A Summer to Remember (13 page)

Syd held out his left hand, and she did not hesitate to take it in her left so that they could exchange a handshake that was not awkward.

“Mr. Butler.”

“Miss Edgeworth, welcome to Alvesley,” Syd said. “Has your journey been very tedious?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I had the company of my aunt and cousin, you see, and the knowledge that Kit would be here waiting for me at the end of it.”

Kit looked at her appreciatively. She sounded so warmly convincing that he felt a foolish lurching of pleasure in the region of his heart.

But his mother was, as always, the perfect hostess. She would accompany the ladies to their rooms, she told them, coming to join them on the top step, so that they might have an opportunity to freshen up before tea was served in the drawing room. She took Lauren’s arm, drawing her away from both her sons, and led the way inside while Lady Kilbourne and Lady Muir followed behind. Lady Muir limped, Kit noticed.

8

G
wendoline was playing the pianoforte while the Earl of Redfield stood behind the bench, turning the pages of the music for her. The countess and Aunt Clara were seated side by side on a love seat nearby, alternately listening to Bach and conversing with each other. Sydnam Butler was sitting on the window seat at the opposite end of the drawing room, where he had been ever since they had moved here from the dining room following dinner, slightly turned so that his right side was in the shadow of the heavy velvet curtains.
What had happened to him?
Viscount Ravensberg—Kit—moved about the room, smiling, genial, occasionally interjecting a remark into a conversation, but not becoming a part of any group, and never approaching his brother.

He looked restless, rather like a caged animal of the wild.

Lauren had spent almost the whole evening seated beside the dowager countess, Kit’s grandmother, close to the fire, though she had obliged the company by taking her turn briefly at the pianoforte. She had told the old lady about Newbury Abbey, about the weeks she had recently spent in London, about the few entertainments in which she had participated there. She had also listened. It was not easy to do when the dowager’s speech was halting, punctuated by long, painful pauses as she tried to form words. It was tempting to interrupt, to supply the words she knew were about to be spoken, to complete sentences whose endings she could guess long before the words were out. It was what the earl and countess tended to do, Lauren had noticed both at tea and at dinner. Perhaps they were embarrassed for her in the company of guests. Perhaps they thought they did her a kindness. But it seemed unfortunate to Lauren.

She listened, giving the old lady her full attention, keeping her expression bright and interested. Nevertheless there was a great deal of time in which to think and observe. She had been welcomed to Alvesley with meticulous courtesy but perhaps without warmth. But she had not expected warmth. Courtesy was enough. Kit had played his part well. He had looked so delighted to see her, in fact, that Gwen had been totally beguiled. She had come into Lauren’s room before they went down to tea together, hugged her, and beamed at her.

“Lauren,” she had said, “he is quite gorgeous. That smile! And when he kissed you for all to see as soon as your feet touched the ground, I could have quite swooned with the romance of it.” She had laughed merrily. “You
said
he could be quite outrageous.”

That last remark had not been a criticism, though the kiss, brief peck though it had been, had almost robbed Lauren of her poise.

There had been almost no communication between him and his parents since her arrival, she had noticed. All three of them had spoken with her, with Aunt Clara, with Gwen. But not with one another. They were very upset with him, then, over this betrothal when they had hoped for another for him? And perhaps none of them could forget that he had fought with his elder brother three years ago, presumably over the woman they had both wanted to marry, and that afterward the earl had sent him away and told him never to return. How bitter an experience it must have been for the earl to see his eldest son die and suddenly to have his exiled second son as the new heir. And how doubly bitter to Kit to know that his banishment had been revoked only because of his elder brother’s death.

Kit and his younger brother both behaved as if the other did not exist. And yet Kit had made a point of introducing them on her arrival, and it had seemed to her at the time that he was fairly bursting with affection for his horribly wounded brother.
What had happened?

The Earl of Redfield’s family was certainly not a close or a happy one, she concluded. Suddenly the task ahead of her, the task she had taken on so glibly that night at Vauxhall, seemed daunting indeed. How could she help reconcile Kit with his family when the wounds were apparently both deep and long-standing? And when she was responsible for widening the gap, deepening the wounds? And when she was going to break off the engagement . . .

But her thoughts were distracted by the dowager countess, who had grasped her cane with the obvious intention of getting to her feet. Lauren restrained her first impulse to jump to her feet to help. She had not been asked for help, and any intrusion on her part might be resented. She smiled instead.

“Going to bed, Mother?” The earl was striding toward them. “Allow me to summon your dresser.”

“I am . . . going to . . . walk first,” she said.

“The evening air will not be good for your lungs, Mother,” the countess said, raising her voice. “Wait until the morning.”

“I’ll . . . walk now,” the old lady said firmly, waving her son away with her free hand. “With . . . Kit. And Miss . . . Edgeworth.”

“She
will
insist that fresh air and exercise are good for her,” the countess was explaining to Aunt Clara. “Though I am sure rest would do her more good. She insists upon walking along the terrace and back every day, rain or shine. But usually it is in the morning.”

Kit meanwhile had come to draw his grandmother’s free arm through his own while she leaned on her cane with the other hand. He was grinning his usual sunny smile.

“If you wish to walk now, Grandmama,” he said, “we will walk now. If you wish to dance a jig, we will dance a jig—until you have worn me out. Will you come too, Lauren?”

“Of course,” she said, getting to her feet.

And so five minutes later they had donned cloaks for warmth and were strolling slowly along the terrace, away from the stables, Kit’s grandmother on his arm, Lauren on her other side, her arms clasped behind her.

“Tell me,” the old lady said in her habitual slow, laborious manner, “how you . . . two met.”

Kit’s eyes met Lauren’s over the top of her head, his eyes dancing. “Grandmama is an incurable romantic,” he explained. “
You
tell her, Lauren.”

But he was so much cleverer at such stories than she, Lauren thought. Gazing across a crowded ballroom, eyes alighting on her, heart skipping a beat, knowing that she was the one woman in this world meant for him—he could make it all sound quite soulful. Besides, it needed to be told from his perspective. She could, of course, describe . . . Her smile was entirely an inward one.

“It was in Hyde Park one morning,” she said and watched the laughter arrested in Kit’s eyes before she turned her head away and continued. “Lord Ravensberg—Kit—was in the middle of a fistfight with three laboring men while half the gentlemen of the
ton
cheered him on. He was stripped to the waist and he was swearing most vilely.”

She listened to herself in some amazement. Lauren Edgeworth never told such sordid tales. And she was
never
motivated in either speech or action by a sense of mischief.

The old lady surprised her with a bark of laughter.

“The men had insulted a milkmaid,” Lauren continued, “and Kit had ridden to her defense. He knocked them all down and then kissed the milkmaid as I was passing in company with my aunt and cousin.”

“Actually, Grandmama,” Kit said meekly, though Lauren could tell from his voice that he was enjoying himself, “it was the milkmaid who kissed me. It would have been ungallant to have taken the moral high road and turned my head away.”

His grandmother chuckled.

“And then our eyes met,” Lauren said, lowering her voice, “and it happened. Just like that.”

She had never suspected that she had acting abilities. She was almost convincing herself that there had been an element of fate in that first shocking encounter.

“Every . . . woman,” the old lady said, “loves a . . . rogue.” She chuckled again.

“Well, I
was
warned against him, ma’am,” Lauren said. “He has the most shocking reputation, you know. But when we met again at Lady Mannering’s ball and he wangled an introduction and asked me to dance with him, how could I resist? It was a waltz, you see.”

They had arrived at the end of the terrace. The daylight had gone, but the moon and stars prevented it from being a dark night.

“That is a rose arbor just ahead of us,” Kit explained. “I will show it to you tomorrow, Lauren.”

“I can smell the roses even now,” she said, inhaling their heavy, sweet scent appreciatively.

“The formal gardens are below it,” he said. “Beyond them are the trees. But there is a wilderness walk there with several pleasing prospects—all carefully planned, of course.”

“I look forward to seeing it all,” she said as they turned to stroll back to the house.

But when they had arrived there and climbed the steps and entered the hall, the old lady lifted her cane to summon the footman who was on duty.

“Your arm,” she told him, relinquishing her grandson’s. “Kit, you . . . must show . . . Miss Edgeworth . . . the roses.”

He bent his head to kiss her cheek, his eyes alight with laughter, Lauren could see.

“A tryst all carefully orchestrated in advance, Grandmama?” he asked. “Morning
is
your usual time for walking, after all. But we will not disappoint you. I will take Lauren to the rose arbor. Just so that she may smell the roses, of course.”

Lauren felt as if her cheeks were on fire.

Kit was laughing as they descended the steps to the terrace again, her arm drawn firmly through his. “I warned you that she is a romantic,” he said. “She sat there in the drawing room all evening observing her grandson and his newly betrothed, who have been apart for two weeks, constrained by a roomful of relatives and good manners into exchanging no more than the occasional polite observation and yearning glance.”

“I did
not
give you any yearning glances,” she protested.

“Ah, but I did you,” he said, turning in the direction of the rose arbor. “And of course, Grandmama had to devise a way to give me an opportunity to kiss you thoroughly before sending you off to bed.”

She was intensely embarrassed. “I hope,” she said primly, “I did not give the impression—”

“That you are deep in love with me?” he suggested. “I believe you did—to Grandmama at least. And then you told her that story of our meeting to confirm her impression. I did not expect that particular one.”

“My lord.” They were halfway along the terrace. “The charade is necessary only when we are in company with others. We need not go into the rose arbor. Your grandmother has gone to bed, I daresay, and will not know if we return immediately to the house. It is improper for us to be alone together like this. We are not really engaged.”

“Oh, but we are.” He moved his head a little closer to hers. “Until I hear otherwise, you are my betrothed. And what is this nonsense about our game being played only for the benefit of others? And why have I become ‘my lord’ again? I promised you adventure, did I not? And passion? We need to be alone together if I am to keep the promise. We are going to begin tonight in the rose arbor. You are going to be kissed.”

“Kit!” she said sharply. “I did
not
ask for passion. At least, not for kisses. I would never dream—”

“You asked for adventure,” he said, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath there. “For passion. In many ways they are interchangeable terms.”

“It would be most improper,” she said, truly alarmed. She did not like to remember their kiss at Vauxhall. She had tried to block it from her memory. It had been so very alarmingly . . . physical.

“I will try my best to see that it is,” he said with a soft laugh as he led her down off the terrace and through a trellised arch into the arbor, where the scent of roses instantly assailed their senses.

“Kit!” But the more indignant she became, the more on her dignity, the better he would like it, of course. She had learned that about him. He loved to tease. He would never take her seriously. She changed the subject. Perhaps he would forget this nonsense. “Was your father very angry when you came home?”

“Oh, Lord, yes,” he said. “He and Bewcastle—the lady’s brother, that is—had actually signed a marriage contract. I am more in your debt than you realized, Lauren.”

“The lady has been jilted, then,” she said, wincing. “I know how that feels. Is she hurt?”

“Freyja?” he said. “She had her chance three years ago. She is doubtless annoyed, which is a little different from being hurt. She is good at annoyance. All the Bedwyns are. But they have no right to be annoyed. My father had no right to plan a marriage for me without waiting for me to come home to give my consent.”

“Do they live far away?” she asked.

“Six miles.”

He led her to a rustic bench and she sat down. “Our betrothal has caused dissension, then, between neighbors,” she said. “That is unfortunate.”

He set one foot on the bench beside her and draped an arm over his raised leg—just as she remembered his doing at Vauxhall.

“But unavoidable under the circumstances,” he said. “I really did not want to be forced into that marriage, Lauren.”

“And yet,” she said, “you must have loved her three years ago.” She wondered if she would have a chance to meet Lady Freyja Bedwyn.