Such self-absorbed drama missed the point. “Della, if you have no intention of entertaining Effington’s suit, then make your feelings known as gently and as soon as you can. Toying with his affections—or his expectations—is not simply a matter of having somebody to stand up with.”
Della finished tying the bows on her slippers. “We walk in the park, he’s tried to kiss me a few times. What of it?”
A great weight fell from Susannah’s shoulders as Della sniffed at her wrist corsage and tugged at a sleeve. All those years ago, when Lady March’s tea dances had turned into a miserable gauntlet of ridicule and heartache, Susannah had felt stupid.
As if she lacked some fundamental instinct every other girl had been born with. As if what others grasped intuitively, Susannah could only comprehend by ponderous logic and lumbering explanations.
And that was wrong, for Della, a canny, intelligent young woman with more than a normal sense of self-preservation, was apparently just as ignorant of Society’s labyrinths, just as lost in a jungle of innuendo and influence.
I was simply young. The realization came on a flood of compassion for that younger woman, for her bewilderment, and for how hard she’d tried to decipher codes written before Shakespeare had set pen to paper.
I was young, and I did the best I could. No absolution was required for being young and bewildered, and yet Susannah felt an easing in her heart. She had needed time and guidance to find her balance, the same as Della did now, the same as any young lady did. Willow had tried to assure her this was so, though the truth of his perspective was only now sinking in.
Della was doing her best too, yet a warning was in order. “That you don’t let Effington kiss you ought to tell him a lot,” Susannah said, “but, Della, you’ve created a problem nonetheless.”
“Because you’ve had to spend time with Willow Dorning? I know you’re not fond of dogs, Susannah, but I thought you enjoyed those outings nonetheless.” Della stood, her smile smug.
“I have enjoyed those outings, for the most part, but your situation is precarious. If you don’t want to marry Effington, then you’re about to make an enemy of him. His lordship will look a fool when you refuse his suit, and he doesn’t strike me as a man to endure humiliation stoically. He’ll retaliate against you, or against those you care about.”
Della’s smile faded, like the moonlight when clouds crossed the night sky. She quit brushing at her skirts, and her shoulders slumped.
Susannah had stood in Della’s slippers, when a Season was a great trial, not a privilege.
“I want you to be happy,” Susannah went on, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. “We’ll get you through this Season, Della, but please be careful. You might be able to endure Effington’s version of revenge, but I don’t trust him to limit his wounded pride to nasty talk and vile rumor. He can be cruel, and he has the ear of the gossips. Watch your every step.”
Susannah hugged Della and accompanied her back to the lit walk, then surrendered her into the company of the Duke of Quimbey, who came striding up a side path.
“Will you come back to the ballroom with us, Susannah?” Della asked.
“No, thank you,” Susannah said. “I’ll enjoy a little more fresh air. The violinist has mistaken the ballroom for a concert hall, and I’m in need of quiet.”
Susannah needed Willow Dorning, in fact, and he was somewhere down the path Quimbey had just traversed.
* * *
“I am turning into my brother Sycamore,” Willow announced as he slipped into her ladyship’s bedroom.
Susannah had kept her word and left her balcony door unlocked, and as she’d promised, a sturdy maple had made climbing to that balcony a moment’s work. Thank heavens for a Dorset boyhood that had included climbing many a tree.
“I chose this bedroom so that my sister Della wouldn’t have it.” Susannah reclined on a chaise, a branch of candles at her elbow, no other illumination in the room, a book in her lap.
The picture she made was full of contradictions, dark and light, demure and seductive, alert and idle. Her hair was in a single golden braid, her nightclothes delicate white silk, white-worked hems, and frothy lace. Her expression when she set her book aside and rose boded ruin for Will’s good intentions.
“Why shouldn’t Lady Della have this room?” Will asked, even as he knew he was taking the first bait cast at his figurative feet in what could become a difficult game of fetch the stick.
“Della is reckless,” Susannah said. “Not on purpose—I’m about to be reckless on purpose—but because she simply doesn’t know any better. Della can’t see the dangers lurking behind the potted palms, for all she herself has a talent for dissembling. Hold still.”
Everything in Will—including the protestations he ought to be sputtering—remained silent and unmoving while Lady Susannah took his evening coat and then unknotted his cravat.
“Susannah, what are you doing?”
“Seducing you, or preparing to seduce you,” she said, fingers busy at his throat. “My experience is limited, but suggests fewer clothes portend greater success. This is a lovely pin.”
Fewer clothes portended greater pleasure—also greater foolishness. “A gift from my late father that even my brothers haven’t the nerve to steal. You are not seducing me.”
“Not yet,” she said, draping the cravat over Will’s shoulder. “First we must have the discussion you were unwilling to have in the Henningtons’ garden. I commend you for your prudence, because one never knows who’s lurking behind a lilac bush. The clasp is loose on this sleeve button.”
“Sycamore took my good pair, Ash my second best. These are Ash’s, because Sycamore’s have probably gone to the pawn shop.”
Susannah’s fingers brushing over Will’s throat and wrists were like a fresh breeze to a well-rested hound. They tempted Will to slip the leash, to bound off in search of forbidden adventures, no matter the consequences his disobedience might earn.
No matter anything.
“You would not discuss the missing dogs, the rewards, or Effington’s ill luck at the tables,” Susannah said. “But as it happens, I wanted to discuss something with you.”
If she started—
She started on his falls.
“Stop,” Will said, stilling Susannah’s hands with his own. “In the first place, a man can’t think, much less carry on a lucid conversation, when a lovely woman is undoing his falls.”
Susannah kissed him on the mouth. “In the second place?”
Merciful devils, the feel of her, soft, unbound, silky and sweet, pressed right against Will. No stays, or petticoats, barely any clothing…
“In the second place…I forget what’s in the second place.” Will kissed Susannah back, seized the initiative from her, and spent a few moments reacquainting himself with the glory of Susannah Haddonfield in an amorous mood. She was a smoldering conflagration of bad ideas and lovely sensations.
Her hands, disarranging the hair he’d troubled to comb to rights before scaling her maple tree; her breasts, pressed against his chest with shameless generosity; her sighs and the way she smiled against Will’s mouth when his hands cupped her derriere.
Delight surged as he drew Susannah closer. “We fit. I love how we fit,” he muttered. “Like coming home, like every happy Christmas, and—”
He dropped his hands and stepped back, because whether she’d intended to or not, Susannah was seducing him.
Sit, he commanded himself.
But where? his last functioning particle of common sense wondered. Not the bed, not the chaise. Will took the cold, hard stones of the raised hearth.
Stay.
Susannah came down beside him, her bare toes peeking out from her hems. “I do enjoy kissing you, Willow. You can’t know what a relief that is. I thought something was wrong with me, that I could not be warmed by the kisses of a man on the verge of offering for me.”
Like cold water thrown on a barking dog, her observation cooled Will’s desir
e.
“I am not on the verge of offering for you,” he said, a reminder to them both. A Riot Act read to the mob rule clamoring behind his half-buttoned falls. “I wish my circumstances were different, but at the present time, my expectations do not allow me to offer for anybody.”
Susannah shifted, so the toes of one foot were covered by a lacy hem, while the toes of the other remained delectably in view.
“But if you were to offer for anybody, that anybody would be me,” Susannah said. “I’m not a schoolgirl, Willow. I’m not a virgin, I’m not anybody who needs to hear your warnings and remonstrations. Have you made any progress locating the missing dogs?”
Back to this. Susannah was tenacious, while Will was besotted. He should never have climbed to her balcony. He should have stood in the garden like that idiot Romeo, declaiming verse and keeping his falls buttoned.
Though declaiming verse in a garden had little to recommend it, compared to Susannah Haddonfield’s bare toes. Look how old Romeo had fared in the end, after all.
“I am in pursuit of Alexander,” Will said. “My brothers and I saw the same dog in the park this evening, but he was unwilling to extend his trust under the circumstances. Time and patience will likely see him safely into our care.”
“You won’t give him back to Lady March and claim the reward?”
Susannah was unplaiting her braid, and the play of the candlelight on her hair—antique gold, burnished bronze, diamond white—reminded Will of what flames did to brandy in crystal. Beauty and danger, a visual song of temptation.
“Cam’s heart would break if we returned that dog to a negligent owner,” Will said. “I had Cam in mind for Samson—Hector is not ready—but Quimbey asked me about a dog for his nephew.”
Susannah shook her head, like a fit canine after a good swim, her hair spilling around her in casual glory.
“What about the other missing dogs? If Lady March is unlikely to pay the reward, then keeping her dog is no great loss, but what about the other dogs? They’re reported to be good-sized, protective beasts, and I’ve a notion we should look for them in the bear gardens.”
“I hate to hear those words, especially from you,” Will said, drawing Susannah’s hair over her shoulder. Her profile was lovely. The weight of her hair, warm and soft as sunshine against his fingers, was the stuff of reason’s ruin.
“I can wear a disguise,” Susannah said, with alarming assurance. “I’m tall enough to pass for a man, slim enough to be a young man. Della would be proud—”
Will settled a hand on Susannah’s nape and shook her gently. “No. No bear gardens for you. The violence is disgusting, the crowd pathetic, and the spectators as dangerous as the wretched beasts they’ve come to see tormented. If I let you attend a bear-baiting, you’d never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself.”
Cam, however, had recently been, and would likely go again if Will asked it of him. Ash would accompany him, and even Casriel’s presence wouldn’t be unusual.
“I’ll send my brothers, if you insist.” Will could make that promise, but what then? If he saw Caesar among the pack turned on the bear, would he hold his tongue? Alexander? The Duchess of Ambrose would insist on paying the reward, and that would only stir up notice and talk.
“You will send your brothers, and they will report back, and you will tell me what they learn,” Susannah said, resting her head on Will’s shoulder. “I have one more topic to discuss before I finish seducing you.”
Her head fit perfectly—
“You’ll not seduce me.” If Will joined her in that big, fluffy bed beckoning from the shadows, it would be of his own free will, and hers too.
Though he wouldn’t. Join her in the bed. At that moment.
“What will you do with yourself, Willow, when you’ve seen your brother the earl safely married?”
Susannah’s fingers drew a pattern on Will’s knee, a many-petaled daisy, perhaps. Her touch was soothing and distracting at once.
“I have five other brothers. Some need marrying, some need constant supervision, one in particular needs a daily scolding on general principles.” Yes, a daisy. The schoolgirl game came to mind: he loves me, he loves me not.
Except there wasn’t any not. Will loved Susannah. Had loved her courage and tenderheartedness years ago, loved her self-reliance and fortitude now. He loved her toes too, and her touch, and her kisses.
“You cannot make a career out of being your brothers’ matchmaker, Willow. You must have some life of your own, some…” Her finger slowed—“I thought marrying Della off was my responsibility, but that’s presuming of me, isn’t it? I’ve never been married. Never truly been courted, so who am I to see to Della’s happiness?”
Somewhere in Susannah’s musing lay a point, probably a valid point. Will would ponder her words later, if his mind ever resumed functioning. Susannah’s single finger had drifted higher on Will’s thigh, blossoming into a bouquet of gentle erotic impressions—he loves me, he loves me, he loves me—while the gears of his mind ground ever more slowly.
Until a single concept meshed with every detail and sent Will’s imagination whirling forth in eight different happy directions.
“Are you concerned for your own happiness now, Susannah? One can see why you would be, when all you hear from me is that I’m not proposing, and I can’t propose. Remiss of me, when I can see no future without you in it. I cannot offer you a proposal, but I can offer you an understanding.”
The finger of diabolical feminine designs paused. “An understanding, Willow?” She beamed at her toes, at Will’s knees, at her own hand, and Will abruptly felt like the juiciest, most succulent treat ever to wear breeches and a half-unbuttoned shirt.
Also like the luckiest dog.
“An understanding,” Will said. “I will not tender my suit to another, I will not share my kisses with another. I have insufficient means to offer you marriage at the moment, but I can give you my loyalty and fidelity, and assure you they’re yours for all time.”
Fidelity was an intimate concept, and Susannah clearly sought an intimate understanding. The part of Will that knew he ought to have lingered in the garden also knew he’d just complicated matters terribly. A woman who shared an understanding with a fellow might reasonably expect that fellow to collect any available rewards posthaste.
Susannah leaned forward, resting her cheek against Will’s knee. “We have an understanding, then, Mr. Dorning. I forget what else I was supposed to tell you. Something about Ash and Della.”
Oh, how quietly delighted she looked, nuzzling Will’s knee. He could almost feel the pleasure of their bargain purring through her.
“Ash and Della would suit, but he lacks means,” Will said. “A common condition in the Dorning family. I’ll address my own shortcomings in this regard as diligently as hard work and good luck allow.”
Will stroked Susannah’s back, his resolve settling into relief. Their understanding was a compromise, and he excelled at the reasonable compromise. He’d give Susannah his promise of a proposal, and all the pleasure she sought, and she’d give him time to earn a tidy amount of coin through decent, prudent means.
Susannah straightened and aimed a smile at Will that made him pity all the Romeos in their lonely gardens, baying at the moon, sonnet by hopeless sonnet.
Let those poor louts have their poetry, for he and Susannah had an understanding.
Fourteen
If Susannah married Will in June, their wedding would distract all the tabbies and gossips from whatever tempest Della’s Season provoked.
That cheering realization was Susannah’s last coherent thought before Will drew her to her feet and straight into his arms.
Their discussion had settled something for him. Susannah could feel the confidence in him where wary hesitation had been.
Perhaps her suggestion of a visit to the bear gardens had inspired his hopes of earning the rewards, perhaps her ready acceptance of his understanding had reassured him.
Unattached women were prone to insecurities, but single men weren’t to admit to the same vulnerability. Susannah kissed Will, rather than tell him how his offer of an understanding had reassured her.
“I could stand here all night kissing you,” Will said, “all Season. Do you keep lavender sachets in your wardrobe? You smell like a sunny garden, and all my best memories of Dorset.”
They’d live in Dorset, a beautiful place, and just far enough away from all of Susannah’s dear, meddlesome siblings.
“Tell me about Dorset,” she said, though one swift embrace had confirmed for Susannah that not all of Will’s attention was on pleasant memories and sunny gardens. Part of it was on her, and on what would happen in her bed.
Will’s hands settled on her shoulders, his thumbs making gentle circles below her collarbone, and Susannah’s knees nearly gave out.
“Dorset is good land for sheep, and far from London’s stink and bustle. I love it, and I hope you do too. Tell me about your nightclothes, my love. Do they stay on and risk injury to their seams, or do we remove them now?”
From Dorset to endearments was quite a leap, but Susannah was ready for leaps. She’d spent years observing, considering, pondering, and soothing her spirits with Shakespeare, but now, she and Willow Dorning had an understanding.
“Let’s get you out of your finery,” Susannah said, for she was determined to enjoy herself, and waiting for Will to guess her thoughts and preferences was simply a waste of time. “Do you need help with your boots?”
He didn’t need help with anything, being a younger son who managed without a valet. Susannah’s role was to stand and marvel as waistcoat, shirt, boots, and stockings were handed to her one after another.
Willow Dorning was fit, as an active man would be, a man who preferred country life to Town idleness. As he shed each article of clothing—all sober, well-made Town attire—he seemed to relax, and become more the calm, confident fellow who’d taken Susannah’s situation in hand years ago and steered her past gossip and meanness with a smile, a bow, a wink, and a minuet.
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