by Cecilia Gray
“Have rumors about me traveled all the way to Leeds?” she asked.
He sat opposite her and took a bite of cake, which caught in his throat. He coughed. “It is no secret that you intend to accept an offer before the year is out.”
She glanced down at her plate and pushed her cake around with the tip of her fork. “It is my duty to marry.”
“I find it surprising, then, that you are not already wed.”
Her gaze shot up to meet his. “Pardon me?”
“I only meant that you are a woman of competence who achieves exactly what she wants.” Her black hair was wound in a knot as she had worn it all day, but a few pieces spilled from its confines and brushed her neck. The impulse to sweep them away was so strong that when he reached for his plate, his grip on his fork sent it flying. “Perhaps I had too much to drink today.”
“I’ve always wondered how that worked,” she mused, taking a bite of lemon cake. “I’ve seen my father drunk twice. It’s transformative.”
“You’ve never been drunk?” He leaned over and rested one elbow the table, then indulged in another bite of cake himself.
“Never more than a sip. Does it hurt? Or . . . Oh, this must be too forward.”
“Maybe, but that’s no reason to stop a line of scientific inquiry,” he said with a smile.
“Spoken like my sister Dinah.”
“You could just try it for yourself, you know.”
“It does seem incredible to have reached twenty-three years of age and have never experienced it.”
“And what if your sisters have questions?” he asked, playing along with her game. “How will you answer them, guide them, if you’ve no familiarity with it?”
She took another forkful, her cheeks rounding with a grin. “It almost seems selfish of me not to try it.” With a mischievous grin, she searched the kitchen, opening cupboards.
Robert went still. Could she really mean to have a drink with him, here and now? He should not. He ought not. But a year of discipline made him particularly weak in his resolve. “Allow me,” he said.
He made his way to the salon before he could listen to his own sense of reason that would try to convince him that this was beyond propriety. Last year, their interlude in the kitchen had been an accident. But tonight was different. He had sought her out on purpose, had flirted with her, and now he was bringing her a drink from the salon.
He poured a single glass of port for her and then one for himself. His hands shook as he made his way back to the kitchen. By any standard, he was declaring his intentions. And she was reciprocating.
Yet nothing had changed. Certainly not her father’s opinion. If anything, having gone years since the wedding of one daughter, he’d become more desperate to see them all married.
He stopped just outside the kitchen, clutching the glasses tightly in his hands. He tried to summon the gentlemanly good intentions that had prevailed the year prior, but instead only found sentimentality.
Marriage and family. He had always assumed he would marry one day. He loved his family and wanted one of his own to nurture and protect. That was what family was—a reason to exist. He had never given much thought to the specifics of the woman, his future wife, which he now realized had been a monumental mistake. He’d socialized with many women but he only wanted one. Someone sure of herself, someone confident and kind. And tall and bossy.
Alice Belle.
Could it be possible?
His family would be amused, his mother perhaps momentarily mortified at Alice’s independence until she was able to see for herself what a vibrant, capable woman Alice was. An excellent mother and manager. If anything, Robert felt his neck grow hot, considering what little he could offer her.
He had heard it several more times now—“the Tale of the Bayswater Belles.”
He was no lord. He wasn’t even wealthy. And yet, here she was, alone in the kitchen, waiting for him to return with her drink.
Her back was to him when he entered the kitchen, and he itched to run his hands down the graceful column of her spine to the softness hidden well beneath her gown. It was wrong to want her, but that no longer mattered. It felt right to him. As she turned to face him, her gray eyes hesitated, his hands shook. He set the glasses down on the table so as not to betray his state of mind.
They were teetering on a precipice, he and Alice. He had already begun cataloguing the ways in which he was worthy. His means might be modest, but he was not without home or resources, nor the sheer will to care for her. How could they not be together? How could he be with any woman except the one before him? He was gripped with an intense, raging desire to care for her, to smooth away the worry in her brow, to listen and share in her stories, and to kiss the lips that seemed to tremble with questions.
“This is . . . ?” Her gaze dropped to the glass.
“Port,” he said. “It will taste warm and smooth, but be sure to sip it—”
She grabbed the glass and tipped it back, swallowing the contents like water.
“—slowly,” he finished, to no effect.
She coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her gray eyes widened. “Oh. I suppose I should have waited.”
“It’s all right. How is it?”
She gave another cough and took a bite of cake. “It’s a bit like cherry and licorice.” She glanced up at him. Her eyes softened. “You like licorice.”
Her mouth probably tasted like licorice now. “That I do.”
Her nose wrinkled. “My eyes are watering.”
“It’s generally decanted, first,” he said, “which affects the taste. But here.” He slid over his glass. “When you’re ready, take a slow slip, and let it slide over your tongue.”
Alice’s eyes darkened at the comment, and he heard her short intake of breath. Now he was thinking about her tongue. He should have glanced away or should have moved the conversation to safer territory.
Hell, he shouldn’t have been in the kitchen at all. If they were caught...
Well, no matter. If they were caught, then the repercussions would hurry along his currently desired ends, although not in a matter befitting her. If he were truly a gentleman, he would leave at once to save her from ruination.
But the debauchery he had indulged in over the past year in the hopes of erasing Alice from his memory had made him slightly less gentlemanly than he had been a year ago.
Robert had almost convinced himself to leave when Alice picked up the glass and parted her lips. He watched, drawn like a ship to a siren. The soft pink tip of her tongue snaked out between her lips, and she tipped the glass, letting the port pour into her mouth. She pressed her lips together and swallowed. He felt the pulse of her throat like a fist in his groin and finally looked away.
By the time he looked back, her eyes were hazy with want.
“Do you mean to kiss me now?” she asked, breathless.
“Would you prefer I waited?” he asked.
He did not blame Alice for what happened next, because if she had not crossed the room to him, then he would certainly have gone to her. But she did cross the room. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her hips pressed into his, and with a groan, their lips collided.
At some point he backed her up against the sink. He felt the sweet pressure of hips against his, beneath the confines of their clothes. Her fingers had begun to roam along his back, and he himself had been tracing the lines of her body with his palms.
His head slanted to the side and he deepened the kiss, letting his tongue tangle with hers. In the dizzying wave of desire, a single loud internal alarm finally sent him pushing away from her. His breath was erratic and uneven. When mingled with her high-pitched and raspy ones, he was driven to kiss her again, so he took another step back.
Distance between them was good. A table between them was better.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said.
She looked to the floor, embarrassed. “I wish that were true. While I may have had a
drink or two, I’m afraid the alcohol has not yet had its effect. I’m quite lucid.”
“So you meant to—”
“Attack you?” she said. “No. But as for the rest . . .” She looked at him imploringly. “I am the eldest of five, and there is so much I’ve never done. So much I haven’t experienced. Sera is a child, yet she is married. She has so many questions about marriage and men and its purpose. Our mother is not here to help her.”
With a shuddering breath, he pushed the glass of port back toward her. What did she mean? Was her purpose merely to educate herself for the benefit of her sisters? And heaven help him, he wouldn’t mind.
She took another sheepish sip. “I apologize,” she said. “My behavior was reckless and foolhardy.”
He looked heavenward. “I assure you there are legions of men who would beg to disagree.”
“Is it always so . . . eager?” she asked.
“No.” He needed his own glass of port. He’d settle for more cake and returned to the table. As he stared at her over his fork, he willed himself to stay rooted to the ground.
“I just can’t imagine Sera and her husband.” She crinkled her nose.
He took a bite of cake. He wished his slice were bigger.
Alice giggled, the port finally taking hold, and she took another sip. Whatever mortification had overcome her earlier was slowly slipping away under the effects of the alcohol. She seemed loose and relaxed as she leaned back against the sink where he’d pressed her moments earlier.
“What is it like when it isn’t eager?” she asked.
“What is what like?” He was afraid he knew the answer.
“Relations between a man and a woman.”
He allowed himself a heavy sigh and rubbed his eye with the base of his palm to ease his developing headache. “It varies from couple to couple. Even one person can be eager with one partner and not with another.”
“How are you to know before marriage?” she asked.
“You don’t. You’re hopeful.”
“Are you this eager . . . with others?” she asked.
His tenuous hold on his thread of self-control was slipping between his fingers. “No.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows rose and she hmphed to herself as she considered this news.
“I should see you safely back to your room.”
“Why?” She took a step and stumbled, then righted herself. “Or perhaps that is a reasonable idea.”
Reasonable wasn’t quite the word he would choose, but she was definitely under the influence of the port at present. Her smile was broad, her body languid. She leaned forward then pitched back, her hip thrust out to the side.
He had expected her to hold her liquor better. She was a tall thing, not at all tiny, but he supposed that was no measure if she’d never had more than a sip before tonight.
“I’ll see you to your room,” he said. “But you must be absolutely silent.” It was a terrible idea, he knew, and his only solace was that if they were caught by someone in the family, he would announce their imminent betrothal.
He preferred to secure her commitment when she was sober, but their relationship had begun without the aid of alcohol. They had shared confidences and now kisses. Their de facto bypassing of an engagement would be an understood matter.
With a hand at her back to steady her, he led Alice out of the kitchen toward her bedroom in the west wing. She took a corner too fast and spun, obviously dizzy. He righted her and set her back on her feet. She then nearly walked into a wall, but he stopped her moments before impact. He had to admit he took great pleasure in the small touches. A hand at her waist, a finger at her neck. He imagined a time when he could touch her with impunity.
“This is my room,” she said, leaning her forehead against a door, her derriere swinging out.
“Are you certain?” he asked. He wasn’t as familiar with these corridors.
She straightened up, turning toward him. She nodded, then winced, then nodded, then winced.
He slowly opened the door and found the room darkened although the moon allowed for some illumination. It smelled like her, too, some kind of deep floral that beckoned him, but he would not pass the threshold. Even he had to draw the line somewhere.
“That glass of water by your bedside,” he said, “drink it all before you fall asleep, understand?”
She nodded, her eyes hooded and drowsy looking, then began through the threshold. Ah, a sleepy drunk.
“You may have a headache tomorrow,” he warned with a pinch of sympathy but a bigger dash of amusement. “And Alice?”
She glanced back at him questioningly. “Yes?”
“I know that I cannot give you a house better than the one you could otherwise procure, or carriages and horses more than you could buy. But I could make you happy.” His tone was whispered and fierce. “I swear it.”
She smiled. “You already do.”
Chapter Six
July 3, 1819
Woodbury, England
Sleep was usually a fitful matter for Robert. As a child with six brothers, he often woke to frogs on his chest or a pig tied to his ankles just before its rump was slapped. Cambridge only served to up the stakes of such nighttime antics. In some ways, war was more peaceful with its hushed conversations and the rustle of tent flaps, but the periodic boom of canons and sputter of gunfire would cut through the night, shattering the illusion.
Last night had been a different affair. He’d woken to drenched sheets twisted across his legs. He had, on more than one occasion, bolted awake on a fevered dream. Despite this, he had awoken at dawn rested and at peace.
Today, he would ask Miss Alice Belle to be his wife.
There was still the matter of him apologizing for his ungentlemanly conduct, but it would be an apology for his behavior only, not for the outcome. For how could he be sorry that they had finally agreed upon their feelings, if not in words, then in action.
He rose from bed before the sun broke over the horizon and hurriedly dressed. This was an engagement, not war, but Robert felt the same stirring of anticipation in his gut as he did the morning of battle. He always rose early then, ahead of his men. Often the night before a battle would seem insurmountable, particularly when looking at the faces of the young men under his command. The quiet of dawn is where the possibility of victory lived.
He went downstairs. Breakfast had not yet been set in the sideboard, and upon seeing him, the staff immediately began to fuss.
“I shall take in a walk,” he said. “No need to rouse the cook.”
The butler, who had entered the room as he spoke, stopped in front of Robert, standing board-stiff, his heels tightly turned. “We have an urgent correspondence for you, Mr. Crawford. A messenger arrived only a moment ago. There was question of whether to wake you.”
“Show me the man.”
The worst of scenarios began to churn in his mind. Perhaps Alice had sobered and regretted their evening together, and she had fled and sent him a message to bid him farewell. She had claimed not to be inebriated during their kiss, but who was to say how the alcohol had affected her.
The staff had the messenger waiting for Robert at the kitchen table, as there was likely no room for extra guests, full as Woodbury was with visitors. Upon seeing him, Robert realized it could be no errand of Alice’s.
The messenger was a young boy, face streaked with dirt from his travels, his shirt untucked. “I come with news from Leeds,” the boy said, holding a white envelope in his outstretched hand.
He removed the letter and read it, his alarm growing as he read his sister’s account of his favorite niece’s health and how she asked for him. His eyes widened as he finished, and without a word, he hurried through the house and climbed the stairs two at a time. He went straight to wake Savage and Hughes, who quickly got ready to escort him to Leeds within the half hour in Savage’s carriage with the fastest team of bays in the country.
“You have a different look about you,” Savage said.
<
br /> “I’ll have to take Savage’s word for it.” Hughes was curled up in the corner of the phaeton, his eyes twisted shut. The man could take a punch without blinking but his stomach was no match for the rocking carriage.
“I need something from you,” Robert said.
Savage sat up and even Hughes opened one eye.
Robert took a breath. He was not a man who easily asked for favors, but Alice was worth it. If he was to ask her hand in marriage, he could not rely on her father’s assessment of his character or earnestness. He had to rely on himself and all the resources at his disposal, Savage included.
“Name it,” Savage said.
“It involves your connection to a certain figure of royal descent.”
Savage sighed. “I’d hoped to save that favor for my own one day.”
* * *
Alice woke with her fingers to her lips.
The memories of the previous night swept over her in a wave. She closed her eyes and sank deeper into her mattress, tugging the sheets up to her chin.
What had she done?
What would he think?
She was both eager to rise and dreading it in equal parts. She’d behaved most wantonly and without provocation.
In reality, kissing him had been a release of years’ worth of pent-up frustration. Years of suitors who were too old, too young, too boring, or too sleepy—in one case—to take seriously. Years of realizing her father was circling closer and closer to selecting a potential husband for her without her approval and that the life she’d been imagining with Robert was passing her by.
What if Mr. Crawford rightfully assumed that she was amenable to a proposal after last night’s kiss and had spoken to her father while she’d been slumbering away?
That thought sent her bolting upright in bed. She was dressed before her lady’s maid could even make it into the room amid the ruckus. She tied back her hair in a knot and ran down to breakfast.
She saw, with relief, that her father was dining alone, and she took the seat across from him.
“You seem tired,” he said, observing her disheveled appearance.
“I am. I may return to bed,” she admitted. As soon as she was able to discuss the events of the night before with Robert.