"It is a beautiful day." She sounded a little breathless, uncertain. Perhaps this was the first time she'd ever been alone—or nearly alone—with a man.
He smiled at the thought, pleased about it, then looked up at the sky and laughed. "A beautiful day is it, Miss Grantworth? With those puffed gray clouds, laden with rain? Despite the sun peeking through occasionally, I had the concern that you might decline to ride out with me today for fear the rains would come and ruin your gown."
He watched as she looked up to see what he'd seen: pillowlike gray-and-white clouds filling the sky, making it colorless rather than blue.
"I rather like the rain," she replied stoutly, but with a hint of smile. "It makes me appreciate the sunny days more."
Phillip continued to grin. "Nice save, my lady, and honest as always. And here I thought for a moment there that you were going to slip into the convention of talking about the weather instead of other, more interesting things. Can you smell the moisture in the air?"
"I never noticed it before, Lord Rockley, but the breeze does carry a scent that portends the rain shower."
"Never believe that I have forgotten my promise to take you riding across the fields and meadows… but I feared for the weather to drown out our ride, and knew that the carriage would protect you better."
"Lord Rockley, it is my turn to make a bit of a confession."
He turned to her with interest, noticing that she was alternating between looking at her fingers, then ahead of them, and then at him. Where was his bold lady now? "I am most intrigued. Please, confess what you will."
And then the thought struck him that perhaps he would not appreciate her confession. What if she felt the need to divulge the name of another beau?
"I'm certain you recall the day after you fell from your horse, meeting up with me in the same meadow. I had gone there hoping to see you again, but not at all certain you would be there, of course."
He smiled, relief lightening his grip on the reins. "You would likely have found some other way to track me down and apologize for your harsh words, right, Miss Grantworth?"
She laughed, and he was pleased that she'd read the humor in his speech and remembered that she had not even thought to apologize for flaying a layer from his back. Good. That was part of what made her so interesting to him. She was not a shrinking violet, this Miss Grantworth whom he remembered… or whom she had become. He was more than pleased.
"As it was, I did not need to hunt you down, nor to apologize, as I recall, Lord Rockley, for you met me in that field, and you were the apologetic one." She looked him fully in the eyes. "That was the first time I'd ever been given flowers by a man… and I still have the pink ribbon you tied them with." As if to prove her point, she lifted her hand and tugged away the cuff of her glove, displaying a bit of her wrist and a pale pink swatch of satin tied around it.
"Your confession, such as it is, delights me, Victoria." Propriety be damned; he'd called her by her Christian name for those weeks that summer. It felt foolish to be formal when they were reliving those moments.
He'd navigated them from the main drag of Regents Park and turned off into a more private area. Stopping the cabriolet next to a small thicket of lilac and forsythia, he gently wrapped the reins around the small post there for just that purpose.
Reaching for her gloved hand, he said, "Miss Grantworth, I would be most appreciative if you would call me Phillip, as you did before." He was aware of his voice deepening, as it did when he became serious, and he forced himself to look at her with a nonchalant expression. Perhaps it was too familiar too soon, but, devil take it, he must have fallen in love with her years ago, for he'd never forgotten her. Couldn't get her out of his mind. Had practically made a fool of himself tracking her down at the Straithwaite musicale the other night. Thank God he'd arrived late enough to miss the damned thing.
And it appeared, once her faulty memory was jogged, that she had not forgotten him.
"Phillip is such a strong name," Victoria replied, looking not at him, but at the way his fingers traced each of her own gloved ones one by one. "It suits you. And you may continue to call me Victoria, as you did when we were younger."
And then, as if her words were some offstage signal, the clouds opened and the rain blasted down in sudden, loud torrents. The startled squeak from Victoria's maid at the back of the cabriolet drew her attention, but Phillip stopped Victoria from turning back to see to her with a gentle hand at her cheek. Any excuse to touch that flawless white skin.
"My tiger will take care of her," he said. "And their moment of distraction will allow me to do this."
He leaned into her sphere and touched his mouth to hers. She smelled like flowers and some kind of spice, and though he barely got a taste, her lips were warm and moist with surprise.
She did not start or move back, but instead pressed closer, angling her head to one side so their mouths fit better. Much better.
The rain streamed down around them, spraying fine mist onto the edges of the seat and onto their shoes. The tip of her nose, cool from the damp air, brushed against his warm cheek as their lips moved together. He released her hand and closed his fingers gently around her upper arms, bringing her closer to him so that her lovely br**sts brushed against his jacket. Not close enough, but he was patient.
Or perhaps he wasn't.
She tasted as delicious as he'd imagined, and he wanted to sample more. He deepened the kiss deliberately, testing her… and she did not fail. She opened her mouth to him, and he felt the rush of want as their lips and tongues tangled. The brocade of her cloak crumpled under his fingers, and he closed his eyes when she reached up to touch his jaw.
When he released her and moved back, he looked down into green-and-brown-flecked eyes, hazy and heavy-lidded, and he felt rush of satisfaction. She bore the stamp of his possession there in her face and wet on her swollen lips, not to mention in the faded ribbon around her wrist. He was going to marry this woman, by God.
The freedom of wearing trousers!
Victoria had attained the age of twenty never experiencing the full range of movement, the loss of the fear of tripping over one's skirt, and the pure naughtiness of having one's nether limbs encased and defined in such an improper way.
She felt incredibly scandalous and powerful as she climbed into Barth's hackney without any assistance other than what appeared to be a heavy walking stick that had been sharpened to a point at the end. Verbena followed after her, looking like a moonfaced, wide-eyed boy, clutching a thick stake in one hand and a large silver cross in the other. With her hands otherwise engaged, it made her activity a flurry of useless motions until Barth lost patience and shoved her inside.