Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  “You think he’ll come to the conclusion all on his own that I’m courting you.”

  “I do.” Her grip on his hand became tighter. “And he’ll be so far beyond disappointment when we aren’t actually wed that I think it might break his heart.”

  Which would be bad enough by itself. What if such distress had ill effects on His Grace’s already uncertain health as well?

  “We could end the ruse now. It’s earlier than we had planned but you were always going to throw me over anyway.”

  She tucked a curl behind one ear. “Do you think you’re polished enough to go the rest of the Season alone?”

  “It would undoubtedly be easier with your help,” he said, running his thumb across the back of her hand. “But I could manage. I suspect there are some ladies out there who like a little shyness in a gentleman.”

  Honoria grinned. “Oh, there definitely are such ladies. It’s endearing when a gentleman summons up all his courage just for you, even when it’s only to ask for a dance.”

  “If I could find but one that suited me, I’ll have attained my goal. And my dancing has improved—I can waltz as well as anyone.”

  “You can.” Her gaze drifted away from his, a little unfocused. “And your country dance figures are passable.”

  “The rest of the dances I can just sit out. Or take a turn about the room with a lady.”

  Her fingers loosened around his hand. “As long as you don’t take her out onto the terrace alone.”

  “I would never do so—unless it was the lady’s idea.” He winked, but she wasn’t looking. What was buzzing around in that head of hers? “There’s another option to consider. We could truly become betrothed.”

  Her eyes flew back to his and her mouth formed a little O—he’d startled her with those words. Well, blast it, he’d startled himself, too. Certainly he’d been thinking about it, but he hadn’t intended to address the subject like this.

  “It would solve all of our problems,” he explained, wondering if he was trying to convince her or himself. “I would have a wife perfectly suited to become the next Marchioness of Whitby, and you would have a husband to take care of you.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Benedict held up his free hand to stop her. “I know that His Grace is on the mend, but I also know that he’ll still be adamant you find a husband. He survived this last bout of illness, but he may not survive the next.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” she conceded. “I can hear him now, cajoling me to ‘see reason’ as he always puts it.”

  “His reasoning isn’t wrong, you know.”

  She ran her free hand down the material of her skirt. “Perhaps someday a world will exist where a female does not need the protection of a husband—or anybody else—if she doesn’t want it. And I know that our world isn’t so, but...”

  Her hand reached her knee and she lifted it to repeat the motion, but Benedict caught it in his. “But what?”

  She sighed and let her eyes drop to his shoulder. “But I wanted to marry for love. This is my eleventh Season, Benedict, and I’ve only encountered gentlemen who were chiefly interested in my dowry or my bloodline. How are two people supposed to build a life together when one is no better than a prized mare?”

  “Do you think that’s how I see you? As a means to money or a link to the Maitland family tree?”

  She shook her head, but still didn’t meet his gaze. “To you I am Honoria: friend, dancing master, partner in verb conjugation—”

  “—kisser of gentlemen in darkened front halls.”

  She blushed then, and Benedict watched with fascination as the color blossomed in her cheeks. When was the last time he’d seen her blush?

  “I-I didn’t think—”

  “You always were somewhat impulsive. It got you into trouble sometimes when we were children, but I have always admired that about you.”

  “You have?”

  He released one of her hands to grasp her chin, carefully turning her head so he could see her into eyes again. “I over-think things much of the time, and therefore am often slow to act. Your spontaneity helps me get out of my own head and experience things instead of just contemplating them.”

  “So you’re glad I kissed you?”

  He could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and allowed his own smile to grow. “I am. If you hadn’t, I’d quite possibly still be deciding if it was a good idea to try.” He released her chin and inched closer to her on the bed. “Did you like kissing me?”

  Her blush deepened, but she answered in a steady voice. “Yes. I don’t think I did it very well, but it was pleasurable.”

  “If we were wed, I could teach you how it’s done...and more.” He was grinning fully now—he’d always enjoyed teasing her. “I do owe you for the dancing lessons.”

  He stood abruptly, clasping both her hands and drawing her to her feet. When he dropped to one knee, her eyes went wide. “Benedict, are you really asking me to marry you?”

  “I am. We are good together, you and I, and good for each other. There is no other woman I’d rather have by my side. Honoria Maitland, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  She stood looking down on him, her face a mask of surprise. Benedict had surprised himself once again—he certainly hadn’t planned on proposing marriage to anyone today—but this time it was a good surprise. Holding Honoria’s hands in his, imagining her presiding over his home and his children, felt so very right. She’d been his best friend since they were eight years old, and he wanted to be with her always.

  But she hesitated.

  “Honoria?”

  “Yes?”

  Benedict’s brows drew together. “Was that a yes, you’ll marry me? Or yes, Honoria is your name.”

  “The second one.”

  Her voice was quiet, giving no indication of her feelings, and he began to feel ridiculous down on the floor at her feet. He stood with as much dignity as he could muster and rubbed his thumbs over both her hands.

  “Honoria, what is it? If I’ve horribly mangled this proposal, I’m very, very sorry. I’ve never asked a woman for her hand before...”

  Her lips twitched in a brief, sympathetic smile. “No, it isn’t that. Your speech was actually quite nice.”

  “Then what? Whatever it is you can tell me.”

  She squeezed his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you love me, Benedict?”

  “What?”

  “I told you I wanted to marry for love, so I’m asking if you love me.”

  A question he’d been asking himself and for which he still had no definitive answer. “If you want to marry for love, I should be asking if you love me.”

  And that was apparently not the answer she was looking for. She pulled her hands from his and moved a few steps from him, taking the apple blossom scent with her. “Don’t do that—don’t deflect, or get pedantic. Just answer the question.”

  “I care about you more than anyone else.” That was true, had always been true. “And there is clearly a physical attraction between us.” Also true, so much that it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to go to her, take her in his arms, and teach her more about kissing.

  Her back was to him and he couldn’t see her face, but her voice was flat. “But you don’t love me.”

  “I don’t know what that kind of love is, Honoria—I’ve never been in love before. I could love you like no other person in the world ever could and not be sure of it. Isn’t my respect and affection enough?”

  She was still for several agonizing moments, and Benedict finally understood her annoyance with his own long silences. How maddening it was to wait for someone to answer a simple question!

  But this question was far beyond simple.

  “No.” Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure she’d even spoken aloud until she repeated the word. “No. It’s not enough.” She turned to face him but didn’t approach, wrapping her arms around herself as if s
he were cold. “I want love, Benedict. Real, strong, can’t-mistake-it-for-anything-else love. I want to be the center of my husband’s world, and for him to be the center of mine.”

  He ventured a step toward her. “I would make you the center of my world—you practically are already.”

  “Because you need me right now. You need me with you to navigate the ocean of Polite Society, to teach you to dance, to help you say the right things to the right people. Once you’re wed, I doubt you’ll go out much and you won’t need me anymore.”

  He took another step. “I will always need you.”

  She stepped backward. “You managed for six years in Athens without me.”

  What could he say to that? He had managed without her those years, quite well in fact. He’d run Lord Elgin’s entire operation without the slightest bit of help from Honoria. And it was entirely possible that he’d be off on another project in the not too distant future. Would he need her then?

  His lack of answer must have ended the discussion for her, because she unwrapped one arm from her torso and pointed toward her bedchamber door. “You should go.”

  What? She was throwing him out? “Honoria—”

  Her voice was as flat as her expression, but she was firm. “No, Benedict. I will not marry you. Our business is concluded, and you should go now.”

  There was certainly no use in trying to argue with the lady when he had no argument she would accept, so he bowed low and left her, not even stopping to collect his hat and gloves on the way out of the house.

  ~*~

  Honoria remained standing, statute-like, staring at the empty doorway of her bedchamber. When Benedict asked her to marry him, she had for a moment envisioned herself as mistress of his modest house and mother of his children. She’d remembered the tender way he’d kissed her after the Philharmonic Society concert, and how wonderful it felt when he touched her. But when he couldn’t tell her he loved her, she knew she couldn’t go through with it.

  Her father would chide her, perhaps even scold her. He would say that Benedict was her perfect match in every way, and she was daft to refuse him. But she didn’t regret her decision—she wanted a man who loved her and would not settle for less.

  Yet tears began welling in her eyes and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself. Would their friendship survive this day? Most certainly the answer was no. Even short formal encounters at ton events would be awkward now; there was no way they’d ever be comfortable enough with each other to sit together and share confidences. Nor likely would they drive or walk or dance together again, and Honoria felt a physical pain in her chest at the realization. Benedict said he’d admired her spontaneity, but this time it cost her dearly.

  Chapter 7

  He missed her.

  O Venus, beauty of the skies,

  To whom a thousand temples rise,

  Gaily false in gentle smiles,

  Full of love-perplexing wiles;

  O goddess, from my heart remove

  The wasting cares and pains of love.

  It had been three days since Benedict’s proposal—three days that he’d spent in his library, trying to find solace in books. It was a technique that had worked countless times before, quelling homesickness when he went off to Eton and later to Cambridge, helping him escape from and work through the grief at his father’s death, calming his fears each time he boarded a ship and sailed away from safe, stable land.

  But his books brought him no comfort this time.

  It didn’t help that, in an effort to drown his misery in all things ancient, he’d stumbled across a slim volume of Greek poetry. Unable to concentrate sufficiently on the foreign words, he’d distracted himself by hunting for an English translation.

  Then he sat down to read it.

  If ever thou hast kindly heard

  A song in soft distress preferred,

  Propitious to my tuneful vow,

  O gentle goddess, hear me now.

  Who knew a person could hurt another person so badly with one single word? Had Honoria said “yes”, he would be making preparations to marry the one person in the world who had always understood him. But she’d said “no”, and his whole world had fallen apart—just when he was beginning to settle into it.

  Celestial visitant, once more

  Thy needful presence I implore.

  In pity come, and ease my grief,

  Bring my distempered soul relief

  Grief was—surprisingly—the very word to describe his emotional state. He was grieving, not for the loss of a comfortable marriage but for the loss of his closest friend, only weeks after they’d found each other again. How would he manage without her?

  Honoria had insisted that he got by in Athens without a whit of support from her, but he realized that she was wrong. She might not have been with him, but she had frequently been in his thoughts. Most of the letters he’d received from his mother had included scraps of news pertaining to Honoria. Often they were frivolous things, like the color of her new dress or the way she’d styled her hair. Sometimes there were more serious anecdotes: how she’d sat with her father when he was ill or how capably she handled the household. Whatever the tidings, they always brought a sense of warmth and affection and home.

  Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,

  And give me all my heart desires.

  He buried his face in the pages of the book. “I am an idiot.”

  “We’re all a little slow sometimes, cousin.”

  Benedict straightened to find Whitby standing alone at the door of the library. “How the devil did you get in here?”

  Whitby strode to one of the windows and threw back the closed curtains, ignoring the question. “Lady Whitby and I were worried when you failed to turn up for Eleanor’s come-out last night.”

  “What? Oh, right—your eldest’s ball. That was last night?”

  Whitby went to the other window and dragged open those curtains as well, allowing harsh sunlight to flood the room. “It was. And you disappointed her severely.” He turned to face his cousin. “When I arrived here to see what had happened to you, your valet and butler said you were in a sorry state—holed up here with your books, not speaking to anyone, having to be coaxed to bed at night, not eating or sleeping much. You look like hell, too. Have you been drinking?”

  Benedict ran a hand over the beard sprouting on his face. How long had it been since he’d shaved? “No.”

  Whitby dropped into his favorite chair. “Maybe you should. What happened?”

  “I asked Honoria to marry me.”

  Whitby rose and went to the sideboard, pouring out two measures of ouzo from the decanter. He didn’t say anything until he’d brought one glass to Benedict and returned to his chair. “That explains your new title—are you Baron Idiot, Viscount Idiot, or something a bit higher up?”

  “I believe you may have to start calling me Your Grace.” Benedict looked at the glass, then set it on the small table beside him.

  Whitby winced. “Ouch. Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to sit here and brood some more? I’m game for either, but I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

  “Ironically, this is something I would have talked to Honoria about—especially before I went to Athens. Even when I was at university we remained close.”

  “But now?”

  “But now I suspect she never wants to see me again.”

  “What did you do?”

  Benedict hung his head. “She asked me if I loved her...and I hedged.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “But it was.” Benedict planted his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. “She told me she wanted to marry for love, Whitby. Then she asked me if I loved her, and I didn’t say yes.”

  Whitby sat back in his chair and whistled. “You are an idiot, then. Anyone who’s been within a mile of you two knows you’re in love with her.”

  Benedict’s hands scrubbed through his tangled hair. “Well,
I didn’t figure that out until today.”

  “And if you explain that to her now, it will look like you’re telling her what she wants to hear to get her to the altar.”

  “Precisely.”

  Whitby grinned. “Did I ever tell you how many times I proposed before Lady Whitby accepted? It was four. Four times I asked her for her hand, and four times she turned me down. I don’t even remember the reasons she gave—you’ll have to ask her, she tells the story better than I do—but she damn near broke my heart each time. I almost didn’t try again, but I’d discovered that life was invariably sweeter when I was with her. And there’s that stubborn streak that runs in the family, too—I had to try one more time.”

  “I’m not asking for Honoria’s hand five times, cousin.”

  Whitby’s grin turned into a laugh. “You will if she keeps turning you down.”

  Benedict groaned. “How did you even find the courage to talk to her again? Or to go out in public when the whole of the ton knew what happened?”

  Whitby’s expression faded into something more serious. “I knew she was worth it. I didn’t care what I had to go through, I just needed her with me.”

  Benedict blew out a heavy sigh. “I do love her, but I don’t know if I can handle another rejection.”

  “You’ve not recovered yet from this one,” Whitby said, rising from his chair and ambling the few steps to his cousin. He clapped a hand on Benedict’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Take some more time with Homer, or whatever you’re reading. Drink some ouzo, or whisky, or lemonade if it makes you feel better. When you’re ready, try again.”

  “It’s Sappho. And next time I’ll have a solid plan.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Whitby smiled, giving his cousin another pat. “A better plan gives you a better chance.”