One Scandalous Kiss Read online

  “No, I can’t say that I am, Miss Sedgwick. The viscount seems a man of sound mind, and I suspect his father is simply too ill to be out and about. Rumormongers don’t always get it right.”

  A breeze, scented with the crushed autumn leaves beneath their feet and the smoke of a peat fire, cooled Jess’s cheeks as she looked out on the meadow. She took a deep breath, savoring the scents of the countryside, attempting to stem the flash of anger that made her lash out at Miss Sedgwick.

  Why am I so eager to defend a man I hardly know? That kiss had surely addled her brain, not to mention what it had done to her heart.

  For a moment, she almost wished to have the shop back, for a problem so immense and seemingly hopeless it would occupy her mind, use up all of her energies, and leave her with nothing left for desire and this terrible yearning for a man she could never have.

  She wanted to turn away from May Sedgwick, to somehow make her way back to Marleston Hall and collect that old, tattered dress she’d worn on the carriage ride to Wiltshire. That dress, one other, and a portmanteau full of books, the photo of her father, and a few of her writings for the union, were all she had left from her life in London. Could she make a new life with such meager scraps from the old?

  “Miss Wright? Jess? What shall I do?”

  “You must do what you think best.”

  Jess needed to take her own advice. Lady Stamford could certainly find a more suitable companion, and with a bit of luck Jess could rebuild a life back in London—one uncomplicated by a viscount who kissed her and scrambled her wits. Maybe she could even rebuild a business of some sort, though the thought of it brought a mix of anxiety and fear. What if she failed again? She had to try. Leave the business of favorable marriages to women like Miss Sedgwick, who’d been blessed with all the qualities men desire.

  “I’ll do the same.” Jess exhaled the words, satisfied with her decision. Relief heightened her senses, making her giddy, eager to begin on the path she’d chosen. “Can we return to Hartwell, May? I must speak with Lady Stamford.”

  “Wait. Please, Jess. Miss Wright.”

  May tugged at the sleeve of Jess’s dress.

  “I only arrived in England three days ago, Jessamin. It would be so wonderful to have a friend, someone I could trust. Won’t you help me?”

  Standing in the oak leaf–covered meadow, black curls streaming out in the breeze and blue eyes shimmering as if she might let loose a tear, Jess thought May looked a good deal like a heroine in a sentimental novel, one in desperate need of rescue. It was tempting to give in to her plea, to agree to be as helpful as May asked her to be. At the bookshop and as a member of the Women’s Union, Jess enjoyed being helpful. It gave her more pleasure and purpose than selling a dozen books at the bookshop. But aiding May Sedgwick meant revealing her own scandalous behavior in Mayfair, not to mention nosing into the family affairs of Lord Grimsby and his father.

  She felt unreasonably protective of Lady Stamford and her family, including the viscount. If Lord Grimsby’s father was ill, what business did she have exposing the fact? Aristocrats could be as contrary as they liked. Perhaps the man simply loathed social gatherings.

  And while Lord Grimsby often appeared conflicted, a man whose eyes signaled desire even when his expression remained neutral, he seemed wholly sane, though perhaps not as jovial as Mr. Wellesley. Why should his more reserved nature be the cause of ugly rumors? A pang of guilt that her own actions at the gallery might have exposed him to derision made her turn away from Miss Sedgwick. Her desire to protect the viscount, to protect herself, clashed with her impulse to be helpful to May, and the decision she’d made moments before began to shift and crumble.

  “Ladies, there you are. I was sent to slay the dragon and fetch you back for tea. But I see you are both well and in no need of rescue.”

  Robert Wellesley spoke as he ascended the small rise toward the meadow. Even from a distance, Jess could see he was smiling. The wind whipped his wavy gold-brown hair and without a jacket or vest, his white shirt shifted and billowed as he walked. But for a journal and pen, he looked like an erstwhile poet—a Shelley or Wordsworth wandering about the countryside seeking inspiration for verses about clouds and flowers.

  Jess saw Miss Sedgwick turn and take in the sight of him. The American heiress made a little sound of pleasure, as if she’d just taken a bite of chocolate or something sweet.

  When he stood before them, Wellesley sketched an elaborate bow, reaching his hand out as if he was a dandy doffing his feathered hat.

  “Miss Wright.” He spoke Jess’s name, but his gaze locked on May Sedgwick. “And you must be Miss May Sedgwick. Yes, I know. We have not been formally introduced, but Miss Wright will tell you how I loathe formality.”

  He reached out and May met his hand by lifting her own, smiling as Wellesley bowed to kiss it.

  “Then we’re in agreement, sir. There is far too much formality and not nearly enough laughter here at Hartwell. But you should at least tell me your name.”

  “Mr. Robert Wellesley is a friend of Lord Grimsby’s.” Jess had no idea why she felt the need to rush in with a bit of formality.

  Wellesley still held May’s hand and leaned too close to her, whispering near her ear. “You must call me Rob, Miss Sedgwick, when no one else is about.”

  “And you must call me May.”

  They both glanced at Jess, as if assessing whether she counted as anyone else.

  “Oh, Miss Wright won’t mind. I’m already May to her, and she is Jess to me. She’s agreed to be a help to me during my time at Hartwell.”

  May pulled her hand from Wellesley’s grasp and turned to stand with Jess. Hooking her arm around Jess’s, she tugged and began walking back toward Hartwell.

  “Come, Rob. It wouldn’t do for me to be late to my first tea.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I BELIEVE THE host is an essential element at a social gathering. Or at least in the case of your betrothed’s debut.”

  “She’s not my betrothed yet. I’ve barely met her. You always were a man for haste.”

  A closed door had never stopped Wellesley. He’d pushed his way into Lucius’s study and now sat opposite him, occupying Maxim’s favorite chair before the fire and managing to look more comfortable in the piece of furniture than anyone ever had.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Lucius arranged and then rearranged the writing implements on his desk, the blotter perfectly straight, the inkwell just at the top, and the magnifying glass and letter opener equidistant from the paperweight, a polished black stone he’d brought back from Scotland.

  “I barely have any thoughts about Miss Sedgwick at all. I only met the woman an hour ago. Quite frankly, she was more interested in the family bric-a-brac.”

  Wellesley was far too audacious to try concealing his mirth.

  “I fetched them from the meadow, your two young ladies. Miss Sedgwick is a strikingly pretty thing, but there is something delicious about your aunt’s companion.” Leaning forward, he lifted the paperweight without asking, and began hefting it in his hand to test its weight. “If Miss Sedgwick is sweet, Miss Wright is rich and savory. We must ply her with wine more often.”

  Lucius felt a movement in his cheek. A muscle there took to twitching whenever his feathers were ruffled, which meant it always twitched when Robert Wellesley was about.

  “Do you have no sense of propriety? Behave yourself, Wellesley. With both of them. And give me that rock.” He settled the shiny bit of basalt back in its proper place with an inhale of satisfaction.

  “Miss Sedgwick may be my countess one day.” Mercy, what a thought. “And Miss Wright will soon be back at Marleston with Aunt Augusta or in London running a new bookshop.”

  It was the story Lucius had spent the morning concocting, repeating it in his mind, a makeshift tale to convince himself Miss Wright should go sooner rather than later. He had to squelch his desire for her. Convincing himself of her impermanence in his life seeme
d a promising tactic. At least until she’d walked into the breakfast room and he was near her again.

  “Augusta tells me she lost the shop and Miss Wright doesn’t speak much of going back to London. Your aunt means to raise her up from bookseller to baroness or some such.”

  Lucius ignored the man’s use of his aunt’s first name and focused instead on the notion of Augusta’s matchmaking efforts. Matchmaking for Miss Wright.

  He tugged at his necktie, wincing at the look he imagined Mather would have given him if he saw the mess he was making of the valet’s efforts to tie the perfect knot. The notion of Miss Wright matched with some baronet turned his stomach sour. He knew the noblemen and gentry within the county. Most were married, one was far too old for Miss Wright, and the other was far too unprincipled. He’d rather see her with Wellesley. Though as he studied the smirk on his friend’s face, every impulse in him denied it. No, he didn’t wish to see Jessamin matched with any of them.

  The very notion of her with any man of his acquaintance sparked an absurd impulse to find her, tuck her into his carriage, and set off for the family estate in Scotland, making one short stop along the way in Gretna Green. Good God, what would his aunt make of that?

  Lucius laughed. Out loud. Not a long drawn-out sound, more of a brief chortle, escaping before he thought better of it.

  Robert looked stunned. He blinked, then again, and sat up straight, holding himself very still, as if he feared Lucius would make more sounds, louder, and more uncharacteristically exuberant. Then the shock broke, softening his features, and his face creased into a full-on Wellesley smile.

  “My God, man, you’re smitten.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “The look on your face before you made that awful sound. I know that look. You were thinking of a woman. And since you are less than impressed with Miss Sedgwick, I can only deduce you were pondering our lovely suffragette.”

  “Wellesley.” Lucius used his menacing tone, much like the one Robert’s father had used on the two of them when they’d devised some sort of adolescent mischief.

  “Sorry, old friend. Doesn’t work on me anymore.” His smile broadened, indicating his utter lack of repentance. “I don’t blame you a bit, Grimsby. She’s a fascinating creature, our Miss Jessamin Wright. She may not come on with frills and fire, our Jess, but one can tell passion is lurking just there under the surface. She’s intelligent, lacks artifice, and her hair is the most fetching shade of auburn I’ve ever seen.”

  The more Robert spoke about Jessamin, that lurid smirk ever on his lips, referring to her in a nickname he had no right to use, the more Lucius yearned to yank the man out of his father’s chair and trounce him as he had when they were boys. And if he called her “our” anything once more, Lucius thought he could rouse the energy to kick Wellesley all the way back to his family estate several miles away.

  “And she kissed you. For a significant sum, apparently, but her actions indicate she is a woman with a bit of mettle. Although considering her failing shop and her father’s debt, perhaps she was just desperate.”

  “You seem to have considered the whole matter a great deal.”

  “I have merely listened and observed. And I spoke with your aunt on the subject after you stormed away from breakfast this morning.”

  He’d left because he couldn’t bear another second in the same room with Miss Wright, knowing the woman who might turn his life in an entirely different direction was on her way to Hartwell. Yet now, having met Miss Sedgwick, he felt certain of nothing. Except that she didn’t move him. She was lovely and lively and would make an unconventional countess. He suspected most in London society, and even some here in the country, would be charmed by her American vigor.

  But Lucius simply found it . . . irritating. Even if she spent most of her time in London and he at Hartwell, could he endure those moments they were, of necessity, together? He couldn’t imagine producing the expected Dunthorpe heir with a woman who, in spite of her beauty, sparked nothing in him, not even a flicker of desire.

  “Perhaps you should send her away.”

  The thought had already crossed his mind too. Yet his aunt had extended the invitation, and he suspected Miss Sedgwick would be content to spend the fortnight cataloging the Dunthorpe art collection. He just had to make sure none of it was missing after her departure. No, it’s impossible. It would be a grave insult to Miss Sedgwick and her powerful father if he sent the girl packing so soon after her arrival.

  “She obviously has you in a dither and it is clear our Miss Wright is meant for more than serving out her marriageable years as your aunt’s companion. Augusta says she means to make a good match for her, yet she also says she can’t do without her.”

  “Pardon?”

  Realization seeped in, and Lucius pushed back from his desk, prepared to call Wellesley’s assertion outrageous.

  Robert meant he should send Jessamin away, not the American woman. Though he’d had the same thought himself just a few hours before, hearing it from Wellesley’s lips rankled.

  “You think I should send Miss Wright away?”

  He sank back in his chair, resigned to hear Rob’s arguments, though he doubted his childhood friend could convince him any better than he’d persuaded himself.

  “Look at you, Lucius. You can’t even carry on a proper conversation without clouding over with thoughts of the woman. How can you marry Miss Sedgwick when your mind is full of Miss Wright?”

  It wasn’t only his mind. She seemed to hold every part of him in thrall. He’d never been so aware of another person in his life.

  “And what if Miss Sedgwick finds out that the woman who kissed you in Mayfair is living under your roof?”

  He stood then, anger and frustration driving him.

  “She doesn’t live under my roof! She is employed by my aunt. And while my aunt may be determined to marry her off to some country squire . . .”

  What? What could he do to avoid such a fate for Miss Wright? Perhaps sending her back to London with enough funds to start a new shop was the best he could do for her. At least it would spare him the agony of seeing her married off to one of his neighbors.

  He covered his mouth with his hand and then reached up to pinch the skin above his nose.

  “You’re right.”

  Wellesley was a bit like Aunt Augusta, an enemy of silence, and Lucius looked up when his friend remained quiet.

  “What is it? You always have something to say.”

  Robert snapped his mouth closed, bit his lip, and lit up with a devilish smirk. “I was simply savoring the moment. I’m not sure you’ve ever said those words to me before.”

  “Yes, well, don’t expect it to become commonplace.”

  “No, certainly not.” He reached for the paperweight again, but Lucius beat him to it and slid the stone out of his reach. “Although the victory is bittersweet.”

  “Is it?”

  Robert tugged at his ear, a habit Lucius remembered from their youth. It was a rare outward sign of discomfort for a man who made merriment his mission in life.

  “I’ve never seen you like this, my friend. Whatever the expectations that are now yours instead of Julian’s, you must not forfeit all of your own desires.”

  A knock sounded at the door of his study, though at first he thought it was his heartbeat, knocking wildly in his ears.

  When he didn’t respond, Robert stood and opened the door.

  “You changed your dress. How lovely.”

  “Lady Stamford insisted.”

  Even before she spoke, Lucius knew it was Miss Wright at the door. Her presence had set his body on alert, as if some part of him knew she was near, even if he couldn’t see or touch her.

  “She sent me to find you and Lord Grimsby. More guests have arrived. I take it the party is complete now, and she wishes His Lordship to help make introductions.”

  Wellesley opened the door wider as she spoke and lifted his arm to indicate she should enter, but Jessa
min held back, not moving from her spot just past the threshold.

  Robert was right. She did look lovely. And the pleasure Lucius always felt at the sight of her was magnified by the contemplation of never having the experience again if she returned to London or married another man.

  Unlike Miss Sedgwick, she willingly met his gaze. She looked at him, into him, and seemed to speak volumes with her eyes alone. She opened her mouth and he imagined words he longed to hear in her warm, mellifluous voice—words neither of them should, or could, speak.

  But her words were practical, inspired by duty. What should be done. What must be done. And that was better. Those were motives he understood.

  “Shall we go in to tea, my lord?”

  THE PARTY HAD grown by four more guests during the morning and early afternoon. Lady Matilda Turbridge, a neighbor and longtime friend of his aunt, had arrived with her granddaughter, Miss Annabel Benson. Lady Katherine had been retrieved from the train station and Dr. William Seagraves, the village doctor, had walked over from his home several miles away. He looked wind-chafed and a bit unkempt, though his eyes lit up as he took in the collection of young women around him. Seagraves was quite vocal about his hunt for a suitable wife, though his income was far below his expectations for a fortunate match.

  After introductions were made, the ladies separated into one group and the gentlemen into another, though Lucius noticed that Jessamin held back, sitting apart from the rest of the gathering with Miss Benson. The younger woman seemed to hang on Jessamin’s every word, and he chastised himself for a pang of envy, the wish to take Miss Benson’s place and speak privately with Miss Wright rather than engage in meaningless chatter with the gentlemen.

  When Miss Sedgwick began to sing and Wellesley accompanied her on the piano, the others gathered round to listen. Miss Benson took a chair near her grandmother, finally tearing herself away from Jessamin, and Miss Wright made her way toward the drawing room door as if she meant to escape. Lucius longed to join her, wherever she might go. His head had begun to throb after twenty minutes surrounded by so many voices, and May’s singing, though sprightly and melodious, did nothing to ease the ache in his temples.