One Scandalous Kiss Read online

  AFTER MISS SEDGWICK’S unexpected—at least to Lucius—declaration that she planned to leave Hartwell and his sister’s quarter-of-an-hour diatribe in the study, Augusta suggested an hour’s delay before serving dinner, and the kitchen staff seemed grateful for the reprieve.

  It didn’t seem nearly enough time for what he needed for achieve, and he’d told himself that convincing his father of anything a couple of hours before dinner was futile, but something had changed. Some lock had been opened, a barricade breached. His mind was no longer clouded with fantasy, but filled with plans.

  A single knock on his father’s door brought Mrs. Ives to the threshold and she admitted him with an odd mixture of eagerness and anxiety. When he saw his father, he understood. Mather, who’d served his father as valet for years before tending to Lucius, was gathering towels and shaving implements, and his father appeared quite a changed man for his efforts. Clean-shaven, hair trimmed, and partially dressed in his evening trousers and white shirt, he looked much as Lucius remembered him from years past.

  “I’d like a word with my father, Mrs. Ives.” His father’s nurse began following Mather out of the room but then stopped and spoke to Lucius quietly.

  “I should take your father down to the drawing room early, my lord, to give him a few moments to settle in. He needs a bit of time to adjust whenever his situation changes.”

  Lucius nodded and waited until Mrs. Ives departed before reaching up to settle his cuffs, adjust his waistcoat buttons, and turn to his father with his fists clenched at his side. Change was precisely what Hartwell needed. Change was what Lucius would insist upon—from how they managed the lands, to how they managed the finances, to whom his father expected him to marry. Change was in order. He could give his father time to adjust to it, but he would not waver in his insistence.

  Choices might have been taken from him in the past, but, in truth, his goals had been damnably ambiguous. After two years of work in his uncle’s London investment office, he hadn’t convinced himself to stay on. Not to mention the ambiguity of his heart. For years it seemed as cold and barren as the Arctic tundra and he’d been content to leave it unexplored.

  Until Jessamin.

  “Father.”

  Lucius waited, judging the look in his father’s eyes. These days he couldn’t be certain if the earl would know him. Tonight he did. Lucius recognized the look Maxim invariably gave him—an assessing squint of one eye that somehow conveyed judgment and disappointment in one glance.

  “Tell me again about this American you plan to marry.”

  Lucius took the chair next to his father’s and turned so that he could face Maxim.

  “I’m not going to marry her. She’s returning to London tomorrow.”

  Maxim squinted at him again, then his gaze darted uncertainly from Lucius’s face to his mother’s portrait. His father’s hand began to tremble as he clenched the arm of his chair. Lucius moved forward, on the verge of calling Mrs. Ives to help calm Maxim.

  “But what of Hartwell? What of the estate’s repairs? What of your duty to this family?” Shouts echoing off the walls, Maxim dug his fingers deeper into the chair’s arms, clutching as if he were falling and the furniture’s solid frame represented his grip on safety, solidity.

  His fingers were thin, almost fragile, a spindly pattern of sinew and bone, but even as he studied his father’s hands, Lucius couldn’t imagine a more stubborn, unbendable man. And yet, despite years of enmity and distance between them, Lucius had never truly considered defying his father’s wishes. Now he realized that trusting his own judgment and defying Maxim were the only way to truly do his duty—to Hartwell and his heart.

  “I take it you mean to marry another young woman.”

  His father’s voice had calmed and he loosened his grip on the chair, though he kept his gaze focused on his wife’s portrait rather than face Lucius.

  “Yes.”

  “Rich?”

  Depending on one’s currency, Jessamin was wealthier than most. She certainly had more good humor than he’d possess in her situation.

  “She has no dowry.”

  His father’s cool gaze raked him from head to toe while each side of his mouth turned down in a frown.

  “What to do you intend to do?” Maxim flicked a hand out to encompass his peeling ceiling and water-damaged walls.

  Fear of his father, a muted echo of the terror he’d felt as a child when Maxim would rage and rampage through the house, stirred in the back of his mind, tightening his chest, but Lucius swallowed it down. He’d never be that cowering child again.

  “I plan to manage the estate, as you’ve asked me to do. Difficult decisions must be made, but they will profit us all in the end. I will not debate the matter.”

  Maxim squinted at him with both eyes, frowning as he sometimes did when a moment of forgetfulness descended. Then the frown melted, the cloudiness in his gaze seemed to clear, and his lips spread in a grin.

  His father thought he was Julian. He’d mistaken him for his elder brother dozens of times since Lucius’s return to Hartwell. When his father smiled, Lucius knew he must be mistaking him for Julian.

  “It’s Lucius, Father.”

  “I know who you bloody well are. Julian was never half so stubborn or imperious. But I wager when it comes to finances, your uncle taught you better sense than Julian ever possessed.”

  Lucius sank a bit deeper into his chair, letting a sigh of relief hiss through his teeth. Then he leaned forward.

  “And this woman, this penniless creature you intend to marry? No doubt your decisions about my estate will profit her too.”

  The plan to sell off part of the estate had been percolating in his mind for months, but now Lucius hoped every judgment he made for Hartwell’s future and his own would benefit Jessamin. Providing for her happiness and the health of the Dunthorpe estate—those were his goals now, clear and unambiguous. And if he could manage both, he’d finally grasp a bit of happiness of his own.

  “Yes, she will benefit, of course. As my wife.” If I can convince her to marry me.

  “Is she beautiful?” Maxim turned his eyes back to Lucius’s mother’s portrait. “She must be if she’s turned your head.”

  “She’s an extraordinary woman.”

  His father’s brow arched far too high to indicate anything but doubt. But then he crossed his gnarled hands over his stomach and sighed in a long deflating breath, and all the fight seemed to seep out of him too.

  “Very well.”

  “Very well?” Lucius squinted and suspected he looked a good deal like his father. Could it truly be as easy of telling the man of his intentions and then praying they went to plan?

  The floor clock chimed the half hour and Lucius decided to leave the unexpected accord with his father to solidify over dinner and broach the details in the morning. But as he rapped on the door to signal Mrs. Ives should reenter, a chill of doubt settled in.

  “I’ll see you at dinner, Father.”

  “A lack of dowry might be forgiven if she’s of a decent family. I presume she has that at least.”

  “No.” But that didn’t matter. The list of a woman’s qualities or lack thereof, the weighing of one woman against another, one title against another—none of it had ever interested Lucius before becoming heir to his father’s title.

  “Is it Augusta’s companion with the auburn tresses?”

  Hand tensed on the door handle, back stiff, Lucius turned back to face his father. He dipped his head once and then started out the door.

  “Infatuation is well and good, but you can’t marry the girl.”

  Lucius stopped but didn’t turn back. “I’ll marry Jessamin, or I won’t marry at all.”

  Jessamin was a fine woman, certainly, but even if Miss Hobbs or whatever her name was had possessed her intelligence and countenance, he suspected he’d still long for Jessamin Wright. Her essence, her elemental nature, whatever substance set her apart from every other woman he’d ever met called
to that same essential part of him. Whatever the equation or alchemy of it, and he was convinced he could never explain it as clearly as he felt it, she was the only woman he’d ever wish to marry.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  HE LEFT HIS father’s room no less determined on his course, but Lucius feared his brief discussion with Maxim had been an uneventful skirmish in what could become a long drawn-out battle. And he was no longer convinced of the wisdom of his father’s presence at dinner. If their conversation had riled him, any of the guests might be caught in Maxim’s wrathful crosshairs, and he could be more biting and disparaging than Julia on her worst day.

  With the prospect of Maxim shouting at the dinner guests and his head full of what he would say when he finally proposed to Jessamin, Lucius needed a finger of whiskey to settle his nerves before dinner. It didn’t help. Drink never did. It warmed his body but turned his thoughts cloudy until the only impulse he could sort out was the desire to see Jessamin. After he allowed Mather to help him into formal evening wear, that desire propelled him down the stairs and into the drawing room.

  When he crossed the threshold, he saw that his worries about the evening had been unfounded. Miss Sedgwick held court and the rest of the guests formed a semicircle around her, except for Wellesley, who sprawled carelessly on the arm of a divan. The group appeared completely in thrall to a story that made even his sister smile. And seated beside Julia, his father sat tall and august. In his finely tailored suit of evening clothes, Maxim’s thin frame looked almost robust.

  Lucius breathed a sigh of relief and scanned the room to find the only person he truly wished to see. But Jessamin was nowhere in sight, and a sense of dread skittered across his skin, raising gooseflesh. Only one other person was missing from the assembled guests—Lady Katherine Adderly. Lucius clenched his jaw, curled his fists, and tried to stem the panic. Had Kitty convinced Jessamin to leave Hartwell after all?

  He turned back toward the hall and noticed Melville directing a small troupe of servants away from the dining room. As a footman passed, Lucius turned toward the young man.

  “Jeffrey, please have a maid sent up to Miss Wright’s rooms. She is overdue in the drawing room.”

  “She is already in the dining room, my lord.”

  Before the footman could finish speaking, Lucius was on his way to find her. The sight of Jessamin stopped him short on the threshold. She was wearing a green gown again, this one with billowing satin ruffles and a neckline that made his mouth water.

  Her surprise at finding him watching her made her bite her lip, and he wanted nothing so much as a taste of her.

  “I-I was just looking for place cards. May asked me to, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” Her words rushed out as she pointed to the table. “But there aren’t any. Place cards, that is.”

  He moved to stand next to her, savoring her look of anticipation. He resisted touching her, but barely. Standing near enough to feel her skirts pressing against his legs, he turned his attention to the table and tried not to imagine lifting her onto it.

  “We don’t use them at Hartwell. My mother disliked them. She was conventional in many ways, but she had the radical notion that meals should be enjoyable and our guests should sit wherever they liked, rather than being bound by order of rank or status.”

  That pleased her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of her smile and couldn’t resist turning and giving her all his attention.

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  Lucius swallowed, and then again, but emotion blocked his throat and stilled his tongue.

  “Based on her books in the library and her egalitarian views about the rules of the dining room, I think I would have liked her.”

  He managed a nod, though he found it difficult to meet her gaze. He stared at the skirt of her gown, the lavish arrangement of crystal, silverware, and porcelain on the table, anywhere but at her face.

  Then he saw her hand easing over his where he gripped the back of a chair. Her warmth seeped into his skin, and he looked up to face her.

  Softly, tenderly, she said, “It’s difficult. I know. I miss my mother too.”

  He nodded again and found his voice. “Every memory I have of time spent with her is a happy memory. I realize now she wasn’t content here at Hartwell, and with my father. But she rarely let me see that.”

  The affection in Jessamin’s gaze encouraged him to continue, and now that he’d started, he found there was much more to say.

  “She was clever and strong and she knew her own mind. Like you. After she was gone, all the happiness went too.”

  Lifting his head, Lucius glanced at the high ceiling and studied the elaborate chandelier, adapted for gas now, though it had blazed with dozens of candles when he was a boy.

  “My father sent me away after she died. I suppose I look a good deal like her. Perhaps I reminded him of her. He said he couldn’t bear the sight of me.”

  She squeezed his hand and he turned his to clasp hers, their fingers threading together like puzzle pieces slipping into place.

  “I was only in Scotland a few years before going away to school and then university. When my brother died and my father called me back to Hartwell, I doubted I could ever be happy within these walls again.”

  Tipping his head down, he saw Jessamin had turned her attention to the chandelier too. The creamy expanse of her neck lured him and he couldn’t resist reaching for her, slipping his free hand around her waist and pulling her near.

  She gasped but leaned into him, lifting her clasped hands between them.

  “And then you came to Hartwell, and I found that I could.”

  He dipped his head to kiss her and she lifted hers to let him, but they paused and pulled apart at the sound of Kitty Adderly’s unmistakable singsong voice.

  “I suggest you two stifle that urge. Although I decided to break with tradition and come in unescorted, the rest of them are close on my heels.”

  JESS WASN’T CERTAIN she’d make it through her second dinner at Hartwell. The tension in the room was so thick, it would surely choke her by the third course. Nerves kept her from eating or drinking much, and all she truly wanted was another moment, or several, alone with Lucius.

  Only his presence kept her from being rude, excusing herself, and leaving the room. When she felt the point of his sister’s glare, Jess turned to focus on Lucius, and he offered reassurance. Nothing as obvious as a smile, just a quirk of his mouth or the softening of his gaze. He conversed with those around him when questioned, but he’d glance at her now and then, as if to ensure she hadn’t bolted.

  May and Kitty sparred playfully with Mr. Wellesley, and the village doctor attempted to join in, but Dr. Seagraves seemed destined to offend, though it was clear his real intention was to charm.

  “Ladies, your tresses are lovely. I meant no offense. I was merely saying that there is something particularly lovely about auburn hair.” He gaped at Annabel Benson as he made the pronouncement. The poor girl had become the object of his wooing efforts, though anyone could see her hair was darker, more mahogany than auburn.

  Wellesley cut into the conversation to say as much.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Seagraves. I’ve known Annabel all my life, and her hair is decidedly brown. An extraordinary brown, I’ll grant you. Like chocolate with a dash of a cinnamon.” Wellesley turned to gaze at Miss Benson and color blossomed on her cheeks, the same shade as the bowls of hothouse peonies dotting the table and perfuming the air. “Yes, chocolate and cinnamon and a splash of almond when you least expect it. But not auburn. Definitely not auburn.”

  “Auburn hair?” Lord Dunthorpe, who seemed as intimidating as Jess imagined he’d be, if a bit forgetful, spoke up above the din of cross table chatter. “Who has auburn hair?”

  As if the lights of the chandelier and wall sconces had been funneled to shine a blinding beam in her direction, Jess sensed the heat of a dozen gazes turned her way.

  She’d been
careful to refrain from taking too much wine so there was a possibility she might make an intelligent contribution to the conversation, or at least avoid saying anything terribly embarrassing. Sitting up straight, she acknowledged, “I have auburn hair, my lord.”

  “Oh yes, so I see. You’re the one, then.” He squinted at her as he spoke, and Jess wasn’t sure if he meant to inspect her or intended to glare.

  “I-I . . .” She tried to form a sentence, but her throat fluttered as if a bird was thrashing its way out. So much for intelligent conversation.

  “Miss Wright has beautiful hair. What of it?” Lucius’s deep voice was firm, as if he wished to put an end to the ridiculous topic.

  His father grumbled a moment before declaring, “I prefer raven hair, like my dear wife. And you, Miss Sedgwick. Very fine, indeed. Between you and Lucius, I suspect we’ll have a few black-haired bairns, as Isobel would say, running around Hartwell soon.”

  Conversation ceased and the guests stilled in their seats. Jess noted shock on May’s face and a frown on Kitty’s. Even Seagraves looked glum to find his ardor for Miss Benson derailed.

  “Surely there is more to consider than hair color when choosing a wife. In the sum of a woman’s qualities, I suspect the shade of her hair counts very little.” After moments of struggling to find her voice, the words were out before Jess thought better of it.

  “Indeed.” Aunt Augusta lifted her glass up and toward Jess as if to toast her.

  “Hear, hear.” Wellesley pounded his fist lightly on the table, making the crystal nearby shudder.

  Jess looked to Lucius and his grin and the gleam of pride in his eyes made everything else fade away.

  “Yes, one must consider whether a lady comes from a good family, whether she has the sort of upbringing and breeding to be a countess. And whether she will bring honor to one’s family.” Julia’s shrill voice was as sharp as shattered glass, and her words cut as she’d no doubt intended. “A man should consider if she’s a lady at all.”