Someone to Care

They walked sedately along the dirt terrace that would take them onto the driveway to the top of the valley if they continued. But she did not want to go up to the top. She had seen the view from there yesterday. She slipped her hand from his arm and stepped off the path among the ferns. They did indeed reach her knees, some of them even higher than that, and, yes, they were beaded prettily with moisture, as she had seen from her window. The moisture did not feel nearly as pretty when transferred to her dress and cloak and even her stockings and legs, however. There was still a chill in the air, but there was warmth in the sun too and the promise of another lovely afternoon.

“Are you satisfied, ma’am?” he asked, all righteous and smug inside his top boots. “Shall we go back in for breakfast?”

She smiled dazzlingly at him and turned back to the valley. She spread her arms wide, lifted her face to the sky, whooped with delight, and began to run downhill. It did not take long to discover that it was not as easy as it looked. The carpet of the ferns suggested a smooth slope, but the ground under them was anything but. It was also spongy from the mist and the dew. The slope was a lot steeper than it had looked from above, and certainly longer. After a few moments she needed both hands to hold up her skirts so she would not trip over them. With her eyes she tried to map out a path ahead, but it was virtually impossible to see all the dips and rises and rocks and mud patches. Even the trees were dripping water. She found herself laughing helplessly. It was either that or scream. Somehow she kept her feet under her all the way down, but she was very thankful that the slope leveled off to a grassy bank for a few yards this side of the river. She was able to slow down in time to save herself from the shock of an early-morning swim.

Good heavens, she did not even know how to swim.

And when had she behaved with such little regard for dignity and propriety and even safety? Probably never. There were hills aplenty in Bath. She had never run down any of them as a child. Or spread her arms or whooped or laughed helplessly.

He was still standing on the terrace where she had left him, his arms folded across his chest, looking handsome and virile and disapproving. Oh goodness, oh goodness, when had she ever felt so free? When had she ever felt so happy? There had been fleeting moments—her first love when she was sixteen, the births of her children, Camille’s wedding, Jacob’s christening . . . For the life of her she could not recall any other such moments until she had waltzed on the village green.

Every day since had been crammed with such moments. And every night too.

He was descending the slope with measured steps and great dignity. “You ruined my morning,” he said when he was close enough to be heard. “I was waiting for the giant splash and the shriek as you dashed into the water.”

“And you would have rushed to the rescue like a knight- errant,” she said.

“I must caution you, ma’am,” he said, “against making a gallant hero of me in your imagination.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing that his buff-colored breeches were wet above his boot tops as well as the lower third of his coat. She was soaked almost to the waist, and there was nothing remotely warm about the moisture. Her feet, half frozen, were squelching inside her shoes.

“You still wish to do your ecstatic pirouette on the bridge, I assume?” he asked, offering his arm.

It was some distance away.

“Perhaps we ought to keep that treat for another day,” she said. “Breakfast seems like a lovely idea, does it not?”

“It seemed even lovelier from the top of the hill,” he told her.

“I believe,” she said, “you are not a lover of country living, are you, Marcel?”

“I am not renowned for tramping about my fields admiring my crops,” he admitted, “a faithful hound panting at my heels.”

“How can you look about this valley,” she said, indicating it with one sweeping arm, “and not feel something . . . here?” She tapped her heart.

“I would rather look at the woman in the valley,” he said, his eyes following her hand.

“Would you?” She gazed at him, his face harsh and cynical, his dark, hooded eyes unfathomable, and despite her earlier resolve, wondered what lay behind them. Or who lay behind them.

He set his hands at her waist, drew her against him, and kissed her openmouthed and at some length. His mouth was hot in contrast to the uncomfortable coldness of her person.

You must not fall in love, an inner voice of reason cautioned. You really must not.

Oh, but there is no fear of that, she protested silently. I am merely enjoying a brief escape from my life.

“There is a law of duality,” he said, “that insists, as laws often do, that what goes up must come down. Sometimes, however, when one least wants the law to reverse itself, it does.”

She looked up the hillside to the cottage, so idyllic and picturesque among the trees and ferns, climbing plants adorning its walls. It also looked welcoming with the one bedchamber window wide open and a line of smoke rising out of the chimney. Some of the leaves about them were changing color.

“It does look like rather a long climb,” she admitted.

She was out of breath halfway up and had to pause and cling to a tree trunk while pretending she had stopped to admire the view. She was out of breath again at the top and puffing inelegantly. He was breathing as though he had just taken a leisurely stroll along Bond Street in London—except that his boots had lost some of their luster.

“Your cheeks are becomingly rosy, Viola,” he said. “And so is your nose—perhaps not quite as becomingly.”

“Gallantry is really not your forte, is it?” she said.

“As I warned you,” he reminded her. “I believe it would be more accurate to describe your nose as adorably rosy.”

“Oh, well-done,” she said, and turned to precede him into the house.

“Never let it be said,” he murmured from behind her, “that I do not think quickly on my feet.”

She laughed.

Ten

After a week at the cottage, Marcel discovered with something of a surprise not only that he was still deeply immersed in this new affair of his, but that he was also thoroughly enjoying himself. Not enjoying just the affair—he would expect that. It never took him any time at all to put an end to any liaison he was not enjoying. No, he was enjoying . . . himself.

When he had thought of coming to the Devonshire cottage, it had seemed to him that it was the ideal place for the uninterrupted conduct of the affair. He had pictured them cozily ensconced in the house, the valley merely the secluded background that would cut them off from prying eyes and the distractions of civilization and the normal course of their lives. His family would not in a million years think of searching for him there, even if for some unfathomable reason they should consider searching at all, and her family would not even know of its existence.

He had not considered the place in terms of wild natural beauty and fresh—sometimes cold—air and bracing walks and conversation that stretched his mind to its limits. The very thought would have given him pause.

He had been right in his main expectation. They enjoyed long nights of sensual pleasures, which had not yet even begun to pall upon him. Quite the contrary, in fact. He was even growing slightly uneasy at the possibility that they never would, though he was being ridiculous, of course. Any day now he was going to grow restless, not just to return to civilization, but to regain his freedom so that he could look about him for some new source of pleasure.