“Once I lost my temper, when I was about Cam’s age. My dog, the one I’d raised from puppyhood, chewed a corner of the family Bible to bits. I hadn’t realized he was trapped in the library for most of the day, so the fault was mine. My stepmother was in hysterics, and my father—who did not care a whit for the Bible—was wroth with me because of her upset.”
Samson got his jaws clamped around a protruding piece of deadfall twice as long as he was.
“Samson, drop,” Will said.
Samson looked at his owner without turning loose of his prize, mischief and longing in his doggy eyes.
Will met that hopeful gaze. “Drop, Samson.”
With the air of a small boy forced to sit still in Sunday services, Samson let go of the branch.
“You lost your temper over the incident with the Bible?” Under the trees, the morning was cooler, the shade welcome.
“I shouted at my dearest companion,” Will said. “Called him every name a gentleman doesn’t use before ladies. Kicked him hard, once, in the shoulder, and then couldn’t believe I’d done that. He forgave me before the sun went down. Slept at my feet that night, and woke up, tail wagging, ready to join me in the garden the next morning, the same as any other day.”
Let not the sun go down on your wrath was a biblical proscription from Ephesians. Susannah had never had much luck with that one.
“You didn’t forgive yourself,” Susannah said. “Sit, Georgette.”
Georgette obeyed, then leaned against Susannah’s leg. The dog’s weight was comforting, an I’m-here sort of presence, patient and solid.
“Samson, sit,” Will said, though the dog only half obeyed. “I didn’t forgive myself. I’d betrayed the trust of an animal in my care, first by leaving him in the library, where temptation was all around, then by punishing him for behaving simply as a bored dog will. Samson, sit.”
Samson settled in the leaves, but with a quivering, “where’s my stick?!” reluctance.
“We make mistakes,” Susannah said, twitching a wrinkle from Will’s cravat. His dress was conservative to the point of plainness, and yet understated tailoring only made his good looks more apparent. “I made mistakes, in Kent. I thought a fellow was about to offer for me, and I was hasty in surrendering my trust to him.”
She wanted Will to know this. Wanted him to understand that she wasn’t a pillar of virtue, innocent of what went on between men and women.
Susannah was not innocent, and she was not good, for regret had kept her up many a night. She did not regret the loss of her virtue per se, but why, if she had to yield her favors outside of marriage, couldn’t she have yielded them to Will Dorning?
“I’m sorry,” Will said, trapping her hand in his own. “Sorry your trust was abused. You deserve much better than that.”
His eyes, so surprising in their color, were grave, and that annoyed Susannah. “You’re not sorry my trust was given to another, rather than to yourself.”
She was about to berate him for being honorable, berate him for finding Edward Nash’s bumbling selfishness inappropriate.
“You do trust me, Susannah,” Will said, letting go of her hand. “I hope you always will, and as for my regrets—”
Something flashed by immediately overhead. A squirrel, a bird, Susannah knew not what, but Samson lunged straight up from his position at Will’s side, twisting in midair so his leash wrapped around Susannah, and pulled her hard against Will.
Will struggled to hang on to the leash, but Samson kept leaping and whining, and then Georgette abandoned her post by Susannah’s side, tangling her leash around Susannah from the other direction.
As Samson let out one excited bark, Susannah and Will went toppling amid the ferns.
Susannah landed mostly on top of Will, a very agreeable place to find herself. She was like that young dog in the library, temptation on all sides, and nobody to ensure decorum held the upper hand over her instincts.
Knowing she ought not, knowing she’d deserve endless scolding for yielding to her impulses, Susannah bent her head and kissed the daylights out of Will Dorning.
Seven
Sheer animal delight coursed through Will, from his toes to the top of his head. Lady Susannah Haddonfield had plastered herself to him at most points in between, her lovely feminine weight pressing gratifyingly over Will’s falls.
And by God, the woman could kiss. No chaste friendly peck, this; no polite gesture of regret. She was playing a serious game of fetch, determined on her objective, plundering and seeking, and oblivious to all else.
Will gave her what she wanted, kissed her back like a man who’d lost what mattered to him most, because twining through his delight was regret.
He and Susannah ought not to be kissing like this. Ought not to be kissing at all, but God in heaven, Susannah Haddonfield’s tongue could steal a man’s very prayers. She asked, she entreated, she demanded—she tasted like peppermint and sunshine and hope.
“Something’s digging—” Susannah shifted, which tightened the leash wrapped around Will’s wrist. “Dammit, Will Dorning.”
“Susannah, settle.”