‘You were well occupied,’ he whispered. ‘No one could fail to notice you in a room.’
Frederica’s eyes lowered to his lips. They were wet, as if he had recently licked them. She would have liked to lick them as well, but she could hardly do that in the middle of her mother’s soirée. ‘Are you trying to flatter me?’
Samuel brushed his mouth against her cheek in the lightest of touches. ‘Possibly. Is it working?’
All too well.
‘I missed you today.’
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She could not allow Samuel to know how much she wanted him. She had learned that lesson at the age of eleven: the more she pursued him, the faster Samuel fled. No, she had to make him come to her. Keep him on his toes. ‘Fortunately, Mark was around to keep me company. He even let me take a turn riding on Alexander’s stallion.’
His hand dropped from her waist and she missed the warmth of his touch and the tender look in his eyes. Lifting her chin, she stood beside him as Georgy finished her song and Lady Anthea took her turn.
Their shoulders occasionally brushed each other, but the gulf between them felt as large as the English Channel. Perhaps it always would be. Samuel had not chosen her. It was different than when they were children and she’d had to fight for his attention, following him around like a loyal dog. All the terrible tricks and mean words had been her way of getting him to notice her. It was negative attention, but at least he could not pretend as if she didn’t exist. Frederica had thought he didn’t like her because she was always dirty, bedraggled, and in trouble. At fourteen, she had still been very naughty, but had become more clever about it. Her clothes and hair were tidy, and her womanly shape had already begun to show. Yet, still Samuel had avoided and ignored her more than ever before.
Putting a bear cub in his room had been the final straw, Frederica had made certain that he could not pretend that she was not there any more. Alas, being mauled by claws and requiring stitches did not endear her to him. Samuel hated her more than ever and a few months later he’d joined the army. He did not write to her even once. Or even to her family. She had severed the connection by her unseemly behaviour. Her desperate attempts to get him to see her.
Her arm brushed his, but Frederica was still not certain that Samuel could see her. Or if he wanted to. She knew he noticed her figure, but was he simply making the best of a bad situation? Did he kiss her because she was convenient, or because he felt something for her? And would he ever see her as a friend? A confidant?
It was beyond silly, but after all these years, she wanted him to choose her. Pursue her.
He was so close. But so far from her.
The dichotomy of proximity and distance pinched at her soul. How could she endure a life of having him near, but not holding his heart? Somehow, she doubted that every bottle of perfume and bar of red scented soap at Duchess & Co. could make up for the lack of love in her personal life. But what could she do, other than what she was doing? Making him work for her kisses and try for her touches. And maybe, just maybe, he might grow to care for her.
Lady Anthea finished her second piece and everyone clapped. The older gentlemen made a swift retreat to the card room with some of the matrons. The chaperones, eligible young ladies, and unattached soldiers stayed in the main room and mingled. Frederica and Samuel stood silently by each other.
‘Did your mother send youMansfield Parktoo?’ she asked, desperate to fill the quiet between them.
Nodding, one side of his mouth quirked up into a smile. ‘She did.’
‘It was my copy, or rather, I sent her bothPride and PrejudiceandMansfield Park. She must have posted them on to you. Did you readMansfield, as well?’
Samuel swallowed. ‘I read it out loud to my soldiers, but we did not enjoy it nearly as much asPride and Prejudice.’
Shifting her weight to one side, she leaned slightly against him. ‘I agree. Miss Fanny Price is a very dull character. She is entirely too good. It would have been a much better book if Miss Mary Crawford had been the heroine. She was clever and funny and just the right amount of naughty. Alas, wicked girls are not given happy endings.’
‘No indeed. And good girls are given marriages based on their moral behaviour. Miss Elizabeth married Darcy with ten thousand pounds a year and Miss Jane, although good, only got five thousand pounds with Mr Bingley.’
How clever he was!
Frederica grinned, saying, ‘And Lydia got Wickham with only his profession to maintain them.’
‘And your Miss Mary Crawford received no marriage proposal at all.’
Sighing, Frederica shook her head. ‘Precisely. ’Tis most unfair. A man does not have to be virtuous to get a happy ending in a book. Take Tom Jones for example. He was more promiscuous than a tart at Haymarket and he still got Sophie and a fortune in the end.’
Samuel laughed loudly, as if he was genuinely amused by her observations. A few people glanced their way and Frederica felt her colour rising.
‘I am surprised, although I know that I should not be, that you have readTom Jones. It is not considered proper for young, unmarried ladies.’
‘My parents have never kept any knowledge or books from us,’ she said, touching one of her burning cheeks with her gloved hand. ‘Good or bad.’
‘The problem with most books is that no person is wholly good or bad. We are all a mixture of parts. Take General Lord Wellington for example, he is an excellent military leader, but a terrible husband.’
‘The same could be said of the Prince Regent,’ Frederica added. She had always felt sorry for his wife, whom he openly despised. His parents should not have forced him to marry his first cousin to pay off his debts. The only good thing to come out of their marriage was their daughter Princess Charlotte, who would one day become queen.
‘And I do believe that wicked young ladies deserve happy endings,’ Samuel said with a wink. ‘But for Miss Mary Crawford, her happy ending would be to elope with the heir, Tom Bertram. Edmund was a dull dog after all. She was much too entertaining to spend her life as a vicar’s wife.’