• • •
But that was easier to think than to do. He had to be grateful that he had his fighting. Bouts were scheduled every couple of days, and he won consistently. Pugilism was not without its danger and he still suffered his share of bruises, scrapes and cuts, but it felt good to do what he was so very proficient at. Even with Sir Parnell more busy now, a newly engaged man, Colin still found he was learning all the time and getting better. He had attained a reputation, and crowds came to watch him box. He even beat Sussex Sam handily, sending the giant down in just three minutes. That was his most satisfying triumph.
He even wished Rachel could have seen it.
Socially he was finding himself more in demand than he ever would have imagined. Lord and Lady Sommer, a couple Colin had met briefly at a picnic, were holding a ball. Colin was surprised to find an invitation for himself and Andromeda in the morning mail, since the earl and countess had rather snubbed him when they were introduced. He could only assume that good company was getting very sparse, and he had been moved up to “acceptable” as a result. It did not hurt, he supposed, that Lord Sommer had bet a very large amount in a fight, backing him, and had won his bet.
It didn’t surprise him to find that Rachel would be there. Events were infrequent now as most of the better families left town, and she was everywhere he turned, her radiance always before him, his heart always thrumming painfully at the sight of her. It was still unfashionably light when he arrived, but he found that he was not the first, as he had feared he would be. He was greeted politely by his host and hostess and made Andromeda’s apologies, then wandered for a while, talking to people he had met recently, but more often strolling alone.
When Rachel arrived he knew it instantly. Every man in the ballroom, it seemed to him, gazed at her with longing. Several were openly courting her, but elusive as she had become, there was no rumor as to which she would choose. It seemed that despite her fears, she had been forgiven by society for jilting Lord Yarnell, even in the face of his mother‘s determined spite. The dowager Lady Yarnell had removed to Wight for the summer, it was said, to lick her wounds and send plaintive—and, it was rumored, ignored—missives to her hitherto obedient son, who was traveling happily with his unsuitable bride.
Colin was happy Rachel had not been made to suffer for doing the right thing. It could likely be attributed to her beauty, social standing, and the ardor of many more suitors, he supposed, with a cynicism born of a new understanding of London society. She was a valuable commodity: beautiful, rich, well-born and with a spotless reputation. As such, she would not be censured when there were likely many matchmaking mothers looking for well-dowered and well-born young ladies for their sons.
He watched as gentlemen flocked to her side. He recognized one or two fortune hunters, some who would gather around any recognized fashionable beauty, but many genuine admirers. All of them much more eligible than he. She was accompanied by her mother, but that woman looked peevish and ill-tempered and retreated immediately to the chaperones’ chairs to gossip with her cronies. As the music started, Rachel’s card was no doubt filling with waltzes and galops, mazurkas and country dances.
She looked up and caught his eyes on her. Since his sister’s engagement they had made an uneasy peace, uneasy because it was wretchedly uncomfortable longing for her every waking minute and knowing all hope was dead. She raised the dance card and tiny pencil in pantomime, and he nodded. Yes, he hoped she would put him down for a dance. It would be her decision which one, though he might have to take whatever had not yet been claimed.
Later, about the third or fourth dance, he found that he was right; it was a staid minuet, and they were apart much more than they were together. He supposed he should consider himself lucky it was not one of the more modern dances, for he was not the best on the floor. “When do you go back north?” he said as they promenaded at the end of their dance.
“In two weeks. We would have been gone already, but Grandmother is still not fit to travel.”
“She seemed much better the last time I saw her,” he said, remembering their conversation. It was she who had told him that women were not china figurines to be kept on a shelf. At the time he had brushed aside her remarks as irrelevant to him; only later had he understood the justice of her accusations. He would have stifled the vibrant woman on his arm with his over-care.
“She’s better, but still weak. We will have to take the trip home in easy stages. Haven and Jane are coming down to accompany us home to Yorkshire.”
He had been about to offer his own escort as far as their path lay together, but even that was not necessary. He could leave any time, he supposed. “Home to Yorkshire,” he murmured.
“I was thinking of going to visit Pamela for a while. I miss her so much. I never knew how much until recently.”
“That would be good for both of you. I’m sure she misses you just as much.”
Their desultory conversation was over as her next dance partner came to claim her for the coveted waltz, and he watched them glide across the floor in elegant swooping motions. She must think him a dull dog compared to these London dandies who were all mad for her. She must laugh to herself about old Colin, forever proposing, faithful old dog that he was.
He shrugged and turned, walking away.
• • •
Rachel, nominally dancing with Lord Featherfew, was thinking ahead to her return to Yorkshire. What would Colin do, alone at Corleigh? She caught a glimpse of him and noticed three young ladies had clustered around him, one with her hand daringly on his upper arm. If he wanted, he would not need to be alone. Many girls would consider themselves lucky to marry him, and knowing him as she did, she knew they would have every chance at a happy marriage. He could be stuffy and hidebound, but he was also kindhearted and good. And he certainly had a vigorous male attractiveness to him, despite his plain appearance. Even ladies not in need of a husband had found him attractive.
His new reputation as a winning boxer intrigued many of the ladies; Rachel had heard it whispered among some of the women, ladies who were not supposed to know about such brutal things but clearly did. As for herself, she supposed it was just the shock of the sight, but she could not rid herself of the image of him, stripped to the waist, skin pale as marble, muscles gleaming with sweat, as he fought Sussex Sam. The image taunted her; he had apparently been fighting for years, and yet she had never known of that side of his life. What else about him did she not know? What other layers were there to her old friend, things he had hidden for fear of shocking the delicate flower he had always considered her?
When she was younger she had treated him as one would a pet puppy, tolerating his eager attentions, rebuffing him when she became bored. And he had thought of her, it seemed, as a hothouse flower, apt to wilt at the slightest breeze. Had he changed most, or had she? Or was it only their image of each other that had changed? He certainly did not seem like a puppy anymore.
The dance finally ended, and her escort walked with her around the perimeter of the ballroom. Her next dance was not engaged, so she requested they return to her mother.
Instead, her escort suggested, “Will you walk with me in the garden, Miss Neville?”
“That would be lovely, my lord,” she said. The ballroom was overheated, and a breath of cooler air was the cure.
They strolled out to the terrace. Lord Featherfew had a rakish reputation, but he was reportedly on the hunt for a wife and had calmed his wilder tendencies. He had given her a fair amount of attention of late, and though he was a pleasant enough fellow, she was not seriously considering him a suitor. In truth, she was not considering anyone a suitor. She was too confused about her own feelings for that.
“That grassy stretch looks cooler, does it not, Miss Neville?”
The lawn wove in and out of ornamental fruit trees and burgeoning gardens of hydrangea and unnamable shrubs. The path beckoned; cool fingers of shadowy twilight had already tempted another couple, who strolled among the tr
ees.
“It does. Shall we walk there?”
He was an undemanding escort. He was not one for conversation, and she found his company peaceful, rather like being alone. She wondered, as they strolled, should she be considering Colin in the new light shed on his life? Should she be thinking of him as a possible husband? That was ridiculous, of course, for he had finally accepted that she would never marry him, and truly seemed happy about it now. That stung, she had to admit to herself. He had been her devoted admirer for so long she felt adrift without that in the background of her life. At the time she had truly wanted him to just leave her alone, but it felt odd now that he had taken her at her word.
“Where are we going, my lord?” she asked, suddenly realizing they were quite alone among the shrubbery and it was darker than she had expected.
“Miss Neville, my dear, you have my most fervent admiration,” he said, pulling her around to face him and clutching her against him. “It cannot have escaped your attention that I am your most devoted admirer, and now I wish to prove to you the passion of my attachment.”
“Sir, I—”
But her words of denial were cut off as he gripped her in an iron grasp and kissed her, hard, his brandy-scented breath mingling with hers as he sucked on her lip and jammed his tongue in her mouth. She gagged and struggled, but he was strong and had her one arm almost bent behind her.
She wrenched her head to the side and cried out, “Stop, my lord, leave me—”
He had pulled her close again and found her mouth, smothering it with his own.
But then suddenly he was pulled away from her, and as quickly as that happened he was on the ground, hand on his jaw. Colin stood over him, fists clenched.
“Leave now, Featherfew, and if you ever come near Miss Neville again I will kill you, I swear it.”
The viscount scrambled to his feet and said, “I didn’t harm her, Varens. Ask her yourself. She let me lead her away from the lighted paths. What else was I to think but that she’d welcome my attentions?”
“She doesn’t.”
“How do you know?” The fellow, a hurt expression on his handsome face, turned to Rachel. “Miss Neville, I—”
“Lord Featherfew,” she said, her voice trembling. “You have mistaken my feelings. I did not realize we had strayed so far from the lighted path, or I would not have—”
“You don’t need to apologize to this lout, Rachel,” Colin growled. “Leave, Featherfew.” He moved menacingly toward him.
“I most certainly will. I have never been so insulted in all my life!” The viscount, still nursing his jaw, which would likely sport a colorful bruise the next day, strode away, muttering angrily under his breath.
“He has a point, Colin,” Rachel said, trying to conceal a smile. Her hero, rescuing her again, just as he did when she was eight and he thirteen and she had strayed too far from Haven Court and fallen in a pond.
“The important thing is, are you all right, Rachel?” He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her gauzy cap sleeves back into place.
“I am. He frightened me, but in retrospect I can see he thought I would welcome his kisses. I just had been daydreaming and had not realized how far we had strayed.” She could not exactly say she had been daydreaming about him.
His expression serious, he said, “You must be careful, Rach. You are so beautiful; more than one man could be tempted to hope you would favor him.”
“My beauty does not excuse his behavior,” she said, stung by the implication that she was somehow responsible for Featherfew’s misbehavior.
“Of course not; I didn’t mean that. But you are so lovely.” He let the sentence hang and there was silence between them.
Then the extraordinary happened.
His expression softened, and his dark eyes blazed with warm light. He surrounded her in his arms and pulled her close, hesitated for just a moment, and then kissed her, not hard; gently he moved, exploring her lips with his.
Chapter Nineteen
When the kiss ended, they stared at each other in the dim light from the house and well-lit terrace.
Rachel didn’t quite know what to say. It had not been a deep kiss, and certainly not as invasive as Lord Featherfew’s, but it had shaken her composure, and she had always prided herself on being imperturbable. She had felt for those few moments as if the simple act of their lips touching was speaking louder than all the words in the world ever could. It had been eloquent, the communication. But what had it meant?
“I’ll take you back to the ball. I hope no one has noted our absence.”
It was said grimly, and as Colin turned her and marched her back up to the terrace, his grip was unnecessarily hard. She had to trot to keep up to his stride, but once to the terrace she tore her arm from his grasp and said, “I am quite capable of walking on my own without you pulling me along as if I were two years old.”
“You certainly were able to walk on your own with that cad Featherfew,” he retorted, turning and staring down at her with an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes.
“He did nothing more than you did!” Her retort rang out in the night air and hung between them, almost visible. She could not believe what she was doing, griping at Colin as if he were Haven.
Though he did not seem anything like a brother in that moment, she thought, with the memory of his kiss on her lips, the feel of his strong hands at her waist. But what did those few seconds in his arms mean set against their long friendship and occasional enmity? She stared steadily at him in the gloom. If only he would help her understand, but he was silent.
She sighed in exasperation, wondering not just what had gotten into him but also what had gotten into her. Her thoughts tumbled around her head like a swarm of restive kittens. Was the kiss impulse only? Did she enjoy it or hate it? It was not distasteful, like Featherfew’s, but she may merely have been shocked into compliance when his lips met hers. She would need to experience the kiss again to know what her true feelings were. Yes, that was definitely the answer; they should kiss again.
Boldly she said, “Colin, perhaps we should—”
“Go inside; I know,” he said, averting his gaze from her.
He took her arm in a more relaxed grip and strolled with her through the terrace doors as if they had just had a lovely ramble in the safety of the lighted veranda. There was no further opportunity to talk as her mother, who had been searching for her, was ready to leave, having come down with a convenient headache—convenient because a woman had just arrived whom Lady Haven could not abide.
• • •
In the darkness of her bedroom, in the gloom of the night, by the guttering light of a single candle, Rachel sat up in her bed rubbing lanolin cream into her elbows as she thought back over the kiss. Why had he kissed her? Men surely did not do anything so absurd as kiss a lady merely out of frustration or pique. Pamela had asked her once what it meant when a gentleman kissed one and one felt tingly all over. Shocked by the question and what it implied about her sister’s actions, Rachel had sidestepped the query and berated her about kissing and what it could do to her reputation if she was seen.
But what did it mean when a gentleman kissed one and one felt all tingly inside? And why did gentlemen kiss ladies? Silly questions she supposed, but she had no inkling whether kissing always meant a preference, or if sometimes it could mean something entirely different. Men were so unfathomable, and she had little experience trying to figure them out. There had seemed little point in trying to understand them, for in her admittedly limited experience, understanding them could not aid in attaining a better husband or a more advantageous match, and that was all that had concerned her about gentlemen until this spring.
There was only one way to find out the answer, and that was to ask Colin why he did what he did. Would he answer? She would just force him to, corner him and leave him with no alternative. She would do that the next morning. She closed the glass pot of cream and set it on her bedside table and sn
uffed the flickering candle that had almost burnt out. But as she lay her head down on her pillow, careful not to disarrange the pomaded curls her maid had pinned into place for the night, she could not think of any explanation that would account for that kiss. Nor her own tumultuous response to it.
• • •
It was quite correct to visit Colin at the Strongwycke house because she was really visiting Andromeda, the lady in residence. Otherwise, it would be unthinkable to visit a bachelor, even one who was such a close friend, and Rachel never did the unthinkable. Or hardly ever. She had to amend that now, for she often did things that verged on shocking, such as balloon ascents, and those that were completely over the border of shocking into appalling, such as the boxing match. She stood with her maid on the doorstep of the Strongwycke residence and was ushered in by the frosty butler. Miss Varens was home; would Miss Neville wait in the crimson parlor or the drawing room?
Rachel heard voices from the formal parlor down the hallway, the largest receiving room in the house, and wondered why the others were there. She said to Larkson, “I will join my friends; I can tell where they are, thank you.” To her maid she said, “Wait in the hallway; I shan’t be long.” Ignoring the butler’s protestations, she strode down the hall and into the formal parlor. The sight that greeted her was not at all what she expected.
Andromeda, dressed in breeches and a man’s shirt, sat cross-legged on a table watching her brother and Sir Parnell. The two men were squared off facing each other and wore black leather mufflers on their hands as they stood, almost in fencing stance. Andromeda turned.
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