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As far as she could see, Ardmore had the opposite response to her. Here they were, just sitting and kissing, and kissing, and her blood was racing but he seemed as calm as ever. He had those great labourer’s hands spread on her back but he didn’t pull her close to him. And yet she – she – she felt boneless and as if she were about to slump against his chest.
The inequality was unnerving. She pulled back. When he opened his eyes, she revised her idea that he was untouched by the kiss, because there was something deep and hot in his eyes that sent a tingle straight down her thighs. ‘We must return,’ she said, keeping her hands around his neck.
He didn’t even say anything, just smiled his lazy Scottish smile and bent his head to hers again. And she couldn’t help it: she opened her mouth to him and he started kissing her again. And now she could see the attraction of just kissing. Just letting his tongue…well. She was trembling. Trembling from a kiss.
This time he pulled back. And his eyes were even darker and wilder but he had a thoughtful look too. ‘Will you marry me?’ he said. His hands still hadn’t moved from her back.
‘No,’ Annabel said, feeling a pang of regret. It’d be nice to marry a man who kissed so well. But kissing wasn’t a prerequisite for marriage, and money was.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. ‘I spent years dreaming of getting out of Scotland,’ she said awkwardly, not wanting to mention money because it – was too – unpleasant.
He nodded. ‘I’ve seen that happen with lads in the village.’
‘Well, then,’ she said.
He looked at her once more. ‘Are you sure? Because I won’t ask you again. I need to finish this marriage business and return home.’
She smiled at that. ‘I am sure.’
‘You could never marry a Scotsman.’
‘No.’
‘I regret your decision.’
Then they were back in the garden, and Imogen was waiting for them. Her eyes were alight with a brilliant glow that made Annabel uneasy just to see her. But she looked exquisite, like a black-haired princess in a fairy tale.
Before Annabel quite knew what had happened, the King of May had wandered off on the arm of her sister without a backward glance. Annabel took off the wreath of flowers and tossed it into the pony cart.
Two gentlemen bounded up to her like overgrown hounds and demanded the pleasure of bringing the Queen of May to the pavilion for supper.
Willy-nilly, she glanced over her shoulder. Ardmore had got himself between Lady Griselda and Imogen now. He was bending his head toward Griselda.
‘I’d love to come,’ she said coolly. ‘Why don’t you both escort me?’
They bobbed around her, showing every sign of men who would kiss and grab, kiss and pant. Englishmen, both of them.
Seven (#ulink_7c4dc9a7-7498-5d03-8c3f-5cbe955d7c82)
Ewan had almost made up his mind. The one lass he could truly fancy didn’t want him, or so she said. And he had enough sense to know that dragging a woman back to Scotland when she was bent on marrying an Englishman with a title was not a good start to a marriage. But the black-haired Imogen had such potent despair in her eyes that he felt it in the pit of his stomach.
Even now she seemed determined to drag him off to some solitary bench, as if he were a prize pig at the fair. He didn’t mind, as long as all those tears she was saving didn’t overflow and drown the two of them. She would be a good choice for wife, surely. She was beautiful, and if he gave her time to recover from her grief, she’d likely be a pleasant partner in all respects. He certainly didn’t want a wife who started increasing on the spot: he had more than enough to do without worrying about children for a few years.
All in all, Imogen seemed a suitable alternative. Of course, her guardian was fiercely against the idea, but perhaps the duke would be more amenable on seeing how much his ward wanted to marry him. Why, she looked at him as if she wanted nothing more than to bed him on the spot. She must be desperate to return to Scotland.
He could appreciate it; he felt the same way. London was nothing more than a smoky, smelly mess. His carriage had become tangled in traffic that morning and they ended up standing still as a stock for over an hour.
This party wasn’t so bad. But all the high-pitched voices and the repeated shrilling of trumpets were like to give him a headache, if he’d been prone to them. Likely it was a rain-soaked day in Scotland, the kind where you can almost see the lush grass reaching up to meet the branches of trees. And the only sound would be the rain, and perhaps a bird singing, and it would seem as if the very dog daisies were praising God for the beauty of it all. For a moment he closed his eyes, but –
‘Lord Ardmore,’ she was saying, and the misery in her voice was written plain. The poor lass was in a bad way.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Imogen, her name was. Imogen, Lady Maitland. He felt a spark of gratitude at being able to remember. ‘Lady Maitland,’ he said.
‘I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may.’
‘Of course. There’s a bit of land down at the bottom of the garden that’s marshy and less frequented by all these folk,’ he told her.
She gave him a dewy smile that almost had him convinced that she was longing for him to drag her down there and have his way with her. ‘How very astute of you to remark the place,’ she cooed.
He thought about defending himself – after all, he hadn’t been searching out trysting places – but gave up. Instead he held out his arm and they tripped along together in silence.
‘Has your husband been gone long?’ he asked. For all his reasoning that she would be a good candidate for marriage, he felt a queer reluctance to deepen the conversation.
‘Long enough,’ she said, giving him that look again. ‘I hardly think of him.’
Well, if that wasn’t a lie, he’d never heard one before.
They walked along some more, she taking little mincing steps because her dress was so narrow it was binding her at the knees. ‘Perhaps I’d better carry you down this last bit,’ he said as they neared the slope. ‘That is, if it won’t create a scandal.’ He glanced back toward the party, but no one appeared to be watching them.
‘I don’t care about scandal,’ she said. An idiot could tell that was true. So he scooped her up and carried her down the hill until they reached a wrought-iron bench under a large willow. The tree hung over the riverbank, emerald-green strands meeting the surface of the water and dropping below. It looked like an old dowager trailing her yarns behind her.
But Imogen was looking at him again, all fiery invitation. Ewan felt supremely uncomfortable. This was worse than the day when Mrs Park, down in the village, caught him stealing plums and threatened to tell his papa. He cleared his throat but somehow the marriage proposal just refused to word itself.
She leaned toward him, and her bosom rubbed against his arm. She was a nicely proportioned woman, though she hung it out for all the world to see. Then she started running a finger over his chest.
He cleared his throat again. She looked at him, all expectant. The offer of marriage just refused to come out.
So she spoke instead, and of course her voice was all low and husky, like the Whore of Babylon’s, Ewan had no doubt about that. ‘This affair is so tedious,’ she said, slipping a finger under the buttons of his jacket and caressing his shirt.
‘I’ve been enjoying it,’ he said awkwardly, trying not to move backward. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She was as vulnerable as a newborn calf.
‘I haven’t,’ she said, and she forgot that husky innuendo in speaking the truth. But it was back a moment later. ‘I’d very much like to…get to know you better, Lord Ardmore. May I call you Ewan?’
Now, how in the world had she learned his first name? He’d practically forgotten it himself, he’d been Lord Ardmore’d so much in the past few weeks. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to know you better as well.’
‘In that case…why don’t we spend some time together?’ The silky whisper was almost mesmerising, as was that hand wandering over his chest.
He swallowed. ‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ She straightened. ‘I’ll come to you at eleven o’clock.’ She looked about to stand up and leave.
‘Wait!’ He grabbed her wrist. ‘Are you saying…what do you mean, you’ll come to me?’
A little scowl knit her brow and perversely, he felt the first pang of attraction for her. ‘I’ll come to you,’ she said painstakingly. ‘Since I’m not currently living in an establishment of my own – although I mean to buy a townhouse just as soon as I have a moment on my own – I shall come to you, rather than the other way around.’
‘At eleven o’clock,’ he repeated.
She nodded, quite businesslike now.
‘At night?’ he clarified.
That scowl was back. ‘Of course. I’m generally quite busy taking calls in the morning.’
‘Ah.’ Well. They appeared to have different ideas in mind. ‘I’m not the man for that,’ he said, rather apologetically.
‘No?’ She looked stunned.
‘No. I’ve come to London to find a wife, you see.’
Now the scowl was really ferocious. In fact, it wasn’t adorable anymore, and reminded him dangerously of his Aunt Marge who once broke half a set of Spode china. Against his uncle’s head.
‘We’ve no real desire between us,’ he said gently.
‘Yes, we have!’ she snapped.
Ewan glanced up the hill, but there was no one watching. Then he reached out and tilted her head back, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her. It was pleasant enough, but nothing more. To compare it to that kiss he shared with her sister would be blasphemy.
‘You see, lass?’
She glared at him. ‘If you don’t wish to bed me, you needn’t make a song and dance about it.’
The pain in her eyes was so great that he instinctively put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouted. ‘There are men out there who are more than eager to – to do whatever I wish.’
‘I’ve no doubt of that,’ he said, but she had pulled away from his arm.
‘Don’t you dare pity me!’ she hissed. ‘The Earl of Mayne will do just fine. He’s not a limp Scotsman. I can guess why you travelled to London to find a bride! It’s because all my countrywomen knew that you had problems in the bedchamber, didn’t they? I’ve heard that sort of news travels fast.’
‘Thankfully, no,’ he said. But a sense of alarm was growing in his chest, and he grabbed her hand. ‘You can’t turn to Mayne; I met him last night.’
‘He wants me,’ she said, struggling to free herself. ‘He wants me, and you don’t, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘He’s too old for you.’
Her lip curled. ‘Mayne is in his early thirties. Since he was engaged to my own sister, I know all about him. And believe me, in all the pertinent facts, he’s in prime working order!’
‘He’s not old in years, in other things,’ Ewan said, knowing the truth about Mayne without hesitation. It was written on his face…a man didn’t reach thirty and above without leaving his scandals in his eyes. ‘Mayne’s a rakehell, a man who’s slept with far too many women. He’s tired.’
‘Ha!’ she said. ‘Tired may be how you’d excuse yourself, but I assure you that Mayne has never disappointed a woman.’
‘And there’ve been so many of them.’
‘Which means it will be all the more pleasurable for me,’ she said defiantly. ‘If you don’t let go of me, I’m going to scream.’
‘In that case, you’ll have to marry me,’ he said, and finally the words were easy enough. This poor girl needed rescuing more than any waterlogged kitten he’d ever pulled from the millpond. She was in a desperate way. ‘Marry me, Imogen. Marry me.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll never marry again, so would you please let go of my hand?’
‘Not until you promise to consider marrying me.’
‘Absolutely not. Release me, if you please.’
‘I’ll release you if you come to my chambers at eleven o’clock tonight,’ he said.
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Have you changed your mind, then?’
‘A woman with such spirit is always worth a second thought,’ he said, hoping she would fall for that nonsense. Which she did. A more naive scrap of a girl he’d never met. Now the only question was whether he could keep her from doing herself some sort of injury to her soul from which she’d never recover.
‘I’ll come to your chambers, but I’ll never marry you,’ she said clearly.
He let go of her wrist. ‘I’m staying at Grillon’s Hotel. Is this your first tryst, Imogen?’ As if he didn’t know the answer to that.
She raised her chin. ‘Yes, it is.’
So he was as crude as he could be, to shock her into thinking about what she was doing. ‘Affaires aren’t like marriages, you know. You needn’t bring a nightgown, because we’ll sleep naked, of course. And I do hope that your husband taught you how to pleasure a man.’
Colour crept into her white cheeks, but he was remorseless.
‘I’m fond of the coney’s kiss, if you catch my meaning, lass. Of course, a woman of the world, such as you are, won’t need any instruction in such matters.’
But she had more courage than he gave her credit for. ‘I don’t know everything about pleasuring a man, or perhaps I know nothing,’ she said.
He could have cried at the look in her eyes.
‘I’m willing to learn.’
‘Then say it: coney’s kiss.’ He bent toward her, knowing how large he was, deliberately looming over her. ‘Say it, why don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know what a coney is?’
‘No!’
‘Then why won’t you say it? Go on: coney’s kiss. Say it.’ He shaded his voice with a dark erotic desire, giving her a liquorish smile, the kind the villain in a melodrama always gives to the poor serving maid. ‘Coney’s kiss.’
She stared at him, all anger, confusion, and revulsion.
‘If you’re embarking on a life of ill repute, you’ll have to learn many such a phrase.’
She jumped away and flew up the slope, so fast that her slippers hardly touched the ground.
Had that worked or not? And if not, what the devil was he to do at eleven o’clock? A stupider idea he had never had.
What the devil was he to do?
The Herb Garden
Common wisdom had it that there were few things more disagreeable than coming face to face with a woman whom one has jilted.
