Kate Noble (28 page)

So it followed, and nothing seemed more natural than that Gail and Max should spend the early morning ride together. Max allowed Gail to lead the way, who chose to pick various paths at random. The morning grew brighter, as the dew slowly began to lift from the grass in tufts of mist. When they reached fields with enough space, they raced. When they came to a path with only enough space for two riders walking closely, they used it to their advantage and talked.

“Why don’t you ever speak?” Max asked.

Seeing as Gail had just given him a lengthy discourse on the perils of shopping with the Pickerings, she was understandably confused.

“In public,” he clarified. “You have improved since I’ve known you, but you are still too often silent when out in society. You’ll speak to me, to Holt, your family, and Lady Charlbury. And God knows you’ll lecture to anybody who stands still long enough when in your cups, but in every other situation, you shrink back against the walls, into a shell.”

“I have found that my tongue gets me into trouble,” she replied, suddenly preoccupied with twisting a lock of hair.

“But you’re brilliant,” Max countered, pushing aside a branch. “You should be the darling of every dinner party.”

“Don’t call me brilliant,” Gail said, blushing quite furiously now. “It’ll go to my head.”

“Maybe some things should go to your head,” he argued.

Gail, her face scarlet, dropped her hand from her hair. “I’ll go too far.”

Max pulled Jupiter to a stop, and QueenBee followed suit. “Why do you think that?”

She sighed, admitted defeat. “You’re asking to know the worst of me,” she whispered.

“You already know the worst of me,” Max replied softly.

Gail held his gaze for a full minute, as the sway of a light breeze through the low branches mixed with the caw of far off birds.

“I can trust you,” she breathed softly. It was a statement, not a question.

Max nodded imperceptibly. That was the first truth of their young friendship. Even when they had hated each other, they had trusted. Turning her head forward, Gail gave QueenBee a light nudge, starting a slow canter along the path. Max silently kept pace.

“About a year ago, my family was in Lisbon,” Gail began. “My father was assigned to the British Embassy there—in particular, he was asked to make friends with and earn the confidence of a man in trade relations, Don Basti. He was invited to our house often for dinners and parties as was his son Josef. We had only been in Portugal a few weeks when we first met them, so I didn’t know the language yet. As time went by, I picked it up, but the Bastis remained unaware of my knowledge. I was so newly out of the schoolroom, I guess I didn’t know my limits, but honestly, I shouldn’t have tested them.”

Gail paused to take a breath and shot Max a nervous smile. He didn’t smile in return, but he nodded, let her know he wanted to hear more.

“About this time,” she continued, “Romilla came into our lives. She met my father at some function, and they took to each other. She was always visiting, on the pretense of having taken a liking to Evangeline and me, but we knew—she always had eyes for Father.

“One afternoon, while Romilla was over for tea, the Bastis stopped by, this time accompanied by the second son, Paul. Don Basti went to speak with my father, but the younger ‘gentlemen’ joined us. When taking tea, Paul said in a low voice, and in Portuguese, that Josef had been right, Evangeline and I would be fun for what he termed a ‘double-toss.’”

Max nearly fell off his horse. “He said what?”

“A double-toss. I took it to mean he wanted to seduce both of us at the same time,” Gail explained baldly.

“And what”—Max nearly choked—“left you with that interpretation?”

“He went on to categorize our various differences. Light and dark, short and tall. Some other anatomical contrasts I’d like to avoid repeating.” She shrugged. “Variety is the spice of life, apparently.”

She told her story with a detached, uninvolved air, but Max knew that was for her own protection. It still made her angry. It still hurt. He was suddenly overcome with the desperate desire to hunt down the Basti brothers and dismember them. His shoulders shook with the effort of keeping control. But in his anger, Max remembered his own drawing room conversation in different tongues.

“God, you must think me an ass.”

She looked up sharply. “Why?”

“Because of what I said that day—the, uh, mundane things. In other languages. I’m amazed now that you didn’t slay me down to size. I certainly deserved it. Hell, I’d box my own ears if I could.”

“Oh.” She blushed. “Well, as I said—you
were
terribly mundane, Max. Hardly worth a comment.”

Knowing that he had been forgiven for one of his earliest stupidities, Max reached over and squeezed her hand. “Please,” he managed, “continue.”

“Well, you have likely guessed by now that I was the only one in the room who understood what they said.” At his nod, she went on. “My face was burning. I was so angry, but Evangeline and Romilla were laughing and being entertaining with Josef and Paul because they didn’t know. That made me angrier than anything—it was like they were laughing at us.”

What was it she had said? Gentlemen had proved to be far more vulgar than any commoner. This must be a key piece of evidence in her theory.

“When my father entered the room, with Don Basti, they looked inordinately pleased. Only later did I find out they had just come to terms on a deal. Don Basti made the suggestion that we all go out that evening together. And when Paul had the audacity to take my hand and ask me if I would enjoy such an excursion—”

“Oh no,” Max moaned.

“Oh yes, I’m afraid,” Gail replied. “I told him, in English, that I would sooner swallow my own tongue than willingly spend an afternoon in their company.”

Max’s jaw dropped. “Oh, God.”

“That alone would have been bad enough, but I added, in Portuguese, a few less than complimentary names I picked up from my rambles around town. The, erm, dockside, in particular.”

That was, Max thought, without a doubt, the cruelest, sharpest, and most deserved slight he had ever heard. He could well imagine being so young, so angered to have lost one’s temper, but Gail’s brand of retort was an art. He had to laugh.

So he did. Long and loud and with his full body. But this time, Gail did not join in.

“Please don’t laugh,” she pleaded weakly. “It was a terrible, mean thing to say.”

Max immediately sobered, and but for a hiccup or two, sounded appropriately subdued.

“You regret saying it, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. No. They were abominable, awful men, and the way they looked at Evie made my skin crawl. But afterward, I learned that what I say can have serious repercussions. I had my ears blistered for days. Even after I had explained what the so-called ‘gentlemen’ had said. A week or so later, Don Basti changed his position on the exporting agreement. My father was so frustrated…” Her voice trailed off, lost in her own thoughts.

“Sometimes I think half the reason he married Romilla was to have a female around to teach me how to be a lady,” she said. “The other half was so she wouldn’t spread the tale of my uncouth behavior. She has tried to teach me, you know. How to demur, how to be gracious and flattering. It hasn’t worked very well. It’s just so much easier to sit in a corner and be quiet.” She finished her discourse with a noncommittal shrug, as if to distance herself from her feelings by pretending nonchalance. But the air of sadness permeated her being, and Max, for one, would not stand by and let her pretend it didn’t hurt.

“You should never temper yourself. No, listen to me.” Max approached Gail, reached out and took her head in his hands, forced her eyes to meet his. “You felt as you did and spoke accordingly. And very bravely, too. God save me from simpering females who never speak their minds—I would go mad. You are a clever, witty, cynical, passionate gale force wind and you can’t hide that under a bushel. So, please, for my sake—don’t even try. Besides”—he smiled—“this is the worst of you? I’ve heard nuns speak with more bite.”

Gail smiled in return. “Well, nuns are married to God. That offers them some protection, don’t you think?”

His fingers were burning from the electricity of touching her skin again. But more he was burning from the liquid gold of her eyes. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. They were wholly alone. Her scent as she passed him in the drawing room, her smile and sparkling eyes when she laughed at something only he understood, the torment of remembering her warm mouth opening to his had been torturing him for weeks. And now, here she was, so close, and he was touching her. His rough thumb caressed the soft skin at the nape of her neck. He looked into her eyes, and saw them go dark with passion. With hunger.

With fear.

Fear won out. Gail broke eye contact, instead searching the surrounding woods.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice a pitch too high for his liking.

Max searched her face, and reluctantly let his hand fall. It was a loss, the cool air now separating them, the longing to touch again. But he pulled back.

Turning Jupiter about, he took stock of his surroundings and was amazed at what he found.

“I’ve been here before,” Max whispered, awed. Somehow, in the course of the rambling paths and deep conversation, Gail had led them to the long forgotten grotto. The sun now rose in the sky instead of setting, but it was unmistakably his same grotto. The ruined Grecian gazebo stood, now with vines in full leaf twining up its columns. The silence here was overreaching. No breezes brushed through the trees, no clip-clops from horse hooves in the soft earth. The only sounds were their own breathing and the faint rustling of some birds hiding in high sycamore trees that edged the magical place. The colors of a deepened spring were in full life here, and Gail was open-mouthed in her appreciation.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

Max dismounted, then helped Gail down. As Jupiter and QueenBee nuzzled each other and munched on the grass, Max explained how he had come across the grotto before. “I looked for it again every day, but I never found it,” he finished.

“I can understand your quest,” Gail replied. They walked to the gazebo, simply reveling in their surroundings. Max suddenly realized that he had never relinquished Gail’s hand from when he assisted her dismount. He also noticed that she did not ask for its release.

“Do you know,” Max said, regarding the gazebo, “I have no idea why it was so popular to build something that is crumbling.”

“It is silly,” she conceded. “But it’s romantic, too, for an illusion. We’re meant to pretend that this gazebo is just as old as the trees.” Gail offered a grin, although the light did not reach her eyes.

“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” Max asked. “Lisbon?”

“A little,” Gail hemmed. “I just worry too much about making a mess of things.”

Max squeezed her hand. “I am suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling that you will be just fine.”

“Why is that?” she questioned.

He laced his fingers through hers. “Because when no one’s watching,” he whispered, “you’re fearless.”

A blushing smile of honest and brilliant light overtook her face. And suddenly every nerve in Max’s body was tingling.

Just as suddenly, the crows in the trees sang their fierce cry and an amount of rustling predicted they would soon take flight.

“Oh!” Gail said, looking up into the air, “Crows! Max, quick, how many do you see?”

“Ah.” Max spun around, his ears breaking as cries rent the perfect tranquility of the grotto, but he couldn’t actually see any birds in flight. Suddenly, a small blur of black lifted from the top of the sycamore and crossed through the sky.

“One,” he answered, looking back to Gail. She faced the other direction, her eyes scanning the treetops.

“I only saw one, as well,” she said ominously. “That’s not good.”

“Why ever not?”

“Crows! You have to count them. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret, never to be told.’”

He pulled her closer. “A bit superstitious, aren’t you?” he asked, a laugh in his voice.

“What makes you say that?” Gail countered, her eyes still desperately roving the treetops.

“The crows. The dire need to avoid the number thirteen.”

“Oh. That’s not superstition, Max. I simply prefer not to tempt fate.” She worried her lower lip. Max was tempted to roll his eyes, but instead he took hold of her neck with his free hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive line of her jaw. Her eyes stopped scanning the skies, and after closing them blissfully, briefly, she turned her gaze to his.

“Don’t worry, Gail. You saw one, and I saw one. That’s two for joy.” His voice was a low, warm rumble.

“That’s not two,” she argued. “That’s one for you, and one for me. Two sorrows cannot make one joy.”

“Yes, they can.” His eyes grew dark, feral. Hungry.

“How?” she asked, barely a whisper.

The glint of a challenge flashed through him, and his mouth descended to hers.

IT
was too much. It had to be too much. How could there be so much feeling bound up in one kiss?

When Max’s mouth met hers, it wasn’t a tentative exploration like before—it was an explosion. His hands had roughly pulled her body to his, the warmth of his taut muscular frame pressing through the layers of clothing between them. Those same hands moved over her body, wound their way into her hair, shaking pins free and tossing the little green hat ruthlessly to the ground.

Gail’s own hands clung to his coat, itching to crawl up his back to tickle the hair at the nape of his neck, to feel the stubble on the line of his jaw, but…

“Take off your gloves,” he said roughly, breaking his mouth from hers just long enough to speak, his breathing ragged. “I want to feel your hands on me.”

He recaptured her lips as she divested herself of the offending accessories. Once her hands were free, she let them do just as they pleased, running up the soft wool of his coat, finding that small bit of flesh at the base of his ear, teasing with feather-light touches.

Max, who had been burning with his own desire, immediately became hard as stone upon feeling Gail’s light caresses and pulled her closer, forcing her soft curves to melt and meld into his hard planes.

He kissed her closed eyes, her temples, ravaged the soft flesh of her earlobe, worshipped the long lines of her neck. When his explorations met with the high green velvet collar of her habit, nimble thumbs made quick work of the top three buttons—exposing the sensitive skin of the notch at the base of her throat, already rising and falling with rapid, erratic breaths.

“Please,” Gail breathed hoarsely, “I…I want…”

He knew. Max kissed her again, their tongues mating in a rhythm of pure, burning, unrestrained lust.

All wits were gone. All sense of propriety, of time, of what was correct fled in the face of what felt right. Gail felt her hands move from Max’s neck, to the front of his jacket, to under that layer of wool. She ran them over the strong muscles of his shoulders, pushing the jacket off as she went—all the time feeling, feeling,
feeling
the incredible strength and sensation of this man.

God, how she wanted him.
The thought flashed into Gail’s brain with all the welcome of a bucket of cold water. She wanted him. In every way it was possible to want another person. How on earth did that happen?

Max felt her stiffen immediately. Nerves, he thought. He’d wager neither of those European fellows had kissed her like this. He smiled against her mouth. She was Gail. She was warm and alive and in his arms, and the only way this could be any more right was if she was on the ground and beneath him.

Which seemed a fine idea to Max.

Slowly, he began to bend at the knees, his mouth never leaving Gail’s, soothing her into pliancy. She bent with him, into the soft moss of the spring ground, her mind still reeling with the implications of her own realization.

“Max…” she moaned. “Max, stop for a moment.”

He pulled away, but only for the space of time that allowed him to divest himself of his half-off jacket and lay it on the grass behind her.

Seeing this, Gail’s eyes grew wide with surprise. Still kneeling, Max kissed her neck, his hand working a few more buttons of her habit’s jacket.

“Max, we should…I think we should stop.”

Gail felt his hand inside of her habit, caressing the rise of her breast. Immediately, her nipples tightened, peaked with want, and she instinctively arched into him.

“Oh God, don’t stop,” she gasped.

Wicked triumph flashed in his green eyes. His body had been craving this for weeks, and finally his mind was willing to acknowledge it. Succumb to it. Gently, Max lowered Gail back onto his hastily laid out jacket. His arousal strained against the prison of his breeches, his skin hot to the touch. Gail Alton had been driving him crazy since they met—now it was his turn to drive her mad.

Slowly, and with infinite patience, Max let his weight settle on top of Gail’s long body. Her massive skirts billowed about them, making a nest of green velvet and white lace underthings.

His weight was thrilling. The warm rumblings at the pit of her belly became throbs as his right hand caressed and fondled her breast while the left undid the remaining buttons of her jacket. Pulling aside the lapels, Max grinned wolfishly as he revealed only a light lawn chemise.

“No corset,” he said roughly.

“Well, honestly, have you ever tried riding in a corset? It’s imp…ohhhhh…” He had pulled down the neckline of the chemise, and the rest of her argument was lost to the mind-bending sensation of his mouth on her breast.

Her rapid breathing, the small little noises at the back of her throat were so unbelievably erotic to him—they were the sounds of innocence giving way to knowledge. And he had so much he wanted to teach her.

Max let his mouth drift farther down her body, dropping kisses through the chemise onto her ribcage, her stomach, just below her navel.

Her body was shaking.

Running his lips back up her body, Max looked into Gail’s eyes. While his had nearly gone black with need, hers shone with curiosity, desire, and fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered between kisses. “I won’t hurt you.”

And she knew he wouldn’t. But still she clung to the back of his shirt like it was a lifeline, as he kissed her deeply. Slowly, he drew up the hem of her skirts. The cool air brushed against her stockinged calves, her knees. His hand ran over them lightly, relishing the feeling of her strong, well-made limbs. Max groaned against her mouth at the sudden image that flashed into his head: Gail’s long naked legs wrapped around his equally naked torso. He had to lift his shaking hand from her knee just long enough to ensure that he wouldn’t force her legs apart and plunge into her right then and there. When he thought himself calm enough, he allowed himself to continue the explorations of her underskirts.

She was so soft. When he had first kissed her, he had been surprised at such a sharp person having such soft lips. The memory of that softness had kept him awake at night. As he reached the edge of her stockings, tied just above the knee, Max found skin that was even softer. The inside of her thighs nearly made him lose control. His blood was racing through his veins, urging him to go further, to take more, to make her his. But she was an innocent, he thought savagely, struggling to keep his body in check.

That is, until Gail, the little vixen, pulled his shirt out of his breeches and ran her long fingers down the smooth flesh of his back, dipping them just under his waistband, feeling the top of his buttocks.

All sense of decency flew from Max’s brain as he tore at the buttons of his breeches.

He kissed her with a ferocity that pushed her firmly into the wool of his coat, into the moss of the ground. God, no one’s touch had ever undone him like this. Not Sally the milkmaid when he was thirteen, certainly not Evangeline…

Evangeline.

Oh God.

He froze immediately. He lifted himself away from her. Each inch that separated them was hell, his every nerve crying out in protest, simply wanting to sink deeper and deeper within Gail, until it was impossible to tell where she ended and he began. But he couldn’t. It nearly killed him, but he couldn’t.

Finally, he managed to remove himself completely and sat on the ground beside her. But he wouldn’t look at her, for he knew what he would see. Her lips full and bruised from his kisses. Her hair a glorious mess. Her jacket open, that little chemise doing nothing to hide the round glory of her breasts, rising and falling rapidly with her uneven breathing. Her eyes—oh God, her eyes would still shine with the force of her desire, but cloud with confusion and disappointment. They would mirror his. But she had no idea what had been
inches
from occurring.

What the
hell
had they been doing? Max’s mind flashed angrily. He was engaged to Gail’s sister, for God’s sake. And here he was, Lord Fontaine, English gentleman, about to take her on the grass in the middle of Hyde Park! He wanted to laugh. He wanted to beat the living daylights out of something. Instead, he settled for raking his hands ruthlessly through his hair.

“Max?” Gail’s tentative voice broke his self-control, and he answered with a barbaric yell, full of all his rage at himself. All of the crows in the trees took flight at his outcry, and he stood up quickly, pacing like a caged beast.

“Max?” she tried again, but he would not stop pacing, would not look at her.

“Max?” her voice broke.

“No!” he yelled, making her jump. “Cover yourself,” he said sharply.

Shaky hands closed the buttons of her jacket, straightened her skirts, fruitlessly smoothed her unruly hair. When she was presentable again, Max turned to her, but still was too ashamed of himself to meet her gaze.

“Gail,” he began, then coughed, and started again. “Miss Alton. That was…We can’t…I…”

He couldn’t finish, because he quite honestly didn’t know where to start. She seemed to understand though, and said quietly, “I know.”

He turned to look at her then and saw the pain, the guilt, the sadness in her face, and it sliced at his heart.

“It’s my fault,” he said quickly.

“No, it’s mine,” Gail replied. “If I hadn’t felt that way—”

“It’s mine,” he cut her off ruthlessly, brooking no argument.

Then, softly, Gail whispered to herself, “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Every nerve in Max’s body was screaming that it was in fact, the best thing he’d ever done. He was still hard for her, and he wanted to shake Gail for her stupidity, take her in his embrace and soothe her worries, kiss her until she agreed with him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t put his arms around her and assuage her guilt. He couldn’t tell her everything was going to be all right and normal and
fine
. It wasn’t. He was marrying one Alton girl but wanted, needed, craved the other.

It was going to hurt.

“Miss Alton, I can’t be near you anymore,” Max said curtly.

She gave a small guffaw of disbelief. “How, Lord Fontaine,” she said sadly, “do you propose we avoid each other? You’re at my home nearly every day.”

“I don’t…I don’t know,” he said to his toes.

Silence threatened to swallow them, if their own rampaging thoughts didn’t trample them first. Finally, after what seemed like achingly long minutes, Max’s head snapped up.

“I have to go,” he said, and he gathered Jupiter from a nearby patch of grass. He mounted, rather uncomfortably, but was kept from leaving by Gail’s small cry of “Wait!”

She stood and crossed to him.

“Your coat,” she said, holding the garment out to him. He took it—it smelled like her. Max could not avoid Gail’s direct stare or the determined set of her jaw. The fire of her eyes was banked now, but her hair was still mussed from his ministrations. It made Max’s mouth go dry.

With a quick nod, he sank his heels into Jupiter’s flanks and sped away from Gail, and away from temptation.

ALONE
now, Gail let the silence of the grotto envelop her. The crows had flown, there were no more to count. Gail picked up her hat and did not cry. She gathered her horse and absolutely did not cry. She located her gloves, found Jimmy some half a mile away, and refused to cry all the way home.

ON
the other side of the park, Lord Hurstwood, having recently quitted a duel where sadly no one was shot, crossed a large meadow that gave way to a lake. There, as he told a friend later that morning, he was certain he saw Lord Fontaine diving into, fully clothed, what must have been freezing water.