Summer House Party

by Regina Scott

  Though uncommonly gentle, his kiss embodied everything passionate and lovely about human contact. The desire to immerse herself forever in his kiss consumed her down to her core. Enfolded in his arms, her mouth completely at one with his, she sighed in glorious pleasure.

  He ended the kiss before she was ready, but he showered kisses on her cheeks and brow. Finally, he just held her. “I wanted to take this slowly with you, Genevieve, but I lost my head.”

  “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you did.” She blushed at the seductive quality in her voice.

  He pulled back to look at her. “You aren’t going to chastise me for taking advantage?”

  She laughed softly. “Considering that I participated quite happily with you, it would be hypocritical.”

  He grinned at her. “How refreshing that you aren’t playing the shocked little miss. I had planned to declare myself and ask your father’s permission before kissing you.”

  Declare himself? Ask her father’s permission? He planned to propose!

  Shivers raced over her and burst outward. “I suppose we’ve taken a different path. Are you sorry?”

  “Not at all.” He kissed her again, and a sense of chaotic, hot desire mingled with that sensation of absolute belonging. His lips moved against hers, equal parts firm and gentle, and all passion. At the moment she ceased to exist except as a creature of need, he let out a husky chuckle. “We’d best go inside.”

  He was right, of course, but leaving his arms seemed almost too much to bear. Still, the pure, sweet bliss of knowing her heart had found its match strengthened her. “I suppose we must.”

  His eyes alight with joy equaling her own, he raised her to a stand. He touched her cheek, his lips curving gently. She sighed. There would be other moments—other kisses—with Christian, throughout her life. Hand in hand, they took a circuitous route past two other pairs of lovers enjoying the moonlight.

  “Just so you know,” he said, his voice low. “I mean to court you properly and publicly in Bath.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She grinned at him, and his eyes burned from inner fire.

  Christian released her hand before they crossed the terrace, leaving behind a lingering warmth. In the drawing room, a few groups clustered together, enjoying their last evening together. Her parents, it seemed, had already retired to their room for the evening. There was no sign of Matilda.

  “Good night,” he murmured, his glance hungry.

  She bade him good night, barely managing not to throw herself into his arms again, and practically skipped into her parents’ room.

  “Mama, Papa, I have the most . . .” Her voice trailed off at their serious expressions.

  “Sit down, Genevieve. We need to talk,” her father said grimly.

  Dread rang through her like a bell. She shot a frightened glance at her mother, but her color remained good, so her health could not be the reason for their sudden solemnity.

  Genevieve sank into a nearby chair. “What is it?”

  Her father spoke first. “You have attracted some male attention.”

  Oh, dear. They must have seen her in the garden with Christian. “Well, yes, but you see, his intentions are honorable—”

  Her father interrupted before she could continue, “This very eve, I have received not one but two offers for your hand.”

  She blinked, hardly processing his words. Christian said that he hadn’t spoken to Papa yet. He’d only promised to court her in Bath. Wait—two?

  “Mr. Ashton and Lord Wickburgh have both asked for my permission.”

  The blood drained out of her face. “Lord Wickburgh? And . . . Mr. Ashton! Surely not. We’ve only conversed a few times. Mr. Ashton is the blandest man I have ever met.”

  Mama spoke up. “Consider carefully, Jenny. He is the respectable son of a vicar, who can offer you a respectable life.”

  “And Lord Wickburgh is a viscount—a Peer of the Realm with wealth, status, and power,” Papa said.

  “I am not interested in marrying either of them. I am in love with Christian Amesbury. And he has made his intentions known to me just tonight.”

  They exchanged glances. Mama said, “I thought he was courting Miss Widtsoe.”

  “No, he isn’t. She only hoped she had his heart; he never said or did anything to encourage her. He has vowed to court me in Bath.”

  Mama put a hand over Genevieve’s. “I know you’ve been infatuated with him since the beginning, but I caution you not to be too hasty.”

  Her father took up the conversation. “A vicar’s wife would come naturally to you, and that position will allow you to live in the country as you wish and help many in the parish. On the other hand, a viscount can offer you a life of luxury and position no one else can. With the wealth and position of the wife of a peer, you would have considerable influence.”

  Genevieve shook her head, unable to even imagine being married to the man who turned her cold with a single look. “Not Lord Wickburgh.”

  Her father’s voice grew stern. “He’s a lord, Genevieve—so much more prestigious than a youngest son with little to his name. I urge you to consider one of these other offers.”

  Mama squeezed Genevieve’s hand. “Mr. Amesbury is handsome, I’ll give you that, but he is also very young. There is more to marriage than a pleasing face. And consider how he misrepresented himself to your friend. He might be a flirt or a rake who’s simply perfected the art of being discreet.”

  Genevieve gaped. She thought they understood. Rising, she squared her shoulders. “I have made my choice. I will allow no one but Christian Amesbury to court me, and when he asks me to marry him, I will accept him. Besides, he expects to be a vicar as well, when the position at his father’s county seat becomes available. Until then, he acts as his father’s right hand, and his painting grows more popular every day. I have no fear that he will be an adequate provider. I will, of course, leave the details to you, but please trust that I know my own heart.”

  Her parents exchanged a long look. Genevieve steeled herself to continue the battle.

  Papa’s stance relaxed, and he nodded. “Very well, Jenny. I trust you.”

  Letting out a breath, Mama smiled. “We just wanted to make sure.”

  So, this was some sort of test of her convictions. “Then you will refuse Mr. Ashton and Lord Wickburgh?”

  Papa said, “I will.”

  Genevieve let out a pent-up breath. “Thank you.” She kissed them both good night and left the room. There, on the floor of the corridor, lay her shawl, carefully folded. She picked it up and hugged it. She must have dropped it when she went out into the garden with Christian. She hugged it, reliving their glorious kiss. Humming, she went to bed, where, despite her excitement at the newness of her relationship with Christian Amesbury and her trepidation of facing Matilda on the morrow, she slept like a baby.

  In the morning, she went automatically through her morning routine, donning her carriage dress in preparation for the journey. Though every thought of Christian sent little thrills through her, the knowledge Matilda would be heartbroken dimmed her pleasure. She moved with heavy footsteps to Matilda’s bedchambers but found them empty. Instead, Genevieve found Matilda in the breakfast room, stirring her plate of eggs. Surprisingly, she alone occupied the room for the moment.

  Genevieve sat next to her friend and touched her arm in concern. “How are you, Mattie?”

  “You know, don’t you? He told you?” Matilda raised her eyes.

  Genevieve nodded and said apologetically, “He confided to me his concern that you had misunderstood his intentions. I advised him to clear it up before it was too late.”

  Matilda dropped her fork. “It was already too late. I thought he loved me.”

  “Mattie, he—”

  Accusing eyes pinned her. “I thought you were my friend. But you stole him from me. The moment he saw you, he forgot all about me. And you . . . you encouraged him.”

  Genevieve recoiled, but she deser
ved Matilda’s ire. She bit her lip as tears burned her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mattie. I never meant—”

  “You already had everyone else panting after you, but that wasn’t good enough. You had to have him, too—the only man I really loved!”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Don’t ever speak to me!” Mattie stood up and limped out of the room, her sobs trailing behind her.

  Genevieve rocked back at the onslaught, cold down to her toes. She pressed a hand over her mouth.

  Matilda was right. All the while knowing Matilda’s feelings, Genevieve had still encouraged Christian. If she had tried harder to point out Matilda’s fine qualities, or if she had removed herself from the house party, perhaps Christian and Matilda would have made a match.

  Who was she trying to fool? Her loyalty to Matilda didn’t change the fact that Christian had never harbored a preference to Matilda. Her friend had invented the understanding in her head because she’d fallen for Christian’s handsome face. But she didn’t know him. Her tumultuous moods would never have suited Christian’s artistic and poetic side. They couldn’t even carry on a conversation, for heaven’s sakes. Christian needed someone steady and calm—someone like Genevieve—but that knowledge did not change the fact that Matilda blamed Genevieve. And now she had lost a precious friendship.

  Sir Reginald strode past the door toward the great hall. “Matilda,” he called.

  Other houseguests entered the breakfast room, their chatter filling the silence. Her appetite lost, Genevieve left the breakfast room. She halted at the sight of Sir Reginald and Matilda in the great hall speaking softly. He offered her his arm. Leaning heavily on him and limping, Matilda went with him toward the back of the house. Perhaps his loving heart would console Matilda.

  Seeking consolation of her own, she went in search of Christian. She peeked into the drawing room. There, on an easel, sat an exquisite, full-color painting of the abbey, in all its gothic glory. Next to it, sat a portrait of Matilda so lifelike that it might have been looking out a window at her, glowing with beauty, with a lively smile and a twinkle in her eyes. He must have worked all night to complete them.

  Where was he? She wandered into the great hall where others bade the hosts good-bye.

  Genevieve approached her friend’s mother. “Mrs. Widtsoe, have you seen Mr. Amesbury?”

  Mrs. Widtsoe stiffened, obviously blaming her for Matilda’s failure to capture Christian’s proposal. She drew herself up. “He has already left.”

  “What? When?” Her heart stilled. Surely he hadn’t left without saying good-bye.

  “A few moments ago.”

  No. She was not losing him! Without a shred of decorum, she raced outside to the main drive leading to the highway, searching for a coach with the Tarrington coat of arms.

  No coach traveled down the path. She was too late. Had she lost him as well as Matilda? Had she misunderstood him last night? Had he changed his mind? A life without her best friend, and worse, a life without the only man she would ever love, stretched out in endless gloom before her, and her heart cried out in despair. Her legs wobbled, and she nearly collapsed on the drive.

  No. She would not give up on him. Whatever had happened, she’d find him and make it right. If she didn’t catch him here, she’d find a way to see him in Bath and remind him why they belonged together, conventions be hanged.

  Male voices reached her. Christian? She followed the voices to the side of the house. There stood Christian, wearing a gray coat and the buckskin breeches gentlemen favored when riding. He hadn’t left, not yet. Her heart gave a leap, and she clasped her hands together.

  Posture stiff, fists clenched at his sides, Christian faced Lord Wickburgh and spoke with hard, biting words, “I have no intention of stepping aside for you, unless she tells me that is her wish, and I know for a fact that she has no desire to spend time in your company.”

  “You know nothing, boy,” Lord Wickburgh said. “I’m warning you; she is mine and I mean to have her. If you continue to interfere, you will meet an unhappy end.”

  “Stay away from her, or it is you who will meet an unhappy end.”

  Genevieve would never have imagined the hardness in Christian’s voice. They stood, both determined, neither backing down, glaring hard enough to bore holes through one another.

  “Christian, let’s go!” the earl’s voice called from the front steps.

  Wickburgh let out a sneering laugh. “Go to your father, boy.”

  “Coming, Father,” Christian said. To Lord Wickburgh, he said, “We are finished here. And you will not bother Miss Marshall again.” He gave Lord Wickburgh one final long look and strode away.

  Genevieve stepped back quickly and headed toward the house. It would not do to let Christian know she’d seen the encounter. Her heart pounded. Seeing Christian locked in such a dangerous play with Lord Wickburgh filled her with both dread at his danger, and excitement that he’d been willing to fight for her. She hurried toward the front door, meeting the earl as he stepped off the stairs.

  Lord Tarrington nodded as they passed. “Miss Marshall.”

  “My lord.”

  “I expect I’ll be seeing you in Bath?” He drew on his gloves.

  “I hope so, my lord.”

  He eyed her, and she met his gaze, allowing him to make up his mind about her. His expression softened as if he found something that pleased him. Then he lifted his gaze to a point behind her. She turned. Christian, still grim, strode toward her. As he raised his head, his focus fell on her. His expression became wary.

  “Miss Marshall,” Christian said as he approached, falling into formal speech, probably for the sake of his father.

  “Ah, the coach is here.” The earl gestured. “I’ll wait for you inside, son.”

  Christian nodded, not taking his eyes off Genevieve. Why the wariness in him? Perhaps he was still angry over his encounter with Lord Wickburgh.

  She gave him a tentative smile. “I saw the paintings. They are exquisite.”

  His smile was almost pained. “I’m glad you liked them. Mr. Widtsoe seemed pleased.”

  His palpable tension created a sudden jitteriness. Had his kiss simply been the product of moonlight on the final night of a house party?

  Her fears wormed out of her and into her voice. She whispered, “Were you going to leave without saying good-bye?”

  He hesitated. “I had not yet decided.”

  Her breath rushed out of her. “Did it mean nothing to you?”

  Eyeing her with such guardedness, he said nothing for a long moment. “It meant something to me. I was sincere. But it seems my suit is not adequate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You left your shawl in the garden, and I was returning it. I heard you and your parents; the door was open. They don’t want you to settle for a youngest son.”

  Her breath rushed out of her in relief. He had not used her, or changed his mind, he simply questioned her commitment. Stepping closer, she took his hand and said boldly, “They only wanted to make sure I knew my own mind. And I do.”

  His eyes, so intense, probed hers until everything softened in his expression. He tugged on her hand, drawing her near. “You don’t mind that I’m the youngest?”

  “Not if you don’t mind that I’m the daughter of a sea captain.”

  A slow smile stole over his expression. “I should not have doubted you.”

  “No.” She smiled to soften her words and intertwined her fingers with his.

  The same light that shone from his eyes last night returned. “It’s probably too soon to say this, since I haven’t formally courted you, but I love you. And I want to spend the rest of forever with you.”

  Surely her heart would explode with the love filling it past capacity. She’d never dreamed the power of those words. “Forever may not be long enough.”

  Hope and happiness filled those beautiful eyes. “I can’t offer you a title or coffers of money.”

  She couldn’t resi
st being just a little bit saucy. “I would prefer not to starve, but if you can promise me food on the table and love in our home, I will be content—happy, even. Delirious.”

  Someone cleared her throat, drawing Genevieve’s attention off Christian. Matilda stood, clasping her hands in front of her nervously. “I just came to say good-bye.” She glanced back at Sir Reginald waiting by the front door before fixing her gaze on Christian. “Mr. Amesbury, I apologize for placing you in difficulty. I misunderstood—through no fault of yours. And I thank you for the lovely portrait. I’ve never seen its equal.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said graciously.

  Matilda turned her gaze to Genevieve. Her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes. “Forgive me, Jenny!” She rushed forward, her arms outstretched.

  Genevieve met her and caught her into an embrace. “There is nothing to forgive. I am grieved to have caused you pain.”

  Matilda shook her head. “You were only following your heart, as you should. You two are a perfect match. Good-bye for now. I hope to see you soon . . . in a church?”

  Genevieve smiled up at Christian.

  He met her with an adoring gaze. “That is the idea—as soon as possible.”

  Matilda hugged Genevieve again. “Until then, good-bye.” She headed toward the house as Sir Reginald trotted down the front steps to her. They walked together down a path around the side of the house.

  With a sultry gleam in his eye, Christian pulled Genevieve into his arms. “I love you, Genevieve.” He cupped her cheek and kissed her so expertly, so thoroughly, that her knees wobbled.

  “Oh my,” she said when she could speak. “I think we’d best have the banns read as soon as possible.”

  He lifted a brow. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  “I believe I am.”

  He grinned. “Perfect.”

  Christian and Genevieve’s story continues in A Perfect Secret, available at online retailers everywhere, including Amazon.

  Click on the covers to visit Donna’s Amazon author page