Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  “The afternoons I remember well.” He took a half step closer to her and bent his head toward hers. “It’s the steps I’ve forgotten.”

  “Truly?”

  Benedict’s eyes trailed down toward his shoes. “Yes, well, there isn’t much call for a reel or a quadrille in the middle of an ancient ruin, is there?”

  “I suppose not. “ Honoria’s mouth curved into a slow smile as an idea popped into her head. “But if you’re in Town to stay, you’ll need to re-acquire that skill.”

  She must have looked more mischievous than she realized because he straightened abruptly. “You sound like Lady Whitby.”

  “Is she the one you were hiding from?”

  “I was not hiding.”

  The couple nearest them turned for a moment, and Honoria offered what she hoped was an apologetic look before tugging Benedict into motion. “Very well, you weren’t hiding. But is the lady in question acting...rather too zealously for your taste?”

  “That would be the most polite way to describe her efforts, yes.” They walked along without speaking for a few paces before Benedict inched closer again. “What do you know about it?”

  Honoria patted his sleeve. “I know only what news your mother has passed along to my stepmother, and that mainly consisted of your continued health and bachelorhood.”

  His gaze snapped to hers as if he’d been startled by her words. When he coughed and forced a smile, she knew she’d caught him out.

  “Ah, so that’s what Lady Whitby is after. She wants to see you wed.”

  “‘To a woman of good breeding, with a pretty face and a head for details’,” he quoted in an unnaturally high voice. He cleared his throat and resumed his own tenor. “The succession must be secured, of course.”

  Honoria grimaced, her gaze drifting toward the people in front of them. “A familiar tale in my home as well. ‘You’re eight-and-twenty, Honoria. If you weren’t a duke’s daughter no gentleman would even give you the time of day’.”

  “Is eight-and-twenty really so old?”

  She glanced up at the rather plaintive note in his voice, recalling too late that he was the same age. “It is for a woman. It’s ancient for an unmarried woman.”

  “Then why haven’t you married?”

  An impertinent question if there ever was one. And one that she was not prepared to discuss in the middle of a grand ball.

  “We were talking about you.” She spied a set of open French windows ahead and inclined her head toward them. “Why don’t we go out onto the terrace after all...that is, if there are no longer indecent acts being performed out there. I may have an idea that will help you, and we’ll want a little privacy to talk.”

  He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded once and led her out into the night. The darkness was tempered by torches lit at regular intervals along the balustrade and a gibbous moon rising over the horizon.

  Beside her Benedict breathed deeply in, exhaling with a gentle “Ah.”

  The cool air felt wonderful on Honoria’s heated skin. But rather than say so she took the opportunity to tease him a little. “Too much for you in there?”

  “I’d forgotten what a ballroom full of people smelled like. So many bodies crowded together, and every single one of them wearing some sort of fragrance. It’s...oppressive. It pushes down upon one until the body can bear it no more.”

  They found a stone bench to one side and Honoria sat, arranging her skirts about her. “You miss Greece, don’t you?”

  He settled down next to her, his posture relaxing. “I do. But I didn’t mean to be so vulgar about it. Please accept my apologies.”

  “There is no need to apologize to me for speaking frankly. You’ve said worse than that in my hearing, and I’m quite sure I have in yours. Or have you forgotten the time we ‘liberated’ that bottle of wine when we were fifteen?”

  “I remember it well. You drank half of it before I could get through a glassful—”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “—and the next day you proceeded to describe to me in great detail just how very vile you felt.”

  He was laughing now, not a polite chuckle but a sound of genuine amusement. Honoria felt herself laughing along with him. “And you did the same. If memory serves, you even told me how many times you cast up your accounts.”

  His eyes rolled skyward. “Promise me you won’t tell Lady Whitby that story. I would never hear the end of her etiquette lessons.”

  Honoria turned toward him, searching his face in the low light. “Has she been that meddlesome, then?”

  Benedict shook his head, meeting her gaze as his mouth drew down into a more sober expression. “No. Well yes, she has, but I am trying not to mind—she simply has a vested interested in my future nuptials and wants to ensure they take place.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  Honoria held her breath for a moment and waited. They used to tell each other everything, but when Benedict had put actual distance between them by sailing away to the Continent, an emotional distance had been created as well. It was one thing to share a fond memory, but what of the present?

  His brows crowded together, the way they had when he’d thought intensely about something as a younger man. “She is the wife of a peer, and has given him no son to inherit. Nor likely will she.”

  “And so she’s turned to matchmaking for you.”

  Her voice was soft and, when Benedict didn’t respond, she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her. But then he nodded, bowing his head slightly. “She has.”

  “For her good, if not yours.” Honoria grasped the stone bench with both her hands. “Well, I did say that I had an idea for you.”

  He straightened, his hair catching the torchlight—it had lightened considerably during his years away to a soft sandy brown. “I’m listening.”

  “You need to find a wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t dance.”

  His large hands clapped down over his knees. “What does one thing have to do with the other?”

  Honoria put on the air of patient authority she used when conversing with her eight-year-old half-brother. “You must dance with a lady in order to court her. How else will you determine if you can even stand her company?”

  “Can I not talk to her?”

  Honoria shook her head, setting the ringlets on either side of her face to swaying. “Talking is not enough. One only discovers a person’s true character when one speaks with that person alone. But when does a gentleman have the opportunity to speak alone with a lady?”

  “We’re alone now.”

  She looked for the twitching of his lips or crinkling of his eyes to suggest he was being facetious, but his serious expression remained fixed.

  “We are. But how much longer will that last, do you think? How long before my stepmother begins to look for me?” Her fingers clenched the bench seat with more force. “And what would happen to my reputation if we were found together out here?”

  “I see your point.”

  “Dancing accomplishes so much more. There is time for talking, of course, but there is also a chance to flirt, and to touch. One can study a partner’s appearance without being rude or vulgar, and discover if said partner is graceful or clumsy or featherbrained or bookish.”

  Benedict sighed. “It’s a necessity, then.”

  “Yes. And I will teach you.”

  “You?”

  She tilted her head slightly to the side. “Me. Or you’ll have to hire a dancing master.”

  She watched his fingers tense on his knees as he digested that bit of information. But he didn’t reply.

  A light breeze rustled the flowers in the garden nearby. The torch flames flickered, casting peculiar shadows across the terrace. Then all was still once more—including Benedict. She waited for several more minutes but he remained silent.

  “Think it over, why don’t you?” Honoria rose from the bench and smoothed the fine cambric of her
gown. “Take me driving tomorrow, and we can discuss it further if you like.”

  Benedict stood and offered her his arm. “I’ll call for you at four.”

  He fell quiet again escorting her back into the house, and she wondered if she’d offended him. No one liked to dwell on his own deficiencies, certainly. But the Benedict she knew six years ago would have teased her in return about a shortcoming of her own.

  Clearly, he was no longer the man he’d once been.

  “Honoria?”

  She blinked herself out of her musings. “Yes?”

  “I would marry you, you know.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “If we were caught together. If I compromised you.” His eyes met hers in the half-light. “And not just because I’m looking for a wife now. I would have then, too.”

  He didn’t have to explain when then was. She knew he was thinking of the day her mother died. He never did tell her how he’d gained entry into the house or how he found her bedchamber without disturbing anyone, but he’d managed to do both late that night. He’d sat with her and held her hand as she had talked of her mother, then cradled her against him when she’d wept. Only when she had calmed did either of them realize the potential for an immense scandal his presence caused. And even then he’d stayed with her until she fell asleep.

  Her fingers tightened on his sleeve in response. Perhaps some of the old Benedict still existed after all.

  Chapter 2

  Benedict glanced at Honoria out of the corner of his eye. She sat perfectly straight on the seat beside him with the skirt of her green dress arranged neatly about her. Her shoulders were relaxed, her hands were carefully folded around a reticule in her lap, and a small smile formed on her lips whenever she wasn’t talking.

  How did she do that?

  They were driving in Whitby’s curricle through Hyde Park—which is to say they were creeping slowly along in a throng of traffic, looking at other people and being looked at themselves. The driving itself was not a problem, nor even the barely discernible progress along Rotten Row. The sun shone down upon them and the air was still, allowing Benedict to preserve a degree of masculinity and forgo wearing his greatcoat to keep warm. The horses, too, were agreeable: well-matched bays with a calm temperament, quite used to the hustle and bustle of the fashionable hour.

  But personal scrutiny under any circumstances made him squirm. Here he felt like one of the Egyptian sculptures on display at the British Museum.

  “Ah, Lord and Lady Tiverton. Good afternoon.” Honoria discreetly tapped his arm three times, using a system they’d worked out beforehand to indicate the social importance of people they met. One tap was lowest among the ton; five taps meant prestige nearly on par with the Prince Regent himself.

  Benedict gave a respectful nod to the couple in the slowly approaching barouche. “Lord Tiverton, Lady Tiverton.”

  “Lady Honoria, how does your father?” Lord Tiverton leaned toward the edge of his carriage, and his driver called the horses to a halt. “I have not seen him in Town yet.”

  Benedict tugged his own horses’ reins as Honoria answered. “His Grace elected to remain in the country, my lord.”

  “Did he? For how long? I was hoping he would come with me to Tattersall’s this month—no one knows horseflesh like the Duke of Alston.”

  Honoria’s expression remained serene, but her body shifted slightly on the curricle seat. “I am not certain when he plans to return. But I will convey your wish when I write to him next.”

  Lord Tiverton frowned. “Perhaps I will write him myself as well.”

  She shifted again. “I am sure he would be pleased to hear from you.”

  They said their good-byes and resumed their tortoise-like pace. Honoria continued to acknowledge passersby with courteous nods, but Benedict noted that her smile was no longer the easy affectation it had been.

  “Do you really not know when your father is coming to Town?” he asked in a quiet voice, the better to put off potential eavesdroppers. “It has been an age since I saw him last.”

  And there it was again—that slight movement of Honoria’s person on the seat beside him, as if she were trying to ease an uncomfortable position without drawing attention to the action.

  “No, I don’t. He does not keep me apprised of all his plans.”

  “But I should think he would tell his only daughter when he would see her again.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Honoria took a breath and let it out slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was bright with just a hint of scolding. “Why didn’t you speak to Lord and Lady Tiverton? They don’t have a daughter, but Lady Tiverton could certainly introduce to you any number of eligible ladies.”

  Benedict kept his eyes on the horses. “I didn’t get a chance to speak to them. You and Lord Tiverton carried the whole conversation...all two minutes of it.”

  He felt her tap his arm twice and automatically looked to the curricle drawing near carrying two well dressed ladies. He nodded to the occupants, his mouth curving into what he hoped was a smile and not the grimace it felt like. The ladies acknowledged the greeting with genteel nods in return.

  When the ladies had passed, Benedict addressed Honoria in a low tone. “How does your father, anyway? Has he taken one of his turns again? Is that why he’s not in London?”

  She paled but offered an artificial smile to a gentleman on horseback as he rode by. “Yes.”

  “Then why not say so to Lord Tiverton? His lordship knows about your father’s delicate health—indeed, the whole of the ton knows.”

  Benedict turned to look at Honoria, really look at her. Her smile was still pasted on, but one hand clutched her reticule as if she feared someone would rip it from her, and her posture was rigid. Her eyes, too, refused to meet his. “Something has changed since last I was home.”

  “Not here.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. She took another breath and continued with more authority. “There is a path a little way ahead. Turn down there—we’ll be away from prying ears, but still properly within sight of the Row.”

  He returned his attention to the horses and did as instructed, ignoring oncoming conveyances despite Honoria’s arm tapping. What use was small talk when a real problem was afoot?

  When they were safely out of earshot, Benedict stopped the curricle and turned to Honoria.

  “What has happened with your father?”

  “What are you doing? We can’t just sit here—everyone can see us!”

  Benedict felt his brows draw together. “I thought that was the point.”

  “But we must appear as though everything is exactly as it should be. If we sit here in the middle of the path talking, all of society will know something is wrong.”

  “If we drive any further along this path, we’ll be alone and out of sight. I didn’t even bring a tiger on this outing—you’ll be compromised.”

  She shook her head and gestured with one hand. “It loops around behind those trees, but comes out again over there. We can stop at the trees to talk and only be out of sight for a few moments.”

  That didn’t sound exactly proper to Benedict, but what did he know about it? He’d been focused on stone statues for the last six years, not society gossips. He took up the reins and guided the horses to the place Honoria had indicated.

  “Here?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Will you tell me what’s happened now?”

  Her lips pressed together in a thin line and her gaze settled on a spot just to the left of his shoulder. But she didn’t speak.

  He reached for her hand and clasped it in his larger one, a gesture from their past he hoped she would remember. Words had always been easier for both of them to find when they were touching.

  A smile flickered on her lips—recognition of their old form of reassurance or amusement because Benedict had forgotten to wear gloves?—before fading away. “Papa is ill again, yes. But it’s different this time...worse. He can no longer walk the length
of a room without stopping to catch his breath, and he’s been coughing terribly. His physician says his heart is not beating normally, either, and that he complains of severe fatigue.”

  “Yet you came to London without him.” It wasn’t an accusation, but a statement of fact.

  “He sent me away.” Honoria’s palm pressed against his, and he could feel the cold of her skin permeating her glove. “He is sure this is his end and wants to see me settled before he dies. I have the means to live independently, but Papa believes the world is a dangerous place for a female with no gentleman to protect her.”

  “And your brother is still a child. His Grace is right to worry.” Benedict covered their clasped hands with his free one, trying to infuse some warmth into her chilly fingers. “You and I were once like family—you must know that I would always come to your aid should you need me.”

  “Certainly you would, if you were in the country.”

  He glanced down at their hands balanced on her knee and felt a twinge of regret. “I’m here now.”

  “But for how long? And what if something were to happen to you? Then I’d be right back where I am now, without even a widow’s rights.”

  “So His Grace sent you here for the Season to find a husband.”

  He looked up just as her eyes darted to his. “Yes. But Benedict, who would I marry? This is my eleventh Season and I have yet to find a gentleman I could even spend an evening with, let alone a lifetime. Who could I trust enough to place all my worldly goods—and my very person—under his rule?”

  “I could help you search.” When she arched a dark eyebrow at him he drew back one hand. “I may not be familiar with the niceties of the beau monde, but I know a dishonorable man when I meet one.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Her mouth curved into a wry smile, and her voice regained a note of her old self-assurance. “But I have a plan that will work for both of us.”