by Lara Temple
It didn’t help that the park seemed to have emptied of its afternoon wanderers and they now stood alone on the hill, having left the curricle, groom and the exhausted and slumbering dog on the path below. The trees and shrubs surrounded them in a green cocoon which was only broken by the gap open to the vision of the shimmering city.
‘I wish I could paint that light...’ she said wistfully.
‘Can’t you?’
‘No. It wouldn’t come out right. Your Mr Turner could, I think. Like the sea. I keep trying to paint the sea off the cove and it’s never right.’
‘Maybe it’s the inadequate north Devon light. You can try your hand in the bay at Harcourt. I think we should travel there this week. I could get a special licence and as soon as your family arrives your father can marry us at the Harcourt chapel. That should satisfy even the most exacting critics.’
‘So soon?’ Her eyes widened and she wet her lips nervously and he moved towards her.
‘Since we’ve already anticipated a crucial aspect of the ceremony, I don’t see any point in waiting, do you? And once it’s done we can get rid of everybody and go out on the Shepstons’ boat to Old Grumble—there’s a beautiful view from there and you could even take your easel out there.’
She seemed slightly dazed at the barrage of information, her hands clasped tightly in front of her like an obedient schoolgirl.
‘Old Grumble?’
‘A tiny island near Port Jacob. We...the fishermen use it sometimes. It’s named after the sound the waves make on the rocks.’
That caught her attention.
‘You fish?’ She cocked her head to one side, her embarrassment fading, and the curiosity in her eyes tempted him forward.
‘That’s all I wanted to do when I was a boy. I used to go out with old Mr Shepston and his sons since I was seven or eight whenever I was home from school. Sometimes I spent more time with them than at the Hall.’
‘I’m impressed your parents allowed you. Papa never liked it when George went out fishing with the villagers.’
He shrugged. ‘They didn’t allow it, they just didn’t know about it. We didn’t spend much time together when I was home at the Hall. They found out by chance when I was thirteen and my father happened to be in Port Jacob one day and he saw me coming into port with the Shepstons.’
‘Was he angry?’
‘Not angry, disappointed. He wasn’t a man of strong emotions and he was very conscious of the Duke’s role. He always told me it was important to know each and every one of our tenants and their families and show the proper amount of attention. He just felt I had carried this dictum too far and that there was nothing to be gained by becoming over-familiar with people who were dependent on us for their livelihood. I pointed out that the fishermen were dependent on the sea, not on us. I was still too young to understand economic logic and social distinctions. As far as I was concerned, the fishermen were royalty. My father delivered a very enlightening lesson on the local economic structure and our role in it. After that he made sure I was fully occupied learning about estate affairs and understanding that lesson down to its finest detail.’
‘Isn’t thirteen a little young to be inculcated into crop rotations and irrigation and the like?’
He smiled at the subtle bristling in her manner, as if preparing to mount a defence of that long-gone boy. It was touching, but misplaced.
‘Not really. The fishermen took their children with them so they could learn the trade. It was no different with me. It was just that at that age I preferred their trade to mine. But my father was right...about that at least. I can’t turn my back on my responsibilities. Too many people depend on our doing our job right. That’s all it is.’
‘But if you enjoyed it so much... Didn’t you go fishing with them again after that?’
He almost bent the truth just to draw out the concern in her gaze.
‘Of course I did. Not as often, though. My father was cold, not a fool, and he knew interdictions were ineffective. I think what bothered him most was that none of his people, as he called them, had told him about my activities during all those years. I think he was insulted, which is ridiculous.’
‘I don’t know. After all, if his life was about his duty towards these people, it might have felt like a betrayal if they withheld something they knew was important to him. It would hurt.’
Max turned away, riding out the sudden, feverish heat that coursed through him, mute and shocked by its power. He would never have credited empathy with any more aphrodisiac effects than humour but he would have been wrong on both counts. It had been a mistake to leave Marmaduke in the curricle. He could use a chaperon right now, even a canine one.
‘Is there no one you won’t champion?’ he asked lightly after a moment.
‘That doesn’t mean I would have chosen him over you,’ she said seriously. ‘It is just that I think I can understand why it might have hurt. That’s all.’
‘I think you overestimate my father’s capacity for being hurt. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I told you any of this. Come, let’s find a good place to sit so you can sketch.’
‘Oh, there’s no need, you probably wish to return.’
‘No. Do you?’
She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, and then her shoulders sagged.
‘My fingers are burning to try. I’m sorry, I won’t take long.’
‘You shouldn’t apologise if you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s a bad habit.’
‘I’m not...well, a little. I know you would prefer me without all the nonsense about the painting.’
‘I don’t know what you would be like without the painting. It’s not just something you do, it’s how you see the world.’
Her eyes widened.
‘No one has ever said that to me before.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘I...good, I think. It’s like those dreams where you are going about and suddenly realise you are only in your petticoats, you know?’
Max threw back his head and laughed.
‘No, I don’t. Not petticoats.’
‘Well, not petticoats, but you know what I mean. Finding yourself exposed.’
‘That doesn’t sound very enjoyable, then, and that is not what I meant to do. It was just a thought. Why did you think it was good, then?’
‘Because it means you see me.’
His smile faded slightly as he looked at her, but he kept his voice light.
‘Right in front of me. Hard to miss.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes. It’s not always a good thing, though. To be seen. I thought you said it made your life harder at home.’
‘Well, I should perhaps have said seen and...understood. Someone seeing past the obvious faults to what is behind them. But that is probably not what you meant anyway.’
‘It is what I meant. But they aren’t faults. They might not be easy to deal with, but they aren’t faults.’
She turned towards the view, but he grasped her arm lightly and turned her back to him and was surprised to see her eyes had reddened with tears.
‘What have I done now?’ he asked and she touched her fingers to her eyelids.
‘You’re being nice.’
‘A cardinal sin. And very out of character, I know.’ Max took her hand and drew her towards the shade of a broad-leafed tree. ‘There’s a clear view from here. Wake me when you’re done.’
She sat down and pulled out her sketch pad and Max sat as well, leaning against the tree trunk and watching her through half-closed eyes. The remains of the summer sun sparkled through the leaves shifting in the breeze, shimmering over her like golden medallions, and the fading warmth and quiet lulled him into a sensation of lazy comfort he remembered from those times on the fishing
boats when nothing was happening and he was utterly relaxed. He could almost feel the shifting of the water, soothing and caressing. But underneath he was anything but relaxed. He knew she was totally unaware of the invitation of her alternating laughter and empathy, which only made it more potent. She looked so intent as her hand moved lightly over the sketch pad. But he wasn’t watching the drawing. She had a lovely profile, he realised, more defined than he had thought, or maybe it was because she was looking so serious now, her mouth tense. He wanted to trace that line, linger on her lips until they softened and lifted in the smile that somehow always managed to crumble his defences, then slide over her determined chin and down the sweep of her neck...lower...
As he watched she bit down on her lip in concentration and then let it go with a soft sigh and it slid out, damp and just touched with light. It was such a tiny inconsequential movement, it made no sense that it should drag him out of his lazy contemplation and into a maelstrom of hungry desire that clenched his body and was as out of place in this sylvan setting as her irreverent and unconventional nature was in his carefully controlled life. He almost wished someone would break into their solitude, but aside from the birds and the faint buzzing of bees from the honeysuckle bushes there was no sound. The scent carried, reminding him of her scent and taste when he had been buried in her, sweet and warm and edged with something exotic and elusive that kept him wondering, searching. It brought with it the memory of her body, tense and tightening as he brought her to release, her heat and abandon and the urgent cries she had tried to stifle. He wanted to take that sketch pad from her hands, press her back against the grass, strip her and cover her naked body with his, this faint breeze cool on their damp, flushed skin, her breasts bared to the fading light, to his hands and mouth...
He raised one knee to ease the tension and leaned his head back on the tree trunk, looking out over the park. His hands were burning and he tugged off his gloves as if that might relieve the heat and, though the cooler air was soothing, it just heightened his need to reach for her and pull her to him. He almost smiled at the triteness of the scene and of his response to her. He would have thought that turning thirty would have brought wisdom and prudence. Instead he was sitting here, an inch away from making an utter fool of himself because he was hot to bed his future wife. He kept his eyes on the view, breathing slowly. Finally he heard her shift and looked over. She closed her sketch pad and she looked over at him and smiled.
‘Thank you for being so patient.’
‘Wrong word,’ he said with more bite than he had intended and her smile wavered.
‘I’m sorry if I kept you...’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. Forget it. Come.’
He stood up and held out his hand to help her up, cursing his clumsiness. It wasn’t her fault his self-control was so tenuous. She gave him her hand, but the open, laughing ease of the past hours was gone and the rosy flush on her cheeks had nothing to do with pleasure. She turned back towards the path, pulling her hand from his, but he tightened his hold. It had been a lovely afternoon and he didn’t want the whole of if tainted by his stupidity. He searched for some way to retrieve his mistake.
‘I enjoyed myself very much this afternoon,’ he said, aware he sounded stiff and formal. His fingers were just touching the base of her wrist and he could feel her heartbeat, fast and sharp, or perhaps that was his own pulse, he couldn’t tell. But the tiny surges of flesh against his were hammer blows on his defences and the heat that had stung and caught him as he had watched her sketch was back with an immediacy and force that shocked him.
‘Look at me!’ There was something of the desperation he felt in his voice and she did look up, her eyes almost teal coloured, bruised and wary, and the wariness cracked his resolve. He didn’t want her wary of him. He wanted...he needed that smile he had chased away.
‘The only impatience I felt was with myself. This is neither the time nor place for what I was considering.’
Under his fingers the pulse hitched and picked up speed and her flush deepened, but at least the distant coolness in her eyes faded.
‘It still isn’t,’ he said, more to himself than to her, and the laughing smile filled her eyes like sun settling on water. The relief that flooded him was almost as infuriating as the urgent desire that had gripped him. He shouldn’t let her moods drive him like this. But her voice, raspy and breathless, took the sting out of his own weakness.
‘Perhaps if you tell me what you were considering I might be able to suggest a better time and place?’
‘I would rather show you,’ he said, touching the soft pucker of her lower lip and her mouth parted and he caught her lip very gently between finger and thumb, gliding over the silky damp inside, bending towards her. ‘I never knew watching someone sketch could be so...inspiring.’
‘It doesn’t sound very inspiring,’ she said breathlessly as he released her lip, his hand sliding over her nape, her hair warm and silky against his palm.
‘And yet it is. I kept thinking of doing this...’ He captured her lip between his, tasting it with his tongue, following the gilded line he had watched, loving the way it softened when damp, revelling in her taste, so unique and enticing his whole body was recognising it and what it signalled, a promise in itself. He wished he had some creative talent so he could express one iota of the sensations she sparked in him. But the only way he knew was this, with his body, giving itself to exploring her, arousing her. As much as it scared him, he loved the way she responded to his touch and kisses, urgent and demanding and languorous all at once. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be doing this here, in the middle of the park; it made no difference that any moment now someone might appear. He was already digging his fingers into her skirts to draw them up when Sophie suddenly pressed her hands against his chest and pushed back, her body stiffening. It took him a moment to hear the burst of sharp barking rising up from the path below and he cursed under his breath. The blasted pug. Sophie shivered slightly, but then laughed.
‘Marmaduke has awakened. Your poor groom.’
Max straightened as well. It was probably for the best. ‘We should get back.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Max, I had a lovely afternoon, too.’
Her words were formal and correct, but her smile had the same confiding warmth as before and the ache expanded, pushing at him from inside. He gave in to the urge for one last contact, just touching her cheek, and she leaned her cheek briefly against his hand. For a moment he stayed there, caught. That tiny movement of trust, and tenderness, was so foreign it stood out like a diamond flashing in a coal scuttle. He felt a powerful urge to step into it and an equally powerful urge to reject it, move away from this ache that was dragging him further and further into her territory. It was all well and good to explore, but at the end of the day one went home. The warmth and ease of the afternoon had lulled him into accepting this countryside idyll as an optional reality, where everything flowed and looks were as telling as words. It was as maudlin as any third-rate poetry. Life was hard work and a great deal of conflict and this afternoon had been the exception, not the rule. He dropped his hand and stepped back.
She was still smiling, but the warmth in her eyes was clearing, like water settling. He knew she had read his change in mood and was moving back as well and he didn’t know whether to resent being read so easily or to be grateful she was beginning to learn to respect his limits. He should be grateful.
‘Come. We should go reassure Marmaduke I haven’t carried through on my threat to abandon him in the park.’
Chapter Eighteen
Marmaduke sniffed suspiciously at the outstretched and very grubby hand. Then his pink tongue flicked out and tested one of the sticky spots and the boy snatched back his hand, but squealed in delight.
‘See? He likes you,’ Sophie said and the boy grinned.
‘May I try again, please
?’
‘Of course, just as you did before, that was perfect.’
Marmaduke closed his eyes and suffered himself to be petted.
‘Master Peter!’
Sophie and the boy looked up at the hurried approach of a slight man in a sombre coat.
‘My tutor,’ the boy grimaced. ‘I must go. May I pet him again another day?’
‘Marmaduke will be delighted, won’t you, dear? See, he’s smiling.’
The boy’s grin widened and he jumped up and ran off across the garden to his beckoning tutor, his black curls bouncing, and Sophie gave Marmaduke a last scratch before picking him up and heading towards the gate. The boy must be about ten, close to her youngest brother’s age. She stopped abruptly as it occurred to her that if Serena hadn’t died, if the child had been born, it would have been about this age and to all intents and purposes Max would have been its father, legitimate or not. They would have been living right here in this square...
If Max hadn’t been involved, she might have felt a little sorry for a woman so incapable of appreciating what she had that it had ended up destroying her and scarring the people who cared for her. For the life of her Sophie couldn’t understand anyone preferring Wivenhoe to Max, no matter how stupid they were. But then for better or for worse she couldn’t imagine Max talking about anyone with the fevered intensity Wivenhoe had spewed at her outside Reeves’s. Serena must have loved that kind of adulation. Sophie felt a very uncharitable surge of contempt for people who indulged in such high dramatics.
‘Why the scowl? Did Marmaduke misbehave?’