Chapter Seven

The days slipped by like jewels, each one a little brighter than the next. George continued to see her in secret, arriving at her house to dine, or sometimes to spend the evening with her. They would play cribbage or read together in comfortable companionship, then retire to her bed.

Her first rule remained broken in the dust behind them. Although he did not always stay the night, he often did, and she offered no rebuke except to tell him there would be no breakfast for him. He always took this in good spirit.

He even paid the most pressing of her debts with no complaint. She sold the diamonds Sir Percy had given her, and sent the money into the country. Of course, it could not pay for the dowry, but George's gifts were always extravagant—yet chosen with such care, it pained her to pawn them again.

Still, to her knowledge he was still courting debutantes with the object of marriage; it would not be long until he found a bride and their arrangement would end. She would find another lover to pay for her daughter's dowry—one in whose company she did not find so much enjoyment—and all would go back to how it should be.

Merry widows did not fall in love. It was unbecoming.

That was when disaster struck.

She had known her monthly courses were approaching by the grumbling aches in her abdomen, the pain in her lower back. And so when she awoke to blood between her thighs, she resigned herself to the inevitable and sent a note to George explaining that she would be indisposed. But that was not the problem—if anything, she was relieved at the opportunity for some space.

No, the problem arose when she, in bed with hot chocolate and a fashion plate she was flicking listlessly through, was informed that Mr Comerford had come for her.

She snapped her jaw shut, irrationally irritated. "Come for me? In which respect has he come for me?"

"I don't know, my lady. He asked if he could see you."

"I'm indisposed."

"So I told him, my lady, but he insisted on seeing you."

"Did he?" She gritted her teeth, but underneath that was a curiosity that would not be appeased. "Very well. Show him up."

"Yes, ma'am." The maid curtsied and left the room; shortly after, George entered.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "You may be inclined to satisfy yourself with me, but I confess I am not."

A smile spread across his face as he stood beside her bed. "Is that what you thought I came here for?"

"What else?" She held up her fashion plate. "I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged today."

"My poor darling. Does it hurt very much?"

She speared him with a glare. "As though you could imagine it."

"No, very likely not. I brought you some strawberries." He held up a brown paper bag. "And to request the pleasure of your company."

"My company? I thought we agreed that we should not be seen together."

"You stated; I did not agree or disagree." He perched on the bed beside her, removing a strawberry from the bag and offering it to her. "Are you partial to strawberries?"

"I don't understand." She rubbed at her forehead, wishing her headache would ease. "Why have you brought me strawberries?"

His smile was amused. "Do you think me ignorant of women? I suspected what was afflicting you when you asked for a week's break."

"That doesn't explain this." She gestured at the strawberries. "Or your sudden intention of spending time with me."

"I happen to like both," he said, shrugging and biting the strawberry, white teeth breaking through the soft, red flesh. The sight was oddly erotic, and she found herself absurdly wishing she was not on the heaviest, and worst, day of her monthly courses. He grinned at her expression of consternation. "Don't worry, love. I did not come here with an ulterior motive."

That was not the reason for her frown; the reason was that he evidently intended to take her out. And she wanted him to.

Foolishness.

She could not bring herself to deny him.

"Where would we be going?" she asked.

"Hampstead Heath," he answered immediately. "I have a picnic made up. We will have nothing to do but sip champagne and sit in the sun—or the shade."

"I don't wish to walk far."

"Then we won't stray far from the carriage."

She narrowed her eyes. "Is this not the behaviour a gentleman should show towards his future wife?"

His grin deepened, and he leant in, one hand coming to her chin. "Such a sharp tongue," he mused. "It's fortunate it feels so good on my—"

She tossed a pillow at him. "Out."

He rose and walked to the door. "By the by," he said, pausing, "it's evident you married young, or you would have known that a young lady of Quality never travels unaccompanied with a gentleman to a place such as Hampstead Heath, whether they are due to marry or not." He clucked his tongue. "Really, you ought to have known that, my love."

Her next pillow hit the door.

#

The trouble was, Caroline enjoyed his company. So many other gentlemen of her acquaintance bored her, but George never supposed she would be disinterested in subjects such as history or politics. When his eyes lit as he spoke to her about the advancement of the Ancient Greeks, she fancied she could sit and listen to him for days at a time. His knowledge also reinvigorated her desire to learn. As a girl, her education had been limited to French and Italian, how to embroider and dance and play the harp. The polite forms of conversation.

Not once had her governess sat her down and told her about the forces at play in Europe at large, or the true cause of the French Revolution. Perhaps it had been too fresh in people's minds, too early for its discussion when she had been a child. But George spoke on the subject with abandon, not once giving her leave to suspect he thought her incapable of keeping up, or that such matters were not a woman's domain.

He was also kind, helping her into the carriage without comment despite her slowness, and sweeping her into his arms when they arrived so she would not have to walk. Servants had already arrived, laying blankets on the soft grass, and a parasol had been erected so she could avoid the sun if she wished. She positioned herself underneath it, and allowed herself to breathe the hot summer air, the fragrance of honeysuckle sweet on the faint breeze.

Beside her, George lounged easily, leaning back on his elbows, the full force of the sun on his face. He squinted into the light.

"You'll get wrinkles if you do that for long," she said, amused. Already, the pain in her lower stomach was easing. Perhaps it was the sense of peace that surrounded her; so rarely did she come to the country that even its likeness could bring her joy.

"So be it." He closed his eyes entirely. "What does it matter if I do?"

"You'll age faster."

"So? I'm not afraid of my years, or how I wear them."

"A noble sentiment."

"Is that why you aren't enjoying the heat of the sun? I assure you, it's very pleasant."

"I freckle if I'm in the sun too long, and a tan is most unbecoming on a lady."

"I happen to like it," he said, and tugged at her hand, pulling her so she was curled against his side, her palm flat against his chest. She could feel the slow, steady pulse of his heart. "Freckles are not a heinous crime, and neither is a slight browning of your skin."

He was right: the sun was pleasing. She stretched like a cat, and his arm tightened around her waist. "Very well," she murmured. "But when I can find no one else to take me to bed, I shall hold you accountable."

A hard note entered his voice. "I would rather not think of anyone else taking you to bed."

"Jealous, darling?" She laughed softly. "First you must marry."

"A prospect that is less appealing by the day." He paused, and his fingers ran soft circles along the back of her hand. "Why do you always bring up the subject of my future wife?"

Tension entered her body, cramping her still further, and she loosed a breath from between her teeth. "Because this must end, and neither of us should forget it."

"I find things are less enjoyable when you look ahead of them to their demise."

That was entirely the point: she could not allow herself to become too attached to him. But the sun was hot against her cheek, and she was feeling too lethargic to argue with him. Instead, she placed her palm against his jaw, feeling the tiniest prick of stubble against her skin. He was warm and soft, and he turned his head so he could kiss her palm.

"You should not have brought me here today," she said, languorous and content. "But I'm glad you did."

He hummed, deep in his chest, and the sound vibrated through her. It was all too easy to close her eyes and give way to the quiet pleasure of his company, without thought of the future. Her obligations loomed, but he was warm and solid underneath her, and he had brought her strawberries, and it had been a long time since she had felt so drowsily contented.

"Tell me something," he said, fingers trailing to her elbow and back down.

"What?"

"Something no one else knows."

"Hmm?" She toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. "What makes you think I keep secrets?"

"A lady always has her secrets."

And she had so many.

But as tempting as it was to reveal the worst of hers, she couldn't risk it.

"Let's see," she said, keeping her voice light. "When I was five, I escaped my nursemaid and, by some luck or terrible fortune, found a chicken and stole it."

He laughed, raucous and unashamed. "How did your nursemaid react?"

"Oh, she was furious. But I would not relinquish my prize until my father came to scold me for it." She sighed, recalling his anger at her unladylike behaviour. "I was a trial as a girl. More so as I grew."

"I wish I had been there to see it."

"You don't. I was a termagant."

"I expect I would still have found you divine," he said, his hand sliding to her rump.

"I would not have looked at you twice."

He laughed, throwing his head back. Caroline watched him, fighting her own smile, wishing she did not find so much joy in his. "And who, pray, did you look at twice?" he asked, recovering himself. "I presume, then, there was a gentleman."

"Of a kind," she murmured, thinking back to the way the young man had looked at her, arrogant and proprietorial. At seventeen, she had already shared kisses with a few of the young men in her village, and she thought she knew what it was to tease and flirt. In short, she had been as foolish as many a young girl was, and she had paid the price.

"Oh? A farmer's boy?"

"Oh no, darling. He was a lord, but he was not—decidedly not—a gentleman."

He tensed a little under her. "Tell me."

"He was young. Charming enough, at first. They all are, I suppose, and I was an easy target. Not so difficult to seduce, if you can believe."

He was still, save for the fingers that still coasted up and down her arm. "How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

"Ah." The sound was light, but she heard something stir under it. "I think I understand. Was he cruel to you?"

"Only in the way all irresponsible youths are," she said, trying not to let her hurt show. The little lording who had taught her what it was to love, then summarily abandoned her. "But he was kind in other ways. The first to want me exactly as I am."

"Hardly a surprise," George murmured, but to her surprise, he rose, easing her up too until she sat in the gap between his legs. His hands were on her arms still, and his gaze was on hers, eyes that were usually a dancing blue now a deep navy, his brows pulled low. He was usually such an easy-going man, she had forgotten he could look like this—as though revenge was not a concept he was wholly unfamiliar with.

An unsettling feeling slid down her spine. "Don't look at me like that," she whispered.

"Did he force himself on you?"

"No. Heavens, no, George. I am not some poor, hard done by maiden. I offered myself to him, and he accepted with open arms." She had offered, and he had taken, and taken, and taken, and the only thing he had given her in return was a few moments of pleasure—and consequences.

"I was young and foolish," she said, but he pressed a finger against her lips.

"And he? Was he a young man as na?ve as you?"

Of course he had not been. Another draw, that a man from London might want her .

"I knew what I was doing," she said, holding his gaze. "Or at least, I thought I did."

His jaw was tight, the usual careless disarray of his hair now endearingly soft in contrast to the rigid anger on his face. "Don't excuse him," he said tightly. "Who is he?"

"You are not my defender, George."

"I would be, if only you would let me. Who is he? Give me a name."

"And what would you do with one? Confront him? Accuse him of stealing the innocence of a woman known for bedding half of London?" She laughed then, though he did not. "It would be foolishness, darling, and you know it."

"What does it matter that you've been with men since?"

"It matters because in the eyes of the ton I am already fallen." She spoke gently, seeing he really was outraged on her behalf. "And because I was also to blame."

He took her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips in an oddly tender gesture. They were too often tender with one another, and it frightened her. "Did he hurt you?"

The urgency in his voice was disorienting. Her lovers were not supposed to rise to her defence like knights on white horses, leaving their round tables in search of monsters to vanquish.

He should not have done. He was a poet, a man who made battle with his pen, not his fists.

"Don't," she whispered.

He frowned, looking as though he might say something in response, and she shook her head. Her heartbeat trembled her body, and she felt as though she might split into a dozen tiny pieces and he would scoop them all up in his hands, as though they were precious. As though, to him, she was precious.

She had been selling his gifts to provide for her illegitimate daughter. How could she confess to such a thing?

"Caro," he said, the name falling from his lips like honey. Her stomach dipped unsettlingly. "You can be open with me."

"Nonsense," she said lightly. "If I am to compel you to still visit me, I can never be open with you again. A lady must have her secrets."

"Even from me?"

"Oh, darling." She kissed him on the mouth, light as butterfly wings. " Especially from you."