Beth hastily looked back at the ducks. It had happened before, thisawareness. A perfectly ordinary moment would be broken by turbulentthoughts, disturbing sensations.
Did he feel any of it, or was it just her own anxious mind?
He crouched down beside her so his breath warmed her cheek as he said,“Perhaps I should teach you to swim. There’s a place near Belcraven whichis deep enough and safe.”
Beth felt her heart speed. She couldn’t imagine going into water withhim, perhaps being held by him there, their clothes pressed damply totheir bodies. Or would he bathe naked as men were said to do? Her mouthdried and she knew her face was red. She kept her head down andconcentrated on the ducks. “I don’t think I would care for that,Lucien.”
“Tut-tut,” he murmured and brushed a curl back from her heated cheek.“Doesn’t Shakespeare say, ‘True nobility is exempt from fear.’? Amarchioness should be afraid of nothing.”
Beth rose quickly to her feet and faced him, dusting the last few oatsfrom her hands. “He also says, I recollect, ‘Sweet mercy is nobility’strue badge?’ I pray you, Lord Arden,” she said with mock appeal, “of yourmercy spare me the water.”
He laughed as he rose gracefully to his feet. He touched her nosegently with one finger. “Will you always have a quotation to cap each ofmine? You’ve spent too much time buried in books, my lady.”
“Apparently an excellent training for marriage, my lord.”
“Only to me, I suspect.” He collapsed down again on the grass neartheir books. “Come and sit by me, Beth.”
Before, they had been sitting feet apart, but it was not unusual forthem to sit closer. Now, however, she sensed some significance in hisrequest. She was very aware that today was their last day here.
Heart racing, but hoping she was outwardly composed, Beth did as heasked. As soon as she was settled on the rug on the grass, he tossed hishat aside and slid over to lay his head in her lap. “Read to me,” he saidand closed his eyes.
The weight of him across her thighs was like a brand. Beth’s mouth wasso dry she doubted she could articulate at all. But she was able to studyhim, laid out there before her in all his strength and beauty like anoffering on an altar. Her fingers itched to work through the golden curlsthat fell over his smooth forehead, to trace down his straight nose to theelegant curve of his firm lips.
His blue eyes opened and spoke a challenge. “No?”
“Of course,” she said hastily, not sure why it was so important to denythe effect he was having on her, the effect he surelyknewhe was having on her.
She picked up the new volume by Mr. Coleridge with unsteady fingers andbegan to read, “ ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure domedecree ...’ ”
Though a strange work, it seemed innocent enough, or had seemedinnocent enough on first reading. Now, with her husband’s body stretchedby her, his handsome head nestled against her abdomen, the poem took onnew meaning. Her voice trembled slightly as she read, “ ‘As if this earthin fast thick pants were breathing . . .’ ”
It was the last lines which struck her most, however:
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey dew hath fed.
And drunk the milk of Paradise,
Without opening his eyes he commented, “An adequate description of thepampered aristocracy, though not what poor Samuel means, I think. Are youreyes suitably closed, my houri?”
“No,” she admitted, for she was feasting on his beauty.
“ ‘Beware! Beware!’ ” he quoted from an earlier line. His eyes flickedopen and held hers. “ ‘For thou art with me here upon the banks / Of thisfair river; thou my dearest friend.”
Captured by his gaze, Beth licked herlips. “I don’t recognize that.”
He curled smoothly to his feet, leaving a chill where he had been.“Wordsworth, of course, though I don’t remember which poem.” He gave her ahand and pulled her up. Beth wanted to ask if she was his friend, if shewas only his friend. Another line of Wordsworth had sprung disconcertinglyinto her mind and echoed there: “ ‘Strange fits of passion have I known .. .’ ”
He retained her hand and quoted teasingly, “ ‘A perfect woman, noblyplann’d. To warn, to comfort, and command . . .’ ”
It sounded like the description of a mother or even a governess. “I’mnot sure I wish to be that kind of woman,” Beth protested.
“No? I thought it would be the Wollstonecraft ideal. You may like thenext two lines better. ‘And yet a Spirit still and bright / With somethingof an angel light?’ It’s time to return to the house, I think, myangel.”
He turned away and gathered up their books and the rug, leaving Bethitchily dissatisfied.
