Summer Folly

by Kruger, Mary

  Thomas twisted again to look back. “He seems to be enjoying himself. Now.” He turned to face her, and there was so intent a look in his eyes that even Beth couldn’t mistake it. “About us—”

  “Beth, did you see this rosebush?” Susan called, and Beth and Thomas turned, startled, to see that Susan and Mr. Seward were nearly upon them.

  “N-no,” Beth said. “We should go see it, sir.”

  “I suppose.” Thomas gave her a quick look of regret. “We’ll talk more later.”

  “Oh, yes,” Beth said, and wondered at her boldness.

  “I feel decidedly old,” Giles said, and Anne, who had been looking abstractedly about her, turned toward him. “Am I so much a chaperon that you cannot even talk to me?”

  “You are doing your duty,” Anne said solemnly, though her eyes sparkled.

  “Yes, my damned, cursed duty.”

  “Giles!”

  “Do you remember, Anne, when we were the ones who needed chaperoning? Whoever thought we’d turn out to be so proper?”

  “Proper? This conversation is far from proper.”

  “I suppose it is.” He looked down at her, though she kept her head averted. Living in the same house this past week with Anne had not been easy, not since his mother had made that remarkable accusation. Anne, wanting to marry him? Ridiculous. He rather wished it weren’t, though. He needed a wife, and she had the advantage of being familiar to him. And he wanted her. Each time he saw her his heart began to pound, he couldn’t breathe, and his blood set up a restless rhythm. It bothered him, because he had never been the kind of man to feel, or give into, such lust. He had always kept himself well under control, aware of who he was, and what his duty was. His damned duty, which ordained he must marry a suitable girl, when what he really wanted was to sweep this delectable female into his arms and never let her go. But she didn’t want him. He had watched her through all their exchanges in the past days, and he had come to the conclusion that she was either extraordinarily clever and subtle, or that she really didn’t wish to marry him. He suspected the latter. She was no more interested in him now than she had been seven years ago.

  He was so close. Though Anne’s fingers rested lightly on Giles’s arm, she was acutely aware of the strength of the muscles underneath his civilized, well-tailored coat. She could feel the warmth of him through the fine fabric; she could sense his eyes on her in a gaze she refused to meet. For, if she did, he would surely see what she tried so hard to keep hidden, that she loved him, she loved him hopelessly and forever, when there was no chance that that love would ever be returned. And, if it were, what would she do?

  “Where are the others?” Anne asked, glancing around.

  “Somewhere in the grounds, I imagine.” Giles held her back. “They’ll be fine. This is public, after all.”

  “I don’t know. Giles, do you think Beth can handle Lieutenant Bancroft?”

  “There’s more to Beth than you might think. And Bancroft seems a decent type.”

  “You don’t mind that he’s a younger son?”

  “No. So was I, once.”

  “So you were.” Anne kept her voice light. “This garden is lovely. And quiet.” For the first time, she realized that she and Giles were the only ones in this part of the Abbey grounds. With the ruins of the church behind them, they were quite isolated. It should have made her uneasy. It didn’t.

  “Here is where the high altar stood.” Giles pointed to a marker in the grass. “They excavated it just recently. William had it built where Harold fell. The Saxon standards must have flown just about there.”

  Anne followed his pointing finger, almost able to see it, the chaos of battle, the colorful flags rippling in the breeze. “You know a great deal about it.”

  Giles grinned. “Mother’s doing. Doubtless some Templeton ancestor fought here.”

  “Thank you for spending time with Jamie. I know answering his questions can be wearing.”

  “He’s a very taking little boy. Very bright.” He paused. “And he does need a man’s influence.”

  Anne sighed. “I know. But, please, Giles, let’s don’t quarrel today.”

  “I never did want to quarrel with you, Annie.”

  “Annie? No one’s called me that in years.” And then only him. The way he was looking at her was strange, disturbing; his eyes were warm, intense, and very much alive with light.

  “What happened to us, Annie? We were young once. All of life was before us.”

  “You know what happened, Giles,” she said, her voice smothered. Of all places to discuss this subject! She glanced quickly around, but they were still alone.

  “But I never understood why.”

  “Why?” Her eyes came up, startled. “When you—”

  “When I kissed you the way I did, and you kissed me back.”

  “Giles!”

  “Do you remember our first kiss, Annie?”

  “Giles, this is a most inappropriate conversation.”

  “Do you remember it?” He grasped her arms and turned her to face him, pulling her into the shelter of the trees that ringed the garden. “Tell me you remember it.”

  “Oh, Giles.” Something in his eyes, some need, touched her. “Of course I remember. ‘Twas in Lady Wilton’s garden during a dull musicale. I remember I was terrified we’d be caught.”

  “I remember how much I wanted to kiss you.” Giles’s voice was low. “I remember how long I’d wanted to—you have very kissable lips, sweetheart, so full and pink—and I remember how scared I was.”

  “Scared!” she exclaimed, in spite of the odd feelings his words sent spurting through her. Did she have kissable lips? “You didn’t seem so.”

  “I was. You were so young. I was afraid I’d scare you.”

  Anne chuckled, caught up in the memories in spite of herself. “And there I was, wondering when you were ever going to kiss me.”

  “Ah, if I’d known that.” He smiled. “But I did.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “And you kissed me back.”

  Anne lowered her head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Yes, you do. Look at me, Annie.” His fingers under her chin forced her head up, so that she had to look at him. “You haven’t forgotten any of it, have you?”

  “No,” she whispered, caught, and held, by his gaze. Had anyone before ever looked at her so, with such tenderness, such yearning? Such need?

  “Nor have I. I think it began something like this.” Cupping her face, he brushed his thumbs along her cheekbones, and her eyes fluttered shut. “Ah, love, your skin is as soft now as it was then. You smelled of violets. Now it’s—?”

  “Frangipani.”

  “Ah. I like that. Then I put my arm around you, like this.” He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her, unprotesting, toward him. “You put your arms around my neck.”

  “Not right away.”

  “No? But soon. And then I lowered my head, like so. And I stopped.”

  “I didn’t know why.”

  “To give you a chance to pull away.”

  “I don’t want it, Giles.” And standing on tiptoe, she looped her arms around his neck, just as he said she had. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. For one endless, eternal moment they gazed at each other, and then, at last, at long last, he lowered his head, and his mouth touched hers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Instantly Anne pressed up against him, helpless against the firestorm of need raging within her. It was different from that long-ago, tentative kiss. They were different. They had grown, changed, gone through things they had never imagined when young. They had grown apart, and yet, here they were, in the inadequate shelter of a few trees, his hands roaming on her back, her mouth opening to the gentle, insistent probing of his tongue. Much had changed, and yet, nothing had changed. They were still just Anne, just Giles, but with more experience to bring to this particular experience. He was not a laughing young man anymore, no
r she an innocent debutante, tasting passion for the first time. Passion, warm and sweet, turning her blood sluggish, her body heavy. Passion, something she hadn’t felt in ever so long, something she had never felt with Freddie.

  She jerked back abruptly as memory returned, and Giles, caught off-guard, let her go. “Anne?” Her eyes were blank and frightened, filled with the fear he’d seen in her when she had waltzed with Campbell. He still didn’t understand it. “Annie, what is it?”

  “Oh, lord.” She passed a shaking hand over her face, effectively hiding it from him. “Oh, lord, Giles, what you must be thinking of me.”

  “What’s wrong, Anne? Tell me.”

  “A headache.” She laughed, shakily. “I know that sounds dreadfully lame, but I do get the most horrible migraines.”

  “Annie.” He moved toward her, and she stepped back, making him stop. “We were friends once. Can you not tell me what is wrong?”

  “Are you adding lying to my other offenses now? Oh, I want to go home.” She buried her face in her hands, so forlorn a figure that he wanted more than anything to go to her, to gather her into his arms and hold her, rocking her, promising safety and—what? For the life of him, he didn’t know.

  “No, Annie,” he said, gently. “I’m not accusing you of lying.”

  At that Anne looked up. Giles, so close, and so lost to her. Poor man, he looked so confused; he had probably never had a woman pull away from him in revulsion in his life. She wanted to go to him and touch his face, assure him that it was her fault, not his, promising him—what? She didn’t know. All she wanted was to go home, though for the life of her she didn’t know whether home was Jamaica, or the place where she had grown up. Or Giles’s strong, sheltering arms.

  “It must never happen again, Giles,” she said, her hands clasped primly before her.

  “There are no impediments, Annie. You are widowed, and I’m promised to no one.”

  Anne gripped her hands tighter. “I’m not Annie anymore. And this must not happen again.”

  “Why? Just tell me that.”

  “Because I don’t love you.” The words rang in the sudden silence, making her safe. “I never did.”

  To Giles’s credit he didn’t so much as flinch. “I see. My mistake, Anne. Forgive me.”

  There was a strange lump in her throat. “Yes, Giles. Of course.”

  “Come. Let us find the others. A poor job we’re doing as chaperones.”

  “Yes.” She came over to him and took the arm he held out to her, standing as far from him as possible. “Giles, we are still friends, are we not?”

  “If you ask me that again, I will not be responsible for the consequences,” he said through his teeth. Startled, Anne looked up. He looked savage, almost feral, and for the first time she saw a side of him he’d always kept hidden. Oddly enough, it didn’t inspire fear in her. Only pity. Like her, he hid himself away from the world.

  “Very well.” Oh, Giles. Oh, Giles. “We’ll be cordial, civilized enemies. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  They emerged from the garden to see the other couples returning from their various strolls. Susan looked primly smug; Beth’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. She and Giles hadn’t done their jobs as chaperones well at all, Anne thought, but then, who would ever have thought they would be the ones who needed watching?

  Though the sun had not yet set, the light had already turned golden. It was a weary, and quiet, group of people who turned their mounts toward home. Jamie had given up the effort of riding long ago and now, fast asleep, was tucked before Giles on his mount. The sight sent a curious pang through Anne. So much that could have been, and would never be. In the space of a few moments, her world had fallen to pieces. She wondered if it would ever be the same again.

  The bells at the Castle Inn pealed out several days later, heralding the arrival of important visitors to the town. Soon the news spread as to who they were: the Viscount and Viscountess of Pendleton. Anne’s parents.

  Anne’s hands were cold inside her gloves as she rode in the Tremont landau toward the house her parents had taken for the summer, on the Marine Parade. She hadn’t seen them since her runaway marriage, and she was rather dreading this visit. Through the years she had maintained cordial relations with them through letters, but one image remained unchanged. She still remembered, all too vividly, their reactions to her marriage, the looks on their faces, ranging from her mother’s embarrassment and shock to her father’s condemnation. It had been wretchedly difficult to face, when all her life she had tried so hard to please them. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so hard if she’d ever felt they truly cared about her.

  A butler she didn’t recognize admitted her to a house even grander than the one the Tremonts had taken, and led her upstairs to the drawing room. In the brief moment between his announcing her arrival and her mother’s rising to greet her, Anne quickly surveyed the room. It was all pink and gilt, with an Aubusson carpet in rose and cream and teal on the floor, reminding her irresistibly of a candy box. A perfect setting for the woman coming toward her, her hands outstretched.

  “Oh, my dear.” Lady Katherine Pendleton pressed a cool, powder-scented cheek against Anne’s, and the impulse Anne had had, to throw her arms around her mother, died. “Oh, how wonderful to see you again. Let me look at you. Why, you look quite fashionable. I was so afraid that after years in that nasty place you’d be all brown, like one of the natives. But you look quite well.”

  Anne kept her smile firmly in place. “Thank you, Mother. So do you.”

  Katherine preened. There was such a resemblance between mother and daughter that they might have been taken for sisters. Katherine’s complexion owed much to rosewater and cream, however, and the rice powder she judiciously applied every day, hoping to disguise the fine lines near her eyes and mouth. Her hair was as golden as Anne’s, but it had a brassy tint, hinting that nature had been helped along here, as well. Finally, the most discerning would have realized that underneath her flimsy, fashionable gown Katherine was rigidly corseted. “Why, thank you for saying so, darling,” she said. “Come, sit with me. You always were a good girl, except for that one time which we will not mention. How sweet of you to pay us a call, when I know you must be so busy.”

  “You’re my mother.”

  “Well, yes, of course I am, though I do hope you won’t say so so openly in company! I do think we look rather more like sisters, do you not? Though you haven’t been rinsing your hair in lemon juice as I taught you, have you? Dear, dear. You know how I dislike red hair, it is so common. Well, never mind. It is so delightful to see you again. Though I did expect you to visit earlier.”

  Anne’s fingers curled in her lap. Nothing she did was ever enough. “I thought you might need time to settle in.”

  “Oh, la, as to that, you can see we’re at sixes and sevens!” she exclaimed, waving a hand around the immaculate drawing room. “But the staff will see to that, of course. You have been in England quite some time now, darling. I’m hurt that you didn’t think to visit your parents before this.”

  Oh, unfair. “I did think you and Papa might come to Tremont Castle. I asked you enough times,” she said, the words torn from her. She hadn’t intended to say any such thing. She hadn’t wanted to show how very much her parents’ indifference had hurt her.

  “Oh, la, there was so much to do. You understand, of course. But, come, we mustn’t squabble! It is enough we’re all together in Brighton.”

  “Of course.” Anne smiled and, on impulse, reached over to squeeze her mother’s hand. “It is so good to see you again. And Papa? Where is he? I thought to see him here.”

  “You know your father, darling. Nothing must do but that he went to his club. You do know Raggett, the man who has Whites’s in London, has opened a club here? A marvelous idea, and so ideal for someone like your father. He did ask me specially to give you his regards.”

  “Oh.” Seven years. It had been seven years since she had seen her father,
and he couldn’t even take the trouble to stay home and talk with her for five minutes. Unbidden a memory returned to her: Giles, waiting for her at the quay at Portsmouth. At least he had had the sensitivity to realize she would want a welcome on her return to England.

  “Of course he wants to see you, but I imagine we’ll run into each other at routs and such. Tell me, what has been happening here? I was sorry we couldn’t have come earlier, but there were some matters at Penworth that Pendleton had to see to and I just could not tear him away! But I am certain there is so much more ahead.”

  “I’m sure,” Anne murmured, and sat quietly, letting her mother prattle on about the season just past in London, the pleasures in store in Brighton. Nothing had changed. She didn’t know why she had thought things might be different, except that she herself had changed so. She had grown up. She knew now, though, that her parents never would. Their chief concern was, as it always had been, their own pleasure. They had never had much time for the solemn-faced child Anne had been, or the flighty girl she had become; they had little time now for her as a mature woman. Watching her mother’s fluttering, bird-like gestures as she talked, Anne felt old, almost as if she were the parent rather than the child. It wouldn’t matter that she had been graciously received by the Prince of Wales. Nothing was really important to Katherine unless it pertained directly to her; nothing anyone else did quite mattered. And, Anne thought, with wry amusement, if her mother had dined at the Marine Pavilion, she would now be telling Anne about it. Her parents were the same as they had always been. She had to reconcile herself to that.

  “I must be going, Mother,” Anne said, when Katherine stopped to draw a breath. “I promised Jamie I’d take tea with him.”

  “Jamie?” Katherine’s brow furrowed, before she remembered and quickly reached up her fingers to smooth away any wrinkles. “Oh, yes. Your son. He is, what? Two, now?”

  “Five, Mother.”

  “Oh, well. I’m sure he won’t mind if you’re late. Children never notice such things.”