by Rose Lerner
She looked sorry, but—a little cynical too, as if the sad ending sounded inevitable to her, and that gave him the courage to confess the worst of it.
“But what I did do, was wait until our last day at Oxford and tell him that I wouldn’t be taking rooms with him in London like we’d planned, and I wouldn’t be sleeping with him anymore, and I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my life with him. And then I disappeared to go design a folly in Cornwall.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t follow you,” she said neutrally.
“He did.” Simon felt worn out. “But I went—” He could barely admit it, it was so awful. “I even went with him to buy a carpet for those imaginary rooms in London, and I knew all the while that I was leaving. Clement’s been awfully forgiving. I just wish I could be more forgiving back.”
“If you don’t say no with your mouth, you end up saying it with your heart.” She pressed her fingers tiredly into one eye. “Sometimes Meyer...don’t repeat this. To anyone.”
“On my honor.”
Her lips twitched a little at that. He supposed poor people didn’t swear on their honor. “Sometimes we have a conversation and I think, I haven’t done anything but make encouraging murmurs for the last hour and you haven’t noticed. He comes home and I say How are you? and he tells me and forgets to ask me back.” She turned away, her Puritan straw hat hiding her face so all he could see was her mouth. “I know if I talked, he would listen. If I told him how I felt, he’d care. But I want him to ask me. And when he doesn’t, I can’t think of anything I want to say after all. Sometimes I think the heart is a small angry child.”
His first thought was I would notice. I would ask you how you were. Dangerous, stupid. A bead of sweat rolled down her neck and nestled in her collarbone. All at once Clement was the farthest thing from his mind, and he didn’t feel worn out at all. He felt roaringly awake. The vines smelled like summer. She would smell like summer if he—
She sighed. “And here I am keeping you from your work after all. What sort of site is appropriate for a Gothic ruin?”
* * *
Simon had paid very little attention to Maggie for the last hour, pausing in his sketches of this or that prospect only to ask if she was very bored, and receive assurances that she was not. Fortunately she really wasn’t, having borrowed Mrs. Edgeworth’s Castle Rackrent from the Throckmorton library in anticipation of this very situation. It had been highly recommended to her notice by several gentlemen at Number Eighteen, none of whom had thought to mention that Sir Kit forced his young Jewish wife to eat bacon and locked her in her room for seven years. Maggie was reading along, heart in her throat, when Simon asked, “What do you think?”
She stuck a finger reluctantly in her book and closed it. “Of what?”
“Of this prospect for a ruin. There.” They had paused several minutes ago on a curving path along a lake, bordered on the lakeshore by grass and on the other side by a rather comical line of small round bushes. Simon pointed out a clearing on the far shore, backed by trees. “Clement loves this lake. Of course you wouldn’t be able to see it from every direction, but it would be visible all along this shore and the approach would be beautiful, if I could contrive a shape pleasing through a hundred and eighty degrees.”
Maggie tried to think of other ornamental gardens she had seen. “Will it reflect in the water?”
“That’s the idea.” He beamed, very happy and handsome. “I shall have to make it white stone or red brick, to achieve the best effect.”
“Wouldn’t it be odd for medieval folks to have fronted a large building quite so close to the lake, though? Does that matter?”
He shrugged. “My father might think so—he’s an antiquarian—but I don’t. It isn’t intended to fool people, only to be beautiful. No Greeks built temples in England either, and that doesn’t stop anyone. This lake wasn’t even here in medieval times. Clement’s grandfather put it in.”
She blinked, though she ought to have guessed it. Somehow every fresh proof of just how wide the gulf yawned between Maggie and the men who frequented her club was as incredible as the first. “Do you have any false lakes at your childhood home?”
He laughed. That struck her afresh, too, how darling his laugh was: a gravelly tenor heh heh heh. It wasn’t fair! “There were a few in the neighborhood, but my father is the rector of Wath-upon-Dearne in South Yorkshire. I would guess Clement to be the richest of us, and me the poorest.”
An Anglican minister. “Is he very pious?” Why should it make her uneasy to think it would break his family’s heart if he married her? She had never imagined herself his wife, meeting his family. She had wanted one night, and got a fortnight of petty humiliations devoid of pleasure instead.
“Not especially, no. In England the clergy is generally more of a profession than a religious calling. A great deal is arranged through the church, you know. Marriages, births, deaths, poor relief. He takes that very seriously. But he leaves religious fervor to the Evangelicals.”
“And your mother?”
He laughed again. “God, no. She’s a Deist of the old school, though all us children are under oath not to mention the fact to my father’s parishioners. Don’t bring up Thomas Paine to her if you want to get away within the half hour.”
She was abruptly annoyed. “I don’t imagine the opportunity will arise.”
He looked away. “It was a figure of speech.”
Silence stretched awkwardly. She wished she hadn’t been so churlish; she had no desire to introduce him to her mother, either.
“I’ll come back tomorrow with watercolors,” he said at last, leading them back toward the house. “A sketch every four hours, I should think, from sunrise to sunset.” He frowned. “It will be awfully dull for you. If you’d rather spend the day with the others...”
She considered it. A day of games, society, and probably appeasing her lust with one or more of Throckmorton’s guests, or a day of watching Simon paint watercolors of the same spot over and over.
There was something terribly and inexplicably attractive about that idea.
“I’ll sleep through sunrise, I think,” she said. “And perhaps the one after that. But you may count on me for luncheon and thereafter. I’ll borrow a few more novels.”
His pleased expression warmed her.
They came within sight of the house. Throckmorton perched on the terrace balustrade making notes in a little book. Managing his treasure hunt, no doubt. He raised his hand in eager greeting when he saw Simon.
A wild, possessive impulse seized her. The viscount was snide and a bother and Simon didn’t belong to him, whatever Throckmorton thought. She caught at Simon’s arm as he raised it in answer. “Maybe we should kiss,” she said in a rush. “Just once, for show, to cement the pretense.”
“Right,” he answered slowly. “Of course. As we talked about in the carriage.”
“Exactly.”
He gave a jerky little nod.
She took hold of his lapels and kissed him.
Chapter 4
* * *
Simon stood rigidly straight, kissing her back with only a slight stirring of his lips, but his chest rose and fell sharply against her knuckles. So Maggie curled a hand around the back of his neck and touched her mouth to his again, hope wriggling in her stomach like a fish.
His mouth opened beneath hers with a gasp, his arms curving around her shoulders. His splayed fingers lifted her against him gently, making her throat close as if she’d swallowed honey. Sweetness pooled between her legs and sparkled like sugar in her chest. Their tongues met; he tasted like the wine in the picnic basket currently dangling from his hand and knocking against her knees.
When she pulled back, his fingers tightened—but he said ruefully, “I think we shouldn’t do that again. I liked it too much.”
She smiled at his dazed expression, feeling sad and triumphant at once. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
His bark of laughter was startled, appalled
, or maybe just strangled. But he tangled his fingers with hers as they went back toward the house, swinging their hands between them. It might have been for Throckmorton’s benefit, but it felt friendly.
* * *
The quiet of the lakeshore at dawn, the grass wet with dew and the first rays of sunlight gilding the cool lake, had convinced Simon his choice of location was a right one. He was filled with tired, confident peace: a rare and highly enjoyable occurrence. A couple hours more of sleep before his eight o’clock drawing would be just the thing.
His watercolor had dried on his way back to the house. Holding it by one corner, he slipped his boots off in the corridor and entered the bedroom in his stocking feet, smothering a yawn. The curtains were drawn, but enough light filtered in to faintly illuminate the bed.
He stopped, as if he had opened the door onto a stiff wind.
Maggie’s face was half-buried in the pillow and a lumpy heap of counterpane covered most of her, but her arms were stretched out toward his empty side of the bed. One bare leg emerged from beneath the quilt. Her cap had slipped in the night, and a slice of dark hair and two long rag-ends peeked out. When he had come in last night, fifteen minutes after she retired, she’d been dampening her hair at the basin, rolling it into curls, and tying it up with strips of rag.
Somehow it was so much harder to resist her in the dim light of morning, with this sleepy quiet in his heart. Or—not to resist her, for she was only sleeping, and offered no arguments or seduction. But his own attraction to her drifted up and he couldn’t find the energy to quash it. If she woke now and smiled, he would go to her.
Yesterday’s kiss still rattled around inside him like a marble in an empty box.
He stripped to his shirt and pantaloons and climbed into bed. Her outflung hands were inches from his face; he could smell her juices on them.
Her eyes opened when his weight settled on the mattress, but she squeezed them shut again and turned her face into the pillow, curling inward.
His disappointment was crushing.
* * *
“Mona,” Clement said diffidently. There was no one else at breakfast, though it was past ten. Simon supposed everyone had been up late, and probably drunk their own weight in brandy besides. Clement himself was pale, his eyes bloodshot and his movements careful.
Simon’s heart clenched. You should take better care of yourself. But if Clement ever did, it would be in his own time. Simon’s efforts had only ever served to annoy him.
“Yes, Clementine?” he said, using the old pet name since they were alone.
“I have to call on my mother this morning. Would you come with me?”
Oh, God. “Of course.” Simon got up to pour himself another cup of coffee for the ordeal ahead. “How did you get her to remove to the Dower House, anyway?”
“She hasn’t,” Clement said glumly. “She’s still living in her old rooms here. She’s only staying there for the party, and that took me a week to talk her into.”
Simon shuddered in sympathy. Clement’s mother loved him dearly—at least, Simon thought she did—but she was not easy to be around, and her idea of maternal behavior was unorthodox, to say the least.
“She’s got a dog now,” Clement said, even more glumly. “It’s horrible. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
The King Charles spaniel had a whining face even for a spaniel, but Simon wouldn’t have held that against her if not for the barking, which was singularly piercing, excited, and unremitting. Lady Throckmorton beamed. “Look, Hetty likes you!” Hetty bounded onto the settee, climbed into Simon’s lap, and began leaping for his face, still barking. “How have you been?”
“Well, thank you.” Simon extended his neck as far as it would go.
“Leave Simon alone,” Clement told the dog, lifting her back to the ground. She climbed back up, undeterred.
“Oh, Simon doesn’t mind, do you? Do you need anything in the village, Simon? I’ve been meaning to take my phaeton out. I think the fresh air would do me good and Hetty loves driving. Don’t you, Hetty?”
Simon’s relief when she plucked the dog out of his lap and into her own warred with his terror at the idea of getting into her phaeton. Lady Throckmorton was not an unskilled driver, but an inattentive and fearless one, prone to sudden stops that threatened, in an open phaeton, to send one flying over the horses’ heads. After years of silent terror, Simon had finally vowed never again to let her drive him after a particularly harrowing journey when she hadn’t looked at the road for more than five seconds together, being occupied in asking him questions about his personal life and showing him the miniature of himself Clement had given her for her birthday.
“Should you like to go for a drive?” she crooned to the dog, which licked her face and bucked about in her hands. “I think she would!”
Clement made an apologetic face at Simon. “We wouldn’t all fit in your phaeton, Mama.”
“Oh, we could squeeze in.”
“Hetty’s barking will fright the horses. They almost ran away with us last time.”
Simon blanched.
“They’ve grown accustomed to her by now,” Lady Throckmorton said blithely, rising from her seat. Clement and Simon stood—out of politeness, but it looked like assent. “Let me fetch my pelisse.”
Simon thought of Maggie’s training in saying no. He stifled a giggle, imagining using such blunt tactics on Clement’s mother.
But why not? Would he really risk his neck to preserve his manners, when Lady Throckmorton had so few of her own? “My lady.” She ignored him. He repeated himself, louder.
“Yes, Simon, what is it?”
“I’m sorry, but I’d rather not go.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, you could use the fresh air too. I’m sure you boys have been burning the candle at both ends.”
“Lady Throckmorton.” He waited until she raised her eyes, and then, despite his inner quailing, looked her coolly in the face. I don’t care what she thinks. I don’t care if she’s angry. I don’t care if she thinks my manners are atrocious. “I don’t want to go. Let’s say no more about it.”
The words dropped like stones into the—well, it wasn’t silence, for Hetty was still yipping.
“Oh!” Lady Throckmorton sat with a nervous laugh. “If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll go alone, later. But surely you need something in the village. To mail a letter perhaps.”
Simon felt terrible. He shook his head.
She fussed with her skirts, not looking at him. “How have you been? It’s been so long since you visited.”
He swallowed a protest that it hadn’t been that long. “I’m well, thank you. I’ve just been in town.” He hardly dared glance at Clement—but his friend mimed an admiring whistle. Simon flushed with sudden, sheepish triumph. It had worked! He didn’t have to go driving with Lady Throckmorton!
“Would you like some more tea, then?”
Simon was already buzzing from all the coffee he’d drunk at breakfast, but he thought it behooved him to be gracious in victory. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
“Sugar, no milk?”
“Milk and extra sugar, please.”
“Oh, have you changed it? It always used to be no milk.”
It had been milk and extra sugar for as long as Simon had been drinking tea, but he nodded. “My sweet tooth grows every year, I’m afraid. May I have another macaroon as well? They’re delicious.”
She patted her cap. “I let you boys have the house, but I brought Cook with me.”
“Clever of you.”
“It’s actually rather refreshing, living alone. Consulting no one’s wishes but my own.”
Simon tried to remember an instance when she had consulted anyone else’s.
“I’ve been thinking of taking a lover,” she confided with a giggle. “Do you think Mr. Fleming would be discreet?”
Clement’s look of horror went to Simon’s heart. “Father’s lawyer? Mama, Father’s only be
en dead three months.”
“You needn’t look at me like I’m Queen Gertrude! I don’t mean to marry Mr. Fleming. But celibacy leads to all kinds of nervous disorders and health troubles, you know.” She winked at Simon, who tried not to cringe. “Honestly, Clement, I only think of it because I miss your father so terribly.”
Clement, recovering his equilibrium, did no more than roll his eyes in Simon’s direction. “I miss him too.”
“But how are you, Simon?”
“I’m well,” Simon told her again. “I’m still designing ornamental garden buildings. I’ve done one this year already, for Lord Pendleton, and I’m doing one for Clement now.”
She clapped her hands together. “Of course you are! My my, a man of business. You were always such a hardworking, ambitious boy. I knew you would be a great success at something or other. Why weren’t you more like Simon, Clement?” She sighed. “I suppose it was my fault, wasn’t it? How did your parents make you so well-behaved, Simon?”
Simon wished he could sink into the floor. This was not the first time, or even the twentieth time, that Lady Throckmorton had told Clement he ought to be more like Simon. But it never became less upsetting—for Clement either, he presumed, though they had never discussed it, choosing instead to pass it over in awkward silence.
“Are you thinking of marrying, Simon?” the viscountess went on.
Simon felt something very like panic. He had frequently considered, if he did one day want to marry, how painful it would be to inform Clement of the fact. He should have agreed to the drive; he might have broken his neck but at least they wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“I’m sure your mother must long to see you settled. I want grandbabies myself, you know, but Clement doesn’t care about that. He wouldn’t even consent to be introduced to Miss Duckworth-Trevelyan last Season. Don’t you think Miss Duckworth-Trevelyan is a charming girl who would suit him admirably?”