Page 18 of Goodbye, Earl (Ladies’ Revenge Club #4)

F reddy knew before the final strain of the waltz that he needed to get the hell out of that pavilion before he lost his mind.

He’d held it together pretty damn well, all things considered, until she’d pressed herself against him and bitten her lip.

That was it for him. That was all he could take.

He needed to flee directly into the river water and hope that it was very, very cold, or elsewise take her somewhere and handle matters in the preferred fashion.

He probably should have stopped staring at her at the dinner. That was when he knew he was in trouble. But Freddy had always been bad at staying out of trouble, and those words his mother had said to him the other day about the romance of weddings were still ringing in his ears.

All it had taken was a glance over at her during the bloody fandango, glowing with exertion, dipping that little slip of lace she called a kerchief directly into the swell of her bosom, and he’d forgotten every single thing he’d ever told himself about tact or pacing or whatever the hell else was supposed to matter just now.

There was applause. Deafening applause.

Claire stepped back from him, letting her hands slide along his body as they fell, and smiled humbly for their gathered audience, like she was perfectly charmed by their intrusion. She giggled a little, dipping into a curtsey, and shook her head as she started to walk off the central dancing area.

He thought it a very good idea to turn around and walk the opposite way. He was no longer capable of the gentle, nudging romance he had envisioned for his wife, and might not be for quite a while still.

He made it as far as the end of the dance floor before Ember intercepted him, just quickly, with a touch to his elbow and a faint whisper—“She turned around to look for you”—before she vanished again, leaving him frozen mid-stride as he processed what she’d said.

Damnation! He was going to combust.

He resisted the urge to look back for her, to see if Ember had been pissing around with his emotions or telling the truth, and charged directly into the damp grass, already gathering dew from the advanced hour of the evening.

He felt it grip at his ankles, felt it soak into the fabric, and he cared not at all. He ought to have gone directly for the carriages, of course, but Freddy was a stupid sort of bastard and just kept trudging off toward the river like he really was going to throw himself into it.

The water would probably be warm this time of year, anyway. Blasted, sadistic river.

She’d called him Freddy. She’d said his name. She’d looked him right in the eye as she ate that little morsel of cake and let him watch. She’d dared him to keep watching . He’d had to find a fork or some such nonsense to focus on before he crawled across the table to retrieve her.

He jerked his jacket off over his shoulders and threw it in the grass as he reached the riverbank. He sucked in the brackish scent of the wake and then blew it all out through pursed lips as he let his eyes close.

If it weren’t for the way his shoes sunk into the ground here, he might have sat down. As it was, he was going to have to write a full apology scree to the laundress already, so he thought better of it. Besides, there would be no returning to the light if he had a mud-soaked backside.

Instead, he snatched the knot out of his cravat, pulling it apart so that he could breathe without constriction. The breeze, which had been generous with its attentions tonight, gently brushed against the newly exposed skin, making him shiver in exactly the opposite way of helpful.

He groaned, running both hands over his head and into his hair and, despite knowing he shouldn’t, he turned to look at the glow of the candlelit pavilion behind him, twinkling there like a star that was visiting the ground.

The music was tumbling softly down the hill, losing volume and shape but retaining its spirit.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, clenching his teeth.

Then came her laughter.

He thought for certain he’d imagined it, that he’d summoned it out of the breeze with the sheer force of his desire, but he turned anyway, toward the sound.

She wasn’t as far down the bank as he was, sensible little wench.

She glimmered on the side closest to the wedding party, those faraway candles catching like facets in her golden gown.

She had her arms loosely crossed in front of her like perhaps she’d been watching him for a little while before giving herself away, her dainty little fingers wrapped around either elbow.

“Don’t stop undressing on my behalf,” she called, taking a trio of tiny little steps closer. “I was very curious how far you’d take it.”

“You are welcome to come help me,” he returned raggedly, not even able to make it sound charming or defensibly in jest. In fact, he thought he deserved a damned medal for not adding, “Please.”

Her smile faltered a little, those big brown eyes widening. He thought she might flee again, but instead, another three steps, little steps, toward him. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not?” he shot back with a challenging little flash of his teeth. “You’ve certainly done it before.”

“Freddy!” she said, though her gasp sounded more like delight than outrage. “Someone might hear you.”

“So what if they do?” he replied, a laugh bubbling in his chest from the strain and the absurdity. “You’re my wife. You’re allowed to take my clothes off whenever you like.”

“Is that right?” she replied, a little softer now, a little less certain. “I suppose it’s true, or it was, at one time.”

“It’s just as true as it’s ever been,” he replied, holding still, watching her. He thought perhaps he might spook her again, though she had seemed steadier of late. He took a chance and blamed the starlight for the impulse. “It always will be.”

“I shall endeavor to remember that,” she said, reaching up to toy with the scrap of lace at her throat. “What are you doing out here, though?”

“Thinking.”

“You need to disrobe to think?” she asked, tilting her head, ringlets brushing her shoulder.

He watched her, certain he could feel those ringlets on his knuckles, could remember the feel of that exact patch of her shoulder under the pads of his fingers.

His body was still coiled as tight as a copper spring, but his heart and breathing seemed to be finding a bit more rhythm.

So, in a fashion that suggested his brain was at least partially working now, but still not quite up to performance standards, he said, “I do all of my best thinking in the nude, Claire. You know that.”

She laughed again. Her teeth glinted, her head dropped, and she released a sound of shared amusement that was more beautiful than the trills of a thousand rare songbirds.

It made him laugh too. It made him laugh in a way that only Claire had ever managed to evoke, because when he amused her, he got to see himself like she saw him. He got to feel the impression of himself as perfectly successful in matters of charm and amusement.

He had forgotten that. Not just what it felt like, but that it happened at all.

It almost hurt, how good it was.

“Claire,” he said as she broke off her laughter, her smile wide, her head shaking fondly. “If you come any closer, I am going to kiss you.”

She let her lips fall together, considering him from her higher ground. “Are you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

“How much closer? One step?” she asked, taking it. “Two?” She took two more.

“Claire …”

“How about five? Just little steps. Is that too close?” She took them, dainty, shuffling little steps that made newly formed dew sparkle around the hem of her dress. “Or do I need to come all the way? How close can I get before you go completely mad?”

“Christ,” he muttered, stomping out of the bank and the rest of the way up the stupid little hill until he’d closed any question of a gap between them.

He slid the flat of his hand around her waist and to the little swelling bump where her back gave way to her bum.

He pulled her against him. He made it evident, made sure she could feel that he was not bluffing. “Claire.”

She gasped, slightly and softly, but did not squirm or twist or otherwise express any desire to stop this from happening. She just tilted those big eyes up to meet his through the downy fan of her lashes.

“Well?” she prompted breathlessly.

“You didn’t come close enough,” he answered, his own voice falling to whisper in answer. He leaned a little closer, watched the way her chin lifted, the way she leaned into a nuzzling glance of the tips of their noses. “I had to.”

“Oh? So you aren’t going to kiss me?” she asked, taunting. She knew how badly he wanted to; she knew beyond a doubt now, with her body melded against his like this, with his ache pressed firmly against her belly. “Because you had to.”

“That’s right,” he said with no small amount of strain. “If you want my kiss, you’ll have to take it for yourself.”

It was her turn to narrow her eyes, her turn to register the fact that she was being antagonized and tormented and tempted beyond reason. And still, she did not pull away.

“You don’t think I will,” she said: an accusation.

“I don’t know what you’re going to do,” he replied, turning his head to press his cheek into hers, to inhale her hair, to punctuate how hard she’d made him. “I never know. It drives me completely mad.”

“Oh,” she said, bringing her hands up to touch the loose sides of his collar, her lips curving as he drew a sharp breath when she touched the bare skin of his throat.

It made him draw back, to blaze his entire face down at her with what he hoped was a clear edict to stop tormenting him.

She licked her lips, thereby officially striking down said edict. And then she stood on her toes, sank her arms behind and around his neck, and pulled his mouth down onto hers.