After kissing comes more kindness.
English proverb
“What was the favor?” Wren turned to Drew as soon as they entered the cottage.
Margo yipped a greeting and padded over to welcome them before she raced out the front door, down the gravel path through the garden, making a beeline to the kitchen of the main house. Drew closed the front door behind her, then leaned against it, waiting as Wren lit the lamps to dispel the evening gloom. Soon the cottage was alive with activity—the chirps and squeaks of the animal inhabitants and the rustle of bedding and of tiny feet scurrying across the floors of their houses.
“This,” Drew murmured. He didn’t wait for her answer; he simply took her into his arms.
The touch of his lips against hers set Wren’s heart racing and her nerves jangling. She leaned into him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and tilted her head back to better accommodate him. Drew cupped one of her breasts in his hand as he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, tasting, probing until she parted her lips and allowed him entrance.
Wren shivered as Drew used his tongue to woo her. He deepened his kiss. Wren tasted him, feeling the roughness of his tongue as he raked the warm recesses of her mouth and taught her tongue how to answer his demands. She lost herself in his kiss—lost herself in the warmth of him, the scent of him, the feel of his hard body pressed to hers. If kissing was an art, Drew was the master of it and she his most avid and ardent student, willingly learning everything he wanted to teach her.
She burrowed her fingers into the thick hair at the nape of his neck and held on—wanting more of him, needing more of him. Overwhelmed by her response to his unexpected kiss, surrounded by his arms, his mouth, his hard masculine body and the taste and touch and smell of him, she melted against him. She inhaled his scent and nuzzled closer to its source. Drew groaned again. She tilted her head back as Drew brushed his lips against her closed eyelids before trailing down her neck to place hot, wet kisses behind her ear on the spot where her pulse hammered to keep pace with her raging emotions. He darted his tongue into the warm recesses of her ear and Wren gasped in reaction, tightening her grip around his neck when her legs abruptly refused to support her weight.
Suddenly, Drew broke the kiss. His breathing was heavy and irregular and his heart seemed to beat at a much faster rate than normal as he backed up a few steps to put some distance between them. Drew stared down at her. She was so beautiful. More beautiful now than she’d been as a girl. He was amazed that he’d nearly forgotten how beautiful. Her lips were red and swollen from his kisses, the expression in her gray-green eyes slightly dazed, dreamy, and emotional. She looked as thoroughly kissed and as well loved as a new bride— even the creamy skin of her cheeks was suffused with color and slightly abraded by his unshaven jaw.
“Well,” he breathed. “I’ve waited all afternoon to do that.” He reached out his index finger to gently trace a line along her cheekbone. “And it was well worth the wait.”
“That was the favor?” Wren asked when she’d caught her breath and collected her wits well enough to give voice to the thought. Because kissing him or allowing him to kiss her was a favor Wren was more than willing to grant on a daily basis.
“One of them. I have another to ask of you.”
“Anything.”
Drew smiled down at her, but the expression in his eyes was serious as he touched her on the nose with the tip of his index finger. “Where’s your sense of prudence? Don’t be so eager to agree until you hear what it is.”
“All right. What is it?” Wren asked as she turned to feeding and watering the animals and tidying their cages.
Drew reached into the pocket of his cape and retrieved Erin. He offered the hedgehog to Kathryn. “I believe you’re missing one.”
Wren took Erin from him and placed the hedgehog in her pen for the night. “You said you had another favor to ask,” she prompted.
“What about Margo?” Drew changed the subject. “Are you sure you should let her out?”
Wren nodded. “She won’t be gone long. It’s raining and Margo hates rain.”
“Where does she go?”
“To your house,” Wren said. “Cook puts out a nice supper for her every evening. Margo knows to go to the kitchen at the mansion. When she’s done eating, she patrols the garden, then returns to the cottage and her basket.” She pointed to the basket near the fireplace, then walked across the main salon and down the short hall to the cottage kitchen, where she unlatched a small hinged door cut into the larger kitchen door. It was large enough for a fox or a small terrier to go through, but too small for larger animals. “Mr. Isley put it in for me,” she explained, “so Margo could come and go.” She turned to face him. “Now, what’s the other favor?”
“I’d like you to accompany me to the village tomorrow afternoon. I’ve an appointment with Reverend Pool and I’ll need to see the undertaker, Mr. Smalley, to make arrangements for the funeral procession.” He paused. “I’ve handled a great many things in my life, but nothing like this. I have no idea how to go about it or what must be done and I thought that you…”
“There must be someone else you’d rather have accompany you.” A shaft of disappointment so keen she could taste it shot through her. She didn’t know exactly what favor she’d hoped he would ask of her, but Wren knew it had nothing to do with a trip to the village to confer with the local rector or the undertaker.
She opened the back door and stepped out into the rainy night. Drew followed close on her heels.
“Whom would you suggest? Newberry? Mrs. Tanglewood? Miss Allerton?” he demanded.
“Ally is a lady,” Wren replied. “She is the younger daughter of a viscount.”
“She’s also in service. I need someone who is not.”
“Don’t you have any friends in the county?”
“If I did, I’ve lost touch with them,” he answered. “I haven’t been to Swanslea in six years.” Drew studied the expression on her face. “What about you? Do you have any friends in the county?”
“Only Ally.”
Drew raked his fingers through his hair. “I cannot take Miss Allerton with me to visit the rector or the undertaker. She’s a governess in my employ and she’s unmarried. There is no one left to ask.”
“Except me.” Wren knew it was unreasonable to feel hurt at being asked because he’d run out of choices, especially when she didn’t want to go. But it hurt all the same. “And I’m…” She bowed her head, unable to meet his gaze.
“You’re a widow,” he pronounced. “But you were also my father’s…” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Friend. I thought that since you and my father were…close…you might want to play a part.” Drew lifted her chin with the tip of his finger and looked her in the eye.
“I thought you came to Swanslea to prevent me from playing a part,” Wren reminded him. “I believe you said you couldn’t have one of George’s mistresses presiding over the funeral of another.” She followed the gravel path around the cottage toward the mansion.
Drew overtook her on the path, his longer strides covering more ground than hers. He took hold of her elbow and forced her to look at him. “I did. Because I wanted to avoid more scandal. But I’ve never planned a funeral or had cause to deal with an undertaker, whereas you—”
Wren cut him off. “Have a great deal of experience planning funerals.”
“I didn’t mean to sound callous,” Drew said.
“But that’s what you thought?” She looked up at him.
He nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, why shouldn’t you think that? I’ve been in mourning almost as long as Kit’s been alive. I’ve arranged the funerals of my husband, my father, my aunt, my s…” Tears of self-pity stung her eyelids and clogged her throat. “My son has never seen me in any color but black.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “There’s no doubt that I have a fair amount of experience with funerals. It’s been so long since I’ve worn colors that I don’
t remember what it was like.”
Drew reached inside his coat, pulled a handkerchief of fine Irish linen from his waistcoat pocket, and handed it to her. “I remember how you looked,” he told her gently. “You were beautiful. You wore thin muslin dresses in soft colors. Rose pink, blue the color of robins’ eggs, butter yellow, and apple green. I remember them all—especially that pure white one you wore to the countess of Beresford’s ball the first time I saw you and that incredible silver tissue dress you wore to Vauxhall two nights before our wedding day.”
“The night you were recalled to the War Office.”
He reached out and brushed away a wisp of dark blond hair that had stuck to her damp cheek. “Yes,” he said. “The night Lieutenant Colonel Grant summoned me to the War Office to help decipher messages that helped reveal Bonaparte’s plan of campaign.” The expression in his eyes softened. “I knew I could count on my father to see you and your aunt safely home, but leaving you at the concert that night was the hardest thing I’d ever done.”
She whispered her reply so softly, Drew strained to hear her. “Was it?”
He nodded. “Yes, it was.” He thought that leaving her that night was even harder than standing alone at the altar two days later. Not because he hadn’t trusted Kathryn, but because he’d known from the moment he left her that he’d made a terrible mistake. Drew remembered the overwhelming feeling of resentment and a tremendous sense of foreboding he’d felt at being forced to answer his commanding officer’s summons almost literally on the eve of his wedding—especially since his commanding officer had kept him waiting for nearly two hours after issuing that urgent summons and had seemed more than a little surprised to see him at all.
It was ironic when Drew thought of how many times he’d contemplated returning to Vauxhall to collect her before he reached Grant’s office. The seemingly endless war with France still shadowed every horizon and although he was marrying Kathryn in two days’ time, Drew had been very much afraid that his dream for their future together was slipping out of his grasp.
“For years, I’ve blamed you for what happened to us,” he said. “But now, I can’t help thinking that if I’d gone back for you at Vauxhall our lives would be different now.”
Wren understood what he was asking even though he didn’t ask. “Yes,” she agreed. “Our lives would have been very different.”
He waited for her to continue, to reveal her secret, her reason for leaving him waiting at the altar, but she didn’t say anything more and because he had promised patience, Drew was willing to wait. “Then I’m doubly sorry,” he said. “But I want you to know that while you were beautiful then, you’re more beautiful now. I don’t mean to say that black suits you,” he hastened to add. “Only that it does you no harm. Colorful dresses could never make you more beautiful to me than you already are.”
“Thank you, Drew.” She stood on tiptoe to press her lips against his.
Her spontaneous gesture surprised and pleased him. He would have preferred a real kiss from her instead of a chaste peck on the corner of his mouth, but Kathryn hadn’t initiated a kiss with him in six years and Drew was willing to take what she offered. He waited until she stepped back, then touched the corner of his mouth with his fingers. “Was that a yes?”
Wren shook her head. “That was a thank-you.”
“Oh.”
“But since I can’t bear to think of you alone and at the mercy of Mr. Smalley, I’ll accompany you into the village. On one condition.”
“What condition?”
“That you leave me plenty of time to bathe and dress before we visit the rector.” She smiled impishly.
“I have a riding lesson in the morning and a stable mucking lesson afterward.”
“I’ll have you in the bath in plenty of time,” Drew promised, leaning forward to place a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “Thank you, Kathryn. Now, let’s follow Margo’s example and get out of the rain and find our supper.” He started to reach for her elbow again, but thought better of it and reached for her hand instead.
He was still holding her hand when they entered the house and he didn’t let go until they parted company at the top of the stairs.
Chapter Nineteen
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Sir Walter Raleigh, 1552—1618