The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella (6 page)

And so he wandered through the woods without any sign of bread crumbs and cursed himself for a fool.

Until he all but stumbled into the water of a little stream.

“Aha!” he said to no one in particular. But he had not arrived yet. There had been more of a bank in the spot where he’d encountered the lovely Caro. He’d have to follow the stream and see if he could find that same location again.

He set off, frowning at the state of his boots. They were covered in mud. At one time he would have been mortified to subject his boots to such treatment. Today he didn’t particularly care. He’d subject his boots to far worse if it meant kissing Caro again.

Really, his behavior was appalling. He’d kissed women before. Why should he be unable to strip the thought of one very chaste kiss from his mind?

Because kissing Caro Martin had not felt like kissing any other woman. Kissing her had felt like coming home. As much as he wanted to deny it, as much as his mind screamed that nothing about Hellshawe or Kent or the Friar’s House was home, kissing her had felt right. When his lips touched hers, it had seemed he was finally doing what he was meant to all his life.

Which was absurd. He wasn’t Byron or any of those other lovesick poets. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny. Two people joined together in marriage or fell into bed together because of money or land or lust. But none of those applied to Caro. Oh, he lusted after her. That was true enough. How could he not lust after her when she possessed a body that would make any man dry-mouthed? But lust he could control. That kiss had not been born of lust.

“I wondered if you might come.”

He froze and looked up, disoriented at first to see the object of his thoughts standing before him. He looked about and smiled with accomplishment. “I found it.”

“You were looking for this place, then?” she asked. He noted she did not ask if he looked for her.

But of course he had been. And she did look pretty today. She’d worn a yellow and white gown that was a far sight prettier than the drab green one he’d last seen her in. But her petticoats were caked with mud, and she stood rather than lounged on the ground as she had the other day.

Had she dressed for him?

“I was looking for you,” he said.

She pressed her lips together. “Why?”

“Good question. I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I find I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

“I suppose you want to kiss me again.”

Of course he did, but he didn’t like the way she’d said it. The way her eyes tightened as though she expected the worst from him. What the devil had happened to her to give her such a poor opinion of men?

“No,” he said, mentally flogging himself.

She folded her arms across her chest. “You
don’t
want to kiss me again?” She sounded skeptical, as well she should considering he was lying through his teeth.

“I want you to kiss me.”

She emitted a bitter laugh, and he held up a hand. “Only if you want. I’m not in the habit of taking liberties. I would like to kiss you again, but you shall have to be the one to kiss me this time.”

“And if I don’t want to kiss you?”

“Then we won’t kiss. We will simply talk.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You walked all this way to have a conversation with me.”

“No. There’s the view as well.” He lifted a stick and tossed it into the water. “As I said before, it’s pretty here.”

“It’s pretty at the Friar’s House.”

He looked back at her. “You’re not at the Friar’s House. I enjoy our conversation, although I realize it is a bit one-sided.”

She lowered her arms and moved closer to him, toeing a white pebble half buried in the ground. “How so?”

“You never tell me about you.”

Her body tensed again, and her look turned wary. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“I suppose I shall have to share my news, then.” He crouched beside the water and watched it ripple by. Had it been his imagination or was that the flick of an orange tail? A fish? Overhead, birds chirped, and he imagined he might find a frog if he searched hard enough.

“What is your news?”

“The committee has decided,” he said with an air of exaggerated pomp and circumstance. “I am to judge the Hemshawe Fair Wine-Tasting.”

“That is quite an honor.”

“One I don’t particularly want. After all, someone will win and everyone else will lose, and I do so hate to make enemies.”

“Oh, not to worry. The worst the losers will do is mutter about you behind your back.”

“That’s not my only concern.” He lifted a long stick and poked it into the water, testing the depth of the stream.

“Oh?”

“I must admit that I have a prejudice.” He could see her smiling at him, the look on her face one that said she thought he was quite amusing. He was glad he could amuse her. He liked to see her smile. “I think all British wine is rubbish.”

“Perhaps you should have informed the committee.”

“I tried, but Miss Gage shot daggers at me with her eyes every time I opened my mouth.”

“She terrifies you, does she? All six stone of her.”

“Clearly, Wellington is fortunate I was not at Waterloo. The battle might have gone the wrong way.”

She perched daintily on a log that looked as though it had been dragged near the stream for precisely that purpose. “You’re wrong, you know.”

He stood. “Wellington could have used me at Waterloo?”

“No.” She laughed. “I suspect Wellington never missed you. You’re wrong about British wine. You may accuse me of prejudice, since my father has his own vineyard, but I would argue our pinot noir is as good as, if not better than, any other you’ve tasted.”

“That was rather forcefully stated.”

“I have strong opinions about wine.”

“A promising quality in a woman. Be careful, Miss Martin. I just might fall in love with you.” He’d been teasing her, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. This wasn’t some courtesan who could laugh about love. This was a country miss who probably fantasized about marrying the man of her dreams.

To his surprise, she laughed. “Oh, I have no fear you will ever fall in love with me, Mr. Lochley. Or I you, for that matter.”

To his further surprise, her words annoyed him. Of course, he would never fall in love with her, but why wouldn’t she fall in love with him? Wasn’t he handsome enough? Wasn’t he charming? Hadn’t he made her laugh?

“I do think you might fall in love with our wine,” she went on, unaware of his thoughts. “I’d bring you a bottle, but I don’t want to influence the wine-tasting outcome. It’s a very important event for the vintners in the region.”

He hadn’t thought of the tasting in those terms. Of course it was important to these people, whose livelihood partially depended on the sale of wine.

“I shall endeavor to do my best to judge,” he said, solemnly—only mentally adding
the worst of the worst
.

“Would you like to taste one of our ales?”

“You brew ale?”

“Of course. Many people in this area do. In fact, my father’s family has been brewing ale since the days of my great-great-grandfather. The family has only been making wine for a hundred years or so.”

The wine must be tolerable if people had bought it for the last hundred years. Of course, he’d tasted awful wines from vineyards even older.

“I’m no great judge of ale, but I’d be honored to taste your family’s. Shall I call on you and your father?”

“No!” She cut her hand across her body, her face draining of all color. “You cannot.”

“I haven’t been in Hemshawe long, but I wasn’t aware calling on a lady was a scandalous tradition in this part of England.”

She sighed. “It’s not. I-it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’ll bring the ale here. Will you meet me again?”

She
was arranging a rendezvous with him in the woods and eschewing a traditional visit? What could he say? He’d never enjoyed the ritual of the drawing room. On the other hand, he had the feeling she hid something. Was she wretchedly poor? Did they have a mad old aunt hidden in the cellar?

“I’ll come tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” she said. “I have to go into Tunbridge Wells with my mother. The day after.”

He inclined his head. “I am yours to command.”

“I should return.” She bobbed a curtsey that looked out of place among the trees and beside the stream bank. “Good day, Mr. Lochley.”

“Good day.”

And then she was gone, and she hadn’t even tried to kiss him.

***

S
he hated summer. It seemed half of London poured into the countryside, and those who didn’t venture to Brighton or Bath came to Tunbridge Wells. The shops and streets were busy with tourists, and she and her mother had to fight through the crowds. Her mother’s shopping had taken longer than expected as a result, and it was almost time for dinner when they reached their last stop.

It was the apothecary’s shop, where her mother often stopped to buy salves and tonics for her husband’s weak knee. It often pained him when there had been more rain than usual or when he’d been on his feet too much.

“If you don’t mind, Mama, I will wait out here.”

Her mother opened her mouth to protest and then gave an understanding nod. The apothecary’s wife was one of those nosy women who always asked pointed questions about the time Caro had been away. Caro was well aware most of the people who knew her believed she had gone away to birth a bastard. How she wished that were the truth of it. The apothecary’s wife was one of those who probably started the rumor, and she was always looking to add fuel to the speculation.

Caro didn’t understand why, after three years, the people in the village could not find anyone or anything else to gossip about. She supposed that was the curse of the country—nothing very exciting or different ever happened. Until a cow birthed a calf with two heads or the Americans invaded, she was destined to be the topic of discussion.

Her mother opened the door to the shop, and the bell tinkled. Caro positioned herself and her basket off to the side so as not to impede anyone walking by. Across the street was a small shop that sold ices and other confections. She used to go there with her friends when they met in Tunbridge Wells or before attending a public assembly.

Looking across, she saw many ladies in fine gowns milling about outside. She knew Miss Peterson and Miss Rogers and had once called them friends. She’d heard there would be an assembly tonight, and she supposed the ladies were meeting beforehand to discuss the festivities. Most of the other ladies were a few years younger than she, the younger sisters of her friends. Her friends had married by now and had babies or moved away.

Not that they were her friends any longer. Miss Peterson and Miss Rogers and every other friend had abandoned her when she’d returned from London and the rumors began. She spotted Miss Gage and her companion, but the young woman was entering the shop and didn’t see her. Probably for the best, else Miss Gage would be called to task by the matrons who charged themselves with keeping the social order.

A group of gentlemen dressed in their finest passed by her, chatting loudly. From their swaggers and the slight slur of their speech, they’d obviously been drinking. They weren’t too deep in their cups yet, but she stepped back and out of their way. To her dismay, the group of five or so paused in front of the apothecary, where they spoke in hushed tones.

She could imagine the topic of their conversation—they probably hoped to acquire French letters—and she lifted her baskets and moved around the side of the building so as not to be embarrassed if they realized she might have overheard.

She’d just set her baskets on the ground again when two men rounded the building and stopped before her. They were both in their early twenties and wore evening dress with beaver hats perched atop their heads. They were clean-shaven, though one of them had a set of curly mutton chops decorating his cheeks. The other was fair-haired with a tight mouth that seemed to sneer.

“I told you it was her,” Mutton Chops said in an upper-class accent. He pointed his walking stick at her. “You probably don’t recognize her with her clothes on.”

An icy blade seemed to cut into her lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe.

“She was one of Rosie’s?” the one with the sneer asked.

“No, she was at the Den.”

No
, Caro thought.
No
,
please, no.

“
Oh
,” the blond let the word drag out. “What’s your name, gel? Seems it was something like Carlotta or Charlotte.”

Caro shook her head, trying to look past them and hoping against hope her mother had emerged from the shop. But she knew it was futile. The apothecary’s wife loved to talk, and she would keep her mother inside at least a quarter of an hour.

“Can’t you speak?” Mutton Chops asked, poking her with the walking stick. Caro shoved it away.

“Oh, this one has claws,” the blond said with a sneer. “It must be one of the girls from the Den. Why don’t you come with us and show us your claws in private?”

Her throat felt as if it had closed up, but she managed to squeeze out two words. “Go away.”

“Go away?” Mutton Chops asked. “Why would we do that when we’ve just found a bit of fun?”

She cleared her throat and tried to swallow. “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.”

But she did know them. She couldn’t remember them clearly—there had been too many men—but she knew their breed, their ilk. They were like fat cats who had found a juicy mouse to bat about. They would not allow her to go. She realized they’d been moving closer to her, and she’d been moving back, and the shop and her mother were becoming farther and farther away. She could not allow them to corner her alone and out of sight, or they’d surely have their
fun
until they grew tired of her and tossed her a few coins.

She couldn’t allow that to happen. Never again.

“I think you do know us, little wench. I recognize those blue eyes and that sweet mouth. Show me what you can do with that mouth.”

“Stop.” She held up a hand. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you are mistaken. I live with my family in Hemshawe. I’ve never been to London.”