“A lady surely shouldn’t know this side of life.”
“Why ever not? Aunt Ellie did. She helped. I’ll try to help too. There’s little enough any one person can do, unfortunately. I doubt I’ll be able to count much on Bennett.”
He sighed, raised his hand, then lowered it. “You are so very young, Caroline.”
She grinned at that. “Come now, North, nineteen is a grand old age. I was told often enough by Mrs. Tailstrop—she was my nominal chaperon at Honeymead Manor—that a girl who reached my advanced years was very nearly on the shelf and it was fortunate I had money to make myself more acceptable.”
“Shelf—what an odd word.”
“It is, isn’t it? Should I feel like a jar of preserves, perhaps? Or a poultry dish? Or perhaps an oatmeal bowl?”
“Well, forget that nonsense. You’re just fine as you are, quite acceptable.”
“How old are you, North?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Goodness, you are indeed on that infamous shelf.”
“It doesn’t apply to men.”
“That seems hardly fair, does it? But I suppose it does make some sense. I’ve noticed that men appear to need more seasoning than women do. Poor Owen, he’s but two years younger than you, yet I would say he needs many more years of ripening to make him remotely acceptable. You, my lord, on the other hand, are just right.”
“My seasonings are all at the right levels?”
“Yes, and like a summer peach, you’re of a perfect ripeness.”
He smiled at her but didn’t say anything, just stood shoulder to shoulder with her and looked out over the Irish Sea for a good long time. Finally, he said, not turning to look at her, “Look to your left down the coast. That’s St. Ives with all the bright cottages climbing up the cliffs and all the fishing boats there in the harbor. At low tide, the boats are sitting on wet sand. It’s a strange sight. Beyond is Trevose Head. Here on the north coast, everything is rugged and savage, any trees that survive are bowed and stunted from the harsh storm winds off the Irish Sea. It’s very different from the southern coast, where you can sit beneath a palm tree, enjoy a balmy breeze, and read poetry to your ladylove.” He paused a moment, then said thoughtfully, “I don’t recall having spoken like this to a female in a very long time. Other than exchanging inane remarks about the weather, taking her to—well, never mind that. What I mean is that somehow, for whatever reason, I seem to talk to you, and it’s easy and pleasurable. Actually, I haven’t smiled with a female in a very long time either. There was the Duchess, of course—she’s my friend Marcus Wyndham’s new wife, and a very fine woman—but even with her—” He broke off, shaking his head, obviously, at least to her, very confused and uncertain about himself. “You’re different, I suppose.”
“I don’t understand. You never acted as though you didn’t want to be around me. I thought you quite witty from the moment I met you. Then you added kindness. And you’re a very handsome man, North. Don’t you like women?”
He looked momentarily shocked, then realized she had no idea what she’d intimated. It didn’t occur to him to soften what was the truth for him. “Women are vital, but quite unnecessary for a man’s daily contentment.”
“That sounded like a litany, something drummed into your head from your earliest boyhood. So you don’t like women. Bennett said you have a bad reputation, that you were dark and brooding and dangerous, but still took your pleasure with local maidens whenever it pleased you to do so.”
“What a fool this Penrose fellow must be. Remind me to plant my fivers squarely in his paltry mouth when I meet him. Unlike poor Owen, does this one have a chin? Just a small one, huh? Now, about women. I like women well enough. As I said, they’re vital. A man must have a woman to, ah, ease himself.”
“That sounds very odd, North. It sounds like you think all women are alike, that they’re all interchangeable. Does that mean that I should think of you the same way I think of Mr. Ffalkes or poor Owen or that sniveling Bennett, whose character would improve if he were smacked every day?”
“It’s not that you’re all interchangeable, it’s just that I have never before felt the need… Ah, enough of this, it’s very improper. Now, you shouldn’t even be with me since you have no chaperon. On the other hand, I would just as soon stay close until Mr. Ffalkes makes his move, and I know he will. He’s a desperate man and you’re the only lifeboat around to save him from his sea of debt.”
“Are you dark and brooding and dangerous, North?”
“Do you think I am?”
“Yes, it’s possible. You certainly do adapt to the role with ease. Bennett said you looked like a wild Byronic hero, and that’s true enough. But you’ve been wonderful to me, so I’ll accept all sides of you. If you want to go off with your hounds and brood on the moors, why, it’s your business. A person should be allowed to develop like a rich tapestry with all sorts of vivid colors and different moods and settings, some harsh, some gentle.”
“Perhaps,” he said, looking at her closely now because no woman had ever before spoken thusly to him. Of course, he’d never before been alone so long with a woman and not making love to her. He said, “Tell me, Caroline, how do you know I have hounds? When you were with me, they were all in their enclosure. As I recall they weren’t even howling at the moon.”
“I overheard Mr. Tregeagle say something about their food to Mr. Polgrain. He called them ‘bloody proper pigs.”’
“Ah. I guess they are. Tell me something else, Caroline. What dark secrets are you hiding?” He stared down into her open, quite lovely face, those remarkable deep-green eyes of hers, bright with humor, mischief, and intelligence. Ah, and so much curiosity and interest in everything. No, she wasn’t interchangeable with any other woman, and for a brief moment it scared him quite to his toes. Then, without warning, in his mind’s eye he saw his father yelling at him, his face mottled red with his fury, with his interminable impatience, his bitterness, his rage. No, he wouldn’t think of his father. He raised his hand to smooth back a thick tendril of rich chestnut hair that had come loose from its coil at the back of her neck. As he tucked the hair behind her ear, he said, his voice low and dark and smooth, “No, you don’t have any secrets, do you? You’re open and sweet and remarkably kindhearted, given the guardian who’s plagued you for how many years.”
“Mr. Ffalkes was my guardian since I was eleven years old. I don’t think I like to be called sweet. It sounds like a fat pug who lies about waiting to be scratched on the belly.”
“You’re too trusting, Caroline, out here on this windblown promontory with a black-souled devil like myself. Much too trusting. Oh damnation, give me your mouth.”
He leaned down and kissed her lightly on her closed lips. She was too surprised to move, just stared up at him, her head slightly tilted to the side in question. For a moment, his fingers caressed her cheeks, her ears, her throat.