“There are plenty of roses in England. A veritable army of them, actually,” he said with a wink, and leaned over, withdrew a small flagon of wine from beneath the bench and then a small glass. And another. “It seems as if my genius is not yet apparent to you.”
“On the contrary—a picnic in a coach is quite imaginative. Some might even be moved to call it genius.”
He grinned, obviously pleased by that. “Imaginative, perhaps, but a bit close, wouldn’t you agree? No, the picnic is somewhere else entirely,” he said as he poured a small amount of wine into a glass and handed it to her. “We shall be leisure in the course to our destination, where you will dine on roasted hen, tender leeks, and sweet pudding.”
“How lovely,” Kate murmured and sipped her wine, felt a warm glow from it and the knowledge that the handsome man sitting across from her had gone to so much trouble on the slim chance that she might agree to his insanity.
It was beyond her ability to comprehend, really. A wealthy viscount, a vicar’s widow . . . it was scarcely the sort of affair that the Morning Times alluded to among the ton. Men of Montgomery’s stature attracted any number of women—in fact, she’d read such speculation about him on more than one occasion. But he had been steadfast in his pursuit of her, and at the moment, she hardly cared of his motives. The butterflies he always seemed to put in her belly had somehow expanded into an entire aviary of wings beating away inside her, making her feel giddy with wild excitement.
It felt as if she had scarcely sipped her wine when the coach came to a halt. She detected the pungent scent of fish and heard the voices of several men.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Montgomery smiled enigmatically. “At the river’s edge,” he said as the door swung open. “We’re to take a short journey upstream,” he added and disappeared through the open door, then extended his hand to help her down.
Kate didn’t know precisely where on the Thames they had come to. They hurried across a rain-slicked dock to a waiting barge. In the middle of the barge was a large, box-shaped enclosure. Three boatmen were on board, two with oars in hand, and another at the rudder. A fourth waited patiently on the dock, next to a thick rope that anchored the barge to the dock.
“Mind your step,” Montgomery warned her and hopped onto the barge, then caught her by the waist, lifted her off the dock, and swung her down onto the barge. With a boyish smile, he grabbed her hand, pulled her into the boxed enclosure.
She made a sound of surprise as she ducked and entered the enclosure. The small area was furnished with thick brocade pillows. The walls were velvet, and two tiny port-holes graced each side. There were candles in the sconces, a basket at the opening, and rose petals everywhere. Everywhere. They covered the cushions, the blankets, the baskets.
Kate was so awed by the sight of it that she scarcely noticed Montgomery was helping her in, seating her on a pile of cushions next to the porthole. He covered her with a blanket, then took his place next to her. From their vantage point, they had a view of the river as they headed upstream.
Water lapped gently at the sides of the barge as the boatmen made the final preparations to launch in the thick rain and mist. Kate watched them move back and forth before the enclosure until the barge glided away from the dock and started upriver. Then she shifted her smiling gaze to Montgomery.
“What’s this?” he asked, looking at her soft smile. “Ah, I expected as much,” he said and reached for the basket, his arm brushing carelessly against her as if they were quite accustomed to one another.
He placed the basket on his lap. “I should not expect you to ride very far without some sustenance,” he said as he unfolded the linen cloth in the basket. It was filled with tiny sweet biscuits of various shapes and varieties. “What would you like?”
Kate leaned forward, glanced at the biscuits in his lap, then lifted her gaze. “What would you suggest?”
With a low laugh in his throat, Montgomery put aside the biscuits and put his hand on her neck. “I would suggest,” he said, leaning closer, “this.” He pulled her to him, kissed her soft and wet as they floated into a thickening mist.
Neither of them noticed.
They kissed, ate biscuits, and kissed again until the barge bumped up against a pier sometime later. Darien lazily lifted his head and leaned to one side, peering at the porthole to have a look, and turned a beaming smile to Kate.
She was turned to one side, lying against the cushions. A part of a rose petal had adhered itself to her cheek, and another was tangled in her hair, which had come quite undone. Her lips were slightly swollen and glisteningly moist. Through half-closed eyes, she smiled dreamily at him. “Where are we?”
“You must come have a look for yourself.” He helped her up; Kate leaned across his lap and looked out. Her brow puckered slightly as she tried to make out where they were. “It’s a boathouse.”
“That it is.” But it wasn’t just any boathouse. It was the grand old boathouse on his uncle’s estate. His uncle, who was well past his eightieth year, neither cared nor noticed that his nephew was borrowing the boathouse for the afternoon.
Darien had sent his butler Kiefer this morning to arrange it all. The boathouse had a pair of doors that opened up to the river, so that boats could be launched from an enclosed dock.
“Oh my,” Kate whispered, taking in the grassy slope of lawn that stretched from the water’s edge up to his uncle’s magnificent estate. “It looks like something from a picture book.”
Darien laughed, urged her up and helped her from the barge. He let the boatmen go, giving the captain a handful of coins to disappear for a couple of hours, then led Kate across the exterior dock to the boathouse.
Her blue eyes widened when they entered the interior. Near the open doors, two piles of rich brocade cushions lined either side of a damask tablecloth. On the tablecloth, a pair of silver candelabras rose above several covered platters. Two bottles of wine were nearby, as were china plates and silver cutlery. In the boat slip, candles floated, bobbing languidly in time to the rain on the roof.
And everything was covered in rose petals.
Darien glanced at Kate. Her lips had parted slightly; her eyes were wide as she tried to absorb what he’d done for her. Actually, he was rather impressed himself. He had described what he envisioned to Kiefer, but he’d never dreamed it would look as good as this. The man had outdone himself, and Darien made a mental note to commend him for his mastery.
“I’m . . . astounded,” Kate said at last.
“I’m rather astounded myself,” Darien said.
They sat on the cushions; Kate gazed out the doors open onto the river as he lit the candelabras and poured the wine. “I can scarcely believe you’ve done all this . . . for me,” she said softly, gesturing to the picnic.
“Why can’t you?” he asked, tipping his wineglass against hers and lifting it in a salute before drinking.
“No one has ever been so considerate of me,” she said thoughtfully and smiled warmly. “I’ve never been given a picnic. It rather warms the cockles of my heart, my lord.”
Darien grinned. “That’s all the thanks I need,” he said and put aside the wine and lifted the dome from the first platter. Roasted asparagus. “I should think your husband, may he rest in peace, might have treated you to a picnic now and again,” he said, broaching the subject that had weighed heavy on his mind these last few weeks.
“No,” Kate said, shaking her head and drawing her legs up against her chest. “Richard was a good husband. But he was not as creative as this.”
“Asparagus?”
“Please.”
“Your husband was a clever man. I rather enjoyed his sermons. But I must confess, Mrs. Becket, that I have often wondered if he knew about the Christmas soiree.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Her eyes filled with a regret that speared him, and she dropped her gaze to her lap as she shook her head.
Darien said nothing. He regretted it, too,
and feeling awkward now, he busied himself with putting chicken and roasted potatoes on her plate.
“He was fond of you, you know,” she said after a moment.
That surprised him greatly; he looked up to see if she was jesting as he handed her the plate. “Of me?”
“Mmm. He once said that your reputation was born of what little society really knew about you, but that you were far greater than they knew.”
Darien arched a brow in surprise. “He said that of me, did he?”
She nodded, bit into the chicken. “It’s delicious!” She gave him a pleased smile that he rather suspected would entice men to move mountains. “Richard knew of your charitable works, of course. And your endowment for the boys’ school.”
It was Darien’s turn to color slightly—his endowment was not something about which he cared to speak. That sort of information invariably brought beggars and charlatans crawling out of the woodwork looking for money.
“Does that disconcert you?” she asked, smiling softly.
“A bit,” he admitted with a wry smile. “But not for the reasons I think you’d believe. It’s just that I’d rather keep that sort of effort to myself.”
“Your secret is quite safe with me,” she said lightly. “And besides, I rather enjoy hearing the other things people know about you. I’d hate to cast you in a favorable light and dash all their presumptions to pieces.”
“What other things, if I may?” he playfully demanded.
Kate shrugged and bit the top off the asparagus spear. “I can hardly be specific, you know. There are so many things said. And written. And debated.”
“Are there, indeed?”
“Mmm. The on-dits in the society pages, you know. Whether or not you were actually seen at Vauxhall Gardens with Lady Spencer on your arm, or was it, perhaps, Lady Penshurst?”
“Lady Penshurst?” Darien cried, almost choking on the roasted chicken. “Madam, I’d rather be drawn and quartered than accompany Lady Penshurst so far as the garderobe!”
“My lord!” Kate cried with a burst of laughter.
“I’m quite serious,” Darien insisted. “There was never a more disagreeable woman in all of England, you may rest assured!”
“But you do not object to Lady Spencer?” she asked coyly.
Darien lifted a brow. “No more than you object to Connery, or Anglesey, or—”
“Yes, yes, I take your meaning,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “It seems as if my reputation has taken a rather strange turn, for reasons I am happily ignorant.”
Frankly, Darien had wondered about that—oh honestly, when it came to Kate, he wondered about everything. What did she eat? When did she sleep? How did she look with her hair completely unbound and mussed? Did her sleepy morning eyes still shimmer with her spirit? What books did she read? What thoughts did she have? Who did she love?
“Do you miss him?” he suddenly blurted, and mentally kicked himself for voicing the question aloud.
To her credit, Kate did not seem either appalled or surprised. She put aside her plate and girlishly lay back on the pillows, rolling onto her belly. “I missed him terribly at first,” she said, looking out at the rain. “But I don’t think of him as often now.” She glanced at Darien from the corner of her eye. “Do you think me horrible?”
“Not in the least,” he assured her. “Time has a rather cruel way of marching on.”
“Yes, rather determinedly, I’ve noticed. I still think of Richard, I do. And I treasure the time that we had. But it seems that as of late, there is someone else occupying my thoughts.”
Darien stilled. “Is there?”
“There is,” she said, smiling again, lifting her funny walking boots above her knees.
“Not Connery, I should hope.”
She laughed lightly and rolled onto her side, propping her hand beneath her head, “It’s hardly Connery. The man is intolerable.”
Darien put his plate aside and calmly wiped his mouth with a linen napkin as he considered that. “Then might I be so bold as to inquire?”
She laughed, put her hand reassuringly on his forearm. “Can you not guess, my lord? After all, I turned the other gentlemen away.”
The gentle, lusty timbre of her voice wrapped around him, and Darien impulsively reached for her hand. But Kate startled him by catching his hand in hers, her long, delicate fingers closing tightly around his.
“Can’t you guess?”
The question sent a white-hot bolt of lightning through his body. Darien’s blood was churning; he felt as if he was being swept away, carried off by the stream of her voice. She suddenly sat up, took his hand firmly in hers and laid it in her lap. With her other hand, she traced the lines of his palm, slowly to his wrist, and then back again, to the forefinger, her touch scorching him as she moved. It seemed minutes, if not hours, before she shifted her gaze from his face to his eyes. “Shall I tell you your future?”
“Not,” he said hoarsely, “unless you are in it.”
Her gaze calmly roamed his face. “Do you truly want me in it?”
“I want you, Kate,” he confessed in a gruff whisper. “Is it not obvious to you by now? I’ve wanted you for my own the moment I laid eyes on you. I’ve wanted you so long and hard that my body aches with it.”
She gazed at his lips for a moment. “Those words,” she said, “which you speak so carelessly, are a salve to my wounded heart.” She lifted her gaze to his, her green eyes almost the color of the ivy that grew along the riverbank. “But I fear for my heart, sir. I fear it will not withstand another blow. You will please forgive me, then, if I ask if I am the only one to whom such poetic and . . . stirring words have been spoken?”
Darien impulsively grasped her hand, leaned down to kiss her palm, his lips lingering there, wondering how in God’s name he might convince her of what was in his heart. But then Kate withdrew her hand and laid it tenderly against his cheek, and Darien lost all reason.
He reached for her, seized her, really, and pulled her hard to him, then bore her down into the cushions. He pressed his mouth against her cheek, then her eyes, and slid to her lips, drinking in the wine she had drunk, the saltiness of the roasted chicken. He felt the succulent surface of her lips and held fast there, relishing the feel of her in his arms.
“Only you, Kate. It has been only you these last few years,” he said hoarsely. “I bare my soul to you now. I’ll not tease you about something so important as this.”
It was Kate who moved first, Kate whose fair lips parted slightly, Kate’s tongue that dipped between his lips to touch him. And then Darien was falling, drifting down like a feather onto the field of gold where she pushed him.
He rolled onto his back, bringing Kate with him, on top of him, his hands on either side of her head, his lips covering hers, and her face, her ears, and neck. He devoured her soft lips, inch by extraordinary inch. Then he tasted the inside of her mouth, reveled in the feel of her teeth, her tongue, and the sweet, smooth flesh of her mouth. One hand fell to the slender column of her neck, drifted down to the wool cloth that covered her bosom, cupping the pliant weight of her breast before fumbling with the dozens of small buttons that kept her from him.
Heedless of anything but her body, her scent, and the feel of her skin, he slipped his hand inside the gown, felt the warm, smooth skin of her breast, swollen with desire, and her taut nipple.
Kate gasped softly in his ear as he squeezed her nipple between his fingers, and pressed herself against him, her body stretched the length of his, firm and supple and young.
Darien twisted again, rolling her onto her back and coming over her, one hand in her hair, long, golden-red hair that had come completely out of its carefully constructed coif. She was amazingly soft, astoundingly plush, and her breasts supple and ripe. Darien inhaled deeply, touched his lips to her neck, and shuddered when Kate whispered in his ear, “It’s been only you, too, Darien . . .”
Purely male instincts took hold of him—he was without co
nscious thought, filled with a longing so strong and powerful that he felt completely out of control. Her hand, her slender, perfect hand, slid to the nape of his neck, her fingers entwining in his hair, then down his arm, squeezing it, her fingers kneading the muscle, then inside his coat, feeling his rib cage, his back. Darien kissed her wildly, deeply, his heart and mind raging to be inside her . . . and he was, he realized, through the fog that had shrouded his mind and all common sense, just moments away from being inside of her.
He suddenly sat up, clawed his way out of his coat and waistcoat, ripped at the neckcloth that confined him, yanking his shirt from his trousers. Kate laughed at his determination and calmly unbuttoned her gown.
When she had freed all the buttons, Darien caught her hand, stilling her. He rose to his feet, then held out his hand to her. Without question, Kate put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. No words were necessary; she lifted her arms in the air, allowed Darien to pull the gown over her head and lay it aside. “Are you frightened?” he asked.
“No . . . I am breathless.”
With a growl, Darien shed his shirt, kicked his boots from his feet, and loosened his trousers. He could scarcely bear to see her standing there in a plain cotton chemise and not touch her. So he put his hands on her shoulders and carefully pushed the chemise down her arms. It fell to the floor in a cloud of white, leaving her to stand before him, naked in her splendor.
She was beautiful. “Good God,” he muttered in genuine appreciation. She was so unlike any other woman he had ever known. There was no pretense about her, no cosmetic—she was curved in all the right places, round where a man desired it most.
“I knew you would be beautiful,” he said and palmed a dark areola that stiffened quickly with his touch; his fingers splayed across her breast and nipple and squeezed gently.
Kate gave him a terribly seductive smile, and Darien covered her mouth in a stupefying kiss as his hands found her waist. Kate lifted her arms, put them around his neck, and pressed her bare torso against his. A groan of ecstasy escaped him, and he suddenly and effortlessly lifted her in his arms, fell to one knee, and placed her on the cushions.