by Anne Gracie
A large warm hand closed over hers, making her jump. “Oh, pigs.” Freddy sighed dramatically. “I’m bored with pigs, Chinese experimental swimming ones or otherwise.”
His father snorted. “You would be. No vision, that’s your problem.”
“Can we not talk of something more of interest to the ladies?” Freddy smiled at the vicar’s wife and squeezed Damaris’s hand. “I’ll be taking Miss Chance to Venice on our honeymoon. She can show me all the sights then.” He gave Damaris a soulful look. “And if you want to show me your flying pigs then—”
“Swimming pigs!” his father corrected him. “Experimental Chinese swimming pigs.”
“—then I’ll try to be interested. Tell me, do they tow boats?”
Damaris managed to keep a straight face. “No.”
“Sing?”
She gave him a quelling look. “No.”
“Count?” he asked irrepressibly. “I once heard tell of a learned pig that could count. I don’t think it was Chinese, though. Clever people, the Chinese. I imagine their pigs might be, too.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Nothing like that. And I thought we’d agreed pigs were not a good subject for the dinner table.”
“Unless they’re roasted,” he said. “Or hams.”
Luckily for Damaris’s composure the vicar’s wife then asked a series of questions about the wedding plans, which Lady Breckenridge seized on, and since no arrangements had yet been made, Damaris was happy to discuss possibilities for her imaginary wedding.
It was better than imaginary pigs.
• • •
That night, Damaris lay wakeful and restless long after she’d blown out her bedside candle. The fire, stoked against the long, cold night, glowed dully through the cast-iron grille. She stared at it, willing herself to sleep.
Mrs. Tyrrell and Lady Breckenridge had thrown themselves into the discussion of her wedding. Which church? The village church—the family chapel was too small—or some big London one? St. George’s, Hanover Square—it was the only possibility, declared Lady Breckenridge. All the ton would be invited. It would be the wedding of the season.
The dress? Mrs. Tyrrell liked the fashion of white for a bride. No, declared Lady Breckenridge, white would make her look sallow. She would take Damaris to her own modiste. She knew exactly what Damaris should wear.
Her certainty that she knew best got Damaris’s back up—white did not make her look sallow!—and even though the wedding was pure fantasy and the arrangements wholly theoretical, Damaris found herself having to insist that her sister Daisy would make her dress, as she would make the dresses of her attendants—Abby, Jane and Daisy herself.
Homemade dresses? Lady Breckenridge was appalled.
Mrs. Tyrrell thought it charmingly sentimental and congratulated Lord and Lady Breckenridge on acquiring a frugal daughter-in-law. Damaris could see they were not at all thrilled by the prospect.
She immediately told them she would knit stockings for them all. Freddy had choked when she’d announced that one. She told him kindly that once they were married she would knit all his stockings. From the very scratchiest wool, she added in an undertone when he had laughed out loud.
But though she’d tried to make fun of the whole idea of the wedding, though she reminded herself over and over that she never wanted to marry, that it was a sure road to misery for someone like her, right now, with the wind whistling in the eaves outside, and the fire glowing, the prospect of a solitary life in a sweet little cottage no longer seemed the happy solution she’d once thought it.
Nonsense, she told herself. It would be peaceful, which was more than most people had. Happy? She would just have to make it so. One made one’s own happiness—she’d known that all her life. So why would that change, simply because she was living in England now?
But she kept reliving that moment at dinner when Freddy had placed his hand over hers and spoken of taking her to Venice on their honeymoon. The longing for that to be true had swamped her at the time, shocking her with its intensity. Now, as she pressed her hot cheek against the cool linen cover of the pillow, she tried not to dream of how that might be.
She and Freddy in Venice, floating romantically along in a gondola . . .
Yes, pulled by Chinese swimming pigs, she told herself tartly, and punched the pillow into shape.
She probably wasn’t in love with him anyway. No doubt it was just some foolish schoolgirl crush, because he was handsome. And because he was kind. And funny.
And because of the way he looked at her sometimes. Making something inside her swell with warmth and . . . and . . . No. She thumped the pillow into shape again. It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t afford it to be. Because that way lay misery.
It was self-deception on her part. A side effect of loneliness.
He had a great deal of personal charm, that was all, and she was unused to charming men. He was a self-acknowledged rake, and a flirt. And he’d employed her to act the part of his betrothed. It wasn’t real—none of it was real. Even the nonsense he called the billing and cooing—which made her weak at the knees and all bubbly inside—it was just an act. Part of the plan to deceive his parents.
If he had any idea that she was taking the least little bit of it seriously he would probably pity her. And that she couldn’t bear. She’d agreed to this charade, and she would get a cottage—undreamed-of security—from it.
And if she emerged with her heart a little bruised, well, it was a small price to pay.
• • •
Lady Breckenridge planned to spend the day visiting neighbors and had invited Damaris to accompany her, but Damaris had pleaded a headache and begged to be excused. The fewer people who met her, the less embarrassment for Freddy when she eventually broke their engagement. Lady Breckenridge could tell everyone she’d had her doubts from the start, that she’d never liked the girl, and that there was something about her. And nobody would blame Freddy. Damaris hoped.
Lord Breckenridge was also absent for the day, gone off shooting somewhere, so they had the house more or less to themselves. Damaris spent a quiet morning painting while Freddy went for a long ride. It was wonderfully peaceful.
Damaris added the final touches to her painting and stepped back. She examined it from several angles and nodded to herself, pleased with the final result. The clock in the hall chimed and she jumped. Lunchtime already? The morning had run away with her. She glanced at the painting. Time well spent.
She hurriedly washed and tidied herself and went quickly downstairs. She saw Horwood on the landing and called out to him before she could change her mind.
“Miss Chance?” the butler said politely.
“When I was visiting Miss McBride the other day she showed me several framed drawings.”
He inclined his head politely. “Yes?”
“She told me one of the estate carpenters had framed them for her.”
He nodded. “Yes, Jem Biggins, a good craftsman.”
Damaris moistened her lips. It was cheek, given what she was going to do, but she had to ask. “I—I’ve just finished a painting—it’s upstairs in my room—and I was wondering whether . . . whether I could get it framed while I was here, instead of taking it back to London with me. I’d pay him, of course.”
“Of course, miss. Would you like me to ask Jem to step up to the house and discuss it with you, or—”
“No.” She could just see that, the curiosity and fuss it would cause. “I just want it quietly organized.” She waited. She didn’t have much experience with butlers. Featherby, Lady Beatrice’s butler, could organize anything without turning a hair but Horwood was a country butler, an old family retainer, and she was a relative stranger.
Horwood, however, did not disappoint. “Of course, miss. Would you like me to arrange it for you? It is to be a surprise, I collect.”
/> “You could say that, yes.” Probably not a very welcome surprise, but she didn’t care.
“If you like, miss, I could collect it from your room myself and have it discreetly conveyed to Jem Biggins with your instructions.” He might look impassive, Damaris thought, but he must be curious to see it for himself, else he’d send a maid or footman to fetch it.
“Instructions?” She’d never had anything framed before. She would have no idea what to say. “Just tell him, whatever he thinks is appropriate.”
“Very good, miss.”
She gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Horwood. I appreciate your assistance.” The clock chimed the quarter hour. Later than ever. Thank goodness Freddy’s parents were from home. She hurried down to lunch.
• • •
“Headache gone?” Freddy said when she entered the room.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Mine too.”
She turned her head in surprise. “I didn’t realize you had a headache.”
He nodded. “I call it Mother and Father. The moment they were off the estate I felt so much better. You too, I bet.”
She laughed. “You knew I was fibbing?”
He ran a finger lightly down her cheek. “For all the web of deceit we’re weaving at the moment, and for all that you seem to step so lightly through it, you, my dear, are not a very good liar.”
She allowed him to seat her, a little disturbed by the lighthearted touch. “I’m not?”
“No, you can’t tell anyone a direct lie without blushing or looking away. Evasions you’re not bad at, and misleading statements you’re very good at, like transforming your own piglet into a Chinese swimming pig—experimental, of course. But ordinary, everyday, in-your-face lies? Nope.” He took his own seat.
“Do you think your mother knew, then?”
“Probably, but since it’s her own favorite tactic for getting out of anything she doesn’t want to do, she could hardly take offense. May I carve you some ham? You will need your strength.”
“Why?”
“Because after luncheon I intend to take you for a walk around the lake, and I don’t want you fainting for lack of energy halfway around.”
She was about to retort that she’d walked for days on end across China with barely any food and without fainting once, but she bit her tongue in time. She’d never told anyone how she’d left China, and she wasn’t going to start.
The trouble was, she’d become so comfortable in his company, she’d almost forgotten to keep her guard up. It was a timely reminder.
If anyone knew how she’d left China, she’d be ruined.
• • •
An hour later Freddy was wishing he’d never suggested the walk, wishing he were a stronger man, more able to resist the appeal of a pair of big brown eyes, wishing he’d been able to think more quickly when she’d pointed and asked at the start of their walk, “What’s that over there? I noticed it from the roof that time.”
Like a fool, he’d answered, “My brother’s grave.”
So of course she’d wanted to see it.
They stood in front of his brother’s grave. The breeze sharpened, fresh and invigorating, but it was dry, which was a pleasant change. The world around them was etched in shades of gray: gray sky, gray clouds, gray headstones, bare winter trees; the only variation, the row of dark green pines that edged the small family cemetery. Damaris was the one bright spot in the drab and gloomy landscape.
She wore a crimson wool pelisse, edged with black fur, trimmed in military fashion with black and silver braid and fastened down the front with a double row of silver buttons. Her bonnet was gray, edged with fur and tied with crimson ribbons.
Her skin was pale and silky looking, her cheeks rosy with cold, her lips—he swallowed, looking at them, and his body tightened. Her lips were full, wine dark and satiny. Wine sweet? He forced his gaze off them and met her gaze, dark and a little troubled.
“Each year I come here and I think about everything George missed out on.” He turned again to his brother’s headstone, silently rereading the words that were engraved on his heart and on his conscience as well as on the cold white marble slab: Cut off in the flower of his youth.
“He was two years older than me and every time I come here I try to imagine him another year older, and think about what he might have done, but each year it gets harder. I can’t imagine George as a man; I can only see him as a boy, a fourteen-year-old boy.” Running for the ball, onto the ice . . .
Each year he stood here, flaying himself yet again for that one stupid, reckless act that had forever denied him his brother. And his family.
“You need to forgive yourself,” said a soft voice at his elbow. “You need to let him go.”
“I can’t. He’s with me—not all the time, of course, and not when I’m in London—well, you know I’m not a gloomy fellow there. But when I’m here at Breckenridge he’s . . . here. And I catch myself thinking, ‘George would like this,’ or ‘I must tell George that,’ and then . . .” He shook his head. “It’s like you’re walking on solid ground and suddenly”—he made a sharp, emphatic gesture—“you’re falling through a black hole.” Like in the ice.
She said nothing, offered no platitudes, no words of empty comfort, just laid a hand quietly on his arm. A warm, accepting presence. Someone who didn’t know George, didn’t blame him for George’s death.
He couldn’t look at her. It was years since he’d talked to anyone about his brother. As though George were some dirty little secret—but no, the dirty little secret was his own, known only to him, his parents and a few loyal—and discreet—family retainers.
He’d never told anyone how he felt. Not really.
He’d shoved it away, pretended it had never happened, pretended he was someone else—Christ!—all these years. One day of the year he faced it, his annual act of penance; to come home and let the crows peck at him again.
This year was the first time it had been . . . different.
“Sometimes I stand here and I think of everything I’ve done over the years, all the things George never got to do. Christ, he’d never even been kissed.” He glanced at Damaris, standing quietly at his side. And caught a fleeting expression, a flicker of something in her eyes. He gave her a searching look, and she glanced away.
“Damaris?”
A faint flush rose in her cheeks that had nothing whatsoever to do with the fresh wind. She refused to meet his gaze.
“Damaris, no,” he murmured. “Really?” He took her chin in his hand and gently tilted her face up. “You’ve never been kissed?” This lovely creature? It was a crime against nature.
She said nothing, just swallowed and made an awkward little shrug, half-careless, half-embarrassed.
He slid his arm around her waist. “Well, then, as your betrothed, I think we need to remedy that.”
“False betrothed,” she said quickly and tried to pull away, looking embarrassed and troubled. And very, very kissable.
“Then will you do it for George?”
“George?” Her brows pleated in puzzlement.
“A kiss for George, right here, right now.” And just as he was sure she was going to refuse, he added, deepening his voice, “His first kiss. And yours. It seems fitting, somehow.”
She hesitated, so long that he thought for a moment she was going to break from his loose hold and flee like a startled doe into the forest.
She swallowed again. “All right,” she said. “For George.”
Freddy’s pulse leaped, but he kept his expression light. He drew her closer then cupped her face gently in his hands. Cool, silky soft skin. A nerve in the soft underside of her jaw was beating frantically. She was almost quivering, strung as tight as a bowstring. Lord, all this, just for a kiss?
His own hands, oddly, were trembling a little. The cold, of cours
e; he’d removed his gloves.
He looked down at her, smoothing his thumbs along her jawline. Lord, but she was a lovely creature. She gazed up at him through eyes wide and dark enough to drown in, like deep forest pools, clear, and tannin dark. Slowly he stroked his thumb over her full lower lip, warm and satin soft. Her breath hitched and her lips parted slightly.
As he bent to kiss her, her eyes fluttered shut and he felt her brace herself. Slowly, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of leashed desire, he brushed his mouth lightly over hers.
She hesitated, sighed and slowly relaxed. Her eyes opened. “Thank y—”
He smiled at her innocence. “We’re not finished yet.” She gave him a doubtful look, and he continued, “Did you think that was a kiss?”
She did, he could see it in her eyes.
“No,” his voice roughened. “That was just the preliminary.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure if she said it or breathed it. She moistened her mouth with her tongue and waited, looking so deliciously expectant, he wanted to devour her.
She held herself stiff in his arms, but he could feel—or did he just imagine?—her wanting to soften against him. Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers, teasing, tasting, nibbling gently on her lips, her glorious, soft, responsive mouth.
Her lips parted and, oh, Lord, the taste of her. Sweet, intoxicating.
And then she softened against him and suddenly she was kissing him back, learning from him, her tongue first shyly touching his, then copying every movement he made . . . and, oh, Lord . . .
He’d never kissed an innocent before, and this—God, this was the last thing he’d expected. Her kiss was untutored, yet somehow . . . knowing. Licks of fire sizzled and snapped along his nerves, the heat sweeping through his body, pooling in his groin, swelling . . .
He hadn’t been aroused as instantly, as easily—as embarrassingly—since he was a green youth.
That must be it—the lure of her innocence.