Summer Is for Lovers

by Jennifer McQuiston

If he did, he would be bound for hell, dragging her there alongside him. It was not a path he was going to take her down today, no matter how much he wanted to be the one to break her apart and watch her settle back down to earth.

  She took an inordinate amount of time rearranging her skirts before fixing him with a fresh, accusing glare. “I demand a full hour’s lesson tomorrow.” She blew that stray wisp of hair out of her face. “And I want to be able to touch you. I shall not offer you a single minute of swimming instruction without your full promise on this.”

  “Then you’ll have to meet me earlier, at noon.” He offered her his hand, but she shoved it aside and slid down the rock herself, pushing her skirts down to modesty in a move that came very close to the tantrum of sexual frustration that David himself felt like throwing.

  “And if you are late tomorrow, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself,” he teased. He might not have brought her to completion, but he could at least take her back to Brighton. He suspected the bruising walk would be good for some part of his anatomy beyond his feet.

  He was still throbbing from the release he had not been granted. And she was demanding a full hour tomorrow. He wasn’t sure he could survive it.

  He had thought it would be safer to avoid touching her, but he had underestimated the power of watching her reach for oblivion. He wanted to help her find her heaven, even as he wanted to throttle her for putting him in this position.

  And God help them both, he still had two more days to go.

  Chapter 24

  THE TRAVERSTEINS’ BALL was the sort of crush that made Miss Baxter’s dinner party look like a small family gathering. The house itself was a jaw-dropping affair, with a lavish chinoiserie interior no doubt inspired by the nearby Royal Pavilion.

  Not that Caroline had ever seen the interior of the ostentatious, round-spired estate that occupied such a central place in most Brightonians’ minds, but if this was as close as she ever came to living like royalty, she knew she would never forget it. She stared up at the rounded domed ceiling of the Traversteins’ foyer, amazed that not only did the Traversteins own a home so fine, but this was nothing more than their summer home, inhabited for a mere month out of every twelve. Her eyes slid down the gilded framework and dodged the beams of light refracted by the chandeliers.

  “So many c-candles,” Pen whispered beside her, a wide-eyed mirror of how Caroline felt. It was hard not to think of what such luxuries must cost when they often struggled to afford a week’s worth of tallow.

  “We must not appear too dazzled,” Caroline reminded her sister. “We’ve every right to be here.” And they did.

  She had the invitation folded up in her reticule to prove it. Just in case someone challenged their audacity.

  Caroline strained for a glimpse of David’s tall, blond head above the other partygoers, and her stomach churned when she could not find him. He had mentioned he was coming, though they had not spoken of it again, and she could admit to a sick sort of anticipation at the thought of seeing him here tonight. The memory of her astonishing, frustrating afternoon sat inside her like fermented cider left in the sun. She had gone to see him today with her hair up in rags, for heaven’s sake.

  Well, she wasn’t wearing rags any longer and she was looking forward to erasing that last image he must have of her. Madame Beauclerc might not be French, but there was no denying her skill with a needle. The gown covering Caroline’s frame was the most beautiful confection she had ever seen, much less worn. Made of a lightweight moiré silk, it brought to mind the color of the ocean at noon, and seemed to change in color and texture with every subtle movement of her body. True to her promise, the modiste had fashioned tiny, capped sleeves that, while not in the height of fashion, suited Caroline’s physique far better than the dropped shoulders and rounded sleeves adorning the other women in attendance.

  But the fact that she stood out amid the crowd, that she was not only different, she was purposefully different, made Caroline want to run. With her first hesitant steps into the ballroom, heads turned, tracking her progress. Whispers grew in volume behind artfully placed fans.

  And Caroline faltered.

  To her right, Penelope’s gloved hand touched her elbow for support. “Smile,” she murmured. “You look as if you have t-tasted something unpleasant.”

  “They are whispering about me.” Caroline scanned the faces that surrounded them. She was grateful for the worn fabric of her old shift, tucked up against her skin beneath the layers of new silk. But a thin cotton shift could not shield her from the pointed looks and barbed comments that threatened to skewer her tonight.

  “They are looking at you, I’ll admit.” Pen’s gaze seemed to travel all the way through her fashionable layers. “B-but they are not laughing at you. You look lovely. Well enough to meet the queen.”

  Caroline gasped. “Is the royal family here?” Somehow, the thought of seeing the queen seemed less nausea-inducing than the thought of fending off Miss Baxter or Mr. Dermott.

  Pen pursed her lips and smiled. “No matter the recent conjecture on the matter, I d-d-do not think the queen is in Brighton at the moment, or that she will even visit this summer. But the Countess of Beecham appears to be in attendance.”

  Caroline twisted around. “The Countess of Beecham?”

  “Duffington’s mother.” Pen took a deliberate step away. “And Duffington besides,” she added before melding into the crowd. Caroline affixed a smile she hoped looked pleasant on her face, and turned toward the pair who had sent Pen scuttling away.

  If she were to be wholly objective, she had to admit Duffington looked well tonight. At least, he looked well for him. He was splendidly attired in a formal jacket with black velvet lapels, and a waistcoat of red and purple. There was just so . . . very much of it. He brought to mind a bear that had been stuffed into doll’s clothing.

  The woman accompanying him seemed to subscribe to the London school of thought that more is better, and that a holiday climate was no reason to shirk a duty to fashion. She was swathed in yards of sweltering taffeta, draped to disguise a figure that might have once rivaled even her son’s robust proportions. Emerald earbobs the size of small bird eggs threatened to split what remained of her stretched-out earlobes, and a necklace of equally terrifying proportions lay against her wrinkled neck.

  Lady Beecham tolerated her son’s exuberant introduction, then fixed Caroline with a stern look that sent her toes curling into the soles of her flat-soled slippers. “So this is the infamous Miss Caroline Tolbertson, whom my son has not been able to stop talking about for even one hour out of the last twenty.”

  Though the accusation in the woman’s voice made her want to follow Pen’s trajectory across the crowded room, Caroline refused to let her smile slip even a fraction. “That suggests more a title of famous than infamous, I should think.”

  Lady Beecham offered a twitch of her lips in an upward direction. “Haven’t heard him go on about anything like that since the Christmas dessert buffet we put out last year.”

  “Mother,” Duffington protested, but his objection was cut off by an exaggerated thump from his mother’s walking cane on the tile floor. He fell silent, as any well-trained terrier might.

  “I am not familiar with the surname Tolbertson,” the countess said, shuffling closer and peering up at Caroline through rheumy eyes. “Tell me about your family, child.”

  “My grandfather on my mother’s side was the Viscount Ashemore.” Caroline hesitated, unsure of how to explain the rest of it. She might be speaking with a countess, but she refused to relegate her father to something less than valued in this woman’s eyes, just because her parents’ union had been a love match. “My father was a prominent local businessman who founded the Brighton Gazette. He died when I was twelve. I have lived in Brighton my entire life.”

  “Your mother was Miss Lydia Birch?” The countess sounded surprised. “The viscount’s daughter?”

  Caroline nodded. “My grandfather’s title went
to a distant cousin, however, and we are not close with the new viscount’s family.”

  “Good bones though. I knew your mother when she was a young woman, in London. She made quite the headlines the year she came out.” The countess’s face softened. “I took tea with Miss Baxter yesterday, and by her limited description of you, I confess I had expected someone a bit different. Your gown is quite cunning, if I do say so myself.”

  “Thank you.” It was a miracle Caroline managed that, because what she really wanted to do was snarl something disparaging about the far too loose-lipped Miss Baxter.

  The countess shifted her cane from one hand to the other. “Harold mentioned that he purchased you a voucher for a sea bath yesterday. Did you enjoy your first experience with the ocean?”

  Caroline’s cheeks heated as she considered what improper things she had done with David Cameron inside the bathing machine’s sheltered walls—walls that had, in fact, been rented by this woman’s son. “I found it quite diverting,” she said by way of an answer, hoping the warmth flooding her cheeks was not visible.

  The countess nodded approvingly. “Improves the circulation, soothes the constitution. When Harold told me he had found a woman who seemed to appreciate a good sea bath, I insisted he introduce us this evening.”

  They spoke another minute or so, and then as Lady Beecham made her excuses and drifted away into the press of people, Duffington offered Caroline his arm. “Would you like to take in a breath of air on the terrace?” he asked, his booming voice competing with the sounds of the stringed instruments that had started to warm up on the far end of the ballroom.

  Memories of another terrace, and another night, had her shaking her head. “Perhaps later. I have just arrived, and do not yet find myself in need of . . . er . . . air.”

  “Perhaps a dance, then?”

  “The band has not started up yet in earnest,” she pointed out, distracted.

  Duffington’s jowls worked around the ends of his quivering black mustache. “I had hoped for a more private place to have this conversation, but I find I cannot wait now that Mother has given her approval.”

  A small, steady beat of denial began an indelicate rhythm between Caroline’s ears as she swung her attention back to the problem that was Duffington.

  “I hope you will not consider me too forward if I say that it is my fervent wish to see us betrothed and married before the New Year.”

  Caroline’s thoughts curled around the edges of Duffington’s proposal. No, no, no, her internal compass moaned. This could not be happening. Not this evening. Not when she still had two promised days left to explore passion on her own terms, with the man of her choosing.

  She fumbled for an appropriate response. “I . . . that is . . . I mean . . . that is so kind. If a bit unexpected.” She fell silent, unable to find a single other word to articulate how his offer made her want to grab the nearest decorative vase and toss up the contents of her stomach into it.

  “I understand this is sudden, of course. But now that Mother has met you, I wanted to be the first to declare my interest.”

  She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. He had his mother’s approval. Caroline wanted to laugh. Either that, or weep. Had she known this was the test she was taking, she might have tried a little harder to make a poor impression with the countess.

  “Might I have a few days to think on it?” she whispered through the hand still clasped to her mouth. The words seemed to get stuck in her throat as much as her fingers.

  Duffington straightened his waistcoat with a determined pull. “I would wait until midsummer next, but for the pleasure of your smile.”

  Caroline permitted Duffington to claim a dance on her card, making sure it was some innocuous thing that involved facing him across a row of partners. Then she breathed a desperate sigh of relief as he lumbered off into the crowd.

  Duffington wanted to be the first to declare his interest? It quite stretched the limits of her imagination that he believed she would receive more offers. She couldn’t see anything beyond this moment and this proposal. Her future yawned before her, bleak and depressing, one long luncheon punctuated by the occasional sea bath.

  She drew a deep breath, wondering if she might actually need a turn on the terrace now, only to choke on the sharp, pungent scent of Watson’s hair pomade. She whirled to find Mr. Dermott standing but a few inches away, a studious expression on his handsome face.

  For a fear-filled moment, she wondered if Dermott had overheard Duffington’s proposal. She was not yet ready to share news of this offer even with Penelope, much less a gentleman who rivaled Miss Baxter’s skills in the area of rumormongering. But instead of commenting on the nature of her recent conversation with Duffington, Dermott’s mouth stretched wide to show the teeth that had once so beguiled her as to permit this man to press his lips against her own.

  “You look quite fetching this evening, Caroline. I must say, this style of gown suits you.”

  Caroline considered her response. She did look lovely tonight, at least by her usual standards, and her gown was only partly the cause. Thanks to the busy meddling of Bess and her mother, her hair hung in soft ringlets about her face in a manner she had to admit was more becoming than the severe style she usually favored. Her dress might not look like anyone else’s here tonight, but it was, inarguably, the finest garment she had ever owned.

  But she had not taken pains with her appearance to impress this man.

  “Thank you.” She did not comment on his own appearance, though Dermott was wearing an emerald waistcoat embroidered with tulips or some such flower. He outshone Duffington, true enough, with his lean body and aristocratic features. Why, his profile alone had been known to stop foot traffic along the Marine Parade.

  But compared to someone like David Cameron, Mr. Dermott could have been transparent.

  “It seems you have caught the notice of some influential people since we last spoke,” Dermott mused. “It makes me wonder what I have been missing these past few weeks.”

  “I am the same person I was two weeks ago,” Caroline informed him, her voice ringing in suppressed challenge. That wasn’t true, though. She was no longer that awkward girl who had been surprised to catch the notice of anyone, much less someone as popular and handsome as Dermott. Now she was a woman who had been properly and thoroughly kissed by moonlight, a lady who had just received a proposal from the son of an earl.

  Not that Mr. Dermott knew any of that.

  The sounds from the orchestra shifted, coalescing into a more defined pattern of notes. “It sounds as if they are winding up for the opening dance. Would you care to join me?” Dermott extended his gloved hand, palm up, fingers all but twitching. “That is, if Mr. Duffington has not claimed all your dances for himself?”

  Caroline stared at the hand as if it might be an adder’s head, poised to strike. David was not here to guide her, but a memory of his past words poked at her. Why did she care what this fop thought of her? What did it matter whether she was barely polite to him, or if indeed she chose to be less than civil?

  She was seized with the sudden, freeing, dizzying notion that it didn’t matter.

  Not in the slightest.

  “Why?” She chased the question with an exaggerated upsweep of brow. “Are you here to reconnoiter my dancing skills? Perhaps ascertain if I insist on leading, just so you can spread the rumor far and wide?”

  Her tormentor’s mouth fell open, though it was hard to discern whether he was startled more by her pointed questions or by her newfound confidence. She had never spoken this way in polite company before. At least, not while sober. There was a dizzying sense of freedom that accompanied her speech, the knowledge that she could say these things, could be this person, without the crutch of even a single glass of champagne.

  The fingers on Mr. Dermott’s still-outstretched palm fisted, and the hand dropped to his side. “I imagine I deserved that. Would you grant me this dance as a way to redeem your opinion of me?”
>
  Caroline met his gaze, unrepentant. Indeed, unamused. “And what of how you have shaped others’ opinions of me?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I imagine that dancing with me will dispel any unfortunate rumors that may have started.” A flush crept along the edge of his collar. “Please, Caroline. I would like this chance to start again.”

  She expelled the breath that was cramping her lungs. Her head felt fuzzy, whether from her new boldness or Mr. Dermott’s unexpected apology, she could not be sure. A part of her—a surprising part—was tempted to take a turn around the dance floor with him, if for no other reason than to quiet the crowd’s rumors and show him he could not affect her.

  “Miss Tolbertson,” she told him.

  His confused blue eyes lifted to meet her own. “I . . . beg your pardon?”

  “If you wish to start again, you will address me as Miss Tolbertson.” She managed to gift him with a tight smile. “Then I would know you mean to start anew. And it should not be the crowd’s opinion of me you seek to reform, but the opinion they hold of you.”

  He broke into a dazzling grin that stretched from one tip of his en pointe collar to the next. His hand lifted again, a long, slow gesture ending in the renewal of his earlier offer to dance. “Thank you, Miss Tolbertson. I shall endeavor to restore your faith in me.”

  Caroline found she couldn’t look away from the sight of those gloved fingers reaching for her. Not an adder, then. They were venomous, certainly, but their bites were not often fatal. No, Mr. Dermott’s bright, eye-numbing smile and outstretched fingers brought to mind another sort of snake. She had read about cobras in one of Penelope’s omnipresent travel books, a snake indigenous to India that mesmerized its victims with slow, beautiful movements before striking with deadly efficiency. She had laughed at the time, wondering how stupid a victim would have to be to fall for a dancing snake.

  She didn’t have to wonder any longer.

  Because her hand was sliding, almost of its own accord, into Mr. Dermott’s. And then she was stepping onto the dance floor.