A Kiss to Remember (8 page)

“How do you do,” he said to the man in the mirror. “My name is Nicholas. Nicholas … Radcliffe.” He frowned. The name felt as strange and thick to his tongue as a foreign language. “I’m Mr. Nicholas Radcliffe,” he repeated forcefully, “and this is my fiancée, Miss Laura Fairleigh.”

There. That felt a bit more natural. Her name rolled off his tongue with the familiarity of a well-loved song.

He ran a hand over the golden whiskers stubbling his jaw. What on earth had those two dim-witted servants been thinking to leave an innocent girl at the mercy of a man who looked like him?

If she
was
innocent, that is.

With that faintly snubbed nose that crinkled when she smiled and the smattering of freckles across her sun-kissed cheeks, she certainly looked the part. The thick brown hair piled atop her head had held just a hint of curl while her sable eyebrows arched over eyes as rich and sweet as a vat of melted chocolate.

She was no beauty, but she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, glaring at
his reflection, “for all you can remember, she’s the
only
woman you’ve ever seen.” Unless you counted the harpy with the hatchet and the faint shadow of a mustache on her upper lip—something he most certainly wasn’t inclined to do.

The glint in the eye of the stranger in the mirror was unmistakably cynical. He would advise a woman to lie to such a man only at her own peril.

So why was Laura Fairleigh willing to take the risk? He couldn’t even say why he was so sure she was lying to him. Some instinct deeper than memory seemed to be warning him. Perhaps she wasn’t lying so much as not revealing the whole truth. Was their betrothal an arranged one, lacking in true affection? Or had they had a nasty quarrel before he last went off to battle? His next thought left him feeling strangely cold.

Perhaps she had been unfaithful to him in his absence. Perhaps she’d grown weary of waiting for him to return and sought solace in the arms of another man.

Guilt would explain her stammering, her reluctance to meet his eyes, the way her pulse had raced beneath his fingertips when he had caressed the silky skin of her wrist.

But so would shyness. If they’d been apart for as long as she’d implied, it would only be natural for his physical nearness to intimidate her. Perhaps, like any maiden, she was simply waiting for him to woo her back into his arms with pretty words and chaste kisses.

Remembering the way the rosy pink muslin of her gown had clung to her rosy pink skin, he was forced to admit that he just might enjoy devoting himself to such a task. His fiancée might be as slender and long limbed as a colt, but her curves possessed a woman’s alluring
grace. He’d learned that in the moment they’d tumbled into the bed together and her high, firm breasts had come to press against his side. He adjusted the quilt, discovering that it wasn’t as much of a relief as he’d hoped to have something other than his head throbbing.

“Well, Nicholas, my man,” he said to his rueful reflection. “Until your memory returns, I suppose you’ve no choice but to bide your time and get to know both yourself and your young bride-to-be.”

His fiancée might be hoping to trap him in a web of lies, but one undeniable gem of truth hung in its glistening threads—Laura Fairleigh would not be a difficult woman to adore.

Have you lost your wits,
child?” Cookie wailed, plopping down on a bale of hay. “You can’t just up and marry a stranger.”

George pounded his fist on the splintered bench he was straddling. “She certainly can’t! Because I’m the man of this family and I damn well won’t allow it!”

“Don’t swear, George,” Laura said automatically.

Dower reached down and gave George’s ears a gentle box. “You ’eard your sister, lad. Don’t swear. It ain’t Christian. And besides, if anyone round ’ere is to stop ’er from marryin’ the swivin’ bastard, it’ll be me.”

Laura sighed. Taking into account George’s tendency to be overprotective, Lottie’s inability to whisper, and Dower’s colorful vocabulary, she had decided to call a family meeting in the barn, well out of earshot of the object of their discussion. After she’d outlined her plan with what she believed was the perfect mix of brilliant ingenuity and irrefutable logic, they had all erupted with varying degrees of disbelief and outrage, proving her
instincts sound. Even the aged milk cow hanging her head over the stall Dower was leaning against blinked her liquid brown eyes and let out a reproachful moo.

From the nest she’d made for herself and her kittens in the hayloft, Lottie began to sniffle, the usual precursor to noisy sobs. “What will happen to us if he finds out we’ve lied to him? Suppose he summons the authorities and has us hung?”

“Hanged,” Laura corrected gently.

Dower snorted. “And ’ow’s ’e to bring the hauthorities down on our ’eads when ’e’s prob’ly a fugitive from the law ’isself? A clever gent loik ’im ain’t goin’ to risk gettin’ ’isself ’anged.”

“He’ll never believe us,” George predicted glumly.

“Of course he will,” Laura insisted. “You just have to get into the spirit of the thing. It won’t be one whit different from the theatricals Lady Eleanor helped us put on for the village children every Christmas. Why, everyone has always said that Lottie’s portrayal of the Baby Jesus was wrenching enough to bring a tear to the eye of even the staunchest heathen.”

“It brung a tear to my eye,” Dower said. “’Specially when I ’ad to tote a babe wot weighed over five stone to the manger.” He rubbed at his lower back. “Me lumbago’s been plaguin’ me ever since.”

“At least you didn’t have to try to convince them village brats you was a virgin,” Cookie said. “When I gave that fancy speech ’bout never havin’ known a man, Abel Grantham laughed so hard he fell off his donkey into the manger and nearly crushed poor Baby Jesus.”

Laura remembered the incident only too well. She had been the one who had rushed forward to drag a sputtering Abel off a howling Lottie. No amount of
frankincense and myrrh could have covered up the stench of whiskey on the Wise Man’s breath.

Reluctant to remind them of the other disasters that had occurred during their amateur theatricals, such as the time Dower’s smoldering pipe had set George’s turban afire or the night the flocks had escaped their shepherds and wandered bleating through the aisles of the village church, Laura pasted on a cheerful smile. “That’s exactly how you should see our latest endeavor. As naught but a harmless bit of playacting.”

Cookie shook her head sorrowfully. “What you’re proposin’ ain’t playactin’, child. It’s lyin’. And no good ever come from lyin’ to a man.” She shot the barn door an uneasy look. “Especially a man such as that one.”

Laura’s cheery smile vanished. “That may be true, Cookie. But I’m fully convinced that even less good can come from telling the truth.”

They all stared at her, taken aback by the steely edge in her voice.

As Laura began to pace between the stalls, the only sound that accompanied her was the fluttering of the swallows that roosted in the eaves. “As I see it, we’re running out of choices. Since I have no intention of marrying one of the men from the village and being miserable for the rest of my life, our only other option is to entrust our future to the hands of Sterling Harlow. And I doubt they call him the Devil of Devonbrooke for naught. The last thing I wanted to do was frighten you, but have any of you really stopped to ponder what manner of
situations
a man like that might arrange for us?”

Resting her hand on a splintery post, Laura peered up into the loft. Her sister’s eyes glistened down at her from the shadows. “Lottie, I don’t think it’s uncommon
for girls of your age to be banished to the workhouses. To labor from dawn to midnight until their spirits are as broken as their backs.”

“I shouldn’t mind,” Lottie said fiercely. “As long as you didn’t have to marry that ill-tempered troglodyte.”

“But what would become of your fine, soft hands? And your hair?”

Lottie touched a trembling hand to her curls. They all knew that the only thing she remembered of their papa was that he used to call her his little Goldilocks. “I could wear it in braids, I suppose.”

Laura shook her head, hating herself in that moment nearly as much as she hated Sterling Harlow. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. Once the lice got hold of it, they would have no choice but to crop it all off.”

George surged to his feet. “He wouldn’t dare put me in such a place! I’m old enough to run away and join the navy!”

Laura turned to him, her expression as regretful as her tone. “As much as you like to fancy yourself a man, George, you’re not one yet.”

Her brother flung himself back down on the bench, refusing to look at her.

Laura moved to kneel before Cookie, peering up into the old woman’s stricken face. “And what about you and Dower? How long do you think this duke will keep you in his employ at your age? If Lady Eleanor hadn’t considered you members of her own family, she would have put you both out to pasture years ago.”

“This old ram’s still got a bit o’ fire left in ’is ’orn, ’e does,” Dower proclaimed.

Laura reached up to cradle one of the old man’s knobby hands in her own. “During the summer months,
perhaps. But what about those cold winter nights when your knuckles swell and crack and bleed until you can hardly bend them? You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Cookie? You’ve heard him pacing the floor at all hours of the night because he was in too much pain to sleep.”

As Cookie looked away, avoiding her gaze, Dower pulled Laura to her feet. “It don’t matter if we all end up in the work’ouse with broken backs and bleedin’ knuckles. We still think too ’ighly o’ you to let you sell yourself to a stranger on our account.”

Laura snatched her hand from his, her desperation growing. “That’s precisely what I’m asking you to do— think of me! Have any of you stopped and asked yourselves what will become of me if this duke claims Arden Manor for his own?”

Dower scratched his grizzled head. “You’re an educated gel, ain’t you? You could become one o’ them there gov’nusses wot teaches the gents’ brats.”

Laura sighed. “I know this is going to come as a shock to you all, especially to Lottie, who has always fancied herself the Incomparable Beauty of the family, but there’s a reason all the men in the village want to marry me.”

They stared at her blankly.

“I’m pretty.” Laura spoke as if it were the gravest of shortcomings. “Far too pretty to be a governess. Even if a lady would welcome me into her home, which I doubt, it would only be a matter of time before one of the males of her household—her brother, her son, or perhaps even her own husband—cornered me on the back stairs. Then I would lose not only my situation but my reputation as well. And in this world, once a
woman’s reputation is lost, she becomes prey for all manner of scoundrels and rogues.”

She swept a somber look over them all. “And that’s not even the worst of it. There’s one other possibility we must consider. Suppose the duke himself takes a fancy to me and decides to make me his mistress?”

Dower bit off a blasphemy and Cookie made the sign to ward off the evil eye as if Laura had suggested becoming a concubine to the devil himself.

“Who’s to stop a man with his wealth, power, and social connections from forcing his attentions upon a penniless country girl? Why, there are even those in the village who would claim that I should be grateful for his protection.” Despite the blush warming her cheeks, Laura lifted her chin defiantly. “I might be selling myself to a stranger with this scheme, but at least it will be to a stranger of my own choosing.”

Her proud words hung in the air, shaming them all.

Dower ran a hand over his throat. “If it’s that young ram you mean to ’ave, then I s’pose I’ve no choice but to ’elp you ’erd ’im into the shearin’ pen.”

Laura threw her arms around the old man, pressing a kiss to his prickly cheek. “Bless you, Dower! I couldn’t do it without you. First thing in the morning, you must set off for London to consult with some of your old cronies. I want you to try to find out if there’s been any word of a missing gentleman in the past few days.”

“Or an escaped convict,” Dower muttered beneath his breath.

“I’m rather hoping he’ll turn out to be the orphaned second son of a second son with no inheritance and even fewer prospects.” Laura began to pace again, her steps much lighter than before. “If we’re to marry
before my birthday, the banns must be published in the church on three successive Sundays, beginning day after tomorrow. That means I have less than three weeks to make sure he doesn’t already have a wife tucked away somewhere.” Given the brief duration and nature of their acquaintance, Laura was surprised by how much that thought pained her.

“I’m relieved to learn your scruples won’t let you stoop to bigamy,” George drawled. “But just what do you mean to do if Dower finds this man’s family … or his wife?”

Laura sighed. “Then I suppose we’ll have no choice but to return him to his rightful owner.”