“Not at all.” Maggie expected he might say something more about Jane’s note, but he did not. With a sigh, she turned her head to view the passing scenery.
It was a beautiful sunny day with just enough breeze to rustle the branches of the trees. There were fewer carriages now. Fewer people. St. Clare was driving farther and farther away from the other inhabitants of the park.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He eased his team down from a spirited trot to a brisk walk. “That little cluster of trees at the end of the avenue. It’s a distance yet.”
Maggie didn’t care for the slower pace. It only served to emphasize the prolonged silences between them and the rather erratic beating of her heart. She cast about for something to say, deciding at length that she may as well be straightforward with him. “When you were in Italy—”
“During your come out—” he said at the same time. And then, “Forgive me.”
“No, please. What were you saying about my come out?”
“Only that I’ve heard that during your come-out season you received a great many offers of marriage.”
Maggie was taken aback but saw no reason to deny it. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
“I also heard that you refused them all.”
“You seem to have heard a great deal.”
“Society will talk, Miss Honeywell. And when a subject interests me, I can be a prodigious good listener.”
“Is society still talking? My come out was nearly six years ago. I would have thought it all forgotten by now.”
“Nothing in London society is ever forgotten. The ton has the collective memory of an elephant.”
“Then I suppose there’s no use in denying it. Not that I would. There’s nothing so out of the ordinary about a young lady refusing all of the offers she receives during her first season, surely.”
“I understand there was a particular reason for your refusals. That you were, at the time, wearing the willow for another gentleman. A soldier.”
Maggie’s pulse accelerated. She ventured a glance at St. Clare. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, his jaw tense. “In a manner of speaking.”
When it became clear that she wasn’t going to expound on the subject, St. Clare asked, almost irritably, “Shall you tell me about it? Or must I call in a forfeit?”
“It means that much to you, my lord? I can’t think why. It’s ancient history.”
“You may mark it down to my abominable curiosity.”
Maggie knew enough of men to recognize the sound of jealousy when she heard it. The irony didn’t escape her. “As you wish. For the price of one forfeit, then. It’s true. I was wearing the willow for a gentleman. But I don’t know if he was a soldier.”
St. Clare scowled. “You don’t know?”
“He and I were childhood friends. We were parted very unhappily ten years ago.”
The horses suddenly broke stride, causing the curricle to lurch forward. St. Clare muttered a blistering oath as he caught up the reins more securely and steadied them.
“He was my first love,” Maggie continued. “My only love, really.”
St. Clare’s attention appeared to be fixed entirely on quieting the horses, but Maggie would have had to be blind not to notice the tension in the set of his shoulders. “Young lovers, tragically parted,” he remarked sardonically. “An all-too-common tale.”
“We weren’t lovers.”
“Of course not.”
“Not but that we wouldn’t have been had he stayed.”
His gloved hands tightened on the reins, causing the already nervous horses to commence an agitated dance. “You shock me, Miss Honeywell.”
“Why is it shocking? I loved him. I expected to be with him always.”
“Many young ladies have no doubt felt the same about their first loves. Young gentlemen, too. It passes as one grows older.”
“Does it?”
His face was grim. “In most cases, I believe.”
“Perhaps I’ve trivialized it by saying that I loved him. I didn’t mean to, but how else can I explain?” She paused. “The fact is, he and I were more than friends. More even than lovers. We were soul mates. As essential to each other as light or air. From my earliest memory, I existed only for those moments when I could see him next, and he did the same. Neither of us was complete outside the presence of the other.” She looked out at the slowly passing landscape of the park as she combated an unexpected wave of sorrow. “I often think that, in the years since he left me, I’ve been living as only half a person. Waiting…” Her mouth curved in a small, rueful smile. “You wonder that I refused every offer of marriage. How could I wed any of the gentlemen who offered for my hand when I knew that the other half of my heart may yet come back to me?”
“But he didn’t come back.”
“No. I’ve always assumed that he became a soldier.” There was a slight tremor in her voice. “I believe he must have gone off to fight on the continent and…died there.”
“A cheerful thought,” St. Clare said.
“It’s been easier for me to bear than the alternative.”
“And that is?”
“That I never meant anything to him. That after we parted, he went on with his life and forgot all about me.”
“Impossible.”
“Is it?”
“No man who loved you in the way that you describe could ever forget you.” St. Clare brought the horses to a halt. “I believe you’re right, Miss Honeywell. This childhood friend of yours is dead. Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences on your loss. Enzo!” he shouted abruptly to his tiger. “Hold their heads.” St. Clare turned at last to look at her. “Will you walk awhile with me on the grass?”
Maggie searched his face. His expression was cold, his features as hard and unyielding as granite. Only his eyes—those dearly familiar gray eyes—betrayed the smallest flicker of emotion. It was fleeting. Practically nonexistent. But it was there. “I’m a bit tired from shopping this morning, but if you don’t mind my leaning on your arm, then yes. I’m pleased to walk with you.”
St. Clare jumped from the curricle and came around to assist her down. This time, she didn’t wait for him to extend his hand, but reached out immediately to grasp his broad shoulders. As she clung to him, he caught her around the waist and lifted her out of her seat, setting her down gently onto the grass.
He held her there a moment, his strong hands resting on the flare of her hips and his gaze locked interminably with hers. Any passerby seeing them would have mistaken it for an embrace. The result would be gossip. Scandal. Damage to Maggie’s reputation. And worse, to poor Jane’s.
Maggie knew she must put a stop to it. It would be easy enough. St. Clare wasn’t forcing himself upon her after all. A word or a gesture would be sufficient to discourage him. Indeed, with one firm backward step, she might be out of his arms.
But Maggie couldn’t bring herself to move away from him. She stood there, staring up at him as if in a dream.
And then she lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek.
A tremor went through St. Clare’s large frame. He closed his eyes briefly as he leaned into her touch. “Don’t,” he said gruffly.
Ignoring his halfhearted protest, Maggie brought her other hand to his face and gently caressed the side of his jaw. In response, she felt St. Clare’s arms encircle her waist. It was the only movement he made. He held himself still as she touched him, his head half-bowed. A muscle worked in his throat.
Slowly, she reached up to smooth a lock of golden hair from his forehead, her gloved fingers tracing a delicate, soothing path over his brow.
His arms tightened reflexively around her. “Margaret—”
“Maggie,” she whispered.
St. Clare’s breath caught as if he had received a blow. “Maggie,”
he repeated. And having said her name, he bent his head and captured her mouth in a kiss so fierce and full of longing that Maggie’s knees weakened beneath her.
She wound her arms around his neck, pressing her body close to his as she returned his kiss with soft, half-parted lips. He was warm and strong, and even after ten long years, so wonderfully, achingly familiar. “Nicholas,” she breathed. “Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas. I knew you’d come back to me.”
For the barest moment, St. Clare held Maggie tightly, crushingly against him, and then—before she fully understood what was happening—he removed her arms from his neck and gently but firmly set her away from him.
His face was taut and white, his expression void of all emotion. “Miss Honeywell,” he said with excruciating civility. “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension.”
Maggie’s lips were still swollen from his kisses, her body still warm from being held against his. She was slow to register the change in his demeanor. He’d drawn himself up to his full, intimidating height. He looked every inch the disdainful, cold-blooded aristocrat. He sounded like one, too. Indeed, his words, when he spoke them, hit her like a dash of icy water.
“Do not mistake me, ma’am. Your willingness is very tempting, and I have half a mind to encourage it, but my reputation is black enough already without perpetrating such a ruse. Besides, I flatter myself that I have no need to pretend to be another man in order to seduce a pretty girl.” His lip curled into a faintly mocking smile. “This Nicholas of yours was a fortunate fellow to have inspired so much devotion, but alas, I am not him.”
“Yes, you are.” Her temper sparked to life. “Do you take me for a fool? Did you think I wouldn’t know you? I recognized you from the moment we met. Why in heaven do you suppose I swooned?”
“Because you’re unwell,” he said.
Maggie flinched, and then, in typical fashion, bristled with outrage. How dared he? Using her illness as a means to win an argument! It was a tactic often employed by Fred, and one she deemed wholly unworthy of the man standing before her now. She opened her mouth to tell him so.
Just then, her attention was arrested by the sight of St. Clare’s tiger. The boy was watching the two of them with undisguised interest as he walked the horses.
Maggie felt a rush of mortification. Had he heard her call his master Nicholas? Had he seen them kissing? Her cheeks flamed. She turned abruptly away from St. Clare and walked briskly across the grass.
St. Clare was at her side in an instant, silently offering his arm. She took it grudgingly. “Enzo understands only enough English to mind my cattle,” he said as if reading her mind.
“Oh? Is he blind as well?”
“I’m afraid not. But you needn’t worry that he’ll tell tales. Even if he could come up with enough English to gossip amongst the servants, he wouldn’t lower himself to do so. He’s loyal to a fault.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Miss Honeywell—”
“I recognized your handwriting, you know.” She felt him tense slightly against her as they walked. “How could I not? I was the one who taught you how to read and write. Did you imagine for even one second that I’d forgotten?”
“You are mistaken,” St. Clare said quietly.
“And how did you know that I wasn’t the one who responded to your note? No, you needn’t answer. It’s plain enough. After all those hours spent writing out words and phrases for you to copy in your copybooks, my particular style of handwriting must be emblazoned on your brain.”
Her chest was beginning to feel heavy, her heart pounding harder as her lungs worked to accommodate the strain of walking and talking.
“I’d begun to convince myself that you couldn’t be him,” she said, hearing the first traces of breathlessness in her voice. “That it was merely a strong resemblance. I told myself that the real Nicholas would have come to find me. That the moment he set foot back on English shores, he’d have made for Somerset. He wouldn’t have spent a month in London gambling and engaging in duels.” She shot him an accusing glance. “But it wasn’t just any duel, was it? It was a duel with Frederick Burton-Smythe. Apparently, your hatred for him has outlived your love for me.”
St. Clare’s expression hardened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me! Tell me which parts I’ve got wrong!”
“Everything. That’s what you’ve got wrong. Everything.”
“I don’t pretend to understand how you came to be here, or why it is you’re pretending to be a viscount—”
“I am a viscount.”
He said it with such conviction that Maggie almost believed him. Almost. “If you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, why did you seek me out? You must have known that I’d recognize you.”
“You sought me out,” he reminded her. “To beg for Burton-Smythe’s life, if you’ll recall.”
“Not then. After that. At the theater and today and…” Maggie faltered. “If I’m a stranger to you, then…why did you kiss me?”
“If you must ask me that, I can only assume that you’ve vastly underrated your charms.” St. Clare looked down at her with studied nonchalance. “Consult your glass. You’re an uncommonly beautiful girl. What gentleman wouldn’t kiss you if given encouragement?”
“And I encouraged you, did I?”
“Didn’t you?”
Her brows knit together. “No… Perhaps… I don’t know! Are you trying to provoke a quarrel? Or is it simply that you wish to hurt me?”
A shadow of some unidentifiable emotion passed over his face. “I wouldn’t hurt you. Not now. Not ever. If you believe nothing else, you must believe that.”
“You have hurt me every day for the last ten years. You have broken my heart.”
Color rose in St. Clare’s face. Once again, he turned away from her to stare out at the grassy path ahead of them. His profile might have been carved out of stone. “I beg your pardon. I’ve behaved badly. That kiss was entirely my fault. I apologize for any distress it may have caused you.”
“And now you’re mocking me.”
“I am not—” He broke off, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like a frustrated oath. “This conversation is madness. Complete and utter madness.”
“Yes, I daresay it is.” Maggie raised a gloved hand to press against her flushed cheek.
If Bessie were here, she’d warn Maggie that she was working herself up into a state. That all of this excitement was going to send her straight into a swoon. And it was true. But it wasn’t only the excitement. She’d walked too far with Jane this morning, and now, already weakened, she was walking again with St. Clare.
Was it any wonder that she couldn’t catch her breath?
“Perhaps I am mad,” she said. “I suppose I must be to mistake you for Nicholas Seaton. Stark raving mad. You shall have to keep clear of me from now on. You shall have to cut my acquaintance.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort.” He paused before adding, “I mean to court you.”
If he’d taken out a mallet and struck her on the head, she couldn’t have been more astonished. “Court me? But…why?”
“Why does any gentleman court a lady?”
“You can’t mean…?” Marriage. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was ludicrous. Unthinkable.
And utterly impossible.
In six months’ time she was to marry Fred. She had to marry Fred. There was Beasley Park to consider. The house, the land, and the tenants. It was her home. Her birthright.
He was too late. Nicholas Seaton had finally come back to her, and he was too late.
“I believe I’ve rendered you speechless,” St. Clare murmured.
Maggie gazed vacantly around the park. Her head was swimming. How far had they walked? There were no carriages about them, nor any
other person out for an afternoon stroll. Where was Enzo with the curricle? Gracious, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were on fire.
“There’s a fallen tree just up ahead that will serve as a seat.” St. Clare’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Can you make it that far? Or shall I carry you?”
Maggie’s eyes flew to his. “I am not ill!” The exclamation—which she’d intended to be forceful—came out weak and breathless. She cringed at the sound of it. Good lord, what must he think?
But as St. Clare stared down at her, the expression on his face left no doubt that he recognized the flush in her cheeks and the hitch in her breath for exactly what they were. “Four nights ago, when you fainted in my grandfather’s library, your maid admitted to me that she’d once been your nurse. She said that, if not for her care, you might have died.”
“It’s true that Bessie was my nurse. But it was many years ago and…” Maggie looked ahead of them to the broken trunk lying just outside a cluster of trees.
St. Clare put his arm around her waist. “A few more steps.”
And then they were there, and Maggie was sinking gratefully onto the tree trunk, gloved fingers tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet. “I can’t breathe,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes.
St. Clare sat down beside her. “Let me.” Ignoring Maggie’s faint protests, he untied the ribbons himself and gently lifted her bonnet from her head. “Better?”
Maggie nodded weakly. She closed her eyes and took a breath. And then another and another. Bit by agonizing bit, the frenzied beating of her heart slowed and the constrictive heaviness in her chest began to ease. “I felt as if I was suffocating. Forgive me. I shall be all right directly.”
She exerted all of her will toward calming herself. Toward breathing. It was soothing really. Being out of doors like this. The breeze rippled through the trees and she could smell the scent of horses and fresh, damp grass. And then there was St. Clare, the strength of his presence at her side so big and warm and comforting.
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