Chapter Six

Briggs

The tap of something falling from Blythe’s person and hitting the wooden floor draws my attention away from my own erratic thoughts. I bend down and retrieve one of the pearl buttons that adorned her dress.

Now everyone is looking at me as though I’m the villain. And while it might take me a moment to admit it to myself, it feels obvious that I am. Of course, no one understands that it was necessary. We cannot afford Miss Rowley’s services. But perhaps I could have been more of a gentleman about it.

Blythe’s sister jumps to follow her, but I stand before she can actually leave.

“Please,” I say to Miss Amy. “Let me.”

“Let’s everyone eat,” says Mr. Barlow, drawing the attention of his guests back to the dinner. “We wouldn’t want the soup to get cold. Imagine having to digest cold soup as it congeals in your stomach. Atrocious!”

“Father, let’s not ruin anyone’s appetite,” I hear Charlotte say, but their voices all fade as I travel the black-and-white checkered foyer.

Blythe Rowley is nowhere to be found. A heaviness weighs upon my shoulders as it occurs to me that she might have retired to her room, but the swish of skirts and the snick of one of the doors leading to the gardens shutting give me all the clues I need.

I reach into the breast pocket of my jacket and retrieve the handkerchief I keep there at all times. I settle her pearl button there now, folding it neatly and placing it back into my coat.

Outside under the purpling evening sky, the girl in the matching dress wraps her arms around her torso, staring at her blurry reflection in one of the many fountains.

“Miss Rowley,” I say quietly, so as not to surprise her.

“You will leave me alone,” is her reply. Which, fine, I rightly deserve.

“I’ve come out here to apologize.”

Blythe whirls to face me, her sudden movement sending a wave of her scent in my direction—the sweet, ephemeral scent of apple blossoms. “Apologize?” she asks. “You? For what exactly?”

“For what I said. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t care whether you upset me or not. You only care now because what you said drew the attention of an entire party thrown in your honor, and I am the niece of your host and the foremost gentleman in the neighborhood. Be truthful, Mr. Goswick. That’s what you’re sorry for.”

“You truly are insufferable,” I say quietly, shaking my head, vexation worming its way into my chest. “You think you know exactly who I am and what I must be thinking, and even when I offer you evidence to the contrary, your opinion of me will not be shaken.”

“My apiary business means everything to me,” she says, stepping closer. “ Everything . And one word from a gentleman who holds so much clout could destroy me. You have no idea the influence you wield, and yet you are frightfully careless with it. There are other people attending this party who might have been interested in procuring my business, but now they see that Mr. Briggs Goswick, a gentleman from one of the oldest, most respected families in the county, even in the country —they see he cannot be bothered. And you did it all with one sentence…” Her voice cracks.

For the first time in quite a long time, I’m rendered speechless. I was so distracted by avoiding any embarrassment of my own, by trying to find a way to make sure no one discovers that I have no money for any apiary, that I couldn’t even consider the girl beside me.

“Miss Rowley, I—” I run a hand through my hair, but I can’t think how to finish the sentence.

She straightens, her breath coming more quickly, and her wide eyes settle somewhere over my shoulder.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Be quiet,” Blythe whispers suddenly. “I think I hear someone.”

“So?”

“Shh!”

“Miss Rowley?” comes a voice from somewhere in the gardens. “Miss Rowley, are you out here?”

She winces, pressing her hand to her forehead. “Good Lord, it’s Mr. Dormer.”

“Mr. Dormer ? What the devil does that bizarre little man want?”

“Me,” Blythe replies. “He wants me. Apparently at church this Sunday, my mother gave him reason to believe I might be open to his advances, and now he’s following me.”

I stifle the urge to snicker, because I haven’t exactly redeemed myself for my previous carelessness with Blythe.

“It’s not funny,” she says lowly. “You have to help me.”

“Help you?”

“Please, Mr. Goswick, I am begging. You have insulted my business in front of wealthy landed gentry, so you owe me. This is the least you could do.”

“Miss Rowley? I know you’re out here, and you’re just being coy with me,” comes Mr. Dormer’s voice again.

“All right, that’s fairly disgusting,” I admit. “What should I do?”

“Pretend you’re in love with me,” Blythe suggests.

“In love with you? What would that even look like?”

“You know,” she says.

“I don’t.”

“Do something that a man in love would do. Use your imagination. Anything to make Mr. Dormer leave me alone, I’m begging you.”

I feel her desperation; it rattles her entire frame, and as my mind wanders through the many scenarios where I’ve tried to prove to a girl just how ardent my feelings actually were, I realize that I will have absolutely no problem at all picking one to act out with Blythe Rowley. But God, why Blythe Rowley? This is the girl who makes me feel like ripping myself apart with all the thorny words I’d like to launch in her direction, and yet I cannot tear my eyes away from her mouth, and when she finally speaks, I think I must be imagining things.

“Kiss me!” she whisper-shouts.

I blink twice. “Excuse me?”

She shoves her hand into mine. Her skin is supple and warm, and I’m keenly aware of how my own hand is sweating. “Kiss me,” she says again, her huge brown eyes staring up at me through long lashes, and I’ll be damned if I make a lady ask me three times.

My free hand reaches out, cradling her jaw, fingers threading through the soft ringlets at the base of her neck, and I draw her mouth, that mouth , up to mine as I finally taste the lips that have hurled a thousand insults at me. She sucks in a sharp breath, her body going rigid, and for the briefest moment, I think I’ve done something wrong. But then she relaxes, her head tilting back just a degree, and she offers me the faintest moan that makes my entire body ache for more of her. While I still hold her right hand in mine, her left reaches for the lapel of my coat, inching me closer until the warmth from her body makes me feel like I have to crawl out of my skin to escape her.

But escaping her is the last thing on my mind.

It’s only the crunch of someone’s boots on the pebbles of the garden path that breaks our kiss. I turn, my lips swollen and suddenly missing Blythe’s, and regard the man behind me.

“Oh, I…” says Mr. Dormer, his round face growing red. “I had no idea. Excuse me.”

I turn back to Blythe as she watches him dash into Wrexford Park. She stumbles away from me, chest heaving, fingers touching her bottom lip like she’s trying to figure out what just happened as she stares at the ground between us. Then, suddenly realizing where we are and who I am, her glare cuts to me so sharply, I take two steps back.

“I meant my hand, you absolute reprobate!” And just like that, she’s gone.