Page 37 of When the Marquess Was Mine
“I don’t know about you,” he said, breaking into her thoughts again, “but I have a fiendish desire to wade in the pond.”
She jerked in amazement. “You do?”
“May I not?” He grinned at her as he released her hand and yanked at one boot.
Blinking rapidly, Georgiana began to smile. On her own, she’d have gone swimming, not just wading. “Of course you may. And we shall.”
They were up to their knees in the water when Angus appeared with the hamper. He waved and set it down. He’d brought a fishing pole, and Rob gave him leave to walk around to the deeper part of the pond and see if he could catch any fish for dinner. Angus grinned, clearly having hoped for this, and made his way out to a fallen tree that jutted over the water, where he could cast his line out of earshot but not out of sight.
It was, she reflected with some wistfulness, the perfect day. It was bliss to be outside after so many days shut up in a dim sickroom. The sun was warm, the water was cool, and mud squished agreeably between her toes. As she held up her skirts and followed a glittering water bug skimming along the water’s surface, she felt the happiest she’d been in days.
And no small part of that was Rob. He bore no resemblance to the cold, polished marquess who’d inspired such fear and dislike in London. He rolled up his trouser legs, and collected a large handful of flat stones. When his attempts to skip the stones failed, he scowled at himself and let her show him how to do it. As she adjusted the angle of his wrist and gave advice, his mouth firmed into a line of concentration. His hair fell over his brow as he slung the stones, and her heart gave an unsteady thump at the fierce elation that blazed across his face when he got the knack of it, and then skipped a dozen more as if to prove he could.
“I knew I couldn’t have forgotten that,” he muttered, flexing his fingers as he sloshed out of the pond.
“What?” She’d come out of the water before he did and was seated on the blanket, wiggling her toes in the sun. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” he scoffed, lowering himself to the ground beside her. “Absolutely nothing is wrong today, on this beautiful day, in this beautiful spot, with this beautiful woman beside me. This is perfection.”
She couldn’t stop smiling. Privately she agreed, although not for reasons she could tell him. “Your standards are very low. Perfection! After what you’ve been through?”
He grinned. “I survived. I still have all my limbs, and all my senses.” He paused. “Well, I have most of my senses.” Georgiana burst out laughing. “All in all, I can’t be sorry for it happening.”
“No!” she gasped. “Never say that!”
He twisted toward her, smiling. The sun turned the ends of his tousled hair to copper. Georgiana felt a flush of heat roll through her that had nothing to do with the sun. And she knew, as he slowly lowered his head, that he was going to kiss her... and she knew she should protest and not let it happen, but the breath seemed to have stopped in her chest and the view of his handsome face seemed to have mesmerized her into a state of breathless wonder.
One little kiss meant nothing, surely. Plenty of young ladies kissed more than one man before they got married. Some of them reveled in it, in fact, and considered it a vital part of choosing a husband. And she’d been so sure she was in love with Sterling, and would be forever, that it had never occurred to her before that she might be a little curious what it was like to kiss someone else...
But he didn’t. He touched his lips lightly to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.
Her heart leapt into her throat. “What—for what?”
“For whatever went wrong between us,” he murmured, his breath warming her temple. “Something I did but do not remember. Whatever it was, I’m sorry.”
“No,” she mumbled, her face scarlet.
He brushed a stray wisp of hair from her cheek, his fingers gentle. “Can you forgive me? Someone’s already properly thrashed me for it.”
“Rob!” Mortified, she still laughed a little. “Don’t say that!”
He grinned. His fingertips traced feathery spirals on her cheek, over her jaw until she wanted to tip back her head and let him stroke her throat. “For all you know, they heard I needed a thrashing and decided to take up the cause.”
“That is utterly ridiculous.”
“No, no, it’s only logical,” he countered, still tracing those circles on her skin, his fingers skimming lazily over her collarbone. “Even if those particular fellows didn’t know, some almighty power must have, and delivered me into their hands. I don’t see how you can argue with divine justice.”
“Divine—!” She gave up and laughed. “How can you say such things? It was terrible and terrifying and you’re making jokes about it.”
“It helps to endure it,” he said with a philosophical nod, “if I believe I deserved it. Getting thrashed for cause—every lad understands that. You take the whipping and go on with yourself, chastened to some degree and certainly resolved never to commit any similar sin, or at least not get caught at it.” He made a face. “The other sort of thrashing... that doesn’t bear thinking about. Leads to grousing about ruinous luck, which no man wants to think he’s got.”
Georgiana could only stare, openmouthed, marveling at him. “You’re different,” she said on impulse. “Not like you were before.”
“Better, I hope,” he said with a devilish wink.
Without thinking Georgiana touched his jaw. She never would have thought the Marquess of Westmorland would make light of being beaten. Or of himself. Or apologize for... well, for anything, let alone for something he didn’t even remember doing. He was like a different man.
Either that or she had completely misunderstood and misjudged him. Which was, she allowed with some fresh humility, entirely possible.
