That Scandalous Summer (10 page)

“Oh!” She set her forehead to his, dislodging his mouth. He froze, waiting, every sense focused, his breathing ragged, waiting to see if she had changed her mind.

She did not withdraw. But she did not lift her mouth to his, either. He took a long breath through his nose,
schooling himself.
Calm. Calm.
His hands fell away from her, flexing on empty air.

The ragged puff of her breath against his cheek was a compliment. It made him feel savage with ambition. Given a chance, he would make her breathe harder yet. He would make her
gasp
.

“Good . . . ness,” she said, the word broken into syllables by the small hitch of her breath. “Your talents extend beyond the medical.”

His laughter felt slow and drunken. “I would be glad to demonstrate them at further length.”

Her sigh tasted like cinnamon. “Oh, would you?”

Would he? With the sun gentle on his skin and the warmth of her body pressed tantalizingly to his, everything seemed very clear to him. He was no saint. Had never hewed to virtue or churchly regimens. Women liked him; he liked them. This woman, more beautiful than Venus, wanted him. Why deny her?

Widows were free to dally where they might. Dalliance held no threat of matrimony. An affair would harm nobody, and leave his vow and intentions intact.

Alastair would never know.

“Only repeat your invitation to dinner,” he said.

She pulled away to look into his eyes. Her smile looked shyly pleased, perfectly designed to make a man bolder. “Tomorrow, after the bazaar, you must come to dine with me.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “Madam, I gladly accept.”

The bazaar was always Liza’s favorite occasion of the year—historically, the event at which she needn’t worry if her dress ripped or some hussy was flirting with Nello, largely because Nello had never bothered to come. But now, as she stood at the back of the hall, she was conscious of a sharpening dissatisfaction that made her skin itch.

Frowning, she looked once again over the room, past the wilting chiffon swags of pink and yellow. The annual event, which raised funds for parish relief, had drawn visitors from as far away as Matlock, nearly a half day’s drive to the north. They had eaten all the pies, bought up all the bric-a-brac—sunflower pincushions and cambric handkerchiefs, knitted socks and hand-painted cigar cases, embroidered chair backs and watercolor scenes. Little Dolly Broward had pocketed and been forced to return four doilies, much to her mother’s mortification. The raffle was drawing a good crowd to the front of the room.

The bazaar was a success. But
he
was nowhere to be found.

Were she not so vexed by his absence, she would have laughed at herself. To think that the kiss of a country doctor had kept her up half the night! But she rather liked the notion of a man who recognized his good fortune in winning her attentions. His admiration was precisely what her sore vanity required. And did she not deserve a small romance, a brief bit of harmless fun, before she committed herself to the tiresome husband hunt?

For she had no choice in that. She had received another letter from her solicitors, this time written by joint effort with her accountants at Ogilvie and Harcourt. She’d enlisted her steward and secretary to help her decipher it, but the mystery of her bad luck was not so fuzzy, after all: her late husband’s unwise investments, paired with a depressed agricultural market and, oh, a
touch
of indiscipline in her own spending habits, had put her close to the brink.

She would not starve. She would not even be forced to sell off property—
yet.
But should some misfortune befall her, or her friends, or any of the people of Bosbrea who depended on her—and should that misfortune happen to require a large amount of cash . . .

Well, she would be sunk.

Curious, how words on a page could make one feel as though the ground beneath one’s feet no longer held steady. For a very brief time, she’d imagined herself in love with her late husband. Then she had learned to content herself with the luxuries he’d provided. But now, all those years with Alan Chudderley seemed doubly wasted. And as for her time with Nello, which had yielded nothing but heartbreak and notoriety . . .

Next to
that
instance of bad judgment, her attraction
to the doctor felt nearly virtuous. At the least, the novelty of an honest, upstanding man’s interest should be educational for her.
Medicinal,
really. An inoculation before she once again waded into the muck.

“I bear gifts!” Jane swept up, two glasses in hand. “Look what I found!”

Liza laughed as she took a flute. “Champagne? But from where?”

“I instructed one of your footmen to pack it—so we might celebrate the saving of the parish.” A wicked smile tipped Jane’s mouth as she touched her glass to Liza’s. “Or to scandalize the parish, if you prefer. That lemonade was
very
weak.”

With the first sip, Liza’s nerves began to settle. It would be all right. There was no
immediate
hurry, her solicitors had assured her. She had a little time.

At the next moment, happiness washed over her: she spied Mr. Grey entering through the side door.

He looked a bit harried, his glossy hair ruffled, and he was tugging at his gloves as though he’d only just donned them. But he was here! He had come. His suit tonight fit him splendidly, molding quite closely to his broad shoulders and lean waist, and the white tie at his throat contrasted splendidly with his tanned skin. He had the bone structure of a Viking, she decided—cheekbones like the prows of a ship, and lips so precisely defined that a woman would be able to trace their edges in the dark. Not a pretty face, but a brutally attractive one.

She finished off the glass, her heartbeat racing. “Where is the bottle?” she asked. She felt reckless with anticipation. “Mr. Grey can join us in a toast.”

Jane had followed her eye. “Ah! Is
that
the doctor who’s to come to supper? Goodness—I recognize him!”

“Really?” The idea made Liza feel unaccountably cross. “From where?”

Jane’s brow knit. “I can’t quite recall. He looks
terribly
familiar, but . . .”

Ah, well. Jane did so wish to know everything. Liza handed off her glass to the girl and started across the room.

Mr. Grey saw her coming. Those long, talented lips shifted into a smile. She would miss, when she was older, the way her approach could make a man’s shoulders square, his chin lift, as though he strove to present his tallest and best self to her. Such a delicious sense of power it gave her!

But she did not wish to exercise her power over him too forcefully. It would not be fair, for he was only a doctor. And she rather liked his temerity; she could not separate it from the air of self-possession that drew her so strongly.

“Good evening, Mr. Grey!” She drew up before him, restraining the urge to smooth down her hair. Larcenous little Dolly was very fond of dancing, and their romp around the room earlier had no doubt left her looking a fright. “We feared you might not attend. How good it is to see you!”

“Mrs. Chudderley.” He sketched a bow, his light eyes never leaving her. At last, she identified the main reason for their beauty: his lashes were so dark that he almost looked to be wearing kohl. “Forgive my late arrival,” he said, but his eyes spoke a hotter message. “I set out at the normal hour, but I came upon an accident in the road, and stopped to give assistance.”

“Goodness.” A man who could be
of assistance.
A man of use! “I hope everyone was all right?” Her voice sounded breathless as a giddy girl’s.

“Yes, indeed—a twisted ankle, a few scratches; nothing more serious than that.” He glanced beyond her, and bowed again.

Jane had come up, one of the footmen in tow. Liza made the introductions, then watched as Jane snapped for more champagne to be poured.

“A very high-toned bazaar,” Mr. Grey said neutrally. He shook his head at the glass Jane offered. “No, thank you, I will refrain.”

That dimmed Liza’s spirits slightly. This was a celebration, was it not? And it would continue at the house afterward. “Mrs. Hull, may I introduce you to Mr. Michael Grey? Lately of the north,” she added with a game smile.

Mr. Grey caught that smile and returned it, knowingly, before glancing onward to Jane. “How do you do,” he said, but Liza barely caught Jane’s reply.

Her parents had excelled at these unspoken intimacies, these silently shared jokes. An odd pang ran through her, loneliness mixed with longing. She tried to hold on to her smile.

You do not love him,
her mother’s voice said.
Without love, it will be empty.

“Mr. Grey, I feel sure we know each other,” Jane was saying. “Your face is
shockingly
familiar. Yet I can think of no Greys who come to mind. Whence in the north do you hail?”

“Near the Scottish border,” he said.

“Why, and I hail from York! So we must have acquaintances in common. Pray tell, where is your family settled?”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Hull, but I don’t think our circles cross.” He cut Liza a brief, unreadable look.
“Surely I would not manage to forget so lovely an acquaintance.”

Jane preened, gratified by this compliment. “Well, I feel certain there is some connection. We may riddle it over dinner. I hear you’re to join us?”

For an odd moment the conversation came to a halt. And then Mr. Grey said to Liza, “May I have a private word with you?”

Puzzled, Liza let him lead her off to a corner. Behind them rose ringing cheers as the raffle winners were announced. Mr. Grey’s hand on her elbow, at first oddly formal, grew gentler; her breath caught as she felt the surreptitious stroke of his fingers before he pulled away. “I must once again beg an apology of you,” he said softly. “I cannot come to dinner this evening.”

A sharp bolt of disappointment briefly closed her throat. “But . . . why not?” Oh, good lord, she sounded the veriest schoolgirl. “That is, I’ve planned a very fine menu, and I was . . . I was very much looking forward to it.”

“As was I,” he said somberly. “In fact, I was . . .” He cleared his throat and glanced away. “Well,” he said. “You understand.”

No, she did not understand in the least. His manner seemed so changed. She followed his gaze and found it directed toward Jane, who in her white dress looked radiant with youthful good health. The expanse of her bared bosom had raised several sticklers’ brows over the course of the last hours . . . and provoked more than one man’s red-faced interest.

Jane gave them a sunny smile, then lifted her brows in a question.
What keeps you over there?

“She is very lovely,” Liza heard herself say.

“What? Oh, yes.” Mr. Grey sounded distracted. “A guest of yours, I take it?”

“Indeed.” Suddenly Liza felt ancient, and acutely aware of her own modest attire—a plain gray silk dress, with a neckline that might have done proud a matron of sixty. But, heavens’ sakes, it was a
charity bazaar
. She always made a point of dressing modestly for such occasions, the better to ensure the townspeople’s comfort with her. “I expect some pressing engagement has presented itself?”

If those last words had a waspish edge, she would not regret it. A pressing engagement at ten o’clock in the evening, in bucolic little Bosbrea?

“I fear so.” He frowned a little as he met her eye, then shifted his weight like a guilty schoolboy. “Of course, I do wish . . .”

Her lips twisted to keep back the words that sprang to them.
You wish you had chosen a different lady to kiss. A younger one, perhaps.

Her mother’s voice rang through her head.
Beauty fades, Liza. What will you have then?

She stepped back from him. Good God. Had that time already come? If so . . .

No.
She had looked in the mirror today. She knew very well that he had no cause for complaint. As she exhaled, her uncertainty turned into a temper. Who was he? A country doctor.
Nobody
. “Very well,” she said. “I wish you a good evening, Mr. Grey. I believe a few doilies yet remain, if you would like to support our little parish.”

Turning on her heel, she stalked past Jane to the footman. The bottle of champagne was still half full. Until she got home, it would do.

•   •   •

“It’s very poor form on Mr. Grey’s part.”

“I don’t wish to speak about it.” Liza sat on the terrace, Jane lounging to her right, Mather awkwardly perched to her left. Overhead, the moon cut a bright path through the bruised clouds in the night sky. The breeze seemed to whisper secrets through the leaves of the trees.

“Very well,” said Jane after a moment. “But I think it quite ungrateful. To be invited to dinner was a great honor to him!”

Mather’s voice was as prim as a schoolteacher’s. “Perhaps someone has taken ill. We mustn’t judge without the proper information.”

Jane snorted. “I believe I shall judge as I please! And I’m certain Liza agrees with me.”

Liza had no such intention. Mather and Jane had taken a very entertaining dislike to each other, and she would not dream of discouraging it: heaven knew the rustic life offered few other diversions.