After the Kiss

by Karen Ranney

  “I know little of poetry,” he said. “I have studiously avoided it in the past. But it seems to me that there are only two types of poems. Either the meandering ode that doubles as the poet’s search for himself, or poems dedicated to nature, urns, and Homer.”

  She closed the book and smiled at him, amused. “And you think neither is worthy of merit?”

  “A soul is an intrinsically personal thing,” he said. “God is too vast to be contained within meter and rhyme. And once a tree has been mentioned, it needn’t be expounded upon again.”

  “And love? A great many poems are dedicated to love.”

  “Love is one of those emotions that differs in the experience of it.”

  “And is therefore incapable of being described?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t it have a different definition according to the person you ask?”

  “Perhaps it is better simply to look into someone’s eyes and know that despite whatever failing or fault that person has, you will never turn aside or betray him.”

  “Acceptance?” he asked.

  “Unconditional,” she said.

  “As a definition of love? Not entirely logical,” he said.

  “Life itself is not always logical, Michael.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Else I would not be here now, arguing the merits of love. Instead,” he said smiling, “I’ve come to take you boating.”

  “Boating?” Her eyes sparkled, her mouth curved in an altogether delicious smile.

  “Henry the Eighth did it all the time.”

  “Should I be reassured? I seem to remember that he had a penchant for disposing of women.”

  “Only wives,” he countered.

  It was the wrong thing to say. It reminded him of his duty, the shortness of a week. Very well, he would restrict his remarks to those of an impersonal nature. They would simply enjoy today and think of nothing more solemn than the shape of the clouds in the sky.

  The directions for their outing had been furnished to him by Smytheton, who had consented to address him for the first time in a day. Despite his forbidding scowl, he had prepared a hearty lunch for them, a heavy affair in a straw basket.

  A picnic, then. It surprised Michael to realize that he had never before done something like this.

  They took the carriage to a small town about an hour’s ride outside London. There, along the gently sloping bank, exactly where Smytheton had indicated, was an inn where Michael was able to hire a flat-bottomed skiff.

  Both of them looked at the vessel dubiously. Margaret, however, was the first to express doubts.

  “It doesn’t look like it will hold us,” she said.

  “You must be more confident in my abilities, Margaret,” he said.

  “I have faith in your abilities, Montraine. It’s the boat that concerns me.”

  He pulled it closer by the rope, glanced up at her. “Politeness decrees that you enter first while I steady it.”

  She sent him a quick glance of remonstrance. He grinned.

  “I would much rather be impolite and have you test whether or not it will float,” she announced.

  “So the gentlemanly thing would be to go down with the ship?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Absolutely,” she said.

  Margaret stood on the bank, her hands clasped behind her. He had never heard her giggle. The sound seemed unlike her, almost girlish. One thing he could most definitely verify was the fact that Margaret Esterly was no girl. But the sound charmed him all the same.

  He stepped into the skiff and held his hands out for her. The boat rocked beneath his feet. For a moment, Michael thought he was going to be overturned.

  She placed her hand trustingly in his, a gesture at odds with her sudden laughter. Together they stood in the boat as it shivered beneath them. If he leaned one way the boat rocked in that direction. He tested it only to have Margaret grip his sleeves for balance.

  “Don’t you think you should sit down?” she asked, laughing.

  “Why should I sit when I can have a beautiful woman holding onto me?”

  “I am not beautiful,” she countered.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  He stroked his finger down her nose, tapped the end of it gently. “Perhaps it’s because of your nose. I’ve seen more aquiline noses.”

  He stared into her eyes. “And I will confess that your eyes are an odd shade. Sometimes I think they’re hazel. Sometimes they seem almost pure green. Perhaps if you had different-colored eyes you would be considered truly beautiful.”

  Because they now stood so still, the boat only rocked gently with the current. Even so, her hands still gripped his upper arms tightly.

  “And your hair…”

  “What about my hair?” she asked, indignant.

  “It could be a more normal shade. Something blond, perhaps. Less red.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this a lesson, then? Not to question compliments?”

  He smiled, amused.

  “On the other hand,” she said, studying him, “I have often thought you beautiful. Almost lovely. A very pretty man.”

  He began to laugh, thoroughly routed.

  A moment later, both of them seated in their proper places, he began to row away from the inn’s dock.

  The inn itself was a squat building, perched on the edge of the river like a broody hen. It had been painted red years ago, the color now a shade that reminded him of burgundy. From the carriages parked in its side yard it did a brisk business. In addition, there were several boaters out on the river. Couples, for the most part, the ladies shaded with their parasols, the men acting with more skill than he possessed at the oars.

  After a while, however, he managed the rhythm of it, drawing away from the bank and heading into the river. Here the Thames was surprisingly clear, the current strong, not yet affected by the tides.

  It was a perfect day, the blue sky only occasionally dotted with fluffy white clouds. Trees lined the river and the sloping green banks attested to a wet spring. A scene of bucolic beauty.

  Margaret leaned back, let her fingers trail in the water. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face to the sun. He had the sudden feeling that she had not spent many moments in indolence either.

  The moment was perfect, silent and hushed.

  “Do you ever wonder what the rest of your life will be like?” Margaret asked.

  The question surprised him, but he answered her honestly. “Not really. My life is ordained within certain strictures. I have a duty to my family, and an obligation to my country. It leaves few opportunities for extemporaneous living.”

  Such as choosing his destiny.

  “That can be both very comforting and very constraining.”

  He had been rowing steadily. Now he rested the oars and sat with one knee drawn up as he removed his coat and waistcoat.

  It occurred to him that he would never have been in Jane Hestly’s presence similarly dressed. But then, he wouldn’t have carried her from a cottage and loved her in a coach. And he doubted he would be laughing much in her presence.

  “What of your own life, Margaret? What will your future bring?”

  She looked discomfited by the question. As if he had pried into a province that was none of his concern. Her attention was directed to a tree not far from the shoreline. She looked at it as if she’d never viewed a tree before. Nor even seen a bird like the one that flew from one of its branches.

  She turned suddenly and looked at him, her direct glance rendering him vaguely uncomfortable. “What happens when something occurs in your well-planned life that you do not expect? What do you do then?” she asked.

  “Nothing has,” he said.

  “You live a charmed life, Montraine,” she said, smiling enigmatically.

  Was he destined to think her forever a mystery? The more time he spent with her, the more puzzling she became.

  There were only three days remaining to them.
He was all too aware that Margaret was intent upon returning to her cottage on the Downs. If she did, he would have no reason to seek her out again. After all, he’d given his word.

  Unless, of course, he convinced her to remain with him.

  Chapter 19

  A woman who embraces pleasure

  accepts all of her senses.

  The Journals of Augustin X

  He picked up the oars and began to row again.

  Even the act of doing something so obviously unfamiliar was performed with grace.

  “Do you like the rain?” she asked.

  He glanced over at her. “I like storms.”

  “And cider?”

  “Cider?” A smile curved his lips. She felt proud of herself for coaxing him to amusement. Even if it was a little at her expense.

  “Cider.”

  “All in all, I prefer brandy.”

  “What is your favorite color?”

  “Blue,” he said, and surprisingly winked at her.

  “Do you like sweet foods? Or sour?”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” he said. “I like lobster soup. And those little tarts cook used to make. I don’t care for mutton,” he said, obviously considering the question. “But I do like roast beef.”

  “And Christmas pudding?”

  “I like currants best,” he said smiling. “Is there a reason for this litany of questions?”

  “A lamentable curiosity,” she confessed.

  She had studied him avidly these past days, marked things in her mind that she would recall when they were no longer together. He was a man capable of focusing on one thing to the exclusion of all else. When he laughed it was almost with a sense of surprise, as if his levity was so rare that it startled him. There was a scar on his left knee from when he was six and mean to his sister’s cat. A confession he had made ruefully last night. The cat had retaliated by digging its claws into him. The scar was both a lesson and a punishment, he’d admitted.

  “Is my curiosity equally acceptable?” he asked.

  She smiled and replied. “My favorite color is green.”

  “And your favorite foods?”

  “Something easy to grow,” she admitted. “Other than that, I have few preferences.”

  “Storms?”

  “They seem lonely to me,” she admitted.

  “They needn’t be,” he said casually. “I could always arrange to be with you in inclement weather. If I were loving you when it thundered, I doubt you would know it.”

  She wondered at the surprising hurt she felt by that statement, and its most apparent answer. “Unless your wife needed you,” she said quietly. “Or you were away at one of your estates. Or your child was ill and needed you at his side. Or your horse went lame and you couldn’t reach me in time.”

  He stopped rowing. The gentle lapping of the river’s current carried them closer to shore as the boat nosed up against the gentle embankment of an island.

  “You have thought of only the worst things that could happen, Margaret. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  A confession, then. She could not bear being on the periphery of his life, being an afterthought, a casual moment.

  She smiled brightly. “One of the things that intrigues me about you, Michael, is the fact that you are unlike most peers I’ve seen. You work for the government when most nobles lead indolent lives. You employ a formidable butler because he is a war veteran. Yet you would have me believe that it would be easy for you to have a wife and a mistress and think nothing of it. Perhaps in the beginning. But it would only be a matter of time until you began to deplore the circumstances. And despise yourself.”

  There was silence while he considered her. The only sound was the lapping of the water against the shore. Even the birds had quieted, as if to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “And you? Would you hate me?”

  “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But I would despise what I had become.”

  “Is that truly how you feel, Margaret?’

  “Yes,” she said. “It is. And I’ve no doubt you would come to feel the same.”

  “I had no idea you had studied me so well.”

  Her thoughts had been too often on him. Even when they were separated she had spent hours thinking of the Earl of Montraine. Wondering what he would do in certain situations. Dreaming of him, picturing him in all sorts of situations.

  Her answer divulged nothing of that. “You forget, Michael, that I was in trade. It is important to be able to gauge people quickly. Especially if you wish to make a sale.”

  “You were very successful, I imagine,” he said evenly.

  The truth was somewhat different. Jerome had often struggled to pay their bills. Too often, he had solicited assistance from his brother. Even when she had asked him to consider any other available option.

  “I confess to studying tradespeople less closely than you have nobles,” he said, his face somber.

  “I do not doubt that you pay your bills in a timely fashion. I used to dread obtaining the trade of a peer. It meant that a bill would not be paid for months.”

  “Perhaps they did as my mother does: hides them in her hatbox until the top will not close. Only then does she proffer them to me,” he said dryly.

  “Then on behalf of all tradesmen in London, may I implore you to pay them with great dispatch? It sometimes makes a difference between having coal for the fire or freezing in winter.”

  His wry smile surprised her. “Exactly the reason I must marry,” he said. “But then, I haven’t told you I need an heiress, have I?”

  “You?” she asked, surprised. “But you have three estates.”

  “That are doing badly at the moment. However,” he said, jumping from the skiff, “the day is lovely and I am not at all disposed to think of debts and obligations at the moment.”

  The place where he’d chosen to have their meal was a small island, a picturesque setting, remarkably serene. It was also very private. From the waterline, the ground sloped upward to a small knoll and then farther to a line of trees.

  “Not in the middle of a river, Michael. Surely you have no plans for that,” she said, chiding him with a look.

  He began to laugh, the sound carrying over the water and echoing back to them. She stood, hands on hips, glaring at him. But his laugh was so infectious that she could not hide her own smile. A moment later he reached out and grabbed her by her waist, lifted her effortlessly up from the boat, and set her on the ground.

  “Now you think I go around fornicating in the fields. Tupping in the trees. Even I have more restraint than that. I think.”

  She felt a flush warm her cheek.

  “Although,” he said, “the thought does have merits.”

  “You are incorrigible,” she said.

  He only grinned and reached into the boat for the basket.

  They settled on a knoll not far from the water’s edge. Together they set out the linen cloth Smytheton had provided.

  “He’s very talented, Smytheton,” Margaret said, laying out the foodstuffs he had packed for them. “Is it customary for a man in his position to know so many things?”

  “I think it has more to do with being an old campaigner,” Michael said. “His only flaw is that he’s a deplorable cook.”

  He glanced into the basket. “A bit of roast beef, some cheese, and some sort of crusty bread,” he announced. “And,” he added, reaching into the bottom of the basket and retrieving two clay jars, “ale! Not an elegant meal, but a fortifying one. Perhaps even Smytheton didn’t want to exceed his capabilities today.”

  “I’m surprised that your household is so small.”

  “Not the home of an earl? My work requires that I have some degree of privacy.”

  “But you will be married soon, and circumstances will change.” She traced a pattern on the edge of the plate with her finger.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  A moment later, she looked over at him. He caught her
glance and returned it. “You weren’t correct, you know. I’m not as honorable as you think. I would keep you with me and feel no regret about it at all.”

  He looked away, then, concentrating on the horizon.

  He had surprised her with his revelation. Until now she’d thought his wish to make her his mistress had been because of their divergent roles in life. Now she realized it was not so much a function of aristocracy as necessity. He was as trapped as she. She would forever be the Widow Esterly and he was duty bound to marry an heiress.

  She reached out and touched his arm in wordless understanding. He glanced down at her hand, placed his own upon it.

  “Having you with me has made the thought of marriage possible,” he said, his voice low. She tightened her hand on his arm, feeling a spike of pain at his tone. He was not a man to whom confession came easily. “A week with you is not enough, Margaret. A year, perhaps, or two. Perhaps a decade. But not a week.”

  She felt a surge of panic at his words, at the tenderness they invoked, then sought a refuge in irritation. It was an easier emotion to feel, and one that guarded her. It would be too easy to fall victim to his charm, to accede to his request, to begin to understand his needs and join them with her own.

  The most dangerous thought was that it would be almost effortless to become his mistress.

  She looked startled.

  “Is such arrogance a function of your nobility, Michael?” she asked, irritated. “Do you never listen? Do other people’s wishes not have any meaning to you at all?”

  “I suspect that you have a prejudice against the nobility, Margaret.” A genial comment, one that gave her no hint of his thoughts. She made no secret of her anger at him. He almost admired her the freedom of her emotions. Perhaps it was easier than the restraint he felt at all times.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know many. But what I have seen has not endeared me to them.”

  “I shall attempt to convince you that one particular earl is not that onerous,” he said, smiling at her.