“Good,” she said, taking his arm. “For I did not finish my breakfast, and your efforts would be doomed to fail, at least until we empty that hamper.”
“The top of this rise affords a pleasant view of the river, also plenty of privacy in the form of a summer cottage. We will not be disturbed.”
He picked up the hamper and soon had Jeanette ensconced on a padded bench overlooking the Thames. The porch of the summer cottage had been kitted out as a folly, open to the spring breezes, but sheltered from the midday sun.
“This is lovely,” Jeanette said as Sycamore pulled up a low table before the bench. “I think of you as a Town man, haunting your club at all hours, but I am much more comfortable in the country.”
“I was raised in Dorsetshire, which is as rural as England gets. I had a mostly happy boyhood, riding hell-bent with my brothers, learning a prodigious amount of useless botany from my father, and vexing my mother with all the mud I left on her carpets. I miss it, but I am no longer a boy who can take my welcome at the family seat for granted. Champagne?”
The bottle was still cold thanks to the Coventry kitchen staff’s care and skill packing a hamper.
“Champagne would be lovely. What do you mean, you no longer take your welcome in Dorsetshire for granted?”
Sycamore poured two servings of wine, passed one to Jeanette and touched his glass to hers. “To pleasant memories.”
The champagne was from the better stock at the Coventry, a touch sweet with enough effervescence to tickle the nose. More than the wine, the image of Jeanette, relaxed and smiling for once, gave Sycamore pleasure—and hope.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked as he made up plates of cold chicken, buttered bread, sliced cheese, and forced strawberries. Explaining how Dorning Hall had changed—from Sycamore’s home, to the family seat, to Grey Dorning’s personal household—was complicated.
Encouraged by Sycamore’s occasional questions, Jeanette painted a picture for him of a quiet girl raised in the shadow of a favored older brother, a girl who’d lost her mother early and become increasingly invisible as war with France had decimated the family fortunes.
The Goddards had been among the wealthier gentry—very wealthy indeed—when Jeanette’s parents had wed. Commercial and familial ties with France had been a tremendous advantage until they’d become a tremendous liability.
“Whatever I expected of marriage,” Jeanette said, considering her last strawberry, “it wasn’t what the marquess had in mind for me, but Papa said the match was a triumph for the Goddards and the answer to his every prayer. What girl doesn’t want to be the answer to her Papa’s every prayer? He did not live to see my first anniversary. A mercy, that.”
She popped the strawberry into her mouth, while Sycamore hurt for her. “Had the late Lord Tavistock shown you the least bit of affection, you would have found a way to adore him.” She adored her brother, who showed her no affection whatsoever, and her step-son, whose devotion was marred by youthful dunderheadedness.
“Perhaps I would have merely esteemed his lordship, but I did want to respect and like my husband.” She eyed Sycamore’s plate. “Will you finish those strawberries, sir?”
He held the largest berry up to her mouth. She nibbled it from his fingers, and the moment became something more.
“Through that door is a parlor, my lady, and beyond the parlor, a bedroom.” Sycamore fed Jeanette another strawberry. “I’d like very much to take you to bed, but only if you are inclined to take me to bed too.”
She leaned over to give Sycamore a strawberry-flavored kiss. “I wondered what you’d brought along for dessert. Your suggestion will make a lovely next course.”
Sycamore kissed her back, gently and sweetly, for once savoring desire that rose on a slow tide. With Jeanette, he would not be satisfied as he’d so often been, by a merely pleasurable interlude. He wanted the childhood stories, the past disappointments, the intimate joys, and the hopes too.
As he led his lover to the bed tucked into a sunny corner of the little cottage, Sycamore silently apologized to every sibling whose marriage he’d resented. Those brothers and sisters had been in the grip of something larger than family loyalty, something wonderful and precious that family loyalty was built upon.
He aspired to share that something wonderful with Jeanette, and for the next few hours, meddling relatives, nasty notes, estranged siblings, and any plagues yet to come could all go to blazes while he made wild, passionate love to the woman he adored.
The morning should have been nothing remarkable, Jeanette reflected as Sycamore undid her dress hooks. Londoners who had the leisure and means frequently enjoyed Richmond Park, and picnics figured on that agenda. Meals al fresco allowed couples to spend time together without violating the many, many dictates of propriety.
Every wellborn young lady expected to enjoy the regular occasion of picnics with attentive gentlemen.
Such a lady also expected to dance with those same witty, pleasant fellows.
To drive out with them in the park.
To have their escort at musicales or other social gatherings.
To enjoy the occasional bouquet sent by such gentlemen after those outings.
And Jeanette had had none of that. She removed Sycamore’s cravat pin and watch, her emotions a mixture of sexual anticipation and an odd sort of sorrow. Recounting the circumstances of her engagement to the marquess, she’d seen for the first time how ignorant she’d been.
How her own father had taken advantage of that ignorance and moved her about like a chess piece in a game she’d never consented to play.
A picnic was a small thing. Could Papa not have married her off to a wealthy widower who was yet capable of sharing a picnic with her? Waltzing with her? Driving her in the
