Page 11 of A Good Memory is Unpardonable (Frolic and Romance #2)

Ten

W hen my bride suggested on our twentieth anniversary that we should put down our memoirs of our life together, we agreed that we would each tell our own side of the tale, in our own words, with no consultation between us to align our recollections.

I expected that our accounts would hardly differ and that we would each respect the other’s privacy until the project was completed.

I underestimated her yet again.

I was writing last night in my room (though she claims it is her room since she is always there) when my delicious Elizabeth pushed my pen away and slid into my lap, wearing nothing but a.

.. well, not properly attired. She wrapped her arms around me and seduced me thoroughly, right there at my writing desk.

I am not complaining in the least. Lucky is the man whose bride of two decades can still ignite him as my Elizabeth does me.

But a curious constant I have discovered is that when a man is so effectively distracted, single-minded, and oblivious to all else—one might even use the word helpless—a woman may not necessarily be so.

My suspicions were confirmed later when I returned from dressing and discovered that the pages of my journal had been flipped enough to smudge a bit of ink in one corner. That smudge was in the shape of a fingerprint, far too small to be mine.

Very well, she sneaked a peek at my words.

She may have even arranged our tryst on purpose to take advantage of me.

I trust she found nothing to disagree with, for she has said nothing to me of it.

She does, however, wear a very smug look today, but I choose to attribute that to her enjoyment of my ministrations last evening.

Now, then, back to my tale. In my present mood, I believe I will recommence with our second kiss—also initiated by her.

The circumstances of it were not pleasant to recall, but if there is one thing I can count on with Elizabeth, it is that she can always turn a dark hour into a treasured memory.

We had been at Netherfield just over a month when a man who had wronged and betrayed my family in indescribable ways joined the local militia, and therefore, was welcomed into the general society of the neighborhood.

I will say little of him here, for he has but a small bearing on my story with Elizabeth, but there was one event worth recalling.

This man was not to be trusted anywhere young ladies were present, and Elizabeth, knowing something of his history, was concerned for her younger sisters. They possessed no discretion and had little guidance at home, so I paid a call on Mr. Bennet one afternoon to caution him.

Afterwards, I confirmed to her that the message had been relayed, and she expressed her appreciation for my efforts on her family’s behalf.

As if I could have done otherwise! It was only natural and just that I ought to exert myself under such circumstances, but she was correct in understanding how unpalatable the duty was to me.

Though I declined to tell all my reasons for distrusting this particular officer of the militia, I surely said enough to expose myself to curiosity.

It is a thing I probably would never have done were it not for the fact that for the first time in all my years, I felt that another family’s honor was just as important to me as my own.

When she thanked me that night, I took her hand and said something to that effect.

I still could not state with any reliability what exactly Elizabeth was to me—my friend’s widow, a lady worthy of admiration.

.. a friend in whom to confide my deepest secrets.

A woman so maddeningly provoking and yet so sumptuously tempting that I wanted her with every fiber of my being, but one I could not conceive of actually having.

I was too young and too thick to call my feelings love, but I was capable of comprehending how my body would respond to her nearness.

I was no longer my own master in those moments.

She tightened her fingers through mine, and my heart forgot how to beat.

Uncertain, I might have been, but I was already far enough gone that the sensation of her lips on mine had never stopped burning whenever she looked at me.

As any red-blooded male would, I entertained visions of passion and beyond when she gazed into my eyes.

But the reality was far more tender and sacred even than I could fantasize.

She caressed my cheek, her fingertips tracing lightly over my jaw.

She looked up into my eyes, and something lurched inside my being.

For a moment, my vanity whispered that she desired me, would welcome.

.. something. I tipped my head a little lower, testing to see what she would do.

She lifted on her toes, brushed the hair off my brow, and kissed my forehead.

It was not precisely erotic or sensual, but it was the most intimate touch I had ever known.

She lingered there—two seconds, three—and I inhaled softly of her neck.

Her lips pulled away, but she stayed there, her breath tingling my skin, setting my scalp afire, as if she were not certain what to do next.

My free hand had just begun to reach for her waist, and I had turned my face to nuzzle her cheek when she eased away.

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “I am to take tea early tomorrow with Mama and my aunt Philips, so...” She swiped a brandy I had been drinking off the table and downed the last swallow. “Good night, Fitzwilliam.”

Again, she left me a muddled, panting oaf, with my senses screaming and my brain seeping out through my ears.

I knew what my duty was. I knew what was expected of me, the place I was meant to fill in the world and the sort of wife I would require at my side.

Elizabeth fit none of the criteria I had been trained to seek.

But she fit me. Oh , how she fit me.

I went to my room that night dizzy and ready to tear out my hair.

Did the woman want me, or did she not? Most of the time, she acted like I was a pest, albeit a “useful” one.

At best, I was an unthreatening friend, someone she laughingly put up with for Charles’s sake and almost saw as yet another meddling brother.

At other times, I felt all it would take was a spark to swirl her into my arms to stay, and more than once, I entertained fantasies about what might happen in an unguarded moment.

But she was a tease by nature, and moreover, a widow with fewer social constraints than any maiden. She was free to flirt as she wished, and did not have to mean anything by it. I could never predict what she would do next, let alone interpret her reasons.

If I had been certain of her feelings, I might have been able to resolve my own.

I daresay I would have come to the point sooner if I could have made sense of her.

So, I decided to bring in an expert opinion.

I wrote to my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and politely asked if he could spare a fortnight to come to Hertfordshire.