Summer Is for Lovers (13 page)

Chapter 17

Y
ET ANOTHER DELIVERYMAN
knocked on the door by the time Caroline made her way downstairs. She stared in amazement. Bouquets sprouted from every conceivable vase, and even an old, chipped pitcher Bess must have scrounged from a forgotten kitchen cupboard. The fragrance of all those hothouse blooms was dizzying in and of itself, but the knowledge that the combined cost of those already-wilting flowers would have been enough to feed Caroline’s family for at least the next month made her stomach turn.

Her mother looked up from where she was admiring an arrangement of pink clematis and calendula. Her sharp blue gaze settled on the frayed cuffs of Caroline’s sleeves, and her mouth turned down. “Please tell me you are not planning on wearing that gown today, dear.”

Caroline looked down, belligerence welling up inside her. The faded blue print of her dress wasn’t much to look at, she knew. But at least it didn’t pinch her about the shoulders, or squeeze about her neck. “I haven’t another clean dress, Mama.”

“What about your navy serge gown?”

Caroline winced. That ruined garment was tucked under a bush on the beach at her swimming cove. It had seemed safer at the time to keep it there for David’s daily lessons.

She searched her mind for an appropriate explanation. “Er . . . I believe it is ripped.”

Her mother pressed exasperated fingers against both temples. “By the stars, child. Must it
always
be so difficult with you? Go upstairs, right now, and change into something of Pen’s. Her yellow day dress, I think.”

Caroline snorted. “Pen is at least six inches shorter than I am.”

“But she has more of a bosom, dear. Surely that extra fabric will balance out somewhere around your feet.” Mrs. Tolbertson clapped her hands together. “Quickly, as fast as you can. I have a feeling—”

Before her mother could finish the thought, a knock came at the door. Bess peered through the front window. “Heavens,” the servant exclaimed, wiping the window with a corner of her apron and leaning over for a closer look. “It’s a gentleman caller!”

Her mother’s hand crept up to smooth soft, blond curls back from her temples. “So early, these boys are. Why, when I was being courted, no one would have ever dared call before two o’clock.”

“We
are
in Brighton,” Caroline pointed out. And according to the clock she had passed in the upstairs hallway, it was a few minutes past eleven o’clock. Given the predictable heat of the day, the trend of paying early social calls in summer made good sense.

“I am very aware of the fact that we live in Brighton,” Mama said, her voice sharp as the thorns Caroline could see on the nearest bunch of roses. Her mother’s brows pulled down in thought. No doubt she was trying to weigh whether it was better for her youngest daughter to be seen in an unattractive dress that fit, or a prettier one that gaped about the chest and showed far too much ankle.

A regretful sigh escaped her as she eyed Caroline once more. “I suppose the blue will have to do for today. But I declare, our appointment with Madame Beauclerc cannot come soon enough.”

“Mr. Gabriel Adams is here for Miss Caroline,” Bess sang out from the door. The servant stepped back, a surprised hand fluttering about her chest. “Gor, and Mr. Branson too!”

The walk to the parlor would have been awkward enough with one man to deal with, but with two it proved a veritable gauntlet of stilted discourse. Caroline chose her wingback chair out of habit, while Pen cleared three books and a leather-bound journal away from her usual spot. This left the settee for the two men, who sat stiff-backed and bristling on the delicate piece of furniture, trying not to touch each other.

“Thank you for the flowers,” Caroline said, trying to ignore the sight of Mr. Branson’s elbow catching Mr. Adams somewhere in the vicinity of his liver.

“The roses are mine,” Branson said, pushing the words through gritted teeth. “Not that you can find them in that circus of a foyer,” he added under his breath.

“
I
sent the clematis,” Mr. Adams grunted, rubbing his chest and shooting Branson a glare. “Roses are far too predictable.”

The two men began to argue about the merits of choosing flowers. Mr. Branson was of the opinion that garden-reared flowers were superior in form and fragrance. Mr. Adams felt that hothouse flowers conveyed a more appropriate sentiment of worth.

Penelope took advantage of the bickering to lean in close. “Mr. Adams is the c-cousin of a marquess,” she whispered.

Caroline choked back a startled gasp. She at least recalled dancing with the brown-haired young man last night, which was a miracle considering that by the end of the evening, the dances had all started to blur together. Then again, she had danced with him
before
the muck she had made of things with David. But good heavens. What had possessed the cousin of a marquess to ask her to dance last night, much less call on her this morning?

And when had Penelope become such an authority on the lineage of the summer set?

“How did you know that?” she hissed.

Pen’s eyes lit with amusement. “The social section of the
Gazette
, of course.”

Caroline studied the gentleman beneath her lashes as he was battered by Branson’s lengthy verbal discourse on how to select a rose based on the length of its thorns. Mr. Adams had moderately straight teeth. Better than Mr. Branson’s, though not nearly as nice as David Cameron’s.

A wicked voice—her own, not Pen’s—whispered in her ear.
What does it matter how straight they are? Those teeth belong to the cousin of a marquess.

Bess popped her head through the parlor door. “Oh my heavens, miss,” she squeaked, wringing her hands. “Another gentleman has arrived. You’d best come out here for this one, though.”

Caroline excused herself and stepped out of the parlor with a far-too-curious Penelope in tow. She could immediately see why the newest arrival had not been escorted to the parlor to join the others. He was a bit younger than the other men who had called this morning, twenty if she had to hazard a guess, with a thick black mustache and matching sideburns. But despite his tender age, he looked to have been cleaning his plate for most of those years.

His addition to the foyer took up the space of two or three men.

With a great deal of effort, Caroline resurrected the barest memory of waltzing with this bear of a man. The recollection took shape and filled with color and texture. Ah, yes. He had stepped on her toes four times. And asked her for another dance soon after, which she had sidestepped on the grounds of propriety.

Her mother’s wide smile offered a brilliant contrast to the worry line drawn between her brows. Caroline would have laughed, had her still-rolling stomach been up to the task. Apparently her mother’s experience with managing multiple suitors was a matter of quantity, not density.

Pen leaned over to whisper in Caroline’s ear. “Mr. Duffington is the third son of the Earl of B-Beecham.”

Ah. Duffington.
The name clicked into place. Caroline stared in wonder and amazement. Not at Duffington, who, despite his impressive bloodlines and expensive clothing, was not much to look at.

No, Caroline stared at her sister.

An interest in the
Gazette
was something Pen had inherited from their father, but she spent most of her time reading the editorial section. Never once had her sister showed the slightest bit of interest in a social section. Heavens. Caroline wasn’t even sure she realized there
was
a social section in the
Brighton Gazette
.

“Where shall I put the new gent?” Bess asked Mrs. Tolbertson, a bit too loudly. Even as she spoke, Branson and Hamilton tumbled into the foyer, no doubt determined to catch a glimpse of their newest competitor.

Their mother tossed a harried look around the tight space. “The parlor, I should think.”

Bess squawked her objection. “The parlor’s a mite
small
for this many men, don’t you think? They’ll be like a mob of cattle in a curiosity store.”

“Duffington should come back tomorrow,” Mr. Adams interjected. “He was the last to arrive, after all.”

“Yes, and I feel sure he won’t want to miss luncheon,” Mr. Branson added.

“At least I can
afford
luncheon,” Duffington shot back, his dark mustache twitching. “Miss Baxter told my mother that your father’s cut you off again, Branson.”

Branson’s chest puffed up a full three inches. “That wouldn’t be the first rumor Miss Baxter’s gotten wrong. And I am surprised
your
mother even let you off leading strings this morning.”

The temperature in the foyer rose, a consequence of too many bodies, three male egos, and not enough space. Caroline’s temper begged to follow suit. She wanted nothing more than to return to the simple bit of knocking that had roused her from bed. How had the morning devolved into such mayhem? She couldn’t imagine what she had done last night to garner the attention of so many young men. If anything, emboldened by so many glasses of champagne, she had leaned toward being indecorous.

“Perhaps they c-could all go for a walk. Much as yesterday, only as a group,” Penelope piped up.

Six pairs of eyes stared in Pen’s direction, Caroline’s included. The line between their mother’s brows deepened to a furrow.

“But this time I’m g-going as well. I’ll serve as a chaperone.” Pen was already setting her sunbonnet over her fair hair and tying the blue ribbons.

Their mother lifted a hand to flutter about her throat. “I am not sure that is wise with so many—”

“It seems a logical solution,” Caroline interrupted, warming to the idea. If she was to erase the memory of David’s rejection from her mind, she needed to fill her thoughts with other men. In fact, given David’s jaw-gritting insistence that she needed to find her perfect match, she was quite sure he would encourage this activity.

Three gentlemen callers were standing in her foyer, each of them a fine potential match, each one an opportunity that could not be squandered. She had no reason to dislike any of them, save the fact that none of them was David Cameron. And going for a walk was a means of entertaining the lot of them
and
escaping the scent of flowers that threatened to crowd them all out of the foyer.

“It’s a capital idea,” Duffington agreed. “Mother always says a bracing bit of ocean air in the morning does her a world of good.”

Her mother’s creased forehead smoothed out a fraction. “Well,” she said hesitantly. “If the countess enjoys a nice morning walk, I suppose it might be all right.”

Caroline’s fingers closed around the blue silk fabric and the stiff spines of the parasol Penelope held out to her. Her sister’s brave smile reminded her that Penelope’s future was as tangled up in this charade as her own. She was fortunate these men had not been put off by her champagne-drenched antics last night, but she could not afford to make that mistake this morning.

Duffington offered Caroline his arm, clearly determined to be first in line. She placed a tentative hand on the man’s sleeve. His arm felt thick and solid beneath her fingers, but the sensation did not send her senses spinning in the same manner that touching David Cameron’s arm did.

Well, she didn’t need her senses to skitter. She needed to convince one of these fine young men she was someone worth considering.

With her stomach in knots, Caroline forced herself to step out the door on Duffington’s arm. She
and
Penelope needed to make a good impression today, so that one of these men—any of them, really—might be smitten enough to offer for her, and, by necessity, bring her sister along for the keeping.

For her future’s sake, she needed to behave.

Even if all she wanted to do was bolt.

D
AVID STEPPED INTO
Creak’s Bathhouse just before noon and wiped a hand across his already perspiring brow. After his mother’s rough start to the morning, he had insisted on delivering her to her daily appointment himself.

He was relieved to see the place boasted a crisp, medicinal aura. Two white-aproned attendants greeted his mother warmly and answered David’s questions about the risks and benefits of her treatments with a knowledgeable air. There was nothing of the place to send him running for a physician. Indeed, he was left with the thought of whether it might not be prudent to take a restorative bath here himself. His muscles had been bunched and knotted ever since his mother had informed him of Caroline’s stunning success of last night. Apparently, after he had gone home, she had taken him at his literal word and gone off looking for her match.

What did you expect?
Caroline had a role to play. A husband to find.

And there was no doubt he had shoved her in that direction, with a stinging rejection and a few glasses of champagne to hurry her along.

As his mother hobbled through the door into the depths of the stone-walled spa, David turned to the front attendant who was busy behind a counter. “Excuse me.”

Truth be told, he felt a bit silly. Creak’s Bath House was geared toward a female clientele, from the floral print curtains on the window down to the selection of helpful creams beneath the counter, several of which guaranteed an end to unsightly blemishes. Did they even have facilities to accommodate men? He didn’t see a cream that promised to improve a man’s prowess anywhere under the glass.

The bespectacled attendant looked up, a businesslike smile on his face. “Have you come to register for the swimming competition, sir?”

David hesitated. This was something he had not anticipated when he insisted on bringing his mother for her appointment. “Today is the last day to sign up,” the clerk offered. “The larger purse this year has drawn swimmers from all over Britain.”