Skylark (24 page)

“I’m not at all surprised that seaside visits have become so popular.”

“Invigorating, isn’t it?”

She’d expected to be comfortable with Stephen, especially once they’d dealt with the embarrassment of his proposal and her unfortunate reaction. They’d even cleared the lingering sourness of Lady Skylark. She’d expected a return to before, when they’d been living in the remains of youth, still like brother and sister.

Now, despite occasional teasing, they were man and woman, and this—a stroll, arm in arm—was the sort of thing a man and woman, not a youthful pair of friends, would do. It had the same effect as eating a meal together had, just the two of them.

They passed a notice about an upcoming assembly, a sight that reminded Laura of how she’d used to avoid dancing with Stephen. She’d not disliked it, but it had seemed too like dancing with a brother. Everyone knew that no young lady would do that if she could obtain a real partner.

How very, very strange.

They arrived back at the inn and were snared by Topham bearing an invitation to take tea with the Grantleighs. It was impossible to completely refuse, but Laura made the excuse of tiredness and sent Stephen down alone. She spent the time migrating between listening at the wall and watching through the window, and achieved precisely nothing except even more tangled thoughts.

By the time Stephen returned, she’d abandoned vigilance and was reading a book. “Did the Grantleighs know anything about the other guests?” she asked.

“Nothing new. As you said, Mrs. Grantleigh saw them arrive. Dyer was pale and swathed in blankets, and Farouk carried him upstairs.” He looked over her shoulder. “Ah-ha! A novel.”

“I never denied reading them.”

“
Guy Mannering
. It’s good.”

She cast him a look of exaggerated astonishment. “Sir Stephen Ball reads novels!”

“We took turns reading from
The Mysteries of Udolpho
once.”

“When we were very young.” But she smiled. She was coming to love these returns to the past. “We even made a play of it, remember? You were noble Valancourt, and I was Emily because you refused to act love scenes with your sister.”

“It would have been most unnatural.”

“You could have romanced Juliet.”

“She was too young for such things.” But he was smiling in an interesting manner. “ ‘Ah, Emily!’ ” he quoted. “ ‘I have then little cause to hope. When you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love me!’ ”

“You remember that? Wait, wait . . .” The words popped into her memory. “ ‘And if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me this new occasion for uneasiness!’ Said, as I remember, turned away, with pale and faltering hand stretched back to dissuade insistence.” She stood and took the pose.

“Exactly. ‘Is it then true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever?’ ”

“I turn, hands clasped to trembling bosom. ‘Oh, sir, explain yourself.’ ”

“ ‘Can any explanation be necessary?’ I demand imperiously. ‘Oh, Emily, how could you so degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!’ ”

“I believe you skipped some there,” she complained. “It was a long speech.”

“He did prose on a bit. That was the crux of it. She should have trusted. If these feather-witted heroines would only trust their heroes, all would be simple.”

“If men were not so pestilential, it would be easier for heroines to trust despite the evidence!”

“On with your part, wench.”

“I’m not sure I remember it.” But she knew her lips were twitching. “Oh, very well. ‘Valancourt!’ ” She stretched out her hand to him. “ ‘I was ignorant of all the circumstances you have mentioned—’ ”

“ ‘All,’ note. Even she thought he went on a bit.”

“ ‘The emotion I now suffer,’ ” she quoted sternly, “ ‘may assure you of the truth of this. Though I had ceased to esteem—’ ”

“Fickle . . .”

“ ‘—I had not taught myself entirely to forget you.’ ”

“Weak willed . . .”

“Say your next line, sir.”

He laughed. “ ‘Am I dear to you, then, still dear to you, my Emily?’ ”

“Dense dolt. Well might she demand, ‘Is it necessary that I should tell you so?’ And then she says, ‘These are the first moments of joy I have experienced since your departure. . . .’ ”

Though there were no similarities between the dire tale of Emily and her Valancourt, those words drew special meaning from the air.

“And then,” he said softly, taking her hand, “we kissed, as I remember.”

“As tentatively as if our lips were flame to gun-powder.”

He drew her closer. “We could do better now.”

She saw all the dangers, but said, “I would hope so,” and cooperated as he lowered his lips to hers.

It was as chaste a kiss as that they’d dared all those years ago, on a stage in front of their families and a few guests, but it was not tentative. They both knew kisses now, and their lips brushed and played with delicate experience.

The effect rippled down through Laura like warm wine, pooling as desire, then flaring into intoxicating fever. Though it took all the strength she possessed, she did not press closer, did not tighten her hand on his arm, did not open her mouth to taste him fully. But her heart pounded and her legs began to tremble . . .

He broke the kiss and stepped back. “Ah, youth. Ah, drama.”

His lids were lowered, concealing his expression, but color had risen in his cheeks. She thought to check what else might have risen, but he turned away to look out at the restless sea. “Astonishing what lurks in our memories.”

“Yes.” She tried for a light tone to match his, but how could she manage that when aware of his body as if he wore no clothes at all? Her hand itched to explore his long back and taut buttocks, his chest, his muscled abdomen, and more. . . .

“I might as well go out again,” he said, “being healthy and restless. I should check at the King’s Arms to see if they know anything there. I can use the excuse of considering a move from this heathen enclave.”

Sanity was returning and his absence would make self-control easier. “What do I do? I tell you, I’m tempted to break down HG’s door.”

“Patience. This is only our first day.”

He meant only the first day of their enquiries here, but Laura’s body clenched as if that were a promise. Considering the changes in the day since they’d arrived, what could happen in two or three more?

What should she allow to happen? Flame to gun-powder, which could destroy them both.

He walked to his bedchamber door but paused there and turned. If there had been any physical reaction, it had been controlled. “Promise me you won’t rush into action while I’m gone.”

“Rush into action?”

“I know you. If Farouk goes out, you’ll be tempted to act on your own and try to see Dyer. Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”

Laura sighed. “Very well, sir. I will try to restrain my mad passions.”

If he caught the double entendre, he gave no sign of it as he left.

Laura settled back to her book, promising herself that she would indeed practice restraint. Matters were too important for self-indulgence. The novel could no longer hold her interest, however, when thoughts of Stephen dazzled her mind.

Three times they’d kissed, now. First awkwardly, then angrily, then . . . truly. Yes, though nothing had been said, that had been a true kiss, one that in any other circumstance could have led to more.

She put the book aside but saw the dangers of sitting here sunk in such thoughts. She had to be sensible and in control. There must be something useful to do, something distracting. She went into Stephen’s bedchamber and listened at the wall.

A murmur of voices as indistinguishable as the murmur of the sea. No sign of fear, anger, or pain.

She glared at the wall and even checked it for a crack at the top, bottom, or sides. The Compass Inn was in unfortunately good repair. She turned to go back into the parlor, but instead she drifted to the bed as if pulled there by a magnet.

She trailed her hand over the rough wool of the blue coverlet, inhaling, finding Stephen in the air. She couldn’t resist pulling the coverlet down from the pillows so she could touch the place where his head had rested.

Maudlin nonsense.

Yet she picked up the pillow and inhaled, pressing her face into it. She’d not been aware before of knowing Stephen’s smell like this, but she did. It was as distinctively his as his signature, and it trickled into her body, exciting every part of her.

She held the pillow closer, sinking to sit on the bed, igniting at the thought of being here with him, of breathing in his skin, licking his sweat. . . .

With a gasp, she scrambled off the bed. What did she think she was
doing
? Desperately she put back the pillow and tidied the covers, smoothing them over and over to erase any trace of her idiocy. Then she fled back through the parlor to the privacy of her own room, feeling, when she closed the door, as if she’d shut out the devil.

After a minute or so, she peeled herself away from the door and went to the mirror. She didn’t look deranged—but then she saw a smudge of the dark around her eyes and realized she must have left some trace of her face paint on Stephen’s pillow.

“Perish it!” she muttered, ripping the cover off her own pillow. She raced back to Stephen’s room and dashed to the window to check for his approach. No sign.
Please heaven, keep him out for a while longer!

As she’d feared, smears of brown marked the pillowcase. Heart thundering with urgency, she stripped it off and replaced it with hers, then straightened the bed again. Would he notice any difference? She’d normally think not, but Stephen was infernally perceptive.

She hurried back and put his pillowcase on her pillow. Only then did she feel safe.

The feverish energy lingered and she paced her room, multiplying the miles to Redoaks by the year, 1816, by her age, by the time. . . .

It didn’t help. She was tempted to clutch and inhale her own pillow now. She forced herself away from her bed. In fact, this would be an excellent time to go down to the public parlor and exhibit her picture. She might learn other gossip there, too.

She wrapped her virulent shawl around herself, picked up her drawing portfolio, and left the room, assembling her persona of Priscilla Penfold. In fact, Priscilla Penfold would venture down the creaking corridor, just in case she might overhear something. It did her no good, however. The adjacent rooms could be uninhabited for all she could tell.

She headed downstairs, trying to appear timid. However, as she descended the stairs she decided Priscilla Penfold wasn’t timid at all. She was the sort of woman who pretended uncertainty as a disguise. She would flutter and hesitate in order to hide the fact that she was a weasel in search of eggs of gossip.

She would worry out loud that she was bothering people so that everyone would have to assure her that she wasn’t. She would timidly declare that she was just a silly woman so that everyone would have to pay attention to what she said.

Laura struggled not to laugh. She was describing a particular person she knew, someone who had exasperated her for years.

She crossed the hall and entered the small, bow-windowed parlor. It was painted a pleasant yellow, perhaps to suggest sunshine even on a dull day, and warmed by a large fire. It even seemed free of drafts. The only occupant, however, was a sinewy gentleman in a chair to the left of the fire who was drinking tea and reading a newspaper, pince-nez on his long nose.

He rose when she entered, but then resumed his seat and occupation.

Laura sat by the window and looked out, but the wind was rising and few were taking the air. The sea was steel gray and choppy, and she wondered if they were in for a serious storm. She opened her portfolio on a small table and took out a clean sheet of paper, leaving her aged sketch of Henry Gardeyne exposed.

The gentleman was engrossed in his newspaper.

Laura began to sketch, trying to catch the feel of the gathering clouds as she waited for someone else to come into the room. A lad came in with a bobbing bow and put more wood on the fire. He hardly raised his eyes and certainly didn’t look at her drawing.

Laura drew boats tossed by the growing waves, and did a quick sketch of a man chasing after his tumbling hat. She silently cheered when he caught it just short of the sea. But it was becoming clear that she was unlikely to encounter anyone here except the newspaper reader.

To speak to a strange man was somewhat improper, but she was a dull widow, not a brash flirt.

She started with a timid clearing of the throat. When he looked up, she said—hesitantly, of course, “I fear we are in for a storm, sir. Are you, too, staying here for your health?”

He lowered his paper and looked at her over his glasses. “Only in a manner of speaking, ma’am. I am Dr. Nesbitt of this town, and I have been visiting a patient here.”

She remembered Topham mentioning him. This could be exactly what she’d hoped for!

“Poor Captain Dyer?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.” His look had become alert. “The captain requires medical care?”

Laura suppressed disappointment and fluttered. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know, sir. But the innkeeper said he is an invalid, and it seems he never leaves his rooms. They’re next to ours, you see. Those taken by my cousin, Sir Stephen Ball.”

“Ah. Sir Stephen.” He beamed. Clearly her status had immediately risen.

“So kind of him,” she simpered. “For my health, you see. But Captain Dyer has only the one servant, it would appear, and he is a foreigner.” She lowered her voice as such people often do when about to criticize. “He wears a
turban
—the servant, sir—and I fear he is dosing the poor captain with
foreign nostrums
.”