"Tell me you have been only flirting with Charles Adair," he murmured finally, laying his cheek against the soft curls on top of her head.
"Flirting?" Charlotte's body stiffened slightly. Any man who had been more into the petticoat line than Devin Northcott would have immediately recognized the danger signs. Devin was in blissful ignorance.
"You are young and devilish pretty," he continued, running his free hand up and down the soft skin of her arm, "and this is your come-out Season. Ain't unnatural that you should try out your charms on several young men. I am not angry with you. Hope you can tell me, though, that your feelings for Adair are no deeper than simple flirtation."
"I am much obliged to you, sir," Charlotte cried, tearing herself out of his arms and rising from the bench in order to sink into a deep curtsy in front of him. "What charming compliments. I am young and pretty. I beg your pardon, "devilish' pretty, I believe you said. And I am a flirt? And you forgive me, sir? You are not even angry with me? I do wish you had chosen a less dusty spot for these charming declarations, Mr. Northcott, for I feel I should sink to my knees and kiss your feet in gratitude." Her voice was quite shrill by this time.
Devin was by now also on his feet. "Charlotte, my dear," he said aghast, reaching out a hand to her, "believe me, I did not mean-"
"That I am young and devilish pretty? Oh, make no apology, sir. I know it was the night and the moonlight that made you speak so foolishly."
"Charlotte, I-"
"Want a little more flirtation, sir? My apologies, but you have had your quota for tonight. I must rush back to the ball and find more young men to flirt with." She turned with a rustle of skirts and started toward the pathway.
Devin grasped her by the arm and jerked her around, none too gently, to face him. "Charlotte, will you stop behaving like a child and listen to me?" he began, not too wisely.
"Sir, do children flirt?" she asked icily, tossing her head.
"No, but they sometimes get a good thrashing," he parried, matching ice with ice.
"Threats, Mr. Northcott?" Charlotte asked disdainfully.
Devin expelled an exasperated breath. "Women! Deuced if I can understand them," he said.
"Might I suggest that you not even try, sir?" she suggested.
"Miss Wells," he said with a formal bow, having built up a fresh supply of ice, "allow me to escort you back to your friends." He extended his arm, which she ignored. Back straight, shoulders back, chin high, and heart crying in mortal agony, Charlotte stalked along the wooded path ahead of him until they reached open ground. Before Devin could take his leave of her, she was in the midst of a gay crowd of young people, her hand being eagerly solicited for the next country dance.
Lord Brampton had also succeeded in getting the partner of his choice for the second waltz of the evening. For hours, it seemed, he had spent his energies on ensuring that his tenants and his guests were enjoying themselves. He felt no guilt now in devoting himself to his own pleasures. He took his wife in his arms and let the music create its own rhythm in their bodies. She was a divine dancer; he had noticed that on previous occasions. She was so light on her feet, so tiny and slender, so receptive to the guidance of her partner, that a man could relax and lose his fear of treading on her toes or the hem of her gown, or of losing her altogether on an intricate turn.
Brampton held his wife quite close. In the semi-darkness of his own garden and in the midst of people who were bent on having a good time rather than eyeing one another for food for gossip, he did not care if he was being slightly improper. He held her so that their bodily vibrations touched, even if their bodies did not. He noticed with interest and some hope that she made no effort to put a greater distance between them. After a few minutes, in fact, they were both lost to their surroundings, aware only of each other and of the new and fragile rapport between them.
Brampton was brought back to earth when he found himself staring into the toothy grin of one of his younger tenants. The lad yelled over the sounds of the music and the conversation, "We'm hopin' you does this every year, your lordship."
Brampton grinned. "I am glad to know you have enjoyed the day, Tad," he said.
He looked down into his wife's quiet face. "Do you have any pressing duties to perform after this dance, my dear? Shall we walk up into the rose garden? I believe we might find some solitude there."
Margaret was surprised, though she did not show her feelings. "It would be good to get away from the press of people for a while, Richard," she said. She took his arm and leaned on him as they strolled from the dance floor up the sloping lawn toward the house, past the refreshment tables, where they smiled and nodded to friends, and finally angled off into the rose garden.
It was one area that had not been lit for the evening. Brampton knew that it was a favorite spot of his wife's. He had not wanted it to become public property on that evening. But it was still an area of great beauty. The heady perfume of roses hung on the night air. Bushes and blooms were caught by the moonlight and the fountain of water spouting from the mouth of a fat and naked cherub and falling into a stone basin sparkled.
They walked arm in arm along the quiet gravel walk until they came to the fountain. They stood looking at it; Brampton trailed a hand in the water of the basin.
"Well, my dear," he said, "do you feel that the day has been a success?"
"Yes, I do, Richard," she replied. "I believe everyone has had an enjoyable time."
"And that is very important to you, is it not?" he said, smiling down at her.
"Of course it is. It seems to me to be a responsibility to be one of the rich and privileged. In some ways it is not fair, is it? We should share when we have the chance."
"And do you feel privileged, my dear?"
"Indeed I do," she said earnestly. "Look at all I have." She indicated, with a sweep of her arm, the garden, the grounds beyond, and the house.
"And what about your own happiness?" he asked. "Do you ever think of yourself?"
"Of course," she replied, looking up at him wide-eyed.
He framed her face with his hands and kept it turned up toward him. He gazed down into those large gray eyes that always made him somehow catch his breath. "I wonder," he mused. "Am I the husband you would have chosen for yourself, my dear?"
She stared back into his eyes and swallowed painfully. "I did choose you, Richard," she said. "I refused three offers before you. I was not afraid of being an old maid."
"My dear, sweet little Meg," he said, his voice low and unsteady, "I do not deserve you, you know." He continued to hold her head in gentle hands as he brought his mouth down to cover hers.
Margaret was frightened. Now he would know; he would recognize her. But thoughts and feelings were soon dulled as she realized how different this kiss was from any others she had shared with him. It was a kiss of infinite gentleness and warmth and tenderness. She allowed her hands to spread from his chest to his shoulders so that she could rest her body against his. She felt safe, protected. Loved!
Brampton lifted his head and she noticed that his eyes were heavy-lidded and dreamy rather than blazing with passion as on other occasions. He moved his hands away from her face and wrapped his arms protectively around her. She rested her head against his shoulder, her face buried in the snowy folds of his neckcloth. They both closed their eyes and gave themselves up to the sensation of warmth and comfort.