The Lady Most Likely... Page 6

  “My brother,” she said, because she did not see any reason to hide it. “He died at Waterloo. I still miss him very much.”

  To her surprise, Lord Charters did not offer his condolences, nor did he make some completely uninformed statement about Toby being a hero. Gwen hated when people did that. What did they know about how he’d been killed? She didn’t even know how he’d been killed, just that he was dead. The family had got a letter, then a visit from an officer, but no one had actually witnessed the death.

  Instead, Lord Charters looked at her with compassion and said, “A year is not such a very long time when you loved someone.”

  She could not help but think—he knows. He knows what it is to lose someone.

  She said nothing, not a hint of her thoughts, but he answered the question anyway. “My mother,” he said quietly. “Two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He drew a deep breath, then let it out. “It was a foolish accident. A carriage that had not been maintained properly.”

  Gwen didn’t say anything, just nodded in sympathy. He looked at her, and she knew, she simply knew, that they were the same in this; that he, too, appreciated quiet, honest sympathy.

  He had nice eyes, she thought. Gray, but not entirely so. The outer edges were rimmed with dark, dark blue. She wondered how she had not noticed this the night before.

  Then he stood, clearing his throat and breaking the moment. “Aside from your wrist,” he said briskly, “how are you? Are you able to walk?”

  She was already sitting up, so with the aid of his arm, she rose carefully to her feet, testing out her weight on each of her legs in turn. “I think I’ll be fine,” she said. “I didn’t turn an ankle.”

  “You’re limping,” he pointed out.

  “I’m just a bit achy from the fall. I’m sure it will go away.”

  “May I escort you back to the house?” he asked politely.

  “Yes,” she said, “I would appreciate it very much.” However unpleasant he had been the night before, he was not so now, and Gwen decided it was much easier to begin anew than to agitate over the past. She took a step, then remembered—

  “Oh! My sketch pad.” She twisted around to see behind her. It had fallen near the water’s edge, but thankfully had managed to stay dry.

  “I’ll get it for you.” Lord Charters carefully disengaged his arm from hers and retrieved the pad. “Were you drawing the wildlife?” he asked, returning to her side.

  Gwen considered her monster squirrels. “Er, of a sort.”

  He gave her a curious smile. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” she said, wishing he’d hand her the sketch pad.

  “May I have a look?”

  “I would really rather you didn’t.”

  “Just a peek?”

  Gwen could not imagine anything more mortifying. “No, my lord, I—”

  “You’re not drawing nudes, are you?” he cut in, eyes sparkling.

  “No!” she exclaimed, feeling her cheeks go instantly crimson. Good heavens.

  He made like he was going to look, his index finger sliding between the pages. “Please?” he murmured, and she almost gave in. Something very strange and unfamiliar began to unfurl within her. It was as if her insides were light-headed. And her heart was not beating quite properly. It wasn’t racing, and it wasn’t pounding …

  It was dancing.

  Singing.

  That was it, she was going mad. She must have hit her head. She hadn’t felt anything, but maybe that was only because she’d been so focused on her wrist. Her wrist, which really wasn’t hurting quite so much any longer, so shouldn’t she now feel the injury to her head?

  “Miss Passmore?” Lord Charters said softly. “Is something wrong?”

  She blinked, then looked over at him, then decided that must have been a mistake, because his gray eyes were looking at her with such kindness and concern, and somehow that made the whole thing with her heart that much worse.

  “Yes, I mean no,” she stammered. “I mean I’m fine. Just a bit dizzy coming to my feet.”

  He did not comment on the fact that she had been on her feet for at least a minute before her dizzy spell, for which she was quite grateful. And then, to her great surprise, he pulled his fingers from inside the pages of her sketchbook and held it firmly closed. He held it forward, as if to hand it to her, then said, “I would be happy to carry it back for you if it would make it easier for you to walk.”

  “You’re not going to look?”

  He regarded her with a serious expression. “You asked me not to.”

  Her lips parted with surprise.

  One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Did you think I would disobey?”

  There was no way to answer truthfully without insulting him. “Er, yes,” she said, giving him a rueful look.

  To her relief, he only smiled. He held out his free arm for her to lean upon and turned her toward Finchley Manor. As they walked up the gentle slope, he said, “You’re rather more forthcoming than you were last night.”

  She did not answer right away, and when she did, she kept her eyes ahead of her, on the path. “I don’t enjoy crowds,” she said softly.

  He looked at her for a moment, then came to a stop, forcing her to do the same. “You must have hated the season.”

  “Oh, I did,” she said, the words rushing from her mouth. It was such a relief to say it. She looked up at him, finding unexpected comfort in his eyes. “It’s a terrible time for someone like me. The whole season, all I wanted was to be home.”

  “I don’t believe I have ever heard a young lady say that.”

  “Do you often speak with young ladies?”

  He blinked. “Of course. I—”

  “Not to,” she cut in, “with.”

  His brows rose, but his gray eyes retained their humor. “Do you imagine me standing at the front of a room, offering a lecture?”

  “No, of course not. But … Well, you must admit, it is very rare to have a conversation of any consequence while at a social event. And where else would you have spoken with a young lady?”

  He started to say something, but she broke in with: “Your sister does not count.”

  For a moment she thought she might have offended him. He did not immediately reply, just looked at her in a considering sort of manner. Then he said, “I thought you were shy.”

  “Oh, I am,” she replied. Except, amazingly, with him …

  She wasn’t.

  Oh my.

  Chapter 5

  Alec was not generally one to rise with the sun. At home, he kept his curtains heavy and drawn tight. If the morning light could not invade his bedchamber, then he could happily sleep all day. If the sun hit his face, however, he woke instantly, and there was no point in trying to get back to sleep.

  The minute he saw his room at Finchley Manor, he knew he’d be awake at dawn. The windows were broad and tall, with curtains that could, at best, be called light-filtering. And so, not one to tolerate a lack of sleep, he’d made a point of turning in on the early side. Which was why he was in a surprisingly cheerful mood when he sat up in bed at half five.

  This was cause for some note. Half five awakenings were not normally accompanied by a cheerful mood.

  He knew that most of his acquaintances did not share his freakish inability to sleep while the sun shone, and so he had not been surprised by the quiet house when he slipped outside for a quick dip in the pond. He had, however, been surprised—very much so—when, as he burst back through the surface of the water following a spectacular cannonball entrance, he heard someone shriek.

  Who would have thought that Miss Passmore would have turned out to be an early riser?

  Or, he thought with some alarm, that she’d somehow manage to be even more beautiful in the morning light. Weren’t women supposed to look puffy and blotched in the morning? His sisters looked wretched before their morning toilette and hairdressing.

  Sai
d with the greatest of affection, to be sure.

  But no, Miss Passmore, even while gritting her teeth in pain, rivaled the Mona Lisa. It couldn’t possibly be fair to the rest of humanity.

  He supposed it wasn’t her fault that she was so bloody beautiful, though, and she was hurt, so he hauled himself out of the lake and managed to pull off a respectable show of being a gentleman. He inspected her injuries, and she was perfectly pleasant. Rather kind, actually, with a quiet sense of humor he suspected she did not often show.

  “Do you like horses, Miss Passmore?” he asked quite suddenly. Because if Hugh was setting his cap for her, she had damned well better like horses.

  She turned to look at him, a bit surprised by the sudden change of topic. “I don’t dislike them.”

  “But you don’t love them.”

  “Well …” She grimaced, just a bit, clearly unsure of how to respond. “I suppose I love my horse.”

  “You suppose.”

  “Well, it is a horse.” And then she gave him a look as if to say—You do realize this, don’t you?

  Alec stared at her with something approaching alarm. She could not marry Hugh. Alec could not imagine a more miserable pairing.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” he said ominously.

  Her lips parted. She looked concerned. Or maybe wary.

  Sensible girl. Even Alec had to admit that he sounded like a half-mad buffoon.

  “I fear I owe you an apology,” he said.

  She looked at him again with surprise, and he knew exactly how she felt because he was quite certain he had not meant to say that.

  But he realized he meant it.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I misjudged you.”

  She was very quiet, then she said, “People often do. I—” She looked to the left and right, as if she were making sure no one else could hear. Which was absurd, because they were completely alone. But somehow it looked like the correct thing to do, and something about it warmed his heart. Because whatever it was she was going to say …

  It was for him. Just for him.

  She leaned forward, but just the tiniest bit.

  Alec’s heart skipped a beat. That quarter inch … That tiny sliver of space that she’d eliminated between them …

  It took his breath away.

  And then she pulled back. “It’s nothing,” she said, and she looked down, embarrassed by whatever it was she had not been courageous enough to say.

  “No,” he said, with a fervor that surprised him. “It’s not nothing.”

  Her eyes rose to meet his. Those amazing seafoam eyes. How could anyone have been born with eyes like those?

  “It’s silly.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “I was just going to say … It’s really rather obvious.” She looked off to the side, then down, and then back at his face but not quite to his eyes. “You said it already.”

  He could not help but smile. “What did I say?”

  “People think I’m cold,” she said, “but I’m not. It’s just that I don’t know how to talk to most people. And crowds … They terrify me.” She looked down, frowning at the damp grass, and then back up, her brow still furrowed. Looking as if she’d never before uttered the words aloud, she said, “I’m shy.”

  Alec, who had never stood nervously in a corner or felt sick to his stomach before entering a room, said, “It’s not a fault.”

  She smiled regretfully. “It is in London.”

  “But we are not in London.”

  “We might as well be,” she said, giving him a vaguely condescending look. “There is no one here at Finchley Manor I have not met before. Except Lord Briarly, of course.”

  Alec thought of Hugh. Single-minded, horse-mad Hugh. He loved Hugh. He did. He’d have thrown himself in front of a carriage for his friend, and in fact on one memorable occasion had done so, saving Hugh’s life in the process. It was a miracle that Alec had escaped with only a bruised rib.

  But Hugh could not marry Miss Passmore. Forget what it would do to Hugh, shackled to a woman who did not share his passions. Alec was now thinking of her. She would be miserable.

  And as he watched her face, her lips curving into a secret smile that spoke of intelligence and hinted of mischief, he realized that he could not allow her to be miserable.

  “I think I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered.

  She looked stunned. He felt stunned. But it was the most obvious thing in the world. If he didn’t kiss her, now, on this field, in this mist, at this moment …

  It would be tragic.

  He touched her chin, tipped her face up to his, and for a moment simply drank in the sight of her. Her hair caught the early-morning light, and he had to fight the urge to reach behind her head and pull out her hairpins. He wanted to see it long, wanted to know the texture of the curls. He wanted to examine the gorgeous mass of it strand by strand, to see how such an amazing red-gold color could possibly exist.

  He almost whispered that she was beautiful, but she had to know that already, and he realized, as she gazed up at him, her eyes filled with the same wonder that he felt in his own heart, that this breathless feeling wasn’t about her beauty.

  She needed to know that it wasn’t about her beauty.

  And so instead he said nothing, just shook his head in amazement, then leaned down and kissed her.

  It began softly, just his lips brushing hers, and he had every intention of keeping it that way, of being gentle, and reverent, and everything else a man was supposed to be with the woman he …

  The woman he …

  He drew back, staring at her again, as if the moment were brand-new.

  Her lips came together, and he knew she was about to say, “My lord.”

  “Don’t,” he said, touching her lips with his finger. “Say my name.”

  She looked as if she might say something profound, but then she whispered, “I don’t know your name.”

  He froze. He didn’t breathe. And then he burst out laughing. He was falling in love—hell, he’d quite possibly already fallen—and she didn’t know his given name.

  “Alec,” he said, unable to stop the ridiculous grin that was spreading across his face. “My name is Alec, and I don’t want to hear you use anything else ever again.”

  “Alec,” she murmured. “It suits you.” She smiled, and it lit her whole face. “I am Gwendolyn.”

  “I know,” he confessed. He had a sister, after all, who’d told him all about her, most of which he suspected was wrong. But her name—that, he knew.

  “Some people call me Gwen.”

  Gwen. He liked that. It was simple. Plain. Charming.

  It was her.

  “My mother wanted to name me Guinevere,” she said, “but my father said it was too fanciful.”

  “He was right,” Alec said firmly.

  She smiled, laughed a little. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just know that it is true. You are a Gwen. No, you are the Gwen.”

  “The Gwen,” she repeated, sounding highly amused.

  “The Gwen.” And when she quirked a brow, he added, “It’s important to say it correctly.”

  “And you’re sure that’s the correct way?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” he murmured. “It’s blindingly obvious.”

  “Blindingly, you say.”

  He smiled slowly. “Blindingly.”

  She smiled back, but this time she looked devious. He decided he liked when she looked devious.

  “I think you should kiss me again,” she said.

  He decided he loved when she looked devious.

  He took her hand, twining their fingers together, and tugged her toward him, slowly, playfully, until she was just a breath away. “You want me to kiss you, hmm?”

  She nodded.

  “Here?” he murmured, kissing her on the nose.

  She shook her head.


  His lips found her forehead. “Here?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Here?” he said softly, the word warm on her lips.

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  He moved to the corner of her mouth, then the other. “Here? Here?”

  She didn’t speak, but he could hear her breath coming faster, could feel it warm and moist as it brushed against his skin. He grew bold, lightly running his tongue along the soft inner skin of her lower lip. “Here?” he teased gently, once he was done.

  Again, she didn’t speak, but she used her body to say yes. Her hands came around to his back, and she swayed toward him, resting her body against his. His pulse jumped at the contact, and suddenly he was fighting himself. His hands, his arms, his soul—everything wanted to reach out and crush her against him. He wanted to kiss her, touch her. He wanted to worship her.

  He wanted her to know how it felt to be worshipped.

  He kissed her again, and then again, in what he was certain was the longest, deepest, most exquisite kiss in history. It was the stuff of legend, of song. Somewhere, he thought, poets were weeping. No verse could rival this single, perfect kiss.

  Alec drank her in, absorbed her scent. He held her against him, imprinting her body to his. By the time he was done, he knew her completely, had felt the very essence of her soul.

  And he hadn’t even seen her naked.

  Good God.

  Alec pulled back, coughing like mad. Where had that thought come from? He was being a gentleman. A romantic. This was Gwen. The Gwen. She was a delicate flower, a priceless treasure. He was not supposed to be fantasizing about her with her clothes off, never mind the fact that he regularly thought about women with their clothes off.

  Wasn’t that what men did?

  But not about her, he berated himself. Not about the girls they were going to marry. Not that he’d decided to marry her although, really, now that he thought of it, it sounded like a bloody good idea. But still, regardless, she was the type of woman one married, not the type one fantasized in various stages of undress.

  She was better than that.

  Although …

  Dear God, she’d look amazing in any stage of undress.

  Alec started having trouble breathing.