Miss Ryder's Memoirs (22 page)

His head lowered to mine and I felt the brush of his lips, so light they might have been the wings of a butterfly, grazing my trembling lips. How very unnerving to have him so close, in my own bedroom. Not that I was afraid of his kissing me. I knew beyond the least doubt that he would never harm me.

Though he was a rake and certain things were more familiar to him than to me, that seemed only to add to my excitement. He was accustomed to the heady sensations that I was so new to. He understood what the yearnings inside me could lead to and how easily they could be satisfied, as they had been the other night.

I understood very little, except that I loved the sensations he created in me. Not that I was entirely ignorant about relations between men and women; I knew there was something more between them than I had yet experienced. But without a real knowledge it’s hard to either control or acquiesce to the pull of desire. With his lips on mine and his hands at my sides, I felt almost desperate for closer contact. I pressed my breasts against his chest, hoping to ease the ache somewhat.

“This won’t do,” he whispered against my hair. "Your brother would call me out at dawn."

“Then we shan’t tell him. Surely there can’t be any harm in it.”

He shook his head in mock despair. “You tempt me, my dear. I really did come to assure myself of your well-being. Or at least to do no more than steal a kiss. Rake that I am, though, the vision of you has overwhelmed me.”

He was half-teasing, half-serious. In the depths of his eyes I could see that he was shaken, that the kisses were more than a game, that the feelings of intensity were more than sensual ones. Something about me had captured his imagination, had turned his world upside down—much as mine had been by him. Was it just the wild belief that I was a highwayman?

“Just hold me and . . . kiss me. Surely there can be no lasting harm in that.”

He laughed. “Lasting, eh? That depends on what you mean, my dear. It certainly won’t corrupt your body, but it may indeed intoxicate you and eat away at your moral fiber.” He ran a finger along my collar bone. “You have a very flammable moral fiber, I think.”

“My moral fiber is nonexistent right now,” I assured him, pressing my body up against his. “How is yours?”

“Temptress! I don’t have to accept your challenges. Remember, I am a rake and haven’t much moral fiber at all.”

“So you won’t kiss me?”

“I dare not.”

‘‘You rakes are all the same."

“Are we?” His lips brushed against mine and then moved farther down, to nibble at my neck, and then my collarbone and then . . . “And here I thought there must be something special about me to have attracted your attention.”

“There is something special about you,” I whispered. “And about the way you make me feel. I’m not afraid, and I’m not missish. Please kiss me.”

He drew me down with him into the chair, holding me easily on his lap. With his lips he brushed my gown down, down, over the fall of my breast. Kissing me there, where I wanted him to. Kissing me, tasting the soft, smooth skin. Roving with his tongue over the wide expanse and finally coming to the tip of my breast. The moistness, the pressure, the incredible sensations that flooded me very nearly made my knees go weak. The only thing that saved me was that I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted his mouth on my breast, on the sensitive nipple, licking, sucking, kissing me, until I could scarcely bear it.

“Oh, Catherine,” he breathed.

“Please don’t stop,” I begged. “Kiss me.”

He rolled the nipple between his lips, with his tongue touching it inside his warm, eager mouth. Then he drew on it, tugging, tugging at the very core of me. My heart pounded faster, my hands gripped tightly against his back. The excitement rose in me, and rose, and rose, until I could scarcely believe that my body could bear it. Each time he drew on it, my body responded with a shuddering, desperate longing.

With the palm of his hand he pressed against the spot where my longing had grown most intense. The pressure both relieved and increased the overwhelming desire. His kisses on my breasts became more demanding, the pressure from his palm more intense, until I found myself swamped with waves and waves of ecstasy.

“What’s this?” he asked softly, kissing away the tears that coursed down my cheeks. “Tears and laughter both. How splendid! You are the most astonishing woman, Catherine.” He cradled me until my body had calmed. Then he kissed the tip of my nose and said, “I don’t know how I can bear to leave you. But I must. At any moment your maid is going to knock on the door and I daren’t let her find me here.”

I stumbled up out of his lap and tried to organize my disheveled clothing. My voice was still rough with emotion when I spoke. “Yes, you must leave. I should have sent you earlier. No, no. I won’t even say that. I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you stayed. Thank you.”

He lifted my chin with his finger. “There’s no need to thank me, my sweet. It is I who am grateful. Sleep well.”

His kiss brushed my lips lightly. In the dimness he moved toward the door, opened it cautiously, and checked the hall for anyone’s presence. Then he turned and said very distinctly, “Tomorrow we will discuss this matter of your mother. It can’t be delayed any longer.”

And he was gone.

So he knew that it was Mama who was the highwayman, after all. I sat for some time trying to determine whether this made any difference to the way he might feel about me. If his affection wasn’t caused by his believing that I was a wild, unprincipled young woman, could it possibly just be that he cared for me because of who I really was?

I would like to have speculated on that lovely theory for the rest of the night, but I knew I would have to talk to my mother before I saw Sir John again, so I hurried off to her room, putting thoughts of the baronet firmly from me. Even before I knocked I could hear her talking.

I opened the door a tiny bit to see to whom she spoke, but there was no one in the room. It gave me chills the way she walked up and down, continually letting her eyes wander to the bureau, where the ghost was undoubtedly standing. From the way she spoke, I had no doubt that her visitor was Papa.

“You can see how it is with him, Harold,” she was saying. “Quite taken with her, he is. But I can’t be sure that he’s just the right person for our Catherine. She’s a headstrong girl, and I’ve a mind to think he’s rather a headstrong fellow as well. Not the perfect combination, as you and I were. Why, who would there be to put a limit to her waywardness? He would indulge her whims and fancies.”

She stood there listening for a while, nodding her head. And then she walked up and down the room, frowning. “Yes, I can see that, but you were such a good influence on me. You didn’t let me have my head, and it was for the best. At least for propriety’s sake.”

I could hardly bear to hear her talk to him—and on such a subject! Papa had indeed trimmed her sails. One wonders how Mama would have been, married to the likes of Sir John. And then I had to wonder whether it would be good for me, either. I didn’t want to think about it, because I was really quite taken with him and didn’t want to doubt that it would be for the best. But there it was. We were both rather untamed people, and in the end wouldn’t it be better for him to align himself with someone like Amanda, who would see to his keeping the line? My, how he would hate that!

“Mama!" I poked my head inside the room, startling her. Her hand flew to her heart, as though she’d had a scare, and she blinked at me owlishly.

“Oh, it’s you, Catherine.” She beckoned me into the room. “Was it you who took away my, ah, costume?”

“Yes, and I’ll not give it back. This has to stop, Mama. Sir John and Cousin Bret both followed us the last time.’’

‘‘Us?’’

“I rode out after you and they followed me.”

“How very extraordinary! Was this Tuesday?”

“Yes, Mama. Will you promise not to do it again?” She nodded her head dreamily. “Your father hates it.       Tonight he threatened not to come to me if I continue. Oh, I couldn’t bear that.” She turned to meet my eyes and I was startled by the fierceness of her expression. “I’ve been so good all these years, Catherine. I’ve done what he wanted and what he believed was right. Just once I wanted to do something of my own, something that wasn’t good and right and proper. And then this special visitor came to me.”

A “visitor” is a ghost, in Mama’s parlance.

“Always before, my visitors were people I knew on this earthly plane,” she explained. “But this one was different. He was, in fact, an ancestor of your father’s. A distant one, to be sure, but still . . . A Royalist officer during the Civil War. He was dispossessed of his estate and took to the high road to sustain himself, as so many of them were forced to do. He only stopped the hated Roundheads, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured, unmoved by the poor fellow’s plight.

“No, no, it is true. They dressed in Cavalier costume and rode blood horses.” She sighed. “I had the crape mask and the horse pistol, but I would have loved to wear a hat like that. I simply could not find one anywhere in the attics. Do you suppose we could make me one?”

I gave her a severe look and she twisted her hands together. “You needn’t worry. It was because he was so like your father, how your father should have been. In some secret way I always hoped that when you were all grown and off about your business, Harold would let down his guard a little and we would do exciting things together. When he died, and I realized that could never happen, something snapped in my mind.”

Instead of saying something, because I could think of nothing to say, I squeezed her hand hard.

Mama met my gaze with steady eyes. “It will be all right. I know very well that now I’ve talked to him, Will won’t come again.”

“His name is Will, your visitor?”

“Will Martin. Such a solid name, such a handsome fellow. He looked exactly as your father would have done that long ago. Like some of the portraits in the gallery.”

“And did he accompany you when you rode out at night?”

A devilish smile appeared on her tired face. “Oh, yes. He was there, like . . . like a lover.” This said boldly, defiantly. “He went with me and told me which road to take, which carriage to stop, when to ride away if there was danger. I felt safe with him there. And now he won’t come again.”

I thought perhaps she said this to mislead me until I saw the tears swimming in her eyes. She spread her hands out toward me, palms up. “What is there left for me, Catherine? You and Amanda will marry soon. Robert doesn’t even come down from town to visit us. And one day he’ll bring a bride here to displace me. I don’t mean to sound maudlin, but what is there left for me?”

“Oh, Mama.” I drew her into my arms and hugged her tight. “There’s everything. We all love you and we won’t disappear from your life. Robert will come again, and it may be a very long time before he marries. And think of the grandchildren. You’ll love there being grandchildren.”

She bit her lip to still its quivering. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I shall. If everyone doesn’t expect me to be a proper old lady. If I can be myself. I loved your father, my dear, but I was never really meant to be a ‘good’ person. I’m more like you than Amanda.”

Since no insult was intended, I took no offense. Instead, I laughed and kissed her cheek. “Everything will be all right, Mama. But it is very important that you never rob anyone again.”

She drew in a deep breath of air and let it out in a shuddering wave. “No, I won’t rob anyone again.”

“Maybe you could take up cock-fighting or something equally outrageous."

Mama smiled at me. Her fingers fluttered up to brush back a curl that had fallen on my forehead. “You’re so like me.”

“Yes, I suppose I am, and I’m glad. Just don’t take to the high road in search of adventure, I beg you.”

She nodded, but her attention seemed to have slipped from me and I thought she would speak with Papa again, so I slipped quietly away.

* * * *

Amanda was in my room and she was hysterical. “Where have you been?” she cried, vigorously plying an ivory fan that was usually kept in the top drawer of my bureau. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I’ve been with Mama. What’s the matter?”

It was obvious that something was the matter. She’d been crying and her mouth was puckered ready for yet another bout. Her hands grasped the fan like talons and she could not resist hopping about on one foot and then the other. “It’s Cousin Bret!” she exclaimed. “You will not believe what he has just said to me.”

Though I knew that I would, I indulged her by looking curious and sympathetic. I felt sure she could use my sympathy.

“That beastly fellow has threatened to tell the world that Mama is a highwayman if I don’t marry him.”

“And what good would that do him?”

“Why, he believes that she is. In fact,” she dropped her voice to continue, “he assures me that he has proof that she is."

“Did you ask him what his proof was?”

“Yes, but he merely laughed and said I would see in due course."

“Hmm. What a reprobate the man is.”

“But, Catherine, you don’t understand! He believes that Mama would actually ride out in the dark and stop people on the road and rob them.”

“I realize that’s what he believes.” I was trying to figure out whether it would be necessary to tell her the truth. What a difficult thing that would be! Amanda is not long on understanding this sort of problem. “You needn’t worry about it, my dear,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll deal with Cousin Bret. With Sir John’s help, if need be. What a joy it will be to see our reprehensible cousin leave Hastings for good.”

She was pathetically grateful for this reassurance. “So you don’t think Mama is a highwayman?”

I raised my brows at her. “It seems highly unlikely.”

“But she does talk to ghosts.”

“That’s hardly the same thing as robbing people at pistol point,” I insisted. “Do you really think your mother is capable of that?”

Much as Amanda wished to say no, I could see that she did indeed regard it as conceivable. Poor girl. Well, there was little I could do to eliminate her doubts until I had talked with Cousin Bret. And another idea was forming in my head. It might just be possible to prove to him that Mama was not the highwayman.