Wedding of the Season (12 page)

Will laughed, his good humor slightly restored. “And shall we dance tonight?”

“No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll play that new music from America—what’s it called? ragtime?—on the piano. And we’ll sing naughty comic songs. That will shock him right out of his puritanical British sensibilities.”

“You’re a woman in a thousand, Julie. And you have heaps of money. Would you marry me and fund my excavation so I can avoid this ghastly business and go back to Egypt?”

“Darling, you know I’m already married! As to the rest, I’m mired in debt now that Yardley’s cut off my allowance. But,” she added as Will opened the door for her, “if you’re willing to be seen by some hapless chambermaid at a third-rate hotel, coming out of my room at three o’clock in the morning, Yardley might be moved to divorce me at last, naming you co-respondent. Then I’d be free to marry someone else who’s disgustingly rich, and I could give you all the money you need.”

“You’re a brick, Julie. I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

W
ill’s room at Pixy Cove had been redone since his last visit six years earlier. The cherrywood furnishings were the same, but the dark velvet and heavy brocade were gone, replaced by a lighter theme of white walls, marine-blue fabrics and a few touches of red and yellow. He suspected that Emma, Lady Marlowe, was the one responsible, and he applauded the change, for now there was nothing but a thin stream of yellow chiffon on either side of the windows to blunt the stunning view of the Babbacombe coastline.

One of his black evening suits had already been pressed and laid out on the bed, and his trunk was in a corner, showing that Aman had already unpacked his things.

He walked to the open window and stuck his head out. Sure enough, the oak tree was still there, halfway between his window and Paul’s, with heavy branches that hung over both. He smiled, remembering all the nights they’d climbed down this tree for a midnight swim. Sometimes Trix, Julia, and Marlowe’s two youngest sisters had joined them, but it had been much harder for the girls to sneak out, since they didn’t have an oak tree ready to hand. Trix, always the most practical of the group, had eventually gotten hold of a rope ladder, enabling the girls to enjoy midnight swims, too, until she’d been caught with it by Marlowe’s grandmother. She’d been severely punished for it, too, and Antonia had threatened not to let her come to Pixy Cove the following year. But that hadn’t stopped her from sneaking out to meet him in later years for things much less innocent than a swim in the sea.

Memories of their secret meetings at Danbury, Sunderland, and here at Pixy Cove when they were teens flashed across his mind—the garden, the maze, the wine cellar—anywhere they could escape chaperones and be alone for a kiss, a touch. As far back as he could remember, Beatrix had been the only thing he’d been willing to come home for, the bright spot of his life every summer. Now, it was the opposite, because he still wanted her, he couldn’t have her, and life was just hell.

He closed his eyes, memories triggering the same desire for her he’d felt as a randy youth, the same desire he’d felt on the boat a short while ago. It had been hard enough to forget those midnight trysts while he’d been hundreds of miles away, but now, when she was so near, when he could look into her dark eyes and smell the scent of her skin, when she was about to marry someone else, it was agony.

He opened his eyes, staring out at the rugged coastline of inlets and caves and tide pools they’d explored together all the summers of their childhood. How, he wondered, feeling suddenly desperate, how was he going to get through the next twenty-eight days?

He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t avoid her while he was here, and even if he could, he doubted it would matter. Pixy Cove wasn’t like Egypt. Here, memories of her were all around him. And if all that wasn’t enough to tie him to her for the coming weeks, there was pride. Damned if he’d go running off like a tongue-tied boy in short pants whenever he saw her. Damned if he’d let people see that it hurt. No, no matter what it cost him, he had to stay, he had to smile and pretend to be glad for the happy couple and play the role expected of him—the role of a good sport.

A flash of white caught his eye, and when he looked down, he saw her walking across the lawn in her tailored yachting suit. She wasn’t alone, of course. Trathen was right beside her like a shadow.

Will flattened his palm against the glass, reminding himself that Trix was better off with the other man. Trathen would take care of her, and he’d never sneak her away for a quick kissing session in the wine cellar or a midnight tryst in a Babbacombe cave. But as Will watched the pair stroll across the lawn arm in arm, the satisfaction of knowing he’d always be the only man who’d ever been able to coax Trix into disobeying the rules wasn’t much of a consolation.

Chapter Seven

B
eatrix could not sleep. She changed positions, she counted sheep, she tried to think of other things, all to no avail. The image of Will standing by the rail of the
Maria Lisa
watching her was burned on her brain, and no matter how she tried, she could not rid herself of that image and go to sleep.

She’d been able to read his expression as plainly as she could read a book, for she’d seen that look many times—across the table at a dinner party, during a waltz, in the moonlit gardens at Danbury House.

Desire.

So long since she’d seen him look at her that way, and yet she’d recognized it at once, felt its impact as she always had before. Aidan had never looked at her quite like that, in a way that burned through her clothing, through her skin, into her very heart and soul. Even now, lying in bed and trying to sleep, she felt the euphoric thrill of that look, the same thrill she’d felt so long ago. Sleep was impossible.

She finally gave up trying. She flung back the sheet, got out of bed, and walked to the window. Dawn was breaking, and the seemingly endless stretch of ocean and sky shimmered before her, a dozen shades of gray. Soon, however, it would be gold and pink and vermilion, all the shades of sunrise would reflect off the water and light the scattered clouds. It was going to be breathtaking.

Beatrix ran to her armoire. She slipped into undergarments, donned a simple shirtwaist, skirt and protective smock, then pinned up her hair and laced on a pair of boots. She paused by the various boxes of art supplies her maid had placed beside the writing desk in her room, then she glanced at the window. She wouldn’t have much time, she knew, and after considering her options a few more seconds, she grabbed one of her wooden paint boxes, scribbled a note for her maid, and left her room.

Ten minutes later, art box slung over her shoulder, she was descending the iron ladder to Phoebe’s Cove. Her favorite of the many isolated coves along Babbacombe Bay, Phoebe’s Cove was also one of the prettiest. Marlowe had named this particular spot for his youngest sister when he’d bought the place two decades earlier, and it had always been a favorite bathing spot, for it was a deep inlet surrounded on three sides by caves perfect for exploring, a little stretch of sandy beach for building sandcastles, and a calm, deep, turquoise pool of water for swimming. Massive rocks jutted out of the sea beyond the cove, adding to the spectacular beauty of the scene. Beatrix selected her spot, sat down on the sand, and opened her art box on her lap. She removed her set of pastels and a sheet of drawing paper, then closed the box and placed her art materials on its closed lid.

She glanced at the horizon, chose a color, and began. She sketched quickly, striving to capture the scene before the sun rose too high, and as she worked, she managed to forget about Will. Intent on her task, she was able to blot out the image of his face and the desire she’d seen there. She was able to rid herself of the vestiges of girlish euphoria he’d once been able to evoke just by looking at her. She forgot the past and how he’d been able to send her pulses racing just by touching her hand, or start her heart hammering with a brush of his lips against her neck, or make her shiver by whispering her name.

As she worked, she was able to regain her former contentment with her decision and her future, a future with Aidan, a future that would have none of the agonizing insecurity and dark passions of her past. With Aidan, she would have something far more durable—friendship and affection. As she drew the scene before her, Beatrix’s mind also began to find a proper perspective. She attained a calm and serene state of mind.

Then Will showed up and ruined it.

“Pretty as a picture.”

She gave a start at the sound of his voice, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found the cause of her night’s insomnia standing only a few feet away.

“You again!” she cried, tossing down her pastel in utter frustration. “What are you doing here?”

As she spoke, she gave a quick glance over his body and realized in dismay that he was barely even dressed. He was wearing nothing but an old white linen shirt, a pair of dark, disreputable football breeches, and scuffed leather loafers. Slung over one shoulder was a towel that answered her question even before he spoke.

“I’m having a bathe, of course,” he answered, giving her a look as if he thought her a hopeless pudding head. “Why else would I be down here at this hour of the morning?”

She scrambled to her feet, watching in dismay as he shrugged the towel off his shoulder, kicked off his loafers, and yanked his shirttails out of his breeches.

He was undressing, she realized in horror as she watched him unbutton his cuffs.

“This has always been my favorite spot for sea bathing,” he went on, lifting his hands to undo the three buttons of his shirtfront. “Don’t you remember?”

She hadn’t remembered, not until this very moment, probably because ever since his return home, her brains had ceased to function properly. But as he crossed his arms and grasped the hem of his shirt, she somehow managed to find the wits to speak.

“Stop!” she gasped, appalled. “You can’t bathe here. Not right now. I’m painting the sunrise.”

“So?” He pulled the shirt up over his head and tossed it aside. “I won’t stop you.”

Beatrix wanted to reply, but anything she might have said was lost at the sight of his bare chest. She knew she should not stare, but she simply did not have the ability to tear her gaze away. As a young girl, she’d caught glimpses of him without his shirt, of course. When he and Paul were boys, they’d often gone sea bathing without their shirts, but they’d been forced to abandon the practice of swimming bare-chested even before she and the other girls had exchanged their pinafores for long skirts. It had been somewhere between fifteen and twenty years since she’d last seen Will without his shirt. She swallowed hard. His body was very different now.

His shoulders and chest were wide, tanned by the hot Egyptian sun and shaped by years of hard excavation work into a bronze wall of muscle and sinew. His chest tapered downward to an absolutely flat stomach, and his trousers were slung low on his lean hips, revealing the deep indent of his navel and the shadowy hint of dark hair below it. Her gaze dropped another notch, she gave a choked sound and hastily forced her gaze back up, but she only managed to get as far as the flat brown disks of his nipples. She could feel her face growing hot.

“You can’t—” She stopped, her protest caught in her dry throat, her gaze riveted to his chest, the heat in her face spreading through her entire body. “We’re alone.”

“Alone? Trix, how can you say that? What about the pixies?” He bent to retrieve his shirt, flipped back the cuff, and pulled a small metal object from a fold in the fabric. “I even remembered to bring a pin.”

He held up the shiny sliver of metal, a gift for the pixies to ensure he wouldn’t be pixy-led. The myth of leaving pins or other small gifts for the pixies to prevent being bewitched by them was as much a part of their childhood at the cove as sea bathing and eating ice cream and sneaking out at night, but Beatrix had forgotten to bring a pin this morning, and she wondered if perhaps she was being pixy-led in consequence, for her heart was pounding in her breast with a force that hurt, and her wits were utterly gone.

He moved to weave the pin back into the fabric of his cuff, and as he did, Beatrix took a deep breath, got hold of her common sense, and reminded herself that she didn’t believe in childish magic anymore, or the myth of one true love that lasted forever, and her inability to think at this moment had nothing to do with pixies, and everything to do with the scandalous fact that the man in front of her was half naked. “The pixies don’t count!”

He gave her a look of mock pity. “Say that at your peril. It would be a shame if they turned that adorable nose of yours into a sausage for saying things like that.”

She gave a vexed sigh, unappeased by compliments or nonsense talk. “I mean that the pixies—if they really existed at all, which they
don’t
—are not chaperones! You can’t bathe here while I’m here.”

“No?” A glint of mischief flashed in his brilliant green eyes, and he gave her that pirate smile as he tossed the shirt aside. “Just watch me.”

“But it’s not proper!” she cried, turning as he walked past her and strode toward the water.

“Sod proper. A dare’s a dare.” His steps didn’t falter for even a second, and she scowled at his magnificent bronzed back as he strode into the water. He walked out until the water hit him mid-chest, then he stretched his arms out, bent his head between them, and dove under, vanishing from view.

She didn’t wait for him to reappear before she began packing up her supplies. This was a completely improper situation, and she had no intention of being here when he came back to shore. By the time his head broke the surface of the water, she had placed her pastels back into her art box and closed the lid. As he began swimming away from her toward the sea, she jumped up, slung her art box over her shoulder, and with her partially completed picture in her hand, she started toward the ladder. Her goal was to be gone before he could perceive her departure, but she had barely reached the ladder before his voice called to her.

“You’re running away again.”

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder to find him standing on one of the big rocks off shore, watching her. His wet breeches clung to his hips and thighs like a second skin, and he stood so still that his hard, chiseled body might have been part of the rock itself, a carving of a sea god by some unknown ancient sculptor. Though she was too far away to look into his eyes or read his expression, she knew he was looking at her the same way he had yesterday on the boat. His desire seemed to pull at her with all the power of an undertow, threatening to take her down to drown.

With a shuddering gasp, she turned her back on him and went up the ladder as fast as she could. He was right, of course. She was running away from him, but this time, she didn’t intend to stop. Even after six years, he could still start her heart hammering and send her wits to oblivion at the slightest provocation. Even now, she felt the pull of his desire, but he wasn’t the man she was going to marry, and running away from him was the only thing she could do.

I
t took thirty-eight full laps across Phoebe’s Cove for Will to cool the lust raging through his body, the same lust that had started yesterday on the boat, tortured him all through dinner, kept him up all night, and spurred him in desperation to take a morning dip, only to run squarely into the entire reason for his torment. He’d chosen this spot because it was his favorite place at Pixy Cove. Damn him for not remembering it was hers, too.

He’d seen her before descending the ladder, of course, but he’d come down anyway, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the chance to be near her when no one else could see what he felt.

He’d been abominably rude, he knew, dressing down right in front of her and scorning her perfectly valid concerns about chaperones, but damn it all, he’d wanted her to feel something of what he felt. He wanted her to burn as he burned, ache as he ached. He’d succeeded, too, at least a little, for she’d gone pink as a peony and stared at him as if she’d never seen a man’s bare chest in her life before.

Which was probably true, he reflected as he somersaulted in the water, flipped his body over with a hard kick, and started swimming back across the cove. He knew he’d never bared his chest in front of Trix—not since he was a boy, anyway—and he certainly couldn’t imagine Trathen doing so. And Trix had been so sheltered all her life—hell, she hadn’t even been allowed to go to Italy because of her father’s obsessive fear that she’d be so corrupted by the atmosphere of artists and the statues of naked men, she’d never come home again. Fear that she’d turn out to be like her mother.

After two more laps across the cove, Will felt that he was once again in control of his body and his emotions, enough so that at least he could sit down to breakfast at the same table with her and not feel as if he emanated desire like a house on fire. He emerged from the water, toweled off, and slipped on his shirt. Damp towel slung round his shoulders, he started for the ladder.

He was halfway up before he remembered the pin. He paused, considering, then descended the ladder again and crossed the sand to one of the caves that ringed the cove.

Stepping inside, he blinked several times, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, then he glanced around, trying to remember just where Marlowe kept the jar for this particular cove. It had to be here—there was at least one jar for the pixies in every cove along Marlowe’s property.

He searched for several minutes, and he began to think his memory was at fault and he was in the wrong cave, but then he spied it perched on the rocks piled to one side, above the high water mark. He climbed up on the rocks and pulled the pin from his sleeve, then took the glass jar down from its perch and dropped the pin inside. It was a glint of shiny silver atop a pile of corroded brass buttons, bits of colored glass, and rusty pins—tokens that he and Trix and dozens of other children had left for the pixies over the years to gain their goodwill. Smiling a little, he put the jar back where he’d found it and left the cave.

He didn’t believe in pixies anymore, of course, but it was a tradition. Besides, to get through the remainder of the month without going insane, he would need all the help he could get.