Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  Miles snorted. “Not for a moment. In spite of her weakness, Mother could not stop talking about her new acquaintance and her unmarried daughter. I knew by the time we returned home that she was going to find a way to bring us together, and it seems your own mother has been thinking along the same lines.”

  Rebecca felt a release of tension. Smiling, she looked up at him, “Thank you for not mentioning our previous meeting. Mother would have ripped up at me for not telling her.”

  He grinned. “Mine dragged it out of me. But I insisted it was nothing more than a brief conversation about the St. George window. Apparently that was more than enough to get her started, however.”

  “Mothers!” Rebecca shook her head in mock irritation.

  They grinned at each other and strolled in amiable silence to the point where the Pulteney Bridge met Grand Parade.

  “I quite understand why my mother wishes to throw me in your path, as she has told me quite frankly that she doesn’t believe I shall ever find a husband who is not twice my age with a passel of motherless children. She must view you as the answer to her prayers.” She tilted her head to study his face. “What I cannot fathom is why your mother is so determined for us to make a match of it when we have only just met.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she forestalled him.

  “Oh, I know what you told me about your mother’s health and desire to see her grandchildren, but you are an unmarried gentleman of means possessed of a prestigious title, you are well-mannered and attractive, and my mother tells me you have often graced the ballrooms of the most elite London hostesses.” She swallowed. “Surely a man of your stature may have his choice of any young lady he fancies. I cannot comprehend why your mother would favor a nobody—someone like me, even before making my acquaintance.”

  She risked a glance and saw that he was looking at her incredulously with his mouth gaping open. Oh dear.

  Clearing her throat, she added quickly. “Please pardon me. I should not presume to ask such a personal question on such brief acquaintance.” Her throat felt constricted and she wished she could disappear from the face of the earth.

  He closed his mouth and steered her toward a wrought iron bench in front of the Guildhall. Once they had been seated, he looked her directly in the eye.

  “My dear Miss MacPherson, you have not offended. We are newly acquainted, but I wish you will never again apologize for speaking frankly. It is a trait I have not often found in the ladies I’ve met, and I find it quite pleasing. Do you believe I should prefer to sit here and make small talk about the weather and the company in Bath this summer or speculate on the sex of Princess Charlotte’s anticipated offspring?”

  Rebecca laughed shakily. “Since you put it that way, no, I suppose not.”

  “No indeed. My astonishment—if you discerned it from my expression—stems from your perception of yourself as a less than desirable marriage partner.”

  Rebecca felt a fluttery feeling go through her belly. “But-but surely you can see for yourself! My figure—I’m rather too large here—” she waved her hand over her bosom— “I’m not tall and slender and beautiful like my sisters. Brunettes are out of fashion, I can’t sing or play, and I’m not witty or charming.” She sighed. “And I’ve had four Seasons. Four!”

  He smiled faintly as he looked at her. “Anything else?”

  She felt a sudden lightness in her being as she confided all her self-doubts to him and he didn’t appear shocked or repelled.

  “Yes,” she said. Might as well get it all out. “I’m not graceful. I’m… clumsy, actually. That is, I drop things, run into things, trip over things, break things. And people too,” she added.

  He chuckled. “You break people? I’m curious to know how you’ve managed to do that.”

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing herself. “No, of course not. I break things and run into people. Why, just last month I ran into Lady Alicia Howland and spilled lemonade all over her lovely gown—lemonade spots, you know—and she chided me for eating too many bonbons, and…”

  Looking into his laughing eyes, she suddenly saw the humor in it, and smiled in spite of herself.

  Miles shook his head. “For all that she’s a duke’s daughter, Lady Alicia is a spoiled brat who needs a good set-down, preferably sooner than later. All that matters to ladies like her are things like gowns and beaux and parties where she can command everyone’s attention. I’ve met dozens—perhaps hundreds—of young ladies like that who can sing and play and dance and chatter away like magpies, but I cannot imagine a single one I’d want to see across the breakfast table every morning for the rest of my life. I don’t like them, you see, and I think one should at least like the woman one marries. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course. But—”

  “But what? I should care about such things as beauty and accomplishments? I don’t know why. I’m well aware that my appearance is average at best, and it suits me well that it be so. And while I have exemplary connections on my father’s side, my mother was a mere vicar’s daughter. Neither of us is impressed by lofty titles. I should like my wife to be amiable, well-mannered, of good character, and honest. And if she happens to be attractive—as indeed you are, Miss MacPherson—so much the better.”

  Rebecca blushed. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. Could he really be saying that he was attracted… to her? Of course not! He was just being polite.

  “You are very kind, Your Grace.”

  His head tilted to the side as he studied her face. “I hope you do not believe I deal in Spanish coin, my dear. I speak the truth when I say that you are an attractive woman—in your own unique way.”

  “Well, in that case, thank you.”

  He inclined his head.

  “But you are a duke! Don’t you think you should ask for more in a wife than-than an ordinary person like me?” She bit her lip. “Of course, I realize we aren’t speaking of me specifically, but someone like me.”

  He smirked. “Do you mean you weren’t proposing to me?”

  She poked him in the arm with her elbow. “Of course not! I should never do such a thing! I just meant… well, perhaps you should… As a duke, you could be much more particular in your choice of wife.”

  He tilted his head and rubbed his chin absently. “I see. Yes, yes, you are correct. There are other qualities I would expect my wife—this fictitious person—to have.”

  He turned to look at her in a speculative manner, and frowned. Her heart fell.

  “Yes?”

  “She must be a proficient gardener. My mother would never put her prize roses in the hands of someone with a brown thumb.”

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Anything else?”

  He scratched his head. “She should like children, of course.” He turned to look at her. “Do you like children, Miss MacPherson?”

  A chuckle escaped her. “Of course. Who doesn’t like children?” She couldn’t recall ever before enjoying a conversation so much.

  “You might be surprised,” he said under his breath. In a louder voice: “Most important of all, she must wish to be married. Do you wish to marry, Miss MacPherson, or should you prefer—if you had the choice of it—to remain single and travel the world like Lady Hester Stanhope?”

  “Well, since you ask, I would like to travel and see the world as Lady Hester has done with her 22 camels of baggage, but since I have neither a title nor an uncle who was Prime Minister, I shall economize by requiring five camels only—ten at the outside—and to be sure, I shall not propose marriage to any Arab potentates.”

  When they had finished laughing, she added, “In truth I have no desire to emulate Lady Hester. As I mentioned before, I should enjoy to travel to the Continent at some point in my life, but like most women, I aspire to marriage and a home of my own and children to fuss over. Since you asked,” she said hastily.

  “I know,” he said easily, “you don’t mean it as an offer of marriage.”

  He rose and
offered his hand to her. “I find myself feeling quite let down not to have had a marriage proposal after all. In what way do my qualifications fall short?”

  Rebecca took his arm and pretended to ponder as they made their way back to the Pulteney Bridge and the tea shop.

  “Is it my hair?” he asked in feigned anxiety. “Carroty hair is not at all the fashion, I know.”

  She shook her head. “I’m half Scot. We have many ginger-heads in the family.”

  He gave a sigh of relief, then turned to her again. “What is it, then? I’m a fair dancer, have all my teeth, and don’t drink to excess.”

  She paused mid-walk and stared up at him. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m far too short for you. You require someone much taller.”

  He pretended to consider her remark, and then shook his head. “No,” he responded. “My father always told me the wee, compact ladies are the better bargain as they cost less to feed and run slower and are therefore easier to catch.”

  Rebecca’s hands dropped to her sides. “He did not say that!”

  He nodded. “Indeed he did.”

  He took her arm and continued walking. “I haven’t mentioned that my father was something of an irreverent rogue, have I?”

  A warmth spread throughout her body. “Like father, like son,” she said.

  She couldn’t remember ever before enjoying a walk so much.

  Chapter 4

  24 July 1817

  Theatre Royal

  Bath, Somerset

  “What do you think of the play?” The question was hushed and barely discernible over the din of the boisterous audience.

  Rebecca turned her head slightly to the right to meet the smiling eyes of her escort in the semi-darkness of the theater.

  “Is there a play? I fear I can only make out the commanding tones of the lead actor.”

  “I suppose the play is of little consequence, since it was Mr. Edmund Kean that we have all come to see. I saw him in Othello at Drury Lane, and the theater was utterly silent at the end when he strangled Desdemona.”

  “Indeed. An imposing actor, despite his lack of stature,” Rebecca whispered back. “It is as though he really is Mr. Frugal. I shouldn’t like to play Desdemona in that ghastly scene.”

  Miles raised his eyebrows and squeezed her hand, which he had been holding since the interval. Discreetly, of course, but Rebecca suspected that their mothers, seated behind them, had not failed to notice. No doubt they were both brimming over with delight as they saw the blossoming of affection between their respective offspring.

  Rebecca was still hesitant to call it a courtship, although it was certainly the closest she had ever come to one. They liked each other, certainly, and had been seen so often in each other’s company in past weeks that it was causing tongues to wag about “the third MacPherson sister’s astonishing coup.” Other than smiles and and an escalation of friendly touches—and the sort of lighthearted banter they had shared from their first meeting—there was no hint of anything more serious than friendship. Outwardly, that is.

  For her part, Rebecca knew she was falling in love with Miles. She’d never been in love before, not in four long Seasons of waltzing with elegant London gentlemen well-practiced in the art of charming young ladies. Although not possessed of the sort of looks that would cause delicate young ladies to swoon, his charm had the advantage of apparent sincerity. He didn’t write sonnets in praise of her eyes, but she rather thought he admired them because he gazed into them so often. When he handed her out of a carriage, he held her hand slightly longer than was strictly proper. And although thus far his kisses had been restricted to her gloved hand, she thought she saw him look longingly at her lips on several occasions.

  She touched her lips with her gloved hand as she reflected on what it might feel like to be kissed by Miles. Certainly nothing like the wet one forced on her by the vicar’s son behind a potted plant at a local assembly when she was sixteen. She’d been careful to stay away from dark corners after that distasteful experience. Kissing between unmarried partners was improper, of course, and had been known to force marriages, but she was aware that many young ladies enjoyed kissing. Her sisters, for example.

  Both Alice and Arabella were well-known as flirts and considered fast in some circles, Rebecca knew. But they had the beauty and popularity to carry it off, or so it seemed to her. The other ladies might look down their noses, but the gentlemen flocked after them in droves. Alice boasted that she had kissed men of every rank, including two earls. Arabella claimed she had nearly snagged one from the Prince Regent, had not been for Lady Conyngham’s untimely interruption.

  At the impressionable age of twelve, Rebecca had been shocked by these assertions, but also a little intrigued. What was it about a touch of lips that could be so deliciously scandalous? In all the Minerva Press novels, the kiss was so powerful as to cause the lady to faint with emotion and her true love to whisk her up in his arms and carry her away for the unseen culmination of their love. Somehow the experience of the vicar’s son’s prodding tongue in her mouth had not lived up to her expectations.

  Unconsciously licking her lips, she glanced to her left to see Miles’ blue eyes, darkened she assumed from the obscurity of the theater, focused intently on her mouth. The thought that she might have unconsciously revealed her thoughts caused her to feel disoriented for a moment, and she looked away quickly. He squeezed her hand again and she felt reassured enough to risk another glimpse. This time his face was turned toward the stage, although the smile on his face was inappropriate for the murder scene being played out on the stage.

  She swallowed and tried to slow down her racing heartbeat. As much as she wished to believe that Miles might reciprocate her feelings, there was still a part of her that scoffed at the idea.

  Do you really believe a man of his eligibility could ever love an ordinary girl like you? A short, pudgy little thing who has failed to take in four Seasons? The only reason you have a chance of landing a duke is because he needs a wife to please his mother. After she’s gone, he’ll depart for a tour of the globe, leaving you to raise the children and make excuses to your family for his continued absence.

  Most girls would accept such an arrangement without a qualm. A wealthy duchess with an absent husband had freedom most other women could not even aspire to. There would be clothing and jewels and luxuries beyond her imagination. The arms of London’s most elite hostesses would be outstretched in their eagerness to win her presence at their gleaming affairs. As a duchess, she would take precedence over her own sisters, who would be green with envy that their mousy little sister had landed one of the very few eligible dukes in the ton.

  Which begged the question… why hadn’t they managed to attach this one when they had the chance? She knew from previous conversations that he was two years older than they and had made his own debut to Society that same year… until his father had died. He must have met them, or at least known of them, the Golden Girls, the Reigning Queens of the ton that year. Odd that he hadn’t even mentioned them to her, except for a vague recollection of hearing about them. Rebecca made a mental note to question him about it later. Their conversations had touched very little on her sisters, except for her interactions with her niece and nephews.

  ~*~

  Miles knew he should propose to Rebecca soon. Her mother had made a point of mentioning that she and Rebecca would be expected in Kent in less than a fortnight in order to share in her elder sister’s impending confinement. His own mother beamed when she saw them together, and knowing it was in his power to give her the happiness she deserved was nearly impossible to resist. That temptation was such that it overpowered his own emotions, making them unable to discern the difference between his devotion to his mother and his feelings for Rebecca.

  There was an attraction between them—he had no doubt of that—and certainly he liked her a great deal. Her appearance was no barrier—she didn’t have the stunning good looks of her infamous sisters, but when she smiled,
she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. She had the most beautiful tawny eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and although he knew she felt herself a disappointment to her family in comparison to her sisters, she didn’t seem to dwell on it, always finding little things in life to appreciate. In company, she was content to listen more than speak, but when she was with him, her conversation came easily and naturally, and he couldn’t remember enjoying conversations so much with any other woman of his acquaintance. If he had to marry anyone, he’d prefer it to be Miss Rebecca MacPherson.

  He shifted in his chair. If he had to marry. There was the rub. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tie himself down at this point in his life. He didn’t want to marry her and then later resent her for holding him back from realizing his youthful dreams to travel the world. At thirty, he had years left to set up his nursery. Although, he reminded himself, Rebecca would almost certainly marry another in his absence. An aged widower with a dozen children, he thought resentfully. Some arrogant bloke who would never appreciate his good fortune. His body tensed and he had the completely ridiculous idea to plant the nameless widower a facer for even daring to look at his Rebecca.

  But young ladies didn’t have the luxury of putting off marriage. If he wanted her—and he decided that he did—he would have to make his offer soon, before she departed for Kent.

  Having resolved the matter, he forced himself to relax and enjoy the play. Or rather, enjoy Rebecca’s reaction to the play. City Madam wasn’t perhaps the best play for a young lady, being as it involved whores and greed and satanic rituals, but as she’d mentioned earlier, it was the brilliance of Edmund Kean that carried the play.

  “Such plays always have a moral at the end,” she mentioned as the final curtain fell. “But I’ve always thought most of us believe it applies to others rather than ourselves. Don’t you agree?”

  “I think you are right,” he said with a grin. “But I can hardly see myself as virtuous as Sir John, nor are you deserving of such a set-down as the Frugal ladies received.”