Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

And suddenly, “worse” was no longer a figment of her imagination.

  Chapter 5

  A SHEET—OR WAS IT the tablecloth?—was thrown up between two tall potted palms. Someone fetched a pair of oil lamps.

  “Oh, this is not what I agreed to.” Miss Baxter stomped back in, her heels angry punctuation marks. “I told him charades. Shadow Buff is much too . . . too . . .” She waved a shard of a broken dish her right hand. “Suggestive.”

  Beside David, Caroline Tolbertson leaped to her feet as if discharged from a revolver. “It is time for us to take our leave,” she announced, tugging on her sister’s arm.

  But the elder Miss Tolbertson had been replaced by a giggling lump of flesh in pink silk. “I want to st-stay.” She laughed. “Shadow Buff sounds delightful.”

  David rose and put a steadying hand on Caroline’s shoulder as she renewed her grip on her sister’s arm. Surprisingly strong muscles flexed beneath his fingers, a glaring contrast to the smooth slide of silken fabric. She was wrestling her limp sister off the settee now.

  “You can’t return her home like this,” he told her in a low warning tone, prying her fingers from her sister’s reluctant arm.

  She whirled on him, her forehead almost colliding with his chin. “What do you know of it?”

  “I have a Cambridge education,” he said mildly. “I’ve attended more than one dinner party where cannabis was the main course.”

  Her mouth worked itself into an outraged circle as she turned her anger on him. “I suppose you think this is acceptable?”

  David fought back a smile. No, he did not approve. What magistrate would? The professional side of him disapproved of the evening’s descent into debauchery, especially with such mixed company. But cannabis, while enjoying a dark reputation, was not illicit. Furthermore, Brighton was not within his jurisdiction.

  And anything that brought a flush to this girl’s tanned cheeks was something worth needling her over.

  “It has been a long time since I indulged in these sorts of childish games. But as long as no one is injured,” he reasoned, “there is little harm in staying the course.”

  Caroline gestured toward her sister, who had reseated herself and was now listening to the young man who had given her the cheroot with rapt attention. “No harm? This is my sister.” She kept her eyes trained on the pair, as if to make sure the innocuous exchange did not descend into wantonness. “My kind, sensible, proper sister! Penelope scarcely had a glass of wine during dinner, but now she’s . . . she’s . . .”

  David crossed his arms, amusement feathering the edges of his sympathy. “Enjoying herself?”

  “I hardly think her public intoxication tonight is going to be something she enjoys tomorrow, Mr. Cameron,” she snapped, her gaze swinging back to him with lethal precision.

  Ah, finally. There she was. David had wondered if the passionate girl of his memory still existed beneath the buttoned-up version of the woman she had become. In this moment, she appeared very close to the spirited creature he remembered from eleven years ago, battling to save someone who neither deserved—nor appreciated—the effort.

  “If you try to take your sister home in this condition, she is very likely to collapse halfway there, or twist her ankle,” he reasoned, pulling Caroline back down onto the settee with gentle but determined fingers. “Best to let the effects wear off here, where there are those who would help. An hour should suffice. I will not let anything happen to her.” To either of you, he added silently.

  As if on cue, Mr. Dermott, a London dandy who seemed to fashion himself ringmaster of this circus, leaped onto a chair at the front of a room and motioned for everyone to find a seat. David was forced to squeeze closer to Caroline on the settee as two more people claimed territory on the piece of furniture that had been fashioned, at most, for two.

  She hovered on the edge of the seat, fingers curling into the upholstery, close enough to taste but holding herself so aloof she might as well have been a mile distant. “I cannot stay here,” she whispered.

  David raised a brow. He had once seen this girl take on the hellacious current off a rocky coast, just to save his fool arse. It seemed incongruous she would be afraid of a simple parlor game.

  Dermott lifted a finger to his lips and pantomimed a great need for quiet. The smell of smoke and perfume replaced the noise as the loudest thing in the room.

  “The rules,” Dermott announced, “are simple. The women shall pose behind the screen, and the men shall guess their identity based on the shadow they cast. The object for the men is to match their guess with the correct young lady.” He grinned. “The object of the ladies, of course, is to make it as difficult as possible for the men to know who they are.”

  The crowd made their approval known by a stamping of feet and a few shrill whistles. “What is the reward?” called out one drunken soul.

  “Nay, what is the forfeit?” shouted another.

  “The reward and the forfeit are one in the same.” A smile stretched the corners of Dermott’s mouth. He scanned the crowd and his gaze came to rest on Caroline Tolbertson. “A kiss.”

  David could have sworn he heard a groan, low in Caroline’s throat.

  As the crowd erupted in approval once more, Dermott lifted his hands and waved them for silence. “The reward for the gentleman who guesses correctly, and in turn, the forfeit for the lady who fails to avoid detection, shall be a kiss lasting two minutes.” His grin stretched higher, and he paused for dramatic effect. “Outside on the terrace.”

  Still standing beside them, Miss Baxter gasped. She waved the bit of ruined china clutched in her hand for attention. “Mr. Dermott, I am not sure—”

  “Our hostess is our first volunteer!” pronounced Dermott, clapping his hands in mock appreciation.

  Miss Baxter narrowed her eyes, and for a moment David thought she might refuse, as any sensible girl would. But apparently Miss Baxter was not entirely sensible, because at the exuberant urging of the other guests, and the stone-faced assurance from Mr. Dermott than if she played the game well she didn’t have to kiss anyone, she squared her shoulders and made her way behind the impromptu screen.

  “Now we need five other ladies,” Dermott called out, searching the crowd.

  “I volunteer!” The elder Miss Tolbertson lurched to her feet, one hand waving in the air.

  “Pen!” The strangled objection came from the woman to his right, loud enough for Dermott to hear too.

  “Oh, I say!” he crowed. “We have both the Misses Tolbertson participating tonight!”

  A general chorus of approval and a few snickers pierced the crowd. David leaned over and heard Caroline’s ragged intake of breath. “Did you mean to volunteer?”

  She raised a set of stricken eyes, and swallowed. “I mean to be sick.”

  David risked a glance toward her sister, who was clambering over a few people who had been forced to sit on the floor, not even realizing her ankles were being displayed to all and sundry. “Perhaps you ought to go with her,” he advised. “She may need assistance. And . . . er . . . a reminder for decorum.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. And then she was on her feet and being pulled behind the screen.

  Dermott conjured a quorum of other young ladies to participate, and the game was on. The women were given ten minutes to develop their strategies. There was a great deal of whispering and giggling from behind the screen. The room was plunged into darkness as several young men set about extinguishing the other lights in the room.

  An expectant hush fell over the room as the oil lamps behind the screen were turned up. The shapes of the volunteers materialized on the white screen.

  He had to admit, the ladies had given it some effort. Several of the women appeared to have rearranged their hair, making it difficult to sort out identifies from that measure alone. Whichever one was the petite Miss Baxter had apparently found a stool to stand on, because none appeared shorter than the majority of the group.

  But that only emphasized t
he identity of the sixth young lady, whose height was indisputable. She stood still, arms wrapped around her middle, a tall shadow of acute discomfort.

  The elder Miss Tolbertson fell to the crowd’s speculation first. Her name was guessed by the young man who had given her the cheroot earlier. How he had known was anyone’s guess.

  Of course, her shadow was waving her arms about and giggling quite madly.

  The elder Miss Tolbertson emerged forthwith, and then she and the red-haired gentleman slipped out onto the terrace for their allotted two minutes. The game paused for the forfeit, and only after they had stumbled back inside to the approving shouts of the crowd did the proceedings, well, proceed.

  He expected someone to shout out Caroline’s name with immediacy, as her identity alone was the most obvious, but instead, as each man took his turn at guessing the identities of the ladies behind the screen, it became clear they were hell-bent on identifying anyone but her.

  And then it was David’s turn, and there were only two women left who had not been identified: Miss Baxter, and Caroline. He drew a breath, recognizing, somehow, the ill spirit that permeated the room. He supposed the smarter thing would be to choose Miss Baxter. After all, she was the woman his mother had pushed him here to meet, and it would be no hardship to spend two minutes on a darkened terrace with such an attractive girl.

  But then his hand gestured to the taller image on the screen. “Miss Caroline Tolbertson,” he announced. The crowd roared, as if he was the butt of a jolly good joke.

  She stepped around the edge of the screen looking as if she might be ill, which was not the sort of reaction one wanted when contemplating kissing another person on a dark terrace.

  “Good luck, Cameron.”

  “Beware that one!”

  And while he was contemplating the oddity—or more correctly, the idiocy—of those statements, they were pushed by eager hands out the open terrace doors.

  Chapter 6

  THE SOUND OF laughter trailed them as Caroline stumbled into the grateful darkness. The revelry of the crowd receded as the doors were closed on them, but it did not lessen the sting of their comments.

  “How much time again?” she asked, drawing in deep breaths of salt-tinged air. Overhead the stars laughed down at her, winking their amusement at her predicament. In the distance she could hear the soothing sound of waves meeting shoreline. She closed her eyes and focused on that. Usually the sound of the ocean brought her peace.

  Tonight it came closer to mocking her.

  “Two minutes.” He sounded as resigned as she did.

  What a pair they made. At this moment, shuttlecock would have seemed the most welcome diversion imaginable.

  “What should we do?” She gave a self-conscious laugh and risked a backward glance. He was standing beside her, staring up at the stars. Her eyes followed the moon-shadowed line of his jaw and the corded muscles that disappeared into the depths of his collar. At least it is David Cameron, and not one of the other men.

  Although that didn’t seem quite right. Wouldn’t it be better for it to be someone whose opinion didn’t matter?

  “We could try that kiss.” His voice came at her as a low rumble, sending tremors up her spine.

  Her eyes flew wide, unable to believe he had suggested it, desperate for a way to dissuade him. “Why would you want to kiss me?”

  He shifted to face her, and one side of his mouth quirked upward. “Why not, lass? It is expected, after all.”

  Her heart beat a mad new rhythm in her chest. His Scottish accent was strong tonight, no doubt brought on by whatever portion of the eight bottles of Madeira had made it into his glass. She recalled how fascinated she had been by that lopsided grin and pulse-fluttering brogue eleven years ago, a girl of twelve who did not yet understand the mechanics of the unfortunate infatuation that would push her into womanhood.

  She understood now, though. She only wished she didn’t.

  “Do you want to kiss me?” she whispered, astonished and miserable and hopeful, all at once. He had spent the majority of the evening thick with the summer crowd. Was it possible he had not heard of the infamous kiss and resulting rumors that plagued her?

  “Well, I dinna give much thought to it when I called your name out,” he admitted. “I suppose you could say I can’t think of a specific objection to a kiss. Do you want to kiss me?”

  “No.” Liar. She wanted it desperately. Although surely their two minutes were almost up. And surely this was just a dream from which she would be yanked by the dawn soon enough.

  “You seem awfully certain of your answer.” He sounded irritated. “A rejection so swift surely demands an explanation.”

  Her first reaction was to roll into a ball and keep her secrets curled up tight. She could not imagine confessing her long-standing obsession to the man who had inspired it, or admit that, despite a lamentable first attempt at kissing, she was considering giving it another go if she could do it with him. But would that be fair to him? After all, he would learn soon enough why kissing her was an ill-advised thing if he continued to insist she pay the forfeit.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she warned him, honestly this time. “I’ve been told I’m a terrible kisser.”

  He regarded her a long, stomach-churning moment, and then he began to remove his gloves, one lazy finger at a time. “According to whom?” he pressed.

  “Does it really matter?” She sighed, closing her eyes in mortification. “It’s the sort of reputation one earns, not the sort one is born with.”

  His chuckle hit her then, high across the gut. It rumbled across the shadowed space of the terrace and the blissful anonymity of her closed lids. “Did I mention I serve as the local magistrate in my town of Moraig?” he said, his voice growing ever deeper, his brogue more distinct. Firm hands framed her face, deliciously bare fingers testing the contours of her cheeks. Thumb pads brushed over her eyelids like the slightest of feathers. She felt the gentlest of pressure, guiding her to him.

  “No,” she managed to somehow choke out, her eyes still clenched tight.

  “It means I’m an excellent judge of the truth, especially in difficult cases.”

  She had the fleeting sensation of a smooth-shaven cheek before his lips, warm and dry, moved over hers. She drew in an experimental breath, willing her knotted muscles to relax.

  Everything about this kiss felt different, starting with the man who was pressing his lips against hers. This time there was no uncomfortable bumping of noses. It was as if he had learned the shape of her with his fingers and known exactly how to tilt her face so they met in harmony.

  This time, there was no thrust of tongue down her throat either. No groping hands. No ale-scented breath. No . . . no . . . no . . .

  No hint of similarity to her previous experience with the thing.

  And so Caroline leaned in, and tried to decide if this kissing business warranted a second chance.

  SHE WASN’T A very good kisser.

  David had a sense of lithe muscles and graceful contours, agreeable things that had his treacherous body paying attention in remarkably short order. But she was a little too eager, as if she sensed better possibilities below the surface of the almost chaste kiss he offered. She seemed uncoordinated, unsure of her body and how to move it, or where her hands went in relation to her lips.

  He broke the tension between their mouths and, guided by her untutored gasp, pressed his lips to other offered places. The indented hollow of her throat. The shadowed space behind her ear. Most women tasted of floral cologne, or sometimes wood smoke in these secret places, depending on whether he sought his evening’s entertainment with a comely widow or a willing camp follower. In contrast, the woman in his arms tasted of salt. It distracted him, that tart, unexpected taste. The oddity of discovering such a sharp flavor here, on a moonlit terrace, amid such a raucous, inebriated, perfumed crowd, tugged at the seams of his consciousness.

  It didn’t fit. She didn’t fit.

  And no
matter the taste or feel of her, Caroline Tolbertson just wasn’t the sort of woman he usually enjoyed kissing. She was far too young. Far too innocent. And not nearly as well-endowed as the nameless, faceless women he usually took to bed.

  Not that he had any intention of taking Caroline anywhere but back inside.

  Still, she showed promise. Therein lay the problem. Though his reaction to her was not that heated rush he preferred in a partner, she reminded him, both in her eagerness and in her inexperience, of someone else who once had made him feel that way. Someone he had loved and then destroyed through his selfish choices.

  And that was what made David push her gently away.

  “Did . . . did I do it wrong?” Her words tapped against his conscience. It wasn’t wrong, per se. It just wasn’t . . . right.

  If he had to analyze his physical response to the kiss he had just shared, it was a gentle warming from the outside in, not the breathless, sinking sensation he usually attributed to sexual attraction. Caroline stirred a mild interest, tinged with respect.

  And regret. There was some of that tangled in his emotions. This was a woman he could hurt, so easily. He had spent most of his adult life ensuring enough distance between himself and anything or anyone breakable, that he didn’t quite know what to do. She felt like live powder in his palms, while he was flintlock and frizzen.

  He offered her a self-deprecating chuckle meant to soothe any wounded feelings his abruptness had caused. “It is just—”

  A spear of light interrupted his explanation as the terrace doors were wrenched open. Someone had relit the candles in the parlor, and David blinked against the offending brightness.

  Caroline stood every bit as frozen by the sharp light of discovery. She was staring at him. Or more correctly, she was staring at his mouth, her eyes wide.

  The moment shifted, twisting from something pleasant and poignant to something terrible. A cry escaped her lips, so low as to be almost inaudible. Those ever-changing hazel eyes narrowed, and then she gave a hard shove against his chest, a push powerful enough to send him stumbling backward on the flagstone tiles.