Page 32 of A Rogue's Downfall
The country dance was followed by a sedate waltz. He resisted the urge to hold his partner slightly closerthan was considered proper. After all, most of the eyesin the room were probably on them—on Caroline, amember of the family, in the clutches of a man theymust feel Colin should not have invited.
“Why have I never noticed you?” he asked her.
“Because you never notice virtuous women,” she said. “Because you could not take me to bed withoutmarrying me first.”
“Could I have this afternoon?” he asked her, his voice low.
Her eyes slipped to his neckcloth. “You dumped me in the water instead,” she said.
“But if I had not, Caroline?”
She looked up into his eyes again. “It is pointless to speculate on what might have been,” she said. “Thepast is the one thing we can never change. But I amnot sure that I can be described as virtuous any longer.I have never come even close to behaving like thatbefore.”
“I will marry you, then, and redeem your reputation,” he said. He did not know quite why he kept saying such potentially dangerous things. One of thesetimes she was going to take him at his word.
She smiled fleetingly.
“Come outside with me after this dance,” he said. “We will see what the gardens look like in the moonlight. Shall we?”
“But of course,” she said. “I have a wager to win.” She peeped up at him from beneath her lashes withdeliberate provocation and he grinned back at her.
“How are you going to do it?” he asked. “Do you have a plan?”
But she merely smiled.
It was a subtle plan. She strolled quietly along the terrace with him, first with her arm through his, thenwith her hand in his, her shoulder touching his arm,and finally with her arm about his waist as his cameabout her shoulders. By that time they had roundedone end of the house and stepped into a type of orchard.
Very subtle. The moonlight and the branches above their heads made changing patterns of light and shadeover her face and dress and she lifted her face. Hereyes were closed, he saw when he looked down at her.She broke the silence first.
“Sometimes,” she said, “one feels all one’s smallness and insignificance in comparison with the vastness ofthe universe. And yet how wonderful it is to existamidst such beauty. How privileged we are. Don’t youfeel it too, Alistair?”
“Yes.” He could not talk on such topics. He had not thought a great deal about the miracle of life and thewonder of the fact that he had one to live. It was anew idea to him. He was wasting his one most preciousgift, he thought.
“I am glad we were made to need others,” she said. “Would it not be frustrating to see and feel beauty andhave no one with whom to share it? I think we wouldfeel loneliness and even terror instead of wonder.”
“Yes,” he said. He was very aware of her arm abouthis waist, his about her shoulders. Holding each otheragainst loneliness and terror. It was a novel idea. Hehad never thought of needing other people, only ofusing them. He had never thought of other people needing him.Couldanyone ever need him? Was he thatimportant? That privileged?
She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I am glad it has been you with me today, Alistair,” she said.“I am glad it is you out here with me tonight. But Iam sorry.” She lifted her head. “I said it would beromantic, did I not? I promised to make you fall in lovewith me. But all I can do is feel warm and cozy withyou. All I can do is babble on about the universe andour human need for others. I have no experience inarousing romantic feelings. You asked if I had a plan.No, I have none. We had better go inside before ourprolonged absence is noted.”
The soft wonder had gone from her voice. She sounded sad suddenly, and he knew it was his apparentlack of response that had saddened her. He had madeher feel that after all she was alone. But how could heexpress thoughts that were so new to him that he knewno words in which to frame them?
He tightened his hold on her shoulders and turned her in against him, wrapping his free arm about herwaist. She turned her head to rest one cheek againsthis neckcloth. He held her for a long time, perhapsseveral minutes, without either talking to her or kissingher. He did not want to kiss her. He did not wantto make love to her. There was a nameless and quiteunidentifiable yearning in him that took the place of thesexual desire he might have expected to feel.
For some reason that he could in no way fathom he wanted to cry. He swallowed hard several times. Shewas soft and warm. A buffer against loneliness. A bundle of gaiety and dreaminess, of wisdom and innocence.There was something in her that he wanted, that heyearned for. Something in addition to her woman’sbody.
“Alistair.” She lifted her face to him finally and touched her fingertips to one of his cheeks.
He took her hand in his and kissed the palm. “Why did you say my name?” he asked her.
“Alistair?” she said, laughing softly. “It is your name, is it not?”
“Lyndon,” he said. “Last night. You called me Lyndon. Before you woke fully.”
She stared up at him, her expression turning quite blank. “I did not,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said, “you did. When I first kissed you. Before there was light. Before you could possibly haveknown who I was. You called me Lyndon.”
She shook her head slowly and he was sorry suddenly that he had asked. Sorry that he had not kept thatparticular memory to himself.
