“What a slug!” she called and laughed again. And would have won the race to the gate at the other side of the pasture, she was sure, if she could have stopped herself from laughing. As it was, he beat her by almost a length, and leaned across to take the reins of her horse as she drew level.
“Whatdid you say?” he asked. “Were you referring to my horse or to me, ma’am?”
She laughed.
“I will assume it was my horse,” he said. “But if he is a slug, pray, what does that make yours?”
“Lame in four feet?” she asked, and they both dissolved into fits of laughter far in excess of the humor of the joke.
They passed through the gate and walked their horses through the trees beyond it until they came unexpectedly to an ornamental lake, half covered with lily pads.
“Oh,” she said. “Beautiful.”
“Oh,” he said. “Opportune. I think our horses could use a rest, Claire. I certainly could.” He slid from his horse’s back and lifted her from hers before tethering the animals to a tree under which there was grass for them to graze on.
He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. They strolled together about the small lake, not talking, enjoying the utter peace of the scene. Only the chirping of birds and the occasional snorting of one of the horses broke the silence.
“Well, Claire,” he said when they had completed the walk, “even nature is on our side. Pure romance, is it not?” He smiled at her in some amusement.
She nodded. “I should have known this was here,” she said. “But we have never had many dealings with the Carvers.”
They sat down on the grass facing the lake and lifted their faces to the warmth of the sun.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked her.
“Yes.” She turned her head to look at him. “Yes, I did. I knew I had today and tomorrow to look forward to.” She flushed. “Did you?”
“Sleep well?” he said. “Well enough. You asked me if I was sorry I had picked up your valentine. Are you sorry I picked it up? Do you wish it had been someone else? Or do you wish that after all you had gone home?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said.
He smiled slowly at her. “Ah, Claire,” he said, “you should be sorry. But now is not the time for that, is it? Today and tomorrow are for romance.”
“Yes,” she said.
He was regretting it, she thought. He was wishing he was back at the house with one of the other ladies. Or perhaps wishing he had not come at all. But he was still smiling, and his hand was stroking gently over one of her cheeks, and his head was lowering to hers. And she knew that he was not feeling regret but that he was enjoying the day as much as she. She closed her eyes and parted her lips.
He had agreed to romance, he thought as his mouth met hers and he felt heat flare instantly despite his intention to make it a light and warm embrace. But how could he give her romance when he knew only about physical passion? And how could he toy with her body and her feelings when she was not like those women back at Florence’s house, eager and able to change lovers as they would change their frocks? And for the same reason—that keeping the same one bored them.
And yet the choice, the control over the moment, was not his for long. He lowered her to the grass and kissed her eyes, her temples, her cheeks, her throat, and her mouth again. His hand found its way beneath her velvet jacket to the warm silk of the blouse covering her breasts. Her arms reached up for him and circled his back, drawing him down half on top of her. And she moaned into his mouth.
She was aching, and throbbing with the ache from head to foot. And yet she had never known a pain that was pleasurable, a pain that she wanted to perpetuate. She searched for his mouth when it moved from hers for a moment and sucked inward on his tongue when it slid between her teeth. Thought, rationality, were gone and only feeling was left. Only the pleasure and the pain.
His hand was on her knee. She could feel the cool air against her lower leg, where he had pushed up the velvet skirt of her riding habit. And then his fingers were feathering their way along her upper thigh before stopping and lying still and warm there.
“Oh, please, Gerard,” she said, turning in to his body when his hand did not resume its movement. “Please. Oh, please.”
His mouth found hers again and kissed it warmly while his hand lifted from her leg and lowered her skirt again. She heard herself moaning and did not care.
“Claire,” he murmured against her ear, wrapping both arms around her and drawing her snugly against him. “It is too public a place. We dare not.”
Yet it was not public at all, he knew. He doubted that anyone had been there since the previous summer. There was an overgrown, neglected air to the place despite its beauty. And he knew that if she had been any other woman he would have had her skirt to her waist by now and the buttons of his breeches dispensed with. He would be inside her by now, taking his pleasure of her, bringing her pleasure as payment.
If she were any other woman. Her face was against his neckcloth. She was trembling. He was unsure whether she was crying or not but did not have the courage to shrug her face away from him so that he could see for himself. He settled his cheek against the top of her head and held her tightly until she relaxed. And then for five, perhaps ten minutes longer.
She was warm and comfortable and sorry it had not happened. And perhaps a little relieved as well. To be taken on the hard ground in the outdoors—would there not have been something a little sordid about it? No, there would not have been, she decided. But it did not matter. She was comfortable and he felt wonderful and smelled wonderful. Why was it, she wondered drowsily, that masculine colognes smelled so much more desirable than feminine perfumes? Perhaps because she was female, she thought with an inward smile. This was what it must feel like to sleep in a man’s arms at night, she thought. But the thought threatened to make her sad. She drew back her head.
And they looked deeply into each other’s eyes and smiled slowly.
