After the Kiss (20 page)

His lips twisted wryly. The chit had proximity down to an art.

She batted her eyelashes at him above an ivory and lace fan that swayed gently over the lower half of her face. “You look warm, Captain.”

She even provided the innuendo, relieving him of the chore. She reminded him of Penthia, in the days when Alastair was courting her. Marcus had been young and foolish enough then to turn rock hard at the mere suggestion that he might be “warm” in a lady’s presence.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the perspiration on his face and noticed the Blackthorne B stitched into it. It reminded him powerfully of the first night he had met Miss Sheringham.

Forget her. She will only cause you pain in the end
.

He removed the moisture from his upper lip and forehead, smiled benignly at Miss Whitcomb, and said, “Yes, I am warm. The sun is hot this afternoon.”

Nothing spiked the effect of innuendo like a literal response. Miss Whitcomb looked perplexed, but only for a moment. She twirled the parasol laid over
her shoulder and said, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the shade.”

She indicated the nearby forest with a tip of her head. The chit had moved beyond seduction to invitation. He knew better than to be maneuvered into the stand of oak and ash, where they could be found by her mama in whatever compromising position she would have him in by then.

“I have just remembered I promised to take Miss Sheringham for a cooling walk among the trees. Thank you for reminding me, Miss Whitcomb. May I escort you back to your mama?”

He caught her quick, stabbing glare in Miss Sheringham’s direction before she pouted prettily and said, “Perhaps I will keep Major Sheringham company while you are entertaining his country cousin.”

The girl slid a sideways look at him, to see if her effort at maneuvering him with jealousy had worked.

The latest Season’s diamond held no interest for him; Miss Sheringham, however, did. He felt insulted on her behalf at the Diamond’s denigrating reference to Julian’s “country cousin.”

“Do you ride, Miss Whitcomb?” he asked, knowing full well she did not.

“I am afraid not, Captain,” she said. “Horses frighten me.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Miss Sheringham is a bruising rider, you know. All those fields in the country to practice on, I suppose. I think I shall see if I can get a riding party together. We will miss you, Miss Whitcomb.”

He watched the Diamond struggle to keep her face from contorting with fury.

“Miss Sheringham is—”

He shot her an icy look that stopped her in mid-speech. “I will warn you only once, Miss Whitcomb. I do not wish to hear you malign Miss Sheringham again. To me, or anyone else in this party.”

Her large blue eyes filled with the sort of virulent hatred he had seen often on Penthia’s face. Miss Whitcomb was only eighteen. He knew firsthand how malice would harden her features as she matured. She had certainly proved herself a Diamond—right down to her coal black heart.

It was easier than he had thought it would be to separate Miss Sheringham from Julian. He fully expected several other couples to join them on their walk. He had no desire to find himself alone with her in the cool seclusion of the forest.

Before he knew it, the Countess of Denbigh had suggested that Julian take Miss Whitcomb for a boat ride on the lake and directed several other couples to join them.

That pleased Miss Whitcomb, who shot him a superior look and—without a word—made her disdain of Miss Sheringham clear to that lady.

“I think Eliza could use a little shade,” Lady Denbigh said. “Her freckles are beginning to sprout.”

Miss Sheringham put a gloved hand up to hide her nose, but he saw through her fingers that, sure enough, a number of brownish-red freckles were sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. He opened his mouth to say they were charming and shut it again. Clearly he could not trust himself not to go too far in flirting with the chit. Better to say nothing at all.

“I will find the earl and join you in a few minutes, if we may,” the countess said.

That was a warning. Lady Denbigh was sending Miss Sheringham off alone with him, but giving fair notice he should not start anything he did not want to be observed by the couple following after.

Miss Sheringham seemed unnaturally quiet as he led her toward the cooling shade. She was wearing a straw hat, but it was pushed so far back on her head that it did little to keep the sun off her face. A whirlwind off the lake pulled the hat completely off, so it lay against her back, hanging by the soft yellow ribbon knotted at her throat.

Chestnut wisps had escaped the simple knot at her crown and graced her brow and temples. Tiny beads of perspiration had gathered above her mouth. He had the irresistible urge to kiss them off. But resisted it.

Her eyes looked troubled. She was chewing on her lower lip. The sight of her plump lower lip, damp and soft, sent the blood rushing to his loins. Sinews and tendons flexed as he battled temptation. And won.

He waited for her to speak first, but they were far into the forest—far enough that they could not be observed by those boating on the lake or settled on blankets beside it—and she still had said nothing.

“Miss Sheringham?” he said at last.

Her eyes widened, as though she was not only surprised to find him standing across from her, but astonished to find herself alone with him. Her eyes darted like a cornered rabbit, scouting avenues of escape.
“I thought the earl and countess were joining us.”

“In a few minutes,” he reassured her.

She relaxed, but only slightly.

“You seem disturbed about something,” he said. “Can I be of help?”

“I should not even be speaking to you. Not after the liberties you took this morning. But …”

“But …?”

“It isn’t working,” she blurted out. “What you taught me isn’t working on Julian.”

“How do you know?”

“It isn’t there! I don’t see it when I am with him.”

“What isn’t there?” he asked gently. “What don’t you see?”

“That look. The one in your eyes when you touched me. Before you kissed me.” She cut herself off and began pacing, her strides long and agitated, limited only by the width of her flounced hem.

“I am being silly, I know,” she said. “You and I were alone. Julian and I were standing among a host of people. Of course he could not share such a look with me in public.”

She glanced up, and her gaze caught on his. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “There it is again.”

“It is only desire, Miss Sheringham. Nothing more.” It could not be more than that. He would not allow it to be.

She shook her head. “No, Captain. I have seen lust in a man’s eyes. You look at me with … something more.”

He could not speak. His heart was pounding.
No. No. There is nothing more
.

She took a step closer, searching his face. “What I see in your eyes makes me feel … so much more … than I feel with Julian.”

He swore under his breath. “What you feel is merely desire, Miss Sheringham.”

Her brow furrowed deeply. “Desire for you? How is that possible, Captain? I do not even like you very much.”

He had never wanted her as much as he did at that moment. The situation was fraught with danger, as much for him, as for her. How had a chit of seventeen brought him to the brink of sexual frenzy? It was the look in her golden eyes when she focused them on him, the same look that must be reflected in his. A look of loneliness. A look of need. Desperate need.

“Eliza …”

He did not realize he had used her first name until he saw the surprise on her face. He opened his mouth to correct himself and apologize for his forwardness, but the words never got out. His mouth was already on hers, and her arms had circled tight around his waist.

“Please let me in,” he breathed against her closed mouth. “I want you, Eliza. I need you.”

With a moan of surrender, she opened to him.

He thrust his hands into her hair, sending pins flying as the loosened knot fell free. Rich chestnut curls tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.

Some deep, dark place inside him blazoned with light as he drank his fill of her, his mouth rapacious, his hands plundering. He had never felt so out of control, so overwhelmed by passion. He could not stop himself from taking more … and more.

Until he tasted salty tears.

“Dear God,” he whispered as he lifted his head to stare at her tear-streaked face. “What have I done?”

“Nothing I did not want as badly as you,” she rasped. “I do not understand why … I cannot imagine what …” She backed away from him.

He took a step toward her, ready to offer anything if she would not leave him.

She turned to run and stumbled over an almost buried log. Arms windmilling, she tried to catch her balance.

He reached for her, but only managed to grasp a single puffed sleeve before she began to fall. He held on until the fabric tore with a loud
rrrriiiip
.

He heard the breath whoosh out of her when she landed facedown, her hands spread wide to break her fall, in a century’s collection of dead and moldy leaves.

He expected her to push herself upright, but when she lay unmoving, he crouched on one knee beside her. “Miss Sheringham? Are you all right?”

She rolled over with a painful grunt, opened her eyes, and stared up into the patchwork of leaves and sun above them. “I think that must rank very high on my list of graceless exits.”

He chuckled and sat down beside her. “Doubtless number one.”

He put a hand beneath her back and helped her sit up, then brushed a dead leaf off her face, leaving a streak of dirt behind. It was hard not to touch her more. Hard to remove his hand.

His stomach lurched when blood began to well from a cut on her lower lip. “You’re hurt!”

“I am?” She looked at her hands and elbows, but they were merely dirty.

“You’ve cut your lip,” he said. “Have you a handkerchief?”

She reached into her bodice but came away with nothing. “I have no idea where it could have gone.”

“Mine has been used,” he said, nevertheless reaching into his pocket. He rearranged the fold and handed it to her.

She reached up with a fingertip to search for the cut. And found it. “Ouch.” Her finger came away bloody. “Is it bad?” She dabbed at her lip with the handkerchief.

“I don’t believe so.” He leaned closer, to take a better look.

A triumphant female voice announced, “I told you so! I expected no less from a rake like Captain Wharton. And no more from a woman who breaks the rules of Society as conspicuously as Miss Sheringham.”

“Miss Whitcomb, I believe you should return to your mama,” Major Sheringham said.

“I am here, Major,” a disdainful female voice said from somewhere beyond him. “Come to me, dearest,” Mrs. Whitcomb implored her daughter. “These are not sights for your tender eyes.”

Julian did not need to say a word for Marcus to see that he was furious. They greeted each other with stiff-necked nods.

“Julian.”

“Marcus.”

Marcus rose slowly, helping Eliza to her feet at the same time. She stood frozen like a statue beside him, her eyes trained on Julian’s reproachful features.

“I thought you were boating on the lake,” Marcus said.

“The sway of the boat made Miss Whitcomb queasy. She preferred to walk in the forest. I obliged her.”

“Conniving chit,” Marcus muttered under his breath. Miss Whitcomb had taken terrible revenge for his slight. Regrettably, it was Miss Sheringham who would suffer the most.

Marcus glanced at Julian, who looked ready to murder someone. It was time to start explaining.

“This is not what it looks like,” Marcus began.

“It looks like you ravished my cousin,” Julian said in a deadly voice.

Marcus took one look at Miss Sheringham and realized even he would be hard-pressed to believe in his innocence—or hers. Her dress was torn, her lip was bloodied, and her hair was all about her shoulders. To make matters worse, they had been sitting on the ground, his hands on her face, their faces intimately close together, when they were discovered.

“The Earl and Countess of Denbigh are not far behind me,” Julian bit out. “I am afraid we cannot rely on the discretion of either Miss Whitcomb or her mama. Word of this encounter will doubtless have spread to the entire party before you and Eliza reach the edge of the forest.”

“Miss Whitcomb does have a way with wcrds,” Marcus said bitterly.

“I think it best you pay your addresses to my cousin now.”

Marcus opened his mouth to object, but Miss Sheringham was before him.

“Best for whom?” she demanded. “Despite the look of things, nothing happened here except a kiss.
A kiss
, Julian.”

“Your dress is torn. Your lip is bloodied. It must have been quite a kiss, Eliza.”

She made a disgusted sound. “I was running—” She stopped herself and said more calmly, “Captain Wharton and I were returning to the picnic, when I tripped over that log on the ground.” She pointed to the half-hidden obstacle. “Captain Wharton grabbed at my arm to keep me from falling, but caught my sleeve instead, which tore. I cut my lip when I fell. The captain only knelt beside me because he saw I had hurt myself. That is how you found us.”

“I suppose the pins dropped out of your hair when you fell, too.”

“No. They did not,” she admitted, her chin held high.

Marcus admired her quiet dignity. She could have lied. Julian would not have believed her, but he would not have contradicted her story.

“Have you an explanation?” Julian demanded.

She met his gaze levelly. “The pins fell when Captain Wharton kissed me.”

A muscle in Julian’s jaw jerked.

Marcus waited for his friend to confront him. He knew what was coming but still wished there were some way to avoid it.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Marcus?”

“I will make certain Miss Sheringham gets back to the house without further incident.”

Julian shook his head. “I will hear a proposal before we leave this spot. My cousin has been ruined.
This scandal, atop the other, will sink her for sure. I insist you take the necessary steps to mend the situation.”