Susan Johnson: Again and Again

© 2002

Yorkshire, November 1821

The snow had been falling since morning but the coachman had pressed on through the storm only to have the horses brought to a halt by impassable roads on the outskirts of Shipton. Unlike several of the passengers who grumbled about their altered schedules, Caroline Morrow was more than happy to descend from the cold, cramped coach and stumble through the drifts toward the welcoming warmth of a nearby inn.

Once inside, she shook the snowflakes from her cape, threw off the hood, and moved through the press of travelers in the small entryway toward the parlor where she stood as close to the crackling fire as prudence would allow. Holding her hands out, she basked in the comforting warmth. The heavenly possibility of actually sleeping in a soft bed gave her further reason for gratification.

Lost in her reverie apropos of the pleasures of a real bed and a hot meal, the familiar voice at first went unattended. But the deep, distinctive tones eventually insinuated themselves into her consciousness and she lifted her head to listen for a moment before discounting the absurdity of such a coincidence. The buzz of conversation suddenly swelled when several other passengers moved into the parlor and the curious voice from her past disappeared from her thoughts.

She ignored the sound of footfalls behind her a short time later, not wishing company, but she couldn’t ignore the fragrance drifting into her nostrils, nor the impact the pine-scented cologne had on her emotions.

She spun around.

“I thought it was you.”

He stood no more than a foot away: large, powerful, more handsome than she remembered, his dark hair damp with melting snow, his caped riding coat black like his eyes-and his heart.

The color momentarily drained from her face, but even as she drew in a fortifying breath her gaze turned chill. “A pity it’s such a small world,” she said coolly.

“More like my good fortune it’s such a small world.”

“Allow me to disagree.”

“As usual.” His smile was impudent. “What are you doing here?”

With her initial shock receding, she managed to speak in as degage a tone as he. “Taking refuge from the storm like you.”

“I meant where are you bound?”

“None of your business.”

He tipped his head in amused deference. “Have you missed me?”

“Not in the least.”

“I, on the other hand, have missed you terribly.”

“I’d hardly think that possible with your busy schedule. Do you still receive twenty billets-doux a day? Or has the number risen since you’ve become an eligible duke?”

“Who says I’m eligible?”

“Are you married then?”

“No.”

Her immediate sense of relief annoyed her. Then you’re eligible regardless of your disreputable life,“ she noted tardy, correcting her brief lapse in judgment.

“Don’t snap at me, darling. You were the one who ran off and married.”

“I’m not your darling and I didn’t run off. I simply considered it foolish to wait around until you were ready to give up your profligate ways.”

His nostrils flared for a moment, but his voice was bland when he spoke. “Has married life suited you?”

“I’m divorced.”

His eyes widened; divorce was rare-and expensive. He knew her financial status and as he recalled, her émigré husband had lost his fortune in the Revolution. “I’m sorry.” When he wasn’t. When he felt an elation he hadn’t felt in years.

“You needn’t be. I’m quite content.”

“You disappeared five years ago. No one knew where.”

“I left for the Continent.”

“Do you live in Yorkshire now?”

“Yes.” She didn’t precisely yet, but once she reached her new employers, she would.

“May I call on you?”

“No.” She wasn’t about to tell him she was reduced to the status of governess, her small inheritance dissipated.

“Surely you don’t dislike me so.”

She took a deep breath and the sudden blush on her cheeks wasn’t from the heat of the fire. “I don’t dislike you, Simon. We just have never suited, that’s all.”

“I disagree. We suited very well, as I recall.” His voice was velvety and low.

“Sex isn’t enough.”

A dozen gazes swiveled around at the provocative word and she turned beet red.

Simon Blair immediately cast his cool, ducal glance on the curious bystanders. “This is a private conversation,” he said, his voice like the low thunder of distant artillery, and within moments everyone had backed away. Returning his attention to her, his mouth curved into a faint smile. “You were saying?”

“I don’t frighten so easily.”

“You don’t frighten at all if I remember. And sex may not be enough, but it’s a damned good start, Caro, and you know it. You shouldn’t have run away.”

“I’m not a patient person.”

“Did I ask you to wait?”

“Somehow I got that impression. And after finding you in bed with my maid,” she pointedly added, “my interest waned.”

“You never let me explain.”

“I imagine you would have had a very good story.”

A tick appeared high over one cheekbone. “You were damned busy with suitors, too.”

“But not actually in bed with any of them. I believe there’s a difference.”

“It wasn’t what you think.”

She shrugged. “What’s the point, Simon. It all happened five years ago. I wish you good fortune in your life.” Taking a side step, she began moving around him.

His hand closed on her wrist, his grip gentle but confining. “Have dinner with me.” He glanced at the frosted windows, the icy tattoo of pelting snow a stark reminder of the storm outside. “Neither of us are going anywhere tonight. Tell me what you’ve been doing, where you’ve been these last five years. Pass the evening with me.” His voice dropped to a murmur, a conciliatory warmth shone in his eyes. “Like friends. You can’t say we weren’t friends…”

She couldn’t, even if she’d wished to, when they’d known each other from childhood, when they’d been friends long before they’d become lovers.

“It’s only dinner.”

She hesitated still, a flood of painful memories coming to the fore.

“If I annoy you, leave at any time. The inn is crowded with people. You’re perfectly safe. You’d be safe even without the others,” he gently added.

She was no longer an innocent, if she’d ever been, her years with her husband the ultimate in harsh reality. Surely she could handle a simple dinner with Simon. “I am hungry. Just friends, now.”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Fine.” His grin was boyish, achingly familiar. “Sit here by the fire,” he offered, pulling up a chair for her, “and I’ll bespeak us some dinner. Do you still like white clarets?”

“Anything will do.”

“If you have a choice.”

“A white claret would be very nice.”

He not only bespoke dinner, but also a private parlor with a cozy fire on the hearth, silver candlesticks on the table, a host of wine bottles displayed on the sideboard, along with a sumptuous array of food. As he escorted her into the small paneled room that had been heated to a balmy summer temperature, she looked up at him with a tight smile. “You’re still persuasive, I see.”

The landlady remembered my father,“ he blandly replied, showing her to a table set before the fire.