“Actually, Grandmama,” Kit said meekly, though Lauren could tell from his voice that he was enjoying himself, “it was the milkmaid who kissed me. It would have been ungallant to have taken the moral high road and turned my head away.”
His grandmother chuckled.
“And then our eyes met,” Lauren said, lowering her voice, “and it happened. Just like that.”
She had never suspected that she had acting abilities. She was almost convincing herself that there had been an element of fate in that first shocking encounter.
“Every . . . woman,” the old lady said, “loves a . . . rogue.” She chuckled again.
“Well, I was warned against him, ma’am,” Lauren said. “He has the most shocking reputation, you know. But when we met again at Lady Mannering’s ball and he wangled an introduction and asked me to dance with him, how could I resist? It was a waltz, you see.”
They had arrived at the end of the terrace. The daylight had gone, but the moon and stars prevented it from being a dark night.
“That is a rose arbor just ahead of us,” Kit explained. “I will show it to you tomorrow, Lauren.”
“I can smell the roses even now,” she said, inhaling their heavy, sweet scent appreciatively.
“The formal gardens are below it,” he said. “Beyond them are the trees. But there is a wilderness walk there with several pleasing prospects—all carefully planned, of course.”
“I look forward to seeing it all,” she said as they turned to stroll back to the house.
But when they had arrived there and climbed the steps and entered the hall, the old lady lifted her cane to summon the footman who was on duty.
“Your arm,” she told him, relinquishing her grandson’s. “Kit, you . . . must show . . . Miss Edgeworth . . . the roses.”
He bent his head to kiss her cheek, his eyes alight with laughter, Lauren could see.
“A tryst all carefully orchestrated in advance, Grandmama?” he asked. “Morning is your usual time for walking, after all. But we will not disappoint you. I will take Lauren to the rose arbor. Just so that she may smell the roses, of course.”
Lauren felt as if her cheeks were on fire.
Kit was laughing as they descended the steps to the terrace again, her arm drawn firmly through his. “I warned you that she is a romantic,” he said. “She sat there in the drawing room all evening observing her grandson and his newly betrothed, who have been apart for two weeks, constrained by a roomful of relatives and good manners into exchanging no more than the occasional polite observation and yearning glance.”
“I did not give you any yearning glances,” she protested.
“Ah, but I did you,” he said, turning in the direction of the rose arbor. “And of course, Grandmama had to devise a way to give me an opportunity to kiss you thoroughly before sending you off to bed.”
She was intensely embarrassed. “I hope,” she said primly, “I did not give the impression—”
“That you are deep in love with me?” he suggested. “I believe you did—to Grandmama at least. And then you told her that story of our meeting to confirm her impression. I did not expect that particular one.”
“My lord.” They were halfway along the terrace. “The charade is necessary only when we are in company with others. We need not go into the rose arbor. Your grandmother has gone to bed, I daresay, and will not know if we return immediately to the house. It is improper for us to be alone together like this. We are not really engaged.”
“Oh, but we are.” He moved his head a little closer to hers. “Until I hear otherwise, you are my betrothed. And what is this nonsense about our game being played only for the benefit of others? And why have I become ‘my lord’ again? I promised you adventure, did I not? And passion? We need to be alone together if I am to keep the promise. We are going to begin tonight in the rose arbor. You are going to be kissed.”
“Kit!” she said sharply. “I did not ask for passion. At least, not for kisses. I would never dream—”
“You asked for adventure,” he said, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath there. “For passion. In many ways they are interchangeable terms.”
“It would be most improper,” she said, truly alarmed. She did not like to remember their kiss at Vauxhall. She had tried to block it from her memory. It had been so very alarmingly . . . physical.
“I will try my best to see that it is,” he said with a soft laugh as he led her down off the terrace and through a trellised arch into the arbor, where the scent of roses instantly assailed their senses.
“Kit!” But the more indignant she became, the more on her dignity, the better he would like it, of course. She had learned that about him. He loved to tease. He would never take her seriously. She changed the subject. Perhaps he would forget this nonsense. “Was your father very angry when you came home?”
“Oh, Lord, yes,” he said. “He and Bewcastle—the lady’s brother, that is—had actually signed a marriage contract. I am more in your debt than you realized, Lauren.”
“The lady has been jilted, then,” she said, wincing. “I know how that feels. Is she hurt?”
“Freyja?” he said. “She had her chance three years ago. She is doubtless annoyed, which is a little different from being hurt. She is good at annoyance. All the Bedwyns are. But they have no right to be annoyed. My father had no right to plan a marriage for me without waiting for me to come home to give my consent.”
“Do they live far away?” she asked.
“Six miles.”
He led her to a rustic bench and she sat down. “Our betrothal has caused dissension, then, between neighbors,” she said. “That is unfortunate.”
He set one foot on the bench beside her and draped an arm over his raised leg—just as she remembered his doing at Vauxhall.
“But unavoidable under the circumstances,” he said. “I really did not want to be forced into that marriage, Lauren.”
“And yet,” she said, “you must have loved her three years ago.” She wondered if she would have a chance to meet Lady Freyja Bedwyn.
“Sometimes,” he said, “love dies.”
She did not believe that. Certainly it was not true in her case. But there was no point in feeling guilty. He did have a right to choose his own bride, and she could see that without this temporary betrothal he would be trapped indeed. This was the very reason for their bargain.
“What happened to your younger brother?” she asked.
He abruptly lowered his foot to the ground and turned away to bend over a nearby bloom as if he were examining it closely.
“War happened,” he said after a lengthy silence. “He insisted, against everyone’s advice and pleas, including my own, that our father purchase a commission for him in my regiment so that he could follow me to the Peninsula. The military life is the very last thing Syd was cut out for, but he can be remarkably stubborn when he chooses to be. I promised my mother faithfully—and foolishly, of course—that I would look after him and protect him from harm. Less than a year later I brought him home more than half dead after the surgeons and the subsequent fever had finished with him. It was touch and go whether he would survive the journey. But I was determined that if he was going to die, at least it would be at home. I can be stubborn too.”
She could just imagine how dreadful he must have felt. “But surely you do not blame yourself in any way,” she said. “In the heat of battle it must have been impossible for you to protect him.”
“It did not happen in battle,” he said curtly.
She waited for him to explain, but he said no more.
“Did anyone else blame you?” she asked. “Did he?”
“Everyone, including me. The judgment was unanimous.” He turned toward her suddenly and she saw the flash of his teeth in the darkness. He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “But that is all ancient history, Lauren, best forgotten. Syd survived. So did I. All is well that ends well, to coin a phrase that someone else must have coined before me. In the meantime we are wasting a perfectly decent moonlit night and the opportunity for romance that Grandmama has sanctioned.”