Her father sighed. “It all sounds eminently logical. And entirely unworthy of this urgent conference that disrupted my work.”
“There is something else,” Bram said. “A question that requires your answer.”
Susanna gulped. “Can we have a ball?”
“A ball?” Bram and her father echoed in unison.
“Yes, a ball.” She’d blurted out the idea without thinking, but upon reflection, Susanna saw that it was perfect. “That’s the proposal. We’d like to hold a ball here, at Summerfield. An officers’ ball, directly following the field review. I know you will have esteemed guests for the occasion, Papa. A ball is the perfect way to honor and entertain them. It will also serve as a reward for the militia volunteers, after all their hard work. And it will give the young ladies something to look forward to. A reason to stay. It’s perfect.”
“Very well, Susanna. You may have a ball.” Her father plunked his glass on the desk.
And then his manner changed, somehow. His gaze roamed the blotter absently, as though he’d misplaced his chain of thought. And Susanna felt dropped, without warning, into one of those awful, terrifying moments. Those moments where the filter of daughterly affection slipped, and suddenly she wasn’t looking at her dear familiar papa, the charismatic, eccentric hero of her childhood—but simply at a stranger named Lewis Finch. And that man looked so old and so tired.
He rubbed his eyes. “I know this militia business seems rather silly on the face of things. But there’s a great deal hanging in the balance—for us all, in one way or another. I’m gratified to see the two of you working together to ensure its success. Thank you. Now, if you’ll both excuse me.”
And he was gone, exiting through the side door.
Bram turned to her. His expression was blank. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“You can’t believe I did what? Save your life and your career? Not that you seem to make a distinction between the two.”
He stared out the window. “Susanna, you just gave him reason to doubt me. He assigned me a duty, and you told him I can’t do it.”
She winced. How was it that men could be so big and strong in body, and yet so fragile when it came to pride?
“I told him you can’t do it alone. And there’s no shame in that.” She moved to stand at his side. She began to reach for him, but thought better of it, crossing her arms instead. “As my father just said, a great deal hangs in the balance. I know what this means to you, truly. You need to prove yourself after your injury, and this is your one chance.”
A flicker of denial crossed his features, like a knee-jerk reflex. But then he nodded. “Yes.”
She wanted so badly to hug him. Perhaps, once this militia was a success and he had proved himself, he could turn his attention to all those other, less easily admitted needs. Like his palpable yearning for closeness and affection. Or his obvious, unspoken desire for a true home. Perhaps he’d even change his mind, and decide to stay. But she knew he couldn’t consider any of those things until he felt strong and whole again, in command of himself and others.
“Then let me help.” She said honestly, “For both your sake and my father’s, I want to see you succeed. But we must face facts. You have a little more than a fortnight to get those men uniformed, drilled, and trained to perfection. Not to mention all the preparations for the day itself. There’s so much work to be done. I know this village, inside and out. You can’t do it without me.”
He pushed a hand through his hair. “Now that you’ve thrown an officers’ ball into the mix, I suppose I can’t.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” she admitted. “But a good one. If anything can convince Mrs. Highwood and the others to stay, it’s the prospect of planning a ball. We’ll need everyone working together, men and ladies. If we’re going to keep both our dreams from disintegrating, we have to make this day a grand success.”
“Something tells me Miss Finch has a plan.”
“Not a plan,” she said, smiling a little. “A schedule. As you know, Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. On Wednesdays we’re in the garden, and Thursdays we shoot. On Fridays, we’ve always climbed up to the castle. To picnic, sketch, stage our little theatricals. Or sometimes just to plot and scheme.”
“Well,” he said. “We can’t disrupt the ladies’ schedule, now can we? Bring them all up, then. It’ll be a good way for the men to patch things over, after last night’s mayhem.”
“We’ll plot and scheme together, Bram. You’ll see, it will all come out right.”
She stared up at him, so handsome and strong. Along with all the other firsts he’d given her, he’d now made her first offer of marriage. A forced and unromantic one, but still. She rather treasured the sentiment, and she wanted to repay it somehow.
On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”
He grasped her elbow, forbidding her to retreat. “What about us?” His words were hot against her ear. “How do matters stand between us?”
“Why, I . . . I still like you.” Nerves fluttered in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Do you like me?”
A few moments passed in silence. She would have counted them in heartbeats, but her foolish heart had become a most unreliable timepiece. It gave three pounding beats in a flurry, then none at all.
Just when she’d begun to despair, he turned his head, catching her in a passionate, openmouthed kiss. He put both arms around her, fisting his hands in the fabric of her dress, lifting her up and against his chest. So that her body recalled every inch of his, every second of their blissful lovemaking. The now-familiar ache returned—that sweet, hollow pang of desire that only deepened as his tongue flickered over hers. In a matter of seconds, he had her gasping. Needing. Damp.
Then he set her back on her toes. Pressed his brow to hers and released a deep, resonant sigh. And just before turning to leave, he spoke a single word.
He said, “No.”
Nineteen
He did not “like” Susanna Finch. Of this much, Bram was certain.
“Like” was . . . the verbal equivalent of blancmange. Pleasant enough, blandly sweet. Always on the table. Not something a man turned down, but not something he asked for second helpings of, either. The word “like” did not communicate an unspoken connection of similar minds, or an obsessive attention to freckles. It certainly didn’t encompass the sort of wild, reckless, unreasoned lust that had driven him to deflower a virgin on the village green.