And then Mr. Carstairs leaned over the side of the carriage.
“The hero of Badajoz,” he wheezed, his voice filled with contempt. And he spat onto the ground, well clear of the two of them.
“Francis!” the viscountess exclaimed, her voice coldly shocked.
“Frank!” Mrs. Carstairs wailed.
“Move on, coachman,” Mr. Carstairs said, and the coachman obeyed.
Gwen stood frozen in place.
“The last time I saw him,” Lord Trentham said, “he spat directly at me.”
She turned her head sharply and looked into his face.
“Mr. Carstairs was the lieutenant you told me about?” she asked. “The one who wanted you to abort the attack on the fortress?”
“He was not expected to live,” he said. “He obviously had massive internal injuries as well as plenty of outer ones. He was coughing blood and a lot of it. He was sent home to die. But somehow he lived.”
“Oh, Hugo,” she said.
“His life is ruined,” he said. “That is obvious. It must be doubly difficult for him now to know that I am here and that I am being greeted as a great hero. He is as great a hero, if that word applies to either of us. He wanted to abort the charge, but he followed when I led onward.”
“Oh, Hugo,” she said again, and for a moment she rested the side of the bonnet against his sleeve.
He did not move them back onto the path but instead led her across an expanse of grass toward a line of ancient trees and among them along a far narrower path that was quite deserted.
“I am sorry you were exposed to that,” he said. “I shall escort you home if you wish and stay away from you in future. You may take Constance to the garden party and those other two places if you will be so good—or not, if you choose. You have already done a great deal for her out of the kindness of your heart.”
“Does this mean,” she asked him, “that you will never crook your finger at me?”
He turned his head and looked down at her, as grim a soldier as she had ever seen.
“It means that,” he said.
“That is a pity,” she said. “I had been beginning to think that I might, just might look favorably upon your courtship. Though admittedly pride might prevent me from going running toward a crooked finger.”
“I cannot ever expose you to anything like that again,” he said.
“I must be protected from life, then?” she said. “It cannot be done, Hugo.”
“I know nothing whatsoever about courtship,” he told her after a brief silence. “I have not read the manual.”
“You dance with the woman in question,” she said. “Or, if it is a waltz and you are afraid of tripping all over your feet or treading all over hers, then you stroll outdoors with her and listen to her pour out all her deepest, darkest secrets without either looking bored or passing judgment. And then you kiss her and make her feel somehow … forgiven. You call on her when she is feeling weary to the bone and take her walking. You make sure to lead her along a shady, deserted path so that you may kiss her.”
“A kiss each day?” he asked. “That is a requirement?”
“Whenever possible,” she said. “It takes ingenuity on some days.”
“I can be ingenious,” he said.
“I do not doubt it,” she told him.
They strolled slowly onward.
“Gwendoline,” he said, “I may seem like a big, tough fellow. I am not sure I am.”
“Oh,” she said softly, “I am quite sure you are not, Hugo. Not in all the ways that matter, anyway.”
I am not tough either. Or a tease.
At least she did not think she was a tease.
She desperately needed to think. She was still very tired. She had slept only in restless fits and starts last night, and today there had been the painfully emotional afternoon with Lauren and now … this.
“A kiss a day,” he said. “But not necessarily as a signal of courtship on either of our parts. A kiss merely because conditions are favorable and we wish to get physical.”
“It sounds like a good enough reason,” she said, laughing. “Kiss me, then, Hugo, and rescue today from seeming somehow … dismal.”
Tree branches laden with their spring coat of light green leaves waved above their heads. The air was fragrant with the smell of them. A chorus of invisible birds was busy with their mysterious, sweet-sounding communications. In the distance a dog barked and a child shrieked with laughter.
He turned her back to a tree trunk and leaned his body against hers. His fingers pushed past the sides of her bonnet into her hair while his palms cupped her cheeks. His eyes, gazing into her own in the shade of the trees, were very dark.
“Every day,” he said. “It is a heady thought.”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“Beddings every night,” he said. “Several times a night. And often during the day too. It would be the natural result of courtship.”
“Yes,” she said.
“If I were courting you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And if I looked upon that courtship with favor.”
“Gwendoline,” he murmured.
“Hugo.”
And his lips touched hers, brushed them lightly, and drew back.
“The next time,” he said, “if there is a next time, I want you naked.”
“Yes,” she said. “If there is a next time.”
What were all the reasons why all this was an improbability, even if not an impossibility? What was one of those reasons? Even one.
He kissed her again, wrapping both arms about her waist and drawing her away from the tree into his body, while her arms twined about his neck.
It was a hard, hot kiss, their open mouths pressed together, their tongues dueling, stroking, in her mouth, in his, back again. They breathed heavily against each other’s cheek. And ultimately they kissed softly and warmly and with lips only, murmuring unintelligible words.
“I think,” he said when he was finished, “I had better take you home.”
“I think so too,” she said. “And then you had better pull those invitations out of your pocket before it acquires a permanent bulge.”
“It would not do to be walking around looking like an imperfect gentleman,” he said.
“No, indeed.” She laughed and took his arm.
And she recklessly upgraded her chances of a future with him all the way from improbable to possible.
Though not yet to probable.
She was not that reckless.
Chapter 18
Constance, it seemed to Hugo, was having the time of her life. She went shopping with Lady Muir and her cousin and sister-in-law one morning and ended up at a tea shop with an admirer and his mother. She went on a round of visits on another afternoon with the same three ladies and was escorted home by the son of the final household upon which they called, a maid trailing along behind at his grandmother’s insistence. She went driving in the park on two afternoons with different escorts. And each morning brought a steady stream of invitations, though so far she had attended only the one ball.
She was well launched upon society, it seemed, and she was happy. Not just for herself, though.
“All the gentlemen who have singled me out for attention want to talk about you, Hugo,” she told him at breakfast one morning. “It is very gratifying.”
“About me?” He frowned. “And yet they are courting you?”
“Well,” she said, “I suppose it is good for their prestige to be seen with the sister of the hero of Badajoz.”
Hugo was mortally tired of hearing that ridiculous phrase.