by Lara Archer
Well, she felt different tonight, with curls bouncing on the back of her neck, and the pretty cameo and pearls brushing the very top of her breasts. Men seemed to be looking at her in a new way, too. She rather liked the look of surprise she’d get when each caught sight of her, and more than one told her he didn’t recognize her at first glance. Old Mr. Dockett, the diviner, smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling, and said, “Good for you, Mary Wilkins. I knew you had it in you, my girl!”
Her cheeks were flushed and her heart beat strong, and she didn’t think once about Lord Parkhurst. Well, maybe just once. Or twice. But she didn’t see him anywhere amongst the revelers, so the terrible lonely ache in her chest scarcely bothered her at all.
Sam Brickley, a tall, dark-haired young farmer, asked her to dance three different times. He was strongly built, and handsome in a rough sort of way. Not educated, but intelligent, and he had a good sense of fun. “You’ve got roses in your cheeks tonight, Miss Wilkins,” he told her in his rumbling, deep, country-accented voice, and gave her a wink. “It suits you.”
His hands were warm and strong in hers, and as he spun her and led her down the line, the pressure of his palm at the small of her back felt thrillingly masculine. For such a big man, he moved with surprising grace and great confidence. His eyes were dark brown and long-lashed, and really rather lovely—and they sparkled at her whenever his gaze met hers, as though he had some delicious secret he couldn’t wait to share.
Goodness.
“I’d never imagined you were such a good dancer,” he said while they waited for the couples at the top of the line to take their turn. “You usually keep to the sidelines. Making sure everybody else’s glass of punch is full.” The words were perfectly innocent, but Sam managed to say them in a teasing, playful tone that made them seem vaguely suggestive.
Mary couldn’t help laughing, which Sam didn’t seem to mind at all.
He gave her a beaming grin. “I’m glad you’ve mended your ways tonight,” he said. “The rest of us poor sinners need the company.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “And such bonny company, too!”
The hanging lanterns burned brightly now, and their flickering orange glow against the planes of his cheeks and the length of his arms made her wonder what it would be like to share a home with such a man—sitting by the firelight in the evenings, just the two of them. Eating their evening meal and talking.
And then preparing to go to bed together.
Goodness, indeed. Such a possibility would have felt out of her reach just a week or so ago, but now the look in Sam’s eye suggested it might be something she could make real, if she wished it.
Well, she owed that to John. He’d brought something out in her, something she’d kept locked down and hidden without realizing she was doing it.
The thought of John brought a pang to her chest, and a painful, ferocious longing.
No. She couldn’t think of him. What had happened with John had been...an illusion. The perfume of a moment, nothing more. Entirely out of her reach. She had to do just as Thomas was doing—forget what was impossible, and focus on happiness that could be within her reach.
Focus on...Sam.
With deliberate force of will, she brought all her attention to the pleasant, attractive man in front of her.
What might Sam look like in his shirtsleeves, or out of his shirt altogether? What would it be like to let him kiss her? Let him touch her?
Her heart began to skip in a rougher rhythm.
Other couples were wandering away from the dancing here and there, slipping quietly into the shadows. With a bit of encouragement, would Sam go off with her? Walk through the fields, perhaps, or find a hayloft?
Rather shocking to even consider it. She wouldn’t have considered it, just a week ago, but she saw things differently now.
Sam could kiss her. Sam could slip his big, calloused hand under her chemise, and cup her breast, and surely it would feel good. His mouth had a nice shape, good for smiling…and for other things.
A hot blush stole over her.
What if she let him? That would be a way to break the spell she was under. To drive Viscount Parkhurst forever from her mind.
As the music came to a close, Sam took her arm in his and guided her towards the refreshment tables. As he handed her a glass of lemonade, he scanned her face speculatively, as if reading her mind. He leaned in close, and the subtle scent of his body came to her—warm and dark and manly. Tempting. “It’s hot and noisy here,” he said. “Mayhap we could take a bit of a walk.”
She tensed. It would be so easy.
It would probably be very...pleasurable. It was what she really should do, if she wanted to move on with her life. Part of her wanted to go with him, very much.
But another part of her felt an almost desperate panic, and thought of John.
John—whom she could never have.
Ah, well. She might need to move on, but she wasn’t ready yet. She disentangled herself gently from Sam’s arm and gave him a demurring smile.
He actually looked disappointed. “Perhaps another time, maybe, Miss Wilkins?” He gave her a rueful grin. “Perhaps a walk after Sunday services, if that’s more to your liking?”
“I would like that, Sam.”
“Good,” he said. And then he actually raised her hand to his lips in a courtly fashion, and kissed her fingers. “Then I’ll sit in the front pew and stay wide awake through your brother’s sermon. You have my solemn promise.”
“I’d like that, too. Your usual snoring tends to make the babies cry.”
He laughed, and the warmth in his eyes sent a little thrill through her chest. “Ah, well, I’m a hard working man all week long. I’ve got to catch up on my sleep sometime.”
And, oh, he made that sound somehow suggestive as well.
She felt herself blushing anew, and Sam’s grin implied he noticed. He still held her hand. “Will you make me a promise too, Miss Wilkins?” he whispered, putting his lips very close to her ear, so close she felt the warm vibration of his breath. “Wear your hair like that again on Sunday next. In fact, you should wear it that way always.”
Another wink, and he was gone.
And the inside of her chest was left fluttering.
Well.
She really had changed from what she used to be. And she couldn’t regret it.
The moon had risen higher while she’d danced with Sam, the full white circle spreading its light over the Green. Perhaps its influence had affected the gathering, for as she looked around now, she realized that something in the mood of the townspeople had shifted from the light pleasantness with which the dancing had begun.
A different sort of energy crackled in the air. Something rougher, more fractious.
The sexton and Mrs. Trumbull broke off abruptly from the end of a line of dancers, squabbling about something. Mrs. Trumbull had her chin up and was marching off with an offended look. The sexton trailed after her, a stormy expression on his face.
Rosamund Lawton came hurrying from another direction, her hands balled into fists, her forehead creased and her mouth pursed as though she might be on the verge of bursting into tears.
And someone had evidently brought liquor, because a cluster of plowmen under one of the oak trees was laughing rather too raucously, and two of them were shoving one another in a way that seemed good-natured now, but might at any moment spark into a fight.
Donald Evans stood amidst them, looking shifty and irritable, and a bit unsteady on his feet. Blast. Most of the townspeople knew not to give him anything intoxicating to drink, but Donald always seem to find a way to pour something down his throat.
Oh, dear. And the evening had started out so sweetly.
Where had all the May Day magic gone?
She really ought to find Thomas and alert him to the possibility of trouble. She turned in the direction she’d last seen him dancing—and ran straight into what felt like a sun-warmed wall.
But it wasn’t a wall.<
br />
It was Viscount Parkhurst.
Oh, damnation.
That little flutter Sam Brickley had created in her chest shifted instantly to an avalanche. Blood rushed from the top of her head straight to her belly, and the pulsing desire of their encounter beneath the hawthorn tree returned in a hard, hot, swelling wave.
So much for forgetting the viscount by flirting with another man.
John seized hold of the hand Sam had just kissed, and Mary felt the jolt of his touch clear to her toes.
“Dance with me,” he said.
Chapter Ten
John wasn’t surprised when Mary tugged her hand away.
“Are you quite mad?” she hissed in an accusing undertone. “We shouldn’t…we’re supposed to be staying away from one another.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” he said, trying to keep his expression reasonably sober. Happiness at being near her—knowing he was now a free man, able to offer for her with an undivided heart—frothed through him, making a smile almost impossible to suppress. “In fact, I think staying away from each other is a terrible idea.”
She frowned. “Nothing has changed since this morning, Lord Parkhurst.”
“Everything has changed,” he said, and his breath hitched as he gazed at her. Lord, she looked pretty tonight—flushed from dancing, with curls shaken loose all about her face. Not quite the half-naked sylph he’d held in his arms in the woods that morning, but still, more of the real Mary than he’d ever seen in public before. “You absolutely must talk with me. I have news to tell you.”
“No. No, I absolutely mustn’t. And I’m—busy. I need to find Thomas.”
“Thomas can wait. I can’t.”
“Oh, stop! Leave me be!” Her eyebrows raised, and her eyes looked bright with a slick of tears. “This is...this is cruel of you.”
“Cruel?”
“To keep coming after me, my lord, when I’ve been quite clear about my wishes.”
My lord. She made those words sound like some awful insult.
“Mary, please,” he said. “You must hear me out. And you can’t run off now—everyone is watching us. If you go tearing off with that look on your face, it’s sure to start a scandal.”
“What look on my face?”
He mimed a quick grimace.
“Oh, for pity’s sake. I look nothing like that. And no one’s paying attention, anyway.” But she stole quick glances out of the corners of her eyes, and the tightening of her expression told him she could see they did indeed have an audience.
A very intrigued audience.
Including Annabel Lawton, whose gaze was speculative and suspicious.
Mary quickly schooled her face to blank calm, as she was so remarkably good at doing. “Of course, Lord Parkhurst,” she said in a louder voice. “I should be glad to dance and discuss the digging of the new well. I’m sure we can solve the problem of the...the sliding shale.”
“Clever girl,” he said, trying not to laugh, and pulled her into the dance.
It was a country dance—fast-paced and rowdy. Some of the dancers formed rings and spun about in giddy groups, but other couples dared to dance in pairs, hands on each other’s waists and shoulders, galloping and whirling about. John wisely chose the latter approach.
“So we can talk,” he said.
And, ah, it was glorious. Mary fit so neatly into his arms. Her small swell of her breasts bumped against his chest now and again, and her skirts brushed his legs. His heart was pounding, and he could see the pulse jump at the base of her throat.
The darkness was a blessing—he could scarcely disguise the intensity in his eyes when he looked at her. This close, though, the delightful little cinnamon-colored freckles on her nose were visible in the lamplight, and he wanted to kiss each one.
She was clearly trying not to look at him, but he felt the response of her body—felt her begin to soften against him. Her spine arched where he put his hand to her back; her lungs drew air more deeply.
He whirled her around and around, one of his hands clasping hers, the other at her waist, and as they sped up, she had no choice but to clutch at his shoulder with her free hand. It felt marvelous. They belonged together. He knew it, and somewhere deep down inside, he was sure she did, too.
Though she certainly seemed determined to fight against it with all her will.
“Where have you been all evening, my lord?” she asked, keeping her voice calm and polite despite their exertion.
“Where were you this morning?” he countered, spinning her around once more. “When the rest of us danced about the May Pole?”
“I was at home, avoiding you.”
Now he grimaced for real. “Well, there’s an honest response. I was afraid that was your motive.”
“And what was yours, for coming so late to the dancing this evening? Hopefully you were at least trying to avoid me.”
“Quite the contrary. I was trying to figure out how I could get you to talk to me. I knew if I showed myself openly that you’d flee in the other direction. So I decided an ambush would be the best strategy.”
She was showing him only the top of her head, her gaze fixed on their feet as they looped their way across the Green. “Ambushes are dishonorable. And we have nothing to talk about. I said what I had to say this morning.”
“Ah, but I have something I must tell you. Something new. Something important. Come for a walk with me.”
She stiffened suddenly, and jerked in his arms. “No, John. There’s no point. We are both who we are, and nothing will change that.” She pulled her hands away and stepped back so quickly, he stumbled. “I’m sorry,” she said, loud enough for onlookers to overhear. “I’ve overdone the dancing. I must sit down awhile. Pardon me, Lord Parkhurst. We’ll have to discuss the well some other time.”
* * *
Mary lurched over to one of the wooden benches and dropped like a sackload of spoiled onions.
All her powers of self-control could barely stop her from bursting out weeping. Why couldn’t John just leave her alone? And why couldn’t she stop feeling as if her whole body began to melt the moment he touched her?
She wished the dark night would just swallow her up.
A whiff of perfume wafted towards her, with a rustle of silks and a shimmer of golden hair. Oh, Lord—Annabel Lawton plumped down on the bench right beside her.
Perfect.
“A lady can be exhausted by these affairs, can’t she?” said Annabel, fanning herself. “This is the first I’ve sat down all evening. Gentlemen are so very demanding.”
Blast. Discussing gentlemen with Annabel Lawton was the last thing Mary wanted to do right now. Well, the last thing other than go back to dancing in John’s arms.
Annabel leaned in with a conspiratorial giggle. “But you must forgive Lord Parkhurst, at least,” she said. “He may have reason to be in especially high spirits just now.”
Mary’s shoulders tensed. Why was Annabel Lawton speaking for the viscount?
Annabel chattered on. “I should not really complain about being tired tonight. I do enjoy dancing. And after a lady is married, she can hardly dance so much as she is free to now.”
A slow cold prickle went up Mary’s spine at those words.
After a lady is married…?
She swallowed, and it was as if a rock were stuck in her throat. Oh, dear Lord—John had told her he had something important to tell her about. “Do you have...news to share, Miss Lawton?”
“Oh, well. I can’t really say.” Annabel’s fingers fluttered prettily about her throat. “Not news precisely, but I suppose I can tell you, Miss Wilkins, since I know you are no gossip, that I expect I shall have some very significant news before very long.”
Oh.
Oh, oh, oh.
That was what John had been about to tell her.
Annabel Lawton was about to be married.
About to be married to...him.
He’d wanted Mary to learn of their engagement
before the general public did, in an attempt to spare her feelings.
Her stomach dropped towards her shoes.
“I tell you in confidence,” said Annabel, her blue eyes darting meaningfully in the viscount’s direction, “a certain gentleman of our mutual acquaintance ensconced himself with my father in the study for quite a long time this afternoon. Of course, men feel they have so many details to iron out before the ladies can be consulted. As if their thoughts on the matter were really so much more important than ours. Men are silly creatures, after all, but I suppose we must indulge them.”
Nausea rose in a choking billow, and Mary found herself once more on her feet.
John was going to be married. Married to Annabel Lawton.
Which was, of course, precisely what she herself had repeatedly advised him he must do.
It was no comfort that this marriage had always been inevitable, or that it was in every way the right one for her friend to make. A terrible dark hole seemed to be opening inside her, turning everything cold and black.
In a sort of daze, she excused herself to Miss Lawton.
She stumbled her way across the Green, the world blurring around her, until she found Sam Brickley. He was standing with his younger brothers Geordie and Ben, downing a mug of hard cider. He grinned when he saw her.
“I think I’d like to take that walk now, after all, Sam,” she said.
Sam looked surprised, but damned pleased. The mug of cider thumped down on a table, he took her arm, and before she was even sure what was happening, she found herself alone with him in the shadows behind the schoolhouse.
With no more preamble, she pressed herself back against the bricks and pulled Sam towards her by the thick lapels of his coat.