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They’d shared a simple meal at a seaside restaurant where the proprietor had recognized Edgar.
“Very good, madam,” said Harriet.
Mari and Edgar walked down the corridor toward the sitting area with its glass doors overlooking the sea.
“A walk on the beach, perhaps?” Mari asked. She didn’t want the evening to end. “To watch the sun set and see the moon and the stars come out?”
“I can see the stars right now.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “And we can watch the sun set from this window.”
Mari shivered from the touch of his lips brushing her flesh and the promise in his eyes. “I’ll just be a moment. I need to... wash up.”
The children weren’t the only ones with sand stuck everywhere. She needed to at least splash herself with water. And brush her hair, which was tangled from the wind and salt spray.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she told Edgar.
How had everything become so mixed-up and tangled?
Edgar paced the length of the room and back again. He should leave Mari a note telling her that he’d gone to bed. And while he was at it, he could leave her the damned letter that he’d somehow completely forgotten to give her during the lazy, sun-soaked day.
He could leave the letter from the lawyer, and the note, and be gone in the morning.
It was all too much, this togetherness and tenderness. Where did he think it would lead?
You know exactly where it’s going to lead. And you’ve been guiding it there, pushing your acquaintance, your friendship, down intimate paths. Telling her secrets. Telling the children stories while she listened with stars in her eyes.
Yes, that’s what he should do. Write her a note and leave. That was the right and gentlemanly thing to do. It had been a mistake to come here.
No, it hadn’t been a mistake. The day had been perfect.
His mind veered one direction, and then the other, until the door opened and Mari reappeared.
She’d changed into a glowing ivory-colored gown and the moment he saw her flushed cheeks and freshly-brushed auburn ringlets pinned atop her head, he knew: he could no more leave her tonight, than the stars could leave the sky.
“You look beautiful,” he said simply. “That gown suits you.”
“One of Lady India’s cast-offs.” She performed a curtsy, holding the sides of the filmy white dress and swishing the frothy hem over her ankles.
She wore dainty white kid slippers with red rosettes at the toes.
“You look utterly delectable,” said Edgar.
“It’s the shoes,” she replied. “They appear to be made of frosting and rose petals. I think this gown must have been meant for a grand ball and a blushing debutante.” The words were light. Teasing. But he heard the ache beneath her words.
She’d never had a season. Never been a debutante dressed in white.
“I never attend balls,” he said. “They’re highly overrated. But I would attend one if you were there, dressed in this flimsy bit of sea foam. I’d take your dance card and I’d write my name on every line.”
She swatted his arm with an imaginary fan. “Your Grace. Such scandalous talk. You’re making me feel quite wicked.”
Mine,his brain asserted.Mine to claim for every dance.
They stood side by side in front of the windows, watching the light fade.
The gray sea shimmered with the last rays of the setting sun, like the final words of a poem.
Pale mauve and dainty shell-pink faded into the gloaming.
The sun slid under the dark water.
