But his promise felt a bit like that pole in Madame Sylvie’s hand, swaying in the breeze.
He squeezed her hand, and the strength in his touch made her want to believe him. They couldn’t go back yet, that much was clear. They were trapped on the pier until Madame Sylvie made her overhead pass, at least.
“We made a plan, if you remember,” he pointed out. “The gate?”
She breathed in through her nose. They had made a plan. She could almost feel her heartbeat slow as she considered it. But in the space left, worry sank its determined teeth. “I am sure you are right,” she said, willing herself to believe it. “I am sure that nothing has happened to them physically. But their reputations—”
“There’s not a soul here looking at the body next to them as an individual at the moment. No one is watching, Clare.” Daniel’s hand tightened around hers. “Besides. It seems to me that a reputation is a body’s own. They will have made this decision for themselves. Lucy is old enough to know her own mind, and Geoffrey seems rather young to have a reputation to worry about.”
“Tell that to his headmaster at Eton,” Clare muttered darkly.
He chuckled, and his easy laugh eased the last remnants of her worry to only a lingering irritation. “Don’t you trust them to know their own conscience? To make their own decisions?”
That sounded suspiciously like a reprimand. She opened her mouth. Shut it again as she realized her hand was still trapped in his.
That was a problem.
He’d touched her in myriad ways during the course of their two week association. With clinical fingers, probing her ankle, testing its soundness with the confidence of a doctor. He’d touched her in other ways, too, lips to lips, as bruising in their promise as the threat of discovery. But this touch felt different. His fingers lay warm and strong beneath the soft calfskin of her gloves. The significance of the crowd and the day and even her errant siblings seemed very far away in comparison to the significance of this simple, benign touch.
“But . . . they are my family,” she protested weakly, trying to remember why she was worried. “I am the eldest. It is my responsibility to protect them.”
“They ought to be capable of looking to themselves for ten minutes. You need to give them a chance to prove it.” Those handsome lips curved in the slightest of smiles. “And all this talk of protection.” The fingers of his free hand reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Who protects you, Clare?”
She stilled.
His head dipped low, toward her ear. “After all, they are in the company of a chaperone. At the risk of pointing out the obvious, you are not.”
Had she imagined the day was so hot? How to explain the shiver that swam its way up her spine, then? She had thought such a public venue would provide a measure of safety. That so many eyes and ears would keep hands in place, and thoughts of kisses and the like tightly harnessed. But Daniel was right. No one was watching them with the slightest bit of interest. They were naught but anonymous leaves, floating on currents of noise and energy in this pulsating river of bodies. Anything could happen in a crowd such as this.
Anything at all.
Her pulse shifted direction, charting a new course. She was out of her element, in over her head. But she was also entranced by the possibilities. Here there were no snide comments from Sophie to deal with, no eager young men to sidestep. To stand in the middle of a mob and not worry whether friends and rivals were analyzing your every move was strangely freeing, as though she had been gifted with invisibility and then been invited to explore.
The crowd had eyes for no one but the woman on the wire, but Clare found she could no longer look up, for fear of missing what came next. Drat it all, did the man who accompanied her have to be so attractive? There was something about him that could only be described as potent, and it had little to do with the arrangement of his features or the expanse of his shoulders. It was like staring into the sun, and no manner of spectacle—save Madame Sylvie dropping on top of them in a flail of arms and skirts—could have pulled her attention away in that moment.
She imagined he would take some advantage now. After all, he’d already proven he had a scoundrel’s heart, that day in her drawing room. But he did not move.
Perhaps he was more of a gentleman than she had credited him.
A cheer went up all around them, signaling Madame Sylvie’s imminent approach. Soon the crowd would loosen, and they would return to the scaffolding to scold her siblings. But for now Clare let herself be jostled by nearby elbows, moved and pinched and prodded by the crowd until she was pressed tight against Daniel’s chest. Fate was pushing her toward him, and it seemed not to matter a whit whether she was determined to fight it or not. The panic she felt earlier over her siblings’ misbehavior shifted to something more dangerous, and the hard thump of her heart confirmed she was about to do something no well-bred girl would do.
But she had come here today to make a memory, hadn’t she?
It seemed the choice was now firmly in her own hands.
She pulled her hand free of Daniel’s grip and stripped off her gloves—gloves she had bought thoughtlessly with her exorbitant pin money at the most expensive shop on Bond Street—and let them drop to the filthy, weathered wood of the Cremorne pier. Later, when she looked back on the moment, reliving it in her head, she’d question her lack of judgment. Later, she would blame her decision on the heat of the day, the press of the crowd, the subdued panic she still felt to have her siblings out of sight and out of reach.
Anything to avoid the truth.
But now, in this moment, she could see nothing but this man, could feel nothing but her own desire, pushing her further down this forbidden—if temporary—path.
She framed Daniel’s face with her bare hands and rose on her toes. The wide, face-shading brim of her bonnet proved a moment’s distraction, until she sorted out how to tilt her chin up to meet him. Daniel’s own hat tumbled to the ground, knocked off by her restless fingers.
She pressed her lips against his, almost experimentally, to see if her memory was anything close to accurate. Once again she was jolted back to that place in her drawing room, a moment of surprise that an act so simple could be at once so complicated and unforgettable. Three days ago he’d left her dreadfully aware of what a kiss could do, and she’d thought about it all too frequently. Their first kiss had caught her off guard, delivered, as it had been, in the heat of an argument. But this kiss was her own, taken in the heat of the moment.
And unfortunately, it knocked her every bit as far afield.
Her knees threatened to buckle at the sweeping invasion of his tongue, but then his arms settled around her waist, drawing her even closer, until her body settled flush against his, belly to hip. She felt an answering tug in intimate places, a softening of her core that made her only want to burrow closer. She felt . . . wicked. Daring.
Safe.
Standing in the bright sunshine, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, Clare closed her eyes and simply kissed this man who was so wrong for her. She ran her fingers over the angled planes of his jaw, then reached farther, behind his neck, her fingers tangling in the length of his hair. The locks were damp where they had rested beneath his hat, but higher up the strands flowed like silk across her fingers. She marveled that a man at once so hard, so capable, should have such soft hair.
A shadow passed overhead. The crowd began to turn.
And with them, Clare’s conscience began to turn as well. Dimly, she knew this was wrong, no matter that the kiss could be laid squarely at her own feet this time. He’d made no improper advance, taken no liberty she hadn’t offered.
She had no one to blame but herself for the molten want coursing through her.
She pulled away, breathing hard, though she was gratified to see she had stripped the composure from him as well. Sanity slid fitfully back into place, a final puzzle piece she’d been pretending was missing during the last few minutes.
Thi
s had not been wise. Anyone could have seen them. But a cautious glance around told her no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention.
She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirts before risking a peek at the man she had just brazenly kissed in a public place. His hair was newly rumpled, and sunlight glinted like quicksilver as it flashed off the dark strands.
He frowned down at her. “What are you thinking, Clare?”
“Your . . . er . . . hat.” She took a step backward. “It will be crushed.”
He stooped and retrieved his hat, then tried to shake it back into shape with a series of quick slaps against his thigh. It was an exercise bound for failure: she could see it was now bound for the rubbish bin. It’s a sacrilege to cover such hair with a hat anyway, she thought, then realized how dangerous it was to have a thought like that.
Gentlemen wore hats. Ladies wore gloves. Ladies also wore corsets. But hers no longer fit, and her gloves were now lost in the mass of milling feet.
Heavens above, what was this man doing to her life?
Daniel dropped the hat back to the pier floor with a sheepish shake of his head. “That will hurt my pocket to replace, I am afraid.” He glanced back at her. “What else are you thinking?”
Clare laced her bare fingers together. The crowd seemed to be loosening, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember why that was a good thing. “I am not thinking of anything.”
“You forget my life’s profession. I see every sign, you know. Every symptom you think you hide.” He motioned between her eyes. “A small furrow appears just here when you are focused on something that bothers you.”
Clare ducked her head, her cheeks warming. Did she really have a furrow?
It seemed a frightful thing for a girl to possess.
And it seemed an even more frightful thing for a gentleman to notice.
She tried to school her expression to neutrality, and turned in the direction of the black iron gate rising above the heads of the thinning mob some hundred yards distant. Oh, yes. Now she remembered. Geoffrey and Lucy. It shamed her to have so neatly forgotten her missing siblings, but then, Daniel’s kiss had a way of stealing her wits along with her breath. “We should return now and make sure Geoffrey and Lucy are safe.”
He fell into step beside her and helped part the remaining crowd with a forward-stretched hand. “Your furrow has deepened.”
She offered a sideways glare. “It has not.”
His grin was sudden and jarring, those perfect teeth flashing as though he could read her mind. “Are you meaning to slap me again?”
Mortification swam through her—whether due more to the memory of her reaction to their first kiss or the inadvisability of their second, it was difficult to be sure.
“I’m the one who took the advantage this time,” she admitted tersely. “It scarcely seems fair to reprimand you for that.”
“And what was that, exactly?” he asked, his voice warmer even than the insistent beat of the sun.
She breathed in, the forbidden taste of him still sharp and poignant on her tongue. But Daniel, very much like the marzipan he had once so injudiciously pressed upon her, posed a hazard to her future—a future she had been raised to expect, and was determined to acquire. “It was good-bye,” she admitted. “Out of sight of my family, where I could offer it properly.”
He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “That didn’t feel like a good-bye.”
She shook his hand away from her sleeve, her heart thumping inexpertly. She’d let down any number of men, poor Mr. Meeks included. Why, then, did this feel so different?
So wrong?
“Daniel, I am grateful for everything you have done for my family.” She licked her lips, and looked away toward the gate, still too far away for reassurance. “For everything you have done for me.”
“It didn’t feel like gratitude either,” he growled.
Her gaze swung back to his face. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“Damn it, you kissed me this time, Clare. What was that about, if not an expression of your regard?”
“I wanted . . .” She searched her thoughts for an explanation that would both appease his lengthening scowl and explain her brash behavior. He was a curiosity, she supposed, and she was the cat. “I wanted to know. If it would feel the same if I initiated it.”
“Today’s kiss was an experiment, then?” At her nod, his eyes narrowed. “And what were your observations, if I might ask?”
“My observations?”
“Experimentation requires a faithful weighing of facts.” He chased his words with a harsh laugh. “I should know. I sacrifice a good many hours of sleep at its altar.” He raised a brow. “I would know your conclusions on this matter.”
She touched a bare finger to her lips, startled by the notion he was pressing her for a scientific analysis. “I suppose it felt the same.” She hesitated, knowing she wasn’t expressing the experience faithfully. “Actually, that isn’t true. It felt . . . more.”
His expression darkened. “More than Alban’s kiss, I presume?”
Irritation pricked at her. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I haven’t kissed Mr. Alban yet.” At his deepening scowl, she threw up her hands, her reticule flopping on her wrist. “I don’t know what else you want me to say! I’ve experienced precisely two kisses in my life, and both of them felt more.”
There was a beat of silence where Clare was quite sure she could hear her lungs contract, no matter the dull roar of the crowd.
“Then why must it be good-bye?” His eyes were dark pools, but she could see the question lurking in their depths.
“It must be, Daniel. You know as well as I this can go no further. We’ve shared a pair of kisses, nothing more. If you care for me at all, you will accept this good-bye in the spirit in which it is intended and let us part as friends.”
“Friendship is a pale description of what lies between us,” he pointed out ominously. “And I think you know it well. You cannot convince me you do not feel this. That you do not want this every bit as much as I.”
Her eyes fell to his clenched hands, to the callused ridge of his thumb and the scar that lingered there. No gentleman would have such hands.
And no lady should feel such things, looking upon those hands.
“Wanting and having are not the same thing.” She said it as much to convince herself as the man standing before her. “I am the daughter of a viscount,” she said, proud that if her knees were going to shake, at least her voice sounded steady. “You are a doctor, and a poor one at that.” She lifted her chin and forced herself to meet the gathering storm in his eyes. “My path is set, Daniel.”
“So that is to be it, then?” A muscle twitched along his jaw. “You would ignore this thing between us?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I have never given you reason to believe otherwise.”
They could not hide from this truth. She might hate the words, but she would not hesitate to confirm them. Because being confused about the state of one’s feelings was not the same as being confused about the state of one’s future.
And she needed to guard her emotions—and her reputation—if she was to have any hope of winning Mr. Alban back.
She turned away, toward the looming iron gate, seeking fresh air and family and escape—not necessarily in that order. She pitched through the dwindling crowd, searching for the bright yellow flash of her siblings’ hair. There. She could see the miscreants standing in the shade of the scaffolding, happily eating fruit tarts with Maggie the maid. She raised her hand just as Daniel caught up to her side, his face an uninterpretable mask.
“Geoffrey!” she shouted in desperation, though she knew such an unladylike sound should never be permitted in public. She breathed a sigh of relief as her brother waved vigorously in return.
A cowardly way to end the conversation perhaps, but at least it was done.
Geoffrey hopped from foot to foot as they drew closer. If the
boy was feeling apologetic for his disappearance, he’d buried it somewhere at the bottom of his enthusiasm. “I talked to her, Dr. Merial! I spoke to Madame Sylvie! She told me to tell you hullo.”
Lucy’s shrewd gaze seemed to probe beneath Clare’s skin. “Now, where did you two get off to?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
Her sister’s question—and the insinuation that Clare was the one who had become separated from the group—caught her off guard. “I . . . er . . . that is . . .”
“We went to the pier,” Daniel answered, “and then became trapped in the crowd on the return.”
“No harm done.” Clare forced a close-lipped smile to her lips. “Though we should probably thank Dr. Merial for having the good sense to agree on a meeting place in case we became separated.”
“Hmmph.” Lucy wiped a corner of her mouth with the delicate tip of her glove, then looked from Clare’s ungloved hands to Daniel’s bare head, back to Clare again. “I suppose. I just didn’t expect your clothes to become separated as well.”
THEIR RETURN TO the quiet streets of Grosvenor Square seemed to have different effects on each of them. Lucy and Geoffrey chattered like magpies, carrying a piece of the boisterous day home with them. Clare was quiet, though to Daniel’s eye the furrow between her brows had deepened into more of a trough.
Daniel himself had plunged into a brooding silence, the sort he usually reserved for scathing rejections from editors of medical journals.
I have never given you reason to believe otherwise, she had told him.
Perhaps she hadn’t.
But she had given him hope, damn her kissable lips.
And then crushed it beneath the paper-thin sole of her very fashionable shoe.
As the gleaming white walls of Cardwell House rounded into sight, the maid proved the one member of their party who was moved to decisive action. Maggie looped her arm through Daniel’s and pulled him against her generous curves. “I’ve a free afternoon tomorrow, if you’d like to come and call on me.” She took no pains to lower her voice. “I know a lovely private spot we could go.”
Diary of an Accidental Wallflower Page 18