A Lady's Wish (6 page)

She peeked around the brim of her bonnet, drawn to look at him. Each time she did, she felt more as though she had known him before, as though his handsome face had always been part of her landscape of intermingled dreams and reality. And each time he returned her glance, her heart pounded faster.

“Then are you a knight, sir?”

“Nothing of the sort. I am the youngest son of a country squire, nearly finished university, with no land, no income, no profession, and generally no prospects to speak of.” He came to a halt and smiled, but that odd light glittered in his eyes again. “Look at us, you without a London season yet, and I without a direction. We are both of us novices at life, it seems.”

“It does seem so.” She could not look him directly in the eye, but neither could she school her tongue. “I suppose we could learn something of life together.” The words tasted dangerous and sweet. Rash, foolish, unladylike, and
divine
. “Now,” she added.

He swallowed thickly, his loose neckcloth making the action perfectly visible to her. Something about it caught at her belly.

He took the step that brought them together, grasped her hand, and held it lightly in his.

“I should not take this liberty, and I beg your forgiveness for it,” he said in a low, strangely hoarse voice. His hand was large, his fingers warm around hers. It made her feel like sighing. Like singing.

“Then why have you taken it?”

“Because,” he said quietly, “I wish to touch you.”

“Like this?” Bold as she had never known herself, she slipped her fingertips through his and brought them palm-to-palm. She heard his heavy inhale and it moved her inside as though he drew breath from her. It was not real. Nothing about this was real. But it was the most real thing she had ever felt.

When, after a moment, he allowed her fingers to slip from his, she felt it like a loss.

“What will you do with yourself,” she said in a desperate attempt to turn her thoughts from wishing for more of his touch, “now that you are an educated man of the world?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t an idea.”

“Well, what are you good at doing? Or what do you especially enjoy?”

He paused before a sheep pen fenced with sturdy wood and ran his hand along the top rung.

“My father and brothers would have it that I am good for doing nothing.” He glanced up, his smile deep at one side, eyes alight. “And do you know, I quite enjoy obliging them in that.”

She perked her brows up. “If I were a man, I would not hesitate to find the profession I liked best and at which I excelled.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I would!”

He crossed his arms, his roguish half-smile and the dark coat pulling at his shoulders sending the most curious, delicious eddies of heat through her stomach again.

“I think we should fix upon a profession for you,” she said a little unsteadily. “Shall we?”

“If you like,” he said, but his smile faded. She wanted it back again. She wanted that warmth in her belly to last forever.

“Hm. Where to begin?” She glanced at the pen behind him and donned a serious face. “Can you herd sheep?”

He twisted his lips ruefully and shook his head. Not the half-grin, but better than before.

“Of course not.” She wrinkled her nose. “You are clearly a gentleman, so your pursuit must be gentlemanly.”

He nodded in thoughtful agreement.

“Have you considered the law?”

“Absolutely not.” He shuddered. “Far too contentious and tedious at once.”

“The church?”

His brows shot straight up. He pointed a forefinger to his chest, and shook his head.

“I see,” she laughed. “Then perhaps you could become a clerk of some sort. Do you know how to do sums?”

“I know that one and one together are two.” His eyes sparkled beneath the afternoon sun.

Warmth crept into her cheeks. “Will you please attempt at least a modicum of sobriety?”

“It is very difficult when confronted with beauty that inebriates.”

She pursed her lips. His gaze went straight to them and he said huskily, “In fact, I have never felt less sober in my life.”

“My father drinks quite a lot.” She spoke to control the spirals of nerves inside her. “He is a rather dull man and I believe it makes him feel alive. My brother, an affable fellow, fortunately prefers sport to rouse his spirits.”

“And what, sweet Isolde, makes you feel alive?”

She could not hide her feelings. “Today,” she whispered. “This.”

And for a moment following those rash words—words truer than any she had ever spoken—pure, perfect longing stretched between them. He parted his lips to speak. Frightened at her own impetuosity, she did not allow it.

“I think your father and brothers are wrong,” she said. “We must fix upon a profession for you so that you can make your name in the world.”

He leaned back against the fence and spread his palms upward.

“I am as clay in your hands, fair Isolde. Fashion me as you will.”

“But what can you
do
? You must tell me so that I will not be obliged to continue guessing.”

His brow creased in thought. “Well, I can read, of course.” His eyes glimmered. “I can ride. I can wield a sword and pistol. I can sail fairly well.” He paused. “And I can, apparently, fall in love with a lady whose name I do not know within the course of a few short hours.”

Her heart tumbled.

“You can . . . sail?”

“Fairly well,” he murmured.

“Then you must join the Navy and become a great ship captain! You will be the scourge of Napoleon’s fleet.”

“Your confidence warms me, madam, especially as you are accepting my sailing ability wholly upon faith.”

“But is that not what this day is about?” She spoke softly. “Faith?”

His eyes were very intense. “And hope.”

And love. It was before them and between them, more powerful than anything either of them had known. But it could not be real. This was not reality. This was a dream. Ladies and gentlemen did not meet at country fairs and fall in love so swiftly. Did they?

She did not know. She only knew what her mother had taught her about men and women together, and it was not this—this longing to be near him, this sharp familiarity alongside the sheer newness of a man wholly foreign in every way she understood men to be.

“I wish to . . .” His voice trailed off. She waited, breaths short. His eyes shone wondering, like her heart. “I wish to give you a gift.”

She smiled. “Is today not gift enough?”

“For me, yes. But a lady deserves something more. A posy, at the very least. Alas, I’ve a mere penny amongst the lint in my pocket. It will suffice for only a single flower.”

“I will treasure it more because you have given it out of your want rather than your plenty.”

He bought her a flower and she tucked it in her hair.

“You have spent your last coin. What will you do for dinner now?”

“I shall live upon the pleasure of this day and be well satisfied,” he said quietly.

The sun dipped over the festival, spreading its ochre rays upon farmers and gentry. The music of pipe and fiddle, mandolin and drum accompanied them when the voices faded as they wandered side by side through fields of wildflowers flanking the fair grounds. Arms brushing, occasionally hands so that she quivered with feeling, they spoke of her anticipation to visit London the following year. He told her of the sights she would see—the great River Thames and the docks teeming with activity, the gothic splendor of Westminster Abbey, the figures at Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. He teased her about her lifelong rustication in the country and preened his town bronze to draw her laughter, and she did laugh and could not look away from his smile.

But as the sun’s golden glow turned to red, their quips became fewer, their voices increasingly uneven, unable to support the levity of mere flirtation. The day would end, whether they would allow it or not, and so would their idyll.

They had not spoken in many minutes when he turned to her, grasped her hands and spoke quite unevenly.

“I fear, my sweet Isolde, that I have lost my heart to you.” His vibrant gaze sought hers. “But how is it with you? Can you learn to love a man with no fortune, no prospects, nothing at all to speak of? A man who no longer even possesses his own heart?”

Her cheeks were flushed with heat, but she knew her eyes must sparkle for she saw the same bright hope in his.

“I believe I can. But I am not certain whether that man speaks to me now in jest or with sincerity.”

“I have never spoken words more sincere.”

“How can I know that?”

“Tell me your direction and I will call upon you tomorrow.”

“Oh, I cannot. Papa and Mama would wish to know how we came to be acquainted and I would be obliged to tell them, and they will certainly like you less for it. But I cannot lie to my parents.”

“Then I will leave it in your hands to decide, as a gentleman must.” He looked quite like it was the most difficult thing he had ever said.

“But I do not know how it can be done!”

“Meet me tomorrow morning at the Maypole at ten o’clock,” he said swiftly. “Bring a chaperone. Your maid. Your mother. Your entire family! Meet me tomorrow, sweet Isolde,” he leaned in close to her, “and allow me to make your acquaintance properly so that I may then court you properly.”

She trembled all over. “You will truly court me?”

“But not for too long, if you do not mind it.”

She snatched her hands away. “Whatever can you mean, sir?”

He caught them again and pressed them to his chest. “That I do not wish to delay. For today fate has been infinitely generous to finally show me my life’s course.”

“And what is it?”

“To make you happy for the remainder of your days.” He drew her close. “I vow to do so, my Isolde, if only you will consent to give me your heart.”

“It seems improbable. Impossible. But . . .”

“But?” His voice was very low.

She whispered, “I think you know.”

His chest rose in rough breaths. She could feel them upon her brow, then her cheeks as he bent his head ever so slowly and she, unsure, lifted hers. There was the warmth and scent of skin, the heady closeness, the unreality of it. For a moment, all suspended, neither moved, not fully trusting in the perfection of mutual feeling, the bliss of need and possibility. Then they submitted to the desire to be touching.

She had never kissed a man. He made it the most natural thing in the world.

He touched his lips to hers, their breaths trembling together. His hands came around her face, surrounding her in strength. He tilted her chin up, and he kissed her again, this time more certain, the sensation of his mouth over hers sublime, unreal,
perfect
. She reached for his arms and felt him beneath his coat sleeves, the unyielding muscle of a man, and it made her wild inside. Upon a sigh, her lips parted.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, swept into sweet sensation. His hands tightened and he caught her mouth anew, and she wanted to move hers against his so she did. It felt good. Better than good. Like heaven. She opened her lips. She could taste him! His skin and lips, the lightest rasp of whiskers on his jaw. He tasted delicious. It filled her head, her body, with such pleasure, she sighed again.

His hands sank into her hair, drawing her closer, and their bodies brushed. His mouth covered hers fully, asking for more from her. She happily gave it, letting him kiss her as he wished, feeling him with her mouth and hands and then, daringly, pressing her body against his.

She had been astoundingly naïve. She felt him with
everything
and it was beyond pleasure. Beyond dreaming and reality entwined. She awoke completely, vibrantly alive, filled with feelings she had never before dared imagine. She could hardly bear such pleasure.

His hand swept down her back and he held her to him, and the tip of his tongue slipped along her lips, urging. She opened willingly, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders then into his hair. With her mouth she gave him what she was beginning to understand, but she wanted to be even closer.

She could not. She should not be doing this at all.

She broke away.

“I-I must go. It is late. I am expected at . . .” She could not finish. He stood perfectly still as she backed away, but his handsome face wore an expression as staggered as her own.

“Of course. You must go.” His voice was rough.

“Perhaps I could stay for a moment longer,” she said, returning a half step.

His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. “All right.”

“Just a moment.” She inched forward again. “For I simply must go. Don’t you see, the sun is nearly set?”

“I see one thing only.”

She planted herself upon his lips, upon his chest, upon his everything. She wrapped her arms about his neck, he surrounded her with his embrace, and their kiss consumed. She wanted him to kiss her more, deeper, harder, and he did, and it was perfect, but it did not suffice. Inside she yearned so profoundly, a sort of ache his kisses filled yet also spread.

His hand curved around her behind and she gasped. But it felt right, and she wanted him to hold her like this, impossibly intimate, her hips pressed tightly to his. Then his tongue caressed hers and a strange and perfect shudder slipped through her. Around them the sounds of night were coming on, the singing of crickets and crackle of torches and lamps being lit. They had not been found in the daylight; they would be hidden in the dark if she remained. But she must return to the carriages before her family departed.

“I must go. I
must
.”

He kissed her throat then her neck, his open mouth sending new pleasures through her.

“Stay with me, sweet Isolde,” he said, his voice thick. “Ten minutes longer, I beg you.”

“The sun has set.” She clung to his shoulders, the caress of his mouth a drunken pleasure. “It will be dark soon.”

“Stay.”

“I wish to. I
cannot
.” She dragged herself away. “The Maypole at ten o’clock tomorrow. You will come?” Abruptly apart from him, she felt uncertain. It all seemed so unreal in the failing light, her tender lips and pounding heart.