Wedding of the Season (22 page)

“You only say that because this is what you’re used to. You would love to travel, if you stopped wishing about it and actually did it.”

“I confess, I would like to go to Florence one day, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to see the Pyramids or take a boat up the Nile or unearth some pretty Egyptian jewelry or alabaster jars, but I don’t want that to be my life. I do like adventures, but only as long as they aren’t too scary and I can come back home when they’re over to my soft bed and my afternoon tea and my English rain and my cottage garden. Because deep down, I’m just an ordinary English girl, and I want an ordinary English life.”

She paused a moment, then went on, “What you overheard Julia say to me the other day was true, too. It wrecked me when you left, and it took me years to accept that you really were gone for good, that you weren’t coming back, and that you didn’t want the life I did.” He started to speak, but she pressed her fingers to his mouth, stopping him.

“After Papa died,” she said, lowering her hand again, “that was when I finally realized how short life was, and how mine was going by. I knew I had to accept that you weren’t coming back, that I had to make a life without you. Julie dragged me to Cornwall, and we had a lovely holiday, and then I met Aidan. You’re right that we weren’t in love, but we were fond of each other, and he wanted all the same things I did, and it seemed that marrying him was the right thing to do. Some might call that settling for less than you really want because Aidan and I weren’t deeply in love, but at twenty-five, I was already well and truly on the shelf, and I wanted to be married and have children more than anything, you see.”

Will didn’t want to hear this, but he knew he had to. “And now I’ve ruined all that for you. Again.” He gave a sharp sigh and looked away, letting his hands fall to his sides. He felt his desire fading, along with some of his optimism. “I wish I could make it right.”

“You can’t. Because we don’t want the same things, Will, and without wanting the same things, we can’t be happy together, no matter how many adventures you take me on. You see, I like my plum pudding at Christmas, and coming to Pixy Cove in August, and watching the races at Ascot. I like the smell of apple blossoms in the spring and roasting chestnuts in the autumn. Those are the things that matter to me. And I’ve never been able to understand why they don’t matter to you.”

They’d had this discussion so many times, he thought in frustration, and it never seemed to go anywhere. It never accomplished anything. “It isn’t that they don’t matter to me. They do.”

“But not enough to stay.”

“It isn’t only that. I want my life to mean something. I want what I accomplish to be more important than the next race meeting or the next London season. And the work I do in Egypt isn’t just something I love. It enables me to earn a living. You’re telling me I need to be responsible, but I think what I’m doing is responsible. It’s important work. Here, I would have nothing to do and no way to support you or any children we might have.”

“I have a dowry.”

“No.” His voice sounded hard, even to his own ears. “I will not live off my wife’s money.”

She nodded slowly, as if she hadn’t expected any other answer. “
Plus ça change
,
plus c’est la même chose
,” she murmured, and a wistful little smile curved her lips. “I’ve ruined our adventure now, haven’t I?”

“No.” He cupped her face in his hands again, savoring the soft warmth of her skin against his palms. “You haven’t ruined anything,” he said, and his words were confirmed by the fact that as he caressed the cupid’s bow pout of her lips, his desire for her began flaring up again and spreading through his body.

He reached behind her head and began pulling out her hairpins.

“Will,” she whispered, reaching behind her head, pressing her palm to the back of his hand, stopping him, “what if someone sees us?”

“You always say that,” he whispered back, smiling. “We’re on Smuggler’s Island, remember? Around the point and a mile away, and if that’s not enough to reassure you, we’re on the seaward side and it’s the middle of the night. Who’s going to see us? Pirates?”

She made a stifled giggle at that and lowered her hand to let him begin pulling out hairpins. When he succeeded in removing all the pins, he tucked them in his trouser pocket and freed her hair from its bun. It came down, and he spread it out around her shoulders, where it gleamed in the moonlight like waves of liquid platinum. In his fingers, it felt like strands of silk.

He raked his hand through it, wrapped a handful of it around his fist, then tilted her head back. Her lips parted and her lashes lowered a fraction, the first sign of yielding in their favorite adventure of all, but just as he had done all those years ago in the gardens at Danbury, he held back, controlling his own desire, reminding himself to wait for hers to catch up. He slid his hands back into her hair and brushed his lips lightly across her cheeks, her forehead, down the bridge of her adorable, doll-like nose, and back to her gorgeous mouth.

The moment his lips touched hers, waves of pleasure fissured through his body, pleasure born of need not yet fulfilled, of desire never sated, of anticipating the next time when, perhaps, satiation would come. It had taken six years for him to forget this, but the memories were rushing back now, renewed and heightened so that his need for her seemed higher than ever. This was Trix, this was her kiss—her soft, full lips pressed against his own, her tongue touching his, her sweet taste. This was her body, all lush curves and soft, velvety skin and the heady scent of gardenias.

He eased his tongue between her teeth, and when her mouth opened, it sent him right over the edge of desire and into full-blown lust. He pulled her off the swing and onto her knees, her arms came up around his neck, and he lowered his hands to cup her buttocks, pulling her fully against him as he began to imagine a fantasy he hadn’t allowed himself in years. A fantasy that had given him sleepless nights ever since he was seventeen years old, a fantasy that had never been fulfilled.

He imagined pulling her down into the sand and taking off her clothes. He imagined her breasts cupped in his palms and her naked hips against his and her hair falling around his face.

He groaned against her mouth, feeling his wits slipping. He broke the kiss and buried his face against her neck, working to regain his control, even as he slid his hand along her neck to where the softness of her skin gave way to the crisp muslin fabric of her shirtwaist.

He unfastened the first three buttons, then pulled the edges of her collar apart and pressed kisses along her collarbone, his excitement rising even higher at the sight he’d exposed, the bare skin from beneath her jaw to the shadowy cleft between her breasts, and he knew he could not take this any further without annihilating what remained of his self-control, knowing she wasn’t ready for where all this kissing and petting was bound to lead. Their adventure was over. At least for tonight.

With another groan, he pulled back before he could change his mind, and stood up. “We should go back,” he said, and held out his hands to help her up.

When she was on her feet, he knew he ought to step back so that she was out of reach, but he couldn’t bear to leave off touching her completely, and he began buttoning her shirtwaist. It wasn’t easy, for his hands were shaking with the effort of holding back.

She stared at him as he fumbled with the three buttons, her eyes wide and dark, her hair falling like waves of moonlight on either side of her face. “I’d forgotten how it felt, Will,” she whispered. “I’d forgotten.”

He left off fastening buttons and caught her by the arms, then pulled her close and kissed her again, a hot, quick, fierce press of lips. “I tried,” he told her, his voice a ravaged whisper as he lifted her in his arms again. “God knows,” he added with a hoarse chuckle, “I tried my damnedest.”

As he carried her back to the beach, he strove to regain his control, but when she stepped into the boat, the sight of her bare calves was almost his undoing, and he very much feared that cooling his lust enough for sleep was going to be impossible. Neither of them spoke as he rowed back to Pixy Cove, but once the boat was docked and they were walking back to the house, he paused on the path. “You go on.”

She paused beside him, surprised. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No. But I’ll see you tomorrow, either at breakfast or at the gazebo afterward. We start work at nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” She smiled at him in the moonlight, a wide, radiant Trix smile that was for him and would always be only for him. “I’m not the irresponsible one, remember?”

He laughed, hope rising inside him like a wave. He watched her as she walked the steep path up to the house. He waited, watching her window, wondering if she would remember, and when he saw the brief flash of lamplight that always told him she was safely back in her room, he grinned into the dark.

“Good night, Trix,” he murmured, and then he turned and started down another path away from the house, heading to Phoebe’s Cove. There he did what he’d often done during previous romantic adventures with her. He stripped, marched naked and still fully aroused into the water, and started swimming.

A few more adventures like this, he thought wryly as he took laps back and forth across the cove, would result in either matrimony or insanity. Just now, he wasn’t sure which. God, he hoped it was the former.

Chapter Fifteen

W
hen Beatrix came down the following morning, Julia and Eugenia were in the dining room with Lady Marlowe and little Ruthie, having breakfast. Will, she learned, was already down at the gazebo working on the artifacts, and everyone else had gone with Sir George and Lady Debenham to Smuggler’s Island for a day of picnicking.

At the mention of Smuggler’s Island, Beatrix’s thoughts immediately went to the night before, and a swing in the moonlight under the stars. Trust Will to come up with something like that, she thought, smiling as she poured herself a cup of tea. Pushing her up high on the swing when no one could see because she hadn’t been allowed that joy as a girl.

She stared at the oil painting of Pixy Cove that hung behind the sideboard, and as she remembered other childhood adventures, she felt a bubble of pleasure rising inside her, pushing up against her chest. Will had always come up with special things to do, which was why life had seemed so colorless after he went away and why she’d needed so long to accept that he was gone.

She’d become sure over the years that he’d forgotten her, forgotten everything—days at Pixy Cove exploring the caves at midnight and reading Poe, and how much she’d loved going high on the swing at Danbury when Nanny wasn’t looking, and how she’d wanted to go to Florence when she was fifteen. She’d convinced herself Will had forgotten all that; eventually, she’d even half forgotten it all herself.

I tried. God knows I tried my damnedest.

The pleasure inside her deepened and spread, becoming so keen, so poignant, that it almost hurt. She tried to suppress it, tamp it down, remind herself that what he’d said last night didn’t really change anything, but her efforts didn’t stop the feeling inside her, and she recognized it for exactly what it was. She was happy.

Her happiness didn’t stem merely from reliving their childhood experiences of midnight adventures. She’d also enjoyed the work they’d done together yesterday. She’d enjoyed sketching those artifacts. In fact, she mused as she stirred sugar into her tea, she’d enjoyed the sketching she’d done for him yesterday more than she had when they were children and he’d excavated that Roman barrow. Perhaps that was because this time, she was choosing to do it not for the boy she’d loved, but for herself.

The big grandfather clock in the foyer began to chime the hour, and she came out of her reverie with a start. Nine o’clock? And she’d told Will she wouldn’t be late. Quickly she gulped down her tea and raced for the door. “I’m joining Will in the gazebo,” she called back over her shoulder. “We’ll be working all day.”

“Beatrix,” her aunt called back to her, “wait for me, if you please.”

“Can’t, Auntie. I’m already late.”

“Beatrix!” Eugenia’s voice rose, shrill and firm. “You cannot be alone with him. Wait for me while I fetch my needlework, and I shall come with you.”

She stopped in the doorway with a sigh of impatience. “For heaven’s sake, Auntie, we shall be outside in broad daylight. What on earth could we do that would be improper? We are working, not courting!”

“Yes, I know, dear. Of course you are. But I am your chaperone.”

“I could come with you,” Emma offered. “I’ve nearly finished breakfast. Although my bringing Ruthie with me might be a distraction if you wish to accomplish any work. She’s been such a fussbudget of late.”

“I’ll be your chaperone today, darling,” Julia offered, standing up. “I’m finished with breakfast.” Picking up her teacup in its saucer, she started for the door, adding carelessly over her shoulder, “Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll see that Will doesn’t ravish her over the artifacts.”

Julia followed Beatrix out of the dining room, adding in a murmur that only she could hear, “At least not until after lunch.”

Both of them burst into giggles as they crossed the corridor and entered the drawing room.

“You really are a most inappropriate chaperone,” Beatrix told her as they paused by a bookshelf near the French doors. “You’re the one who taught me to smoke cigarettes and drive a motorcar and dance the can-can. Poor Auntie. If only she knew just how wayward I became in Cornwall.”

“It would give her heart failure, I’m sure,” Julia agreed cheerfully. She pulled out a book from the shelf, and the two of them left the house. “Is that true, by the way?” Julia asked as they walked down to the gazebo. “What you said in the dining room?”

“What I said?”

“That you and Will are not courting?”

Beatrix felt defensive all of a sudden. “I told you already that he proposed and I refused him. I agreed to do these drawings for him, but it’s all . . .” She paused as memories of the previous night flashed through her mind. When she spoke again, she strove to sound convincing. “It’s all perfectly innocent.”

“Is it?” Julia stopped walking. When Beatrix stopped also, her cousin gave her a fleeting smile that had a hint of concern in it. “Be careful, darling,” she said gently. “You might fall in love with him all over again. And this time,” she added, overriding Beatrix’s protest, “I fear even Cornwall and the Daimler won’t save you.”

Julia walked on, but Beatrix didn’t move. Instead, she stared after the other woman in dismay, rooted to the spot, her momentary happiness eclipsed by panic. Julia was right. She could fall back in love with Will again, easy as winking, and if that happened, even six years, another man, and a Daimler motorcar might not be enough to help her recover.

W
hen she and Julia arrived at the gazebo, Will was already there, immersed in work. His valet had replaced the artifacts they’d finished working on yesterday with a fresh lot, and he was studying a turquoise ring beneath a magnifying glass as she and Julia approached.

He set it aside and rose to his feet as they came up the steps. “Good morning, Julie.” He turned to Beatrix, and there was a smile in his eyes that told her he was thinking of last night. “Trix.”

She gave a quick nod and looked away, her panic deepening into outright fear—fear of being hurt again, being jilted, living without him—and the simple pleasure and happiness of yesterday began sliding away.

“Now remember, you two,” Julia said in a droll mimicry of Eugenia, “I’m watching you from down below.” With that, she continued on down the path to the beach, leaving them to work.

Beatrix took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and leaned over the table, pretending to study the various pieces of jewelry in the velvet-lined boxes before her as she worked to tamp down her fears. She was working for him and nothing more, he was leaving in a few short weeks for Egypt, and she was making a new life for herself as an illustrator. Even as she reminded herself of these facts, she had the sinking feeling her efforts would prove as futile as her efforts to forget him had been.

She could feel his gaze watching her across the table, and she forced herself to say something. “Did you want all these pieces sketched today?”

“Only if it’s possible.”

“I don’t know if it is.” She bent closer to study a splendid scarab of lapis and gold. “Some of them are very intricate.”

“I understand. The gentlemen at the British Museum are excited about our findings, and want to see the artifacts as soon as possible. And I am scheduled to give a speech to the Archaeological Society on September tenth. But there isn’t a set date by which I have to show them the sketches.”

She touched her fingertip delicately to the beaded chain of an elaborate jeweled collar. “I thought you wanted to be on your way back to Thebes straightaway after your speech.”

“That was my intention originally. The journey to Thebes takes about two weeks, and the excavation season officially begins at the start of October. During that first fortnight things are a bit chaotic with everyone returning to Thebes at various times. Since I have been living in Cairo during the summer months, I’m usually one of the first to arrive at the site, and with Marlowe sending a journalist and photographer, I had thought to make the journey back ahead of them, but I might postpone my departure a little longer.” He paused, then added, “If you want me to.”

She looked at him and found him watching her with a tenderness in his face that seemed unbearable. “Why should it matter to me?” she asked fiercely, and tore her gaze away. “We’re not courting. Go back to Egypt whenever you please.”

“I can stretch my journey out a little, stay a couple weeks longer, if that’s what it takes.”

“If that’s what it takes to do what?” she asked, and jerked to her feet, prickly and defensive. She was angry at him because he wasn’t offering to stay, he was only offering to put off his inevitable departure. And she was also angry at herself because she was already missing him and he hadn’t even left yet. “Do you think a couple more weeks will change my mind and persuade me to go to Egypt? If so, you’re wasting your time.”

“It’s my time, Trix,” he said gently. “And I wouldn’t think it a waste.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, Will glanced past her and stood up. When she looked over her shoulder she saw Emma coming across the lawn toward them with Ruthie in her arms, and Eugenia walking beside her, and she gave a sigh of relief. In their presence, Will couldn’t talk to her of the impossible things he wanted from her.

“Ladies,” he greeted them and circled the table to walk down the steps. “Hullo, Ruthie.”

The baby, who recognized her name, looked toward him as he approached, and her face lit up, bringing back Will’s words of a few days ago.

As far back as I can remember, whenever you used to look at me, your face would light up as if someone had lit a candle inside you.

She studied little Ruthie’s expression, and somehow, she found it a bit comforting that she wasn’t the only one susceptible to Will’s charm, even if his other conquest was only one year old.

She watched him kneel on the grass and hold out his hands to the baby, and when Emma set her on the grass, she stretched out her arms toward Will with a joyous gurgle, but when she started toward him, she only managed to take three steps before she went down on her bottom.

She’d landed in the soft grass, but for some unaccountable reason, her face puckered up and she began to cry. Emma started to reach for her, but Will was quicker, scooping her up and settling her into the crook of his arm, her pale blue dress and her chestnut hair a beautiful contrast to his dark green waistcoat and white shirt. When he smiled at her, she stopped crying, and when he began to talk to her, making silly faces, she laughed and patted at his cheeks with her chubby hands.

Watching them, Beatrix felt a strange, awful sensation—as if the world were crumbling and breaking up and re-forming into a place she hadn’t dared to dream about for years.

She’d asked Will the other day how she could rely on him to be a good father to his children, and though his reply—a rather disparaging assurance that he wouldn’t be like her father—had angered her, when she saw him now, holding little Ruthie and making her laugh, Beatrix knew she had an answer to her question. He would be a good father, if only . . .

She stopped smiling, and the hard reality set in as the qualification passed through her mind.

If only he would change.

He looked up and caught her eye. He pointed straight at her, murmuring something to the baby, and Ruthie looked at her, too, smiling.

Watching the two of them hurt her eyes, as if she was staring into bright sunlight, and she turned away, blinking rapidly as she returned her attention to her work and picked up her drawing pencil.

He wasn’t going to change, she reminded herself, trying to harden her heart and shore up her defenses. For him, life was all fun and play and adventures in Egypt. He wasn’t ever going to want to live in the world she lived in, and he wasn’t ever going to live up to his responsibilities at home. And that was what truly made her afraid and proved her a fool. He wasn’t going to change, and no matter how much time passed, no matter the evidence to the contrary, she kept hoping he would.

W
ill had thought working together might renew the excitement Trix had felt all those years ago when they’d dug up the barrow, spark her interest in Egypt and the work he was doing there, and bring the two of them closer together. But during the two weeks that followed, he appreciated that it wasn’t going to be that simple.

She drew sketches of the artifacts, but she did not ask him any questions about them. He tried to engage her in conversation, discussing the various pieces, describing the excavation work, telling her about the ancient Egyptians. But though she listened politely, she expressed no further interest, returning to her work without seeming inclined to explore the topic further. She made any modifications he requested—a different angle of a particular piece, or a closer view—without any discussion. If she had ideas of her own, she did not express them. She was as businesslike as any employee could be toward her employer, and nothing more.

In the evenings she stayed close to Eugenia and Emma, giving him no opportunity to draw her out, bring her closer, show her his point of view. And his frustration grew, because he knew he couldn’t force her to meet him halfway. She had to come there on her own.

As the days passed, he often took the opportunity to observe her as they worked together, trying to determine what more he could do to win her over. His chance to rectify his past mistakes was slipping away, and time became more and more his enemy with each day that went by.