Mad About the Major (9 page)

His lips, hard and sure, covered hers, surrounded her, demanding surrender.

She was a Tremont, through and through, so surrender wasn't part of her vocabulary, but passion was . . .

And right now, this rogue was coaxing and teasing that very Tremont part of her, blowing on that dangerous ember that got her notorious family into so much trouble when it blazed to life.

Kingsley continued to kiss her, surely and deeply, his tongue swiping at her lips, opening her.

Her fingers twined in the lapels of his coat, and she pulled him closer. For suddenly she couldn't be close enough to him, even with her body rocking against his, curving into him like a cat.

And what she discovered, what she found herself up against, did not disappoint.

The major was hard, and long, and muscled. For a fleeting moment she wondered what he had looked like in his regimentals.

Then she wondered what he'd look like out of them . . .

That came to her, even as her hands moved over his chest. She wanted to see those smooth, solid planes bared. So she could put her hand over his heart and let it hammer steadily beneath her palm.

That sense of throbbing, the desires his kiss was pulling from her left her dizzy, breathless.

His kiss, hungry and hurried, suddenly slowed, as if he were savoring something he'd never known, had just discovered.

And for her as well. Instead of her world spinning so out of control, everything slowed to a single moment.

Arabella, inexperienced as she was, knew something so very fundamental had changed in the blink of an eye.

Like the beat of Kingsley's heart beneath her fingers.

His kiss turned almost reverent, his touch gentle and filled with a startling intimacy.

Arabella moved closer, her fingers grasping at him, trying to stop time.

So it is, so it is time
. The words came out of nowhere. Warned her.

That thread, the one she knew could be so easily broken, now tightened around them, winding its way around her heart, whispering as it coiled and teased its way deeper and deeper.

It will never be like this with anyone else.

This kiss. His touch.

This very passion.

The heated, tempestuous one racing through her as he cupped her, drew her closer, had her standing on her tiptoes so she could rise higher, catch hold of this delicious passion, all before it returned to the heavens.

And yet, the more he touched her, the more she knew he would only mark her deeper, leave her with memories of a passion that would never be fulfilled.

Now that passion turned to terror, as suddenly all Arabella could feel, all she could see was the emptiness of the future.

Days and months and years with only the memory of Kingsley's kiss.

And of a promise that would never be kept. Never found.

With a will she'd never had to summon, she broke free of his kiss, his grasp.

But she doubted she would ever be able to break the hold on her heart he'd managed to gain in those few, heavenly moments.

K
ingsley pulled in a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts, as Birdie broke away from him, her eyes wide with shock and the rest of her . . .

Well, the rest of her was a sensuous feast to behold. Her lips half open, her tousled hair, her gown still just a bit askew.

But there was no invitation in her glance, and he suspected he knew why.

Something had changed between them.

And thankfully Birdie had been smart enough to break the spell.

Kingsley wasn't sure he'd have had the wherewithal.

For just that reason—­something
had
changed.

No wonder Augie had warned him off.

The girl was fire and magic and temptation, all at once.

“We should be going back to London,” Birdie was saying, having shaken out her skirt and twisted her hair back under her bonnet. She'd found her way to the stile and had one foot resting on the step.

When he nodded in agreement—­for he didn't trust himself to speak—­she went up and over, like a sparrow taking flight.

It wasn't until they had gotten nearly to the carriage that Kingsley finally found something to say, yet even as the question came tumbling out, it shocked even him.

“This man, the one your father is insisting you marry, what do you know of him?”

Is he good enough for you
? was what he was really asking.

She stilled, standing at the side of the carriage, and she spoke without looking at him. “He was in the military—­like you.”

He untied the horses and made his way to his side—­for Birdie had already scrambled up to her seat.

“Perhaps he was a hero—­” Kingsley suggested, even as he tried to consider who this unknown swain might be.

At this she barked a bit of a laugh. “Hardly,” she said. “He most likely manned a very comfortable desk somewhere far from the lines. Certainly not like you. You were at Waterloo. I imagine you're the hero.”

“Me?” This took Kingsley back a bit. “I was no hero. I merely managed to stay alive.”

Finally she turned toward him. “You were wounded.”

The admiration in her eyes took him aback. “That doesn't make me a hero,” he demurred, “simply because I got in the way of an errant French bullet.”

“You weren't shot . . .” She glanced downward, her head tipping, and immediately he understood her implication.

“Birdie! You aren't suggesting that I was shot in the—­”

She blushed, but still her gaze stayed firmly planted on his backside.

“No,” he said, shifting around so she couldn't look at him like that. “I wasn't shot
there
.”

“Then where were you shot?”

“That is hardly a question one asks.”

“Then I will just continue with my original theory,” she told him, a mischievous light in her eyes, and her head tilted again as her gaze drifted downward.

“Enough,” he told her. “Oh, good God! If you must know, I was shot in the shoulder. It wasn't much. Not compared to what others suffered, endured.” He climbed into his seat and took up the reins even as he thought of his friend Christopher, an aide to Wellington, and how his arm had been lost—­blown away by the shards from a cannonball.

“Does it pain you much?” she asked.

“Not as much as your incessant questions.”

And if he had thought that would stem her boundless curiosity, he was very wrong.

Birdie laughed and settled back in her seat, her face turned toward the road ahead. “Then if your injuries are beyond what is proper to discuss, do tell me about the Continent. I am ever so jealous of your travels.”

“You wouldn't be if you had seen the conditions of some of the Italian inns I stayed in.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But they are in
Italy
.”

And with that, he couldn't argue.

K
ingsley entertained her with tales of his travels the rest of the way into London. Better to chatter on about Italian architecture, traveling woes, and the odd haunts he'd found along the way than discuss what had happened back in that bower.

What shouldn't have happened
, he reminded himself.

And yet . . . what the devil had happened?

One moment he'd been kissing her, holding her, touching her, and then suddenly everything had shifted, his passion had moved from mere heat and desire, to a need that strangled his heart. He hadn't wanted to just kiss her, he'd wanted to cherish every moment.

He'd wanted that kiss never to end.

And that terrified him more than standing in the middle of a battlefield, unhorsed and with cannonballs exploding all around him. Death had a finality about it, but what he'd felt kissing this minx had a different sort of finality about it.

As if he'd just discovered the only woman he was meant to love.

Birdie? No! It was impossible, for so many reasons. Starting with the very fact that he had no idea who she was.

He knew now she was educated, passionate, and quick-­witted, for she wasn't averse to arguing history and art, and when he described the sights of Venice, she'd stilled, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and joy.

The question she'd asked him earlier,
Would you go back?
began nudging at him.

And now it had a different sort of undertone. Would he want to retrace his steps across the Continent with her at his side?

For a moment he considered doing just that—­turning the carriage toward the Dover road and taking the first packet across the Channel.

And then what?
he asked himself.

Spend a few delightful months exploring Paris and the Alps and Rome and Vesuvius, and, of course, Birdie?

Save for one simple fact: he hadn't the blunt. With every farthing of the inheritance from his grandfather gone, he could no longer do as his heart desired.

Desire.

Beside him, Birdie stirred in her seat, adjusting her bonnet, and a hint of her perfume wafted past his nose.

Tempting. Passionate. Teasing. All at once.

Still, he couldn't help wondering what would it be like to take her by the hand and show her Venice. Let her breathe in the mingling of history, and faraway seas, and languages filled with life . . .

A vision of a small, comfortable suite of rooms on the
Rio de la Madoneta
teased into his thoughts. Of the large bed in the upper room, the one that afforded views of the Grand Canal.

Of time. Of all the time and solitude two ­people could ever desire. Need. Want.

“Whatever are you considering?” she asked, barging into his woolgathering.

“Something wicked,” he confessed.

“No doubt,” she shot back, arms crossing over her chest. “You have the most faraway expression on your face . . .”

“I was far away.”

“Where were you?”

“Venice.” After a moment, he added, “If I could take you—­”

Her eyes narrowed. “That would be madness.”

Her remark might have been intended to be a scold, but he wondered if perhaps she was saying it more for her own benefit than his.

“Yes, I suppose it would be.”

“And impossible,” she pointed out as they crossed New Bridge Street, and Fleet Street became Ludgate Hill. The staid and elegant shop of Rundell & Bridge came into view.

“As impossible as knocking on Mrs. Spenser's door and inviting ourselves to tea?” he teased.

“With the right gift, she will hardly refuse us,” she told him with every confidence.

As the carriage came to a stop outside the shop, Kingsley had to wonder at the wisdom of this—­going into one of the
ton
's most respected and exclusive jewelers.

Someone was going to recognize him.

And when they did, the afternoon mail would have more than its fair share of notes traveling off to the Abbey, each filled with an
on dit
that would age his mother and put his father into apoplexy.

Your son was seen outside Rundell & Bridge with a young lady. . .

He glanced over at Birdie and wondered what his parents would make of her—­with her outspoken ways, outlandish desires, and lofty sense of self-­worth.

Kingsley nearly grinned. Ah, the very solid and ancient stones of the Abbey would tumble down around them in outrage.

“Are you going in, milord?” the boy at the curb called out. He wasn't one of the usual ragtag lads who held horses for gentleman, but one of Rundell's own lads, smartly suited and tidy as the shop window itself.

“Yes, I believe we are,” Kingsley told him. Better to get inside than continue to sit out here in the street on public display. Already they were garnering curious glances from passersby. He turned to Birdie, awaiting her confirmation, only to discover that he wasn't the only one worried about being recognized.

The chit who had worn that outrageous red gown like a banner now had her bonnet pulled low so that it nearly covered her face.

Good God, she didn't want to be seen any more than he did.

Perhaps more so . . .

Then again, hadn't her father proven how far he would go to keep his daughter's reputation pure?

Kingsley gingerly rubbed his still tender eye, as a reminder and a talisman.

He'd been convinced that night, after realizing she wasn't some infamous courtesan, that she was most likely the daughter of some enterprising and social-­climbing mushroom. For her beauty and virtue (and what was probably a very large dowry) would make up for her lack of noble connections.

After all, the Setchfield ball was known for being far more democratic than exclusive.

But suddenly this assumption took a turn.

If she didn't want anyone recognizing her, who was she?

“Birdie?” Kingsley prompted, trying a different tack. “Have you changed your mind? There is no reason why we can't just go to Gunter's for ices.”

That did the trick.

“Gunter's?” She shook her head vehemently. “Oh, dear, no.” She turned toward the jewelry shop, her brow furrowing for a moment. “Is it the expense? While I haven't the money on me, I will be more than happy to see your costs for today reimbursed.”

He laughed. “No, it isn't the expense.”

“That's good because I wasn't sure how I was going to manage that,” she confessed. “I suspect Mrs. Spenser is most familiar with a box tied in their red ribbon—­so she will know immediately we are not gaping paupers. That, and any other shop would just seem inferior.”

“Inferior?” He laughed a bit. His Birdie was quite the connoisseur. “We could hardly offer our conquest an ‘inferior' gift.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, once again missing the teasing note to his words. “Though I have no desire to put you into a debt.”

“I thought I already was . . . in your debt, that is.” If he was ever going to discover who this little siren might be, the only thing to do was to keep playing along with her outlandish requests.