The Mammoth Book Of Regency Romance Part 73

The only other people in the room now were servants, most of them hired by Philippa on his behalf since he no longer made Frieth House his primary home. He'd come back to North Baslemere for a number of reasons. This was his birthplace, for one, and he had deep and lasting connections here despite the changes in his life. For another, Philippa was going to remarry, and he wanted to celebrate the happy event when she and her prospective groom formally announced their news.

"Not too tired to walk a little more, I hope?" He c.o.c.ked his head in the direction of the terrace door and looked at her sideways. She'd taken a great deal of care with her appearance tonight. Something he hadn't noticed before, what with the excitement of a party so perfectly managed he'd had nothing to do but enjoy himself. Pink roses! "Did I remember to compliment your appearance?" This wasn't flattery, he told himself. "If I didn't, you have permission to shoot me."

"No, Alec, I don't believe you did." These days Philippa was the only person to call him by his given name. He rather liked the informality. From her. She held out her hand, and he took it as she rose. "A breath of air would be delightful."

Now that he'd spent time in London, he saw Philippa with a more experienced eye. She was not quite beautiful, but she had something that appealed. Her looks were in no way inferior, but her confidence, her utter satisfaction with herself as she was, made her interesting for more than her face and figure. During his time away, he had learned that even perfection was tedious in a woman one did not otherwise admire.

She glanced at him, mercifully unaware of his inventory of her physical attributes. Christ. London and its courtesans had made him a lech before he was thirty. What business had he noticing her that way? Before she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, she adjusted her shawl and in the process gave him a flash of bare shoulder. He hadn't seen her in an evening gown before, and, well, this close to her and with none of his earlier distractions, he could see her skin was perfectly smooth and white from her forehead to her bosom.

They continued to the set of double doors that led to the terrace, leaving the servants to the task of cleaning up. If it were daylight they would be able to see the roses that had been his mother's pride while she lived here, before his sisters had given their mother grandchildren upon which to dote.

"I've asked a maid to make up a room for you," he said. They were outside now and crossing the terrace. He'd also never realized she was as delicate as she was, though one also had to take into account the fact that he was a bigger man now, taller and broader through the shoulders than when he'd left North Baslemere.

"It's not so late," she said. "I'll walk home."

"Nonsense." He put his hand over hers. "I won't hear of it."

Philippa tilted her head in his direction. "I'm not sure that's wise, My Lord."

"What isn't wise?"

"My staying the night."

"Why ever not? You're family." Even before the words were out, he understood, with a disconcerting thump of his heart, what she meant. He'd thought of her as an older sister for years and years. Twenty-five years, to be exact. But she wasn't his sister. Appearances were everything, and if she stayed the night, a youthful widow in the home of a London buck, there might be unpleasant speculation.

A rather explicit image popped into his head. Him covering her, thrusting into her, while she held him tight against her naked body.

Good G.o.d. Had he gone entirely mad?

"And yet, not family." She adjusted her shawl.

"If not family, then fast friends." Dane had the oddest conviction that he'd somehow stepped out of time and that now nothing was familiar to him. Not his childhood home. Not this terrace or the garden he'd grown up with. Not even Philippa, who he admired as a friend.

"Yes," she said, tightening her hand on his arm. "We are friends, aren't we? Lifelong friends." They stopped at the furthest edge of the terrace. She took a deep breath of the night air.

Dane who, by coincidence, happened to be looking down, saw the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against her neckline. In his out-of-place mood, he thought of s.e.x. With Philippa. And that sent another jolt of heat through him.

Two.

Jesus. He'd gone mad. Thank G.o.d she had her eyes closed because he was still looking and thinking thoughts that ought not be in his head.

She lifted her hands towards the night sky. "It is lovely out, isn't it?"

"Yes." He clasped his hands behind his back and tried to ignore his so awkward awareness of her as a woman instead of as Philippa, who, in the pages of her letters to him, had often possessed no gender at all.

The bodice of her gown was green satin with a matching bow beneath her bosom and two wide, ta.s.selled ribbons hanging down nearly to the hem of her white muslin skirts. Her slippers matched the green. The hue complemented her hair and eyes. As for the bare skin on display, well, in London he'd learned he was a man who admired a woman's bosom. Maybe that explained his plunge into madness. Long legs were nice, of course, but to have one's eyes and hands and mouth engaged with a woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, there was his particular notion of sensual paradise.

What he could see of Philippa's b.r.e.a.s.t.s was very nice.

"My Lord?"

"Mm?"

She tapped his arm with her fan. "Gathering wool, Alec?"

He tore his gaze from her chest and his thoughts from the bedroom in which he had privately ensconced them while he undressed her. She was too polite to let on if she'd noticed him leering at her like some satyr from the forest deep. "I beg your pardon." He cleared his throat. "Lost in the clouds, I suppose."

"Did I see you speaking to Captain Bancroft earlier?" The crack of her fan opening startled him.

Captain Bancroft was the man she was going to marry. "Yes," he said carefully. "We did speak."

Inside, the servants were putting out the candles and lamps that had made the ballroom blaze, so their spot on the terrace was slowly receding into darkness. She glanced towards the roses. "To think I held you in my arms when you were hardly three weeks old. I was six, and so proud to be allowed to hold the baby."

Yes, he thought with immense relief. This was exactly the direction their conversation needed to take. Talk of him in nappies and his hair all curls. "Did you ever imagine I would turn out as I have?"

She faced him, her expression serious. Composed. How had he never noticed her mouth before? Such a lovely, soft mouth. "I've loved you since that day," she said. She was so sure of herself. So certain that her opinion held weight and consequence. She was right, of course. He cared very much what she thought.

He found this confidence of hers attractive. In fact, he'd sought that very quality in the lovers he'd taken. The few there had been. Dane was certain Philippa would be confident in his arms. She would do exactly as she wished, convinced she was ent.i.tled to her pleasure, too. G.o.d save him from women who merely accepted.

Her shawl slid off her shoulders, and she brought the ends forwards so more of the material hung from the crooks of her elbows. "I loved you as if you were my own." She tipped her head towards him. Philippa, he was quite sure, had no difficulty keeping him in his proper place. "And yes, I expected all along that you would turn out well. I never doubted for a moment."

"I did."

She c.o.c.ked her head. Always so serious. "I suppose we all doubt ourselves to some degree or another, don't you think?"

"Or else we're insufferable, yes." He brought her closer to his side, and she leaned in towards him. Philippa rarely smiled, and she did not now. He wondered what he could do to change that. She lifted her chin, eyebrows arched when their gazes locked. The deep awareness in her eyes was exactly as he recalled. "I've never thought you doubted yourself," he said. "Why?"

"Oh, yes," she said, and he fancied she sounded sad. "Quite often."

"But why?" he asked in a low voice. He lifted a hand to touch her cheek, but didn't. "Why so sad, Philippa?" he whispered. "What's made you so melancholy tonight?"

She kept her torso turned towards him. His heart skipped a beat. "If I ask you a question, Alec, will you answer me honestly?"

Dane considered that. While she awaited his reply, in the distance, someone's hound bayed. He'd learned a thing or two in London. "I cannot promise you that, Philippa." Her fingers remained on his arm, and he reached over and placed his palm over the top of her hand. "There are subjects about which no gentleman should ever be frank." Somehow, that seemed the wrong thing to say. "When a lady is concerned."

Her mouth thinned. "It's London that's done this to you. Isn't it?"

He froze in fear of her remonstrance against his immodest leers. h.e.l.l, he was looking even now. She knew the inappropriate direction of his thoughts. She'd always been one to divine his thoughts. "Done what?"

She looked . . . wistful. "Made you so infernally wise." She studied him. "I felt it in your letters, you know." The edge of her mouth quirked down. "Such wisdom in a man so young."

He laughed. His amus.e.m.e.nt didn't bring a smile to her mouth and it didn't dispel his odd mood, either.

She shook her head. "I'm serious, Alec." She took a step away, almost as if she were dancing with him. Her gloved hand fell slowly to her side. They hadn't danced that night. Not even once. That seemed a pity to him now. "Your opinion matters a great deal to me."

He pulled on his cuffs, but he looked at her from under his lowered eyes. "What wisdom I have is at your disposal."

"It's about Captain Bancroft."

His heart sank. If he told her the truth, she might never forgive him. "Ask me something simpler. Please."

Her mouth curved; at last a smile. For a moment he succeeded in making her back into the Philippa he'd been writing to all these years. The older woman with a life completely separate from his own. The illusion did not last long. "What would be the good of that, My Lord?"

She turned away, facing the garden and the shadowed forms of the roses. Her shawl drooped to her waist at the back. He found himself staring at the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. Another green satin bow nestled below her shoulder blades. A tendril of her hair had loosened from the curls at the back of her head and dangled just above her nape.

He stood behind her. Close enough to touch that so pale skin. Enough that he could see the curve of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Ask me your question, then, and I'll answer as honestly and politically as I can."

Philippa bowed her head, then faced him again. Her tongue came out and tapped her lower lip just once. Dane steadied himself. They were friends. They'd practically grown up together. There had never, in all those years, been so much as a hint of s.e.xual attraction between them. Not once.

"I think you're my only friend." Her eyes opened wide, and she was looking at him. Really at him, and he knew whatever she asked, he would give her the truth. "The only one whose opinion I trust." She came close enough to rest her hand on his arm. He breathed in the scent of her perfume. "Is it not peculiar that you're the only person I can think of who understands?"

"What is it you want to ask me about Captain Bancroft?"

She sighed and for a moment looked so miserable his heart broke for her. "You met him tonight. Spoke with him for a while?"

Dane nodded.

Her eyes surveyed his face. There was really no hope of him getting out of this. She'd always been able to tell when he was lying. "What was your opinion of him?"

He steeled himself against a reaction that would betray him before he had a chance to understand why she was asking. "Answer me this first, do you love him?"

She looked away, and he put a finger to her chin and brought her face back to his. His finger had a mind of its own for it slid along the edge of her jaw from the underside of her chin to the point just beneath her ear. Such soft, soft skin.

A part of him was aware that in touching her like this he'd begun a slide into intimacy that would take them well past friendship, if he let it.

"Come now." He was aware that his touch was a lover's touch and that his voice . . . Well . . . He'd spoken to lovers in just such a voice, hadn't he? "Your letters mentioned him often enough. If you love him, you don't need my opinion."

"Why not?" Her mouth firmed. "Why shouldn't I ask your opinion of the man I might marry?"

Might.

"If you feel guilty for loving a man who is not your late husband, you shouldn't."

She blinked several times, and he felt like a heel for his inappropriate reaction. He pulled his clean handkerchief from his pocket and put it into her free hand while she sniffled. "I don't know. Sometimes I think . . ."

He took his hand away from her face and, somehow, his errant fingers ended up on her shoulder. On the skin bared by her gown.

The lights in the ballroom were doused now, and he and Philippa stood in shadowed night. He stroked her shoulder and ended up following the line of her collarbone. He shouldn't be touching her, and yet he was. And she wasn't moving away. Curious.

"It is difficult to be a woman alone," she said. She gazed at him. "What was your opinion of him?" Her fingers squeezed the life out of his handkerchief. "The truth. Please."

Dane sighed. The raw truth was that he hadn't liked Captain Bancroft at all. "He struck me as reserved."

Her hand tightened around his arm. "Unvarnished truth, Alec."

G.o.d, yes. If he took her to bed, she would take what she wanted from him. For the first time since the thought had come into his head, he thought perhaps he ought to.

Philippa's gaze was steady on him. "I am a grown woman and quite capable of coming to my own conclusions whatever you say about him. You won't convince me of anything I don't already suspect."

"Very well." He ought to put more s.p.a.ce between them. He didn't. "I thought him cold and condescending and insincere in his interactions with me."

She sighed. "He is a proud man. That is a fault of his, I know. But he admires me, and I suppose I am to be flattered by that."

"He would be mad not to admire you." There. Unvarnished truth. "It's a good match, Philippa. That's what others are saying."

"And you? What do you say?"

"That a man like him will do his duty." He wanted to help her, to make her life turn out as it should, with her safe and happy and secure. She was right a woman alone, especially a beautiful woman like Philippa, well, there were always difficulties for a woman in her situation. "He'll look after you."

She gave a tight nod. "He's an honourable man."

"Yes."

Philippa looked at the sky as if a consultation with the moon would help her through whatever she was thinking. "Shall I make you a confession?"

He took a step closer to her. "You know you may."

"I do not admire him as I ought."

He didn't answer right away and, when he found words, they weren't the ones he'd planned to say to her. "Do you love him, Philippa?"

She walked away from the house. He went after her, stopping her with a hand to her shoulder. She halted, head bowed. In a low voice, she said, "Life is often more complicated than one wishes it to be."

Dane stood behind her, scant inches between them. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't marry him, Philippa," he said into the dark. "Not if you don't love him. Not if he can't make you happy."

"There's a great deal to admire in him." Her voice stayed low. "He commanded a ship of the line and was twice commended for bravery, you know."

Again he trailed his index finger along the top of her shoulder. He watched the tip of his finger moving along her skin. So soft, her skin was. "More unvarnished truth for you, Philippa." He breathed in. "I didn't like him."

More lights inside the house had been extinguished. They were now standing in full darkness, with the moon bright in a cloudless sky casting shadows on to shadows. And he was touching her as a lover might.

"I've met officers who served with him." She didn't move. No shrug to dislodge his fingers. No step away. "They were sincere in their admiration of him."

He thought of Captain Bancroft, his dreary grey eyes and the disdain that oozed from him whenever he smiled. Daring you to believe the smile when the truth was in his eyes. "He's a prig."

Philippa turned around and they gazed at each other in the dark, with moonlight and the quiet falling soft around them. The light silvered her hair and deepened the shadows beneath her collarbones and between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her mouth twitched. "I daresay he is."

He slid his finger along the side of her throat and by now there was really no denying his caress. She didn't move. He didn't stop touching her; the rest of his fingers followed. Along the side of her jaw, the top of her cheekbone. Beneath the ripeness of her lower lip.

"I ought to marry him." She turned her head away, towards the darkness, and Dane drew a finger along the neckline of her gown and, after a moment more, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the side of her throat, breathing in the scent of verbena that clung to her skin. After one more moment, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.