she wrapped her arms snugly around his back, knowing she was letting him see too much about her, but helpless to stop.

He leaned into her, and she reveled in the press of his hard body against hers. The unwelcome thought flitted through her mind that he might be a skilled seducer, that he might know just what to say to bring women like her into his arms. Aging women like her who, after years of neglect, were vulnerable to male attention. Maybe what he was doing with her was something in which he indulged all the time. He was handsome and irresistibly virile.

She concentrated on the feeling of his mouth as he dragged it along her jaw.

“You surprise me,” he murmured hoarsely.

She was surprising herself. She slid her hands up his back and along his shoulders and over the outsides of his arms and squeezed his bulky muscles.

“Hush and kiss me.”

He moved his mouth lower to press moistly against her clavicle, and she gave a little hum. Then he was inching the scooped neckline of her gown lower. “It's not good for you to always get what you want.”

As if
that
was what happened all the time.

But she did want something now, and badly. She wanted more of him, a deeper experience of his body. She grasped his shirt and tugged it upward, her movements clumsy, unaccustomed.

Not all her sense had fled, and it shouted in outrage at her.
Stop
this!
But she didn't want to. It felt too good, and who was to know? He wasn't from her social circle—it was like something with no cost or consequences.

No
it's not!

But she gave sense and decorum the cut direct and shoved her hands up under his now-loose shirt and shocked herself when she moaned at the feel of his hot skin over the work-hardened muscles of his back.

He groaned, his mouth still pressed against the upper curve of her breast. She slid her hands to his front to explore the hard, curving architecture of his chest.

“We have to stop,” he ground out, though she could feel his torso shivering under her touch. He moved his mouth up to rest against the place where her shoulder met her neck. “Are you mad?” he asked more softly.

Yes, she was mad, clearly out of her mind. “I don't care.”

“You will.” He took hold of her arms and gently but firmly pulled them out of his shirt and quickly pushed the loose fabric back into his trousers.

“Your bodice,” he said, gesturing with his chin to the place where he'd tugged it lower to expose the outer edge of the puckered, rosy skin around her nipple. When she didn't move, he pulled it into place. His eyes, normally the color of an icy mountain stream, had turned a dark, stormy blue, and the grim set of his mouth told her it was costing him something to stop what they were doing.

Still, how could he stop so suddenly, how could he sweep her up beyond the bounds of sense and propriety and then simply stop? She stepped closer and pressed her chest against his, as though she could push him to say how much she affected him.

“I thought you found me so…captivating, wasn't it?”

He looked down at her. “I do. But you don't want a future with a cabinetmaker, and I won't be your plaything.”

His words were like fuel to the fire burning in her, and she pushed more fully against him and lifted up on her toes, dragging her body along his, and brushed her lips against his.

But he'd frozen, and he was trying hard to push her away even as she became aware of the rustle of footsteps on the stones outside the house. She was just moving away as someone stepped into the room.

Cook was standing there in her apron with a plate of biscuits in her hand and her mouth hanging open. The space behind the brougham might have felt like shelter, but clearly she had seen enough.

Oh, dear God, Edwina thought as the full horror of what she'd just done came crashing over her. Caught
twice
, kissing Whitby, but this mattered in a way that Josie coming upon them hadn't.

What
had
she
done?

“What in heaven's name,” Cook said in a voice like thunder, “do you think you are doing, Jack Whitby? Get away from Miss Cardworthy, you filthy ox.”

He had already moved away from her, toward the chairs by the window, but Edwina didn't look to see his face. She couldn't.

Cook came forward and put an arm around her. “Are you all right, miss? Are you hurt? What ever were you doing out here?”

“No, of course I'm not hurt,” Edwina said, ignoring Cook's last question. She felt as though she were far away from the room, as if this moment turned suddenly disastrous were happening to someone else.

Kissing a man in public—and a man who worked with his hands. What on earth had she been doing? Did she want to ruin her life? She'd never find a suitable husband if this became known. Mappleton would certainly be done with her.

Cook was still talking, though Edwina could hardly focus on the words.

“It'll be the sack for you, Jack Whitby, and no mistake,” Cook said in a hard voice. “You'll never work among the quality again, I can tell you that. Mauling a lady! You deceived me well—I thought you were a decent man.”

Edwina wanted to shout that Cook was wrong, that Jack Whitby
was
a decent man. A very good man. But she couldn't say the words.

Jack had said nothing as yet, and now, finally, Edwina looked at him. He was watching her. Waiting, she imagined, for her to say something to mitigate the damage that would accrue to him and his livelihood. Perhaps to admit she'd been the one to initiate the embrace.

Cook talked on, promising doom for Jack, and still he said nothing.

“Cook,” Edwina interrupted, forcing herself to speak, “it would be best if this were simply forgotten. It wasn't what you think…just an accident of proximity.”

The older woman's eyes widened as this suggestion. “Don't you be thinking you have to defend this scoundrel, Miss Cardworthy. I know what I saw! He was being familiar with you, forgetting his place,” she said, pointing at Jack as though he were some kind of rat. His mouth was set, and he didn't so much as blink as he stood there.

Edwina wanted him to speak, to come up with something, anything to deflect blame from both of them, something that would lift this burden of disaster. For she could see that Cook was going to make as much outraged noise as possible, and the more Edwina spoke against what she said, the more she would draw questions about her own behavior.

He was being unbearably noble, this man who wasn't even a gentleman.

“Please lower your voice,” Edwina said as she heard muffled sounds on the bricks outside, as though someone were out there listening. “No one will benefit from this incident being made public. If you will refrain from speaking of it, no one need know.”

Cook fixed a piercing eye on Edwina and drew herself up. “And leave him to tamper with the maids and anyone else? Certainly not. The housekeeper will hear about this outrage directly. And the mistress, too, I'm sure.”

Before Edwina could utter one word more, Cook turned away and marched out of the carriage house like a woman on a mission. Edwina considered running after her—but what could she say in the face of so much determination?

She could feel Jack's eyes on her and she turned to face him. “I'm sorry,” she said, inadequately.

“There's no need. She's right. I had no business kissing you.”

He was being generous. If she hadn't insisted on kissing him that last time, they wouldn't be in this mess. But she couldn't admit this to him. “Um…”

He turned away from her and began to gather his tools. “You'd best leave if you don't want to be part of another scene,” he said in a remarkably even voice considering the way he'd been insulted by Cook and the likelihood that he was about to be thrown out on his ear. “My guess is the housekeeper will be here in a matter of moments.”

“I…” she said feebly, watching him put a hammer and a couple of files into a box, but he didn't stop or turn, and she had the sense that he was already done with her.

She turned away and went back through the sunny garden. She stopped in the upstairs corridor to look out the window that gave onto the mews, waiting for the reaction to what she'd so stupidly helped set in motion.

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, Jack Whitby emerged from the carriage house, a hat on his head, shoulders straight as the square lines of the toolbox in his hand. He set off down the street. She wondered how fast the gossip about her would fly.

Josie was glad to be back at Jasmine House. She was still sad that Nicholas was gone, and wrung out from what had happened with Colin, but she wasn't numb anymore. She could eat and talk to people and just keep going, even if she did so with a heavy heart.

Her courses had arrived three days after she returned home, releasing her at least from that worry. But the fantasy of going to India had taken hold, and she held on to it as a possible future for herself. It would be an adventure, an idea to entertain her when she felt like herself again, however fanciful it seemed that she would be able to do it.

As the days passed, she had to acknowledge that, though she was still angry with Colin, she also yearned to hear something from him. She wanted him to send her a letter, to come back to Greenbrier and rush over to Jasmine House and say he'd been wrong and he loved her. She so hoped for even the tiniest of signs he was thinking of her.

But there was nothing.

Clearly he wanted to put all that had happened between them behind him. He would go back to his books and be grateful for the detachment from life they offered.

She reminded herself that she'd bluntly rejected his offer of marriage, which would hardly encourage him to woo her. But she'd rejected it because it had been made out of duty and perhaps affection, but not love.

She had far more than affection for him. She needed Colin because she loved him. But sufficient unto himself as he'd always been, he didn't
need
her, and he certainly didn't love her.

She wished his home weren't so near; she could see part of it from her bedchamber window. Nestled prettily on a slight incline amid its handsome grounds, the hall was cozily if grandly framed by towers at each of its four corners. With its pale stone and its air of timeless quietude, Greenbrier, despite its magnificence, had always seemed friendly. Now it felt foreign, as though it had secrets she knew nothing about.

Days at Jasmine House fell into their customary routine. Josie's brothers still ran about shouting and wrestling with each other, trailed by their long-suffering tutor. Though Lawrence did seem to be cultivating finer manners and was suddenly interested in spending time in the village on market days.

Mrs. Cardworthy still lay draped across the divan all day with her pile of novels.

Having been away from Jasmine House for so long, Josie had a new perspective, and it struck her that the sitting room, with the Indian touches she'd always liked, now seemed to bear her father's stamp. Every time she thought of the hurtful things he'd said to Edwina, it made her angry, and she thought that, four years after his death, it was time to put the past behind them and start a new era. But her mother wouldn't hear of changing anything.

“I like these things,” she'd said when Josie suggested new furnishings. “They remind me of happier times.”

“Truly?” Josie had said, trying not to sound incredulous. She would never have described her parents' marriage so enthusiastically. “Or perhaps you like them simply because they are familiar,” she'd said gently, but her mother had looked away, signaling that the discussion was over.

Mrs. Cardworthy had been kind since Josie's return, but her compassion also came with a restrained, rueful smile that said,
Isn't this the way life always works out, anyway? And isn't it better not to put oneself out there in the world?

At the end of Josie's first week back, Mama began to make requests. Could Josie read to her, as her eyes were tired? Though not too tired, Josie noticed, to do tatting while Josie was reading to her.

Would Josie go tell Cook that she'd changed her mind about the dinner menu?

Would Josie fetch her a shawl?

It was the old familiar pattern: Mama wanted someone nearby to dance attendance on her, and as the boys would never be expected to be that someone and Jasmine House was perpetually short of the amount of servants really needed, that left her daughters. Now
daughter
, since Edwina was still in London.

Josie began to wish quite violently that her mother would stop behaving like an invalid, but all gentle suggestions toward that end were dismissed. She tried the inducement of nature: There was the most beautiful patch of lilies of the valley at the far end of the garden, and didn't Mama want to see them? Her mother had Josie cut the flowers and bring them inside. The suggestion of a brief walk to see a family of ducklings that had taken up residence by the front gate brought only chuckles, followed by the request that Josie pay the chandler's bill and go through the accounts for the last month.

This last activity set Josie's teeth on edge, revealing as it did that there was a veritable mountain of money available to the Cardworthys, certainly enough to pay for more servants so the ones they had needn't work quite so hard. But when Josie brought the books to the divan to point this out to her mother, Mrs. Cardworthy had said, “That's money put by, in case anything happens. We dare not spend it.”

“But it's an enormous sum! We'd barely touch it if we added another maid and another gardener. Rickett is getting quite old and really can't manage everything.”

“Absolutely not. It isn't wise not to plan for the future.”

“But what about now?”

Mrs. Cardworthy gave her a dismissive look. “You only say that because you're young and you think everything will work out well.”

“No I don't! I lost my fiancé three weeks ago.”

“I know, dear,” her mother said, patting her arm. “There, you see how it is? So many things don't work out after all. Most, really. It's best in life to be content with what one has. Hand me the biscuits, dear.”

Josie had finally, with quiet fury, spoken her mind. “Mama, you have to get off the sofa and see to things for yourself. Get up and live! I'm not deliriously happy either, but I'm not just sitting in my room.”

Mrs. Cardworthy's lips drew together and she blinked several times, as though tears were threatening. “You are so hard,” she'd said stiffly. “You have no idea what it's like to be a fifty-two-year-old widow.”

“No, I haven't, but I don't see why it means you have to stay on this divan. Be practical, Mama. If you don't get up soon, your body is going to turn to soup and you won't be able to use it at all for things like climbing stairs.”

Mrs. Cardworthy's face had crumpled. As this happened any time someone tried to urge her off the sofa, Josie didn't even scold herself for the hardness she felt.

“I
can't
leave the divan. You of all people, after losing Nicholas—you of all people should understand that I need to rest. You know Dr. Denton said I was to rest.”

“Papa died four years ago!”

But Mrs. Cardworthy had just turned away, lower lip quivering, and faced the back of the divan. She then spent the whole afternoon and evening ringing for the servants to bring her tea, and her elixir, and more tea, and toast, and generally kept them dancing such attendance on her that dinner was late. Though not her own, which she took on a tray on the divan as usual. Afterward she announced she would retire for the night.

When Josie offered her assistance with going up the stairs, Mama said in an injured tone, “No, thank you. I will not trouble you. Sally shall help me.”

Josie had sighed. “Mama, I only spoke for your own good. Surely you see that you can't spend your life on a divan like some character in an old fairy tale?”

Mrs. Cardworthy had tipped her chin up. “It's all right for you, Josephine. You've got all that youthful energy, but soon you'll see that life closes doors on you and narrows your prospects, and you'll understand that one must cope in whatever way one can.”

And she'd trudged upstairs, leaning heavily on poor Sally.

The next day, as if bestowing favors, Mrs. Cardworthy had demanded more than ever from Josie, who complied and kept her mouth shut.

The only spot of hope Josie felt at all was for Edwina, and she watched each day for the post, hoping to hear news of her sister's engagement. She began to appreciate better Edwina's wish to marry Mappleton.

A letter finally arrived one afternoon, but the astonishing news it brought was decidedly not happy.

Dearest Josie,

I write to tell you about my troubles before you hear of them from anyone else.

The plain fact of it is that I was caught kissing Jack Whitby by Maria's cook. Of course it's a scandal. It was blamed on him not knowing his place, but I'm considered damaged goods now and no one wants to know me.

I'm so ashamed. That I should so far forget myself twice…that I should be so strangely drawn to him. I cannot explain it. I know it is wrong, and that there is—there can be—nothing between us. He is not a gentleman. And yet, I will tell you that he is an honorable man, and so different from anything I have expected.

This disastrous kiss has provided the worst sort of fascinating gossip because it happened below-stairs, and without the direct witness from someone in accepted social circles, it is considered believable but unproven. But it's enough to make invitations dry up. And though I know Mappleton is back in Town, he has not come over to ask me that question he wanted to ask.

I've ruined so many things, not least our family's good name, and I'm so very sorry. Can you forgive me?

Here the ink was blotched, as though a drop of something had fallen on it, like a tear.

Her sister sounded so different. Humble and unsure of herself, but also more open.

Josie's heart twisted for her. She was astonished that Edwina had kissed Whitby again, but now there could be no denying that he'd made a significant impression on her. Edwina sounded as though she admired the cabinetmaker, which astonished Josie, especially considering the qualities Edwina had sought in a husband. Did she love Whitby? Josie could hardly judge her if she did.

She took up the letter again.

Maria insists I must stay here though it is painful, because if I return home now it will look like running away and make me appear guilty. So I go about with my head held high, walking with Maria in Hyde Park, though no one will talk to us. Maria is very brave, though I don't think she really cares what other people think, which I have come to admire.

I have made such a mess of things.

Josie felt immediately that she ought to go to Edwina. But Mama, when Josie discreetly divulged the news, disagreed.

“She was so eager to get away from home,” Mrs. Cardworthy said with a whiff of triumph. “Let her see what it is like now.”

“Mama! That is so hard. You must let me go to her.”

“Josie, you know I cannot spare you. And how would it look, anyway, with you having just lost Nicholas, rushing all about? No, you had better stay here, and write to Edwina that she must come home as soon as possible.”

“But Mama, if she cannot repair her reputation, what will our neighbors think?”

Her mother waved a careless hand. “Oh, the locals. Who needs them?”

Josie bit back anything else she might have said. What was the use? She sent the most encouraging letter she could draft to Edwina, and said a fervent if unrealistic prayer that this disaster might somehow be undone.

***

The church of St. Stephen near Winnetfield was ancient and crumbling. Set away from the town and neglected, the only signs of activity Colin noted as he wandered its grounds were the chirping of a robin and the skittering of small creatures among the dry leaves. Built in the fifteenth century, it had been constructed on the site of a bitter struggle between two brothers vying for the ducal lands of the family estate, a battle that had engendered the raising of armies and consumed many members of both families, including, brutally, the brothers' wives.

Colin had come to Winnetfield several days ago to research details related to the ducal estate, whose once-stout castle was now only broken walls of stone, but he'd been unable to focus clearly on historical matters and, frustrated, had found himself wandering the grounds of the estate aimlessly.

The cemetery to the side of the ancient church held the tomb of the victorious brother, whose line prevailed for two hundred years, though the faint indentations of his name barely remained on the weathered headstone. Next to this stone was another that had always, as far as records indicated, been mysteriously unmarked.

The two stones were set apart from the other graves, as if linked. Was the unmarked grave that of the brother? Were the two finally reconciled in death? He supposed the brothers' story would be fascinating to explore, though he felt none of the usual energy that thoughts of a potential book generally gave him.

Still, he was glad to be away from London and people he knew and obligations, and it did feel grimly appropriate to be in this cemetery. Nick was somewhere in Spain, his grave unmarked and lost now, too. And Colin could never ask for the forgiveness he needed.

He sat down in the grass, his back against the cold, blank stone, and a predictable line of poetry came to him.

The
grave's a fine and private place / but none, I think, do there embrace.

Nick would never embrace Josie. He'd never share the ultimate physical connection with her that they'd been meant to share.

And in their grief, Josie and Colin had done just that.

What the hell would Nick have thought?

Colin could easily imagine Nick planting him a facer. He wished, actually, that Nick were alive to do it.

But Nick had also experienced for himself the press of life, how it pulled a man to entertain thoughts and actions he'd never expected to consider. And this was weighing on Colin: Would Nick have forgiven him for what had happened in the carriage?

He supposed what he wanted was some sort of blessing from Nick's spirit. Forgiveness. And permission.

“Of the two of us, I knew her better,” he said aloud to the deserted graveyard. “I understand instant connections. I felt them with her, too. But I know her more deeply than you ever had a chance to do. And I can care for her now when you cannot.”