“Probably to keep from blurting out something I shall regret,” she huffed.
He looked about the crowded car. It was odd, but the press of bodies suddenly seemed less strangling. His head was beginning to feel clearer, too. Was the brandy finally leaving his system? Or was it because he’d discovered a more enjoyable distraction?
He lifted a hand and gestured toward the mob of people. “No one here knows you, Miss Westmore. Blurt away.”
“I think not.” She peeked back at him. “Why, I would shock you senseless with the things I could say. I come from a large family, and my younger brother, Geoffrey, takes great pleasure in bedeviling us all. I’ve learned to give as well as I get.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud.
“What is so amusing?” she asked warily.
“I used to have a sister, Miss Westmore. An independent, outspoken sister. And I assure you, she was capable of the occasional unfeminine expression.”
She looked at him curiously. “You used to have a sister?”
Thomas sobered, though the urge to make her laugh remained, sharp-edged and wanting. What had made him say that? He rarely spoke about that part of his life, and he didn’t know what had brought it out now. Perhaps it had been the unintended detour to Golden Square this morning, stirring painful memories he’d tried to suppress. Or perhaps it was Miss Westmore’s easy, affectionate talk of family, reminding him of his own.
This girl reminded him, in small but significant ways, of Josephine. Not in the tragic, fitful way he usually remembered his younger sister, but in more of an elemental way, one that made him smile and made him think of happier times.
He drew a deep breath. “I . . . lost her. Three years ago.”
Lost her. That was one way to put it. The truth was far more painful. He rarely talked about Josephine. She was his sister. His responsibility. And he had failed to protect her.
Not that she had given him the time or opportunity to set things to right. The gossip she’d faced had proven too damning, too damaging. Once she’d seen what her condition meant to his own reputation, she’d taken matters into her own hands.
Then again, he’d not been the most dependable—or sober—of potential protectors.
Was it any wonder she’d made such an irrevocable decision?
He shook his head, trying to clear away the memories. If Miss Westmore reminded him in some basic, elemental way of his sister, it was probably because she had a habit of leaping first and explaining herself later.
That, and inciting such a strong urge to try to get her to laugh.
“The point is, she was not afraid to give voice to her thoughts. Your aunt herself was famously outspoken. There is little you might say I would find shocking.”
She responded by worrying her bottom lip between her teeth again.
“Go on, then.” He pushed his shoulder against hers, the urge to charm her flaring bright beneath his skin. It was almost as though he was coming out of a dark hole, blinking into the sunshine. “I’ll even share a few of your aunt’s favorites. ‘Fiddlesticks.’ ” He wagged his eyebrows at her, sinking into the old, familiar feeling of being able to tease without worry. “Or, tell me I’ve got ‘gullyfluff’ between my ears—that was a particular favorite of Miss E’s.”
Miss Westmore clapped a gloved hand across her mouth and her shoulders began to shake. For a moment he thought perhaps he had made her cry, to remind her of her recently deceased aunt. But then he realized she was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Come now, you know you want to,” he coaxed.
She pulled her hand away from her mouth. “Oh, stuff it, you bloody cocksure bugger.”
Thomas choked in surprise. “Well. That was certainly . . .” He reached for an appropriate word. “ . . . colorful.” A chuckle rose in his throat. Over the course of their acquaintance Miss E had said many outrageous things, but to his recollection the feisty old spinster had never said anything quite like that. “You know,” he mused, “that might even have made your aunt blush.”
In an instant Miss Westmore’s cheeks flamed a rosy pink. “Well then, I suggest you remember what I am capable of, the next time you want to tease me,” she told him. “I know my lips are not the sort to inspire poetry, Lord Branston. So keep your false flirtations to yourself.”
False flirtations? There was nothing false about them. And what was this nonsense about not being the sort to inspire poetry? “Not even a bawdy bit of poetry?” he couldn’t help but ask. He cleared his throat, searching for a spark of brilliance. “There once was a girl from the city.”
She blushed even more deeply, but said nothing.
“It is your turn,” he prompted.
After a quick glance to either side, she mumbled, “Who wasn’t considered that pretty.”
He frowned. Was that how she saw herself? Her mouth was full and wide, and the soft pink hue of her lips was really quite lovely. “But she had a nice smile,” he countered.
She raised a brow. “And could curse a fair mile.”
This was better. Thomas cracked his knuckles, thinking hard. Inspiration came to him in a flash. “And she had a lovely, fine set of titties.”
Her gasp was so loud it bounced off the carriage roof. “Lord Branston!”
“Yes?” He tried to sound innocent. “They are. I mean, you do.” He gestured helplessly in the direction of her bosom. “I couldn’t see them yesterday beneath that horrid waistcoat, but today here they are.” He knew he was crossing a line of propriety, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was almost as though by trying so hard to be irritated with him, she was inviting such a lovely intimacy.
And he’d been lonely for far too long to resist.
She crossed her arms over the generous chest that had inspired such a moving bit of rhyme. It might be properly covered in yellow canary wool and feature a double row of brass buttons marching up the bodice, but he knew what lurked beneath.
He was nothing if not imaginative.
He grinned at her, feeling enormously satisfied with himself. “Do you mean to tell me, Miss Westmore, that you’d rather I stare at your lips after all?”
“That is . . . you are . . . not being a proper gentleman.”
“Am I supposed to be?” He leaned back in his seat. “You were the one who called me a bloody cocksure bugger.”
“I was trying to shock you,” she sputtered.
“A mission well accomplished.”
“Lord Branston, I scarcely think—”
“And do you think you might call me Thomas? I prefer that to cocksure bugger.” He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “I’m trying to impress you, you see. I’ll not have you thinking I prefer buggery to a proper bedding.”
She burst out laughing, and the tips of her ears turned as pink as her cheeks.
“Try it. Thooooo-maaaaas,” he said, exaggerating the syllables.
“I couldn’t. That is, we aren’t . . . that is . . .” She wrestled her laughter under control and then studied him, chewing on her lip. Once again, his eyes felt compelled to linger. “We aren’t friends,” she finally said. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“There is not much about this entire venture I would label as proper,” he pointed out. “You are travelling to Cornwall without a companion, and presumably without your father’s knowledge. And I don’t compose poetry about just anyone, you know. Perhaps we could be friends, of a sort. You will call me Thomas, and I might call you Lucy. Or if you prefer, Luuuuuuu-cyyyyyy.”
Now, finally, he had her smiling. A broad, beauty of a smile, too.
“I would prefer to be called Miss L,” she told him, though she did so with a fair degree of amusement. “If I choose to live at Heathmore Cottage, as my aunt did, I will need a name that fits.” She tried it out again. “Miss L.” She nodded. “Yes, I rather like the sound of that.”
“Miss L, then.” He smiled, but her words kindled a faint sense of unease. They were a reminder of her goa
l here, and his mission, beyond making her smile. The shadow of Heathmore Cottage sat between them. Still, they needn’t face that for at least another day.
And there was no reason they couldn’t be friends in the interim.
THE COCKSURE BUGGER—OR Thomas, as she was now halfway tempted to think of him—proved a surprisingly charming traveling companion, once he abandoned his scurrilous attempts to buy her property. Outside the window, the English countryside rushed by in a blur, winter fields just starting to turn green, stone bridges and quaint townscapes flashing by.
Inside the cabin, the hours were a similar blur.
Yesterday, when she’d first met him, he’d seemed far too sober and stern. A man without humor, intent on naught but negotiation. It had been easy to imagine she disliked him.
But today Lord Branston seemed different. He tossed off scientific names as though they were supposed to be a part of everyday conversation, and while she’d pretended not to be, she was duly impressed. He’d shown several small kindnesses to complete strangers, and had gamely tried to coax her into eating an apple he didn’t have to buy—not that he’d been successful in the gesture, but still, one had to admire the effort. He’d told her ridiculous jokes that made her cheeks burn with laughter. And all during the long train ride, through the mild discomfort of the hard wooden seat and the fussing baby to their left, he kept up a stream of easy conversation, as though it was his mission in life to entertain her in a third class train car.
Had she imagined that all titled gentlemen were like that fop from the coach, the one who’d only come to see her to angle for her dowry? Had she imagined that the sort of men who populated the peerage must all be shallow and dull? Lord Branston was many things, but shallow and dull were not the sort of adjectives that came to mind.
And at present he did not seem to want anything from her but her company.
It was startling to realize she was all too willing to give it.
Any inhibitions Lucy might have initially felt had melted clean away by the time they pulled into the Salisbury station. During dinner at the public room of the inn, she caught herself staring at his mouth more than propriety permitted, fixed on the way the left side rose higher than the other, giving him an impish, crooked smile. And later, when he insisted on walking her to her room, she agreed without the proper degree of hesitation.
Was this merely the latest manifestation of her impulsive nature?
Or was it something deeper, an elemental desire to be admired by a handsome man?
She didn’t know. She only knew that as they walked down the narrow hallway of the inn, she couldn’t resist taking surreptitious peeks at the man who walked beside her. She’d come to know his profile far too well during the long train ride. He’d been the consummate gentleman all day. Well, except for the poem about her breasts. The truth was, she hadn’t really minded. A woman ought to have poetry written about her breasts at least once in her life. Aunt E would probably have welcomed such a thing.
And wasn’t she supposed to be a scandalous sort of spinster?
But this friendship—or whatever else it was that had been forged between them today—couldn’t last. He hadn’t mentioned Heathmore again since their first moments on the train, but tomorrow they would board the same mail coach, with the same final destination.
Only, they couldn’t both win the prize. She couldn’t quite shake the notion there were things about Heathmore that hadn’t been disclosed, secrets her aunt had meant to entrust to her.
Or perhaps that was just her imagination running wild.
Feeling off-balance from all she didn’t know—and possibly, from the three glasses of wine she had consumed over dinner—Lucy forgot to object when Lord Branston placed a steadying hand on the small of her back, his touch as tender as a lover’s caress. But as they reached the door to her room, she found herself suddenly grateful for the candle she was carrying. She didn’t want to be alone in the dark with him if she could help it. She had a fair notion what Aunt E would have done in her situation, thanks to the diary entries she had read.
I might choose to be a spinster, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kiss a handsome man every now and again.
Aunt E hadn’t backed down from a challenge, or a temptation, it seemed.
But who knew what she might be tempted to do?
She turned to face him. “Thank you for how solicitous you have been.” She breathed in deeply, only to discover the breath was laced with the familiar spiced brandy scent of him. Which was odd, given that she hadn’t seen him drink anything at all during dinner.
As if she had summoned him with that indrawn breath, he stepped closer. She jumped, startled by his sudden nearness, and spilled a drop of hot wax on her thumb. “Oh, blast it all,” she exclaimed, shaking it.
He picked up her hand, examining the burn. “Now, that, at least, is an expression I’ve heard Miss E use before.”
She held her breath as the pad of his finger rubbed gently over hers. “I . . . ah . . . that is, you know an awful lot about the sort of things my aunt used to say.”
“I counted her as a friend.”
Lucy stared down at the sight of her hand in his, spellbound. She didn’t know whether it was an effect of the wine or the effect of his proximity, but she hoped—prayed, in fact—he might step even closer. She knew she ought to pull her hand away and retreat to the safety of her room. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. She felt . . . reckless. Not an unusual thing, given her nature.
But unusual enough to feel in the presence of a gentleman.
She’d never been so acutely aware of her own skin. She’d started out this long, strange day quite convinced she disliked the man. But now her head was spinning and she couldn’t sort out which way was up. “Is that the only reason why you are being so kind to me?” she whispered, dragging her gaze up to his face. “Because you were friends with my aunt?”
His smile caught her like a wild swing from the right, crooked and lopsided but still straight as an arrow through her hopeful heart. “If I am being kind, it is not only because I considered your aunt a good friend.” He stepped closer, until she was trapped between his large body and her waiting door, her hand still caught up in his. “It is because I would like to be your friend as well, Lucy.”
She ought to protest. To correct his presumed right to use her given name. She hadn’t agreed to his outrageous proposal in the train.
But there was no denying her name on his lips felt . . . right.
She felt as though she was swaying in place. But despite the way her body wanted to lean closer, despite the fuzziness of her thoughts, something wasn’t quite right here, and that was the only thing that kept her from dissolving in a boneless puddle on the dirty wood-plank floor. If Lord Branston’s mind was truly on the prize of securing Heathmore, he ought to be trying to make her as miserable as possible, not seeing to her every need.
Well, not her every need.
There was no denying this moment was stirring thoughts of needs she’d never imagined . . . well . . . needing.
She laughed lightly, trying to reassemble her scattered wits. “No matter how kind you are, Lord Branston, I am still not going to sell Heathmore without seeing it first.”
“Fair enough.” He loosened her hand. “But I maintain hope you might still consider my offer after you’ve had a proper look. And I would ask that you at least let me be the one to show you Heathmore Cottage. There are things about the property you might miss at first glance.”
She had no experience in the matter of dealing with a gentleman who looked at her in this way. The knowledge that—if she wished—she could simply close the small distance between them and stretch up and press her lips against his made her feel light-headed. There was no disapproving parent hovering nearby, no bevy of servants waiting to play chaperone. No matter what she chose to do in this moment, this was her decision to make.
She licked her lips. “I’ll think on it, my lord.”
His head di
pped tantalizingly closer. “Come now, can’t you even call me Thomas?”
She shook her head. “You’ve not yet convinced me to overlook the impropriety.”
“Haven’t I?” He lifted his hand, his fingers lingering near her cheek. She lifted her chin in invitation, only to feel the sharp tug of disappointment as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear instead. “You don’t strike me as the sort of lady who cares overmuch about propriety.”
“I care,” she protested.
“Perhaps you care to guard your heart,” he corrected, his voice a deep rumble in her ears. “But not because of what people might think.”
She drew in a breath. He was wrong. She did care what some people thought of her.
She cared about what he thought.
“No comment to offer?” His smile returned, slow and spreading this time, but still real enough to make her knees wobble. “I would have thought you might have a smart rejoinder. It seems I am still sorting you out, Lucy Westmore.”
“What if I refuse to be sorted into some neat category?” she breathed. “What if I refuse to do the expected thing? I might decide to live at Heathmore Cottage myself, you know.”
“You’ve not yet seen the property. You will change your mind.”
“About Heathmore?” she asked huskily. “Or about you?”
His eyes darkened. His hand reached out again, and this time she held her breath until his fingers brushed light as a wish against the delicate skin of her neck, sliding across the pendant she wore, the one Aunt E had sent her. Could he feel the pounding of her pulse, there beneath the pad of his finger? “Perhaps the decision is one and the same,” he murmured.
She could feel it in the air, a wicked charge of promise. He was going to touch her. Kiss her. She closed her eyes in anticipation.
And then she felt it, the first tentative brush of his lips against hers. She sighed into the experience, heat kindling beneath her skin. His lips were firm but gentle. Warmth spread through her limbs. Oh, but if this was ruin, she welcomed its path.
But almost immediately the tenor of the kiss changed.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 10