“Your immaturity is evident.”
“I’m twenty-six in August,” she said, a flush brightening her cheeks, but she took no step closer to him. The two of them trapped and compelled within the narrow enclosure of the pathway, unable or unwilling to move away. “You should not have kissed me. You had no right.”
All of that was perfectly true, and were she any other lady of theton, Woolwich would have been apologising and trying his best to make amends. Were she any other lady of theton, Woolwich would not have dreamt of behaving so, despite his avowal to seduce Lady Heatherbroke… but since he had kissed Miss Blackman, he would have to face the consequences of his ill-thought-through actions. This resolved, he wetted his lips in preparation to make his apologies, but instead, out came the words, “You shouldn’t have kissed me back.” There was something about Miss Blackman that rendered him ill-tempered and as immature as he had just accused her of being.
“As the older, more experienced individual—” she said.
“Are you attempting to say I am wiser?” He needled her.
Quick as a whippet, she bit back, “You should be. Wiser than you are. I see no evidence of this.”
“We should ensure that no one ever hears of this—this—occurrence.”
“What are you accusing me of? Attempting to trap you? Into marriage? Is that your implication?” The disgust that coloured her voice was so pointed and overwhelming that Woolwich could not help feeling a touch offended. He was a catch. Everyone said so. He was often seen as one of the most eligible and sought-after gentlemen of thebeau monde. For this diminutive, red-haired chit to dismiss him out of hand ruffled him in a way Woolwich did not want to explore too greatly. “There is no offer you could ever make me, Your Grace, to tempt me to wed you. I would sooner die an old maid than ever consent to be your bride.”
“A fate that is already abundantly laid before you.”
She made a scoffing noise and then raised her hand and gestured for him to leave. “You should go. Now. Get away from me.”
But his feet would not carry him from her. No matter how infuriated or distressed she might look. The two of them were fighting, a bitter and seemingly bloody exchange, but she had made this start to the Season far more memorable than any he could recall in years. His previous interactions with Miss Blackman had been brief, and like many, or rather all other, women in society, dull and as lifeless as mud. But now, he certainly could not lay that charge against Miss Blackman, not anymore. None of those things could be voiced to her, of course. He would not be so vulnerable. No, he would never allow another person to see the small, fragile parts of himself that were so unlovable.
Forcing himself to say something to justify why he wasn’t retreating away, Woolwich said, “You barely warrant the title or address of a lady. But I would not leave a woman unattended outdoors. I will escort you back inside to your host.”
“This is not Vauxhall. I think I can survive being in a friend’s garden for a few minutes of quiet reflection. I hardly require a guardian anymore.”
“If you were desiring to locate that insipid don, Goudge, he’s long gone.” There was satisfaction in saying that particular statement.
“Your unpleasantness is not necessary—”
“That’s not fair.” Woolwich did not know why he interrupted her, perhaps because listening to Miss Blackman disparage him was simply repetitive, or because he feared it might hurt. Either way, he did not wish to hear himself named a cur repeatedly. “I felt sympathy for the man, being so chased out by you.”
With a noise of disbelief, Miss Blackman drew her arms around herself protectively. He found himself judging with an admiring eye the way the inhale and straightening of her spine highlighted her magnificent breasts in her evening gown. The swell of straining silk lifted, and Woolwich wondered how she would respond if he ran his finger along the band that held in her bosom—what would her reaction be? Before he could continue, she finally broke. Miss Blackman followed his gaze, reddened, and before he could speak, marched forward, pushing past him, and stormed away to the house.
Behind him, Woolwich heard the door slam, leaving him alone outside. It was a familiar sensation—loneliness and solitude—but that did not mean it was not a comfort. He was forced into the decision, but the alternative was far too painful, more agonising than being forced to continue as normal with the dratted woman.
Slowly he acknowledged the truth. He could hardly blame the girl; he had been an absolute cad to Miss Blackman. Most women would have fainted, screamed the surrounding location down, or insisted he behaved like more of a gentleman. Despite his annoyance towards her, he knew she deserved an apology, at least for the kiss.
Turning, he made his way toward the rear of the house. His fulsome response, he reasoned, could wait for when both of them were in a better mood. Give him time to compose a sufficient grovelling amends, whilst not admitting any flaws in his plan towards Miss Blackman’s dear friend. That was the balance he would need to achieve.
He reached the gate at the back of the garden and left.
Yes, it was the best plan—resolve matters over that kiss and assure her it would never occur again.
* * *
Businesswith one of his estate managers, and an ardent desire he did not want to admit to, kept Woolwich away from the social scene and the more affluent elements of theton-ish Season for a good week. He was also highly aware that the longer he kept his distance, the more justified he felt in his revenge plot, his fury for Heatherbroke, disdain for the marquess’s wife, worry over the Betting Book, and annoyance with Miss Blackman for sticking her button nose in where it did not belong. But he was giving her plenty of time to forget that night and the stolen kiss. At least that was what he was hoping.
It had not worked out that well—only last night he’d woken in the middle of the night, sweating with the memories of kissing Miss Blackman, the surprise in her wide eyes, and the feel of her hands gripping his hair in desperate responses. He tried repeatedly turning his thoughts and dreams towards the purpose that should have preoccupied him—getting revenge on Heatherbroke and ensuring his son’s legacy was safe. But despite knowing this, no matter what he did, the memory of her blush and Miss Blackman’s eager fingers did not leave him. In fact, the blasted chit was pulling all his focus from his stated task.
There was a large selection of papers spread out before him on the desk, their lettering dancing in a blur of white and black. It was a grim reality that these papers were what he had to hold on to, telling his story as a man cut off and alone in a vast London mansion, save for his servants who were well used to avoiding him. The solitude had never previously bothered him. No, Woolwich had revelled in it. Now his conscience was nagging him, with the drumbeat of emotions he had no desire to explore.
In frustration, he called out to his secretary and asked the man what event was supposed to be all the rage this afternoon. His plan was to locate Lady Heatherbroke, although if Miss Blackman happened to be there, he supposed he could give her a fleeting apology that she was owed.
On learning that this afternoon a grand rural picnic had been planned, or the sort that most of thebeau mondewould be thrilled to attend, Woolwich sighed and resolved to go. So, within twenty minutes, he was ready and made his way towards the selected pleasure garden in his handsome barouche, enjoying the feel of the ribbons in his hands and the slightest of breezes which was stirring his hair, as the carriage picked up pace.
London was in fine form in the midst of April. Heavenly apple blossoms scented the air as Woolwich’s barouche drew him through the streets. The arrival of the Season had encouraged in Mayfair a cleanness that could not be attained in the rest of the city, and the grand terraces and homes gleamed, vanilla and cream with black railings in warm dappled sunlight. Were Woolwich a more romantic man or a poetic sort, it might move him to write a sonnet or compose a song. Such feelings, though, made Woolwich mightily uncomfortable.
On arriving at the pleasure garden, Woolwich secured his barouche alongside the other carriages. His gaze swept the scene before him, taking in the small maze, the far more imposing and central lake, which was sprinkled over with boating couples, and intermingled throughout the spreading green lawn were dozens of belvederes filled with tables of food, ices, cakes, and wines arrayed on top. Hundreds of people mingled through the gardens gossiping as Woolwich cut through the crowds.
