by Julia Kelly
But it was different and she knew it. Despite her apparent suspicions, he hadn’t planned to be seated next to her at Mrs. Sullivan’s table or come to her aid in the park that day. The only time he’d contrived to meet her had been that first night, whereas it was clear that Trevlan had asked for the privilege of calling on her that morning.
All it took was one look to realize the man was interested in her, and Moray couldn’t blame him. He’d have to be a dolt not to see Caroline’s beauty, but it was so much more than that. She was good company—when she wasn’t trying to bite his head off—and there was something about her that drew him in. He wanted to know more about her, and his desire increasingly had little to do with any article he wanted to run.
“Are you encouraging Trevlan’s attentions?” The question came out hard and almost accusing, as though he disapproved.
“Why, Mr. Moray,” she said, her tone slightly mocking, “I’d almost think you’re jealous.”
“Not jealous,” he bit out.
“No?”
“I just want to know why an intelligent, vibrant woman like yourself would ever consider a man like him.”
Perhaps he was a little jealous, but it was only because he knew that if he’d been in Trevlan’s place he would’ve been turned down flat. No amount of money would ever change the fact that he was the tradesman. Even worse, his mother had been a maid and his father . . . Well, he didn’t like to think too long and hard about that.
“What do you mean ‘a man like him’?” she shot back.
He didn’t trust Trevlan, but he couldn’t articulate why, so instead he settled on “He’s dull. Or at least he’ll be dull to a woman like yourself unless you have a great appreciation for hunting and fishing I’m unaware of.”
She stopped in the middle of the path, dropping his arm and putting both hands on her hips. “I have a great appreciation for a man who seems genuinely interested in courting me, because I can tell you they’ve been few and far between since the lawsuit. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have enlisted the help of Mrs. Sullivan.”
His eyes widened. “The matchmaker is working for you?”
Fear crept into her expression. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
He sighed. “I know you won’t believe this, but I won’t betray your confidence in this matter. You didn’t intend to tell me that, and I won’t report it.”
“Then I won’t see it in tomorrow’s Tattler?” she asked.
His usual instincts tugged at him. It would be a fantastic tidbit for the society paper. She was right to be suspicious, but he wasn’t going to take advantage of her when she was stuck out in the middle of the park with him. He was supposed to be protecting her, even if that meant guarding her from himself.
“You have my word,” he said.
“At least there’s some comfort in that,” she muttered. “Yes, if you must know, I have asked for Mrs. Sullivan’s assistance in finding me a husband.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons,” she hedged.
“But why would she be putting a man like Trevlan in front of you?”
“Let me think,” she said, touching a finger to her lips. “Perhaps because he can support a wife and appears to be looking for one. He also seems to enjoy my company, which I’ve been told can be beneficial when you’re faced with potentially spending decades married to one another.”
“You know nothing about him,” he argued, heat rising to the back of his neck.
She laughed. “And you think my mother and father knew each other before they married? Or my brother and Elsie? They were a mutually beneficial match. Now he has a wife to help him climb the ladder at the bank he works at, keep his home, and one day maybe bear him children. She has the security of a husband’s name and the knowledge that she will be cared for after her father’s death.”
“You should want more than that. You should demand it.” His fists were clenched tight and he was aware that he was dangerously close to yelling.
“Of course I want more than that!” she shouted back. “I wanted to be swept away. I wanted to be loved until it was almost too much, because the thought of it being taken away was too painful.”
His anger popped like a soap bubble and spreading shame quickly replaced it. After pushing and prodding at her, he’d gone too far. He’d seen her annoyed, but now she was furious, as though he’d sliced through the ropes holding back years of pent-up rage. Even worse, she was magnificent in her fury.
“I was the young, naive girl who thought that her sweetheart would stand by her. I pushed aside every instinct that told me if he wanted to marry me, Julian wouldn’t have kept our engagement secret for two years and then delayed even more once it had been announced.”
Her hands started to shake, and he wanted to reach out and clasp them between his, but he didn’t dare. This was her story. These were the words she needed to say.
“He told me he loved me, promised me we’d marry, and then he left me. I realize now that his mother and father were fighting hard to delay the wedding in hopes they could sway him to choose another bride—one who would bring money to the family. And then, after he became the viscount’s heir, he finally met her. You know the name of the woman I was thrown over for, don’t you?”
He licked his dry lips, not wanting to say the name out loud for fear it would cause her pain, but she looked at him with such expectation, as though she wanted him to acknowledge the havoc that had been wrought on her life by the man she’d trusted.
“Miss Emily Cunningham,” he said.
“An American.” She shook her head slowly. “Don’t think that I have anything against Americans. I’m sure there are perfectly pleasant ones, but it’s hard to compete against all that money coming out of New York and Newport.
“I was twenty-five when I was jilted. I’m twenty-seven now. I am, unarguably, a spinster, and I don’t have a dowry to make my lack of a husband charmingly eccentric rather than pitiable. I also have the misfortune of having a reputation. When a gentleman like Mr. Trevlan decides to do things like dance with me or take me out for a drive, I say yes not because we share anything at all in common but because he might one day ask me to marry him and save me the indignity of living off the charity of my relatives for the rest of my life. So that, Mr. Moray, is why a woman like me would consider a man like him.”
Her entire speech had felled him. He felt like the lowest bug crawling beneath her feet. He’d been so wrapped up in the idea of trying to unlock the motivations of the woman who’d sued a future viscount that he’d forgotten to look beyond at the woman who stood in front of him. This passionate, beautiful woman whose options in the world had been whittled down until all she had left was the hope that some man—any man—might marry her.
He wanted to give her comfort and pull her into his arms, stroke her golden hair until she stopped shaking and tears no longer brimmed in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that she deserved more than her fiancé had shown her. She should expect love and loyalty and settle for nothing less.
“Do you know, the quotation about Paris isn’t my favorite line from Madame Bovary,” he said quietly.
Her brow creased. “No?”
“ ‘The universe, for him, did not extend beyond the silken round of her skirts.’ ”
Her gaze flicked up to his, and for a moment, Moray could’ve sworn that everything had slowed down until all he saw were the rise and fall of Caroline’s chest, the high color touching the apples of her cheeks, and her parting lips.
Carefully, he reached for her, running his fingers down the soft cotton of her pale yellow dress from her elbow to the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch or move away, so he touched his fingers to hers, reveling in the tingling contact of skin against skin.
His breath quickened as he moved closer, until they were mere inches apart. He wondered if she could hear the roar of his blood and the hard thump of his heart.
“You should find a man whose world begins and ends with y
ou, Caroline,” he whispered.
She tilted her head back a little and lifted her lips so that, if he were bold enough, he could close the gap with little more than a shift of his weight.
“That’s Miss Burkett to you,” she said, breathless.
“That’s what you think.”
And then he kissed her.
Caroline had known Moray wanted to kiss her the moment he took a step forward. Then he’d touched her, his fingers skating over hers and tempting her to tangle her hand up in his. She knew she should do the smart thing and say no, pulling herself away from this dangerous man who was, for all intents and purposes, her enemy, but then he’d said her name. Her Christian name. The one she hadn’t heard a man who wasn’t related to her by blood use in years. That’s when she forgot to do the smart thing.
He’d dipped his head and brushed his lips to hers softly at first. The gentleness was surprising in a man who seemed intent on barreling into her life and smashing her well-laid plans to bits with all the grace of a charging water buffalo. It also wasn’t at all what she wanted. If she was going to do something stupid like kiss Jonathan Moray, she wanted to be properly, thoroughly kissed.
When he began to pull away, she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and dragged him down to her again, sucking on his bottom lip as she angled her mouth under his. She was greedy, hungry for the sensation that bloomed hot in her stomach, and it seemed to shock him. He stiffened and then came to life all at once, his big hand grabbing her at the waist and pulling her hard up against his body.
She moaned. This. This was what she wanted. What she craved. Her tongue darted out to trace the line of his lips. He opened for her, and she poured every bit of fervor and longing into that kiss. She’d missed the spread of a man’s shoulders and rigid muscles under her hands, but it was more than that. She wanted to once again be the carefree young woman she’d been. The one who’d convinced herself that she was in love with the right sort of man. The one who’d said yes even when she should’ve said no, who’d shed her clothes and indulge her passion because she was going to be married soon anyway. The one who wasn’t jilted and notorious and desperate to be wed.
Oh Lord, what was she doing? She was kissing a man out in the middle of an open park where anyone might see them. Even worse she was kissing the man. The very one she should be avoiding at all costs.
She pushed away so abruptly, she stumbled back and nearly caught the heel of her boot on her hem. Moray steadied her with a strong hand, his eyes dark and hooded with desire. But there was no time for desire or need or relief. Her eyes darted around as she wondered if anyone had seen them. They were shielded from the main path by a copse of trees, and she couldn’t see anyone about.
She let out a little sigh of relief. Then she pulled her shoulders back, determined to face Moray head-on.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
He let go of her, rocked back on his heels, and crossed his arms to study her. “Kissed me?”
“Yes.”
“I started it,” he said.
“Only out of pity.”
He laughed, his voice still rough with desire but his tone slow and lazy, as it might be after a good, long night spent in bed. “I’m feeling a lot of things right now, but pity isn’t one of them.”
The pound of hooves sounded behind her. Over her shoulder, she saw Trevlan riding back on Moray’s horse, flanked by two other men.
“I’ve returned,” Trevlan announced as he pulled up on the reins, causing his horse to kick up a cloud of dust that made Caroline cough.
“So I see.” She couldn’t help the touch of annoyance in her voice, even though she knew none of this was Trevlan’s fault. It was all directed at the high-handed newspaperman standing before her. The one who’d so thoroughly kissed her that the faint tingle of his beard scraping against her skin still lingered. The one whose hands had framed her body and made her feel more womanly than she had in a long time. The one she wanted despite her better judgment.
“We’ll fix the carriage in no time, sir,” said the older man with Trevlan, whom she assumed was the invaluable carriage maker.
Trevlan jumped down from his horse and passed the reins to Moray. “Good of you to keep Miss Burkett company. You’ve been awfully helpful.”
Moray glanced her way and then nodded, not objecting to being dismissed like a servant. But when Trevlan moved away to speak with the carriage maker and his assistant, he leaned in and growled low, “That will not be the last time.”
Then he planted one foot in a stirrup and swung up into the saddle, riding off to leave Caroline wondering whether his last words were a threat or a promise.
Chapter Eleven
A lady formerly of London who is now living at C—Street in the New Town received a bounty of flowers in the form of a bouquet from a determined gentleman who appears intent on pursuing his suit. We’re told he has already driven the object of his affection out in an open carriage cozy enough for two.
—SCOTTISH LADY’S COMPANION
Damn that man.
Behind a screen, Caroline stepped out of her dress—the pale blue one with detachable starched white cuffs she’d worn three times in the last week—with the assistance of Mrs. Sullivan’s dressmaker, Mrs. Parkem. The dressmaker had come to the matchmaker’s home to measure her the Monday after Mrs. Sullivan’s dinner party, and now she was back two weeks later with several dresses. One was to be Caroline’s gown for the Caledonian Hunt Ball in less than two weeks, and the prospect of a sumptuous new evening dress should’ve had her in a state of excitement. Instead, all Caroline wanted to do was hide away because she couldn’t shake Moray from her mind.
Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.
It would’ve been satisfying to say the words out loud, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to utter them, because a lady didn’t curse. That rule had been drilled into her by her mother and father for years, and although Michael would have only received the lightest disapproval if he’d uttered a “hell,” a “damn,” or even a “bloody” around them, Caroline would have, without a doubt, been locked in her room for days at such an utterance.
So, instead of cursing Jonathan Moray out loud, she did so in her head. Over and over again.
It was that kiss. Every time she thought about it, her heart squeezed and desire swept through her before curling up in her core. She never should’ve kissed him back, because now she wasn’t sure she could ever forget.
Think of Trevlan, a man who’s actually interested in you. Or Stephenson.
Trevlan still hadn’t asked Michael for permission to officially court her—which was just as well because the tradition irked her to no end—but he had taken tea with Elsie and her twice, and he’d sat next to her at another dinner party. It was possible that he’d made the arrangement with the hostess to ensure they were close, but the thought hadn’t filled her with as much excitement as it should have.
That, she knew without a doubt, was Moray’s fault.
She hadn’t seen him once since their kiss in the park, but the day after, she’d opened her mail and there’d been an envelope from him. She’d stared at it for so long, Elsie had asked her if everything was all right. Hurriedly she’d opened it only to find an article dated several years ago. No card. The headline had read “Last Known Kissing Bridge in New York Set to Be Dismantled.” It went on to describe the history of the tiny bridges over little creeks around New York City and north of the city where traveling couples would kiss as they crossed. She’d blushed, crumpled the article up, and deposited it in the rubbish in her room. Twenty minutes later, she’d retrieved it, smoothed it out, and secreted it away in her desk, feeling all together too foolish for words.
The next day came another article—this one about the discovery of a statue of Venus at a dig in Greece. Another about a new opera by Richard Wagner set to premiere in August followed it the day after. The topics were not quite so pointed now, but they still piqued her interest. Each a
nd every day, she’d read them and added them to the collection in her desk drawer, which she’d taken to locking.
She didn’t know why Moray persisted in sending the notes or why she didn’t just throw them out. All she could say for certain was that that day in Holyrood Park he’d stripped away the layers she’d used to insulate herself against hurt and heartache, forcing her to admit what she’d been too afraid to. Practicality had taken over in her search for a husband, and while that would mean that in the future she wouldn’t have to worry about how she’d find a home or how she’d heat it in the winter or pay for meat to be served at the table a few times a week, the dream of love she’d once harbored was now dead.
And yet she found she couldn’t hate him. At least not quite as she had before. It wasn’t just the kiss or the intimacy her confession had created. It was his own admission that he’d stolen books when he was younger. To look at him now was to gaze upon a confident, accomplished man who easily claimed his place in society among the businessmen of the city. She knew he was proud, and she had a feeling that his admission that he’d once been a poor apprentice hadn’t been made lightly.
But damn him all the same. Trevlan had made it clear he was looking for a wife, while she’d been in Edinburgh long enough to know that Moray was a bachelor who was, by his own admission, married to his newspaper. So why couldn’t she focus her mind on the right man?
“If you’ll just raise your arms,” said Mrs. Parkem, rucking up the skirt of a turquoise dress edged in black piping.
Caroline did as she was told and waited as the dressmaker settled it on her shoulders and at her waist before buttoning her up.
Mrs. Parkem stepped back to examine her and then nodded. “That will do nicely. Out you go.”
A little shove at her back sent Caroline stepping from behind the lacquered screen that had been set up in Elsie’s drawing room to serve as a makeshift dressing room for the morning’s fitting.