by Willa Ramsey
A small smile struggled to upend the pain weighing heavily on her features. “Adam, you are a prince to say as much. But you and I both know that is not something you can promise.”
“Do not call me a liar, if you please! Perhaps you’d like to tell me, so I can prove it to you?”
She sighed, letting her chin fall to her chest. “I have no great admission for you, Adam. Indeed, part of me wishes I could confess to you that I have been a frequent, generous, and untiring lover to many a man!” She laughed, lifting her head again. “At least then, I would have had the pleasure to go with the charges Strayeth and Chumsley have levied against me. But unfortunately, that is not the case. I have merely been too flirtatious with too many men; I have pressed myself up against some prominent young bucks, lips and all, and had the bad taste to be the daughter of a tradesman whilst I did so.”
“I suspect that in their eyes, your sins have more to do with stating your opinions a bit too confidently, or too often. You needn’t be embarrassed of that, Caro, nor punish yourself by refusing the attentions of someone who would get to know you better.” He stood then, looming over her, wanting to reach out for her.
“Adam, it’s only that I am overwhelmed—”
There was a knock on the door and Barclay entered. “Miss, your parents are home. They asked me to tell you that they will be retiring for a short while before luncheon.”
Caro thanked the butler, who turned and left.
Adam just stood there, pulling at his coat and straightening his cuffs.
“Perhaps I’ve taken the wrong approach here,” he said as they turned and headed for the door. “Perhaps I should tell you what’s in my mind, so you can sort for yourself whether you think I ought to be ashamed.”
She opened the door for herself and scowled at him. “You know it is expected for a man to have…baser inclinations.”
“That is what they tell me, at least. But doesn’t it signify that we might be suited for one another, if we share such an inclination? Particularly if such inclinations are about the other.”
“Sir, I thought you wanted a love match,” she said, stepping through and leading them toward the stairs.
“I do. What of it?”
“You seem to want a great deal in a match.”
“Also true. What of that?” They were on the first landing now, and he stopped and gripped the carved handrail until his knuckles turned white. Caro watched—she always watched what his hands did, how his chest moved. He thought he had caught her looking at his lower half awhile, too, back in the studio.
“Adam, I think it’s best if you—”
“Caro, I am no poet. But let me tell you what some of my inclinations are. I can barely stand to be near you, because of this intense need I have to seek out some patch of bare skin on you, and to find some excuse to place it up against some of my own. It’s excruciating. And that is only the beginning.”
“Do lower your voice, please!” She looked over the rail to see if anyone was in the entrance hall and muttered, “Mr. Keats would not do this to me.”
He continued anyway. “I want to put all of myself around all of you, until there is no part of me that isn’t next to some part of you…”
“Sir—you must leave now. My parents will be down shortly, and they haven’t a taste for such…modern verse.”
“Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I will leave you be.”
She turned and descended the stairs at a pace, and he felt his heart draw in on itself, a hastening implosion toward some deep corner of his chest. He followed her, watching with growing helplessness as she stopped on the second-to-last stair.
“That will be all!” she said, dismissing the servant who brought his hat and cane to her. Her words hit the walls of the entrance hall with more force than usual, but a hint of uncertainty trailed behind them, too—as if she was trying to be firm but something, somewhere inside her, was in revolt.
When he reached her, she was looking down at his things.
He stepped past her and onto the tile floor—berating himself again for pushing her too hard. What did it say about him, as a gentleman, that he continued to say such things when she’d already told him she was overwhelmed? That she didn’t care for marriage? That the two of them had more pressing things to attend to?
He drew in breath and turned toward her, accepting his hat and cane and preparing to apologize—yet again!—for his untoward behavior, when she looked up at him with those tea-stained eyes, darker than usual in spite of the powerful, mid-day sunlight. Then a slight part appeared between her lips, and before he knew what was happening, she reached out and gripped his upper arms, pulling him toward her until his head was mere inches from her own.
So this was why she had stopped on the second-to-last step.
She was looking straight into his mouth when she whispered, “They frown upon women becoming poets. So.” And that was when she kissed him.
His arms were around her waist in an instant, crushing her against him. It was all the permission he needed, it seemed, to give himself what he wanted. And indeed, it felt to Caro that nearly all of him was around all of her.
And still, it wasn’t nearly enough.
He let go of his hat and cane at once, and the two of them pulled their lips back in spontaneous smiles at the clattering and soft clunks the items made as they hit the wooden stairs, then the tiles. They pressed their foreheads together, an urgent back-and-forth motion—an exchanging of scents. And she loosened her grip on his arms so that she could circle her own around his neck, taking from him the same possession he had claimed to her waist. Then once again his mouth was on hers, harder and bolder and more furiously than before.
This was not like Caro’s other kisses, in alcoves, behind giant indoor flora. This was a different thing entirely. Before, men had been tentative with her—exploratory, as if they were in search of the nearest route to her bosom, and were using her kiss as a means to that end.
But Adam kissed her like it was a paradise unto itself, like it was all he had ever needed, like he couldn’t get enough of her lips alone. His arms literally encircled her—all the way around her back and around the front again, like some frightening, serpentine beast from one of Mrs. Moss’s unwanted books, stilling their prey before consuming it whole. Caro had never felt so small, so light, and so full of power all at once. It was like there was something in her kiss—something coming from her, through her kiss—that this powerful man needed to get by. It was heady, and she wanted it never to end. Indeed, she felt as though she would give up the rest of everything, if she never had to leave his arms, or this second-to-last stair that she had never thought to like so well before.
A door sounded from the floor above—her parents emerging for luncheon, perhaps—and the two of them withdrew, simultaneously but slowly, reluctantly, from each other’s kiss.
“Why are your hands so rough, Adam?” she whispered in a low rasp.
The question seemed to have surprised him, and he leaned back—his hands still locked on her waist.
“Not from boxing, I know that much,” she teased.
He leaned in and nuzzled her nose with his own—then the cushions of her cheeks, her fluttering eyelashes, her still-parted lips.
“I must go,” he replied. “But you can have access to my hands—in whatever manner you wish—another time.”
He tore himself away but soon muttered a terrible oath and spun back, yanking her against him once again. She laughed as she crashed into him, then found the back of his head with her hands and cradled it gently to her, for one last, lingering kiss.
Then he spun around again, cursed again, collected his things, and strode off.
Chapter Fourteen
Caro had not thought it possible she could find Strayeth and Chumsley more unappealing than she already did.
She had been wrong.
They stood a couple of hundred yards away from where she walked on Rotten Row, guffawing with a group of young bu
cks. She tightened her grip on Toby’s leash, wrapping and unwrapping it from her hands, partly to busy them and partly to prepare for the event that he spotted some small vermin he wanted to chase.
The very sight of the two lords quickened her breath, and studded her chest with pain.
It was for all the usual reasons, of course. And also because every moment she spent with them—or anyone else who wasn’t Adam—was a moment that left her jumpy and peevish.
He had questioned her opinions from their earliest conversations, had made her look at things differently. He had pointed out her stubborn tendencies and encouraged her to accept the help of others. But their kiss on the stairs had left a new kind of mark on her—a wash of something permanent, something that would not be easily removed. When she thought of him, she could feel him all over.
And Strayeth and Chumsley suffered mightily in comparison.
She forced herself to smile and nod at a pair of matrons coming her way on the promenade. Like many people, they increased their distance from her when they got a good look at Toby. “Please don’t be alarmed,” she said, trying to force some brightness into her tone. “He’s an overgrown pussycat, only with more drool.”
They smiled and passed by without comment.
She looked back at Strayeth and Chumsley. They were looking her way now; they had spotted her.
It was time to put her scheme in motion.
She shook away all thoughts of Adam, and put on her most inviting smile. Then she called out to Strayeth, who was approaching her by himself. Perfect.
“Lord Strayeth, so lovely to see you again. And how is your dear Aunt Fanny?”
“Aunt Fanny? I haven’t—Oh! Of course! Quite well, thank you. Quite well.”
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
He stepped in front of her and blocked her, causing Toby to whimper and yawn.
“Sit,” she told the dog. He complied and licked his lips, more anxious even than she. She reached down and scratched his ears. “You are the best dog! Yes you are! Yes you are!” she cooed. His stump of a tail twirled wildly at her affectionate tone, though his eyes, ears, and posture all suggested that he remained suspicious of Strayeth, and vigilant.
“It’s been entirely too long, Miss Crispin, since I’ve had the pleasure of your company. Tell me, are you well? It is so hot this afternoon, I thought perhaps you could use a rest in the shade. Perhaps over in those trees, just there?” He pointed to a nearby stand of oaks.
“How very inviting, my lord. I could think of nothing more pleasant—”
He turned to stand beside her, and crooked his arm for her to take.
“—but I’m afraid I have an appointment just now, and was about to leave the park.”
“Oh, what a pity! I will escort you, then. Tell me, where are we off to? The mantua-maker? I hear they make many interesting things besides gowns and bonnets. Things of silk and lace. Hidden things.”
She laughed uneasily. “You are too kind, my lord. But I already have an escort,” she replied, glancing at Toby, who released another uncomfortable whine. She reached down again. Easy, friend. Easy. “But perhaps you would be so kind as to…rendezvous with me tomorrow?”
Strayeth looked over at her, surprise and victory wrestling for room on his face.
“My parents are testing some improvements to our balloon, just before dawn, in the northwest corner of the park.” She nodded her head in the direction.
He drooped a little, probably upon hearing that she was not inviting him to a private tryst. “Do not look so forlorn, my lord! It will be a fascinating sight. And there will be plenty of opportunity for slipping behind oak trees, in the dark.” She gave him her sultriest smile, every muscle in her face rebelling against the effort. “There is…always so much to do at such things.”
She must have convinced him that her intentions were amorous, because he looked puffed up suddenly, full of breath and arrogance and perhaps even a pinch of invincibility.
“Don’t be late,” she added in her huskiest whisper, turning to walk away. She glanced over her shoulder and looked him up and down, her eyes half-closed. “I have the most exciting plan for us.”
And with that, she walked off, her heart racing, praying he would let her go without further discussion. She didn’t know if she had the resolve to remain sweet and gentle if he came after her.
She made her way down the crowded promenade, trying not to look hurried. After a minute or two she breathed a bit easier; he had left her alone.
The first step in her scheme was complete.
“Miss Crispin!” Boots pounded the gravel behind her, and she closed her eyes and stopped. She knew the voice; it was Chumsley, trotting toward her. He must have seen her with his friend, and felt impelled to make an impression of his own before she left the park.
“Lord Chumsley, I must apologize, but I am late for an appointment—”
“I require but a moment,” he replied, short of breath and short of manners, per usual.
“I do apologize, sir. I would love nothing more than to stay and chat, but I simply must go, I am—”
He reached for her hand. “Nonsense. You can give me a moment of your precious time, I am sure.”
It would be so easy to slap him. He is well within arm’s reach. She pulled her hand away as gently as possible, and willed herself to remain pleasant. It was not Chumsley’s turn for his lesson just yet. She needed him to be patient while she dealt with Strayeth.
“You are right, of course,” she replied, shifting from foot to foot. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
“You can ride with me tomorrow, in my phaeton.”
“How exciting! And how kind of you. But I am engaged to work with my parents tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
“What about the next day?”
“The next day is my day for volunteering at Bott’s.”
He tossed his head and rolled his eyes. “They will not miss you for one day,” he snapped.
“Perhaps not, but I will miss them.”
He smacked his hat against his thigh, surprising her. “I will see you at Tawbridge’s, then. I will find you.”
“I cannot attend Lady Tawbridge’s, my lord. But I will save you a dance at my own party, in a fortnight. Don’t forget: I’ve asked everyone to donate a candle—”
“But that is too far off!”
“That is all I can promise you, my lord,” she replied as she curtsied. She did not like his tone at all. Unlike Strayeth, whose manner was light and easy, Chumsley could be churlish.
He stepped closer and glared at her with those watery eyes of his, his cheek twitching on one side. “I know just where to find you, Miss Crispin, if you do not keep your promise. Center window, third floor. Am I right?”
She blinked back at him, too shocked to answer. He knew the window to her bedroom? And was threatening to come through it, without invitation?
Lawks.
She was still looking dumbly at everything around her when Toby spotted a squirrel and yanked her away, abruptly and forcefully, toward the edge of the park. She held onto her bonnet and let him drag her, her legs and mind both reeling.
Oh, how I wish that Adam were here!
It was a fairly new feeling for her, one that had been creeping up on her. She had always been a lone wolf—a general, an army, and a corps of engineers all wrapped up together in a single, average-sized package. But now she wanted Adam around, no matter the time of day. Even when she imagined him slowing or disrupting one of her schemes, she found she still wanted him there, making her laugh and giving her a hand when she faltered.
Being her “second” when someone challenged her to a fight.
She slowed Toby to a walk as they she reached the entrance to the park, and was just catching her breath when they passed an elegant older couple, strutting arm in arm in the midst of a spirited conversation. She gave them a hopeful but awkward smile.
She could not reconcile her longing for Adam’s company with her l
ongstanding fear of marriage.
But she couldn’t deny that her want of him was powerful—and exceptional—and impossible to ignore.
Adam tried not to tap his foot. “She will be here any moment, Edie. Do hurry.”
“I don’t know why it concerns you,” she called out from across the entrance hall. She was standing with one of the Crispins’ pupils, a Mr. Dalton, giving him instructions for the measurements he was taking throughout the home.
“I’m coming with you. That’s why.”
She finally turned and walked toward him, putting on her bonnet and gloves. “Is there some new menace in Berkeley Square? Something with a taste for independent-minded ladies?”
He went to the window again, and this time, unlike the previous six times, he spotted Caro. That muscular dog of hers pulled her along like a small, hornless ox.
He itched for her. It had been three days since their moment on the stairs—and three days too long. Had it been a full moment, even? It had felt like a lifetime and an instant all at once; the summation of every day of his life, and a bright, hot flash that was gone too soon.
He also itched to know where they stood in terms of a courtship, but he’d resolved to put her scheme first.
When that was all over, he would ask.
Now, he was just glad to see her—even if there would be his sister and a crooked-toothed dog between them.
Brandt opened the door and Adam gestured at Edie with a big, underhanded swoop, as if he could will her through the door at long last.
She trudged by, and he followed.
“Hullo, dearest!” Caro called out to them. If he wasn’t mistaken, the usual gaiety in her voice was laced with something more tremulous—something like worry.