Julia’s face was partly shaded by a straw bonnet tied down with a lavender ribbon. There was something girlish in her pose, leaning back on her hands with her legs spread straight in front of her.
They were playing spin the bottle. Someone had had the foresight to bring an empty wine bottle with them.
Not wishing to interrupt, he watched as the bottle spun round quickly on a glass salver. It slowed down, then came to a rest, pointing clearly at Julia. There was general laughter as she cried out.
‘So, Julia,’ said Talbrook, laughing, ‘you have to tell us what you dislike most in the world. Say the first thing that comes to your mind.’
‘Snakes and rakes,’ she replied quickly, laughing.
She did not even look in his direction, but Lionel stiffened. He was on the point of turning to leave when he met Benny’s glance. Benny shook his head imperceptibly at him.
He stood there, torn. Julia’s remark had wounded him. But he was also the host, and to walk away suddenly would draw more attention than he wanted.
It was Amelia who decided for him. ‘Oh, look who’s here,’ she said, moving aside to make room for him – next to Julia. ‘Come and join us. We’ve decided to do confessions – if the bottle points to you you’ll have to answer a question from one of us.’
He smiled, not even glancing at Julia as he sat next to her.
‘Spin the bottle,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’
Having disposed of a huge spread of cold meats, breads and desserts, the young people determined to go walking.
Lionel acted as a guide, since he had visited Box Hill frequently as a boy. He pointed out features on the landscape, including the sleepy village of Dorking lying in the valley, and the heights of Leith Hill over to the west. He picked wild orchids for each of the ladies, and they all chased blue butterflies that floated lazily in the sunshine.
Somehow, without fully intending it, the group broke up into couples. Benny paired up with Miranda, Talbrook with Amelia, and Julia with him.
‘You know Box Hill well,’ remarked Julia, ‘Was it one of the haunts of your childhood?’
He nodded, remembering. ‘Yes. I have many good memories here. I used to come here with three of my friends. We would cross the river on hot summer days and then clamber up the hill.’ A look of sadness crossed his face. ‘Two of them are dead now. They died in the Peninsular War.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What happened to the third?’
Lionel’s face brightened. ‘He’s happily married, with a brood of children. He lives quite close, actually. I plan to visit him tomorrow.’
They reached a turnstile. Lionel stood to one side, assisting the ladies as they went through.
‘Be careful where you stand,’ he said, in warning, as he joined the group again. ‘You are walking in a cow pasture.’
As if to prove it, a cow came into view, swishing its tail from side to side.
‘I grew up in the country, but I’ve never touched a cow,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s all sheep where I live; sheep bleating everywhere you look. Not a cow to be seen.’
‘Allow me, then,’ said Talbrook, ‘to introduce you to Madam Cow. Madam Cow, Miss Neville.’
The cow looked at Miss Neville without curiosity.
‘Do you think I could touch her?’
Opinions differed. Miranda objected strongly to the idea, saying they were dirty creatures, full of flies. Julia encouraged her. Benny laughed and said he’d never heard such a ridiculous notion. Talbrook said there was no harm to it, if Miss Neville wished it. Lionel advised against it.
Amelia’s curiosity, however, was too strong for her to be deterred. She moved forward cautiously, her gaze fixed on the cow. Just as Amelia was about to touch her, the cow shifted just out of her reach. She followed. The cow moved again.
‘Watch out!’ said Benny, but it was too late. Amelia’s foot squelched as it landed in a water puddle.
‘Urrgh,’ she uttered, trying to stay upright as her foot slipped in the mud. Talbrook sprinted forward and held her arm, steadying her.
She surveyed her muddy boot in dismay, then laughed. ‘It is certainly fortunate that I wore walking shoes. And that it wasn’t something worse.’
Relieved laughter broke out, as everyone realized she was not going to succumb to a fit of hysteria.
Meanwhile, the guilty cow watched them, chewing indifferently.
‘I think, perhaps, with the state of my boots, I need to return to the carriage. I’m glad I brought a change of shoes.’
Talbrook immediately offered to escort her.
It was a signal for the group to break up. Benny tactfully suggested a bench to Miranda to sit on, to wait for Amelia’s return. He made a shooing gesture to Lionel, who stood uncertainly on the pathway.
Benny scowled at him, his message very clear.
It said: Don’t ruin it this time.
CHAPTER 18
She should have gone with the others, but she didn’t. She strolled down the pathway, away from everyone, alone with a gentleman, completely unchaperoned, and indifferent to propriety.
They stopped as a vista opened before them. He seemed ill at ease. Oddly enough, his discomfort fed that strange mood surfacing inside her. It was up to her to make him comfortable. She did not want to always rely on others to be charming, to help people relax, to set the scene. She would set it.
Prompted by an evil genie, she settled down on the ground, indifferent to grass stains, and patted the space beside her. He was not prompted by the same genie, and, conscious of his light trousers, he hesitated.
‘Come,’ she said, challenging him, ‘surely you do not wish to remain the only one on this outing with impeccable clothes? I never thought you such a dandy that you would prefer clean clothes over having an enjoyable time.’
She was pushing, of course. He could react with anger, and refuse. She held her breath, watching him.
He gave a quick shrug and, scrutinizing the ground carefully, sat down gingerly on the grass. ‘You didn’t examine the ground to see if there is any trace of cows,’ he said.
She leapt up at that and inspected her clothing. There was a faint wet stain, but no sign of cows. ‘Thank heavens!’ she said, plonking back down.
He laughed, a deep masculine laugh that sent vibrations running through her. ‘It would have served you right if there had been.’
Unruffled, she grinned. ‘But there wasn’t, so I’m afraid you’ll have no chance to moralize to me on the dangers of sitting on the ground.’
He threw her a puzzled glance. ‘Is that how you think of me? As moralizing?’
‘Well, you’ve done nothing but tell me what to do and what not to do since I met you.’
He pulled out a blade of grass and looked out over the valley. ‘That was simply due to the circumstances.’
She blew out an exasperated breath. ‘Let’s not talk about the circumstances again. I want this to be a circumstance free afternoon.’
He bowed mockingly. ‘As you wish, Miss Swifton. What do you wish to talk about?’
‘You,’ she said promptly.
‘Ah,’ he said, with a smirk. ‘My favourite topic.’ He leaned back on his hands and smiled, waiting. ‘You may ask what you wish.’
But the evil genie danced around her. ‘I’m glad. Because I want you to explain why you pretend that you don’t like poetry.’
He stiffened and sat up. He pulled out several blades of grass, a clump, in fact, and shredded it. He tossed the mangled fragments away and watched them fall. Then he picked the remaining grass specks from his palms, one by one. The moment he had finished, he began the whole process over again, with a new clump.
‘Well?’ she prompted, making it clear she would not let him evade her.
Giving up on tearing the grass, he drew his knees in towards his chest, hugging himself. He clearly did not want to answer.
‘If you would prefer to discuss something more innocuous,’ she remarked, ‘like the weather, for exampl
e, we can do that.’
He turned to face her. His black eyes were opaque, revealing nothing. He still clutched his knees to his chest. ‘When I was about seven, I conceived a passion for poetry. I had an aunt who used to visit us often – she died ten years ago – and she always brought me books of poetry. She used to come up to the nursery and read to me. Sonnets by Shakespeare, poems by Goldsmith, Gray, Collins – she was a passionate reader and collector. And though I understood very little of it, I loved the rhymes and the rhythms. So I started trying to write poems of my own.’ He paused and put a blade of grass in his mouth, gnawing at it with his front teeth.
‘I was a scholarly lad. My tutor was a local vicar who took his teaching seriously. Having discovered in me an aptitude for study, he dedicated himself to training me in good writing, the classics and Greek and Latin.
‘Before long, I wanted to spend all my time indoors. I acquired such a passion for reading that I would spend hours in the library, reading anything I could find that could interest a child.’ He stared out across the rolling hills below them, and at the valley marked by ragged boundaries dividing up the land.
‘My father grew alarmed. He thought the classics a load of fustian nonsense. He and my mother quarrelled about me whenever he graced us with his presence, which, given that he was often away hunting and attending the races, was thankfully not too frequent. But each time he returned, he would turn me outdoors all day, and engage to teach me the manly sports. My tutor was dismissed for months at a time. My father claimed my mother was cosseting me, and would before long turn me into a sickly version of herself.
‘He vowed to cure me of this unsavoury habit of reading. He kept the library locked, even in his absence. And if he caught me with a book, he would whip me and send me outdoors for the rest of the day. To make sure I spent time in the fresh air, he said.
‘I was glad when I was sent off to school. I expected Eton to be somewhere I could finally indulge myself in my reading habits, without my father’s intervention. But it was a grim, gloomy place, and the boys there all seemed younger versions of my father, all contemptuous of learning, and all addicted to physical activity and hunting. There was even a tradition of animal baiting in which we all had to participate.
‘It seemed there was no way out. So I learned to play all the games they played. After all, as Wellington has since said, “The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton”.
‘But I managed to write poetry. Luckily, I found a sympathetic ear in one of the masters, Dr. Lind, who also interested me in astronomy. And later, I befriended Percy Shelley, even though he was younger than I was, and we used to read and write together, and conduct experiments in natural philosophy.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Some of the experiments were rather explosive.’
‘One day, on my return home during the holidays, my father came upon me unexpectedly. I was sixteen, and completely engrossed in writing a poem. I didn’t even notice him entering my chamber. He tore up a notebook full of poems I had written and threw it in the fire. Then locked me in my room. I resolved to run away from home the next day, but I did not want to leave without first speaking to my mother.
‘Well, the next day was too late. I woke to find my father had bought me a commission to fight Napoleon, and that my passage was already arranged.’ He bowed his head. ‘I didn’t even react to that. What upset me was that all the best poems I had written were gone.
‘So, you see,’ he concluded, ‘I never went to Oxford or Cambridge, though I always had hopes of reading the classics there.’ He laughed, a bitter, self-mocking laugh. ‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I’ve given you a very long story for a very short question.’ He rose and put out his hand. ‘Shall we continue on our walk?’
She nodded. He had answered her question.
Though the tale he had told was a sad one, she now knew that her instinct had not been wrong. There was much more to him than met the eye. He was not simply a bored rake obsessed by his own pleasures. There was another side to him, one he made every effort to conceal. Knowing that this was the case magnified the curious exhilaration that simmered inside her. Delighted laughter threatened to burst out of her but she contained it, knowing he would not understand. He would think she was laughing at him.
A gust of wind rushed up and pulled her hair out of its pins, in spite of the bonnet that anchored it. Long strands blew on to her face, on to her lips, tossed against her cheeks. Now she could laugh at the wind and herself, and she invited him to share in it as she grappled with the hair that lashed at her eyes.
‘It’s so beautiful up here,’ she said, stripping the hair from the corner of her mouth.
‘Yes,’ he said, surveying the horizon. ‘They say you can see over a hundred miles on a clear day.’
‘I didn’t mean the view,’ she said. ‘There’s an openness, a wildness to it, to the way the wind blows, to the blackberry bushes, to having nothing around as obstruction.’
He threw her a sharp glance, his raven eyes puzzled. ‘Hardly wild. We are surrounded by farms, and much of the land is pastureland for the infamous cows.’
She laughed again, thinking of Amelia’s dainty foot in the mud. ‘Perhaps it is just that we are so high up, at the top of the world. I have never been so far up, you see.’
He nodded. ‘Yet this is only a hill, compared to some of the mountains on the Continent.’
A strange longing flowed through her, like the wind blowing around her.
‘Someday I want to visit those places. I want to climb one of those mountains and look down at the tiny valleys below. I have seen pictures of the magnificent Alps. I want to go there. I want to stand where Byron’s Manfred stood. “The natural music of the mountain reed, Mix’d with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; My soul would drink those echoes”. I want this more than anything.’
She had never known she had that longing. But then, she had never been to Box Hill. She watched him, to see what he would say about Byron.
‘I hope you do not wish to emulate Byron’s Manfred. He intended to throw himself down into the valley.’
‘True, but he did not,’ she retorted, grinning. He had admitted that he read Byron.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Did I say something amusing?’
She smothered the smile. ‘No. I am merely happy.’
Silence reigned for a moment.
‘Perhaps you will marry someone who will take you there,’ he said, his face closed like a curtain.
Yes. She wanted to marry someone who would take her to the Continent, show her all those places she had read about but never seen. A gust blew up and tossed her bonnet to the ground. She ran after it, caught it just as it was in danger of hurtling down the slope.
‘You must help me tie it on again,’ she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. She had not intended them, but they came out, nevertheless.
She placed the bonnet on her head and held out the ribbons. He stepped forward and took them from her hand. His fingers swept hers and she shivered.
‘You’re cold,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the knot. ‘Perhaps we should return to the picnic. There are blankets there.’
‘On the contrary,’ she said, laughter in her eyes. He was uneasy, she could tell. He did not understand her mood. ‘I’m feeling remarkably warm.’
He finished his task and stepped back. He did not glance at her at all.
She enjoyed his unease. She felt flushed with a sense of freedom. Her face burned with the wind and the sun.
She wished now she had not asked him to tie the ribbon. She wanted her hair free, wanted it to float loose, lifted by the breeze.
She was restless. Restless and reckless. Her frame of mind differed from any she had experienced before. She was tired of propriety, giddy with flirting and laughing, and full of frantic energy. She wanted more out of life than just to read and to watch others dally and take their pleasure. The shadows no longer contented her.
She wanted life.
; ‘So tell me,’ she said, amazed at her daring, but not wanting to curtail this new self that seemed to have popped out of nowhere. ‘Are you considered a good kisser?’
He blinked, stared at her blankly. She laughed. She knew he was wondering if he heard her right.
‘You have shapely lips,’ she said, ‘luscious, even. Very tempting. I’m sure others have told you that.’ Even as she said this she quaked at what she was saying. Who was this stranger inside her?
Had she taken leave of her senses?
‘You’re flirting with me,’ he said, astonished.
‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised,’ she said. ‘I have it on good authority that ladies flirt with rakes.’ Her voice had taken on a playful lilt.
There must have been something in the wine, or she would not be talking this way.
He frowned. ‘Not young unmarried ladies,’ he said, his voice heavy with disapproval.
‘But perhaps older unmarried ladies?’ she said, laughing at him.
He scowled. ‘You hardly qualify as older.’
She shrugged. She was tired of being Julia Swifton, Bluestocking. For once she wanted to be wanton, unrestrained. She wanted to be a moth, to come close enough to singe her wings. She no longer wanted to hide in her cocoon while others took flight.
There was a jagged rock between them. She climbed on to it and drew closer to him, close enough to feel his breath on her face. Their faces were level. She raised her hand and trailed her fingers over his cheek. ‘I want to learn how to kiss. I want to know how a rake kisses,’ she whispered and placed her lips to his.
He stood stock still. He neither pulled away, nor drew closer. She stroked her lips against his, the way he had done with her. His lips spread open, a tiny fluttering movement. She strained forward. She knew nothing about kisses. But she knew she wanted more from the kiss. Her tongue slipped out, taking on a life of its own. She licked him, tasting. She needed more.
But Lionel’s hands came to her waist. He picked her up, not gently at all, and swung her down to the ground.
An Improper Suitor Page 19