by Edith Layton
Nothing had prepared her for her experience in the wood. She’d never realized that the merest meeting of lips could cause such tumult in every other portion of her body, or such a shameless desire for the meeting of far more. And all that sensation had been caused by Warwick Jones, a good friend and an attractive gentleman, but never the man she’d dreamed about at all. It was wholly startling that it had been so entirely thrilling. For if she’d been taught that ladies didn’t care for that sort of thing even after marriage, even with gentlemen they adored, she knew that certainly they did nothing of the sort before, with anyone. And being a lady was, after all, all she’d ever been after.
But she was aware that she was in the midst of a great process of change, and if she was afraid that she’d never again be precisely what she was before she’d come to live with Warwick Jones, she was even more afraid of what she might become. So it was a thing she preferred not to dwell upon, having decided immediately after the incident that too many new things were happening in her life now for her to stop to ponder them all. She reasoned that she was, after all, truly out in the world for the first time, living among fascinating people, going rapidly from experience to new experience. If some of these things confused her, she’d have to set them aside to contemplate later when she had the time, since she didn’t doubt that none of this could last: the fishmonger’s daughter’s life would eventually return to normal. But for now, even with the occasional snub and disappointment, she’d never had so much pure excitement. Last night she’d even tasted triumph. She was determined to go on without self-doubt or else she might end up just like the cat she’d once seen caught halfway up a tree—afraid to go further up, terrified of dropping down, and all because it had stopped to look to see how far it had come.
This habit of living an unexamined life was, however, not an easy thing for a thoughtful girl to cultivate. So if she felt a frisson of fear now, sitting opposite her host, she forced herself to endure and discount it. And if she couldn’t help but note now that his face was far more than interesting, having discovered that it had its own aloof beauty, or if she remembered, unbidden, exactly how those curling lips had felt against her own and precisely how those slender hands could evoke glorious confusion, she quickly looked aside, suppressing those memories firmly. A little fear was, after all, a small price to pay for such a rich friendship.
She never doubted that he was her friend. She couldn’t be angry at his actions in the wood, because he’d caused her no hurt, and meant none, and being a blasé gentleman, had probably meant it as flattery, as well. He’d seen to it that she couldn’t be embarrassed with him, or with others. Not only would he protect her from idle chatter, he’d discussed the incident with her as coolly as if it had happened to someone else. That had helped. But then, she expected no less from him, for as friends, she knew that they could always, in any circumstances, reason together. And so even if he might want to repeat the episode (for she’d come to see that he was a rather hot-blooded gentleman), she trusted him and somehow knew that he’d allow her complete control over when, or even if, they’d ever have further adventures of that sort: the sort that kept returning to her mind, to trouble her. It would be entirely her decision. But having experienced what she had in his arms, the thought of what her decision might be was what truly terrified her now.
“Don’t worry, I’m not that good a tactician,” Warwick commented dryly, studying his opponent’s face, “and even if I won, we never wagered on the outcome. No need to contemplate suicide, Susannah.
“Or,” he asked as she looked up guiltily from thoughts that were far from their game, “is it `Sukey’? You haven’t given me permission to call you that, but I’ve noted your brother and Julian do, and I wondered if you preferred it. I’d hate to think you always think ‘Stuffy old Warwick’ every time I call you Susannah.”
“Oh, that,” she said, feeling easier with a new thought to distract her. “It was a childhood name my father called me. But my school friends didn’t, though one brother does, and the other doesn’t…” She laughed. “It really makes no matter, because though ‘Sukey’ sounds too countrified for some, ‘Susannah’ certainly isn’t sophisticated either. I like both, or rather”— she frowned—“I don’t like both.”
“Something sophisticated is what you’re after?”
“When I was younger, yes. I tried to get everyone to call me ‘Celeste.’ I thought that was a name fit for Versailles and a king’s company. Or ‘Cynthia.’ I once fancied `Saralinda.’” She sighed. “I guess the whispery sound of my own name pleased me, or I was used to it, but I was desperate for something far more exotic.”
“‘Harry,’” he said mournfully, turning his head and gazing longingly into space, “or `Tom.’ ‘Fred’ or even ‘John,’ I remember, was my dream. Well, you’ll admit,” he said, smiling into her curious eyes, “‘Jones’ is well enough, but when you’re burdened with something like ‘Warwick,’ which is fine for a castle or a history lesson, but less so for a child, you might naturally tend to yearn for something commonplace, if only so you could put your fists down for a moment when you were a boy. But you weren’t,” he sighed, “so I doubt you’d understand.”
Soon their game was all but forgotten, as Susannah, when she was done giggling, asked him about his youth. And he, sitting back, pleased at an excuse to continue looking into her wide brown eyes, or because she was a very good listener, or even perhaps because he’d been searching for a way to show her himself in another, less threatening light, found himself telling her a great deal about that youth. And in so doing, told her even more than he’d intended to.
“I wonder you let Julian and me into your house now,” she couldn’t help exclaiming when he was done, for she’d found it a pathetic, unhappy history, for all he dressed it with wit and told it charmingly. “If I were you, I’d have developed an outsize dislike for fair persons. Imagine,” she said with some heat, “those awful people calling you a ‘troll’! I think you must have been a very taking little boy,” she sniffed in indignation.
“Ah, that was a ‘goblin,’ actually,” he corrected her gently.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I just said something far worse then, didn’t I?”
“Ah, but then, you are a blond person,” he sighed.
She looked to him in consternation, and then saw his lips half-lifted in a smile. They laughed together until she saw something else in his face as he watched her, something that was there in an instant and gone in another but that had been so clear and keen and painful in its intensity that it caused her to take in her breath, even though she wasn’t quite sure of what it was, having never seen it in a man’s face before. At least, not when he looked at her.
He cursed himself silently and savagely as he looked down at the chessboard, and sacrificed a blameless bishop to his anger at how transparent he’d been in his desire for her. Might as well, he thought, furious with himself, leap over the table, tear at her dress, and embrace her while you’re at it, idiot, for you’ve startled her just as much with your leering. But as he stared at the game board, he reined in his rage, realizing he must learn to live and cope better with his longings. For what he’d come to feel for her had obviously grown so profound as to make him as maladroit as a boy, though he was a man who liked to pride himself on his cool diplomacy.
She was lovely this morning in a rose-pink gown that made her bright beauty into something rare and porcelain, but he’d seen every tint in the prism flatter her. Initially it had been her beauty that had snared him. But he knew his weaknesses. If anything, he deeply distrusted his reaction to females with pale hair and complexions like the smooth inner lips of seashells, and so he tested them more harshly, and so they always failed him. Then he’d been enchanted by her wit and charm. Still, having schooled himself against illusion, he wasn’t a susceptible man. But as he’d lived with her and grown to know her, he’d become more entangled. After all, her courage, compassion, and kindness were things he might not have discovere
d from merely looking at her or dancing with her. And the streak of passion he’d unearthed in her had delighted him, for he was honest enough with himself to admit it was important for a man of his tastes and leanings to find a female he could share that pleasure with, so that he’d not be forced to continually satisfy his desires alone, outside of love. Because now he had to accept that she’d become much more than a friend, although she’d become one of his best ones. Now he loved her entirely.
She wasn’t his perfect vision of love; being a reasonable man, he no more sought perfection in his lady than he did in himself. No, and a perfect female wouldn’t have such a sly, cutting sense of humor either, or love gossip half so much, or be so headstrong or so damnably vulnerable, he thought. Or be so romantic. So romantic, in fact, that she’d fallen in love with another man from the moment she’d seen his beautiful face.
But he didn’t think her unattainable; that never lent her additional glamour in his eyes. Though he was far from beautiful, he believed that through friendship he might yet win her. Especially now that Julian firmly disavowed interest in her and seemed to have a chance to win his own dream lady. Susannah Logan was no dream lady. No indeed, Warwick thought, smiling to himself, watching her frown at the chessboard, very perturbed, distrusting his bad move so badly she was about to misjudge it as a clever one and so ruin her game, and he knew how she hated losing. No, she wasn’t perfect in the least. But reality seldom was. And she was very real. Unfortunately, her fear of his attentions, he thought as he sighed heavily, causing her to decide she was making the right move even as she destroyed her chances, was just as real.
It was as real as his present protracted state of complete celibacy. It wasn’t just because he was in the countryside now. London wasn’t that far, and as he’d cause to remember, certain endeavors were as available, if a shade less obviously accessible, in rural areas for enterprising gentlemen. But she’d ended all possibility of such diversion for him, if not the yearning for it. Since he’d come to fully know his mind, the thought of holding any other female to his heart was repugnant, the idea of purchasing one for his bed entirely squalid. He’d always had an investigative bent and wished he could be pleased to have discovered at last that whether he was ever able to offer it or not, at least he possessed a heart, and it was a faithful, constant one, at that.
If he sorrowed because he had to court his love as if he stalked some wild thing, steadily and patiently, never letting her see his true intention lest he frighten her into flying from him, he had to conceal that from her too. And he’d have to continue to, and do it far better, as well, he thought ruefully. When Julian finally defected and left to take up with his lady, then he’d have to be patient as he comforted her, and if he were subtle and clever enough, then he might woo her, and only then it might be that he’d win her. For they were good friends and she did like him very well, and there was a beginning. But he didn’t deceive himself any more than he’d try to fool her on that score. He was, after all, he knew, a poor substitute for a fair dreaming prince. But he’d be no elfin changeling, either. Even if she could never come to love him as he loved her, he would, he vowed, at least make sure that she never regretted him.
She looked up expectantly from the disastrous move his inadvertent sigh had encouraged her to make. Then it was with real sorrow that he said, for he knew she’d feel losing the game as keenly as he’d miss playing it with her:
“Checkmate.”
In the next moment they were both very quiet, Susannah sulking, even though she grew furious with herself for the childishness of it, and Warwick hiding his smiles at the sight of her peevishness, yet regretting he’d altered her mood. They were both glad to see Julian when he strolled into the room a second later, but Susannah’s greeting went beyond mere gladness.
She swung around in her chair, turning from Warwick to greet him, her face clearing as she gave him an unclouded, warm, and loving welcome.
As Julian dragged a small chair to the table and bestrode it backward, locking his hands over the back of it and resting his chin on his hands to study their chessboard, Warwick took out his watch. He glanced to it, and drawled, “Almost noon. My, you’re getting fashionable. How soon before you begin to haul out a snuffbox when the conversation lags, or begin to affect a lisp, I wonder.”
“As soon as you stop taking advantage of Susannah. I saw her defeat in her face as I came in. But this game has all the earmarks of a rout! How did you get her to make such a disastrous move so soon?”
“Drugs,” Warwick said lightly.
“Chicanery of some sort, no doubt,” Julian agreed. “A poor way to congratulate her the morning after a stunning success. Come, you take the white, Sukey, forget this evil fellow, I’ll be the black prince this time.”
But she was heartily sick of chess at the moment, and was about to tell him so, when she caught a clear look at him. Then she paused and stared at her would-be opponent. He seemed chastened, his customary fires banked, even in his appearance. His golden hair was darkened by the rain-dimmed half-light admitted by the study’s windows, his fair face was shadowed with exhaustion, and his fragile skin showed blue smudges beneath the softened, gentled gray eyes she met.
“…something the cat dragged in,” Warwick murmured. “Julian, did you ever get into a bed last night?”
But then a light rose glow appeared high on the viscount’s pale cheek, though he only mumbled, “Late, Warwick, quite late.”
He might be running a fever, Susannah thought, alarmed, but Warwick only narrowed his eyes and then told him that they’d taken their breakfast at a decent, reasonable hour, but that, of course, he’d be glad to throw his cook into a frenzy and his kitchens into a turmoil to whip up something for his dear fashionable friend.
At that, Julian recovered himself, replying in much the same tones that there was no need, for he’d already strolled by the kitchens and seduced the good women there into feeding him bountifully. Then he turned to Susannah and began to tell her an anecdote about the ball, and as she responded, began to pry her reactions from her as well. Soon she was discussing all she had with Warwick before, but with even more ease and delight, for Julian was attending to her every word with interest, smiling at her all the while, his whole aspect brightening as he did. She was enchanted. It wasn’t as though he’d ever been cold to her, but he was usually more casual.
This morning he looked at her with new interest, as though he’d never really seen her before. He hung on her every word and kept watching her animated face almost as if he’d just met her and was impressed with what he saw. She reveled in the altered quality of his attention, taking it as one more proof of how acceptable she’d become since her popularity of the night before. Now even Julian was taking new stock of her.
They discussed the ball until there was little of it except for the footmen’s buttons that they hadn’t examined and laughed over. The contessa came down at a truly fashionable hour and smiled at their enthusiasm, but it wasn’t until the butler brought Warwick a message and interrupted their chatter that Susannah realized their host hadn’t contributed anything to their conversation, but had only sat back watching them expressionlessly.
Now, however, his expression darkened as he read the note he’d been handed. At once their attention was all on him, and the room fell silent, for he looked profoundly discomfited, and his face as he raised it to them was troubled, and oddly youthful in his transparent distress.
“My uncle,” he said distractedly, “it appears he’s ailing again. Odd, I’d thought he was well on the way to recovery. Or at least as well as a fellow of his age could be. He’s the one I was visiting a few days before I met you at the Swan, Julian. A peculiar old gent, reclusive, yes,” he added with a self-mocking grin, “like all the rest of his family—you needn’t say it. But it’s true. He’s quite old, and never married. And so I, who am actually a nephew a few times removed, and who have always been his distant relative in every sense of the word to his—and, I suppose,
my own—satisfaction, am his sole male survivor. He does have a younger sister, but she never wed either. Ours is such a discriminating family that it seems we shrink, rather than grow, with each generation,” he sighed, nodding his head as if in sad recognition of that truth.
“It appears,” he went on, “that as his heir, if nothing else, they want me at his bedside now. But I hadn’t thought to leave now,” he murmured. “I don’t really care to continue that particular family tradition, so this isn’t a time when I want to go, or be anyplace but here with…” He seemed to suddenly hear what he was saying and stopped abruptly, his eyes widened in alarm as he looked at his guests, as if remembering their presence and wondering what they’d made of his rambling.
“I’m not making a great deal of sense, am I?” he asked, raising a thin winged brow at his own question. “But I’m somewhat distraught at having to leave…at hearing this news, I suppose.”