“Unexpected indeed,” Corning said. “I wasn’t aware you were in Bath.”
“I wasn’t,” Rhys replied. “Until just last night.”
They all stood there awkwardly for a moment, staring at one another. Meredith took in the understated luxury of the man’s garments. They’d just come from the draper’s that morning; she knew what such fine cloth cost. She knew that kind of quality tailoring came even more dear.
For his part, the newcomer’s curious, mildly horrified gaze flicked over Meredith’s red silk gown.
Oh, dear. She’d just known she must look like a whore.
Shifting his weight, Rhys brushed a protective touch over her lower back. “Mrs. Maddox of Devonshire, allow me to present Lord Henry Twill, Viscount Corning. I served with his younger brother in Portugal.”
Good Lord. He must be a duke’s son. The man inclined his head, and Meredith curtsyed again, more deeply this time. Panicked thoughts tumbled in her mind. Words stuck on her tongue. How did one properly address a duke’s son, anyhow? As “Your Grace” or “my lord”?
In the end, she couldn’t say anything. By way of compensation, she forced a wan smile.
“Mrs. Maddox, is it?”
She nodded mutely. She was a fool. It seemed anything she could utter would indict her as a fraud—but in the end, her silence made the confession on its own.
“Charmed.” His tone communicated anything but.
Whatever mild degree of interest the man had shown in her cooled instantly. He pointedly turned his gaze, and it was as though she’d ceased to exist.
By mutual unspoken agreement, they parted ways with Lord Corning soon thereafter.
What a disaster. Meredith wondered if she could ever move amongst such people and not feel like an impostor. If she were to marry Rhys and become Lady Ashworth, she supposed she would have to learn to do just that. But she wasn’t equal to the challenge tonight.
“Do you know,” she ventured, “I’m not certain I really feel like going to the theater. Will you be terribly disappointed if we don’t?”
He looked at her, as if to gauge her sincerity. “Not at all,” he finally said. “Did you want to go back to the hotel?”
“Why don’t we walk for a while? There’s so much of Bath we haven’t seen.”
“Very well. Shall we head toward the river?”
Nodding her agreement, she put her arm in his, and together they strolled down the avenue. Slowly, in deference to Meredith’s skirts.
“I’m sorry for earlier, with Lord Corning.”
“Oh, don’t be.” She bit her lip, abashed by the fact that he’d noticed the gentleman’s treatment of her, too. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He was silent for a moment, as if he were debating whether to take her comment as forgiveness or an invitation to further discussion. “It’s hard, sometimes, for men like him to greet me. I understand it; it can’t be helped. When Corning and I cross paths, naturally I remind him of the brother he lost. I can see it in his eyes, when he looks at me. He’s asking himself why a man like me survived when his brother did not.” Rhys sighed heavily. “It’s a question I can’t answer. There’s no satisfactory answer at all.”
“Wait a moment.” Meredith slowed, tugging on his arm. Eventually they both pulled to a halt. “Are you saying you believe Lord Corning’s awkwardness in that meeting was all about you?”
“But of course. What else would it be?”
“Me, you silly man.” She laughed. “He thought he’d interrupted you with your lady of the evening.”
He stared at her as though she’d gone mad. “No, he didn’t.”
“Rhys, I saw the way he looked at me. He dismissed me as he would a serving girl.”
He simply shook his head and turned, pressing on.
After a few minutes, he said, “You saw him as disapproving of you. I thought him disapproving of me. Funny, isn’t it?”
Not only funny, but a strange relief. Why hadn’t she seen it? Rhys felt like an impostor here, too. She ought to have recognized it earlier, from the way he’d wrestled his cravat. He’d been nervous, just as she had been.
Tilting her head to the twilight sky, she mused, “Do you know what I think? I have a feeling that dour look on Lord Corning’s face had nothing to do with either of us. Perhaps he’d just tasted something unpleasant. Or more likely, his purgative was taking effect at a most inopportune moment.”
They chuckled together and continued strolling down the shop-lined street.
“Which way shall we go?” he asked. “Do you wish to see the Orange Grove?”
“Oh, let’s. I adore oranges.”
“There aren’t any there. The park is named for William of Orange, not the fruit. No oranges to be had. Not much of a grove either, to be honest.”
“Oh. Of course.” She went silent, feeling inexpressibly stupid.
“But,” he went on, “there are surely oranges to be had, somewhere. And if you adore them, you shall have them. Let’s walk down to Sydney Gardens.”
“And are there actual gardens there? Or will I reveal my ignorance again?”
“Actual gardens, yes.” He bent his head and lowered his voice. “Pleasure gardens.”
Her pulse responded quickly to that promise, and only quickened as they made the walk across the Pulteney Bridge, crowded with vendors and shops.
As predicted, they soon came upon a girl hawking oranges. Rhys purchased three, tucking one in either of his pockets and tossing the third to her. Meredith held it between her hands as they walked, periodically lifting the exotic fruit to her nose and breathing deep.
She carried that orange in her gloved hands as they crossed the bridge and paused to gape at the grand homes in Laura Place. Just a short distance more, and they reached the Gardens themselves. Here there was yet more grandeur to be seen. The ancient ruins of a castle, which Rhys informed her was not truly ancient at all, but rather a modern construction. A bowling green and a labyrinth, and of course, all the fashionable people walking to and fro. Plumes bobbed in the perfumed breeze as a clutch of matrons approached. More than one turned a curious eye on Meredith and Rhys, and a titter of gossip rose as they walked past.
Here was that uncomfortable moment again, where they stood in silence. Meredith supposed both she and Rhys were suspecting the ladies’ disapproval to be reserved individually for them.
“I hear music,” she said. Because, although they hadn’t been speaking, a change of subject seemed a welcome thing.
“There are concerts, most nights.” He paused awhile before asking, “Did you wish to attend?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “No, let’s just stroll a bit.”
They ambled aimlessly until they found a quiet, picturesque bridge overlooking a canal. Here they paused, listening to the faint strains of the orchestra waft through the trees. Alone with Rhys, she felt more safe.
He looked at the orange she still carried. “Don’t you want to eat it?” When she hesitated, he motioned to her. “Give it here. I’ll peel it for you.”
She surrendered the orange to him, and he bit the rind to make a flap. She watched as he carefully shelled the sectioned fruit within, removing every bit of peel and membrane, tossing the bits into the canal. Watching him reminded her of that first breakfast they’d shared, and the way he’d balanced an egg in his big, strong fingers.
Her mouth watered in anticipation. She removed her gloves. The aroma of orange grew stronger and stronger, and perhaps it was only her fancy, but the distant strains of the music seemed to grow more melodic, more sweet. The pleasure gardens began to live up to their name.
Dividing the fruit with his fingers, he offered her half. She accepted, separating one section and popping it into her mouth. The juicy tang of the orange flooded her tongue, and she gave an involuntary moan.
Side by side, elbows propped on the rail, they remained there. Two people who would never belong to the crowd, happily belonging to each other. Eating an orange in sticky, blissful silence, until it was completely gone.
Meredith licked her lips. They tasted of orange, sweet and tart with just a hint of bitter rind. She wondered if his lips would taste the same. But even dressed in a courtesan’s gown, she wasn’t bold enough to kiss him in a public park.
“Another?” he asked, withdrawing a second orange from his pocket.
She nodded and held out her hand. “Allow me, this time.”
As she lifted it to her mouth, she reconsidered. It would look unladylike, perhaps, to bite the rind as he had done. Instead, she dug in with her thumbnail to separate the peel. She misjudged and pressed too deep. Juice erupted, splattering her hand. She bobbled the orange, and down it went. Down into the canal, meeting its poetic end with an extravagant splash.
“Oh!” Sticky hands frozen helpless in front of her, Meredith leaned her belly against the rail. “I’m so sorry. What a waste.”
“Not at all.” He took her juice-spattered hand and lifted it to his lips.
To the casual observer, it must have looked the most innocent thing imaginable—a gentleman chastely kissing his lady’s hand.
The casual observer would have been deceived. Most wickedly so.
Pressing his parted lips to her knuckles, he licked each one. Then his tongue traced the sensitive seams between her fingers. Each furtive swipe sent a bolt of lightning shooting to her thighs, curling in the space between.
Once he’d finished her knuckles, he turned her hand palm up and bent his head.
“Rhys,” she whispered. “There are people about.”
He ignored her, lifting her hand to his face and curling her fingers over his cheek, so it would look to anyone passing by as though she were cupping his face. All the while, his tongue did wicked things, tracing the lines of her palm and loving the delicate pulse at her wrist. Her nipples went hard, and her sex went oh-so-soft.
And just when she thought she could not possibly become more aroused by a kiss on the hand, he proved her wrong.
He sucked her thumb into his mouth.
She almost cried out; it was a close thing. But his eyes held hers, forbidding her to make a sound as he swirled his tongue in insidious circles, then pulled with delicious, bone-melting suction. Her eyelashes fluttered and her breath came quick. A sudden weakness in her knees had her gripping the rail with her other hand and leaning her weight toward him.
At last, he gave her back her hand. He said simply, “There. Nothing gone to waste. Shall we walk back?” He offered his arm.
Still reeling from his kiss, she took it gratefully. “I’m not certain I remember how to walk just now.” Licking her lips, she added, “There’s still another orange, isn’t there?”
“Oh, yes. I’m saving it.” He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I’ll finish you later.”
Well, and now she lost all sense of coordination.
Fortunately, he was tall and strong and steady, and he kept her tucked close.
“We are in Bath,” he said as they crossed back over the River Avon. “It seems we ought to at least walk by the baths and Pump Room. They’re on our way back to the hotel.”
Meredith couldn’t imagine why he would wish to prolong the walk back, but she said, “If you like.”
They strolled a few blocks down the bank. The faint odor of sulfur reached her nostrils as they approached a grand stone building fronted with plate windows and a great many steps.
“The Pump Room,” he announced. “You can’t see them from the street, but the baths are just there, to the side.”
“How very grand. But I imagine it’s closed for the evening.”
“It is.” He gave her a conspiratorial look. “To most.”