Her pupils were dilated, her eyes dark pools, and she was breathing a little faster now, her velvet-covered breasts rising and falling, just a few inches away from where his leather-clad hands still held her. He could feel the tension vibrating through her frame, just as it was through his, and though he should let go of her, by every rule and tenet of society and morality and decency, he simply couldn’t. He was paralysed with a bolt of sudden, overwhelming desire, so strong it was almost painful; if he made any sort of movement, he feared it wouldn’t be to let her go, but to pull her close. He wanted very badly to move his hands down her body. The tree trunk was at her back, and he wanted, needed, to push her against it as his mouth claimed hers. He wanted to lose himself in her, to forget everything but his desire to touch and be touched, to know and be known. He thought – though of course he could not be sure of it – that she wanted it too. He wanted the length of his body pressed hard against hers from shoulder to ankle, his hands exploring her, his tongue in her mouth and hers in his, their breath mingling, her hands on him too, under his coat, under his waistcoat, under his shirt. Damn the park and everybody in it. Damn the people and the horses and the whole polite world of London. He didn’t care if they suspected, or even if they saw. The thought of being skin to skin with her…
He didn’t do it. He stepped away, releasing her, and with an effort of will as powerful as any he’d ever exerted in his life before, he didn’t let his hands slide down her body for one precious, forbidden caress before he moved away. One caress could never be enough, and must lead to more. To disaster.
He said, ‘This is madness.’ Even as he spoke, he didn’t know what he was referring to – her crazy scheme to masquerade as a boy, a momentary impulse to kiss her that he hadn’t, after all, indulged, or so much more.
12
Meg took off her pelisse and flung it haphazardly on her bed – on Maria’s bed, in Maria’s chamber, which she was occupying in this strange interlude to her life. She had encountered her father in the hall once more as she entered – it was not always possible to avoid him – but he had merely looked at her vaguely, as if uncertain who she was and what she was doing in his house. It would be sensible, she thought now, to ask herself the same question. What, precisely, was she about? Collapsing onto the stool that sat in front of her sister’s dressing table, she gazed at her flushed, muslin-clad reflection in the old, spotted mirror.
She had known that Sir Dominic was about to kiss her. He’d been so angry with her – quite unreasonably, she thought – and he’d taken hold of her, intending to use the shockingly unconventional physical contact to stop her in her tracks, to catch and hold her attention so that he might impress upon her the seriousness of what he was saying. He’d had no other intention, she believed, than a frustrated need to make hersee. But as soon as he’d laid hands on her, everything had changed.
There’d already been a highly charged atmosphere between them as they’d quarrelled – or as he’d quarrelled with her, for she’d never lost her temper though her heart had been racing. But he’d let his barriers down for once and shown her the genuine feeling that he hid beneath that perpetually cool, languid exterior – even if the feeling, in this particular instance, had been intense irritation. He’d been highly agitated, which she guessed was not a common state for him. And though she had been, and still was, convinced that she was in the right, she could not be unmoved by so much unbridled emotion in one normally so cool and restrained, and she the focus of it. His anger, after all, had been unselfish, provoked by nothing more than concern for her safety and her reputation. He might be mistaken, but he cared what happened to her, and not in a general way, but in a very personal manner. He was – protective, that was the word. Though she didn’t need protection, she also couldn’t deny that his concern gave her an unaccustomed warm feeling.
Then, too, she must admit to herself – her mother was a highly unconventional parent, but she asked above all that Meg be honest in her dealings with others and with herself – that being driven by Sir Dominic in his high-perch phaeton had been an unsettling experience for her. Not unsettling, that was to understate it: exciting. Arousing. They’d been pressed knee to knee, thigh to thigh, swaying perilously high in the air in the ridiculously fragile little body of his carriage, and only his skill, she knew, had kept them from danger. From death, even. He’d been obliged to moderate their speed, in the crowded London streets and then the park, with so many other vehicles around them, but if he’d had a clear road, he could have let the bays fly in thrilling motion. How wonderful that must be, how freeing. She could understand why he plainly loved it so, and it was all too easy to imagine sharing that pleasure and exhilaration with him. Not to mention other, less public forms of pleasure.
There was no way, looking at it objectively, that one man, however strong, could physically control two high-spirited horses if they chose to break free. It was a sort of magic, something that shouldn’t work but did – a mixture of training, on the horses’ part, and confident mastery, on his. Such competence must always be highly attractive, and he was so much more than competent. She’d been watching him secretly from under her lashes: his strong hands in their tan leather gloves, loose and seemingly casual on the ribbons; his grey eyes, measuring and assessing risk instinctively at every moment, his broad, powerful shoulders in his many-caped driving coat. Some part of her mind – or perhaps not her mind at all – had been wondering if he’d consent to teach her this mystery, and if doing so would involve his wrapping his arms about her, pressing his hard thigh even closer to hers, putting his arms about her and hands on hers, guiding them. That was an intoxicating thought…
It was, all in all, a heady brew. Perhaps that was partly why something electric and intense had sprung so rapidly to life between them, when, surely without realising what he might be unleashing, he’d overstepped the mark so shockingly and touched her.
The fault was his, then – since he could not know her private thoughts – but she must share some part of the blame, because she had not pulled away instantly as she should have done. He’d have apologised profusely, if she had; would have confessed his frustration with her stubbornness and his desperate desire to convince her that he was right and she was wrong. But she’d stood there in his grasp and looked up at him, and when his eyes had dropped to her mouth, dark with sudden desire, she’d known what he wanted. And she’d wanted it too. It must have been written clearly on her face for him to read.
His big hands on her… Possibly he’d been unconscious of it, but they’d not been still. They’d moved on her body, an almost imperceptible caress, his palms pressing her shoulders with just the right amount of firmness, his fingers and his thumbs making little circles on the velvet of her pelisse. Leather and velvet, linen and lawn, and warm skin beneath it, blood beating hard in both their veins. Little circles of fire, as his touch ignited heat in her, and delicious tingling sensations that spread down her arms, down her body. Her nipples had been hard under her chemise, gown and pelisse, craving his touch. The space of empty air between them had felt both impossibly large and tormentingly small, and it had taken all her willpower to prevent herself from breaching it in nature’s oldest way, by melting into his arms, moulding her soft curves to his hard body in what he surely would have recognised as an invitation, whether conscious or unconscious, on her part. Would he have been shocked? She had no idea. She was a little shocked herself, at the strength of the impulse. He was a virtual stranger, this man, and he was engaged to be married to her sister. Her missing sister.
Meg was not naïve. She had not led Maria’s sheltered life of a town-bred lady of quality, a proper schoolroom miss, walking to church two by two in a file of obedient femininity and never seeing a man apart from the finicky dancing master or the stout old teacher of singing. Meg had grown up in the countryside for the past five years, under her mother’s loving but undeniably casual, distracted supervision. She’d climbed trees and stolen apples, had swum naked in the river, and lost her heart, or a great part of it, to her constant companion in adventures. To Will.
It had always been clear to her that she wasn’t going to live the life of a debutante and then a prim and proper society wife, and so the idea of preserving her reputation had seemed ridiculous to her. Preserving it for what? She didn’t know what her future held. She hadn’t Maria’s fortune – which freed her from some pressures but brought other ones – and if she cherished a dream of writing stories that others would want to read, as her mother did, she knew how precarious living by one’s pen could be.
Marriage had always seemed like something that happened to other people. To Maria, perhaps, in all her meek, dreamy, ladylike perfection, but not to her. Her parents’ union had been no sort of example to follow, and besides, she and Will, her childhood friend and later sweetheart, had never even discussed it. He was destined for a life as a substantial farmer, following in his father’s footsteps, and that was all he wanted. He’d never tried to hide it, or to share her enthusiasm when she’d spoken of travelling and seeing all the world had to offer. What Meg’s destiny might be remained unclear, but it wasn’t to be mistress of Appletree Farm, supervising her maidservants and putting meals on the table for her husband and his men when they came home hungry from the fields, fretting if the weather was too hot and the butter wouldn’t churn. There was nothing wrong with such a life, but it wasn’t for her, and not because she was a lady and too good for it. That was nonsense. Lady or not, she’d be bad at it, that was the plain truth, and would make herself miserable, and Will too. If she’d loved him, or loved him enough to set herself and her own dreams aside, she might have learned, but she’d still never have achieved the casual competence of someone born to do it. And there were things she wanted – experiences, a taste of freedom – that Will and Appletree Farm could never give her. In his turn, he deserved better than someone who’d always be subtly discontented with her life, and him, and must make him unhappy too because of it. They’d both known all this, without having to speak of it.
So over the last few months they had drifted apart by slow degrees. She’d stopped climbing out of her window at night to meet him in the barn or in the orchard, and this spring, when she’d gone swimming by moonlight, cold water silky and enticing on her naked skin, she’d gone alone. She still saw him, in the village or the lanes, but they greeted each other as old friends now, and she thought he was a fair way to forgetting they’d ever been anything more. She missed his lazy smile and the feeling of his strong arms about her, she missed the way his long-lashed brown eyes closed and his breath caught when she pleasured him, and God, she missed his fingers or his mouth bringing her to a place where she lost herself in pure sensation. They’d learned all this together, and perhaps now some wild and foolish part of her was sorry that they’d always been cautious – had given way to passion up to a point, but always held back from the final and most dangerous intimacy. That would never happen now, not with Will. But no, she had nothing to regret – that truly would have been folly.
One warm spring evening a few weeks ago, when they had both been sitting quietly writing, words coming easily for Meg and the smell of apple blossom and green growing things sneaking in through the open casements, her mother had set down her own pen and said as much. ‘It’s for the best, my dear. I know it’s hard, but it would never have worked. You don’t want the same things in life.’ She’d looked up, startled, about to utter an instinctive denial, but Lady Nightingale had said, ‘Just because I haven’t spoken of it doesn’t mean I haven’t known. Given me credit for my fair share of intelligence. I have always had a great deal of respect for your good sense, Meg – you chose well, for your first experiences of life, and you’ve chosen to end it at the right time. For both of you.’
She was speechless for a moment. ‘You astonish me, Mama. I can’t believe you’ve known about Will all along and said nothing. What would you have done if I’d come to you one day in tears and told you I was with child?’
‘Scolded you for being so careless, and then held you and reassured you that it wasn’t the end of the world. Dealt with it. Found a way. What have women always done, in such circumstances?’
‘I’m not,’ she hastened to add. ‘I couldn’t be, I never could have been.’
‘As I said,’ her mother responded tranquilly, ‘I have always had a great deal of respect for your good sense. I don’t say you would never throw your cap over the windmill. I’m sure you’re quite capable of it, as are most women, but not for Will Powell.’
‘You are an extraordinary creature, Mama,’ she said.
‘Of course I am, my dear, and so are you. Never forget that.’
Perhaps, Meg thought now, she was missing Will, missing his touch, and that was all. This past harsh winter had allowed what they’d shared for the last three years or so to wither and die; they’d never been able to meet all that often when the nights were long and cold, and this winter they’d stopped altogether, so that it was a long time since she’d kissed or been kissed, or felt a man’s hands on her body and known herself desired.
But it was summer now. She’d put away her sensible, ugly stuff gowns and her thick flannel petticoats, and she was acutely conscious of her physical self, restless, unsatisfied, in Maria’s flimsy silk or muslin finery. The gowns she wore now were lower cut and more clinging than anything she’d ever worn before, and under them she wore short stays, which she rarely bothered with at home, which offered up her breasts in a way designed, she thought, deliberately to tantalise. Looking like this, for the first time, it tantalised her too, and made her excessively aware of her animal being and its needs. It had been a while since she’d realised that she was a sensualist in her deepest nature, acutely conscious of the feel of fabrics – rough or smooth – on her skin, the silky touch of water, even the breath of air across her exposed neck. She shivered, sitting at her sister’s neat dressing table, her body taut with unfulfilled desire and the memories of Sir Dominic’s hands on her, his eyes dark with longing, his muscular body so temptingly close…
She was always conscious now ofhimin particular, and if men didn’t want you to look at them, they shouldn’t wear snowy white shirts, coats that fitted them like gloves, and buckskin riding breeches. They shouldn’t have muscular thighs in those tight breeches, and beautifully glossy, well-washed hair that almost begged to be touched. They shouldn’t smell wonderful and wear shiny leather boots. (What was it about the boots?) There had been periods in history – she was well-educated, she knew such things – when men had dressed in a ridiculous manner, with long curly wigs, patches on their painted faces and all manner of ribbons and bows about their persons. When, despite all their satins and embroidery, they had scarcely washed. And still women had wanted them, presumably, though she had no idea why, other than the undeniable fact that nature was the most powerful of forces. But she’d had the fortune – she couldn’t say whether it was good or bad – to be born now, in the age of clean linen and broad, blatantly muscular shoulders, and those damn boots.
If she’d been able to go to Will and demand with the confidence of all that lay between them that he pleased her, gave her release just one last time, perhaps she’d not have felt this unexpected yearning for Sir Dominic. Perhaps.
But after all, nothing had really happened today in the park. They had not kissed. He had barely touched her, and she had not laid hands on him at all, let alone pulled him close and… Though she regretted this, though her imagination insisted upon picturing variations upon it, she should not.
Nothing had really happened, she told herself again. Her sister’s fiancé had given way to her calm insistence, in the end, and admitted that she of all people must be party to what happened tonight. She couldn’t go as a young lady, as Maria – he was so far right. She really couldn’t risk being seen and recognised as Miss Nightingale. She’d be ruined – more importantly, her sister would be. So it made sense that she disguised herself as a boy. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen the reason in what she’d said, or if what had flared up between them and so nearly overwhelmed them both had shaken him so much that he’d not had the power to refuse her any longer. Perhaps he’d been worried that if they’d continued to argue he really would have ended by pushing her up against the tree and kissing her till the world reeled about them. She didn’t care why he’d changed his mind. Honestly she didn’t. Shouldn’t. He was a powerful distraction and a constant temptation, but she must concentrate on the reason she was here, which was to rescue her sister, if she needed rescuing.
She rang the bell for Hannah and told her what she wanted: access to her half-brother’s wardrobe. Hannah grumbled at first, but she didn’t seem anywhere near as scandalised as Sir Dominic had been, not once Meg told her all that had been discovered. Hannah had known Jenny Wood, as Meg had not, and was shocked by what she heard of her experiences at Lord Purslake’s house, and her present location. As for her sudden disappearance, such flighty behaviour was entirely out of character, Hannah swore. ‘If she found herself in such a pickle, she could have come to me, Miss Meg, and I’m sure she should know I’d have helped her, or any other servant in this house would have done the same, for that matter. For she’s a poor orphan girl with nobody in the world to watch out for her apart from her friends. It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is! I’m proper upset by what you’ve told me, Miss Meg, and that’s a fact!’ She was as concerned now for Jenny’s safety as she was for Maria’s, and if Meg had to dress in masculine attire to gain access to the house in Henrietta Street and find out what was going on there, Hannah was quite prepared to do all she could to help her. There would be no need to go up to the attic to look for clothes, she said.
