A Passionate Endeavor (13 page)

“
A woman especially, if she have the
misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she
can
.”

—Northanger Abbey

HAVING spent an agitated night with little
slumber and even less happy thoughts, Charlotte rose from her bed
exhausted. At least she would not have to face
him
today. He
would not come for the promised lesson when his sire lay so close
to his final moments. It was close to the end now; she had seen it
in the old gentleman’s eyes. And he knew it too. She hoped he would
be out of his pain soon, now that he had had a chance to say his
good-byes and make his peace with the world.

He would not come, she thought as she sat in
the simple dining room, nibbling on the corner of her toast. And it
was for the best. She had been overcome by the duke’s keen
observation of the state of her heart, and humiliated by their
discussion. She was certain that her poor acting skills would not
stand up to her next audience with Lord Huntington or his
father.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened and in
walked her father. He appeared haggard from the long night spent at
the duke’s bedside.

“Ah, there you are, Charlotte. Here’s one
more burden to add to our dish.” Her father waved a letter before
Charlotte as James walked in and joined them. “We are to expect a
visit from your cousin, Alexandre Barclay, the Friday after next.”
“Not, dear old Alex? After all these years?” James asked.

Charlotte’s hand stopped for just the merest
second in midair as she poured herself another cup of tea. One drop
escaped onto the pale green tablecloth.

“It seems your half French cousin on your
mother’s side has ascended to his English father’s viscountcy. He
is now Lord Gaston and he has a desire to visit our little family
circle in whom one member in particular” —her father paused to look
pointedly at Charlotte—”was destined to become a part of his own
twice over many years ago.”

“Many years ago,” echoed Charlotte.

“He has a very pretty way of turning a
phrase, he does,” said her father, as he continued reading the
letter. “Will he be able to turn my dearest daughter’s intelligent
head as well?” He peered over his spectacles at her.

“Father!”

“I am but teasing you, child. The viscount
must possess lofty ambitions far superior to a physician’s
daughter, no doubt. And you are practical enough to admit it.” Her
father returned to scanning the page. “We have no way to warn him
of our vast descent from the
ton
. I cannot like this visit.
It portends nothing but trouble, if I remember this young
gentleman’s character very well. However, we do owe his parents
much,” he concluded, shuffling the pages.

“The way I understood it, Grandmamma had
selected him with care for her favorite and only granddaughter,”
James said with a grin. “Wonder what the chap looks like. Do you
think he is short and portly, or thin and mean-tempered?”

“I would not care to guess.” Charlotte
concentrated on spreading some jam on her toast.

“Oh, come, Charlotte, do not tell me you are
not curious about the man you were to marry?”

“Not in the slightest,” Charlotte replied,
using her napkin.

“Remember you are speaking to a future man of
the cloth. Falsehoods require serious penance.”

“James, this was all arranged when I was but
four years old—a mere child. I barely remember him, I assure you,”
she said, lying through her teeth. She had never been able to
forget the tall, dark-haired boy who had been much more interested
in horses and fishing than meeting the girl for whom he was
intended. When she had been a child, Charlotte had thought of him
as her handsome prince. “None of us ever expected him to carry
through with both families’ intentions after the revolution.”
Charlotte gave her brother an angry glare.

“Forgive me, dearest,” James said, trying to
swallow a smile but failing. “I for one would like to meet the man
who callously jilted my sister, fairly broke her heart with sorrow
for long-lost dreams.”

“James…” warned the father. “Enough
poppycock. Charlotte has never had any intention to marry,” her
father said, as he speared several sausages and transferred them to
his plate. “We shall see how the viscount conducts himself. And we
will learn the purpose of his visit. I for one hope his stay is
short and without incident. Once he sees that we are unable to
supply him with any interesting forms of entertainment, as we are
always required at the abbey, I am sure his visit and any curiosity
he holds will wane quickly,” he said, before turning his attention
to the breakfast before him.

Charlotte tried to ignore her brother’s
teasing grin as she considered the viscount’s forthcoming stay. She
finished her meal in a pensive state. The visit would bring nothing
but embarrassment and a continuous stream of annoying remarks from
her brother. She must find an especially large tome of sermons at
the abbey to recommend to her father, thereby ensuring a premature
retribution for James’s unbrotherly behavior.

With gratitude, she acceded to her father’s
request that she take some air this morning and visit Mrs.
Bumsides, one of the tenant farmers’ wives, who was lying in after
the birth of her eighth child. Yes, that would take her mind off
her embarrassing situation. Then she would return to the abbey to
confer with her father, who had hastened there soon after the
sparse morning repast.

Her plans in place, Charlotte ignored the
grayish clouds in the distance and the short rushes of breeze that
assaulted her body when she departed the cottage. Head down, and
equipped with a basket full of supplies and muffins, Charlotte
headed toward the valley. It was but two miles to the rundown
Burnside cottage.

The first fat raindrop struck her arm a
little more than half the distance to her destination. It had been
folly to think she could have returned from her jaunt before the
storm began. And she had misjudged the direction of the wind. Those
were her last thoughts before the heavens let loose their fury. She
turned back and ran as fast as her skirts would allow. The wet
grass tickled her cold ankles, and more and more mud began to fly
as she ran. She slid to a stop upon the sudden appearance of a
horse and rider—Lord Huntington, to be precise.

Her heart lurched. Before she could say a
word, he spoke.

“Miss Kittridge, give me your hand, and use
the stirrup to step up,” he ordered, kicking free from the object
in question. “I will have you at your cottage in five minutes, if
you will allow.”

Charlotte very much wished she had the
courage to refuse his offer because of the humiliation of the last
evening. But looking into his kind eyes and handsome face, she
found she could not, and obeyed without a word, finding herself
seated sideways atop his “good” leg in a moment. Wordlessly, he
opened his greatcoat and wound her arms around his waist. He
covered her with the front of his coat almost completely. She
tucked her head under his broad chin and allowed herself to absorb
the lovely warmth of his body. Had Marianne in
Sense and
Sensibility
felt thusly with Willoughby when he had carried her
home? Charlotte’s experience far surpassed anything she remembered
reading. Just the smell of him intoxicated her senses, making it
difficult to speak.

“His Grace? Is he—”

“He has turned the corner,” he interrupted.
“Your father said to tell you that my father is resting comfortably
now— not a cough for the last hour. Perhaps he has turned a
corner.” He gave her a warm smile despite the rain pouring off his
hat.

“I thought to keep our appointment. Your maid
sent me out after you in fear of the storm.”

“I have made you all wet and dirty.” She
glanced down to where her boots had muddied his new high-topped
boot.

“Save your breath, my dear. It is Charley who
will come after you, boot brush in hand. He has become quite the
dandy’s keeper.”

His happy exuberance was contagious. He was
obviously relieved by his father’s turn for the better. And she was
glad the old gentleman had been made comfortable once more.

With that, they were off. It was a very
uncomfortable perch despite the smooth, rolling gait of his horse.
The pommel dug into her body, forcing her to move closer to him.
But she would not have had the ride end if she had had a choice.
For several minutes they rode without words, and she tried to
imprint the experience in her memory.

She breathed in the heated, masculine smell
of shaving lather and his overall scent, feeling dizzy from his
closeness. And she hugged his muscled torso closer to her,
marveling at its broadness. She heard a deep rumble of laughter
when he finally brought the horse down to a fast walk. The
drenching shower changed to a light patter.

“I would not have let you fall, Miss
Kittridge, fear not.”

“I trust you, my lord.”

“Do you, now? Is that wise?”

“I trust you to deliver us back to the
cottage, at least,” she said, joining him in laughter. Sunlight
broke through the clouds and bounced off the wildflowers,
glittering in the now light mist of rain. She looked up at him. The
sunlight had turned his eyes a clear green.

“Ah, Miss Kittridge, I warned you I cannot be
trusted around dimples,” he said, as she experienced the full
intensity of his expression.

She tried to wipe the smile from her face and
force her lips over her teeth.

“You are failing miserably, you know.”

A giggle escaped her.

“Ah, Miss Kittridge, did you know that you
have two sets of dimples when you attempt to erase the first
pair?”

“You are an out-and-out bounder, sir,” she
said, conceding a full smile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. And then,
suddenly, his gaze moved to her mouth.

“Are you going to kiss me again, Lord
Huntington?” she whispered before she could stop herself. She
cringed privately with embarrassment.

“Are you flirting with me, Miss
Kittridge?”

“Oh—that was very wrong of me.” She shifted
and tried to regain her composure.

“More’s the pity, my dear. But never let it
be said that I allow an opportunity to pass.” He had transferred
the reins to one hand and lifted her chin with the other while
halting the horse.

Did he speak in jest or in earnest? She had
never had any experience to sharpen her wordplay—whereas he was a
master in the trenches of human dialogue. Perhaps he was
excessively gay because of his father’s improvement. Joy overtook
many a person with news of good health. She was very unsure of
herself, not knowing that her very timidity would add fuel to the
fire.

Oh, God, what was he doing? What was he
thinking? Her eyes looked so large in that virginal face of hers.
And he could not embarrass her now by not following through, could
he? She expected a kiss, so he must oblige.
He must
.

His lips touched her beautiful mouth and he
was lost. She tasted of honey toast and roses and rain all bundled
into one small pretty parcel. She opened her mouth tentatively to
his gentle prodding, and he had a great desire to crush her to him.
He felt overwhelmed by her trust in him.

Her skin was so soft and her lips so inviting
and sweet. He lightly nipped her upper lip and touched her slick
hair, with waves more pronounced from the rain. Ah, he wanted just
a little more. Just a very little more.

Without a word, he disentangled her arms from
around his neck, and lowered her to the ground. She said naught as
he dismounted and pulled her back into his arms. Ah, she felt so
very small, but perfect there. He could almost span her tiny waist
with his hands. But she was no child. His palms traveled slowly up
her frame to find perfectly formed breasts filling his hands.

He felt her catch her breath, and looked down
at her upturned face. He saw surprise, and trust, and a great
longing in her expression. He leaned down and kissed her on her
milkand-roses cheek then moved to trace her ear with his tongue.
She again inhaled quickly, and he moved his attention to her
mouth.

“You have the most enticing lips I have ever
seen, Miss Kittridge,” he said , quietly. “As do you, Lord
Huntington,” she said, looking at his mouth.

Her bold response augmented his desire, and
he leaned in to taste her again, but not as tenderly as before. He
kissed her long and deep while stroking her tightened nipples
through the drab-colored wet gown.

A light moan escaped her. He looked at her
half-shut, passion-filled eyes, and felt the greatest desire he had
ever known to take her right there. He stiffened his arms and
rested his forehead on her soaked hair, breathing deeply, trying to
regain a measure of control. What on earth had he been thinking?
This was not the way to keep his word to his father. This was the
path toward broken promises. And his lack of control would hurt
her, the one person he would not harm for the world. The mood was
broken more thoroughly than a giggle in church.