Cheryl Holt (24 page)

Just then, she heard him calling her name, and she experienced such a pang of gladness and relief that her worries about Margaret, about proper comportment and decorum, flew out the window. She abandoned all caution and raced up the stairs to where he was smiling and waiting with open arms.

Without pausing to identify the most prudent course, she ran to him and was fiercely enfolded in a tight hug. Not inclined to scrimp on pleasure, she hugged him in return, and as her body extended out the length of his, she was lambasted by the most astonishing sensations.

Her nose was pressed against his shirt, and she was overwhelmed by masculine aromas of brandy, tobacco, and horses. She breathed deeply, wanting to imprint the sensory stimulation into her consciousness so she would never forget. As she inhaled, her ribs expanded and her breasts brushed his chest. Strangely, her breasts seemed fuller and heavier, and her nipples were suddenly poking at her corset, abrading and irritating her in a fashion she’d never noticed before.

“I feared you weren’t coming,” he whispered into her ear.

“Margaret was in a high dudgeon.” She whispered, as well. Who knew how far their voices might carry? “Until just now, I had no opportunity. As it is, I can only tarry a moment.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Just as soon as the final bag is loaded.”

There was a bench directly behind him, and he sat back, spread his thighs, and pulled her down to perch on his lap. Another tug, and she was lying across his chest, a breast and nipple now naughtily connected, and the feeling was so wonderful that she could barely restrain herself from rubbing up against him like a stretching cat.

“I don’t want you to go away. Not even for a day,” he said fervently. “I can’t stand the idea of your being out of Town.”

“Abigail is staying here. I don’t understand why they
won’t let me stay with her. . . .” She trailed off as she realized he was staring at her with an open regard that was so unwavering it was almost frightening. “What is it?” she couldn’t refrain from asking.

“I . . . I know we’ve only been acquainted for a short while. . . .”

He hesitated, and her pulse pounded. Was he about to make a declaration of intent? Encouraged, she finished the thought for him. “Yet I feel as if we’ve been friends for a very, very long time.”

“I was about to express the very same!”

He shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, straightened his cravat, prevaricating for so long, and causing her anticipation to inflate to such a height, that she wanted to shake him in order to pry loose his next statement. What would it be?

Finally, he inquired, “Would you marry me?”

Calm as you please! He’d popped the question! Her breath escaped in a hard surge of air. “Oh . . . oh, my,” she babbled. “Yes . . . I’d like that very much.”

Her hands were shaking, and he wrapped them in his own, sharing his strength and warmth. “I’m very thrilled.”

“So am I.” He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, but it was a far cry from what she truly fancied. Still, she forced herself to remain composed lest she react like a wanton.

“I must speak with your brother. Have you any idea of what he might say?”

“He’s agreed to let me make my own choice.”

“A wise, wise man,” he said, chuckling. “Dare I hope that my name might be mentioned in your conversations?”

“Absolutely.”

“In addition, I’ll need to discuss this with my father.”

She stiffened, unexpectedly panicked. The earl mightn’t care for her to be Charles’s choice. Charles would be marrying to provide an heir and to protect the title, so the earl’s opinion counted more than anyone’s. If he considered another girl better suited, she’d just die! Never before had she been lacking in self-confidence, but all at once her entire
future was on the line. “Will he be amenable?” she queried prudently.

Charles patted her hand. “He’ll be delighted.”

“Are you sure?”

“How could he not love you?”

“Oh, Charlie . . .” At his tender words, she glowed with adoration. “I’m so dreadfully happy.”

“Good,” he declared, “and you shall only grow more content in the years to come. I swear it to you.”

He closed the distance between them and gently kissed her on the mouth. His lips were soft and warm, and her heart thundered so loudly that she was certain he could hear it. Shamefully, she was eager for the moment to become much more torrid, and she readily conceded that such modest embraces would never suffice. The man simply inspired all manner of passion.

Like it or no, she and her sister were having their little
talk
. And soon!

“You’d best be getting back,” he urged as he ended the sweet moment, “before someone misses you.”

“I suppose,” she said dejectedly, and she rose to her feet just as a depressing thought occurred to her. “I just remembered . . . Jerald will be gone for the next three weeks! Margaret and I are returning tomorrow, but he has business in Surrey, so he’s staying on. You won’t be able to speak with him for an eternity.”

“That’s all right. We have plenty of time.” He stood, too. “I’ll discuss our agreement with Father so that everything’s arranged with him, but in the meantime, we should probably keep our decision a secret until Jerald gives us his permission.”

“Silence will be extremely difficult. I yearn to shout the news to the entire world.”

“As do I.” Shockingly, he bent down and nibbled against her neck. Her skin prickled, and she blushed furiously, but just then a strangled sort of birdcall arose from the terrace, and he whirled around. “What the devil is that?”

“My maid.” She glanced through the latticework toward
the house, and the servant was leaning against the balustrade, scanning the lawns. “ ’Tis our signal. Margaret must be looking for me.” She hurried to the stairs, but turned for a final good-bye, and as she did, Charles swept her into his arms, bestowing an ardent kiss—the kind she’d always longed to receive. It was urgent and invasive; he toyed with her mouth, and his hands stroked up and down her back, once even landing on her bottom! He groaned with his desire for her, and the sound unleashed a flurry of mad butterflies that swirled through her stomach.

Her maid whistled again, more frantically, and regretfully their lips separated.

“I must go,” she asserted, nervous and disappointed. She wanted to kiss him again, to continue kissing him until . . . Well, she didn’t understand what
until
would entail, but her body unmistakably recognized the appropriate direction. She was aching and disturbed in ways she’d never been previously, and with extreme clarity, she grasped that Charles would be able to ease her distress in a manly fashion she couldn’t define.

“Will you be in church on Sunday?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

“Sit where I can see you.”

“I will,” she promised, then she was away.

She traveled through the garden, walking sedately as she’d been taught, even though her flesh was screaming with an overload of sensation. With a practiced patience and control, she waltzed up the steps to the terrace and slipped in the rear door. As she passed her maid, the girl whispered, “Lady Margaret was asking for you.”

“Thank you,” she mouthed in reply.

Passing a mirror, she took a peek. Her nose was red, mist glistened in her hair, goose bumps riddled her arms. Other than those small catastrophes, she was in one piece. She looked cold, but not undone.

As she approached the front parlor, Margaret huffed into the hall. “Where have you been?” she snapped.

“I decided some fresh air would be beneficial. You recall
how I hate riding in the coach.” It was the perfect lie. As a child, she’d often gotten motion sickness from the rocking.

“We are ready to depart. Go make your
au revoir
to your sister.”

“I shall.”

“Don’t dawdle.”

“I won’t, Margaret.”

Relieved by the brief respite, she headed for the stairs, while wishing fervently that she could remain in London with Abigail. At the best of times, Margaret was unpleasant, but trapped in an enclosed carriage, she was categorically impossible. Caroline never minded Jerald—as it was, she hardly ever saw her older brother—but Margaret was a different matter entirely. As was his detached custom, Jerald at least
tried
to be pleasant, but Margaret went out of her way to be annoying.

She reached the top landing and made for Abigail’s room, disheartened that she couldn’t spill her grand secret to someone. Especially Abigail. This was the greatest day of her entire life! She was promised! But Charles had the right of it. She couldn’t gamble by confiding in a single soul.

Abigail was a wonderful person, but she could also be extremely conservative. Caroline had wrongfully sneaked off with Charles, and Abigail might not like learning of it. She might tell Jerald, then Jerald would tell Margaret, and how it would go from there was anyone’s guess. With her marital status about to be resolved, Caroline couldn’t risk creating an uproar.

She knocked on Abigail’s door but didn’t receive an answer. Assured that her sister was inside, she entered. A quick scan of the premises indicated that Abigail wasn’t present, but on her bed were two boxes with Madame LaFarge’s distinctive logotype on the front. The lids had been removed, the contents rifled through, and she looked in the first one to see what Abigail had received from the eminent dressmaker.

Unequivocally surprised, she stumbled upon a one-piece undergarment, the likes of which she’d never previously confronted. It had two narrow shoulder straps, and it attached at the crotch with three small buttons. The color was shiny and seemed dark black, but when she slipped her hand under the fabric, it was nearly transparent. There were bosom cups, but they were extremely low-cut. Lacing down the center could be untied to the waist.

She picked it up and turned it back and forth. It was skimpy, and it wouldn’t cover anything a woman needed to keep covered. If Abigail were to don the scandalous costume, she’d be prancing around naked under her clothing, and Caroline couldn’t help pondering the purpose to be served by such a sordid ensemble.

Unless Abigail had a man who would
. . .

The notion burst out of nowhere, and it was so outrageous that she couldn’t possibly conjure a means of finishing it. Some thoroughly feminine part of her discerned that the scant speck of silk was exactly the thing a man would enjoy for some sort of passionate activity. There couldn’t be any other reason to wear it.

Apparently, there were major events transpiring in Abigail’s life of which all in the household were grossly unaware.

Wouldn’t Margaret just expire if she knew!

Intrigued, she dug through the box. Underneath was a gauzy robe that would only fall to midthigh, black garters, black stockings, and two black shoes with very high heels. Her gaze shifted to the other box, and she saw red . . . a red mini-robe, red stockings, red garters and shoes. Whatever costume had been there was gone.

“My, my . . .” Caroline muttered.

In the adjoining dressing room, Abigail was moving about, and like the worst voyeur, Caroline tiptoed to the door and peeped through the crack.

Abigail dawdled in front of the mirror, studying her reflection. Fully dressed, but holding the bright red garment against her torso, she was swaying as though dancing to an
unheard tune. Clearly, she was picturing how the apparel would appear once she had it on.

Like the black contraption on the bed, the garment was meant to tantalize and seduce. Two pieces instead of one, the top was a cupped affair with a single string of lace in the middle to bind it together—or let it fall open. The bottom was an inadequate swatch of crimson, a sort of pantalet, that would leave a woman’s privates completely exposed.

If Abigail had been modeling the frippery, her entire midriff and backside would have been bared!

Lost in her reverie, Abigail twirled around, and abruptly, the two sisters were face-to-face. They regarded each other silently, both flushing with embarrassment. Caroline
knew
why she was chagrined: She’d been caught snooping. But she wasn’t sure why Abigail was so abashed unless her suspicions were correct. Perhaps there
was
a man in Abigail’s life.

“I’d thought you’d departed without a good-bye,” Abigail said pleasantly, as though Caroline hadn’t witnessed any untoward behavior. She dropped the red outfit to her side, not attempting to hide it, but plainly not intending to allow Caroline a close assessment.

“I came to do just that,” Caroline responded, trying to act as nonplussed as her older sibling. Casually, Abigail proceeded out of the dressing room and into the bedchamber, where she put the red ensemble into its box with the other scarlet-colored items and replaced the lid. She covered the black items, as well.

“Is Margaret ready?” Abigail inquired.

“She says she is,” Caroline indicated, and they both stifled a giggle. Their sister-in-law was a master at delay.

Then a jarring quiet descended, and Caroline struggled to tactfully break it, ultimately deciding to blurt out the question to which she was now dying to have an answer. “Abigail . . . are you involved with someone?”

“What?” Abigail gasped.

There was such a glimmer of alarm in her eye that Caroline
knew, without a doubt, that she’d hit on the truth, despite what Abigail’s rejoinder might be. “Well, my goodness,” Caroline pointed out cautiously, “look at these undergarments you’ve ordered from Madame LaFarge.”

“Oh, those . . .” Abigail scoffed, gesturing toward the bed as though they were of no import. “They’re just a spot of foolishness. I let Madame convince me to purchase them when I was at her shop.” She walked to her vanity and began fidgeting, rearranging her brushes. “They’re quite unsuitable. I believe I’ll return them.”

Caroline might have bought the lie if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of Abigail’s manic joy that was hastily replaced by misery and despair. “You can tell me who he is,” she implored quietly.

“ ’Tis no one,” Abigail maintained. “Truly.”

“Is it Edward Stevens? Is that why you’re afraid to say?”